“Well, this isn’t much fun,” said Lucy. “What kind of date is this?”

She glared at Samuel accusingly.

“It’s not my fault,” said Samuel.

“Oh, really? And who invited me to this rotten opening in the first place?” said Lucy.

“I didn’t invite you,” said Samuel. “You saw the invitation and sort of invited yourself!”

“So it’s all my fault, is it? That’s typical, just typical!”

There then followed a long speech blaming Samuel for every unfortunate event that had blighted Lucy Highmore’s young life so far, most of which Samuel was fairly certain were not his fault, along with a lot of others that he was absolutely certain weren’t his fault because he hadn’t been born when any of them happened or, if he had been, then they were out of his control, including a number of wars, world hunger, global warming, and the business with the apple in the Garden of Eden. When she had finished, Lucy folded her arms and looked away. Her bottom lip trembled. After a great deal of effort, she managed to force a single small tear from one eye. It hung on her cheek for a second, decided that it wasn’t about to have company anytime soon, and promptly dried up somewhere around her chin.

Sergeant Rowan and Constable Peel, who had been doing their best not to get involved, or to attract Lucy’s attention for fear that they might catch an earful as well, watched her from a distance. When it became apparent that the storm had calmed itself for now, Constable Peel sidled up to Samuel.

“Are you going out with her?”

“I am,” said Samuel. “Or I was.”

Constable Peel gaped at him.

“Why?” he asked.

“It seemed like a good idea at the time to ask, and she said yes,” said Samuel.

“You live and learn,” said Constable Peel. “Now you know why some people become monks.”

Sergeant Rowan coughed deliberately.

“None of this is helping,” he said. “There’s some bad business going on here, and it’s up to us to get to the bottom of it. Come along now, Constable. You, too, Samuel. And you, young lady, suck in your bottom lip. It looks like someone has built a shelf over your chin.”

Lucy gave Sergeant Rowan her best glare of rage.

“I shall tell my father what you said. He’ll have your job!”

“He can have it if he wants it, miss, although why he would, I don’t know. Constable Peel, are you crying?”

“No, Sarge. Why do you ask?”

“Because I heard crying and simply assumed it was you.”

“Not me, Sarge. I can’t say that I’m not tempted, but I’m holding it in.”

“Very brave of you, Constable.”

“Thank you, Sarge.”

“That said, I can still hear someone crying for mummy. I think there may be a child in here with us.”

Constable Peel listened.

“More than one, Sarge. I can hear lots of them.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” said Lucy. “They’re dolls! We’re in a toy shop. They’re probably demonstration models left out for children to play with.”