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capacity.”
    “The Twites are a dicey lot,” sighed Is. “Slice ’em where you like.”
    Arun said, “And folk think my Mum went off with the kid? But why in the world would she do that?”
    “So far as I know,” said the Admiral, “there is no shred of evidence to support such a wild story. Except, of course, that they were both lost to view at the same time.”
    “How old would the kid be now?”
    “Five, or six, maybe.”
    “A boy?”
    “I am not sure. I never laid eyes on the young person.”
    “And what about the second kid? The one the Merry Gentry took? Whose was that? And where was it taken?”
    “Ah, it is said that it was taken through the Tunnel into France. Where the organisation is known as Les Gens Aimables . No doubt it remains there.”
    “Whose kid was it?”
    “I have a notion,” said the Admiral vaguely, “that it was some connection of your neighbour, Mrs Boles. But people are very reluctant to talk, as you will find. And I may not have the facts correctly.”
    “Mrs Boles certainly don’t wish to talk.”
    “Ah, well, she has reason,” said the Admiral. “Her husband Ern, who, I fear, was a sad drunken fellow – a lamplighter, he used to be, in the town – one night he boasted, when in his cups, in the Bluejackets’ Rest, that he knew a clever artist who had seen all the members of the Merry Gentry and could draw their portraits. Dear me, that was not a wise thing to do.”
    “What happened?” Arun asked, as the Admiral fell silent.
    “He was found, three days later, in Shadoxhurst Forest. His hands had been clipped together in a green ash tree which had been split and pulled apart and then allowed to spring together again . . . He was dead.”
    “How horrible!” cried Is. “Had he died of hunger?”
    “No,” said the Admiral. “The wolves had got him. A quantity of wolves (as you may know) have contrived to slip over from France and squeeze between the bars of the Tunnel gate. You must always keep a sharp look-out for wolves at night in the countryside – or even here, in less well-lit parts of the town.”
    At this moment something black and furry, and about the size of a football, came sliding down, on a silvery thread, from the soot-grimed ceiling.
    Is and Arun both started violently, then watched with starting eyes as this creature, which had two very bright eyes and a lot of legs, toddled across the floor, climbed up the Admiral’s white-trousered leg, and settled itself cosily in his lap.
    “Rosamund, one of my spiders,” said the Admiral, stroking the creature, who appeared to enjoy this, but all the time watched Arun and Is with brilliant, diamond-coloured eyes. “I brought back her great-grandmother from the Larboard Islands on my last command. Such beasties make capital watchdogs Rosamund keeps my house safe from intruders . . . And from mice, also.”
    I’ll lay she does , thought Is, who did not care for spiders. She scowled at Rosamund.
    “Sir – would you have any notion at all of where my Mum might have gone?” asked Arun, trying to keep his eyes away from the spider.
    “There, my boy, I regret I cannot help you. But if some notion should ever come into my head I will, of course, communicate it to you at once. You plan to remain in Cold Shoulder Road?”
    They nodded glumly.
    “I do not think that is a good plan,” said the Admiral. “I fear that you may have difficulties with neighbours. Mrs Boles, alas, is not a sensible woman and her husband’s fate overthrew what wits she had. – Also I believe her daughter ran off to America. I should not be surprised if it were Mrs Boles who had been putting about all these unkind tales concerning your mother and the child. Also, the Sect were never popular in this town. It might,” went on the Admiral thoughtfully, “it might be better for you to transfer yourselves to Seagate. There are numerous empty houses in that town, after the late disastrous flood. And I can always send messages to you