‘We’ll take a look though,’ the sergeant went on. ‘And we’ll make a few discreet enquiries. Social workers and the like, you know. You can trust us to follow it up, but I don’t think you need worry, Dr Flint. We’d certainly know if any children were missing, and I’d hope we’d be aware of anything … well, anything wrong anywhere. Good of you to take the trouble to call us, though. Can’t be too careful. I’ll give you a reference number to quote if you need to come back to us. There’ll be a log of this call anyway.’
Michael wrote down the reference number, replaced the phone, and returned to his second year’s essay. This time his concentration was interrupted by the arrival of the head decorator into his room, who reported with indignation that Wilberforce, clearly still sulking from the attic incident, had dabbled his paws in a pot of paint which the decorators had left ready for the ceiling. He had then stomped white paw prints across most of Oriel’s stairways, and you never saw such a mess in your life – the decorator did not know how they were ever going to get it properly clean.
Michael pacified the aggrieved decorator, who was annoyed at having a twenty-litre can of paint ruined, managed not to point out that it would have been better not to leave the lid off in the first place, agreed to foot the bill for a fresh can of paint, together with what seemed like an unreasonably large amount of turpentine, tipped his scout to help them clean everything, then hauled Wilberforce off to the vet to have his paint-spattered paws dealt with.
‘Poor Wilberforce,’ said Nell that evening in Quire Court. ‘He’ll smell of turps for ages and his dignity will be severely damaged, never mind his street cred.’
‘If the Bursar finds out it’ll be Wilberforce who’ll be severely damaged,’ said Michael. ‘He’s already furious about having to get Wilberforce out of the attics.’
‘Yes, but I bet you get a chapter out of it for the new book.’
‘Well, I might.’ Michael had in fact already emailed his editor at the children’s book publishers about the idea as soon as he returned from the vet’s. He had received a cordial response, together with a reminder that they had a publication date of February and a first draft by the end of September would be greatly appreciated by the illustrator. She supposed that would not be a problem, however. There was not quite a question mark at the end of this last sentence, but Michael heard it anyway.
‘And,’ he said to Nell, ‘she apparently thinks it would be “rather fun” to have some publicity shots of the real Wilberforce for the new book and what do I think?’
‘Well, what do you think? And are you staying to supper? I made a huge lasagne this afternoon, so there’s plenty.’
‘Anyone who can keep Wilberforce still for long enough to photograph him – never mind finding him in the first place – is welcome to shoot an entire album of photographs,’ said Michael wrathfully. ‘And yes, I’d like to stay to supper, please. Where’s Beth?’
‘Bashing out scales with her music teacher. She hates scales, but she loves the second part of the lesson when she’s allowed to try one of the simpler Mozart pieces. She’ll be back by eight. We’ll save her some lasagne.’
Later, over the lasagne, she said, ‘How was the professor’s haunted house?’
‘A bit odd.’ Michael had been looking forward to being with Nell – to the familiar comfort of the little house behind her shop – but he discovered he did not want to talk about the small strange shadow he had seen. Instead he said, ‘I might see if I can unearth any details about it. It’d be interesting to research its history.’
‘I’ve been doing some researching,’ said Nell.