The cobbled streets were oddly empty. Especially for a weekend in late spring, when people would be taking the air later and later or just going out to attend any manner of spectacle.  Even the blue and orange blinking lights of the night Zeppelins that ferried  partiers across London's skies into the wee hours of the night were few and far between.

Amelia paused by a shop front to take in the entire expanse of the road in which she was the sole pedestrian. Silence. Not even a prowling cat zipping from front door to front door. 

It was more than bizarre.

It's as if everyone has left on holiday to Brighton and forgotten to leave a note for the milkman, she thought. And then: Poppycock. You're simply imagining things. The next road over will be simply swarming.

Amelia pulled the top hat crowned with a set of green-lens goggles lower on her head and jacked up her shoulders to make herself look thicker under the long men's jacket she was wearing. 

The feeling of being in trousers was not as odd as she'd once thought -- women's bloomers gave a similar feel -- but it was the absence of the heavier, circular layers of cloth from the skirts that made her feel as if her legs were virtually naked and she could skip round like Susie the Dancing Pig if she felt like it. 

She didn't feel like it at the moment. But if the streets continued to be this empty, she just might give it a go, she decided. Why not?  

The house where she would deposit the secret was no more than eight or nine streets away. It was inhabited by a spiritualist featured in an article on one of the  talking hoardings outside a butcher's shop.  Having nothing better to do, Amelia had plucked up the bell-shaped listening piece from its hook on the hoarding and listened to an entire series of spoken articles on topics of borough interest while waiting on the pavement for Rose to select the best cut of beef for Maynard's supper. 

Riveting stuff.

According to the article, the spiritualist, a Madame Estelle, held regular seances for those who had recently lost a loved one and desired direct and practical contact with the deceased. Which to Amelia had sounded very much like help finding the golden life insurance policy the exasperating old coot claimed to have in their papers and was now no where to be found.

Madame Estelle's main draw, and what had sparked Amelia's imagination, was her ability to locate missing pet parrots. More money was to be had in finding missing cats or absconding husbands, it was true, but Madam Estelle claimed both were so gobsmackingly egocentric, her considerable powers of persuasion had no effect on them.

"I wonder if she could locate one of my escaped parrots," Amelia had thought and now she murmured the same words to herself, a glint of devilment dancing in her eyes, as she cautiously approached the house. It was dark on the ground floor. A dim light shone in one of the windows on the first floor. 

A quick head jerk right.

A quick head jerk left.

Neighbours?

Amelia searched the upper floors of the surrounding buildings in the dim light cast from the nearest gas lantern, but found no moon-shaped countenances staring down at her, eyes black with suspicion. She casually drew out the fabric strip that held her lock-picking tools, as if drawing out a cigar case.

It took her no more than twenty seconds to spin the lock's tumblers and crack open the door with a minimum of creaking from the hinges.

Shut door, stash tools, pocket torch out and on.

Amelia found herself in a narrow corridor that lead straight back into the kitchen, which was also dark. From upstairs, she heard the murmur of a voice. The glow of lamplight spilt across the landing, but didn't reach the hallway below which remained in greyish shadow. 

Navigating with the soft bluish glow from the pocket torch, Amelia manoeuvred her way around brolly stand, calling-card table and shoe racks to the closed door of the front salon. That's where she had decided to hide the secret after visiting the scene the week previously and peering through the front window. 

She knew the room was cluttered, but she was not prepared for the bouillabaisse of scents that met her nose as she pushed open the door.  A deadly mix of patchouli, cabbage soup, myrrh, several different perfumes, baby smells, beef broth, coal dust, dog and the mouldy stench of inadequately dried Wellingtons floated in the air like a living creature.

Amelia grabbed on to the doorframe to steady herself for a moment before plunging forward into the olfactory quagmire.

Aside from the stink, the room was unremarkable, being just as overladen with curios and tasselled ornaments as every other front salon in London. Amelia quickly found a good hiding place for the secret among a tightly packed herd of elephant figurines on a shelf she had spotted on her previous visit.

The parrot fit perfectly between the legs and swinging trunks of a porcelain and a terra cotta elephant figure, both coated in a fine layer of dust. Amelia rubbed her fingers together, testing the time since their last dusting. Either Madame Estelle wasn't an attentive housekeeper or she did not employ a charwoman. 

Perfect.

As she returned to the salon door, Amelia's gaze passed over a newspaper carelessly tossed onto a round table in the centre of the room. 

OCTOPUS RAMPAGE! 

She hesitated. One never stayed longer than absolutely necessary in a stranger's house, especially when they were just upstairs and could decide at any moment that they wanted a bit of cold meat and wedge of cheese before bed, but curiosity got the better of her as it so often did.

She cast the beam of the pocket torch onto it and began to read.

Was that the reason for the deserted streets outside and the eerie silence? She had to admit, she'd not given the octopus another thought since the day she'd gone with Rose to see it. But there had been something, hadn't there? Something that had bothered her and she'd not been able to put her finger on.

 And now the silly thing had escaped and was terrorizing the city.

 Amelia clicked off the torch and frowned. Why had Rose not said anything? Or was that the reason she was so determined to keep her home and sewing?

She slipped out of the spiritualist's house, re-locking the door from the outside. The street was just as deserted as it had been only a few minutes before, but now that fact didn't seem nearly as mysterious, only peculiar. And illogical.

Certainly, an octopus couldn't be everywhere. It had to be in one place and one place only. The statistical likelihood that it would choose to loom over this particular stretch of streets in this borough at this particular moment was minmal indeed. One was  far more likely to be perfectly safe when out for a stroll than not.

Admittedly, the creature had been remarkably large, but it had also been remarkably dull. It was beyond her comprehension how anyone who had actually seen the thing would be afraid of it. It didn't even have fangs, as that talkative child in the queue had wished, and on land certainly wouldn't move all that quickly. 

She crossed the street, ducked her way around a corner and down a side lane, zig-zagging her way back to Rose's. 

Along the way, a buzz of curiosity began to pulse up her spine and tickle her brain.

Just what had she picked up on when viewing the creature? What was it? Oh do come on, Amelia, she whispered to herself. Do try and remember.

But she couldn't. The notion was lodged too far down, buried under a disorganised pile of books, piano music sheets, afternoons-at-home conversations and dirty teacups. But it would niggle her from now until she found a sensible answer. 

If she couldn't do that in a reasonable amount of time, she decided, she'd to go down to Tanglewire Road and throw open the question to the Mastermind Society at large.

Certainly, a few of them would have also seen the creature and if any one in London could come up with an sensible answer to a not-so sensible feeling, it would be  the Masterminds.

Time for a celebratory dance! 

With a small hop, Amelia stepped off the pavement and onto the cobblestones of another empty street. Then, placing her hands on her hips and cocking her head, she proceeded to move her legs round in an enlivened, human version of Susie the Dancing Pig's world-famous jig until she was almost home again.