Jonathan Butterhopper had agreed to meet Godwin the next afternoon at the Spike and Whistle public house across from the Underground station at Leicester Square, but from the dismissive grunt of greeting and the protective way he was holding his pint, Godwin surmised he'd only agreed after some considerable cajoling.

The moment he'd sat down, Butterhopper's gaze had shot to the steam-powered clock over the bar, then dropped to the tiled floor and dragged itself slowly back to the still-settling foam on the top of his pint.

He cleared his throat, but instead of saying anything he took a swig of ale and avoided Godwin's eyes.

Godwin coolly appraised the thick-shouldered, not unhandsome zoo keeper. He had yet to say a word himself, but he sighed inside.

It was as he'd surmised. Butterhopper clearly had no intention of blackening the name of his employer by talking about anything, however innocent, that could be interpreted as wrongdoing, or indeed negligence, by someone with a grudge, lest it collapse back on him and scribble his name in the already alarming unemployment statistics.

The next fifteen minutes were not going to be pleasant.

But that wasn't all.

Royston had sent a note only a few hours previously cancelling that night's performance.

They would now be opening only two nights a week, he'd written, not the usual five. Next performance to be in three nights. Very sorry, but current circumstances dictate... and so on and so forth.

Godwin had ripped the paper into small pieces, dropped them onto the cold coals in the living room hearth and gone to stare at the wallpaper for an hour. With that few performances, they would barely make rent for the next month and thus be forced to break open the iron strong box hidden under the floorboards and draw on their already much-drawn-upon savings.

Although Godwin had sympathy for Butterhopper's situation, after Royston's note, he was in no mood to act sympathetically.

That blasted squid needed to be found and contained post haste.

Just the night before, it had made its first appearance on the south bank of the Thames, demolishing rows of shops in Southwark and flattening the popular fish market at Lambeth Pier.

According to the papers, the looting had been unparalleled.

Cats had disappeared wholesale.

So had garden sheds, umbrella stands and, inexplicably, an entire tray of freshly baked cream buns from a window where they were cooling.

At the Old Bailey, solicitors were already hunching over their desks, filling their pens with ink in preparation for a veritable landslide of lawsuits once the thing was caught and someone – anyone - could be judicially blamed for the chaos.

It had been reported that the Prime Minister had gone to Buckingham Palace to speak to Her Majesty about the situation.

Run, whoever can.

The silence had finally become too much for Butterhopper. "I have no idea what you want to talk to me about," he said. One of his legs jigged up and down so hard, it made the small table between them visibly shake. "I have nothing to do with the special pavilion, so I can't tell you naught."

(here: 20,000 words)

"That's understandable. I am, however, interested in anything you might have overheard about the beast's owner or its behaviour," Godwin said, as pleasantly as he could muster. "When and how was it delivered to the Zoo? How often did the owner visit? Was there anything odd about the thing, aside from its size? You must have overheard gossip from your fellow keepers. What is their opinion?"

Butterhopper shrugged. "Like I said, I don't know a fig about what goes over there. I'm with the quadruped mammals. Camels, antelope, zebras. Never tended an octopus in my life and I don't intend to. That is a completely different department. I have no idea what they think over there."

"But you work with people who chat to keepers in other departments ? Have they mentioned anything? Anything at all?"

Another shrug and a long pull of ale.

Godwin tried several other tacks but the zoo keeper stonewalled so hard, that after a few minutes he stopped reacting to anything Godwin said and simply sat there, staring at his ale as if it was his life rapidly dwindling to a sloppy wet residue at the bottom.

And perhaps it was. Perhaps his relationship with his boyfriend was on the rocks, or his mother was ill, or there was some other personal anxiety under the refusal, but Godwin didn't think so. Nor did he think the man was truly fearing for his job. The vibration was not quite right for that. It was similar, but not the same.

Godwin took a sip of his own ale and observed Jonathan Butterhopper carefully, feeling into the tension in his jaw and around his eyes, the hunch of his shoulders and the turned way he was sitting.

He moved aside the layers of nervousness, resentment and guilt.

Guilt.

The man knew something.

Or at least he suspected something. Something he was trying to keep a secret but that kept bubbling to the surface, wanting to escape. And he would feel terribly guilty if it did.

Godwin pointed to the man's glass in one last attempt at congeniality before The Amazing Godwin reached into his bag of tricks and got the information he wanted anyway. "Another? On me."

A slight shake of the head, little more than a jerk.

Fine, have it your way.

Godwin reached into the pocket of his waistcoat, pulled out his lucky farthing and tapped it against the wooden table top in a slow, but constant rhythm. Butterhopper looked up in surprise, then quickly away.

After a few moments, his jittering leg slowed to keep time with the tapping.

Godwin slowed the rhythm until the bouncing stopped altogether. The sounds from the pub faded into a soft background murmur and it felt as if time itself had formed a bubble around the two of them.

Then Godwin began to speak in a low, calm voice about the countryside that surrounded his home village. Rolling hills, copses of trees the wind shook the leaves of, waving tassels of wheat and barley in golden fields, the distant ring of the church bell...

"Jonathan, can you hear me?"

Butterhopper nodded, continuing to stare at his almost empty ale glass.

"Tell me about the owner of the octopus, please."

The zoo keeper nodded. "Odd gent," he said, all the aggression gone from his voice. "Only saw him once. Short. A tad round. Older. Cocky walk. Arrogant speech. Wouldn't be interested, myself. Not my type."

Godwin smiled slightly. Didn't sound like his type, either. "And what did he do when he was at your place of work?"

"Talked a lot to the directors. Seemed to be far more interested in his cut of ticket sales than in the care of the animal, my mate over at the monkey house said. Usually, it is the other way round. Owners of exotic animals are very particular about care."

"But this one wasn't?"

"No. Insisted on feeding the animal himself, but..."

"Yes?"

"He never did."

Godwin sat silent for a moment. The owner hadn't fed it? Was the beast rampaging because it was hungry? That would make sense. "What else should have happened that did not?"

"It never moved. Not a muscle. And after it got out and they drained the tank of water to clean it, not a trace of food scrap or excrement. Never seen the like. The lads couldn't stop talking about it."

There was no smell, Godwin heard Amelia's voice in his mind. And that's what was fishy.

Or not.

All the gearsand cogs in Godwin's mind locked teeth with a metallic whine so deafening, it could be heard all the way to Blackpool, His jaw dropped.

No, that couldn't be right, could it? Too many people, knowledgeable people, had seen the octopus, had taken pictures of it, had cared for it, examined it, had....that was incredible. You'd have to be a genius to manage to pull that off.

Or a Mastermind.

He had to speak with Amelia immediately, but how to contact her? Should he send a note or go directly to her sister's house or wait for her at the Society? He didn't know when she would be there and he had the impression her family might not be at home to men without an impeccable calling card.

"But that wasn't the strangest thing," said Butterhopper, unprompted and almost jovially, although he still sat glassy-eyed and staring at his ale.

"What wasn't?"

"Utterly ridiculous."

"What was?"

"It had nine arms."

"It had...?"

"An octopus with nine arms. Nobody would believe us, even if we told them. Which is why we agreed we never would and I never intend to. Not to you, not to the papers, the managers or even Boniface," said Butterhopper with conviction. "My lips are soldered shut."

He lifted his glass and downed the final half inch of his ale in one gulp. Then he lifted his gaze for the first time and said, "the next round is yours, right?"

Godwin saw no reason not to oblige.