Tradition has always demanded that there are, in any well-run establishment, certain arrangements that ought not to be tampered with.

At The Squid and Teapot, these arrangements were not written down, largely because no one trusted anything written down to stay where it had been put. Nevertheless, they were understood. The fire was laid a particular way, the teapot lived where it chose to live, and the chairs in the snuggery existed in a state of quiet agreement with the people who used them.

Philomena Bucket was not, by nature, given to unnecessary interference. Her only concession to change, in recent weeks, had been the civilised introduction of afternoon tea in the snuggery, inspired by her trips to the mysterious Not-Hopeless, where various delicacies, including tea and biscuits, could be harvested. It was therefore with some nervousness that she stood in the doorway of the snuggery one morning and regarded the room with a faint but growing sense that something had gone subtly, but decisively, wrong. Had she overplayed her hand with this afternoon tea and biscuits business, and somehow upset the equilibrium of the inn?

She looked around the room, trying to spot the issue. Nothing, at first glance, was out of place.

That, she reflected, was precisely the problem.

Reggie Upton’s chair stood by the fire, as it always had. She looked again. No, it wasn’t quite to the fire. The chair was angled, ever so slightly, as though in quiet disagreement with the notion of warmth. A second chair, usually content to lurk companionably beside it, had withdrawn a fraction, creating a gap that served no obvious purpose. Another had turned itself just enough to face the wall, which, while not unprecedented in Hopeless, was generally considered a private decision.

Philomena stepped into the room.

The floorboards creaked in a manner that suggested they, too, had noticed.

She crossed to Reggie’s chair and nudged it back into what she considered to be its proper alignment. She felt a certain amount of resistance; it was nothing physical, but almost a matter of spirit. Then, with an inaudible sigh, the chair agreed to settle with a small shrug of begrudged resignation.

“That won’t do,” she murmured.

Behind her, there was a polite cough.

Ariadne Middlestreet hovered at the threshold, handbag in hand, as though uncertain whether the room was currently accepting visitors.

“Is the snuggery open?” she asked.

“Of course it is, Ariadne,” said Philomena. “Though I’m not entirely convinced it agrees.”

Ariadne stepped in cautiously, her eyes moving from chair to chair with the careful attention of a woman accustomed to objects that occasionally acquired their own, unique significance. After all, until just a couple of Christmases ago, she had been landlady of The Squid and Teapot for more years than she cared to remember, and thought she knew all of its little idiosyncrasies.

“Things look the same as they ever did,” she said.

“Yes,” said Philomena. “That’s what concerns me.”

Norbert Gannicox arrived shortly afterwards, carrying with him the sort of purposeful air that suggested he had come in search of tea and would accept no philosophical objections from the furniture.

“Morning,” he said briskly, before selecting a chair and sitting down with the confidence of a man who had never yet been defeated by domestic arrangements.

He lasted perhaps three seconds.

Norbert paused, then shifted slightly. He frowned, and with great deliberation, stood up again.

“I don’t like that one,” he said.

“No,” said Philomena. “Nor do I.”

He tried another chair.

This proved, if anything, worse. It placed him at a conversational angle that suggested he ought to be addressing someone who was not, at present, there.

Norbert looked across the room.

“Who usually sits there?” he asked.

“No one,” said Philomena.

Norbert considered this.

“Well, it feels as though something is. Or at least, trying to be there.”

At that moment, Drury appeared in the doorway.

He surveyed the room, took one step inside, and stopped. His tail gave a single, thoughtful movement. Then, with a decisiveness that brooked no argument, he turned around and lay down just outside the threshold, as though unwilling to commit himself to the current arrangement of things.

Philomena watched him.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “You can sense it too, can’t you?”

By the time Reggie entered, the situation had not improved.

“My dear Philomena,” he began, theatrically, “I find myself in need of tea and a chair of known reliability.”

“That may be difficult,” she replied.

Reggie paused.

“Good Lord,” he said, looking around. “Has something… happened?”

“No,” said Philomena. “That’s exactly the problem, but there’s something going on.”

“Look,” said Reggie, after another short pause, “far be it for me to stir up trouble, but if things have been shifted and the feeling that the snuggery is suddenly getting uppity, there’s only one person – and I use the term ‘person’ advisedly – who can possibly be responsible. You recall what happened when you were redecorating the flushing indoor privy…?”

“My thoughts exactly,” said Philomena.

“Are you talking about the Tomte?” asked Ariadne, warily.

She thought back to how the Tomte had flatly refused to help her and Bartholomew when they relinquished ownership of The Squid and Teapot, and moved into the old Blomqvist house, where the little man had been guardian for years. His objection had been that they were insufficiently Scandinavian.

“Yes,” sighed Philomena. “Ever since we had a visit from that Valkyrie – Astrid – he has been much bolder, wandering around the place all hours of the day and night.”

“And, if you don’t mind me saying,” said Norbert, “interfering in things that are none of his business.”

Reggie Upton had not been listening to a word that Norbert had said. With a glint in his eye, he smoothed his moustache with his thumb and forefinger.

“You don’t think that he’s put that empty chair for…”

“Astrid? No,” said Philomena. “She’s not someone likely to drop in for tea and biscuits.”

“Pity,” muttered Reggie. “A dashed fine looking woman.”

“Then who is it for?”

“Well, I don’t want to sit there,” said Ariadne, and Norbert nodded in agreement.

“Just for today,” said Philomena, decisively, “let’s have tea in the kitchen. I’ll try and talk to the Tomte later, and find out what’s going on.”

In unspoken agreement the tea and biscuits club trailed off, as one, to the kitchen.

Only Drury, still sitting outside the snuggery door, heard the unmistakable sound of a teaspoon gently striking porcelain.