THE SMALL reception area of the Golden Miller Inn was transformed from a sedate little office to a bustling hive of borderline-hysterical activity. Lucas sat behind Mister Hensley's desk, slowly sipping his third cup of tea and staring, dull and blank-eyed, at the several constables who questioned and searched and nervously wrung their hands. One of them had apparently leapt from his bed and taken only just enough time to dress, with no consideration to *how* he was dressed: the tails of his nightshirt were sneaking out from beneath his surcoat, and his hair was apparently doing its very best to escape his head, sticking out every which way and making Lucas distractedly wonder if he'd had to fight his way through a nest of hedgehogs intent on sharing styling tips to get here.