"No," I said. "The address of this hotel was included and so were our room numbers. And…" I told them about the abattoir.

Mr. Crepsley stopped pacing. "Murlough!" he hissed. "That was a period of history I thought I would never have to revisit."

"I don't understand," Harkat said. "How could this be connected to Murlough? Are you saying he's alive and has… set you up?"

"No," Mr. Crepsley said. "Murlough is definitely dead. But someone must know we killed him. And that someone is almost certainly responsible for the humans who have been killed recently." He sat down and rubbed the long scar that marked the left side of his face. "This is a trap."

There was a long, tense silence.

"It can't be," I said in the end. "How could the vampaneze have found out about Murlough?"

"Desmond Tiny," Mr. Crepsley said bleakly. "He knew about our run in with Murlough, and must have told the vampaneze. But I cannot understand why they faked the birth certificate and school records. If they knew so much about us, and where we are, they should have killed us cleanly and honourably, as is the vampaneze way."

"That's true," I noted. "You don't punish a murderer by sending him to school. Although," I added, remembering my long-ago schooldays, "death can sometimes seem preferable to double science on a Thursday afternoon…"

Again a lengthy silence descended. Harkat broke it by clearing his throat. "This sounds crazy," the Little Person said, "but what if Mr. Crepsley did … submit the forms?"

"Come again?" I said.

"He might have done it in… his sleep."

"You think he sleep wrote a birth cert and school records, then submitted them to a local school?" I didn't even bother to laugh.

"Things like this have happened before," Harkat mumbled. "Remember Pasta O'Malley at the… Cirque Du Freak? He read books at night when he was asleep. He could never recall reading them, but if you asked… him about them, he could answer all your questions."