I closed my eyes briefly, struck by a sudden dreadful suspicion. “Is there … by chance … any cutlery under your pillow?” “… Cutlery,” said Miss Potter. “I’m afraid so.” In Miss Potter, the legendary stiff upper lip of the British was cast in steel. She nodded as if this was a perfectly normal request, returned to her room, and reappeared a moment later, holding a very large butcher knife. Her expression wavered between “this is arguably somewhat peculiar” and “of course, all the best people keep knives in the bed.” At the moment, peculiar was winning, but only just.
