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The security guard, a leopard of about my age or maybe slightly older, twitched his tail and shrugged his shoulders.

'That's the way of the world, Uncle.' He said.

'Wait,' I said, 'How can you be Thomas' uncle?'

'Simple,' Replied Kiniun with a grin, 'We En-gal consider the whole tribe as our family, though not by blood, so I have a mother and a father and then every cat in the village older than I is aunt or uncle to me. Equally, every cat in the village of my age is my cousin, and their children are my nephews and nieces.'

'Simple, right.' I said, mildly confused.

In the end, it was Kiniun who led me through the barbican into the castle's courtyard - so much for me playing tour guide, I thought. He stopped just inside the gate, which was a mistake; I dragged he lion out of the path of an oncoming coach.

'This is a public building, Kiniun, not just a tourist attraction!' I said. 'The guided tours for the castle start over there, you'll find me in the library on the other side of the keep.'

Kiniun made his way over to the tourist reception, slightly shaken after his encounter with the coach. On my way to the public library, I was temporarily engulfed by a tide of small and incredibly loud children. From the knee high throng came a shouted: 'Hi, Father Francis!' At the back of the crowd I saw Laura Buck, and waved to her.

'Morning!' She called over the noise.

'School trip?' I asked.

'Yeah, a fun-filled morning of herding these little monsters around the castle, good luck to anyone else on the tour today!'

'Lucky you! I've got some things to check in the library, so I won't have the pleasure. Are you alright? You look totally wrung out.'

Laura's ears twitched uncomfortably.

'It's been a rough couple of days,' She said, 'There's a child missing from my class, he disappeared Wednesday lunchtime and I can't get in contact with his parents or the county truancy officer. It's running me ragged.'

She sighed and then turned her attention to her wayward charges.

'James! Leave Martha alone! Nice to see you, Francis, but I've got to get this lot back under control.'

With that, Laura was gone, fussing around the edges of her rowdy group. I walked into the library and a welcome hush. The library was housed in a red-brick building that had once house the administration offices and officers' quarters for the King's Own during the castle's time as a garrison. Ahead of me was a highly polished reception desk made of some dark wood. Behind the desk was a pretty red setter with a badge that read 'receptionist' pinned to her blouse. Rising behind her were the imposing wooden stairs that led into the rest of the building; they were made of the same dark wood as the reception desk, but intricately carved with heraldic designs and images of historical worthies of Amblehead. The receptionist looked at me over her glasses as I approached. I smiled at her.

'I'd like to access the local history section, please.'

She tapped at her computer keyboard, the keystrokes sounding unnaturally loud in the quiet lobby.

'May I see your reader's ticket?'

She took the proffered card and glanced at the photograph.

'Thank you,' She said, passing the card back, 'Take the stairs and follow the signs for the East Library. Oh, and your ear's inside out!' She added, pointing and smirking.

I thanked her and shook my head to turn my ear the right way out. This elicited a sharp, barking laugh from the receptionist. I scuttled up the creaking stairs to the safety of the library proper. The local history section of the library had a welcoming smell of old books, the mingled scents of dust, ancient paper and leather; all overlaid with the chemical tang of the glues and compounds used in the care and restoration of antiquarian volumes.

The librarian looked up from his paperwork, he was a stock Jacob sheep in a rumpled suit. He coughed and tugged on a horn.

'What do you want?' He asked with all the grace of a Doberman with a headache.

'The religious history of Rayton-in-Amble from the reign of Queen Eleanor deLapin to the present, please.'

The sheep grunted as if I had asked for something terribly burdensome. With a long and heartfelt sigh, he pushed himself away from his desk. For a few minutes the little room was filled with the tapping of the librarian's hooves on the parquet floor and his _sotto voce_muttering.

'Let's see... Harvest's History of St Meinrad's Abbey; ...Fodien's Newtonshire Folklore; ...No, not that edition. He'll want The Archaeology of the Traditional Oxfold Lands by Minutus; ... and the Department of Works Report: A-D174/1930 ...oh yes, Cultic Studies in the Amble Valley, Dr Daubenton ...no, the Tal University Press edition.

The tapping of his hooves became louder as the librarian returned. The sheep was carrying a small stack of volumes, which he set down with exquisite care on the issue desk.

'Reader's ticket.' He demanded.

I dutifully surrendered my library card and as I was picked up the books, was given a stern warning:

'No pens, eating or drinking. Do not remove the books from the library without checking them out on the blue form. There is scrap paper in the basket on the end of my desk.'

Nodding, I carried the books to a desk and flicked the switch on the elderly green glass and brass reading lamp with a claw. There was a hum and a pop as the light came on. The book on the top of the pile had a faded colour photograph of Oxfold Hall on the cover, I tapped the image with a claw: so much seemed to revolve around that place and that family. The spine crackled as I opened the book. I searched down the contents page without much hope, a book of archaeology seemed to be completely unrelated to what I had asked. Nothing seemed relevant in the contents, so I flipped to the book over and looked in the index, there was one reference - I turned to the page. It was the introduction; the reference was about halfway down the page:

'Sadly, it was impossible to gain access to certain areas of the estate. Lord Oxfold said that it would be deemed "inappropriate" for me to undertake digs in the hills to the north of the Hall. When I pushed his lordship for more information, he became less than friendly, merely citing "local religious customs". It is saddening to present my work incomplete; the reader needs must refer to the previous Department of Works Report: A-D174/1930.'

I huffed and ran a paw over my face, glad that I wasn't going to suffer any more of Reginald Minutus' stilted prose. It seemed that my next port of call would be the, frankly, antique government document. In typical government fashion, the report was cheaply bound in rough beige-coloured card, embossed with the coat of arms of the House of Ironmont. Inside, the paper was shiny and stiff; covered in smudgy typewritten text. Sadly, there was neither contents nor index, so I had to resort to skim-reading.

The first few pages were given over to a stultifyingly dull geographical survey of the village and its environs. This is only to be expected of a government document, its saving grace was, that during the time it was published (some 70 years ago), there was not a land owner in the entire Kingdom who would dare to refuse the Department of Works access to their land. The first sub-heading in the document caught my eye:

'Pagan Cultic Sites in the area of Rayton-in-Amble'

I had just started to read, when the librarian's telephone rang. He snatched up the receiver, listened for a moment, grunted and then rang off.

'Oi!' He shouted. 'There's a Kiniun at reception, asking for you.'

'Right, can I have a blue form, please?'

A blue form was pushed across the desk accompanied by a cheap pen and:

'All documents are issued for one week and may only be renewed at this library and in person. Fines are payable for late returns, as well as any and all damages. Fill out the index numbers in Box A; date and sign in Box B; reader's number in Box C.'

This litany was delivered at high speed and in a flat monotone. Once the form was completed to the librarian's satisfaction, it was snatched away, countersigned and photocopied. The copy was plonked on top of the books with my library card.

Kiniun was waiting for me at the reception desk, he was examining the carvings on the stairs in minute detail, whilst being watched by the receptionist - I assume just in case he turned into a book ravening monster. He waved and then said, rather pointlessly:

'Ooh, books!'

I ran through a range of options for responses in my head, before settling on the tried and tested:

'Yes.'

One of the lesser known amenities offered by Amblehead District Council at the castle was a surprisingly good coffee shop. Called, rather uninspiringly, Castle Coffee, it was the only place locally to sell the same blend of coffee that I used at home. It was a lovely spot: the coffee shop took up a set of rooms built into the castle's curtain wall, and offered views over the formal gardens which doubled as Amblehead's public park. At the bandstand we could see the Civic Silver Band setting up for their lunchtime recital.

Kiniun settled back in his chair and looked around the coffee shop.

'This is, well, quaint.' He said at last. 'I never thought that anyone would put a coffee shop in a castle.'

I laughed and said:

'Are you trying to be a stereotypical tourist? I'd be more than willing to bet that your accent has got stronger as well!'

The lion smiled at me, showing a row of gleaming teeth.

'I find,' He said, 'That, because Ironmonters think I look "foreign" with my scars and everything, it is often easier to be as foreign as I can be. I may no longer be a cub, but I can still play at being the exotic Wildcat!'

We both looked up as a waitress approached our table, pad in paw. She was a young, long-haired tortoiseshell cat dressed in the idiosyncratic uniform of the coffee shop's staff - a black dress with a starched lace cap and apron (her male colleagues were dressed in equally outmoded tail suits and bow ties). She smiled at us and flipped her pad open - here she stopped looking like some domestic hangover from the Reign of King Edgar IX, as she was taking our order on a small tablet computer. Order placed, she left; flipping the cover of her tablet closed - the antiquarian look returned.

I opened the Department of Works document on the table and turned quickly through the yellowing pages.

'Listen to this.' I said, tapping the document with a claw.

'"Pagan Cultic Sites in the area of Rayton-in-Amble"

'"The immediate district surrounding the village of Rayton-in-Amble is home to a preponderance of apparent pagan cultic sites, structures and artefacts. Unlike the wider area (where such ancient pagan sites are broadly scattered) these sites are in two (2) distinct groups: i) in and around the ruins of the Abbey of St Meinrad; and ii) in the immediate vicinity of the Oxfold Estate. It is not the object of this report to draw theoretical historical conclusions from the district's archaeology, but the evidence of these works suggests very strongly that these cultic sites were established immediately before or shortly after the destruction of the monastic site at National Grid Reference: CW-155862/025936. It is safe to state that these sites are _not_prehistoric."

'That links with the local folklore about the fire that destroyed the Abbey; the fire I saw in my dream. There are old stories of stone circles being erected in the ruins. And, the stories that Anna told me all say that the first Count Oxfold was some kind of pagan from the north, from Mair.'

Our coffees arrived and while the suited waiter placed our cups and saucers on the table, Kiniun flipped the Department of Works Report around to read it for himself.

The aroma of fresh coffee perfumed the air, I snuffed up the smell of the drink gratefully. From behind the Department of Works Report Kiniun's paw appeared and a cup was taken back behind the book. I waited and there came the only sound that I expected after the first taste of this particular blend.

'Aah, that is good.'

'The best.' I replied. 'I have to have it imported by the same company the coffee shop uses. It comes from some tropical island off the coast of the Savannah States.'

'Our best export,' Said Kiniun, 'It never makes its way into the shops in Port-St-Christopher - the money is too important, we are not a rich nation.'

That was a sobering thought, to me (and most Ironmonters), the Savannah States were a place for adventure; we never gave a thought to the state of the so-called 'Sunshine Economies'.

I put it from my mind and picked up the next book in the pile. It was a heavy book - tome would have been a better word; dropping this book would likely end up with a broken paw. It was Newtonshire Folklore by John Somervell Blackpaw Fodiens. Fodiens had (in the last century) been the Regius Professor of Ironmont History at Anskar's and his portrait still hung in the university's great hall - an academic dwarfed by his own, unwieldy name as he was a tiny water shrew. The book was split into sections by the traditional districts of the county. The section devoted to the Amble Valley was easily the largest; where the other sections were filled with collections of folk tales and songs, the Amble Valley had detailed descriptions of the strange rituals and ceremonial robes of what Fodiens called 'folk customs'. It also appeared that Fodiens was afflicted with a flowery turn of phrase.

'The Amble Valley is of a pleasant disposition, following the westward course of the Amble River, form which the district takes its name. Consequently, many of the settlements of this district have a riparian aspect, there being many little cottages with water meadows within their demesne that reach down to the river's brink. The inhabitants of the Amble Valley are generally of hearty and strong character and build.

'The folk customs of this district are held -by the locals- in the highest regard, to the detriment -it seems- of the religion of the Church. Offered here below are a selection of the folk rituals of the district. I was most fortunate to be granted an interview with one Mr Bartholomew Ursus, an employee of the major land owner, Sir Archibald Oxfold.'

This lyrical preamble was followed by the rituals as described by, I assume, Bert Ursus' ancestor. I pulled out a notepad and sketched out some of the salient points.

Several minutes past punctuated only by the scratching of my pen across the paper and the odd interested noise from Kiniun as he came across a particularly fascinating piece of the report's deathless prose. As time passed the levels of our coffee cups dropped and more pages in my notebook filled with my scrawl. This peaceful, positively studious atmosphere was rudely broken by the shrilling of my mobile phone.

'Hello?'

'Hi, Nerd, it's Harry. The police are here; can you head back? They want to check our witness statements.'

'Right, we'll come home.' I ended the call, looked at my emails, decided to ignore them, and said to Kiniun: 'The police need to speak to us, again.'

He rolled his eyes at me.

'Holiday over, I suppose.' He said.

''Fraid so!'

We paid our bill and picked up the car. The drive back to Rayton was silent, but faster than the journey out.