On Saturday evening, somewhere on the canal network, Gosie received a field report from Brains and Batshit concerning a sighting of Lola driving an antique Ferguson tractor bearing a “Pin Mill Parking Permit” sticker. Brains considered the detail potentially significant. Batshit considered several other things significant as well, including a wheelbarrow, a pheasant, and some “wrong biscuits.”
Gosie read Brains’ report twice.
Then a third time.
Not because Brains had been unclear — Brains was never unclear — but because several things aligned far too neatly all at once.
Pin Mill.
Tidal moorings.
Quiet river traffic.
The overlap between inland and coastal transfer routes.
And Lola.
Always Lola.
Not hidden.
Not discreet.
Practically performing suspiciousness in public.
Which, Gosie was beginning to realise, might itself be part of the operational method.
She turned the page over and studied Batshit’s additions more carefully than anyone would reasonably expect:
- “wheelbarrow suspicious”
- “saw pheasant again”
- “Lola smells like wrong biscuits”
The last one bothered her.
Not because it made obvious sense.
Because Batshit operated almost entirely through instinct and sensory association.
Wrong biscuits could mean:
- unfamiliar seed stock
- imported cargo
- marina food stores
- or simply that Lola had recently been somewhere unusual
Gosie stared out of the narrowboat window for a long time after that.
Then she folded the letter very carefully, slipped it into her notebook beside Hedgehog’s canal observations, and finally smiled for the first time in nearly two days.
Fuzzypuffling wasn’t in the Midlands.
Fuzzypuffling was almost certainly somewhere on the East Anglian coast.
And if Lola had been seen near Pin Mill, the network was already moving again.
myrtlelion.substack.com/p/9c0ee894-7fc6-4eda-a0d3-dbc7f57deadb