“Which one of you here is Leah Botchpot?”

A loud clang echoed from the furthest part of the kitchen, and a puddle of steaming water spread out from behind one of the many fireplaces.

“Does that answer your question?” the head cook said.

Henry made his way back and stepped briskly through the spill to find a woman on her knees with a rag, furiously trying to soak the water up.

“Oh, is it any wonder they only trust me to boil water?” she muttered.

“Leah Botchpot, is it?” said Henry. “I need to talk to you about your father.”

“He’s dead,” the woman said without looking up. “If he hadn’t been friends with the owner I’d have been fired long ago, but I can’t say he’s done much else for me lately.”

“And his research? His notes?”

Leah Botchpot looked up. “His what?”