Mrs St John gave a gasp. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean!” she said, scrabbling around on her hands and knees to scoop everything back inside the cupboard.

“Don’t give me that,” said Maud. “That’s the very clawprint we’ve been following from our campsite. It’s even got an elastic strap on the back, to put your foot through. And those shears look exactly the right size to make the scratch marks we’ve seen and slash tyres!”

“Yeah,” said Wilf. “And I don’t even take sugar in my tea.”

Maud wasn’t quite sure why that mattered, but at least Wilf was trying to help.

Giving up, Mrs St John let everything fall to the floor. She got to her feet.

“Alright, I admit it,” she said fiercely. “I am the Beast of Oddington.”

“Ah-hah!” cried Wilf, hopping to his feet. Then a look a confusion crossed his face. “Wait … really?”

“Why do you want everyone to think there’s a monster here?” asked Maud.

“To save Oddington,” said the old woman, gesturing all around her. “This is such a quiet, lovely spot. I don’t want strangers trampling all over it.”

Maud and Wilf gave each other a sidelong glance. Quiet maybe, but lovely?

“What’s it to you if a few harmless ramblers pass through?” asked Maud.

“You don’t understand,” cried Mrs St John. “One day, years ago, some men in hard hats and neon jackets called round here. They showed me some blueprints. Said they were building a holiday camp with a pool and a spa and an unlimited buffet.”

Mrs St John was spitting the words out, a blue vein on her pale forehead bulging.

“I had to stop them. Oddington has always been such a peaceful place. I couldn’t bear to think about all those loud, chubby families stomping around.”

“There must have been someone you could go to,” said Maud. “My dad launched a petition last year. I think it was to stop the city centre from being pedestrianised.”

“I tried,” said Mrs St John. “I wrote to the council, but they said it was too late. I was about to throw the letter away when I noticed that they’d misspelled my name. I’m Bea, you see, short for Beatrice. Bea St John. And they’d written ‘Beast John’. At first I thought, How rude! But it gave me the idea.”

“But how did you do it?” asked Wilf. “What were all those spooky noises?”

Mrs St John picked up the horn and blew into it. A low howl blasted out.

“I ran around leaving clawprints and blowing the horn whenever the mist came down,” said Mrs St John. “Soon word of the horrendous Beast spread, and all the yompers and campers stayed away. Even the builders abandoned the place eventually. I listened to the blissful peace and quiet, and I knew I’d done the right thing.”

“It was certainly clever,” said Wilf. “But I don’t think you should have slashed Dad’s tyres.”

The old lady slumped into an armchair and put her head in her hands.

“Please don’t tell anyone,” she pleaded. “All I wanted was to preserve Oddington. Wouldn’t you have done the same to save your home?”

Maud looked out of the window. Oddington was sort of pretty, if you ignored the mist, marshes and dead trees. If they walloped a holiday camp in the middle of it, a coffee shop would soon follow, then a supermarket, then a bowling alley. Soon it would be concreted over like so many other places, and all the spookiness would be gone forever. She thought about all the crazy things she’d done to make sure Rotwood stayed safe, and made up her mind.

Just as she was about to speak, Maud spotted movement among the trees outside. She got up and peered out of the window. Penelope and Warren were bumbling through the mist towards the house.

“Alright,” said Maud. “Your secret is safe with us. But you must help us with something.”

Mrs St John looked up. “Anything,” she said. “Anything to keep my home the way it is.”