Now, I must tell you about Bruno.

Bruno the Bear arrived on a Sunday, because some jobs cannot wait for a Monday, and a chimney that has been leaning since September is one of them.

Tabitha's Tea Room chimney had been leaning all autumn — not dangerously, simply apologetically, as though it had meant to stay straight and got distracted. Tabitha had watched it with patience and a dustpan, and had finally called for Bruno.

He arrived with a ladder of his own — a large one, which was important — and a bag of tools, and he moved through the village with the kind of unhurried purpose that very large things often have.

Pip and Whisker Ferret sat below with biscuits, watching the ladder go up.

"Do you think he'll be alright?" said Pip.

"He's very large," said Whisker.

"I meant the ladder," said Pip.

The ladder was fine. Bruno reached the chimney and began his inspection with steady paws, a spirit level, and the expression of someone who has seen worse. He had fixed seven chimneys that autumn, two bridges, a mill wheel, and a gate that had been arguing with its own post for three years.

He was on the roof for forty minutes.

When he came down, he was thoughtful.

"The mortar's out on the east side," he said quietly. "But something's been loosening it from the top. Something's been up here regularly. There are scratch marks."

He showed Constable Badger, who had appeared — as he always appeared — with his notebook and an expression of professional arrival.

"Scratch marks," said Badger, writing it down. "Animal activity. I have some thoughts about that."

He looked at the ferrets.

The ferrets looked at the sky.

I, Benji, looked at the photograph Bruno had taken on his phone. The scratch marks were high, precise, and ran diagonally across the chimney pot — not a ferret's path, not a cat's path.

A pine marten's highway.