“God’s wounds! What treachery is the knave up to now?” John Dee gazed intently into the obsidian scrying bowl, casually picking egg yolk from his beard at the same time.

Several hundred years and three thousand miles were the only obstacles separating Dee from the object of his attention. Ever since leaving Hopeless, Maine, with little idea how he might return, the Royal Astrologer to the court of Queen Elizabeth had made it his business to keep an eye on the goings-on of the island through the agency of his scrying bowl.

“I’m blowed if I know, doctor,” said the ghost of Granny Bucket, quietly hovering over the astrologer’s shoulder.

The pair had been watching the somewhat confusing antics of Durosimi O’Stoat. Peering into the dark waters of the obsidian bowl they had witnessed him cast some manner of enchantment over Drury, the skeletal hound, which had left the dog endlessly chasing phantom spoonwalkers around the Gydynap Hills.

“But I’ll try and find out,” Granny added. “I’ve got to get back for Philomena’s wedding soon, anyway.”

“Yes, of course, you must,” said Dee. “Be sure to convey my best wishes to the happy couple.”

“I will,” said Granny, “but I can’t leave until you do your banishing spell. You were the one who invoked me – remember?”

“Oh, silly me,” laughed Dee, “I have so enjoyed your being here that it slipped my mind completely. It has been good keeping up with the island’s gossip, Mistress Bucket; you must come back soon.”

“I intend to, doctor. You just cast the spell, and I’ll be with you. Now, in the meantime, if you’ll be kind enough to banish me, I’ll get back to Hopeless.”

Had either been aware of the sorcerer’s intentions, they would each have been incandescent with impotent rage. Durosimi had kept the osseous hound busy chasing spoonwalker thought forms in order to create a vicious killer; a killer who stalked the Hopeless night in the guise of Drury. In truth, the effort of controlling the creature had nearly been Durosimi’s downfall, but in the end he had prevailed and sent it out into the foggy darkness with one simple instruction: Destroy the Night-Soil Man.

The morning of Philomena Bucket’s marriage to Rhys Cranham dawned grey and misty, as did most mornings on the island of Hopeless. Rhys had very recently given up the role of Night-Soil Man, solemnly handing over the lidded bucket and long-handled shovel to his apprentice, Naboth Scarhill. With the prospect of a lifetime of married bliss stretching before him, Rhys had spent his last evening as a single man with his friend, Norbert Gannicox, owner of the Gannicox Distillery. It would not be unreasonable to believe that the night had been spent in wild carousing, given the surroundings, but the truth was that Norbert never drank strong liquor, except for the odd occasions when Bartholomew Middlestreet had led him to believe that beer didn’t count as an alcoholic beverage. It was, therefore, in a state of clear-headed sobriety that Rhys awoke early and decided to wander along to his old home, The House at Poo Corner, and see how Naboth was managing with his new-found responsibilities.

Rhys was just a few hundred yards from the Night-Soil Man’s abode when he saw a familiar shape loping along towards him.

“Hi – Drury, you old scoundrel, what have you got in your mouth?” he called cheerfully, but the dog took no notice of him. This behaviour was odd; Drury and Rhys had been good friends for years, spending many happy hours wandering the island together.

As the bony hound rattled by, ignoring him completely, Rhys could see that hanging from his mouth was a human limb of some sort. It looked remarkably like an arm, fresh and bloody. The day was getting weirder by the minute. Where had he found that?

Rhys had an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach as he made his way towards the spot, out towards the headland, where he had first noticed Drury lurking.

Lying on the ground was something that used to have a human shape, but now was mangled out of all recognition into a bloody scattering of severed limbs and half-chewed viscera. Only the upturned bucket, with its foul contents spilled on to the rocks, gave any clue as to the identity of the victim.

Rhys stood frozen to the ground, staring in shocked silence and hardly able to give credit to the grisly tableau before him.

Although the morning was still barely light outside, The Squid and Teapot was already a hive of activity. While Bartholomew busied himself laying out trestle tables and chairs for the wedding reception, his wife Ariadne was fussing around Philomena, trying to persuade her to put curlers in her hair and generally aim to be a little more glamorous than usual.

“I’ll be fine as I am,” laughed Philomena, “Rhys won’t recognise the woman he’s marrying if I do all that. By the way,” she added, “have you seen anything of Drury? He was nowhere to be found yesterday and it’s concerning me a bit.”

“Don’t get stressed about Drury,” admonished Ariadne, “you’ve got enough to worry about, without that as well. Anyway, that old hound is well able to look after himself.”

Suddenly, a frantic banging on the door of the inn made everyone start in alarm. Who could be calling at this hour? It was with no small amount of trepidation that Ariadne pulled the door open and peeked around it.

“Rhys, whatever is the matter?” she asked, opening the door a little wider, “You can’t be here, not this morning. It’s unlucky for a groom to see his bride before the wedding.”

Philomena pushed Ariadne aside, sensing that there was a problem. Her fears were confirmed, just by looking at her husband-to-be. Rhys was ashen-faced and trembling.

“There will be no wedding today,” he sobbed. “Maybe not at all…”

Philomena could only stare in silence, her mouth suddenly dry.

“It’s Naboth, he’s dead, Philomena,” stammered Rhys. “He’s been ripped to pieces… and I think that Drury did it.”

“No… not Drury. He wouldn’t… not old Drury,” she said, bewildered.

“I saw him. He was carrying… oh, it’s too horrible.”

With some difficulty Bartholomew managed to persuade his wife that, if there was to be no wedding that day, it was permissible to admit Rhys into the inn. Ariadne knew that it was perverse to be worrying about bad luck, given the circumstances, but she had always been a stickler for tradition.

Rhys slumped into a chair and buried his face in his hands. Philomena rested a tentative hand upon his shoulder.

“There is no one to cover the Night-Soil Man’s duties, any more,” said Rhys, in a flat voice. “I’m the only person on the island who knows what to do. I’m sorry Philomena… the island can’t manage without the services of a Night-Soil Man; I’m going to have to go back.”

Philomena nodded, too upset to speak.

“Maybe in another year or so… if I can get another apprentice. Although, I’ve lost two now. I think I must be jinxed.”

Some hours after Rhys had left, and Philomena had shed enough tears to fill a tankard, she found herself sitting in her room, alone on what should have been her wedding night. Her thoughts strayed to the events of the day, and the part that Drury had apparently played in viciously destroying both Naboth and her future happiness.

“Oh, Drury,” she muttered to herself, “How can I… how can any of us ever forgive you.”

“I am so sorry that the lad has died and your day has been ruined, but don’t blame the dog too quickly,” said a familiar voice.

Philomena turned to see the ghost of Granny Bucket sitting on the end of the bed.

“Granny…?”

The old lady’s ghost shimmered faintly in the dimming light.

“Philomena, all is not always as it appears,” she said. “You really need to go and speak to Doctor Dee.”

“Doctor Dee? But how…?” began Philomena, but Granny Bucket had vanished into the ether before the question was formed.