The atmosphere in The Squid and Teapot was convivial this lunchtime, in direct contrast to the dismal mist swirling ominously outside the windows of the inn. Marigold pondered for a few moments before helping herself to a small slice of starry-grabby pie. It was a strange dish, to be sure, but was regarded with some fondness by the islanders of Hopeless, Maine. Convinced, as she was, that Hopeless had always been her home, it seemed only common sense that she had been eating this particular delicacy for years. So, why didn’t she consume it with the relish of a true-born islander? Oh, this was the trouble with amnesia, she thought. How on earth could you be expected to know if you liked something, or indeed, someone, prior to losing your memory?

With this thought fresh in her mind, Marigold glanced across the table at Philomena Bucket, whose slender, pale features belied the justice she was doing to the hearty portion of pie on her plate, not to mention the foaming tankard of Old Colonel at her elbow. At this hour of the day Marigold preferred to drink some of the innocuous sarsaparilla that the teetotal distiller, Norbert Gannicox, had gifted her from his private store. A pint of Old Colonel was far more than she could face at midday, but each to their own.

Had they always been friends? Marigold felt awkward about asking Philomena directly. Despite her amiability, there was a certain reticence – even evasiveness – about Philomena that Marigold could not fathom.

“When I told you about my amnesia, and how I wanted to find my family, you said that it’s a pity that someone, who you called Doctor Dee, wasn’t still around, as he would probably have known what to do. Do you remember?” she probed. “He sounds like a fascinating character.”

“Ah, dear old John Dee,” said Philomena, warmly. “You’re not wrong, he was certainly fascinating… maybe a bit too fascinating sometimes. I’m sure you would have liked him, but there were some folk around here who found him to be something of an acquired taste.”

“Not unlike the starry-grabby pie.”

Suddenly mortified, Marigold immediately clapped her hand to her mouth, alarmed that she might have said this aloud, and was relieved to find that she had not. Instead she asked,

“So, where is he these days?”

Philomena had no wish to have to explain about the tunnels to the Underland, the enchanted cavern and Dee disappearing, probably back to Elizabethan England. It would have been too much too soon for Marigold to take on board.

“Oh… back to where he came from, I imagine,” she replied, adding quickly, “well, there is a lot to do now that lunch is over. I must get back to work.”

Marigold watched the barmaid drain the last drops from her tankard, pick up the plates and cutlery, and drift off to the kitchen, returning to her duties.

“What are you not telling me?” she muttered to herself.  

It was some hours later when Marigold wandered over to the Gannicox Distillery, returning the now-empty jug into which Norbert had earlier poured the sarsaparilla. She knew that Norbert and the folk at The Squid and Teapot were close friends and wondered if he might shed some light on the whereabouts of the mysterious Doctor Dee.

“Doctor Dee?” said Norbert. “He was a great fellow. A real gentleman… and a bit of a magician, one way and another, so they say.”

Marigold looked incredulous. A magician? Why hadn’t Philomena told her?

“How did you meet?” she asked, and Norbert, never slow to spin a good yarn, told her all about the way in which he had journeyed through the Underland with Bartholomew Middlestreet and Philomena. He related how they had miraculously found themselves thrown into the study of John Dee, the famous Elizabethan alchemist, before the four of them were unceremoniously dropped through some significant events in history, and returned to the tunnels that stretched beneath the island.

“Of course,” said Norbert, proudly, “we would never have found any of that without the key to the secret passageway, left years ago in the keeping of my grandfather, Solomon Gannicox.”

Norbert was on a roll by now, and it took little persuasion for him to relate the story of how they had discovered the faux sea-chest in the attic which was, in reality, the entrance to the Underland.

“And where is the key now?” Marigold enquired casually.

“Fastened to a piece of string and hanging around Philomena’s neck. She reckons it’s the safest place for it, until we can find a better place to hide it. She says that the cave is becoming ever more dangerous to visit. Something weird happened to her the last time she was there, and she won’t talk about it.” said Norbert.

Marigold walked from the distillery, her head full of the tale that Norbert had related. She felt sure that if she could get to the enchanted cave and meet Doctor Dee, her memory would be restored and she could find her family. But would Philomena take her there? She could at least ask.

“Definitely not!” said Philomena, much later that night, after the inn had closed. “I’ve got no wish to go there again, and I don’t honestly think it was ever meant for the likes of us to find. Norbert should never have told you about it, Marigold. It just gave you hope where none exists, believe me.”

Marigold, sitting in the large armchair that graced the corner of Philomena’s room, looked tired. She smiled and nodded her acquiescence. Philomena breathed a sigh of relief that the younger woman was willing to let the matter rest so easily.

“Your memory will come back in its own good time, don’t fret,” she told her, and the two settled down for a chat and a nightcap of the non-headwear variety.

They had not been talking for long when Philomena realised that Marigold had fallen asleep in the chair. Not wishing to disturb her friend, she gently placed a blanket over her sleeping form, before blowing out the candle and climbing into bed.

It was late, late into the night, and Marigold was sure that Philomena was in a deep sleep. She stole from the chair and, taking out the small scissors which she had brought for that very purpose, snipped the string around Philomena’s neck and pocketed the heavy brass key. Quiet as a mouse she wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, slipped out through the door and, having lit the stub of a candle, crept up the stairs to the attics.

To be continued…