By Martin Pearson

“Why are you so distracted, Septimus?”  

Mirielle D’Illay barked the words at her husband as he stumbled over his dance routine for the third time. 

“Sorry,” stammered Septimus. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.” 

“Well, move it off your mind and concentrate on the dance. We’ll be performing in front of an audience in a few days, and it needs to be perfect.” 

“A few days?” said Septimus, paling. 

“Yes – it’s your mother’s birthday party, or have you forgotten?” 

“But I won’t be able to…” 

“You won’t be able to do what?” Mirielle regarded him darkly. “I hope that you’re not going to say you won’t be dancing at Mabel’s party.” 

Septimus had recently agreed to help Durosimi O’Stoat complete some mysterious task or other, and had, that very morning, received a message from the sorcerer informing him that he would be required to start work on the following day. Septimus had been reminded to tell no one. 

“So where will you be?” Mirielle demanded. 

Septimus, who had become suddenly and unaccountably uxorious since learning that he was to become a father, was reluctant to lie to his wife. Durosimi, however, had sworn him to secrecy, and Durosimi was not the sort of person you wanted to disobey. 

“It’s just something I’ve been asked to do at The Squid and Teapot,” he said, not totally untruthfully. A few days earlier Septimus had delivered a firkin of ale to Durosimi. That was when the offer of a job had arisen. The firkin was now, apparently empty and needed to be returned to the inn, and another one taken to Durosimi. How the sorcerer had got through nine gallons of ale in such a short time, and now needed a further supply, was beyond Septimus’ comprehension. 

“So you would rather mess about in the cellar of The Squid than going to your mother’s party and dancing with me?” 

“Of course not, but I really have to…” 

“I don’t know why you don’t move into The Squid and Teapot, like Reggie Upton,” Mirielle broke in angrily.  “You might as well be married to that mad Englishman. You two deserve each other.” 

“That’s just being silly…” began Septimus, but he was talking to himself. Mirielle had already left the building. 

“It is a simple enough task,” said Durosimi. “I just need you to break up few rocks. It is easy enough work for a youngster such as yourself.” 

Septimus gazed into the gaping mouth of the cavern with some disquiet. It was all very well Durosimi seeing him as being a strong young man. No one had said anything about needing to be brave. 

“That looks a tad creepy in there, Mr O’Stoat,” he said, nervously. 

Durosmi smiled a mirthless smile that was meant to be reassuring. 

“Nonsense, lad,” he said, laying a hand on Septimus’ shoulder. “You will have a lantern, and it is perfectly safe, I can assure you, and you won’t be alone. There are some other fellows in there, all willing recruits like you. They seem very happy. I would do the job myself, but alas, I am not as young as I used to be.” 

Septimus wondered what that had to do with anything. True, Durosimi certainly had a few years under his belt, but surely, he was no older than Septimus’ own father, Seth, who was still as strong as an ox. 

Holding his candle lantern aloft, Septimus gave a sigh. His shoulder tingled, where Durosimi had touched him, and his mind was growing foggy. 

“They seem very happy,” he said dreamily, and wandered, like a sleepwalker, into the cavern.  

“I thought he’d never go,” muttered Durosimi. 

“He has been gone for three days,” wailed Mirielle. “I was too harsh with him, what have I done? Mon Dieu, what have I done?” 

“Whatever it is that has happened, it is not your fault,” reassured Philomena Bucket. “I checked with Bartholomew, and he said that the last time he had seen Septimus, he was in the cellar of The Squid, and about to swap Durosimi’s empty firkin for a full one.” 

“Durosimi?” said Mirielle, aghast. “Durosimi O’Stoat?” 

Philomena nodded. She did not know anyone else called Durosimi, and did not imagine that Mirielle did, either.  

“I am uneasy if Septimus is associating with that man.” 

“Me too,” said Philomena, wishing that Granny was around, so that she could at least to ask for her advice. True to form the ghost of Granny Bucket made a point of turning up when you least wanted her but failed to appear when needed.  

“If only we could find where he is gone,” whimpered Mirielle. 

“Maybe we can,” said Philomena, after some thought. “I think I know who can help.” 

Philomena Bucket had always been wary of the priesthood, but, in recent months, Father Stamage had become the exception. It helped that, since his unfortunate death, his views on the afterlife had been drastically revised.  

“Septimus is lost?” said the ghostly Jesuit. “Of course, I would be very happy to help, but I can’t really see what use I would be.” 

“You do yourself a disservice, Father,” said Philomena. “You’ll help no end, as long as you’re happy to team up with Drury for a spell.” 

Father Ignatius bridled a little at the word ‘spell’. He was only too aware of what the Bucket women were capable of when it came to spells. Then he realised that this was no more than a figure of speech. 

“With Drury?” he said, his curiosity roused. “Why, yes, I get on with the old chap quite well these days, but I can’t really see…” 

“You will,” said Philomena with a grin. “Leave it to me.” 

Had you been standing outside The Squid and Teapot, later that evening, you may have spotted a skeletal hound slip out from the shadows, with a bible-black hat firmly held between his jaws. Drury was notorious for stealing various items of discarded clothing, but his usual tactic would be to dash away with it, causing as much mayhem as possible in the process. This evening, however, he slunk along, his bony nose firmly fixated upon the ground. Occasionally he would put the hat down, sniff the air, then finding his bearings, pick up the hat once more and continue with his mission.  

As I have mentioned in other tales, you and I might find no more than the odours of sweat, cheap brilliantine and faded incense in the priest’s somewhat battered Capello Romano. For Ignatius Stamage, however, to haunt his hat was to walk, once more, through the cool, venerable corridors of his old alma mater, Campion Hall, in Oxford. 

It was less than an hour later that Drury found himself standing at the forbidding mouth of a dark cavern. The ground was thick with scents, but he could easily distinguish that of Septimus from the others. Laying the hat upon the ground, he gave a low bark, intended to summon the ghost of Father Ignatius. Without a word, the ghostly priest drifted from the comfort of his hat and Campion Hall, and into the gloom-laden cavern, unseen and unheard by any who might be watching.  

To be continued…