By Martin Pearson

There had been no small amount of panic when it was discovered that Septimus Washwell had disappeared. No one had spotted hide nor hair of him for three days. The ever-resourceful Philomena Bucket had deduced that, by using the combined talents of Drury and Father Stamage, it should be possible to track the young man down and bring him safely home. And so, while Father Stamage haunted the depths of his Capello Romano (in which he was able to serenely wander the venerable corridors of his Oxford College, Campion Hall) Drury steadfastly followed Septimus’ trail to a cavern, its slender opening almost lost among a barren scattering of rocks. For every step of the way he had carried the priest’s hat firmly between his teeth. The plan, from then onwards, was that the ethereal wraith of Father Stamage would be able to find Septimus, bring news back of his whereabouts and alert a rescue party.

Bartholomew Middlestreet had never seen Drury looking quite so dejected. The skeletal hound slunk into the bar of The Squid and Teapot, where he dropped the slightly-chewed black hat that he had been carrying.

Bartholomew picked it up and hung it on the coat stand.

“I take it that there was no sign of Septimus” he said, doubt in his voice.

“Not at all,” the hat replied.

A second or two later the wispy figure of Father Stamage began to materialise from the depths of his beloved Capello Romano.

“I ventured into the cavern as far as I was able,” said the phantom priest, “But there was no sign of the lad – but I would bet my boots that he was in there somewhere. Drury is too good a tracker to have made a mistake.”

Hearing this compliment, the old hound cheered up visibly, and rattled off to his favourite corner, where he settled down on an equally favourite blanket, and immediately fell into a deep, and somewhat noisy, sleep.

Durosimi O’Stoat was sitting at his desk, deep in thought, his eyes closed and his mouth lightly resting upon his steepled fingers. He had no qualms about ensnaring those young men, now toiling far beneath the earth. If they were gullible enough to be taken in by his flattery and empty promises, then they deserved whatever fate befell them. It had been straightforward enough to dull their minds with drugged ale and a simple spell or two, but less easy had been the task of concealing their whereabouts. There would be a hue-and-cry when their absence was noticed, and doubtless that blasted abomination, Drury, would be enlisted to sniff them out. The cloaking spell that Durosimi had cast would only be effective for a dozen yards or so, but hopefully that would be enough to baffle the eyes and nose of Drury.   

There was a flaw in Durosimi’s scheme which not even he could have foreseen. I have mentioned, in an earlier tale, that, with fatherhood on his horizon, Septimus had become unusually uxorious. His every thought and action had been with Mirielle and their unborn child in mind. It was inevitable, therefore, that when Mirielle reluctantly eschewed all alcoholic refreshment, for the sake of the baby’s wellbeing, Septimus felt duty-bound to follow suit. Since his capture this had been especially difficult, in the thirsty confines of Durosimi’s mine. It was hard to resist drinking from the barrel of ale which had been left for all to enjoy.  But resist he did, and within a few days, clarity dawned in his addled mind once more, releasing him from the drugs and binding-spell with which Durosimi had hobbled him. There seemed to be no hope for his fellow captives, however, now reduced to little more than blank-faced automatons, toiling unceasingly in the greasy lamplight. Bidding them a silent farewell, Septimus staggered into the pale, foggy embrace of a Hopeless dawn, little knowing that Durosimi had one more trick up his sleeve; with each step, all memories of his captivity, and its causes, were erased from the young man’s mind.

If Septimus had expected to receive a hero’s unconditional welcome upon returning home, he was to be disappointed. While Mirielle was pleased, and not a little relieved, to see her husband, she made it more than clear that she could not accept his claim of temporary amnesia, and having absolutely no idea of his recent whereabouts. His parents were equally sceptical, and only Philomena Bucket regarded his story with any credibility. Whenever anything suspicious occurred on the island, she was inclined to attribute it to the devious deeds of Durosimi O’Stoat.

It was just a day or so later, when talking to Reggie Upton, that Philomena became even more convinced that the sorcerer was once more up to no good. Reggie had been out and about, on one of his flâneuring expeditions. He had wandered aimlessly, in the best tradition of what Philomena insisted on calling ‘flanneling’, until he eventually found himself sampling the ale on offer at ‘The Crow’. The talk in the inn that day had been of five young men, who had mysteriously gone missing a week earlier.

“Dashed rum affair, if you ask me,” said Reggie. “I know that it’s not unusual for chaps to go awol from Hopeless, but five at once from ‘The Crow’ is seriously out of order.”

Philomena nodded,

“If only Septimus could remember where he was for those few days, it might explain things,” she said, then added, “it’s a pity Father Stamage didn’t know where Drury had taken his hat.”

“Wouldn’t Drury remember?” asked Reggie.

They looked at what appeared to be a pile of bones snoring raucously in the corner.

“The trail would have gone cold by now,” said Philomena, “and if I know Drury, he’s forgotten all about it.”

The bones made a few soft whimpering noises, and an osseous leg emerged from the pile and began twitching furiously. Drury was busily dreaming of chasing spoonwalkers.

“Is there anything we can do,” asked Reggie.

“Those lads are somewhere on the island,” said Philomena, “and I’m fairly sure that Durosimi O’Stoat knows where.”

“Then that is where we will start to look, m’dear,” said Reggie, twirling his moustache. “The game is afoot!”