“I had no idea,” said Rhys Cranham, easing himself on to a barstool, “that managing an inn could be quite such hard work.”

It had been only a week since he and his new wife, Philomena, had taken over the running of The Squid and Teapot. Bartholomew and Ariadne Middlestreet had opted to take a well-deserved retirement, bequeathing the inn, and everything in it, to Rhys and Philomena.

“It is certainly a world away from being a Night-Soil Man,” said Reggie Upton, the ageing ex-army officer, who had, apparently, been included as part of the fixtures and fittings.

Rhys smiled ruefully. When he had – almost uniquely – resigned from his former employment, in order to marry the barmaid, Philomena Bucket, he had little idea that within a month he would be plunged into the role of innkeeper. While Philomena and Reggie were happy with the social and domestic nature of the work, Rhys was less comfortable with taking on the mantle of ‘mine host’. He had left the Pallid Rock Orphanage at the age of fourteen to become the apprentice of Shenandoah Nailsworthy, the Night-Soil Man, but ever since Shenandoah’s death, some five years later, he had toiled alone and nocturnal. Well, maybe not totally alone; Rhys had long been very conscious that the life expectancy of a Night-Soil Man rarely stretched beyond the age of thirty-five. With this in mind, he set out to recruit his own apprentice, an orphan to carry on the unbroken tradition that had begun with Killigrew O’Stoat, a young man who had arrived with the Founding Families.

Unfortunately, Rhys’ first apprentice had been killed, and the next one turned out to be a Selkie, one of the seal-people, a lad who found the lure of the sea to be, unsurprisingly, more appealing than the prospect of spending his short life emptying privies and servicing cess-pools. Rhys felt cursed, and began to wonder if he would go down in history as Hopeless, Maine’s very last Night-Soil Man. It was only with the arrival of Winston Oldspot, the most recent apprentice, that things began to change. And now Rhys was happily married to the girl of his dreams, living an ordinary life – and feeling totally out of his depth in company. After years of living in gloom, stench and near-isolation, he now found himself thrust into the very centre of island society.

“Why don’t you and Philomena take some time off?” said Reggie. “I can do whatever needs to be done until opening time. Carpe diem, and all that, what?”

“Carpet what?” asked Rhys, confused.

“Carpe diem, old chap. Seize the day. It’s Latin.”

“Ah, Latin,” said Rhys. “I must have been off school on the morning that they taught that. Besides, the day is half-over already.”

“Well, jolly well seize the afternoon, then,” said Reggie, adding, somewhat unhelpfully, “That would be carpe post meridiem, I suppose.”

“That sounds good to me,” said Philomena, appearing as if from nowhere and carrying a crate of empty bottles, which she handed to an unsuspecting Rhys. “We need to get this lot back to Norbert Gannicox,” she said. “Afterwards, perhaps, we can wander along to see how the Middlestreets are getting on in their new home.”

Before Rhys could say another word Philomena had shepherded him off in the direction of the Gannicox Distillery. As she passed Reggie she flashed him a beaming smile and silently mouthed the words ‘Thank You.’

Reggie had been correct. Getting away from the Squid for a few hours, and visiting Bartholomew and Ariadne, helped to brighten Rhys’ mood. The Middlestreets seemed enviably happy in their new abode, and by keeping the tomte (that is, the gnome-like guardian of their home, inherited from the previous occupant, Mr Blomqvist) well supplied with nightly slices of starry-grabby pie, the cottage was always maintained in immaculate condition.

Rhys and Philomena walked back across the island hand-in-hand, promising each other that they would make time to steal an occasional afternoon to visit other friends on the island. On returning to The Squid and Teapot they found that Reggie had spent his time preparing the inn in readiness for the evening trade.

“I have had a visitor while you were out,” he told them.

“Anyone we know?” asked Philomena.

“You do, indeed,” said Reggie.

“It was none other than your ghostly Grandmother.”

“Granny Bucket?” Philomena felt a twinge of apprehension. “What did she want?”

“Oh, it was just a social call,” said Reggie. “I told her that you two had been working hard ever since you took over the place, and had gone out visiting for a couple of hours, as you both needed a break.”

“Yes he did,” said Granny Bucket, drifting through the wall and giving everyone a start. “So, I am here to help. I’ll be staying for a while.”

“Oh, thank you, but that won’t be necessary…” began Philomena, giving Reggie a decidedly less-than-grateful glare.

“Ah, sure, it’s no trouble,” insisted Granny. “I can see that you need me, and there’s plenty of room for one more ghost around the place. I can haunt up in one of the attics.” With that, she floated up through the ceiling to inspect her new quarters.

Philomena sighed and looked at Rhys. She opened her mouth to speak, but before a word came out, Father Ignatius Stamage, the phantom Jesuit, pushed his head through the wall of the bar. “It would be appreciated,” he said, somewhat tersely, “if you kept your witch of a grandmother well away from Lady Margaret D’Avening and me. Her presence here is most disconcerting.”

“Granny is unlikely to come into the privy, so if you both stay in the part of the inn that you are supposed to be haunting, that will be fine.” said Philomena. She paused for a moment, then added, “and if we’re talking of things being disconcerting, I would prefer it if you refrained from suddenly thrusting your head through the wall and startling everyone. It upsets the customers, and more to the point, it upsets me.”

Father Stamage made a harrumphing noise and disappeared back into the wall.

“He’s gone off to sulk in his hat, now, I suppose,” said Philomena.

“Well done for telling him, though” said Rhys. “You’ve really got into the role of landlady.”

“I refuse to be bullied, especially by a ghost,” said Philomena.

“Not even by the ghost of Granny Bucket?” asked Rhys. Philomena hoped that Granny was not going to be a problem, or a permanent presence in The Squid and Teapot.

“I really hope not,” she said, weakly, “but you know what she’s like.”

“I do indeed,” said Rhys, recalling his past encounters with the formidable old ghost. “I do indeed!”