It began, as these things often do, with underwear.
Or more specifically, the sudden and inexplicable disappearance of a pair of industrial-strength lavender bloomers, belonging to Mrs Beaten. She had pegged them securely to the line behind her cottage, on one of those rare mornings when it seemed that they wouldn’t get wetter for being outside, only to find them vanished by afternoon, with the clothes-peg still bravely clinging to a length of empty string.
By the end of the week, the missing laundry list had grown. Socks. Petticoats. Norbert Gannicox’s long-johns. Some rather fine silk culottes also disappeared; they were last seen fluttering cheerfully outside the Dance Studio of Les Demoiselles de Hopeless, Maine (previously of the Moulin Rouge, where wearing such garments was almost compulsory). Even Reverend Davies’ second best cassock disappeared – though this was later retrieved from the roof of the Pallid Rock Orphanage, where it had become a temporary nesting site for a group of spoonwalkers.
The fickle finger of blame, as so often happens, turned to Drury.
It was an easy accusation. After all, he was known to have a fondness for pilfering odd items – especially laundry – and his idea of fun is to fling stolen objects into the sea and bark at them. Besides, who or what else on the island had the motive, the opportunity, and a history of dragging things about in his jaws?
“It’s got to be him,” insisted Norbert Gannicox, standing beside the line where his thermal long-johns had once proudly fluttered. “No other beast would steal a man’s winter smalls. He’s probably got a whole den of undergarments somewhere!”
But Reggie Upton, resisting the temptation to point out that it was not winter, and the items in question were by no means small, refused to accept the accusation.
“Rubbish,” he declared, arms folded firmly across his chest. “Drury is a lot of things – undead, excitable, and an occasional pain in the fundament – but he’s no thief… Well, yes he is, but to be fair, not of this magnitude, at any rate.”
He was sitting at his usual table in the Squid and Teapot, on this occasion eschewing his usual tankard of Old Colonel to loyally imbibe a pint of Rhys Cranham’s latest experimental batch of nettle beer, and attempting not to think about the aftertaste. Drury, sprawled happily under the table, gave a clatter of tail bones against the floor in appreciation.
“He doesn’t even have a soft mouth,” added Reggie. “He’d shred lace bloomers without meaning to. I’ve seen him try to carry a sponge. It disintegrated on contact.”
“Well,” said Philomena, bringing over a dish of Starry-Grabby pie, “either Hopeless has developed a poltergeist with a penchant for nether garments, or someone else is helping themselves. Maybe it’s time for us to do some laundry-based detective work.”
Reggie straightened in his chair. “Are you suggesting a trap?”
“I’m suggesting,” said Philomena, “that we hang out a decoy washing line and see who comes calling.”
That evening, a selection of garments was pegged to the line outside the inn with theatrical flair: a pair of Reggie’s old regimental underpants (once white, but now approaching a more ambiguous shade), one of Philomena’s more flamboyant petticoats, and a highly provocative brassiere that someone insisted had once belonged to Miss Calder, when she was alive. This, however, was hotly disputed, mostly by Miss Calder.
Drury was positioned in the undergrowth, tail wagging eagerly, while Reggie and Philomena kept watch from the Snuggery window with a spyglass and a flask of Reggie’s home-made absinthe.
“Three-to-one odds on spoonwalkers,” muttered Reggie.
“I’m still not ruling out a spectral laundress,” Philomena replied.
The night passed slowly. At around midnight, something shifted. A shadow moved at the edge of the garden—small, low to the ground, and very quick. Drury tensed, then sprang from hiding with a delighted clatter and galloped after it.
By the time Reggie and Philomena caught up, Drury had the culprit cornered behind the compost heap. It was a small, hunched figure, clutching a bundle of garments to its narrow chest.
“It’s the Tomte!” gasped Philomena.
You may remember that the Tomte had arrived on the island many years earlier, in the luggage of a Swedish gentleman, Mr. Blomqvist, who set up home in what became imaginatively referred to as the Blomqvist House. When Mr Blomqvist eventually shuffled off his mortal coil and went to find his own version of Valhalla, Bartholomew and Ariadne Middlestreet moved into the now empty house, and the Tomte moved out. This was on the grounds that the Middlestreets were not sufficiently Scandinavian, and therefore did not warrant the benefit of his house-keeping services. It was only when Philomena, with crossed fingers, persuaded him that her adopted children ticked the right Nordic boxes, that he moved into The Squid and Teapot.
The Tomte blinked up at them with large yellow eyes.
“They’re pretty,” he explained, gesturing to the stolen garments. It sounded a strange thing to say, in his gruff Swedish accent. What he said next was even more incongruous.
“They’re soft and all floaty floaty. They smell like nice soap and skin.”
Realising that he was probably giving the completely wrong impression, he added hurriedly,
“I don’t wear them. I just nest in them.”
Philomena softened. “At least he’s not stealing out of mischief,” she said. “It probably reminds him of home.”
“I daresay that stealing some poor devil’s washing would be the first thing that a Viking raiding party thought of,” muttered Reggie, but then he too began to feel sorry for the little man.
He rubbed his moustache thoughtfully. “Pinching a decent blanket would have made more sense.”
“Well he only had to ask,” said Philomena. “There is plenty of unwanted stuff up in the attics.”
“It doesn’t smell so good,” grunted the Tomte, and, to be honest, nobody could argue with that.
A deal was struck; he could choose whatever he needed from the attics and Philomena would wash it, and ensure that it was as fragrant as a new bride’s trousseau. The only condition was that he return everything else.
Over the next few days, parcels of folded laundry began to appear on doorsteps across the island – some cleaner than when they’d left, and all of them accompanied by a small lavender-scented sprig.
Much to Mrs Beaten’s discomfiture, Reggie mischievously volunteered to return her lilac bloomers personally.
Drury was cleared of all charges and awarded half a Starry-Grabby pie for services rendered. He carried it around for three hours before burying it under a rhubarb bush.
And thus ended the great undergarment panic, with Hopeless restored once more to its usual level of misery, vexation, and occasional sock loss.