It had been some days since anyone had last referred directly to the chair in the corner of the snug, which was generally taken as a sign that matters had lapsed into a condition that did not require further attention.

This was not the same as saying that the matter had been resolved, however.

The chair remained where it had always been, although a succession of cushions had been mysteriously placed upon it over the week, only to be removed later, at the whim of that same unseen hand. 

No one attempted to sit there anymore, and this arrangement had proved, if not entirely satisfactory, at least sustainable.

Philomena was behind the bar, engaged in the sort of quiet activity that allowed her to keep half an eye on the snug without appearing to do so, when Reggie Upton cleared his throat.

“This business of the chair,” said Reggie, settling himself with an air of patient inevitability, “reminds me of an incident in Jaipur. Eighteen eighty-three, or thereabouts. One did not always keep the most reliable track of time out there.”

Philomena did not look up.

“No?” she said, bracing herself for the inevitable anecdote. 

“Conditions,” said Reggie, “were not always conducive to precision.”

This, Philomena reflected, might well be true. Knowing Reggie, a certain amount of alcohol would undoubtedly have contributed to this state of affairs. 

“There was an officers’ club,” he continued. “One of those establishments with high ceilings, slow fans, and a staff who appeared when required and vanished the moment one ceased to require them.”

A glint in an otherwise empty eye socket signalled that Drury was quietly paying attention.

“In the main room,” said Reggie, “there was a chair.”

Philomena paused, very slightly.

“No one ever chose to sit in it.”

“Broken?” she asked, already knowing the answer. 

“On the contrary, m’dear,” said Reggie. “Good construction and quite comfortable, I was assured.”

“Then why…?”

“No one could say,” Reggie went on. “At least, no one said. Which is not quite the same thing.”

From the doorway, the ghost of Father Stamage inclined his head, as though acknowledging a point that had not yet been made.

“The reasons offered,” said Reggie, “were familiar enough. A draught. An awkward position. The light, perhaps.”

Philomena allowed herself the faintest smile.

“That does sound familiar.”

“Yes,” said Reggie. “It does rather.”

He took a measured sip of his drink.

“The room had adjusted itself around it. Chairs were arranged so as not to face it directly. Conversations took place elsewhere. One or two of the regulars developed the habit of leaving a drink upon the table beside it.”

Philomena’s gaze flicked, briefly, toward the snug.

“That’s a habit we seem to have acquired ourselves,” she said.

“Quite,” said Reggie.

There was a small sound from the direction of the snug. Not a creak, exactly. Something quieter than that. The sort of movement one might make, out of courtesy, when finding oneself the subject of conversation.

Drury raised his head.

“What happened?” said Philomena.

Reggie considered this.

“Nothing,” he said.

“That can’t be all.”

“My dear Philomena,” said Reggie, with mild reproach, “it was not the sort of situation that had a conclusion. These days one might describe it as ongoing.”

He leaned forward slightly.

“I did observe, on one occasion, a newcomer – a young subaltern – attempt to sit in the chair.”

Philomena did not ask what followed.

“He was, however, discouraged,” said Reggie.

“How?”

Reggie hesitated.

“One could not say precisely. There was no intervention, as such. He simply altered his intention.”

Drury gave a low, thoughtful rattle.

“Yes,” said Reggie. “Just so.”

There was a pause.

“Did you ever sit in it?” asked Philomena.

Reggie drew himself up.

“Certainly not.”

“Why not?”

Reggie glanced toward the snug.

Father Stamage inclined his head once more.

“Because,” said Reggie, after a moment, “it was obviously occupied.”

Philomena let that settle.

“And you could see this occupant?”

“Good Lord, no.”

“Then how did you know it was there?”

Reggie’s expression shifted, just slightly.

“One knew,” he said.

Silence followed this, of a kind that suggested the room itself had taken an interest.

“It was some years later,” Reggie added, almost as an afterthought, “when I made the acquaintance of Mrs Annie Besant that I began to consider whether such arrangements might not be somehow encouraged.”

Father Stamage gave a snort of disapproval, intended to convey his opinion of Annie Beant and her well-documented interest in Theosophy.

 Philomena ignored him.

“And this was in Jaipur, India?” she said.

“Yes.”

“In the eighteen-eighties.”

“Or thereabouts.”

“And you see no connection whatsoever between that chair and this one.”

Reggie considered this with care.

“I see no reason,” he said, “to suppose that two entirely separate chairs, in entirely different parts of the world and years apart, might be subject to apparently similar arrangements.”

Philomena nodded.

“Of course not.”

Drury settled himself once more, though not without a final glance toward the corner of the snug.

Father Stamage remained in the doorway, faint and watchful.

And in the snug itself, the chair stood as it always had; occupied, but not demonstrably, or indeed, visibly. 

Reggie took another sip of his drink.

“A dashed curious business,” he said.

Which, on the island of Hopeless, was as close to an explanation as anyone ever required.