The clock in the bar of The Squid and Teapot struck the hour of midnight. The inn’s patrons had long left for the dubious comfort of their own beds, and Reggie Upton and Tenzin were in the snug, playing chess. The chair in the corner creaked occasionally when a game-changing move was made but, other than that, the only sounds were those of Rhys and Philomena clearing up for the night, Drury snoring by the fire, and the Tomte padding around, muttering to himself.
Tenzin could have wished that they had started their game earlier. He was tired, and Reggie was not the quickest when deciding his next move. Once or twice Tenzin had to prevent himself from falling asleep while the self-appointed Grand Master deliberated whether to advance his pawn, or put his bishop somewhere else.
In fact, Tenzin was nearly napping, when suddenly there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping on The Squid and Teapot’s door.
“We must have visitors,” he mumbled sleepily. “Only that and nothing more.”
“Who the devil is that, banging about at this hour?” said Reggie, annoyed that his train of thought had been derailed, but Rhys had already slid back the bolts and was opening the door.
No sooner was there sufficient space to get in, than a mad tangle of black feathers exploded into the room, and proceeded to perch on the head of Queen Victoria – or at least a plaster facsimile of the monarch that Reggie had rescued from the attics.
“What the…” began Reggie but Philomena, who had appeared, teacloth in hand, said.
“It’s alright… it’s Lenore… whatever is wrong, girl?”
“Neville Moore!” croaked the Raven.
“Is there something wrong with Neville?”
The worry in Philomena’s voice was apparent; she was fond of the old hermit, whose only companion was his pet Raven.
“Neville Moore,” Lenore repeated, mainly because that was the sum total of her human vocabulary. Nevertheless, it seemed clear that something was amiss.
“Get your coat,” said Philomena.
“Excellent,” replied Reggie. “Now then, before we all charge off into the darkness after a bird that only knows two words, might I suggest…”
“Neville Moore,” croaked Lenore.
“… that we ascertain precisely what is wrong with Neville Moore.”
“Neville Moore!” insisted the raven.
“Yes, yes, we have established his identity,” sighed Reggie.
Lenore ruffled her feathers and looked deeply offended.
“Something has happened,” said Philomena. “Lenore has come all this way at night. She wouldn’t leave Neville unless she had to.”
“Quite right,” said Rhys, reaching for his lantern. “We’ll go and have a look.”
Tenzin yawned.
“I was hoping to go to bed.”
“You’re young,” said Reggie. “You can sleep when you’re older.”
“That doesn’t seem fair.”
“Life rarely is,” said Reggie, breezily.
Within a few minutes a small party had assembled by the door. Rhys carried the lantern. Philomena carried a stout walking stick that had once belonged to Granny Bucket, and had been used for purposes far more alarming than walking. Reggie carried his trusty silver topped cane, which concealed a swordstick.
“You can’t be too careful,” he told Tenzin, who was carrying another lantern.
Drury, having heard the word ‘go’, carried only his enthusiasm. And the Tomte? He carried a profound sense of disapproval, but decided that it was his duty to stay and look after the children, Caitlin and Little Oswald.
“If the Tomte is looking after the children, maybe he can mind the inn as well. ” said Rhys. “And what about…?” He gestured towards the corner.
There followed an uncomfortable silence, then everyone turned very slowly as the chair in the corner of the snug creaked.
“Definitely not,” said Rhys firmly.
The chair creaked again.
“No.”
Something that might have been a sigh emerged from the direction of the chair.
“I suppose,” said Philomena, “it would be safer if he stayed here.”
“That is precisely my thinking,” said Rhys.
The chair rocked gently.
Then a voice emerged, as if from somewhere beneath the brim of a broad hat.
“I am wounded.”
“Good,” said Rhys.
“I had no intention whatsoever of accompanying you.”
“Excellent.”
“Indeed, I intended to spend a quiet evening sitting in a comfortable chair and minding my own business.”
“No one believes that.”
The chair considered this.
“Fair enough.”
The lantern flame flickered.
For a brief moment the shadows around the chair seemed to gather themselves together like folds of black silk.
“Well,” Trickster began. “Since we’re all going…”
“We are not all going.”
“…it would be discourteous of me not to accompany my friends.”
“You aren’t our friend,” said Rhys.
“That hurts,” said Trickster
“How can it? You don’t have feelings.”
“I have several. I keep them in a shoe box.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No. But that was a good answer.”
Philomena pinched the bridge of her nose.
“Fine,” she said. “You can come.”
“Splendid.”
“But if you turn anyone into a frog…”
“As if.”
“Or a turnip.”
“I won’t.”
“Or an opera singer.”
“I did that once.”
“Yes, you did.” said Rhys.
“In my defence, he was asking for it,” said Trickster.
Philomena sighed.
“Just behave yourself.”
Everyone could sense that Trickster smiled. It was, however, not an encouraging smile.
Outside, the wind had begun to rise, and Lenore launched herself from Queen Victoria’s head, to vanish into the darkness ahead.
“Neville Moore!” she called.
“Lead on,” said Philomena.
And so the little procession set off across Hopeless. Above them the clouds hid the moon and behind them The Squid and Teapot stood dark and silent.
For several moments nobody spoke.
Then Tenzin glanced sideways, knowing that the Trickster was close by.
“You know something, don’t you?”
“Almost certainly.”
“About Neville?”
“Possibly.”
“Are you going to tell us?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” said Trickster cheerfully, “it would spoil the surprise.”
To be continued…