Finding a bicycle on Hopeless had proved considerably easier than finding one which could still be ridden. The machine eventually produced for Reggie’s inspection had spent several decades leaning against the wall of a shed and had acquired a generous coating of rust and moss.

Reggie regarded it critically.

“Pedersen,” he announced.

“Is that good?” asked Tenzin.

“Excellent machine. Danish design – might even have been made by a descendent of old Lars, the Eggless Norseman. It has a rather ingenious saddle arrangement.”

He prodded the hammock-like seat, which immediately fell off.

“Nothing that can’t be remedied.”

By the following afternoon the bicycle had been restored to something approaching working order. Reggie wheeled it to the beginning of the causeway while Tenzin stood nearby holding a pocket watch.

The road through the swamp was narrow, wet and considerably less level than Reggie had anticipated.

“You’re sure about this?” asked Tenzin.

“Perfectly.”

“What happens if you fall off?”

“I get back on.”

“What happens if you fall into the swamp?”

Reggie considered this.

“Try not to let me.”

He mounted the bicycle.

“Ready?”

Tenzin raised the watch.

“Go!”

Reggie pushed hard on the pedals, and for the first twenty yards all went remarkably well. The Pedersen gathered speed and Reggie began to wonder why anyone had ever considered Forty Second Street particularly dangerous. Then the front wheel struck a stone and the bicycle swerved violently towards the swamp. Reggie corrected it, over-corrected, and narrowly avoided disappearing into the water on the opposite side.

“Twenty seconds!” shouted Tenzin.

“Stop distracting me!”

He pedalled harder.

The ancient chain protested. The hammock saddle made an ominous noise. Something detached itself from the rear mudguard and vanished into the reeds.

“Thirty seconds!”

The far bank seemed suddenly a very long way away.

Reggie lowered his head and pedalled for all he was worth.

“Thirty-eight… thirty-nine…”

The bicycle shot off the causeway and onto solid ground.

“Forty!”

Reggie applied the brakes. Nothing happened. He continued another twenty yards before steering into a clump of rushes and falling sideways. For several seconds there was silence, then he raised one hand.

“Made it.”

“Just,” called Tenzin.

Reggie disentangled himself from the bicycle and brushed the mud from his trousers.

A woman’s voice behind him said:

“Would you care to dance?”

Reggie froze.

A young woman stood at the edge of the swamp. She appeared to be about twenty-one years old. Her dress was old-fashioned even by Hopeless standards and hung wetly from her slender body. Long strands of dark hair clung to her face and shoulders. Water dripped continuously from her clothing, although the ground beneath her feet remained dry.

“You’re Clarissa Cockadilly,” said Reggie.

“And you took forty seconds.”

“Exactly forty seconds.”

“Too slow.”

“Now see here…”

Clarissa held out her hand.

“Dance with me.”

Reggie looked back towards Tenzin, who was watching from the opposite end of the causeway.

“Any suggestions?” he called.

Tenzin shook his head vigorously.

“Thank you. Most helpful.”

Reggie turned back to Clarissa.

“What would you like to dance?”

“The Bishop of Chester’s Jig.”

“Don’t know it.”

“The Collier’s Daughter?”

“Afraid not.”

“Sir Roger de Coverley?”

Reggie brightened.

“Heard of it.”

Clarissa’s expression darkened.

“That’s not the same thing.”

Water began to stir behind her.

Reggie swallowed.

“I know the Turkey Trot.”

Clarissa blinked.

“The what?”

“Turkey Trot. Modern dance. Or at least it was modern when I last had occasion to dance it.”

“You’re making fun of me.”

“My dear young lady,” said Reggie, “I assure you that at this precise moment nothing could be further from my mind.”

The swamp continued to bubble.

Clarissa looked at him suspiciously.

“Show me.”

Reggie placed his notebook carefully on the ground.

“The basic idea is really quite simple.”

For the next few minutes Tenzin watched one of the strangest spectacles he had ever witnessed on Hopeless, which was no small claim. On the far bank of the swamp, Brigadier Reginald Fitzhugh Hawkesbury-Upton was teaching the dripping ghost of Clarissa Cockadilly the Turkey Trot.

At first she followed his movements solemnly. Then she smiled. A few moments later she laughed.

Reggie stopped.

“Something amusing?”

“I’ve never danced this before.”

“I should hope not. It wasn’t invented in your day.”

Clarissa tried the steps again.

“I like it.”

“Rather frowned upon by respectable society in its time.”

“Then I like it even more.”

They danced again, until eventually Clarissa stopped and looked back across the swamp.

“I haven’t learned a new dance for a very long time.”

“Two hundred years, by all accounts.”

Her smile disappeared.

“People say a lot of things about that night.”

“So I’ve discovered,” said Reggie.“They say the Devil came.”

“Yes they do. He didn’t.”

Reggie said nothing.

“Preacher Chevin came.”

For once, Reggie made no attempt to reach for his notebook.

Clarissa looked towards the avenue of stones.

“He brought others with him.”

“And your friends?”

“Gone.”

“All of them?”

Clarissa nodded.

Reggie waited, but she said nothing more.

After a while he picked up his notebook.

“I think I have everything I need.”

“You didn’t write it down,” she said. “So how will you tell my story?”

Reggie tucked the notebook into his pocket.

“Very carefully, m’dear.”

Clarissa studied him for a moment.

“Will you come back?”

“If you’d like me to.”

“You could teach me another dance.”

Reggie considered his repertoire.

“I might manage the Grizzly Bear.”

Clarissa laughed.

“What sort of dance is that?”

“Frankly, I’m not entirely sure. But I’m confident we can make something up.”

Clarissa began to fade into the mist.

“Next Sunday?”

Reggie hesitated.

“Sunday?”

What remained of Clarissa grinned.

“Especially Sunday.”

Then she was gone.

Tenzin was waiting when Reggie eventually wheeled the battered bicycle back across the causeway. This time he walked.

“What did she tell you?” asked Tenzin.

“Enough.”

“Was it Preacher Chevin?”

Reggie nodded.

“Are you going to put that in the book?”

“I shall record what Clarissa wishes me to record.”

Tenzin looked back towards the swamp.

“And the Devil?”

“Seems the old chap was nowhere near the place.”

As they walked back, towards The Squid and Teapot, Tenzin asked, 

“Are you really coming back next Sunday?”

“Of course.”

“To teach her the Grizzly Bear?”

“Certainly.”

The young monk grinned.

“I’d like to see that.”

Reggie gave him a stern look.

“Then you’d better find another bicycle.”