Reggie Upton was beginning to suspect that he was being followed.
The first time he encountered Father Ignatius Stamage that morning, the ghostly Jesuit was sitting at his favourite table in the snug of The Squid and Teapot, reading a phantom copy of The Tablet.
“Morning, Father,” said Reggie.
“Good morning, Brigadier.”
Reggie glanced at the newspaper.
“Anything interesting?”
“Not especially,” said Stamage. “There is a letter concerning the proper observance of Ember Days with which I profoundly disagree.”
“Today’s paper?”
“Not exactly. November 1911.”
“Ah,” Reggie sounded unsurprised.
“I’ve been meaning to reply,” explained the priest.
“I find it’s always best not to rush these things,” said Reggie encouragingly.
An hour later he encountered Father Stamage again, this time loitering outside the Gannicox Distillery.
“Good morning once more, Father.” he beamed.
“Brigadier.”
“I must say, I’m surprised to find you all the way out here,” said Reggie. “Pardon my curiosity, but do you have any particular business at the distillery, old chap?”
“Sadly not anymore,” said the priest.
“I see,” replied Reggie, but he didn’t.
Shortly before lunch, he dropped by Ghastly Green to return a book borrowed from Neville Moore. Father Stamage was leaning casually against the garden gate.
“What-ho, Father,” Reggie called breezing, waving his cane.
“Indeed, Brigadier.”
As he walked away, something moved beneath a nearby hedge. He caught a brief glimpse of Drury’s skeletal hindquarters before the osseous hound disappeared from view.
That afternoon, Reggie and Tenzin were returning towards The Squid when they encountered Stamage for the fourth time. The Jesuit was sitting upon a wall, apparently absorbed in contemplation of the middle distance.
Reggie stopped.
“I must ask – are you following me?”
Father Stamage looked surprised.
“Why on Earth would I want to do that?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” said Reggie. “That’s why I’m asking.”
A muffled snuffling noise came from the other side of the wall. Reggie peered over it, and noticed Drury lying in the grass. Between his front paws was Father Stamage’s Cappello Romano.
Reggie looked at the dog, then at the hat. Then he let his gaze rest upon the ghostly priest, who, at least, had the grace to look embarrassed.
“You’ve put Drury up to this.”
“I may have reached a temporary accommodation with him,” admitted Stamage.
“How have you managed to persuade that animal to carry your hat, just so that you can follow me?”
“For some reason being allowed to carry my hat around is reward enough,” said Stamage.
Drury thumped his bony tail upon the ground.
Tenzin grinned.
“So you really have been dogging the Brigadier’s footsteps,” he said.
Father Stamage gave him a severe look.
“I shall pretend you didn’t say that.”
Reggie folded his arms.
“But why?”
The priest sighed.
“Very well. If you insist upon making this difficult, I shall come directly to the point. You’ve been writing a book about the ghosts of Hopeless.”
“I have,” said Reggie with a nod.
“You’ve interviewed Miss Calder.”
“Yes.”
“Lars Pedersen?”
“Not directly, but I know his story.”
“Clarissa Cockadilly?”
“Indeed. A delightful young lady.”
“You even went all the way to Chapel Rock to talk to that miserable old heretic Hyde.”
“That was purely in the interests of historical accuracy. I can’t say that I enjoyed the experience,” admitted Reggie.
Father Stamage folded his arms.
“And yet you haven’t asked me.”
Reggie stared at him.
“Good Lord. You’re feeling left out.”
“I wouldn’t put it quite like that.”
“How would you put it?”
“I should say that I am surprised that a project purporting to be a comprehensive history of the ghosts of Hopeless has thus far omitted one of the island’s few properly educated members of the deceased,” he said.
“You’re jealous,” suggested Tenzin.
“Certainly not.”
“Miffed?”
“Jesuits do not get miffed.”
Behind the wall, Drury picked up the Cappello Romano and began to wander away.
Father Stamage flickered.
“Drury! Stay!” he exclaimed, urgently.
To everyone’s surprise the hound stopped, and Father Stamage became solid again.
Reggie looked from the priest to the dog.
“Does that happen often?”
“You have no idea.”
Reggie took out his notebook.
“Very well. Let’s hear your story.”
Father Stamage smiled.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
They returned to the Squid, where Reggie ordered drinks for himself and Tenzin, and selected a freshly sharpened pencil. Drury dropped the hat, curled himself around it and went to sleep.
“Right,” said Reggie. “We’ll start at the beginning. Where were you born?”
To be continued…