“I was born in County Waterford,” began Father Stamage, “though my father was English. He maintained that this accounted for my tendency to think before speaking. My mother maintained that it merely accounted for my inability to sing.”

Reggie made a note.

“And you always intended to become a priest?”

“Good Lord, no. At fourteen I intended to become an archaeologist. At sixteen, a poet. At seventeen I fell desperately in love with a girl called Máire O’Donnell and intended to become her husband.”

“What happened?”

“Máire decided to marry a prosperous young man whose father owned three public houses.”

“Bad luck.”

“On the contrary. I met her again twenty years later. She had nine children.”

Reggie paused.

“So you joined the Jesuits instead?”

“There were several intervening stages, but essentially, yes.”

“Why the Jesuits?”

“I was young, argumentative and possessed of an excessively high opinion of my own intellect. It seemed the natural home for me.”

“And did they cure you?”

“Eventually. Mostly by introducing me to other Jesuits.”

Tenzin laughed. Stamage gave him a disapproving glare, then continued.

“I studied philosophy and theology, spent some time at St Beuno’s in Wales and eventually went to Oxford. Campion Hall.”

“Edmund Campion?” asked Reggie.

“The very man. Scholar, priest, Jesuit and martyr. Hanged, drawn and quartered at Tyburn. We Jesuits have always taken a robust attitude towards career prospects.”

“And did you stay at Oxford?” asked Reggie.

“No. There followed several years of teaching, parish work and retreats. I also spent a considerable amount of time listening to people confess sins considerably less interesting than they imagined them to be.”

“And then?”

“My superiors sent me to America.”

“Why?”

“They had their reasons.”

“What were they?”

“They didn’t tell me.”

Reggie looked at him.

“Is that normal?”

“Entirely.”

Stamage took a contemplative sip from a phantom glass which Reggie had not actually seen him pick up.

“I spent some time teaching before being sent north. Eventually I found myself travelling along the coast of Maine aboard a small vessel. We encountered fog. Nothing remarkable about that, obviously. This was Maine.”

“Then you found Hopeless,” said Tenzin.

“Not immediately. The compass became unreliable. The captain became irritable. The crew became superstitious, and I became seasick. Eventually we saw land.”

“And you came ashore?”

“I volunteered. Somebody had to discover where we were. There appeared to be a settlement inland, so I took my valise and asked the boatman to wait.”

“He didn’t?”

“When I returned to the shore, the vessel had gone.”

“They abandoned you?”

“I prefer to think of myself as reassigned,” said the priest, stoically.

Reggie stopped writing.

“By whom?”

Father Stamage smiled.

“That, Brigadier, is a question upon which my superiors and I might disagree.”

“And what did you do?”

“What any sensible man would do after finding himself stranded upon an unknown island. I walked until I found a public house.”

“The Squid?”

“The very place. I ordered a drink, enquired about accommodation and was introduced shortly afterwards to Reverend Davies.”

“Who persuaded you to teach at Pallid Rock Orphanage.”

“He explained that they were desperately short of teachers. Naturally, I offered my services.”

“Nobody mentioned that two of the staff at the orphanage were ghosts?”

“No.”

“And you didn’t notice that Miss Calder and Miss Toadsmoor – whom I’m yet to interview – were ghosts?”

“The orphanage is extremely gloomy.”

“Fair point,” muttered Tenzin. 

“I had, of course, been taught that ghosts might exist, although Jesuit education had done little to prepare me for finding them engaged in educational administration.”

“And then you met Drury.”

Father Stamage’s expression became pained.

“Yes.”

“You thought he was a demon.”

“He is a skeletal dog with occasionally glowing eyes, Brigadier. I maintain that it was a perfectly reasonable hypothesis.”

“And I understand that you tried to exorcise him.”

“I did.”

“He stole your hat.”

“He did.”

“So you actually exercised him instead,” laughed Tenzin.

The Jesuit, who was not amused, ignored him.

“The creature led me to Chapel Rock,” he said, “where I encountered Obadiah Hyde.”

He paused for a moment, then added

“A most unpleasant man.”

“And he killed you,” prompted Reggie.

“He hit me over the head with a rock.”

“That usually does it,” agreed Reggie.

“I’ve since forgiven him,” said Stamage.

Reggie stared at the priest.

“Why on earth would you do that?”

“Because I’m a Christian.”

“Is that compulsory?” asked Tenzin.

“More or less, yes,” said Stamage with a nod.

Reggie closed his notebook.

“So there you were. Stranded on Hopeless, surrounded by ghosts and monsters, murdered by a Puritan and condemned to spend eternity haunting an old hat.”

“When you put it like that, it does sound unfortunate.”

“You don’t regret coming here?” asked Reggie.

Stamage thought for a moment.

“No.”

“Really?”

“My dear fellow, the Society of Jesus taught me that one should be prepared to go wherever one is needed. I arrived at an orphanage in need of teachers, on an island whose inhabitants seemed desperately short of pastoral care, and discovered an unusually large number of souls with nobody to listen to them.”

“Some of them are dead.”

“Death rarely stops people wanting to be listened to.”

Reggie glanced down at his notebook.

“No,” he said. “I’m beginning to realise that.”

Father Stamage smiled.

“Besides, Hopeless has taught me something.”

“What’s that?”

“That certainty is a dangerous thing. When I arrived, I saw a skeletal dog and knew it was a demon. Obadiah Hyde looked at Lady Margaret and knew she was damned. He looked at me and knew I was an agent of Rome.”

“And now?”

“Now I try to ask first.”

There was a noise beneath the table.

Drury emerged carrying something between his teeth.

Father Stamage stared at him.

“My hat.”

The skeletal hound wagged his tail.

“Give me that.”

Drury backed away.

“Drury.”

The dog turned and trotted towards the door. Stamage rose hurriedly.

“Excuse me.”

“Where’s he taking it?” asked Tenzin.

“I have absolutely no idea.”

Drury disappeared outside.

Father Stamage hurried after him and vanished the instant he exceeded the distance permitted by the hat.

Reggie and Tenzin sat in silence.

After a few moments Reggie opened his notebook again and added a final sentence.

‘Father Ignatius Stamage, Society of Jesus. Current whereabouts uncertain.’

Tenzin looked over his shoulder.

“Is that the end?”

“For the moment.”

Outside, somewhere in the distance, they heard Father Stamage’s voice.

“DRURY! COME BACK HERE, YOU BLASTED HOUND!”

Reggie added two more words.

‘Still active.’