Reggie Upton was enjoying a quiet morning in the snug of The Squid and Teapot, where he and the young lama, Tenzin, had been attempting to bring some order to their manuscripts, cataloguing the ghosts of Hopeless . The task was proving considerably less straightforward than either had anticipated.

“I’ve been thinking, old chap,” said Reggie, putting down his pen, “that perhaps we ought to give the ghost stories a rest for a week or two.”

“Have you run out of ghosts to interview?” Tenzin asked.

“Not exactly. But there are only so many times a fellow can describe an apparition appearing at the foot of somebody’s bed before it becomes a trifle repetitive. Besides, I’m beginning to suspect that the dead have rather more interesting things to do than spending their afterlife relating the facts surrounding their deaths to the living.”

Tenzin nodded thoughtfully.

“Perhaps we should write about something cheerful for a change.”

“Capital idea. Any suggestions?”

Before Tenzin could reply, Rhys Cranham appeared in the doorway, looking unusually pleased with himself.

“You’ll never guess what’s washed up on the beach.”

“A barrel of brandy?” suggested Reggie, hopefully.

“No. Better than that,” said Rhys. “It’s a great big wooden crate. I had it brought up here this morning. It was addressed to somebody in New York, but the label’s mostly washed away.”

“What’s inside?”

Rhys grinned.

“Leather shorts.”

There was a pause.

“I beg your pardon?” asked Reggie.

“Leather shorts. Dozens of pairs. All neatly folded. Some of them have suspenders attached.”

“Suspenders?” queried Reggie, not a little confused. Then the light dawned. “Ah… those are what we British would call braces.”

“I thought we might be able to make something of them,” said Rhys. “According to what’s left of the label, they’ve  come from Germany.”

Reggie’s expression brightened.

“Germany, you say? With braces? Why, my dear fellow, you’ve found yourself a consignment of lederhosen!”

“Have I?” said Rhys, none the wiser.

“Indeed. Traditional Bavarian attire. Frequently worn during Oktoberfest.”

Rhys looked interested.

“Oktoberfest?”

“An annual celebration in Munich. Beer, music, sausages, that sort of thing. Splendid affair, by all accounts.”

“Beer, you say?”

“Enormous quantities,” confirmed Reggie.

“It all started with a royal wedding?” said a voice from the corner.

Father Ignatius Stamage, the ghostly Jesuit, had materialised in his customary armchair, a phantom copy of The Tablet resting upon his knees.

“Good morning, Padre,” said Reggie. “We were just discussing the possibility of introducing a little Bavarian culture to Hopeless.”

“So I gathered,” replied Stamage. “Although I sincerely hope you are not proposing to turn this establishment into a beer hall.”

“Only temporarily,” said Rhys.

“That is hardly reassuring,” said Stamage. “Anyway, the original Oktoberfest was held to commemorate the royal marriage of Crown Prince Ludwig of Bavaria to Princess Therese in 1810, and that the festivities originally centred on horse racing rather than competitive beer consumption. It was not merely an excuse for public drunkenness.”

“Horse racing, eh?” Rhys scratched his head. “That might be a problem. I don’t suppose anybody knows where we could find a horse?”

There was a short silence.

“Er… Astrid, the Valkyrie, has a horse,” ventured Tenzin. A blush came to his cheeks.

An uncomfortable silence descended upon the snug.

Father Stamage crossed himself.

“Absolutely out of the question.”

“Quite right,” agreed Rhys hurriedly. “We’ll forget about the horse racing.”

“Probably wise,” murmured Reggie. “Best not to involve a Valkyrie, what?”

He paused, thoughtfully smoothing his moustache.

“Dashed fine-looking woman, all the same.”

Tenzin became suddenly absorbed in the arrangement of his manuscripts.

“Anyway,” said Rhys, anxious to return to safer ground, “we’ve got the trousers. All we need is some beer and a few sausages.”

“Not quite,” said Father Stamage. “There is also the question of whether you have any right to use the contents of a crate plainly intended for somebody else.”

“On Hopeless it has always been finders keepers,” replied Rhys.

“A principle,” observed the Jesuit coldly, “which I do not recall encountering in the teachings of Saint Thomas Aquinas.”

“Perhaps he never found a crate of leather trousers,” suggested Reggie.

Father Stamage gave him a withering look, and said, “Furthermore, Oktoberfest traditionally begins in September. You are already rather late.”

Rhys frowned.

“But it’s called Oktoberfest.”

“Nevertheless.”

“Then why don’t they call it Septemberfest?”

“A question,” said Reggie, “which has troubled the finest minds of Europe for generations.”

Father Stamage folded his newspaper.

“I very much doubt that,” he said.

Rhys was undeterred.

“I’ll have a word with Philomena, “ he announced, rising from his chair. “We could have a proper celebration next weekend. German beer, sausages, music, everybody dressed up.”

“Everybody?” repeated Reggie uneasily.

“Of course. We’ve got enough leather trousers to go round.”

“Ah! Well, I rather think I’ll stick to my usual attire, if it’s all the same to you. I have no objection to cultural exchange, but I draw the line at exposing my knees to the general public.”

“And I shall have no part in this foolishness,” said Father Stamage. “What is more, I strongly advise you to return those garments to their rightful owner.”

With that, he faded from view, taking The Tablet with him.

Rhys watched him disappear.

“Funny old stick, isn’t he?”

“Principled, old chap,” said Reggie. “Very principled.”

“Well, principles don’t pay for beer. I’ll go and see what Philomena says.”

He departed, leaving Reggie and Tenzin alone with their manuscripts.

For a few moments, neither spoke.

“Do you think Philomena will agree to it?” asked Tenzin.

“Difficult to say,” replied Reggie. “Much depends upon whether Rhys mentions the leather trousers.”

From the public bar came Rhys’s voice.

“Philomena! You’ll never guess what I’ve found!”

There followed a brief silence, followed by a reply of such force and clarity that Reggie instinctively straightened in his chair.

“Ah,” he murmured. “I rather think negotiations have begun.”

Tenzin carefully gathered his papers together.

“Perhaps we’d better stay in here,” he said.

“An excellent suggestion, dear boy.”

Reggie picked up his pen.

“Now, where were we?”

From beyond the snug door came the unmistakable sound of Rhys attempting to explain the commercial advantages of a crate full of second-hand leather breeches, and whether the larder at Not Hopeless might be up to providing a few sausages.

Reggie sighed.

“The wurst,” he murmured, “is yet to come.”