No one was surprised when Edwin Shadwell’s house was blown into the sea, except, perhaps, Edwin himself, but fortunately he was not there at the time.
A wooden cabin perched on the headland is not the best place to call home in a violent storm, but these things are hard to see without the wisdom of hindsight, or indeed, in Edwin’s case, wisdom of any variety. But Edwin was safe, and that was all that mattered. He even congratulated himself on cheating death, but this did not alter the fact that he was homeless, and the sum total of his possessions were bobbing about somewhere in the North Atlantic.
As usual, when such catastrophes occur, it was Philomena Bucket who came to the rescue.
“You’ll have to stay at The Squid and Teapot,” she told him in a voice that would brook no argument.
Edwin had no intention of arguing, and within a few hours of losing everything, he found himself basking in the hospitality of the island’s most welcoming establishment (although, to be fair, there wasn’t a great deal of competition).
“Has anyone heard from Trickster lately?” asked Reggie Upton.
Philomena Bucket looked up from the book she was reading.
“No,” she replied, “and long may it continue.”
“It’s just that he seems to have been unusually quiet.”
“There are very few things in this world that I regard as an unqualified blessing,” said Philomena, “but Trickster keeping his opinions to himself is certainly one of them.”
Reggie glanced towards the empty chair in the corner of the snug. It had been Trickster’s customary place for months, now. Although its occupant was invariably invisible, the occasional creaking of the ancient woodwork, accompanied by a sarcastic observation or an unprovoked insult, generally served to announce his presence.
For more than a week, however, the chair had remained silent.
“I shouldn’t worry,” said Edwin Shadwell, who had been quietly arranging his dominoes at the next table. “Some folk enjoy a bit of peace and quiet.”
“Not Trickster,” replied Philomena.
“Well, perhaps he’s learning. Never too late, I always say,” said Edwin. “Perhaps he’s gone away.”
“Where to?” asked Philomena.
“Somewhere else?”
“An attractive proposition,” she admitted.
“Nevertheless,” said Reggie, “it isn’t like him. I’ve never known the fellow to resist an opportunity to make himself objectionable.”
“Perhaps he’s dead,” suggested Edwin.
“I don’t believe that’s an option,” said Reggie.
There the matter might have rested, had Reggie not encountered something rather peculiar on his evening walk.
He had taken the longer route past the old cemetery, where the path ran between a crumbling wall and a stand of ancient, wind-twisted trees. The evening was unusually still, and the ever-present mist hung ominously among the gravestones.
As he approached the cemetery gate, Reggie became aware of someone, or something, unusually tall. It appeared to be dressed in what appeared to be a long, dark coat, standing on the other side of the wall, although the failing light made it difficult to distinguish any particular detail.
“Good evening,” called Reggie.
The figure did not respond.
Reggie stopped.
“I say, are you quite all right?”
Slowly, the stranger turned its head towards him.
Reggie could not afterwards explain what was so disagreeable about the movement. There was nothing obviously unnatural about it, yet he experienced the unpleasant sensation that the figure had been expecting him.
He went to take a step forward, but at that moment something seized his coat sleeve.
“Don’t.”
The voice was scarcely more than a whisper, but Reggie recognised it immediately.
“Trickster?”
“Walk away, Brigadier.”
“Good heavens! Where have you been?”
“Not now. Walk.”
There was something in the voice that Reggie had never heard before.
Fear.
Only when the cemetery was well behind them did Trickster speak again.
“Don’t go back there.”
“Who was that fellow?” asked Reggie.
“I don’t know.”
“Then why… ?”
“Because he knows me.”
Reggie waited.
“And that,” Trickster added, “is something he has no business doing.”
Alone once more, Reggie wandered back to the Squid and Teapot, where he found Philomena in the snuggery.
“Trickster’s back,” he announced.
“Has he started being offensive again?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then how do you know?”
Reggie told her of his earlier encounter.
Philomena listened without interruption, which was sufficiently unusual to make Reggie feel that his account was being taken seriously.
“And you say he sounded frightened?”
“Very.”
Philomena put down her cup.
“Well, that’s a first,” she said. “And somebody should warn Edwin. If that chair in the corner starts talking again…”
As if in response, a faint creak came from the aforementioned chair in the corner.
Both turned.
“Trickster?” said Reggie.
For several moments there was no reply. Then a voice spoke from the apparently empty chair.
“I’d rather you didn’t discuss me as though I were dead.”
Philomena folded her arms.
“Where have you been?”
“Elsewhere. Avoiding someone, if you must know,” said Trickster.
“Who?”
“If I knew that, dear lady, I might be considerably happier.”
Reggie pulled up a chair.
“Perhaps you’d better tell us what happened, old chap.”
There was a long silence. Then Trickster told his tale.
To be continued…