Category Archives: Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

When you walk through a storm…

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Winston Oldspot dragged on his boots, and peered out of the window with little enthusiasm. Since taking on the role of the official Night-Soil Man of the island of Hopeless, Maine, he had so far enjoyed his work. While there was always mist, and frequently thick fog, this was somehow a comfort; a cotton-wool blanket seemingly keeping the world at bay. Not that he needed anything like that, of course. Even as a comparative novice, the overarching stench of his calling was enough to keep even the most ravenous predator at bay. Tonight, however, there was the promise of a storm brewing. Something in his young bones told him that he needed to get to work, do as little as was absolutely necessary, then hurry back home before the skies burst and the wind threatened to blow him and his lidded-bucket out to sea.

It took less than an half-an-hour for Winston to realise that he had drastically underestimated the mood of the weather. It was very soon apparent that this was not going to be some gentlemanly tempest which allowed him time to fulfil his obligations before, almost apologetically, deciding to start playfully ruffling the trees. What was sweeping in from the wild Atlantic was a full-on, no-nonsense bruiser of a storm that roared across the island, screaming ‘Come on out if you think you’re hard enough,’ to anyone who cared to listen. Discretion had to be the better part of valour on a night like this and, with his bucket barely sullied, the young Night-Soil Man was forced to seek shelter.

Hopeless is honeycombed with caves, and it took next to no time for Winston to find a narrow cleft in the rocks, which opened out into a spacious cavern. He flopped gratefully onto the soft, sandy floor and prepared to sit patiently until such times as the storm eased sufficiently for him to return to the House at Poo Corner, the place that many generations of Night-Soil Men had called home.. That was the plan, anyway; the reality was that, within minutes, he had eased onto his back and allowed himself to drift into a comfortable slumber.

When he awoke the wind had stopped whistling through the cavern and the sound of rain outside had lessened. He reasoned to himself that in order for the storm to have blown itself out, several hours must have passed. With his joints aching, Winston pulled himself to his feet, then stiffened. There was a faint light illuminating the cave’s mouth. Someone was outside with a lantern and they were coming in. Quietly, he slipped into a recess,deep in the darkness of the cave, far enough away from anyone entering for them not to see, or more importantly, not to smell him.  Even if the newcomer was no threat, Winston had no wish to meet anyone; he did not enjoy the company of others. That is why he had chosen to become a Night-Soil Man.

The yellow gleam of the lantern pierced the gloom of the cave, casting long shadows that swept up the walls. Winston pushed himself further into the recess and watched intrigued, as the sinister shape of the lantern-bearer strode confidently along. It quickly became obvious to the Night-Soil Man that this could be only one person – Durosimi O’Stoat. He had seen the sorcerer skulking around the island in the depths of the night before. It was also clear that this was not the first time that Durosimi had walked this path. On a whim, Winston resolved to follow him, being careful to keep the glimmer of the lantern in view, but maintaining a safe distance; he needed to be far enough behind to ensure that his malodour was not going to betray him.

Following the dancing light of Durosimi’s lantern, Winston lost all sense of time and distance. He may have been walking for an hour, or possibly only for ten minutes, when the darkness became impenetrable. Either Durosimi had doused his lantern, or he had gone into a part of the cave which shielded the flame completely. Winston stopped, straining his ears for the slightest movement, but there was none. He remained standing stock-still for some minutes, until his curiosity, and a sudden cramp in his left leg, forced him to move. Gingerly feeling his way along the wall, he ventured deeper into the cave. He had been aware that the path was gradually descending for some time, but now the gradient became more obvious, then his outstretched hand felt nothing; the wall had disappeared. It took but a moment to realise that he had reached a junction, and that the path had taken a ninety-degree turn. That was why the lantern’s glow had disappeared. Before him, now, he could see a pale, unearthly glow. It emanated from the entrance to yet another cavern. The memory of a snatch of conversation stirred in his mind. It was something that he had overheard  some months earlier, before Rhys Cranham had retired and Winston was still an apprentice. Rhys had been talking to Reggie Upton about Philomena Bucket closing the pathway to somewhere called the Underworld. No, that was not right. It was the Underland. Reggie had said something about some girl getting lost after straying into the Crystal Cave, and that is why the way to the Underland was being shut off for good.

Winston gulped. If that was really the Crystal Cave ahead, and Durosimi was in there, he wasn’t making any noise. Maybe he needed rescuing. Taking his bucket off his back, and placing it on the stony ground, he decided that it was no more than his duty to come to the aid of the notorious Mr. O’Stoat; maybe he would be rewarded for his trouble. Besides that, he was curious to see for himself what all the fuss was about, concerning the mysterious Crystal Cave. With a mixture of curiosity and trepidation he made his way in…

To be continued.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Portent

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“I cannot help but think it strange,” declared Philomena Bucket, “that things are suddenly being found washed up on the beach at Scilly Point. Not just ordinary things, either; so far we have been brought cheese, brandy, wine, pies, flour, confections made from marzipan… and all in excellent condition, too.”

“Well,” said Reggie Upton, “you know how it can be at sea. Things are always getting jettisoned overboard for one reason or another.”

“All the same, it smells a bit fishy to me,” said Philomena. “In fact, thinking about it, I would be more convinced that there was nothing strange going on if things really did smell fishy. As it is, everything that has turned up so far smells as though it only left the shop this morning.”

“You know I can vouch for the provenance of most of what has turned up,” said Reggie, defensively. “After all, I have been the one finding the stuff.”

Philomena gave the old soldier a sideways glance, but said nothing.

Reggie had been on the island for months now, and, until very recently, his wanderings (or flâneuring, as he liked to call it) had yielded very little in the way of useful discoveries. Now, suddenly, it was as if he had been granted the keys to some magical food hall. Still, she thought, she ought not to complain. Lately, the bill of fare at The Squid and Teapot had improved beyond all imagining.

“You’ll have to persuade Durosimi to start dropping the food off in other locations. And we need more people in on the secret, too.

Philomena is becoming most suspicious; it’s getting to be embarrassing.”

The ghost of Granny Bucket listened to Reggie’s worries with growing impatience.

“I’ve got no sway over Durosimi,” she said. “If I start making demands, he’ll stop bringing things back.”

“It’s beyond me why he wants his trips to the Underland to be kept secret, anyway,” said Reggie.

“Because he knows that Philomena will do her utmost to seal the passage, in the way that she closed up the other one,” said Granny.

“She could do that?” Reggie was intrigued.

Granny nodded. Durosimi was well aware that when it came to magical abilities, Philomena was the only person on Hopeless who could beat him hands down every day. Much to Granny’s disapproval, however, unless pushed to extremes, her granddaughter eschewed using, or even acknowledging, her powers.

“I might have a quiet word with Septimus Washwell,” said Reggie, thoughtfully, “and let him in on the secret. It occurred to me that if he says that he found the next consignment on another part of the island, that would, at least, let me off the hook.”

“I’m not comfortable with all this deceit,” complained Granny. “To begin with, I was the only one who knew about Durosimi’s trips to Tudor England. I thought a spot of blackmail might be worthwhile. Then young Winston Oldspot had to go and tell you that he saw Durosimi hiding that box of cheese and wine, and now you’re planning to bring Septimus on board. If too many people know, things will start getting out of hand, Reggie, and if Philomena finds out that I’ve been hob-nobbing with O’Stoat, she’ll never speak to me again.“

“Oh, nonsense,” said Reggie. “She should be pleased. The Squid and Teapot has taken on a new lease of life with all of this wonderful provender, brought to us directly from the time of Good Queen Bess.”

“Oh, I’m beginning to see the error of my ways,” said Granny ominously. “No good will come of this now, you mark my words.” With that she allowed herself to vanish into the ether, leaving not a trace of her ever having been there.

“Dashed annoying habit,” muttered Reggie. “Anyway, despite what the old girl says, I shall certainly be lurking around Scilly Point tomorrow morning. I wonder what we’ll get this time…?”

The following day struggled into reluctant life through a haze of murky fog and light drizzle. True to his word, Reggie slipped out of the inn and made his way to Scilly Point, where Durosimi would have left the latest cache of Elizabethan groceries.

The haul looked particularly appetising on this occasion. Reggie could spot several dark, wax-sealed bottles, an ornate confection, shaped like a swan, and a variety of pies and puddings, all wrapped in muslin.

He pulled the box out from its hiding place and eyed it appreciatively, rubbing his hands together in joyful anticipation. His good mood suddenly evaporated, however, when, as if from nowhere, a pale blue rock, the size of a football, dropped from the sky, missing Reggie by inches. Then, to his great dismay, the mysterious missile managed to totally destroy the box and all of its delectable contents, before bouncing harmlessly into the sea.

It is not often that Reggie has been rendered speechless, but with his legs wobbling and his heart pounding, for once in his life, he had nothing to say.

Granny’s words reverberated in his ears. “No good will come of this, you mark my words.”

Was this some sort of portent? It certainly felt like one. The worst of it was, he would never be able to tell anyone. He could hear the comments already.

“A blue rock hurled from the sky? Have you been on the absinthe again, Reggie? Who threw it, the Green Fairy?”

No, it would probably be best to say nothing about the bolt from the heavens, but just tell Granny that he could now see that she was right. She should tell Durosimi to stop bringing food. After all, the next blue rock might be aimed at any one of them, and Reggie had no wish for it to be him.

Author’s note:

As has been mentioned before, Hopeless, Maine has a complicated relationship with time and space. Maybe it is for the best that its inhabitants have no idea that a frightening world exists just beyond their reach. A world in which vastly complicated flying machines grace the skies, high above their little island. Sophisticated as they are, even these machines are not infallible. Occasionally one will have a leak in its septic tank, allowing a potentially lethal projectile to form, frozen in the high altitude and composed of something as basic as good old night-soil, bathed in liquid disinfectant. This is known as blue ice, and, over the past fifty years or so, has been responsible for dozens of instances of destruction to property throughout the United States and Europe.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Cheese and Wine

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“It was dashed fortunate that your grandmother chose to be haunting Scilly Point this morning, or we might never have found it,” said Reggie Upton, gazing appreciatively at the open wooden box that was sitting on the table.

“Isn’t it just,” said Philomena Bucket, with surprisingly little enthusiasm.

“Why, that wheel of cheese must weigh at least nine pounds,” gushed Reggie, adding hopefully, ”I wonder what the wine will taste like?”

“What I’m wondering,” said Philomena, ignoring him, “is what, exactly, Granny was doing down at Scilly Point in the first place. She never ventures far from the inn, unless she has to.”

“Well, that’s as maybe,” said Reggie. “Let’s just consider ourselves lucky that she was able to tell us where to find the box before the tide washed it back out to sea again.”

Philomena said nothing. This did not, somehow, feel at all right.

Little did either of them suspect that the cheese and wine came courtesy of Durosimi O’Stoat, who, for once, had been as good as his word.

You may recall that, having discovered another route to the Underland, and finding himself in Doctor John Dee’s study, Durosimi had wasted no time in perusing the alchemist’s notebooks. By great good fortune he had arrived there in the year 1583, when Dee and his friend, Edward Kelley, were safely out of the way. It seemed that the pair were indulging in some magical mystery tour of their own, somewhere in the depths of Poland.

Hopeless Maine’s very own sorcerer pored over the notebooks, envisaging the power he might have, once his mastery of the Underland was established. John Dee’s occasionally impenetrable handwriting indicated that he was fully conversant with the arcane secrets of the Underland – secrets that Durosimi was keen to unravel.  So far his best efforts had only allowed him the ability to return to Tudor England whenever he chose. Until he knew more, this was better than nothing, and by disguising himself as a genuine Elizabethan gentleman, was able to move freely around London. Durosimi had to admit, that for all of the city’s squalor, it provided a most pleasant change from being forever in the confines of fog-bound and impoverished Hopeless.

Then one day Granny Bucket materialised in Dee’s study. Durosimi was keen to keep his visits to the Underland safely under wraps, at least until he knew more, and Granny was famously indiscreet. Being, above all, a pragmatist (albeit a devious one), he made a deal with Granny; tell no one, and the patrons of The Squid and Teapot will soon be enjoying the choicest fare that Elizabthen England could offer.

Pro quid quo, he had said. Pro quid quo.

When Philomena had satisfied herself that the cheese and wine were genuinely fit for human consumption, and not a trap set by some soul-devouring entity, or any similar agent of evil, she consented for it to be put on the menu of The Squid and Teapot. Those who had lived all of their days on the island had, in all likelihood, never tasted cheese.

“I can’t help but think that young Winston Oldspot might enjoy a spot of cheese,” Reggie said to Rhys Cranham. “I’ll wander down to Poo Corner later, when he starts his rounds.”

Winston had been Rhys’ protege, and was now the island’s new Night-Soil Man. Having lost his sense of smell when in India, years earlier, Reggie was in the unique position of being happily able to spend time in the company of the Night-Soil Man.

“I just hope that he appreciates what you’re doing.” said Rhys with a smile, thinking of his years of isolation in the job, when no one could bear to stand within a hundred yards of him.

“I have heard of cheese,” said Winston. “Never tried it, though.” The young man chewed reflectively, nodding in approval as his taste-buds registered that here was something new to take on board.

“Is this what Mister O’Stoat left at Scilly Point last night?”

“Durosimi?” said Reggie in surprise, “I wouldn’t think so…”

‘Well, I saw him leaving a box of something there. I reckon it must’ve been this.”

Reggie scratched his head. What was Durosimi up to this time? And had Granny really stumbled on the wooden box by accident?

Reggie wondered if he should tell Philomena, then he thought better of it. If the girl believed that Durosimi had anything to do with the cheese and wine she would probably throw the lot into the Atlantic, and that would be a great pity.

“I wouldn’t be inclined to mention that, if I were you,” said Reggie.

“Best keep it under your hat for now, my friend.”

“As no one else ever speaks to me, that won’t be a problem” replied

Winston, philosophically.

“I must have a quiet word with Granny Bucket,” Reggie thought to himself as he walked back to the inn. “I am sure that the old girl knows far more than she is saying.”

Meanwhile, far away, in time and space, Granny was busily trying to persuade Durosimi that the price of her silence far exceeded nine pounds of Cheddar and a flagon of malmsey…

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Pro Quid Quo

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While haunting the attics of The Squid and Teapot, the ghost of Granny Bucket had discovered the vertical passageway leading to The Underland, and the nebulous dangers of the Crystal Cave. Her granddaughter, Philomena, had previously sealed the way, however, following the disappearance of young Marigold Burleigh. While mere mortals seemingly had no access to the cavern, this proved no barrier to Granny’s wraith, who was determined to contact her old friend, the Elizabethan alchemist, Doctor John Dee. To Granny’s surprise, when she reached Dee’s study it was not the learned doctor whom she encountered; instead she found herself staring into the eyes of Durosimi O’Stoat.

“Is your granddaughter so arrogant,” drawled Durosimi, “that she believes herself to know the only way into the Crystal Cave?”

Granny ignored the question.

“The last that I heard,” she said, “was that you were enslaving young men in an attempt to clear the passageway. The Lost Boys, we called them, and to my knowledge, they all escaped.”

“Enslaving?” Durosimi raised a single eyebrow. “A foul calumny, I assure you. I simply engaged a few youngsters to do a job of work for me… besides, there are plenty of others who were willing to help after that first unfortunate mutiny.”

‘So you found a way to get here. Congratulations,” said Granny, unenthusiastically, then added, “and what have you done with John Dee?”

“Done with him? Why, nothing.” said Durosimi. “It appears that we have arrived here in the year 1583, and, if my research into Dee’s life is correct, he is currently in Poland with his friend, the charlatan, Edward Kelley.”

“Typical!” exclaimed Granny. “So what are you doing still hanging around?”

“I have other business here,” said Durosimi.

He leaned forward, conspiratorially. “Did you know that Dee was aware of the existence of The Underland long before that Buck… before your granddaughter came here?”

Granny didn’t know that, but she kept quiet. Durosimi seemed to want to share, and she had no intention of stopping him.

“Through his knowledge of The Underland, Dee often travels to… who knows where?. These journals of his are not only full of his adventures, but give detailed information of how he achieves this.”

“And you intend to learn how to do the same,” said Granny.

Durosimi nodded. “At the moment I have to satisfy myself with being able to wander through Tudor London… which is something of a mixed blessing. Sometimes I wonder how anyone ever survived the squalor, filth and barbarity of the age. However, it has a few advantages.”

“Such as?”

“As an Elizabethan gentleman I have access to books of learning, not to mention a reasonable diet, passably good wine, excellent brandy…”

Durosimi strutted from behind the desk, displaying  the somewhat flamboyant attire of a well-heeled Elizabethan-about-town.

“Nice codpiece,” observed Granny.

Durosimi ignored the remark, instead saying,

 “I know that you and I have had a few differences of opinion in the past…”

“Differences of opinion!” spluttered Granny.”That’s an understatement.”

“But that aside, I think, deep down, we respect each other’s abilities.”

“So what are you getting at? No, don’t tell me. You want me to keep quiet about your little escapades in Merrie England.”

“I would be grateful.”

“And if I don’t?” said Granny, defiantly. “After all, you can hardly kill me.”

Durosimi was silent for a moment, then said,

“I was wondering if we could have some sort of quid pro quo arrangement. It means…”

“I know exactly what it means,” broke in Granny. “I’ll scratch yours if you scratch mine.”

“I wouldn’t have put it quite like that,” replied Durosimi. “But yes, in essence that is correct.”

“You might not have noticed,” said Granny, “but I have nothing to scratch. I am pure ectoplasm.”

“But your silence could ensure my bringing back from Merrie England, as you so inaccurately call it, the occasional luxury for your granddaughter.”

“She’s not one for luxuries,” replied Granny.

“Very well. How about better food for that inn? Something that doesn’t involve fish heads and bits of dead cephalopods.”

“What could you get?”

“Oh… cheese, butter, decent flour, spices, sweetmeats… I could arrange for something to be found at Scilly Point, or some other agreed location, now and then, as though it was no more than a random bit of

flotsam and jetsam thrown up by the sea. Philomena need never know the truth.”

“You want me to lie to my granddaughter?” Granny sounded offended.

“That’s about the size of it,” said Durosimi, casually.

Granny looked pensive for a moment, then said,

“Quid pro quo it is then.”

Tales from the Squid and Teapot

What a difference a month makes…

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To recap… For some years Rhys Cranham, the Night-Soil Man, and Philomena Bucket, the barmaid at The Squid and Teapot, had conducted a loving, but necessarily platonic, relationship from a certain distance.

Anyone, with only a passing knowledge of the private life of a Night-Soil Man, will be aware that the malodorous nature of his work causes all living things (and, indeed, some non-living things also) to keep well away from him. This is a definite advantage when moving about the island of Hopeless, Maine, at night, but does not commend itself greatly to romance. Driven by love, almost uniquely Rhys resigned from his calling and married his beloved Philomena at Christmas. The ceremonial bucket and shovel was passed on to young Winston Oldspot, the burly sixteen year old who had served as Rhys’ apprentice for the past two years.

Although young for a fully-trained Night-Soil Man, Winston was by no means the youngest to heft the lidded bucket on to juvenile shoulders. That accolade goes to Randall Middlestreet, a century earlier, who took up the job at the age of fourteen, after only two months apprenticeship, when his master was unfortunately torn limb from limb and eaten by a monster that paid no heed to his smell (Randall – when still an orphan at Pallid Rock – first appeared in ‘The Vendetta’ in the tale ‘Cricket’, and was, many years later, the only other Night-Soil Man to resign his post).

In the ensuing month since Rhys’ and Philomena’s wedding, the island has witnessed several changes. Bartholomew Middlestreet (grandson of the aforementioned Randall) and his wife Ariadne gave up managing The Squid and Teapot, and moved into a cottage previously occupied by one Mr Blomqvist. While Mr Blomqvist has long departed the property, its helpful guardian, the gnome-like Swedish tomte, chose to remain, for which the Middlestreets, so far, seem grateful. The occupancy of the inn, and everything in it (including the resident flaneur, Reggie Upton), was bequeathed to Rhys and Philomena. News of this soon reached the spectral ears of Philomena’s long-dead grandmother, who immediately invited herself to stay and ‘help out’.

While very fond of Granny, Philomena was less than thrilled with her taking an extended residency, as were the ghosts who haunted the flushing privy, Father Ignatius Stamage and Lady Margaret D’Avening (also known as The Headless White Lady). Father Stamage incurred Philomena’s displeasure by having a mild hissy-fit and demanding that the notoriously witchy Granny Bucket keep well away from both him and Lady Margaret, and not practise her particular brand of ‘Old Time Religion’ anywhere near the privy… … and now you are up to date.

No one had seen Father Stamage or Lady Margaret for a week, or more. This was unsurprising as the phantom priest had gone into a sulk and disappeared into his hat, as he often did when out of sorts. As I have mentioned before, this is no exile into a dark, felt hole reeking of old incense and cheap brilliantine. The hat takes him back to wander the venerable corridors of his old alma mater, the Jesuit college Campion Hall, in Oxford. Lady Margaret, on the other hand, now bereft of her father confessor, quietly disappeared into the stones of the privy, which once formed part of her bed-chamber in Oxlynch Hall, the scene of her final adulterous affair and subsequent beheading at the hands of the Reverend Obadiah Hyde, who, coincidentally, also ended up as a ghost on Hopeless, and is known these days as The Mad Parson of Chapel Rock.

To the surprise of everyone, Granny had not been seen all week either. There was no great mystery here, however. Granny had made claim to one of the attics, and was exploring her new haunt with interest. Readers may recall that Philomena had once found a secret passage, up in the attics. Cleverly disguised as a heavy travelling trunk, the passage descended vertically through the walls of the inn, eventually taking the unwary explorer deep beneath the island, and on to the pathways which led to the mysterious Underland, where, quite frankly anything could, and did, happen. It was following the alarming disappearance of Marigold Burleigh, as described in the series of tales culminating in ‘The Halloween Party’, that a grief-stricken Philomena sealed the pathways in order that no one else be drawn into the glamour of the Underland.

It will come as no great revelation that Granny quickly found the faux travelling trunk and wasted no time in making her way down to the pathways. Hundreds of tons of fallen rock was nothing to Granny, whose spectral form could slip through any obstacle. She was very soon making her way to the crystal cave, which lay at its end. For any unsuspecting mortal wandering in, the cave liked to display its capricious nature, sending them anywhere through time and space that it chose. For Granny, however, mortality was a distant memory. She was putting up with none of those shenanigans, thank you very much!

“John Dee, are you still there?” she called. The crystals flickered with a cold, pale blue luminescence, then with a sigh and a shudder, the scene changed to a dark, chilly room filled with an assortment of strange instruments and specimens covering every available surface. Granny recognised an astrolabe and sextant, an alchemical chart and what appeared to be a glass jar containing a badly deformed foetus, but much of the other paraphernalia was unfamiliar.

A figure sat hunched over a writing desk on the far side of the room. Granny drifted silently across, thinking to give her old friend a small, but good-natured fright. Suddenly the figure looked up. It was definitely not Doctor Dee.

“Why, if it isn’t dear old Granny Bucket,” said a familiar voice. “What the devil are you doing here?”

If Granny was surprised, she did not show it. “I could ask you the same question, Durosimi O’Stoat,” she said.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Seizing the Afternoon

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“I had no idea,” said Rhys Cranham, easing himself on to a barstool, “that managing an inn could be quite such hard work.”

It had been only a week since he and his new wife, Philomena, had taken over the running of The Squid and Teapot. Bartholomew and Ariadne Middlestreet had opted to take a well-deserved retirement, bequeathing the inn, and everything in it, to Rhys and Philomena.

“It is certainly a world away from being a Night-Soil Man,” said Reggie Upton, the ageing ex-army officer, who had, apparently, been included as part of the fixtures and fittings.

Rhys smiled ruefully. When he had – almost uniquely – resigned from his former employment, in order to marry the barmaid, Philomena Bucket, he had little idea that within a month he would be plunged into the role of innkeeper. While Philomena and Reggie were happy with the social and domestic nature of the work, Rhys was less comfortable with taking on the mantle of ‘mine host’. He had left the Pallid Rock Orphanage at the age of fourteen to become the apprentice of Shenandoah Nailsworthy, the Night-Soil Man, but ever since Shenandoah’s death, some five years later, he had toiled alone and nocturnal. Well, maybe not totally alone; Rhys had long been very conscious that the life expectancy of a Night-Soil Man rarely stretched beyond the age of thirty-five. With this in mind, he set out to recruit his own apprentice, an orphan to carry on the unbroken tradition that had begun with Killigrew O’Stoat, a young man who had arrived with the Founding Families.

Unfortunately, Rhys’ first apprentice had been killed, and the next one turned out to be a Selkie, one of the seal-people, a lad who found the lure of the sea to be, unsurprisingly, more appealing than the prospect of spending his short life emptying privies and servicing cess-pools. Rhys felt cursed, and began to wonder if he would go down in history as Hopeless, Maine’s very last Night-Soil Man. It was only with the arrival of Winston Oldspot, the most recent apprentice, that things began to change. And now Rhys was happily married to the girl of his dreams, living an ordinary life – and feeling totally out of his depth in company. After years of living in gloom, stench and near-isolation, he now found himself thrust into the very centre of island society.

“Why don’t you and Philomena take some time off?” said Reggie. “I can do whatever needs to be done until opening time. Carpe diem, and all that, what?”

“Carpet what?” asked Rhys, confused.

“Carpe diem, old chap. Seize the day. It’s Latin.”

“Ah, Latin,” said Rhys. “I must have been off school on the morning that they taught that. Besides, the day is half-over already.”

“Well, jolly well seize the afternoon, then,” said Reggie, adding, somewhat unhelpfully, “That would be carpe post meridiem, I suppose.”

“That sounds good to me,” said Philomena, appearing as if from nowhere and carrying a crate of empty bottles, which she handed to an unsuspecting Rhys. “We need to get this lot back to Norbert Gannicox,” she said. “Afterwards, perhaps, we can wander along to see how the Middlestreets are getting on in their new home.”

Before Rhys could say another word Philomena had shepherded him off in the direction of the Gannicox Distillery. As she passed Reggie she flashed him a beaming smile and silently mouthed the words ‘Thank You.’

Reggie had been correct. Getting away from the Squid for a few hours, and visiting Bartholomew and Ariadne, helped to brighten Rhys’ mood. The Middlestreets seemed enviably happy in their new abode, and by keeping the tomte (that is, the gnome-like guardian of their home, inherited from the previous occupant, Mr Blomqvist) well supplied with nightly slices of starry-grabby pie, the cottage was always maintained in immaculate condition.

Rhys and Philomena walked back across the island hand-in-hand, promising each other that they would make time to steal an occasional afternoon to visit other friends on the island. On returning to The Squid and Teapot they found that Reggie had spent his time preparing the inn in readiness for the evening trade.

“I have had a visitor while you were out,” he told them.

“Anyone we know?” asked Philomena.

“You do, indeed,” said Reggie.

“It was none other than your ghostly Grandmother.”

“Granny Bucket?” Philomena felt a twinge of apprehension. “What did she want?”

“Oh, it was just a social call,” said Reggie. “I told her that you two had been working hard ever since you took over the place, and had gone out visiting for a couple of hours, as you both needed a break.”

“Yes he did,” said Granny Bucket, drifting through the wall and giving everyone a start. “So, I am here to help. I’ll be staying for a while.”

“Oh, thank you, but that won’t be necessary…” began Philomena, giving Reggie a decidedly less-than-grateful glare.

“Ah, sure, it’s no trouble,” insisted Granny. “I can see that you need me, and there’s plenty of room for one more ghost around the place. I can haunt up in one of the attics.” With that, she floated up through the ceiling to inspect her new quarters.

Philomena sighed and looked at Rhys. She opened her mouth to speak, but before a word came out, Father Ignatius Stamage, the phantom Jesuit, pushed his head through the wall of the bar. “It would be appreciated,” he said, somewhat tersely, “if you kept your witch of a grandmother well away from Lady Margaret D’Avening and me. Her presence here is most disconcerting.”

“Granny is unlikely to come into the privy, so if you both stay in the part of the inn that you are supposed to be haunting, that will be fine.” said Philomena. She paused for a moment, then added, “and if we’re talking of things being disconcerting, I would prefer it if you refrained from suddenly thrusting your head through the wall and startling everyone. It upsets the customers, and more to the point, it upsets me.”

Father Stamage made a harrumphing noise and disappeared back into the wall.

“He’s gone off to sulk in his hat, now, I suppose,” said Philomena.

“Well done for telling him, though” said Rhys. “You’ve really got into the role of landlady.”

“I refuse to be bullied, especially by a ghost,” said Philomena.

“Not even by the ghost of Granny Bucket?” asked Rhys. Philomena hoped that Granny was not going to be a problem, or a permanent presence in The Squid and Teapot.

“I really hope not,” she said, weakly, “but you know what she’s like.”

“I do indeed,” said Rhys, recalling his past encounters with the formidable old ghost. “I do indeed!”

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Calling Time at the Squid and Teapot

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“Non! Non! Definitely non!”

When Mirielle was in this mood there was no arguing with her. Despite this, however, her husband, Septimus, attempted to do just that. “Well, I didn’t think…” he began.

“You never do,” broke in Mirielle. ” Whatever gave you the idea that I would be happy to bring my children up in a house with some mad old Swedish goblin skulking about at all hours?”

“He’s not a goblin, he’s a tomte, and he doesn’t skulk.”

” Pah! Goblin, tonto, they’re all the same. We will wake up one morning and find our babies have been kidnapped and spirited off to who knows where. That is not going to happen. We will stay living in the dance studio until we can find somewhere that doesn’t have a mad tonto terrorising the neighbourhood.”

Septimus sighed. He knew when he was beaten.

*****

“I’m getting too old for this,” groaned Bartholomew Middlestreet, heaving a barrel across the cellar floor of The Squid and Teapot. “I don’t know how I would have managed to have shifted this lot on my own. I’m really grateful for your help, Rhys.”

Rhys Cranham grinned. He was half of Barthlomew’s age, and these barrels were child’s-play after his years of working as the island’s Night-Soil Man. “It’s little enough to do, after all that you and Ariadne have done for Philomena and me,” he said.

It was true enough. The Middlestreets had given the newlyweds a home after Philomena, like Mirielle, had declined to share a cottage with the tomte.

*****

“I don’t understand it,” said Ariadne Middlestreet, later that evening. “If I had been Philomena or Mirielle, I would have jumped at the chance of moving into the Blomqvist cottage. By all accounts that tomte creature has kept it spotless for all these years, ever since Mr Blomqvist died.”

News travels quickly on the island of Hopeless, Maine.

Bartholomew, nodded. “And for nothing more than a bowl of food every night,” she added. The innkeeper paused and eyed his wife quizzically. “Would you really want to move from The Squid?” he asked, at last.

“It would be strange, after all this time,” she admitted. “But it’s a lot of work, even with Philomena’s help. Why do you ask?”

“Well, we’re not getting any younger,” said Bartholomew. “Maybe it’s time for a change.”

*****

“But there has been a Middlestreet running The Squid and Teapot for the last hundred years,” protested Philomena Bucket, when Ariadne related the conversation to her. It was late, and they were preparing starry-grabby pies for the following day.

“And before that there were the Lypiatts, and before them, more Middlestreets, with a nasty little man called Thrupp in between. Everything changes, eventually, Philomena.”

“But I can’t imagine The Squid without you and Bartholomew. Besides, who would take over?” “We thought that you and Rhys might be keen… ” She let the words hang in the air, and watched the gamut of emotions cross Philomena’s face.

“But..but.. I… we could never…” she spluttered.

“Yes you could,” said Ariadne. “And I’m sure that Reggie Upton would be more than happy to help.”

“I don’t know…” said Philomena, composing herself.

“You’ll be fine – and will be doing Bartholomew and me a good turn, We really need to retire.”

“I’ll need to speak to Rhys…”

“Bartholomew has already done that. Rhys said that the decision would be yours.”

“And Reggie?”

“I’ll leave you to talk to Reggie,” smiled Ariadne. There was the faintest flush to Philomena’s pallid face. “This is all so sudden,” she said.

*****

The following morning Philomena caught up with Reggie outside the dance studio, talking to Septimus and Mirielle.

“You’re just the man I’m after,” said Philomena brightly, ”unless I’m interrupting something.”

“Not at all m’dear,” beamed Reggie. “I’m just off to do a spot of flaneuring.” This was Reggie’s way of saying that he was simply going for a walk.

“Pah! You are no flaneur,” said Mirielle, mischievously. “Charles Baudelaire was a flaneur, and you are certainly no Baudelaire.”

“You are perfectly correct, dear lady,” said Reggie, with a mock bow. “I confess, I have never been a syphilitic opium-addict, so you have me there.” The old soldier winked at Mirielle, then turned his attention to Philomena. “And now, m’dear, what can I do for you…?

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

A Christmas to remember

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Story by Martin Pearson, festive squids with teapot by Nimue,

“I was so pleased to hear that you and Rhys have decided to live in The Squid and Teapot after you’ve married,” said Reggie Upton. “The old place would not be the same without you here.”

“It’s good of the Middlestreets to let us stay,” replied Philomena, “but that little place of Mr Blomqvist’s would have suited Rhys and me nicely.”

Until recently, Philomena had set her heart on moving into the deserted Blomqvist cottage. In the event, however, she had decided that she had no wish to share it with the Tomte, an elf-like house-guardian, who had kept it in pristine condition since the old man’s death some years earlier.

“Maybe it’s all for the best,” said Reggie, philosophically.

Philomena decided that she wanted to change the subject. Anyway, there was something more important to be discussed than thwarted dreams of home-ownership.

“I have often wondered…” she paused slightly before delivering her question. “In your professional opinion, Reggie, is a brigadier in the British army as high-ranking as a captain in the Royal Navy?”

“Of course!” said Reggie, straightening himself to his full height. “No doubt about it. A bit higher, if anything.”

“And you were definitely a brigadier?”

“I was… and indeed, I still am,” he replied, proudly.

“In which case, there is nothing stopping you marrying us.”

Reggie looked nonplussed.

“I’m sorry… you have quite lost me, m’dear,” he said.

“If the captain of a ship is allowed to conduct a marriage ceremony at sea,” reasoned Philomena, “it seems logical to me that a brigadier can do the same thing on land.”

“Oh!… but I am not… I don’t really think…” stammered Reggie.

“Well, I can’t see why not,” broke in Ariadne Middlestreet, walking into the room and immediately earning herself a dirty look from Reggie. “And after all, this is Hopeless, Maine, and we make up our own rules here.”

“But what about Reverend Davies doing the business?” asked Reggie, hopefully.

The look on Philomena’s face said everything, without her having to speak a word.

“Father Stamage? Yes, I know that he’s technically dead, but that didn’t stop him from doing a perfectly good job marrying Septimus and Mirielle Washwell.”

“Let’s just say that Father Stamage and I don’t exactly share compatible views when it comes to religious observances,” said Philomena, adding darkly, “and don’t let Mirielle catch you calling her Mrs Washwell. She is, and always will be, Mirielle D’Illay.”

Before Reggie could utter another word, Ariadne said,

“So it’s settled then. I’ll put on the invitations that Brigadier Reginald Fitzhugh Hawkesbury-Upton will be marrying Miss Philomena Bucket to Mr Rhys Cranham in the Town Hall on Christmas morning.”

“I will?” said Reggie.

“I’m glad you agree,” said Ariadne, purposely misunderstanding him.

A handful of invitations were sent out, but everyone knows that the folk of Hopeless pay little heed to such niceties, and would turn up anyway, whether invited or not. Fired with enthusiasm, Ariadne happily took on the role of wedding planner and from then onwards everything suddenly fell seamlessly into place. She press-ganged her husband, Bartholomew, to give Philomena away, volunteered Septimus Washwell to be the best man, and his heavily pregnant wife, Mirielle to take on the mantle of Matron of Honour. Three of the younger girls from the orphanage were recruited as bridesmaids. No one argued about these arrangements, for this was to be a wedding such as the island had not witnessed in a very long time.  

You could be forgiven for expecting everything to end in tears; maybe some cataclysmic event that would prevent the completion of the nuptials. Perhaps you envisage a distraught Philomena being gently led from the Town Hall, and Rhys nowhere to be seen. This is usually the way of these events on Hopeless, but, happily, not on this occasion. Everything went swimmingly well, with Philomena pallid and beautiful in a wedding dress that had been stored in the attics of The Squid and Teapot for generations, as if waiting for her, and Rhys resplendent in one of Reggie’s many bespoke suits, retrieved from a seemingly bottomless travelling trunk. Reggie surprised himself by doing a sterling job as celebrant. No one fluffed their words, or dropped the wedding ring which, until recently, had graced the old soldier’s little finger. For once, Drury, the skeletal hound, behaved himself, as did the ghost of Granny Bucket, who fluttered about the Town Hall with undisguised pride.

After a wedding breakfast supplied by The Squid and Teapot, the festivities began in the earnest. As could be expected, the venerable phonograph, and a selection of wax-cylinders, were brought out of storage and, by popular demand, the song that had become the island’s anthem was played… and played… and played. It was a ditty celebrating the life and death of a purveyor of sea-food, a girl who apparently chose to sell her wares in thoroughfares of varying widths – otherwise known as Molly Malone. Philomena had long ago come to detest the efforts of the Irish tenor, who warbled “Alive, alive-o” in tinny and strangulated tones. It was during a final, rousing chorus, that a distinctly Gallic cry of pain rose above the other voices.

“It’s Mirielle,” cried Septimus, panic-stricken. “The baby is coming! The baby is coming! Is Doc Willoughby in the house?”

“Non, you fool,” scolded his wife. “C’est ridicule! Bordel!  I do not want that old quack. I want Philomena.”

It had long been agreed that Philomena would act as midwife to Mirielle, but it was the last thing the new bride expected to be doing on her wedding day.

Mirielle was hurried to The Squid and Teapot, where the snuggery was swiftly converted into an impromptu maternity ward. Philomena, ever practical, got out of her wedding finery and into something more becoming for a midwife. Ariadne chased everyone away who did not need to be there, including Septimus, who was secretly relieved not to be present.  He sat with those three reasonably wise men, Rhys, Reggie and Bartholomew in the bar, anxiously waiting to learn that he had become a father.

“Did you say twins?”

Septimus looked pale

Philomena nodded. The twin girls had made their appearance during the hour before midnight on Christmas Day.

“And everything… everyone is alright?”

“Of course,” said Philomena. “Come and see them.”

The little group made their way into the snuggery, where an exhausted, but happy, Mirielle proudly nursed two tiny bundles of life.

Bartholomew handed Septimus a drink.

“A drop of the Gannicox distillery’s best,” he explained. “To wet the babies’ heads.”

“You two will have your work cut out now,” said Reggie with a smile.

“We will,” agreed Septimus, worriedly. “And I don’t think we’ll be able to carry on living in our rooms at the dance studio. It’s cramped enough as it is.”

“We will be fine,” protested Mirielle, though clearly not believing what she had said.

“What you need is a place of your own, and someone to help you run it,” said Rhys, giving Philomena a knowing look.

“Fat chance of that,” said Septimus.

“Maybe not,” said Philomena. “Do you know what a Tomte is, by any chance…?”

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

It was a dark and stormy night…

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Story by Martin Pearson, festive tentacles by Nimue.

In these grey days, around the time of the winter solstice, it is no exaggeration to describe The Squid and Teapot as being a small oasis of hope in a grim and foggy landscape.  The inn invariably acts as a beacon to the good folk (and, it must be said, to some of the not-so-good folk) of Hopeless, Maine, and within its stout walls the troubled islanders can almost imagine themselves as being in a normal, albeit Dickensian, environment.

On the evening of our tale, business was brisk. Flickering candles, and lanterns exuding a gentle, amber light, glowed on every table, while a roaring log fire danced and crackled in the hearth. The bar and tiny snuggery of The Squid, packed with patrons, were bathed in a welcoming wash of gold that belied the horrors that lurked in every mist-strewn shadow beyond the walls. Safe within the inn, the air was filled with snatches of half-remembered songs and the hubbub of companionable conversation. Bartholomew Middlestreet, the landlord, made sure that the evening was fuelled with generous plates of Starry-Grabby Pie, washed down with copious amounts of Gannicox Spirit, foaming tankards of ‘Old Colonel’ ale and, not least, Reggie Upton’s home-made absinthe. One could almost be forgiven for thinking that nothing on earth could easily stop the flow of conversation and general bonhomie of this winter’s night – but one would have been wrong.

In the best tradition of well-worn clichés, the great oak door of The Squid and Teapot swung open dramatically, allowing a blast of cold air to send a flurry of snowflakes over the threshold, where they dissolved instantly. A sudden silence descended upon the revellers; heads turned, and every eye fell upon the dark shape silhouetted in the doorway. You could have heard the proverbial pin drop.

It was Reggie who broke the spell.

“My dear chap, I thought you were never going to get here.”

The newcomer stepped into the bar, closing the door quietly behind him.

“Rhys…?” It was Philomena Bucket’s turn to speak, apparently frozen to the spot with a tray of drinks expertly balanced on one hand.

A ripple of excitement swept through the room. It was Rhys Cranham, the Night-Soil Man.

By necessity, Night-Soil Men have always been shadowy figures, rarely seen in the light, and then only from a distance. As is well known, the Night-Soil Man’s all-pervading reek routinely prevents people getting too close. There are exceptions of course; Reggie Upton suffers from anosmia – a total lack of any sense of smell – and had befriended Rhys, often accompanying him on his rounds. Philomena Bucket had been similarly afflicted when she came to the island, and Rhys had saved her from a gruesome end, wrapped in the deadly tentacles of some nameless creature. Philomena instantly fell in love with her rescuer, but their relationship was thwarted when an unexpected salt-water nasal douche, administered when she fell into the sea, loosened the deposits of grain in Philomena’s nose, instantly returning her olfactory senses to their original and efficient selves. On two previous occasions Rhys had attempted to give up his job, and both times things had gone horribly wrong, preventing the two from marrying. The likelihood of them setting up home together seemed ever more remote. Now, however, things had changed and Rhys had at last retired from his night-soil duties. He had subjected himself to a succession of baths, arranged for Reggie to secretly find him some clean clothes from the attics of The Squid, and summoned up his courage to re-join the daily life of the island.  

The former Night-Soil Man made his way through the back-slapping throng to where the love of his life stood, still poised, holding a drinks-tray aloft. More than one pair of ears strained to hear what endearments might pass between the two.

“You might have let me know,” said Philomena, testily. There was anger in her voice.

Rhys was taken aback.

“Let you know what?”

“That you had been feeding that elf fella; that Tomte, or whatever his name is.”

“The Tomte at old Blomqvist’s place? Yes, I’ve been looking after him, but what has he got to do with anything?”

“He’s cleaning our house,” said Philomena, exasperated.

“Our house? I had no idea,” said Rhys. “But if he’s cleaning it, isn’t that a good thing?”

“No it isn’t,” said Philomena. “I wanted it to be just for us, not some museum piece, looking just as the previous owner had left it, years ago.”

“But I couldn’t let him starve,” said Rhys. “Besides, a Tomte can get pretty nasty if they’re neglected. But I honestly had no idea…”

“Of course you didn’t,” snapped Philomena. “It was to be my surprise. A place of our own that I brought back to life myself. Now it’s ruined.”

Rhys looked crestfallen. This was not the welcome that he had expected.

“I am truly sorry,” he said, “but this need not stop us from moving in.”

“Not with him there,” said Philomena. “And I get the idea that his sort doesn’t take kindly to being shifted.”

“No…” conceded Rhys.

Philomena looked close to tears.

“There will be other houses,” said Rhys, “but at least we still have each other.”

With that he dropped to one knee and produced a small gold ring. It carried a crest which depicted a square and compass, and looked suspiciously like the signet ring that Reggie Upton had worn upon his little finger until very recently.

“Philomena Bucket…”

Before Rhys could utter the question, Philomena blurted,

“Of course I will, you dam’ fool!”

A rousing cheer rattled the windows of The Squid and Teapot. A pile of bones, seemingly discarded in the corner, shook themselves into the shape of Drury, who barked approvingly and wagged a bony tail.

“So when?” asked Rhys, happy at last.

“Next week. A Christmas wedding,” replied Philomena, who was even happier.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Housekeeper

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You may remember that an elderly and enigmatic resident of Hopeless, Herr Schicklegruber, disappeared under mysterious circumstances on December the fifth, a date which is not only St. Nicholas Eve, but also known as Krampusnacht (see the tale of that name). It is generally believed that Herr Schicklegruber was spirited away by Krampus, which is odd for two reasons: Firstly, the Krampus of legend usually focuses his dark attentions upon misbehaving children and, secondly, although the island is ripe with monsters of all descriptions, as far as anyone knows, this particular Christmas terror has never before been seen on Hopeless.

It has been speculated that Herr Schicklegruber, an Austrian gentleman, had somehow brought Krampus from his distant homeland, as part of his luggage, as it were. This is not beyond the realms of possibility, as the author Mr Neil Gaiman has so ably posited in his novel, ‘American Gods’.

I only mention this, as Rhys Cranham and Reggie Upton recently encountered a strange character who, it seems, came to the island under similar circumstances… but I am jumping ahead.

Regular readers will be aware that, at long last, Philomena Bucket is to marry Rhys Cranham, who will shortly be relinquishing his job as the island’s Night-Soil Man. This is only the second time in the history of Hopeless, Maine, that a Night-Soil Man has retired from his post, the first to do so being Randall Middlestreet, grandfather of the current Landlord of The Squid and Teapot, Bartholomew Middlestreet.

Having lived in The Squid and Teapot ever since her arrival on the island several years earlier, it seemed obvious to Philomena that the time had come to move on, and that she and Rhys should start their married life in their own home. This came as something of a shock to the Middlestreets, and the other resident, Reggie Upton, who expected the newlyweds to live at the inn. Philomena, however, was adamant, but promised that this was to be the only change; she would continue to act as cleaner, cook and barmaid at The Squid for as long as she was able.

“As long as you’re able?” asked Bartholomew, puzzled. “What does that mean?”

A flush came to Philomena’s pale cheeks.

“Well… you never know…” she said, not meeting his eye.

Bartholomew’s wife, Ariadne, gave her a knowing smile.

“If it should be that you cannot help us, be assured, we will certainly help you,” she said.

Bartholomew shook his head in bafflement. These women were talking in riddles as far as he was concerned.

“And when you move away,” he asked, trying to get back on to firmer ground. “Do you have anywhere in mind where you would like to live?”

“There’s an empty cottage out towards Scilly Point,” Philomena said. “No one has lived there for ages. I thought that we might go there.”

“Sven Blomqvist’s old home?” said Ariadne. “He died years ago. Long before you arrived here. It must be a damp and dusty old place after all of this time.”

“That can soon be put right,” Philomena said, confidently. “I haven’t actually been inside yet, but a bit of elbow-grease and a few fires and we’ll soon have it looking homely. In fact, I intend making a start before Rhys gives up his job next week. I want it looking nice for him.”

“I can help you,” said Ariadne, “and I am sure that Reggie will be more than happy to lend Bartholomew a hand while we’re away.”

The following morning the two women walked the half-mile or so to Scilly Point, armed with cleaning cloths and brushes, intent on bringing the abandoned cottage back to somewhere fit for human habitation. When they arrived there, and pushed open the front door, each was suddenly grasped by a feeling of trepidation, and looked anxiously inside.

The scene before them was not what either had expected.

“I think that I have made a mistake,” said Philomena. “Someone obviously lives here. Someone a darn sight tidier than me, too!”

The little parlour was scrupulously clean. Not a speck of dust or strand of cobweb could be seen.

“You don’t think that Mrs Beaton has moved in?” said Ariadne, worriedly. “I imagine that this is how her place must look.”

Philomena shuddered.

“If she has, I don’t want her finding us here… oh, but look… “

She pointed to a small bookcase.

“These books… they’re all in some foreign language,” she said.

“It’s probably Swedish,” said Ariadne, pointing to a map hanging on the wall, which proclaimed itself to be an accurate, if somewhat elderly, representation of Sweden.

“Mrs Beaton is definitely not Swedish,” said Philomena. “I don’t know anyone on the island who is, either.”

“Mr Blomqvist was,” said Ariadne.

That evening, when Rhys Cranham left his cottage to go to the bunkhouse and rouse his apprentice, Winston Oldspot, he noticed a letter pinned to his front door. In the light of his candle lantern he could just make out his name, written in a familiar hand, which made him smile. It was a note from Philomena. He took the paper to read indoors, where there was more light.

A knock came on the door.

“Are you ready, boss?”

It was Winston.

“Um… yes. Are you happy to go down to service the houses at Tragedy Creek?  I’ve got something to do over at Scilly Point. I’ll meet up with you later.”

Winston nodded, and left. He was a lad of few words, which was a common trait in Night-Soil Men.

Rhys had barely walked a dozen yards when Reggie Upton slipped out of the shadows. Rhys could have guessed that Philomena would have sent his old friend as moral support.

“Philomena told me about the Blomqvist house,” said Reggie. “It’s all very rum. Apparently the old chap’s been dead for years and his place looks like a palace.”

“Yes, she wrote to me. She thinks someone is living there,” said Rhys.

“I know,” said Reggie. “Then she felt guilty, worried that you’d be confronting heaven knows what. That’s why she asked me to join you.”

Rhys grinned as the old soldier brandished his sword stick menacingly.

The two men had only been standing under the trees for a few minutes when they heard signs of movement around the cottage; it was the unmistakable scrape of a tin bucket, and something being dragged over the cobbled pathway. Then, like something out of a child’s picture-book, a tiny man appeared around the corner, pulling a sack behind him. He was no more than a foot high. He was colourfully dressed, with a loose red cap covering his head, and a long grey beard that reached down to his belt.

“Good Lord!” exclaimed Reggie. “What the devil is that?”

“More of a who than a what,” corrected Rhys. “That little fellow is some sort of elf, and is the one responsible for the housework.”

“You honestly think that he’s an elf?” Reggie sounded incredulous. “They don’t exist – they’re the stuff of fairy tales.”

Rhys gave Reggie a long, hard stare.

“You have come to an island where werewolves, shapeshifters and all manner of night-creatures are commonplace, strange little critters totter about, using stolen cutlery for stilts, and you live in an inn where two of your fellow residents are ghosts. How is it that you can’t bring yourself to believe in elves?”

For once in his life Reggie had no answer, all he could say was,

“I’d better report back to Philomena.”

As is so often the case, the answer was discovered in one of the many encyclopaedias littering the attics of The Squid and Teapot.

“The creature is called a Tomte, apparently,” said Reggie, thumbing through a dusty old tome. “Some sort of Swedish gnome, by all accounts. Old Blomqvist must have brought him over in his luggage. It says here that as long as you leave food out for him, he’ll continue to help. The downside is, if he isn’t fed, then he will cause all sorts of trouble for you.”

“Marvellous!” exclaimed Philomena, with a frown. “An angry gnome is all that I need at the moment.”

“Well, he didn’t look as though he’s starving,” said Reggie. “So someone must be leaving food for him – and I have a suspicion that Rhys knows more than he’s saying.”