Oscar Wilde once famously declared that the only thing he could not resist was temptation. He would probably have been surprised to learn that this is a characteristic he shares with a certain skeletal hound (as well as being dead, of course), and why the aforementioned Drury considers himself to be totally blameless in the following sequence of events. After all, the finger of blame should really point at Philomena Bucket. If only she had been more careful when putting things down, the problem would never have arisen. Dropping her duster and rushing off to see why both of her children were crying was no excuse. Father Stamage’s hat had been left on the sideboard where any Tom, Dick or Drury might reach it with ease, and be tempted to run off with it.

Of course, this was not the first time Father Stamage’s Capello Romano had been given the Drury treatment (see the tale ‘The Accidental Adventures of Father Stamage’s Hat’) and on that occasion the fault could be squarely laid with Tenzin, the young Buddhist monk, who was using it as a frisbee to entertain the children, Caitlin and little Oswald. Anyway, it’s sufficient to say that Drury had once more succumbed to temptation and stolen the ghostly priest’s hat. 

By the time he had grown tired of the game, Drury found himself in that uniquely strange area of the island known as Not-Hopeless. Regular readers may remember that upon leaving the island some months ago, Doctor Pyralia Skant had opened this liminal fissure as a gift to The Squid and Teapot. Here Philomena was able to gather some precious provisions; these were items of food and drink previously unknown on the island, and thereby improve the inn’s bill of fare.  And it was here that Drury discovered Durosimi O’Stoat throwing spells at Not-Hopeless in an attempt to make it his own private larder. 

When the honour of The Squid and Teapot is at stake, Drury is usually the first to run to its aid and, with no one else being available on this occasion, he decided to take matters into his own hands – well, teeth, to be exact. Without a second thought (or even a first, knowing Drury) he flung himself at the sorcerer and grabbed hold of Durosimi’s coat-tails (yes, honestly. The O’Stoat coat has tails). 

As you might imagine, this didn’t go down particularly well with Durosimi, who was in mid-incantation at the time. He spun around angrily, still chanting, and – either by design or accident – Drury immediately disappeared. 

The explanation for this remarkable occurrence could be found some considerable distance away, in the spiritual interior of Father Stamage’s battered Capello Romano, a hat which, at that moment, lay somewhat undignified in the scrubby grass of Not-Hopeless, where Drury had dropped it during his interruption of Durosimi O’Stoat’s spellcasting. 

At that precise moment Father Ignatius Stamage was enjoying one of his customary perambulations through the hallowed corridors of Campion Hall, Oxford. As regular readers will know, once safely ensconced inside his hat and soaking up the heady mix of sweat, cheap brilliantine and incense, the good father preferred to imagine the college exactly as it ought to be: quiet, orderly and entirely devoid of undergraduates.

He was midway along the cloister, admiring the dignified stillness of the place, when he became aware of a noise.

At first it was no more than a faint tapping sound, somewhere in the distance. This was followed by a curious clattering, rather like a collection of teaspoons being shaken in a biscuit tin.

Father Stamage stopped.

Campion Hall, in its ideal state, did not make noises.

The clattering grew louder.

Then came the unmistakable sound of claws – many claws –  skidding enthusiastically across polished stone.

Before the startled Jesuit could form a theological opinion on the matter, Drury burst around the corner of the corridor at a speed which would have impressed even the most athletic of living dogs.

He slid across the floor, overbalanced slightly, recovered with admirable dignity, and wagged his tail with such enthusiasm that several vertebrae rattled like loose cutlery.

For a moment the two regarded one another.

“Good heavens,” said Father Stamage faintly.

Drury, clearly delighted to discover that the hat contained an entire building, bounded past him and disappeared through the open doorway of the chapel.

Unfortunately, this particular chapel was not empty.

Two young Jesuit novices, engaged in a perfectly respectable discussion concerning the finer points of Ignatian spirituality, looked up to see a large skeletal dog trot cheerfully down the aisle and begin sniffing the pews with professional interest.

One of them blinked.

“I say,” he murmured, “do we normally have… dogs?”

The other considered this carefully.

“I’m fairly certain,” he replied, “that we do not. Especially ones who look like that.”

Drury paused at the altar rail, sat down briefly, and scratched behind his ear (or rather, the place where an ear had once been).

His tail thumped enthusiastically against the wooden pews.

The novices stared at, what both assumed to be, an undisputed Hound of Hell.

“Brother Leo,” said the first quietly, “I am beginning to suspect that my vocation may require further reflection.”

Meanwhile, Father Stamage hurried after the dog with what dignity he could muster.

“Drury!” he hissed. “This is a place of learning!”

Drury glanced back over his shoulder, entirely unrepentant.

Then, spotting an open doorway leading to the library, he trotted inside with renewed enthusiasm.

Behind him, the ghostly priest closed his eyes.

“Lord,” he murmured wearily, “grant me patience.”

Back on Hopeless, Durosimi O’Stoat stood very still and frowned.

“That,” he said slowly, “was not the intended outcome.”

---

To be continued…

It was generally agreed that The Squid and Teapot had been running rather smoothly of late.

The floorboards creaked only when they meant to, the kettle whistled with commendable tone and punctuality, and the flushing indoor privy had reached a state of negotiated harmony between modern paintwork and traditional hauntings. For Hopeless, this amounted to a golden age.

To the surprise of no one, the ghost of Father Ignatius Stamage found this suspicious.

“Too much equilibrium invites complacency,” he announced one afternoon, his voice drifting down from somewhere near the ceiling of the public bar.

Reggie Upton looked up from his tea.

“Does it really?” he asked politely.

“Indeed it does,” said Father Stamage firmly as he flickered into vision. “I feel that, following the events of the last few weeks, the building would benefit from a modest blessing.”

Philomena, who had little patience with this sort of carry-on, had long since learned to approach his clerical enthusiasm with caution. 

She lay down her dishcloth with an air of authority.

“A blessing?” she enquired suspiciously. “Will it be at all messy?”

“Not in the least,” said the ghostly Jesuit. “A brief manifestation, a little incense, a few  well-chosen words.”

“I take it you’ve spoken about it to the Tomte?” said Philomena, innocently.

There was a pause.

“I see no reason why he should be concerned” said Father Stamage.

Rhys glanced up to the ceiling and suppressed a grin.

“I’m sure it will be fine,” said Stamage, suddenly somewhat uncertain. “He’s a reasonable sort of chap.”

This, as it transpired, was optimistic.

The Tomte appeared shortly after the preparations began. He stood in the doorway of the bar with his cap pushed back and his arms folded, watching Father Stamage’s attempts at organisation with the quiet concentration of a man observing someone stack firewood incorrectly.

The ghostly clergyman had managed a partial manifestation near the fireplace. His outline shimmered faintly, the familiar scent of cheap brilliantine and incense drifting gently across the room.

“Standards must be maintained,” he was saying, arranging an invisible ritual geometry around the hearth.

The Tomte tilted his head.

After a moment, he stepped forward and moved the poker two inches to the left.

Father Stamage paused mid-incantation.

“You did that deliberately,” he said.

The Tomte said nothing, but moved the tongs slightly closer to the grate.

Rhys coughed.

“This is obviously a professional disagreement,” he murmured to Reggie.

Father Stamage resumed.

“Let this house be… “

The Tomte quietly rotated a chair so that it faced a different direction.

“…a place of order and…”

The salt cellar slid two inches along the bar.

The clergyman’s outline flickered.

“My good fellow,” he said with strained patience, “I am attempting to establish a sacred arrangement.”

The Tomte regarded the room.

Then he picked up a spoon and placed it beside the teapot.

“That’s a domestic arrangement,” he replied.

The two men – one faintly transparent, the other barely a foot high – regarded one another with professional gravity.

From the mirror behind the bar came a faint shimmer.

Lady Margaret D’Avening, still refusing full manifestation in daylight, observed proceedings from the reflective surface with considerable interest. The semi-opaque drift of her nightdress shimmered faintly at the edge of the glass.

“Gentlemen,” she said coolly, “surely there is room for both theology and housekeeping.”

Drury, who had been lying by the fire throughout, had stopped snoring and was all ears (or would have been, had he actually possessed any).

The Tomte adjusted the position of the rug.

Father Stamage cleared his throat.

“Very well,” he said at last. “We shall proceed… collaboratively.”

The blessing resumed.

This time, the Tomte allowed the candles to remain where they were, though he corrected the angle of the hearth brush and discreetly straightened the bell above the door.

Father Stamage completed his final words with solemn dignity.

“Amen,” he concluded.

The air warmed slightly.

The Tomte surveyed the room.

Everything appeared to be satisfactory.

He nodded once.

“Yes, that’s acceptable,” he said.

The scent of incense faded. Father Stamage’s outline softened and withdrew toward the ceiling.

Lady Margaret’s reflection vanished from the mirror with the faintest rustle of lace.

Philomena looked around the room.

“Is that it?” she asked.

Reggie went to check his pocket watch, then remembered that he’d given it to Winston Oldspot. 

“I imagine so,” he observed. “It seemed efficient enough.”

Rhys glanced at Philomena.

“Was that a real blessing?”

“It was, if it makes him happy,” she said. “But Granny Bucket might have had another opinion on the matter.” 

The Tomte nodded in silent approval at this remark. 

Drury thumped his tail once more, then promptly settled back down to sleep.

And for the rest of the evening, the inn felt especially well behaved, as though both heaven and housekeeping had briefly agreed on where everything ought to go.

Whenever a barrel, crate or box is deposited by the sea upon the shores of Hopeless, expectations always run high. Within these containers there might be food, drink, or even some manner of novelty never before seen upon the island. You never know. The frisson of anticipation is almost tangible. On the day of our tale, a storm had tossed a small wooden crate upon the black sands of the beach. Despite his apparent air of nonchalance, Rhys Cranham was as excited as a child on Christmas Eve as dashed back to The Squid and Teapot to find a crowbar.

Sad to relate, Rhys’ heart dropped at the sight of the box’s contents. He knew that as soon as his wife, Philomena, discovered that the crate was full of tins of paint, each firmly sealed down and secured against the ravages of the Atlantic Ocean, his workload would suddenly increase. 

He was not wrong.

 “That’s just what we need,” declared Philomena, happily. “The Squid could do with a dash of paint here and there. We can start with the indoor privy.” 

As you may remember, that proud architectural triumph was first installed by Sebastian Lypiatt over a century earlier. Sebastian had taken the flushing mechanism from a ship that had floundered on the rocks of Hopeless. By the time that his fellow islanders had finished carrying off anything worth salvaging, all that was left was a pile of dressed stones. These had come from Oxlynch Hall in England, and were the last remains of a dismantled Jacobean manor house, which happened to be  haunted by the ghost of Lady Margaret D’Avening. When Sebastian decided to use the stones for the privy, Lady Margaret, otherwise known as the Headless White Lady, had nowhere else to go, and so has haunted the place ever since. 

While both the cistern and flush continued to function admirably (save for the occasional sulk during neap tides), the paintwork had grown tired.

“It’s peeling,” Philomena announced, surveying the walls with a critical eye.

Rhys, who had learned to recognise this tone, nodded cautiously.

“Of course,” he said. “Peeling is rarely desirable.”

Reggie Upton, passing by with his teacup in hand, paused.

“Nothing wrong with the present shade, though,” he observed. “Solid. Respectable. Colonial.”

“It’s beige,” said Philomena flatly.

“Yes,” said Reggie. “Exactly.”

Philomena selected from the crate a pot of paint called  Seafoam Tranquillity, which came in a tin bearing the optimistic promise that it would “brighten even the smallest space.”

News that the privy would be closed for renovations raised alarm in some quarters.

Seth Washwell, when informed, went visibly pale.

“I rely on that privy,” he said. “The outside arrangement has no lock on the door.”

“Don’t worry, Seth. No one has ever tried to steal the bucket,” said Philomena reassuringly.

Painting commenced that afternoon.

The first coat went on without incident, though Drury declined to enter the annexe, choosing instead to sit at a dignified distance and observe with eye sockets that he would have narrowed, had it been possible. The Tomte, having been consulted, folded his arms and watched from the corner. 

It was during the second coat that matters cooled.

Not dramatically, but  just enough to be noticeable.

The air shifted. The faintest shimmer disturbed the mirror above the washbasin.

Rhys paused mid-brushstroke.

“Did you feel…?”

“Yes,” said Philomena.

The mirror clouded.

Very slowly, as though written with grave deliberation, four words appeared:

‘This will not do.’

Rhys cleared his throat.

“Father Stamage?” he ventured.

There was a pause. Then, in more elegant lettering:

‘I find the colour to be impertinent.’

A faint, silvery shimmer formed near the cistern. It gathered itself just enough to suggest the outline of a figure, the unmistakable fall of a semi-opaque, filmy nightgown, drifting as though stirred by a breeze that belonged to another century. Lace edged the hem. The fabric clung with faint, ghostly propriety to a form that had once scandalised the Mad Parson, Obadiah Hyde, beyond endurance.

Lady Margaret D’Avening did not fully materialise.

She refused.

On the mirror, a new text appeared:

‘Besides, one does not manifest in proximity to what Father Stamage has called emulsion, and the vapours are most unbecoming.’

Philomena folded her arms.

“It’s hygienic,” she said firmly.

The shimmer wavered, then steadied.

‘And the shade name is presumptuous.’

Rhys coughed to disguise a laugh.

From somewhere near the ceiling came a restrained, clerical clearing of the throat. The air took on the faint, nostalgic scent of cheap brilliantine and incense, as though a curate had hurried through with hair slicked for a sermon and a censer swinging half-heartedly.

Father Ignatius Stamage manifested quietly in the corner.

“I stand with Lady Margaret in this matter,” he said.

There was a pause, until he added, somewhat grudgingly:

“We’ll overlook the Seafoam Tranquility, if it’s just on one wall. Everything else should be white.”

Philomena considered the suggestion.

“Look,” said Stamage in a ghostly whisper. “You don’t want to upset her any more than you have to. You know what she can be like.”

Philomena did know, remembering the sulking and wailing that went on the last time that Lady Margaret didn’t get her own way.

“Okay. That seems reasonable,” she said at last.

The temperature lifted by a degree and Father Stamage’s wraith slowly receded.  The scent of brilliantine thinned and withdrew.

The Tomte, who had been observing the exchange with professional interest, nodded once.

“They have standards,” he murmured.

Drury, still outside, thumped his tail once in approval.

The remainder of the painting was completed without further manifestation, and by evening the flushing indoor privy stood resplendent in white, with a feature wall of Seafoam Tranquillity. 

The ghost of Father Stamage flickered into being and inspected the room cautiously.

“Well,” he said at last, “it feels somehow balanced.”

“It is definitely balanced,” agreed Philomena.

Reggie Upton, observing from the doorway, nodded.

“Compromise,” he said, “is the true foundation of civilisation.”

That night, no further messages appeared on the mirror. No lace shimmered.

In the morning, the Tomte was found polishing the porcelain with evident satisfaction.

Drury approved.

And though no one remarked upon it aloud, the privy felt brighter, not merely in colour, but in disposition, as though the living and the dead had agreed that even in Hopeless, progress might occasionally be permitted, provided it showed proper respect for history, modesty, and white paint.

Reggie Upton had always believed that a gentleman should carry a watch.

He did not insist that others should do the same, after all, Hopeless was not a place inclined toward punctuality, but he himself preferred the quiet assurance of knowing that time, at least, was behaving in a predictable manner somewhere in his pocket.

The watch in question was a heavy silver hunter, inherited from a distant uncle who had believed firmly in the empire, cavalry charges and correct waistcoats. Reggie wound it each morning without fail. The faint tick of it had accompanied him through wars, shipwrecks, two engagements that never quite reached the altar, and more cups of tea than he could count.

It had also survived Hopeless, which was saying something.

Winston Oldspot, the current Night-Soil Man, did not carry a watch.

He carried many other things: a shovel, a bucket, and an optimism that had yet to be dented by experience, but not a watch. When contemplating the time, Winston would look at the sky with cheerful uncertainty and hazard a guess that was rarely accurate but always enthusiastic.

Reggie watched this for several weeks before deciding that something ought to be done.

It was a quiet, late evening at The Squid and Teapot when the matter finally came to a head. Doc Willoughby had recently decided to eschew the relative comfort of the flushing indoor privy, after Lady Margaret D’Avening, the Headless White Lady, decided to manifest unexpectedly while Doc was in the throes of relieving himself. Unfortunately, her sudden appearance took Doc by surprise and there followed certain embarrassing consequences of a trouser-related nature, which we need not go into. Anyway, these days Doc relied on the outside privy, and was enjoying its facilities when Winston blundered in, thinking that it was the early hours of the morning.

Disturbed by the commotion this caused, Reggie went to investigate. Quickly summing up the situation, as the indignant Doc made a quick exit, he drew the watch from his pocket.

“Winston,” he said, in the tone of a man about to issue orders that could not be refused, “have you ever owned a proper timepiece?”

The Night-Soil Man looked slightly alarmed.

“No – though we were taught to tell the time at the Orphanage,” he volunteered.

Reggie nodded, as though confirming a theory he had long suspected.

“Splendid,” he said, placing the watch in Winston’s palm, “I believe you need this more than I do, old chap.”

There was a pause.

Winston turned the watch over carefully, as one might examine an unfamiliar species of crab.

“It’s… very shiny,” he said.

“It’s a hunter,” Reggie replied. “Silver case. Reliable movement. Wind it daily, and never argue with it.”

“Isn’t that the one you carried in India and Africa?” Winston asked.

“The very same,” said Reggie briskly.

The young man looked horrified.

“I can’t take that,” he said. “It’s far too important.”

“Nonsense,” said Reggie. “A watch is only important when it is being used. And I find that these days, time and I have reached an understanding. It no longer needs watching quite so closely.”

Philomena, who had been standing safely upwind of the Night-Soil Man, leant against the door of the inn, dishcloth in hand, and pretended not to listen – but, in reality, listened very carefully indeed.

The Tomte appeared briefly out of one of the outhouses,  glanced at the exchange, and nodded once before disappearing again.

The following morning Winston attempted to wind the watch.

This proved more complicated than expected.

He turned it too quickly at first, then too gently, then not at all, and finally presented it to Reggie with the expression of a man who feared he had broken something older than history.

“It ticks,” Reggie said, holding it to his ear, and suppressing a smile. “That’s always a good sign.”

Drury, who had followed at the old soldier’s heels, lifted his head and watched Winston with mild interest, as though assessing whether this new responsibility suited him.

Over the next few days, the watch became a small but noticeable presence in Winston’s life.

He checked it before setting out to work. He consulted it when the tide seemed uncertain. He began planning his rounds to coincide with what the rest of the island would call ‘Unsociable Hours.’

“It is remarkable what a bit of silver can do,” said Tenzin.

“It isn’t the silver,” said Reggie. “It’s the trust.”

One morning, just before dawn, Winston paused at the edge of the marsh to check the watch. The tide was turning, or perhaps thinking about turning, and the air held that faint sense of expectation that Hopeless sometimes indulged in.

For a moment, the watch stopped.

Winston frowned.

He tapped it gently, as he had seen Reggie do, and held it up to his ear.

Nothing.

The silence lasted only a second- maybe two at most – but it felt longer.

Then the watch resumed its steady ticking, as though nothing had happened at all.

Winston shrugged, closed the case, and continued on his way.

Later that night, as he prepared to start his rounds, Reggie appeared at the cottage door.

“You felt it too, didn’t you?” he said quietly.

Winston blinked.

“Felt what, Reggie?”

Reggie smiled faintly.

“Nothing at all,” he said. “Come on, I’ll keep you company. Did I ever tell you about my fight with Jan Smuts, during the Boer War…?

Winston heaved his bucket onto his back, and smiled to himself in the darkness.

Hours later, after the night’s work was done, Winston stood outside his cottage, with the watch cupped carefully in both hands.

“I think it likes being out here, by the marsh,” he said.

Reggie nodded.

“Some things do,” he replied.

They stood together for a moment in companionable silence, listening to the tick of the watch blending with the soft settling sounds of the island.

At breakfast Reggie told Philomena what Winston had said. 

“The funny thing is,” she said. “Since Winston started carrying that watch, everything else seems to be arriving just when they’re meant to.”

“Things on Hopeless happening on time?” laughed Rhys. “That’s impossible.”

“Granny Bucket always used to say that time is a courteous guest,” said Philomena. “It behaves when treated properly.”

Reggie tapped his empty waistcoat pocket thoughtfully, and raised his teacup.

“To Winston,” he said.

Drury thumped his tail once, approvingly.

And somewhere, deep in the machinery of things that were older than any of them, the hands of a small silver watch continued their patient work, keeping time not for Reggie Upton anymore, but for the island that had decided it might, occasionally, be worth the effort. 

There are days on Hopeless when nothing happens at all, and these are generally the ones that deserve the closest attention.

The Squid and Teapot had settled into one of those stretches of quiet that follows excitement, when even the regular customers speak in softer tones, as though reluctant to disturb whatever it was that had been put right. The fire burned evenly and the kettle sounded a little less shrill than usual. Drury occupied his usual place by the hearth, his snores rising and falling in slow, contented measure.

It was Philomena who first noticed that the marsh smelled different.

It was not unpleasant, but simply cleaner, as though the tide had rinsed something away that no one had quite realised was there. She mentioned it to Reggie Upton, who sniffed the breeze with professional enthusiasm and declared that it reminded him of the early morning air in Rajasthan, although he had no idea why that should be.

The Tomte had noticed that something was different, as well. He is traditionally meant to be a reclusive fellow, but since the visit of Astrid, the Valkyrie, he had been much more in evidence, busying himself around the inn at all hours of the day and night. You could be forgiven for assuming that he was keeping a look-out, on the off-chance that she might return. 

Tenzin, the young Tibetan monk who called The Squid and Teapot home, smiled to himself as he watched the Tomte moving from chair to door to hearth with quiet determination. Windows were latched. Rugs straightened. Even the rarely used bell above the front door was adjusted twice, until it rang with a note that was somehow more decisive than before.

“Spring cleaning?” Tenzin ventured.

The Tomte looked at him for a long moment.

“Lines,” he said at last. “The lines need to be kept straight.”

Tenzin decided not to ask which lines.

Outside, Drury rose from his place without ceremony and padded toward the edge of the grounds. No one thought much of it at the time. The skeletal hound often walked alone, particularly when things seemed a little odd. The ghost of Granny Bucket, who had decided to extend her holiday, watched him go and nodded in approval, as though a small but important appointment was being kept.

To all intents and purposes the day passed without incident.

Which is to say, there were small things.

There was the lone gull that would not land near the marsh, and a patch of fog that hesitated at its edges, then drifted away again. Even the tide paused. It was not long enough to be remarked upon by anyone,except those who noticed such things.

By late afternoon, even Tenzin realised that something was waiting. Not maliciously. Not even urgently. Simply testing, as one might test a door to see if it had been properly closed.

Drury stood at the far edge of the path, where the ground becomes uncertain and the marsh begins to decide what it will be next.

He did not growl or bark, but simply stood, ribs lifted, head high, watching something that was not visible to anyone else.

Back at the inn, the Tomte set down his broom and listened. He tilted his head slightly, then cleared his throat. It was a small, deliberate sound, no louder than a polite cough.

For a moment Philomena felt the peculiar sensation that something was pushing against the doors and windows of the inn, then the feeling passed.

Drury took one step forward and gave a low bark.

Nothing answered.

Out on the marsh the lone gull returned, and showed little interest as the fog rolled in with the tide. Somewhere in the distance, a loose shutter that had been rattling for years fell still and remained that way.

By the time Drury came back inside, everyone seemed to have forgotten that something unknown had nearly happened. He shook himself once, scattering a little dark mud that did not behave quite like mud ought to, and settled beside the fire with a satisfied sigh.

Granny Bucket glanced up from her ectoplasmic knitting.

“That was well handled,” she said.

“Handled?” Tenzin repeated.

Granny only smiled.

Later that evening, Philomena noticed that the Tomte was gazing fondly at Drury. He nodded toward the old hound as he replaced his cap.

“Good dog,” he said quietly.

Drury glanced up, acknowledged the remark, and returned to sleep.

Nothing else occurred that night.

No lights in the marsh. No one had dreams of oars or voices, or heard hoofbeats.

And yet, the inn felt different. Things seemed somehow clearer, as though some unseen boundary had been walked and agreed upon by parties who preferred not to leave footprints behind.

The next morning, Rhys remarked that the air felt lighter than it had for days, and Tenzin declared that he had slept better than he had in weeks, then immediately apologised for saying so, in case it tempted fate.

Granny Bucket closed her knitting bag and rose to leave.

“Nothing came through,” she said, almost to herself.

Philomena followed her to the door.

“Do you think it will try again?” she asked.

Granny considered this.

“Oh, everything tries again,” she said cheerfully. “But not today.”

Philomena stepped out into the morning light, and tugged at the bell above the door, which sounded clear and certain.

Behind her, Drury lifted his head, listened to something only he could hear, and let it pass.

The island of Hopeless settled back into its ordinary business, which is to say, it waited.

There had been more than a little excitement in The Squid and Teapot lately, with a card-carrying Valkyrie – complete with winged helmet, impressive armour, and a huge black charger – thundering into the snuggery in response to Doc Willoughby blowing a ceremonial Viking horn. To Reggie Upton’s evident disappointment, this was not the Wagnerian Brünnhilde, but a lower-ranking Valkyrie named Astrid, and in true Squid and Teapot fashion, it did not take long for everyone to be on first-name terms.

The more astute readers of these tales may have noticed that one stalwart of the inn was conspicuous by his absence. Drury was not in the snuggery when Astrid arrived.

This was remarked upon only later, and then mostly in hindsight, when people began to notice the things that had not happened. At the time, there were sparks and hoofbeats and matters of procedure to attend to, and no one thought to ask where the skeletal hound had gone. It was only after the house had settled, and had stopped holding its breath, that Philomena realised Drury was missing.

She found him at the far edge of the inn’s grounds, where the path gives up pretending it knows where it is going, and the marsh begins to decide what it will be next. He stood very still, facing outward, as though listening for something that had already passed.

“Drury?” she said softly.

He did not turn, but his tail made the faintest movement. It was an acknowledgement, not an invitation.

Behind her, Granny Bucket arrived without sound.

“Oh good,” she said. “He knew where to be.”

Philomena looked again, noticing the mud on Drury’s paws. It was darker than marsh mud ought to be. A faint tang of cold air and salt clung to him, like the memory of a door closing somewhere else.

“He’s been guarding,” she said.

Granny smiled into the darkness.

“Not guarding,” she corrected. “Holding.”

And when Drury finally turned and followed them back inside, the boundary he had been minding closed behind him as neatly as a well-made gate.

By the following morning, Drury was back to his usual habits.

This, in itself, was the first sign that something had been resolved. He took up his place by the fire, stretched out with the careful dignity of someone arranging old bones, and regarded the room with an air of mild satisfaction. If anyone had been hoping for lingering drama, such as strange lights, uneasy silences, or unexplained cold spots, they were to be disappointed. The inn felt like an inn again.

Philomena, however, had learned to trust the things that didn’t happen.

She noticed that Drury slept more deeply than usual, and that when he dreamed, his paws twitched not with pursuit, but with patience. She also noticed that the threshold stones had apparently shifted slightly overnight. Not enough to be obvious, but enough that the draught, which had plagued the front door for years, no longer troubled it.

The Tomte noticed too.

He appeared just after breakfast, sitting on the hearthstone with his cap in his hands and his boots neatly aligned beside him. He was not known to be keen on dropping by for a chat, so this, Philomena decided, was yet another indication that something had to be taken seriously. He nodded once toward Drury, who acknowledged this with a slight thump of his tail.

“Busy night?” Philomena ventured.

The Tomte considered this.

“It was a necessary night,” he said at last, in the careful English he reserved for matters of importance. “Lines were walked, and order was restored without anyone getting hurt.”

Drury lifted his head at that and thumped his tail again, softly.

The Tomte glanced toward a space somewhere beyond the door, and frowned faintly.

“Nothing followed her,” he said. “That is good.”

Philomena felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather.

“And Astrid?” she asked. “Will she return?”

The Tomte shrugged.

“She was expected,” he said. “But you know what the real work of the Valkyrie is, and that doesn’t usually involve collecting relics. it’s good that you didn’t invite her to stay.”

He replaced his cap, stood, and went about his tasks, setting a chair straight, brushing a scattering of ash back into the hearth, restoring the room to the exact degree of order he preferred.

Later that day, Granny Bucket remarked that the marsh was quieter.

“There was nothing to show what had gone on,” she said. “Just mud being mud.”

Drury raised his head at the word mud, gave a satisfied huff, and settled again.

Whatever line had been held, whatever door had been closed, whatever courtesy had been extended and returned, it had been done properly.

And on Hopeless, that makes all the difference.

In last week’s tale we left Doc Willoughby somewhat alarmed, when the ghost of Granny Bucket told him that the only way to rid himself of the ceremonial horn was to blow it again. 

---

As the last notes of the horn died away, Philomena, Granny, Doc and Durosimi waited in silence.

A full minute passed, and Doc was just about to make some caustic remark when Granny Bucket raised a ghostly finger to her lips.

“There,” she said quietly.

At first it was difficult to be sure what they were hearing. A distant rumble, perhaps. Then another. The faintest flicker of light followed, briefly illuminating the far wall of the snuggery.

“Thunder and lightning?” Doc whispered, his voice doing him no favours. “What can it mean?”

“That’s hoofbeats you’re hearing,” said Granny, with unmistakable satisfaction. “And that isn’t lightning either. Those are sparks; sparks from extremely well-shod hooves.”

Doc went very pale indeed as the sound grew louder. With each beat, the air in the room seemed to tighten. The candles guttered, shadows stretched and warped, and shapes moved where there ought to have been none at all.

Even Granny gasped, leaning back as the snuggery filled – and yet did not fill – with the presence of a huge black horse and its rider.

The horse was magnificent, coal-dark and powerful, its hooves striking sparks from the very fabric of the room. The rider upon it was both beautiful and utterly terrifying: flaxen hair billowing beneath a winged helmet, silver breastplate gleaming like a storm-lit sea. For a moment it seemed that horse and rider were larger than the room, larger than the inn itself. It was as though they occupied the sky rather than the space before them.

Then the rider spoke.

At once, impossibly, they were all back in the snuggery of The Squid and Teapot.

“Whose idea was it,” she said coolly, “to summon me into a room with a sloping floor?”

She glanced about, one eyebrow lifting.

“Really? Come on… own up.”

The silence that followed was broken by a polite cough, as though someone was clearing their throat in preparation for a speech. No one had noticed Reggie Upton wander in.

“Good Lord. You’re a Valkyrie,” he said. “Brünnhilde?” He ventured this with the cautious hope of a man testing ice.

The Valkyrie looked at him.

She did not glare.

She did not bristle.

She merely regarded him in the way one might regard a person who has confidently addressed you by the wrong name in public.

“You have got to be joking,” she said. “Brünnhilde wouldn’t get out of bed for this. She has standards.”

Reggie coloured faintly.

“I thought… well, according to Wagner…”

“Yes,” she said crisply. “We’re all familiar with Wagner. Enormous man, full of opinions, very loud and a bit too imaginative for his own good, sometimes.”

She glanced around the snuggery again, taking in the low ceiling, the sloping floor, and the horse, who chose that moment to snort disdainfully.

“This,” she went on, “is not an operatic matter. This is procedural. Anyway, it’s my turn. I’m on a rota.”

Granny Bucket beamed.

“Now, I’ll ask again,” said the Valkyrie. “Which of you summoned me here?”

As one, Doc and Durosimi pointed to each other, and said in unison,

“It was his fault.”

The Valkyrie glared at them, but before she could comment, Reggie Upton said,

“I must admit, I had a hand in this too.”

Maybe it was Reggie’s gallantry in sharing the blame, for the Valkyrie’s features softened a little as she listened while the confessions were made.

Durosimi spoke first, plainly and without embellishment. Doc followed, rather less plainly. Reggie, to his credit, waited until the end and then cleared his throat.

“I should add,” he said, “that the decision to place the horn in the museum was, at least in part, mine.”

The Valkyrie regarded the three of them in silence.

Then she rolled her eyes.

Turning deliberately away from them, she addressed Philomena instead.

“It takes just three men to cause this sort of havoc,” she said. “Why am I not surprised?”

Philomena did not answer. She merely inclined her head, which seemed to satisfy the visitor.

The Valkyrie dismounted with an ease that made it clear the horse was an extension of her rather than a conveyance. The animal snorted softly and shifted its weight, causing the floorboards to creak in a way that suggested they would be filing a complaint later.

The Valkyrie gestured toward the horn.

“That object was laid down deliberately,” she said. “Boxed, weighted and left. Not lost and not hidden. It was parked.”

Her gaze returned briefly to Doc.

“It was not meant for possession. Still less for curiosity.”

Doc swallowed.

“What… what should we do with it?” he asked.

She sighed. Not impatiently, but as one sighs at a task that should never have been necessary.

“You will return it to the marsh,” she said. “The same place. As close as makes no difference. It must be boxed again, but properly, this time. No speeches. No ceremony. No audience. And above all…”

Her eyes flicked to the horn.

“…no further blowing.”

The horse stamped once, sharply.

“If you do blow it again,” she added, “I will not be the one who answers.”

That, everyone present understood, was not a threat so much as a statement of policy.

Philomena hesitated, then said, “And if anyone asks who gave the instruction?”

The Valkyrie considered this, as though weighing how much courtesy the situation merited.

“Astrid,” she said at last. “That will be enough.”

Reggie blinked.

“Ah, Astrid,” he said weakly. “I once had a horse called Astrid.”

The Valkyrie regarded him for a moment.

“Yes,” she said. “Quite.”

She swung back into the saddle, pausing only to glance around the snuggery one final time.

“And for future reference,” she added, “if you find something that has been boxed, weighted, and left alone for a thousand years, just leave it.”

With that, horse and rider diminished impossibly, shrinking to fit the room, the inn, the night beyond – and then they were gone.

The silence that followed was profound.

Granny Bucket smiled.

“Well,” she said. “That went rather nicely.”

They chose the morning carefully.

There was little fog, which was unusual enough to feel like permission, and the tide was on the turn, neither coming nor going, but pausing, as though prepared to listen. Philomena came along, partly to ensure that things were done properly, and partly to make sure that no one said anything unnecessary. Granny Bucket declined, claiming that she had already done her part and that the rest was “just tidying up”.

Durosimi and Doc, fearing the consequence of not helping, volunteered to box the horn up again. It was not elegantly done, as neither possessed the skill or inclination for that, but it was thorough. The mouthpiece was stopped with wax and cloth, the lid secured, the whole thing weighted with a stone. No one spoke while they worked.

At the edge of the marsh, Reggie – who had decided that no one else could be trusted with the task – rolled up his trousers, took the box and waded out until the water almost reached his knees. He did not hesitate, but placed it carefully where the mud was deepest, pressed it down once to be sure, and stepped back as the water closed over it.

By the time they turned away, there was no sign that anything had ever been there at all.

That night, Doc Willoughby slept. Not deeply (he suspected that would take a while) but without dreams of oars or voices, and also without the sense of being watched from the foot of the bed. When he woke, the house felt like a house again.

At The Squid and Teapot, the floorboards in the snuggery creaked a little less than usual. The fire drew properly. Someone remarked that the place felt calmer, though no one could say why.

Reggie said nothing at all.

And far away – or perhaps not so very far – a huge black horse stamped once, in approval, then turned its head toward other matters.

The island of Hopeless, satisfied for the time being, settled back into itself and waited.

Doc Willoughby, you will remember, had blown an ancient ceremonial horn (which, according to Reggie Upton, was called a lùr) that he and Durosimi O’Stoat had stolen from the Hopeless Museum. Ever since, Doc had not been able to rid himself of the infernal instrument, and as a result, was not sleeping.

This was not, in itself, unusual. Unless anaesthetised by alcohol, Doc had never been what one might call a natural sleeper. He had always been inclined to wake in the small hours with a head full of half-finished thoughts and dimly remembered conversations. Lately, however, even the best that the Gannicox Distillery could offer was not enough to deliver him safely into the arms of Morpheus. 

Doc had taken to going to bed fully dressed. Not out of prudence, exactly, but more from the sense that if something were to happen, it would be better to be prepared for it. Shoes by the bed. Jacket folded. A candle-lantern burning all night. The horn, which he had tried unsuccessfully to return to Durosimi on three separate occasions, was never where he left it. It seemed to have a need to be close to Doc at all times.

On the third morning following the unfortunate blowing incident, Doc found it standing upright at the foot of his bed. He stared at it for a long while before doing the only sensible thing available to him, which was to make some nettle tea and pretend nothing was wrong.

Indeed, nothing was wrong, except for the constant sound of water. This was not loud, and did not drip or splash. It was simply present; a slow, rhythmic movement somewhere just beyond hearing, like oars dipping into a sea that was not, by any reasonable measure, anywhere near his house.

By mid-morning, Doc had decided that matters had gone far enough.

He climbed the hill to Durosimi’s place with the horn wrapped in a scarf.

The sorcerer listened to his account in silence, nodding occasionally, his expression growing less thoughtful and more concerned with each detail.

At the end of it all, he sighed.

“This problem of yours, Willoughby,” he said at last, “is totally beyond me.”

Doc felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather.

“But… but you stole it,” he stammered. “You cleaned it. You told me it would be all right.”

“And I also told you that we should not blow it. Remember?” said Durosimi firmly. “Those are different things.”

Doc opened his mouth, closed it again, and finally said the one name he had been carefully avoiding.

“We’re going to have to tell Philomena.”

Durosimi grimaced.

“Yes,” he agreed. “I hate to admit it, but if anyone on the island has a chance of sorting this out, it is her. Unfortunately…”

He glanced towards the door, as though sensing a draft from somewhere much further away.

“…I’ve heard that Granny Bucket is visiting.”

Doc sat down very heavily indeed.

–◊–

Philomena listened without interruption.

She had developed this habit, having learned that when people arrive at The Squid and Teapot looking as though they have not slept, what they most require is not reassurance but space in which to finish some often alarming sentences. She leaned against the dresser, arms folded, while Doc spoke, his account punctuated by pauses in which he clearly considered leaving out certain details and then, to his evident regret, included them anyway.

When he had finished, there was a long silence.

“That,” Philomena said at last, “is a complaint.”

Doc blinked.

“A what?”

“A complaint,” she repeated. “You’ve woken something up, and it is dissatisfied with the way you’ve handled it.”

“I didn’t handle it,” said Doc weakly. “I blew it.”

“Yes,” said Philomena. “That would be the handling.”

From the corner of the room came a small, pleased sound; it was somewhere between a sniff and a chuckle.

Granny Bucket, who had been sitting very quietly, knitting something ectoplasmic that appeared to have no obvious end use, looked up.

“Well,” she said. “That explains the horse.”

Everyone turned.

“I’ve been hearing nothing but watery noises. I expected something a bit more nautical than a horse,” said Doc. “Are you sure?”

“Oh yes,” said Granny cheerfully. “A great big thing and black as a coal cellar. Stamped its foot twice just before dawn.”

Philomena closed her eyes for a moment.

“Granny,” she said carefully, “why didn’t you mention this earlier?”

“I wanted to see how long it would take you to catch up,” Granny replied. “You did all right, girl.”

Doc swallowed.

“Is it…” he began. “Is it here?”

“Not yet,” said Granny. “But it’s been summoned, and then ignored, which is worse. Much worse.”

She set her knitting aside and looked at Doc with frank curiosity.

“You’re not the sort they usually turn up for,” she said. “Too many words and not enough backbone. No offence.”

“I take great offence,” said Doc faintly.

“You would,” Granny agreed.

Durosimi cleared his throat.

“So,” he said, “what do we do?”

Granny considered this.

“Well,” she said, “you’ll have to blow the horn again.”

There was a collective intake of breath.

“No,” said Doc immediately.

“Yes,” said Granny just as firmly. “You don’t leave a door half-open and hope whatever’s knocking gets bored.”

Philomena straightened.

“If he blows it again,” she said, “something will arrive?”

“You can bank on it,” said Granny, pleased.

“And if we don’t?” Philomena asked.

Granny smiled, not unkindly, but with unmistakable relish.

“Then it keeps coming anyway,” she said. “Only less politely.”

Doc looked at the horn, which had been resting against the leg of his chair and which he was quite certain had not been there a moment before.

“Where?” he asked hoarsely.

Granny’s eyes flicked briefly to the ceiling.

“Oh,” she said. “That’s the least of your worries. It’ll make room.”

To be continued…

You may remember that Winston Oldspot, the Night-Soil Man, had found an ornate horn which Reggie Upton insisted was of Viking origin, and called a lúr. Winston was keen to find out what sound it made when blown, but Reggie warned against it, suggesting that it should be stored safely in the Hopeless Museum.

There was, of course, no chance that rumour of the find would pass unnoticed. Indeed, patrons of The Squid and Teapot could talk of little else. After all, it was not every day that a genuine Viking ceremonial horn was unearthed on the island.

It was inevitable that this news eventually reached the ears of Durosimi O’Stoat. The speed with which Doc Willoughby raced up the hill to impart the information was impressive – or would have been, had it not taken him a full ten minutes to get his breath back.

“Seth Washwell’s very excited,” he said at last, with the air of a man passing on intelligence of great strategic importance. “They’ve acquired a Viking artefact for the museum. A proper one, apparently. Found in the marsh.”

Durosimi, who had been listening with his usual lack of interest, looked up.

“A what?” he asked.

“A horn,” said Doc. “Upton called it a lúr. Ceremonial, he says, from the Viking period. Seth’s put it in a glass case with a little card. He’s terribly pleased with himself.”

Durosimi’s expression did not change, but something in the room shifted slightly, like a tide that had intended to go out, then thought better of it.

“Has anyone tried playing it?” he asked.

Doc laughed nervously.

“That superstitious fool Upton specifically said no one was to blow it. Something about bad dreams and spectral boats.”

Durosimi nodded thoughtfully. Although he had little time for Reggie Upton, he recognised that there was more to the old soldier than he chose to reveal. His years in India, hob-nobbing with fakirs and theosophists, had left their mark. Durosimi knew a fellow mystic when he saw one.

Leaning across the table, he said conspiratorially,

“You should volunteer at the museum.”

Doc blinked.

“What for?”

“To help Seth.”

“I don’t have the time.”

“You have all the time.”

Doc considered this, which was unwise.

“What would I do?”

“Label things. Count things. Dust things.”

“And steal a Viking horn?” said Doc.

Durosimi smiled faintly.

“Well, now you come to mention it…”

Seth Washwell ran the Hopeless Museum on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and any other day on which he felt that history required his personal supervision. The building itself was small, pokey, and unhygienic, containing an assortment of objects whose only common feature was that they had been found on Hopeless and no one had been able to think of a better place to put them.

Seth greeted Doc with the enthusiasm of a man who had been waiting years for someone to ask.

“I’ll just show you the new acquisition,” he said, ushering him toward the far wall.

“Reggie Upton identified it, you know. Viking, by all accounts, ceremonial, and very important.”

Behind the glass, resting on a velvet cushion of questionable age, lay the horn.

Even in the dim museum light, it seemed wrong. Not damaged. Not sinister. Simply misplaced, like something that should never have been brought indoors.

Doc swallowed.

“It’s in remarkable condition,” he said.

“Yes,” said Seth proudly. “We’re calling it Object 142: Ceremonial Horn (Lúr). The card was my idea.”

Before Doc could muster an entirely insincere expression of approval, Seth’s wife Mabel burst through the door.

“Seth! Seth! There’s a fire in the foundry!”

Regular readers will recall that, when not rearranging exhibits in the museum, Seth was the proud owner of the island’s iron foundry, now run – in theory – by his seven sons.

“Of course there is,” said Seth testily. “That’s what’s supposed to happen in a foundry.”

“No, there’s a fire in one of the outhouses,” Mabel replied, panic edging her voice. “And I can’t find any of the boys.”

With considerable tutting and harrumphing, Seth handed Doc the keys and instructed him to lock up when he left.

Durosimi arrived ten minutes later, with the air of a man who already knew how the afternoon would end.

“Was that fire your doing?” asked Doc, alarmed.

“It’s only a small fire,” said Durosimi. “Not much damage.”

“And Seth’s boys?”

“A simple sleeping spell,” said Durosimi, smiling thinly. “Now, come on, let’s get the artefact.”

Doc fumbled with the display case.

“Perhaps we shouldn’t…”

Durosimi shook his head once.

“Washwell won’t be back today. We can make it look like an overnight burglary.”

The horn was lighter than Doc expected. Warm, too, which made no sense at all.

They wrapped it in cloth and left the museum, locking the door carefully behind them.

At Durosimi’s house, they went straight to the kitchen. The bundle was laid on the table and unwrapped. The horn emerged slowly, its brass fittings dulled by centuries of waiting, its curve still graceful, still certain of its purpose.

Doc lingered by the door.

“I don’t like this,” he said.

“Of course you don’t,” said Durosimi.

He fetched a bowl of warm water, a cloth, and a small brush, and began to clean the horn with a patience that suggested he had done this sort of thing before. Mud and salt lifted away. The knotwork brightened. Inside the mouthpiece, the rune revealed itself fully. It was a single mark, deliberate, and not a little unnerving. 

The room grew colder.

“We should stop,” said Doc.

Durosimi paused.

“We should,” he agreed.

Neither of them moved.

Doc leaned closer. The horn felt smooth beneath his fingers, the metal faintly warm, as though it had not quite finished remembering the last hand that had held it, either in anger, or in hope.

He raised it, intending only to look inside once more.

He blew.

The sound was not loud. It did not echo. It did not behave as a sound should.

The air tightened. The windows filmed with frost on the outside. The candle flame bent, though there was no breeze.

Durosimi closed his eyes.

Doc lowered the horn, his heart hammering.

“What have I done?” he whispered.

Durosimi did not answer.

That night, Doc Willoughby did not sleep at all well.

He heard water in the walls. The slow creak of oars. A distant chanting that belonged neither to the living nor the dead. By morning, the horn was no longer on Durosimi’s table, nor, indeed, was it anywhere in his house.

When Doc awoke from his troubled sleep, he was surprised – not to say aghast – to find it lying at the foot of his bed, like a faithful hound.

To be continued…