Are you troubled by restless ghosts? Has there been too much moaning and throwing stuff about lately? Is it all a bit much?
Do you like them too much to want to get Reverend Davies to exorcise them? Consider hiring Artemus Deadman to exercise them instead!
Ghosts benefit from a change of scenery, from a bit of fresh air and the chance to billow about somewhere different now and then. Artemus Deadman is an expert in providing recreational opportunities for the departed. Give your ghosts a grand day out and enjoy some peace and quiet in their temporary absence.
(You can find out more about what Artemus Deadman really does on ghostwalks over here – https://adeadman.co.uk/ . Text by Nimue)
Keeping the lights on at night is important for islander safety. Generating the energy to keep the lights on remains problematic. This latest invention purports to use the souls of the damned to provide illumination.
Dr Lyssa assures us that there are a lot of damned souls floating about on the island, taking up far too much space in the ether. “Diverting their energy into light might do more than illuminate the town. It might even serve to reduce the miasma,” she told The Vendetta.
When asked how exactly the device worked to trap the souls of the damned and extract energy from them, Dr Lyssa said, “Very nicely, thank you.”
Several of our island’s psychics, who did not wish to be named (but you know who they are, it’s the usual suspects) have confirmed that they can see ghosts attached to the street lamps. There is consensus to that point, but not beyond it, which is probably why none of them wants to admit who exactly said what. I am reliably informed that
The damned are suffering dreadfully to create light and this is just.
That damned are using the lights to steal energy from everyone else and it is a conspiracy and a trap.
It isn’t the damned at all, but the ghosts of things that glowed when they were alive. You can see the glow, you just can’t see the ghost making it.
Doc Willoughby wants to reassure people that street lights cannot hurt you unless they fall on you, or a massive splinter of ice drops off and stabs you to death, or you walk into one in the fog, or something thin and awful is hiding behind one.
“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!”
Story by Martin Pearson, ghost of Lady Margaret D’Avening by Cliff Cumber
The snuggery of The Squid and Teapot glowed in the cosy warmth of a blazing log fire. It was the end of a long and tiring day, and the landlord, Bartholomew Middlestreet, was glad to take the weight off his feet. He was sitting with his wife, Ariadne, and their friends, Philomena Bucket and Reggie Upton, who both lived at the inn. Drury, the skeletal hound, had invited himself in, and was snuffling and snoring on the fireside rug. Bartholomew could not have felt happier. In such cordial company, generously lubricated by a few tankards of ‘Old Colonel’, even the miserable climate of the island and its attendant horrors could be forgotten for a few hours.
“Gosh!” exclaimed Reggie Upton, “it is the end of October already. Do the islanders usually celebrate Halloween?”
Ariadne laughed derisively.
“What would be the point?” she asked. “It’s Halloween every day on Hopeless.”
“Yes, but you know what I mean,” said Reggie. “People have always liked to sit around a roaring fire and tell scary stories at this time of year.”
“I saw the makings of a good scary story yesterday,” broke in Philomena. Her voice was a little slurred. “Father Stamage climbed out of his hat, yawned, scratched his arse, then went back to bed.”
It was not particularly funny, but everyone laughed. Even Drury managed to emerge from his slumbers sufficiently to wag his bony old tail.
“Steady on,” said a voice. “I might be dead but I am certainly not deaf.”
An annoyed Father Stamage had thrust his ghostly head through the wall.
“And for your information,” he added, crossly, “I have never knowingly scratched my… scratched myself in front of a lady.”
“Ah, go on with you, Father,” said Philomena, ignoring the priest’s displeasure. “Aren’t you ghosts supposed to be celebrating, or something, this evening?”
“The only celebrating I will be doing,” said Stamage, imperiously, “is Mass, with Lady Margaret. It’s All Hallows Day tomorrow and it’s only a pity that we have to mark the occasion in the privy.”
Lady Margaret D’Avening, also known as the Headless White Lady, famously haunted the stones that had been used to build the inn’s flushing privy, and was not able to venture very far from them.
“I could prise out a block for her to haunt, and put it somewhere more appropriate,” offered Bartholomew.
“It is not worth your trouble,” said the ghostly Jesuit, the landlord’s generosity driving all annoyance from his voice. “Besides, I think Lady Margaret feels at home in the privy. She doesn’t enjoy travel very much.”
With that Father Stamage disappeared, probably to return to the comfort of his hat – his beloved Capello Romano – and once more wander the hallowed corridors of his old alma mater, Campion Hall, in Oxford.
“Well, as far as I am concerned Halloween wouldn’t be the same without a ghostly story or two. Does anyone know any? – and I mean real stories this time,” said Reggie markedly, eyeing Philomena.
The barmaid smiled mischievously and said,
“Well, I do… but it’s more of a poem really, I suppose, called The Strange Visitor. Granny Bucket taught it to me years ago.”
“Let’s hear it, then” urged Ariadne.
Philomena settled herself into her seat, and began, her Irish lilt becoming broader and more pronounced with each word. She spoke slowly, and as the verse progressed, the fire seemed to die down a little, and shadows gathered around her.
“A woman was sitting at her reel one night; And still she sat, and still she reeled, and still she wished for company.
In came a pair of broad, broad feet, and sat down at the fireside; And still she sat, and still she reeled, and still she wished for company.
In came a pair of small, small legs, and sat down on the broad, broad feet; And still she sat, and still she reeled, and still she wished for company.
In came a pair of thick, thick knees, and sat down on the small, small legs; And still she sat, and still she reeled, and still she wished for company.
In came a pair of thin, thin thighs, and sat down on the thick, thick knees; And still she sat, and still she reeled, and still she wished for company.
In came a pair of huge, huge hips, and sat down on the thin, thin thighs; And still she sat, and still she reeled, and still she wished for company.
In came a wee, wee waist, and sat down on the huge, huge hips; And still she sat, and still she reeled, and still she wished for company.
In came a pair of broad, broad shoulders, and sat down on the wee, wee waist; And still she sat, and still she reeled, and still she wished for company.
In came a pair of small, small arms, and sat down on the broad, broad shoulders; And still she sat, and still she reeled, and still she wished for company.
In came a pair of huge, huge hands, and sat down on the small, small arms; And still she sat, and still she reeled, and still she wished for company.
In came a small, small neck, and sat down on the broad, broad shoulders; And still she sat, and still she reeled, and still she wished for company.
In came a huge, huge head, and sat down on the small, small neck.
‘How did you get such broad, broad feet?’ quoth the woman. ‘Much tramping, much tramping’.
‘How did you get such small, small legs?’ ‘Aih-h-h!–late–and wee-e-e—moul’.
‘How did you get such thick, thick knees?’ ‘Much praying, much praying’.
‘How did you get such thin, thin thighs?’ ‘Aih-h-h!–late–and wee-e-e–moul’.
‘How did you get such big, big hips?’ ‘Much sitting, much sitting’.
‘How did you get such a wee, wee waist?’ ‘Aih-h-h!–late–and wee-e-e–moul’.
‘How did you get such broad, broad shoulders?’ ‘With carrying broom, with carrying broom’.
‘How did you get such small, small arms?’ ‘Aih-h-h!–late–and we-e-e–moul’.
‘How did you get such huge, huge hands?’ ‘Threshing with an iron flail, threshing with an iron flail’.
‘How did you get such a small, small neck?’ ‘Aih-h-h!–late–wee-e-e–moul’.
‘How did you get such a huge, huge head?’ ‘Much knowledge, much knowledge’.
‘What do you come for?’
Before Philomena was able to deliver the last line, a wailing banshee emerged from the chimney, burst into the snuggery and screamed at the top of her voice,
“I HAVE COME FOR YOU!”
Everyone quailed visibly and drew back; even Drury yelped in alarm and slunk into the corner.
“For goodness sake Granny,” shouted Philomena, “that is not funny.”
“Oh, I think it is” cackled the ghost of Granny Bucket. “You should see your faces.”
“My dear Mistress Bucket,” said Reggie, regaining his composure and straightening his regimental tie. “Another shock like that and I’ll be a ghost myself.”
“Then I think you all need another drink,” laughed Granny. “I only wish that I could have one meself. Happy Halloween, everybody.”
Septimus Washwell had been practising a few dance steps when his fiancée, Mirielle D’Illay, made this announcement.
Without looking up, his attention totally focussed on attempting to smoothly shift from a jazz-inspired ball-change to a conventional chassé, he said,
“Oh yes, and what might that be?”
“I have… how do you say? I have something in the oven.” Mirielle’s Gallic accent seemed, suddenly, even more pronounced than usual.
“Oh, that’s good,” replied Septimus. “I’m starving. Learning these new steps makes me really hungry, for some reason.”
“No, you imbecile,” snapped Mirielle, scathingly. “Mon Dieu, don’t you even know your own idiots?”
“I think you mean idioms…”
“Idiots, idioms, I don’t care, what does it matter? I am trying to tell you that we are going to have a baby.”
Septimus froze in mid-step.
“Did you say…?”
“Oui. You are going to be someone’s papa.”
Septimus flopped down into the nearest available chair.
“That’s wonderful… I think,” he said, more than a little bewildered.
“You think???”
“Yes, yes, wonderful news,” said Septimus hurriedly, mopping his brow.
Mirielle fixed him with a steely look.
“And you realise, mon amour, that you are going to have to marry me now.”
“Marry?”
“Why not? It is the right thing to do.”
“But it isn’t really necessary on Hopeless…” began Septimus, but could see by the look on Mirielle’s face that this issue was non-negotiable.
“My mother would expect nothing less,” she said. “If I did not marry the father of my child she would turn over in her grave.”
“Your mother is dead?” said Septimus. “I didn’t know that.”
“Yes. My father strangled her,” replied Mirielle.
“Really?” said Septimus, not a little surprised. “I thought you told me that your parents had a fairy-tale marriage?”
“They did,” said Mirielle. “It was grim!”
When news of the forthcoming birth leaked out, it was greeted by general rejoicing by all who heard it.
“Well, I didn’t expect my youngest son to be the first to give us a grandchild,” said Mabel Washwell, casting a disapproving look over her six remaining offspring.
“No indeed,” said Seth, her husband. “And as Septimus is a seventh son, perhaps he and Mirielle could produce a few more kids. There’s a chance we might yet get to see a seventh son of a seventh son.”
“I wouldn’t be in a hurry to suggest it to her,” said Septimus, uneasily. “I don’t feel that she would think much of that as an idea.”
“That’s a shame,” said Seth. “Still, you never know…”
“Yes I do,” thought Septimus to himself.
In The Squid and Teapot Bartholomew Middlestreet proclaimed that the news merited ‘Drinks on the House’. As the only people present were Septimus, Philomena Bucket, Reggie Upton and Bartholomew himself, the innkeeper’s generous gesture did not diminish the alcohol supplies of The Squid too drastically.
“What is going to happen to the Demoiselles?” asked Philomena, gratefully sipping her glass of Old Colonel. “I wouldn’t think that Mirielle will be doing much dancing for a while.”
She was referring, of course, to the shipwrecked dance troupe, Les Demoiselles de Moulin Rouge. Mirielle was the leader of the four young ladies who regularly performed an energetic Can-Can for the delight of the islanders.
“They’ll be fine,” assured Septimus. “There has been a lot of interest from some of the girls who live on the island. They will be queuing up to stand-in for her.”
“Jolly good,” said Reggie. “The show must go on, and all that.”
“Oh, Reggie,” said Septimus, “that reminds me. Mirielle would like you to give her away when we get married.”
“I would be most honoured,” said Reggie. “It is only a pity that her real father won’t be here to do it.”
“It is,” agreed Septimus, “but it seems that he was guillotined after strangling her mother.”
“Well, that’s a conversation stopper, if ever I heard one,” observed Philomena.
“We were talking in The Squid about the wedding,” said Septimus, when he arrived back home. “I think Reggie is quite looking forward to giving you away.”
“That is good,” said Mirielle. “Despite the fact that he is English, and therefore quite mad, he is a good man, I think. Besides, he dresses better than anyone else on the island.”
Septimus grinned, thinking how Reggie seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of bespoke suits in his travelling trunk.
“I’d better get hold of Reverend Davies,” he said, “and see if he’s happy to marry us.”
“Oh no you don’t,” said Mirielle. “I was raised a Catholic. I need a proper Catholic wedding.”
“That is impossible. As far as I know, Reverend Davies is the only ordained priest on the island,” said Septimus. “And some people have even got their doubts about that.”
“You are wrong,” said Mirielle. “There is another.”
“No there isn’t…” began Septimus, then said, “Oh, surely you don’t mean…”
“Yes I do. Father Stamage might be a ghost but he is still a priest. He has the proper hat to prove it.”
Septimus took a deep breath.
Today was getting weirder by the minute.
“Well, it is most irregular,” said Father Stamage, materialising from his hat, which was hanging in the privy of The Squid and Teapot.
You may recall that while haunting his hat – his Capello Romano – the ghost of Father Stamage is able to wander the hallowed corridors of his old alma mater, the Jesuit College, Campion Hall, which is part of the University of Oxford.
“She is set on it, Father,” said Septimus, the slight wobble in his voice betraying the fact that he was not totally comfortable conversing with ghosts.
“She is a spirited young lady, that’s for sure,” agreed the priest, tactfully. “On reflection, I cannot see the harm. Once a priest, always a priest is what I have always been told. I will do it.”
“Thank you,” said Septimus.
“And I would like to come too. I haven’t been to a wedding for centuries.”
Septimus was aghast to see Lady Margaret D’Avening walking through the wall towards him, her severed head tucked neatly, but bloodily, underneath her arm.
“I am sure that will be fine,” said Septimus, the wobble in his voice going a full octave higher.
“You’re not going to leave me out.”
The ghost of Granny Bucket suddenly appeared from nowhere.
“That was a bit of luck,” she said. “I was just dropping in on Philomena when I overheard your conversation. I love a good wedding.”
Drury wandered in and wagged a bony tail, as if to say “And me!”
Septimus crossed his fingers that Mirielle would approve of so many ghosts being there.
If spirits kept appearing at this rate, there would be more dead people than live ones at their wedding.
Reggie Upton pulled the collar of his Crombie overcoat up and shivered, watching his breath condense in the chill air of a Hopeless afternoon.
“Dashed parky for Midsummer, what?” he said to a somewhat bemused Seth Washwell, who, until now had been under the distinct impression that he and his eccentric English companion conversed in a something resembling a common language.
Despite there being no handy translation available, from the tone of Reggie’s voice, it seemed reasonably clear that a positive response was expected of him.
Hoping for the best, Seth nodded sagely.
“I used to think that British summers were a trifle poor, on the whole, but this weather is positively wintry,” complained Reggie.
Enlightened by this last remark, Seth felt fairly certain that he would be on safe ground by venturing a reply.
“I’ve never known it quite this bad in the middle of the year,” he admitted. “Even St. John’s warts have shrivelled up.”
Reggie looked about him, confused.
“St. John’s wort? I can’t say that I have seen any in bloom.”
He scanned the area in vain for the familiar, heart-warming yellow blaze of the midsummer flowers that had annually graced his Cotswold garden.
“Not St. John’s wort; St. John’s warts. They’re very common on the island,” said Seth irritably, pointing to a bedraggled plant that sported a small and withered cluster of scrotally unattractive nodules.
“The warts are usually puffed up and perky on Midsummer’s Day,” he said, adding, “but it’s too darned cold this year.”
It was, indeed, unseasonably chilly, even for Hopeless, Maine.
The wraith of Granny Bucket hovered in the kitchen of The Squid and Teapot. Today she had decided to be visible only to her granddaughter, Philomena, who was busily making a batch of starry-grabby pies.
“it won’t be long now. Can’t you feel it, Philomena?” she said.
“I feel I’ve got a lot of work to do, and worrying about the Psychopomp isn’t going to help,” Philomena replied. “We have done all that we can for Father Stamage. It’s up to Drury now.”
Father Ignatius Stamage, the recently deceased Jesuit who now haunted The Squid and Teapot, had been warned of the impending arrival of the Psychopomp, a supernatural entity, sent to drag him to Purgatory. More than reluctant to go, Stamage had hidden in his hat, vowing to stay there until the following day. It was last seen being taken to the Underland by Drury, the skeletal hound (as related in the tale ‘Midsummer’s Eve’).
“The temperature has dropped already, that’s a sure sign,” said Granny, “but you mark my words, it’ll get colder.”
Granny paused for dramatic effect, then added, ominously,
“A hell of a lot colder.”
The passage from the Gydynaps, which led steeply down into the Underland, was tight, even for Drury.
The old dog’s skeletal form barely scraped through some of the narrower parts of the tunnels, and more than once he had to give himself a shake, in order to persuade a displaced rib to return to its usual position. It was not until he had reached the main pathway, far beneath the island’s surface, that the going became easier. To Drury’s great credit, not once did he let the priest’s hat fall from his mouth.
If I said that I knew anything of the workings of Drury’s mind, I would be lying. Often his actions are so typically canine that, if it was not for the fact that he appears to be no more than a collection of bones, it would be easy to regard him as being a fairly run-of-the mill, bog-standard dog. The fact that he is literally brainless, and has nothing in his skull other than the occasional fly, might lead the unwary to believe him to be dim, but this is definitely not so. Whatever force it is that animates Drury, it seems to have endowed him with greatly heightened dog senses and a depth of understanding beyond our knowing. Or, there again, he might just be lucky in his choices. Whatever the reason, it is sufficient to say that he reached the Crystal Cave without mishap.
As regular readers will recall, the Crystal Cave acts as a portal to a variety of random locations. Those who visit, however, have no control over what they find when they get there, not even Drury. His mission had been to get Father Stamage safely away from the Psychopomp, thereby avoiding condemning the priest to purgatory. Where better than the Crystal Cave? In this Drury had succeeded beyond all hopes. It was just unfortunate that the Crystal Cave was in a playful mood on that particular day, for when the dog bounded into its depths, the priest’s hat firmly clamped in his powerful jaws, he was greeted by a cheerless, grey landscape, peopled by the shadowy figures of equally cheerless and wailing grey wraiths. Unperturbed, the osseous hound wandered up the rough, cobbled street and raised a defiant, but ineffective, leg against the base of a rotting wooden boundary sign. It was weather-bleached, with flaking paint and faded lettering, declaring to any desolate soul unfortunate enough cross its path: “PURGATORY WELCOMES CARELESS SINNERS”.
It was too foggy for any to see the pallid, midsummer sun as it slipped silently into the turbulent ocean. Similarly, Gula, the dog-headed deity who drifted into the flushing privy of The Squid and Teapot, was completely invisible to human eyes.
“I haven’t seen you before,” said Lady Margaret D’Avening, resting her head on the washstand. “Are you new?”
The cynocephalous goddess regarded the ghostly White Lady with some curiosity, not sure whether to address the head or the body, which stood a few feet distant.
“I am not that new,” she said. “I was first worshipped in Sumeria over seven thousand years ago, so that makes me considerably senior, by several millennia, to all of those young upstarts who call themselves gods.”
“That is impressive,” said Lady Margaret with a ghastly smile, “but it has not stopped you from being landed with this job. You dog-headed deities seem to get lumbered with it every time.”
“We like the exercise,” said Gula, pleasantly. “Now, where is Father Stamage?”
“Far away and somewhere safe. You won’t find him,” said the White Lady.
Gula smiled a doggy smile. “We’ll see,” she said.
The ancient goddess drifted through the privy wall and out into the crowded bar, where only the shade of Granny Bucket noticed her passing.
“It might warm up a bit now,” she muttered to herself.
Father Stamage’s hat – the Capello Romano – lay on the floor of the cave, guarded by Drury, while the anguished wraiths of Purgatory milled around, keen to see who the new arrival might be.
Just when Drury was wondering if it was safe to return home, the awe-inspiring figure of Gula manifested before him. The wraiths immediately receded into the shadows, and Drury bowed his head, crouching down in reverence. Had any of the Hopeless islanders witnessed this, they would have rubbed their eyes and imagined that they were dreaming. Drury was famously subservient to none, and never had been, but here he was, bowing.
Gula knelt before Drury and held him to her. Despite himself, the bony old dog looked up in wonder.
“Most valiant hound. You have braved all of this for your friends,” she said. “You should be rewarded.”
Gula was famous in her time for her attachment to dogs; indeed, they were sacred to her. That is probably why she chose to be seen as dog-headed, occasionally.
Whatever passed next between the dog and the goddess, I do not know, but after a while she sighed, and rose to her feet.
“Very well,” she said kindly, “walk with me now… and yes, you can bring the priest. You obviously think a lot of him. I’ll release him of his obligation, on condition that you make sure that he does not have a totally comfortable time over the next hundred years.”
“I can do that,” thought Drury, happily.
The two walked through the mists of Purgatory together, until, to Drury’s surprise, he found himself in Creepy Hollow, the Capello Romano still clamped between his teeth. Night had fallen and a full moon was riding high in the sky.
“One day, people will realise that Purgatory is closer than they know. It is only ever just around the next corner,” said Gula.
She turned to leave, then paused.
“When the day comes that you are weary of this island, come and find me,” she said.
Indistinct as the mist that surrounded her, Gula disappeared into the darkness.
Drury wagged his tail, gave a joyful bark and cantered off towards the welcoming lights of The Squid and Teapot.
Father Ignatius Stamage was not happy. This, in itself, was unsurprising, his having been killed some eighteen months earlier; events of that ilk were bound to cause a fellow to feel out of sorts, occasionally. To his credit, he had been amazingly stoic about the matter, and quickly became absorbed into the ghost community of Hopeless, Maine. In an effort to encourage him to feel at home, Bartholomew Middlestreet, the landlord of The Squid and Teapot, had magnanimously offered to hang the priest’s battered hat – his Capello Romano, if we want to be pedantic – in the bar of the inn, thereby enabling the deceased Jesuit to haunt a reasonably sized area in and around the aforementioned headwear. This, fortunately, gave him access to the flushing privy, and the companionship of Lady Margaret D’Avening, the Headless White Lady who haunted its walls.
Lady Margaret had warned Father Stamage of the impending visit, on Midsummer’s Day, of a Psychopomp, the entity sent to escort him to Purgatory – and here we have the source of his misery. As any reader of ‘The Vendetta’ will readily appreciate, the island of Hopeless is not without its drawbacks, but Father Stamage had come to quite love the place. After all, the many horrors walking abroad that held countless terrors for the living had little sway over those who had already died. The threat, however, of being carted off to Purgatory was another matter. Ignatius Stamage was terrified. He had petitioned Granny Bucket for help, but after an anxious week, there had been no word from the ghostly witch. Things were looking bad.
On the morning of Midsummer’s Eve, Father Stamage, convinced by now that he had offended Granny’s sensibilities with a flippant remark, decided to disappear into his hat, and wait for the worst. Miserable as this sounds, it was not the retreat into some dark, felt-lined hole, reeking of old incense, sweat and cheap brilliantine, that you might imagine. When Stamage was in his hat, he was once more within the cool, hallowed walls of Campion Hall, in Oxford, where he had happily studied as a young man. *
“It’s a pity,” said Granny Bucket, “that you had to go and block up the paths to the Underland. We could have taken Father Ignatius’s hat to the Crystal Cave and he would have been out of harm’s way.”
“I had no choice, it had become too dangerous,” replied Philomena, glumly recalling how Marigold Burleigh had wandered into the tunnels and disappeared forever. “But maybe the cave really is Father Stamage’s only hope. Is there no other way in?”
Granny shrugged.
“Possibly. There is a small crack in the rocks, up on the Gydynaps, not much more than a spoonwalker track, really. I could drift in through there. It’s not much use, though; I can’t carry the Father’s hat, and he won’t get very far without it.”
“Can’t we open it up a bit?” asked Philomena, hopefully.
“You can try,” said Granny, “but I’ve travelled that path once or twice, and even if you could get on to it, the way would be far too narrow for you to squeeze through.”
Philomena’s pale features reddened slightly, but she held her tongue and ignored Granny’s less than subtle intimation that she was something other than sylph-like.
Then a thought struck her.
“Could Drury do it?”
“He could have a go,” said Granny, doubtfully. “But don’t build your hopes up too high. You know what he’s like.”
Philomena did, indeed, know. The osseous hound, who had been a presence on the island for longer than anyone could remember, and stubbornly refused to acknowledge the fact that he had died many years earlier, was certainly up to the task. Whether he could be relied upon not to be distracted, however, was another matter.
“Well, Father Stamage has got nothing to lose if we give it a go,” said Philomena. “But first we need to widen that crack in the rocks, at least enough for Drury to slip through.”
It was a strange and somewhat unsettling procession that made its way up into the Gydynaps, later that afternoon. The translucent shade of Granny Bucket shimmered faintly at its head, followed by Philomena carrying a shovel, and the press-ganged landlord, Bartholomew Middlestreet, armed with a pickaxe. Drury clattered along happily in the rear, with Father Stamage’s hat held firmly in his jaws.
“This is madness,” said Bartholomew, beads of sweat dripping from his forehead. “We have been at this for ages, and we are getting nowhere. How long before sundown? I don’t fancy being up here after dark.”
“We’ve still got a few hours of daylight left,” replied Philomena.
“Is there nothing magical that either of you can do to help?” quizzed Bartholomew. “Can’t you prise it open, somehow, if you work together?”
The shade that was Granny Bucket shook her head.
“We work with the elements, not against them,” she said. “We can show off with a few spectacular bangs and flashes, but blasting through granite is beyond even our combined power.”
Bartholomew turned Granny’s words over in his mind.
“We need Reggie Upton,” he said, suddenly. “He’ll know what to do.”
“Are you sure?” asked Philomena. “He’s getting a bit long in the tooth to be swinging a pickaxe at his time of life.”
But Bartholomew had already left, haring down the hill at a rate of knots that surprised everyone, especially himself.
An anxious two hours passed before Philomena spotted several figures toiling up the hill. She immediately recognised Bartholomew and Reggie. As they drew closer she saw that they were accompanied by three of the Washwell boys, Egbert, Hubert and Wallace, all strapping lads who each carried a bulging sack upon his back.
“Whatever is in there?” asked Philomena, eyeing the sacks with some suspicion.
“Dust, mainly,” said Reggie, signalling to the boys to put the bags down. “We had to go over to Creepy Hollow. Young Egbert here tells me that it is where the dustcats like to go to regurgitate their dust. It is not the most pleasant job any of us have had, gathering it up. Now, without more ado, if you will lend a hand, m’dear, we need to get it through that hole…”
Philomena looked on, not entirely convinced that three bags of dust were going to solve their problem. However, after years of military experience, Reggie seemed to be able to see through most difficulties, so there was no reason to doubt his judgement.
“Granny, we need your help here,” she said.
No sooner had the words left her lips than a gentle wind arose from nowhere and blew the dust very precisely into the cleft in the rocks.
“I’ve no idea what you’re up to, young man,” said Granny, “but I hope it works.”
Reggie grinned. No one had called him ‘young man’ for about fifty years.
“So do I, Granny. So do I.”
When all of the dust had been blown into the cavity, Reggie pulled a bottle of Gannicox Distillery vodka from his jacket pocket.
“It’s a bit premature celebrating just yet,” said Philomena, crossly. “Let’s finish the job first.”
“That, dear lady, is what I am just about to do,” said Reggie, and with that he stuffed the end of the bottle with a piece of rag, and pushed it firmly into the cleft in the rock.
“Right, everyone. Step well away, and cover your ears,” he said, setting fire to the rag.
For a few moments nothing happened. Philomena looked at Bartholomew and rolled her eyes despairingly. Then there was a sharp crack, followed by a huge explosion, which sent shards of rock and billows of smoke and dust high into the air. Even Drury yelped and ran for cover.
When the smoke eventually cleared, a gaping hole filled the spot where, previously, there had been just a modest crack in the rock face.
“How did that happen?” asked an incredulous Bartholomew, checking that his eyebrows were still there.
“Dust is wonderfully explosive, given the right conditions,” said Reggie, unable to conceal his pleasure at the violence of the outcome. “There has been many an explosion in coal mines, flour mills and ammunition factories over the years, all due to dust in the atmosphere. It reminds me of the time in Jaipur, when…”
But his anecdote was cut mercifully short by the rattle of bony feet on rock as Drury raced along the path and into the newly-formed cavern, taking Father Stamage’s hat with him, hopefully to the Crystal Cave.
The watery sun, barely visible through the all-pervading mist, was sinking into the western ocean, and Midsummer’s Eve was drawing to a close.
“There’s nothing more for us to do here,” said Philomena. “It’s all up to Drury now. Let’s get back to The Squid, while we can.”
“Where there will be a few tankards of ‘Old Colonel’ for all concerned,” promised Bartholomew.
Nobody argued.
To be continued…
*Author’s note:
You may remember that the privy walls of The Squid and Teapot had once comprised part of Lady Margaret’s home, Oxlynch Hall, as related in the tale ‘The Jacobean Manor House’. The White Lady liked nothing better than to return to her old abode, which seemed very real in that other, liminal realm.
Sadly, the very fact of being a ghost entails having an obligation to fulfil various proscribed activities, such as wailing, rattling chains and generally frightening people. Spending eternity lounging around in comfortable and familiar surroundings is definitely not encouraged.
Lady Margaret D’Avening, the ghostly White Lady, doomed to haunt the flushing privy of The Squid and Teapot, placed her head on the washstand and said, in conversational tone,
“Do you realise, Ignatius, that we’re only a week away from Midsummer’s Day?”
Father Stamage, the ghostly Jesuit, frowned. She did not usually refer to him by his Christian name. Something was afoot.
“That’s not much good to us, is it?” he said, somewhat snappily. “One season is very much like another on this confounded island, and besides, as we’re both indisputably dead, I can’t see either of us being in the business of getting a tan anytime soon, can you?”
“Tanning the skin is vulgar in the extreme,” announced Lady Margaret, haughtily, “but I was drawing your attention to the imminence of midsummer for reasons far more serious than besporting yourself in unbecoming, not to say inadvisable, beachwear.”
“I never have!” protested the priest, indignantly. “But tell me, what is this serious matter? I’m dying to know.”
It was not, maybe, the best choice of words, under the circumstances.
“The coming of the Psychopomp,” she said. “Once, every hundred years, he, she or it will turn up on Midsummer’s Day without fail, and next week will be it.”
“You’ve lost me,” said Stamage. “Who or what is a Psychopomp?”
“You don’t know? The Psychopomp is the entity who will escort you to Purgatory.”
“Purgatory? I don’t understand. I was under the impression that this place is Purgatory.”
“I can see why you might think that, but it is not” chuckled Lady Margaret. “However, you being a man of the cloth will be seen as being fair game for the undivided attention of the Psychopomp.”
“What about you? Aren’t you coming too?” asked Stamage, taken aback.
The head sitting on the washstand laughed heartily, while Lady Margaret’s body, some three feet away, shook with mirth.
“They gave up on me, and all the other old ghosts on the island, ages ago. For good or ill, we’re stuck here for eternity. I am very much afraid that you alone will be grabbed this year, just you mark my words.”
“But.. but what about Miss Calder and Miss Toadsmoor, up at the orphanage? They haven’t been around as ghosts for very long. Won’t the Psychothingy be after them too?”
“They were Protestants when they were alive,” replied Lady Margaret. “And Protestants don’t believe in Purgatory.”
Had Father Stamage been in receipt of breath, he would have sworn under it. As it was, he uttered a few unpriestly oaths and disappeared sulkily into the bar. A few seconds later he returned, a worried look upon his face.
“You called this Psycho-whatnot he she or it. What did you mean?” he asked.
There was a degree of nervousness in his tone.
“Well, the last time we had a visit, it was from the Aztec dog-headed god, Xolotl. He was a bit disconcerting. The time before that, it was Anubis. I liked him, I must admit. There’s just something about a jackal-headed deity that I find strangely attractive.”
“Anubis? Xolotl? These are all a bit pagan for my taste,” said Stamage. “And do these things always originate from the canine family? I like dogs well enough but… I don’t want to be taking one for a walk to Purgatory.”
“By what I have seen in the past, you won’t be walking, that’s for sure,” laughed Lady Margaret, unkindly.
Father Stamage, ashen-faced, even for a ghost, said nothing; he drifted back into the bar, in search of Philomena Bucket.
The relationship between Philomena Bucket and Father Stamage had always been prickly, both before and after the priest’s untimely death at the hands of Obadiah Hyde, The Phantom Mad Parson of Chapel Rock (as related in the tale ‘The Exorcist’). While both parties had always been polite to each other, Philomena’s low opinion of organised religion, coupled with Stamage’s fear and loathing of anything to do with witches or witchcraft (as personified by Philomena and her spectral grandmother) had been, so far, an insurmountable block to their forging anything resembling a cosy bond. Now, however, Father Stamage suddenly realised just how much he really wanted to stick around and haunt The Squid and Teapot, and not be exiled to Purgatory. It was time to eat the proverbial Humble Pie* and go, Capello Romano in hand, to avail himself of the mercy and wisdom of the formidable Bucket women. He knew that if he was to be spared, there would be none better on his side than the ghost of Granny Bucket.
“Now, let me get this right, Father Ignatius,” said Granny Bucket, enjoying herself immensely. “You’re telling me that you have at last seen the error of your ways and you’ve decided to embrace the Old Religion… the Pagan Path?”
“I did not say that, Mistress Bucket, I merely asked…”
“Ah. I’m pulling your leg, you great Lummox. I’ll help if I can, but tell me, what does a good Catholic lad like yourself have to fear from the afterlife?”
Ignatius Stamage looked uncomfortable.
“To be honest, Mistress Bucket…”
“Call me Granny. Everybody does.”
“To be honest… Granny… I really thought this island to be Purgatory, and that I am paying penance. Now I find that I’m about to be dragged to somewhere even more ghastly by some dog-headed demon. Are there no Christian psychopomps?“
“They draw straws for the job,” said Granny. “Somehow your lot always arrange things so that one of the dog-headed brigade ends up drawing the short straw. It’s no more than I’d expect. Anyway, old Anubis is alright. I’m not so sure about the other fella, though.”
“I fully expected that, by now, I would have been raised to the glory of heaven by Saint Michael himself,” said Father Stamage, miserably. “As it is, nothing seems to be turning out in the way that I thought it would.”
“Well, in the words of a great and famous sage, also called Michael, I believe,” said Granny, “you can’t always get what you want.”
“But can you help? Please?”
“I’ll think of something. Just give me a few days.”
“Thank you,” said the priest. “But don’t forget, the clock is ticking.”
Granny gave him a withering look, and disappeared into the ether.
You cannot pressurise Granny. It probably had not been the wisest thing to say.
To be continued…
*Author’s note: Humble pie, or more correctly, umble pie, was originally a pie made from deer offal. It was considered to be an inferior food and was only consumed by the lower-classes. Although the words umble and humble have absolutely no etymological connection, someone, somewhere must once have thought that ‘eating humble pie’ sounded a lot better than just saying ‘bootlicking’
It takes a lot to surprise a ghost, even one as young (at the time of her death) and impressionable as Lady Margaret D’Avening. The sight, however, of Hopeless, Maine’s most recent visitor, Brigadier Reginald Fitzhugh Hawkesbury-Upton, standing in the privy of The Squid and Teapot, almost caused her to drop her head.
“Uncle Henry,” she exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
The brigadier, who preferred to be called simply Reggie, had always prided himself upon his good manners and nonchalance in every situation, and he was determined that this encounter would be no exception.
“My dear lady,” he said, with a slight bow of his head, “I am jolly delighted to make your acquaintance, but can promise you that I am definitely not your Uncle Henry.”
“Are you sure?” demanded Lady Margaret, imperiously. “You certainly look like Sir Henry Upton.”
“Ah… that would maybe explain things,” said Reggie. “I have Uptons lurking in my family tree, as it were. I can only imagine that you and I share a common ancestor.”
“How dare you?” screeched Lady Margaret. “I have never been so insulted. None of my ancestors were common.”
It was some home hours later, at breakfast on the following morning, that Reggie found himself relating the exchange to Philomena Bucket.
“That must have been tricky,” Philomena commiserated. “She can be a haughty one, and no mistake.”
“I made my peace with her, eventually,” chuckled Reggie. “I just turned on the old Hawkesbury-Upton charm; it seemed to do the trick.”
“Thank goodness for that,” said Philomena. “Oh, here comes Drury. I don’t believe that you’ve met him…”
The aforementioned nonchalance that Reggie had always prided himself on slipped visibly when Drury came bounding in.
“What the deuce…?” he exclaimed, getting to his feet in alarm.
Drury wagged a bony tail and rattled down onto the floor, next to Philomena. Realising that this skeletal creature was just another facet of the island’s oddness, Reggie regained his composure and settled back down into his seat.
“There’s a good dog,” he said to a somewhat puzzled Drury. If it really was the case that he was thought to be a good dog, that was something that needed to be rectified at the earliest opportunity.
“So, have you any plans today?” asked Philomena, conversationally.
“I thought to wander about a bit and take in the sights. I’ve always been something of a flâneur.”
“A flannel?” Philomena was confused.
“A flâneur,” corrected Reggie. “Someone who just saunters, observing society generally. Since leaving the army I have flâneured in London, Paris, Berlin and Vienna. I fully intended taking my flâneuring to New York, but alas, it was not to be.”
“Well, just be careful, when you go flannelling around out there,” warned Philomena. “And is it wise wearing that lovely suit?” she added, eyeing his Harris Tweed three-piece. “Things tend to get a bit messy on the island.”
“My dear Philomena,” replied the brigadier, “part of the pleasure of being a flâneur is to dress in one’s finest clothes when exploring the world. I would not be seen dead going out and about in anything else.”
Philomena reflected that Reggie may not have picked the best choice of words, given the hazards of Hopeless, but said nothing.
It was late afternoon, and more than one islander marvelled at the spectacle of the dapper military man with the bristling moustache, who wandered, seemingly aimlessly, around the island. He wore his hat at a jaunty angle and swung his cane with all the carefree panache of one strolling down the Strand, on the way to his club.
Hopeless is not known for having any great degree of criminal activity, as no one on the island has anything much worth stealing. In any society, however, there is always an element who will take advantage of those whom they perceive as being weak.
Certainly, the dandy standing on the street corner looked like an easy target. He was in late middle-age and, with his watch-chain and silver-tipped cane, seemed to be begging to be robbed. At least, that was young Roscoe’s opinion, and he decided that it would be a pity to let such an opportunity pass by. After all, if he didn’t relieve the old fool of his valuables, someone else would.
“Hello, mister. Can you tell me what the time is, please?”
Roscoe added the ‘please’ to put the dandy at his ease. It was not a word that he was accustomed to using very often.
The brigadier pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket and reported that it was precisely four twenty-three.
“Four twenty-three is it?” said Roscoe. “Then it must be time for you to hand over that watch and silver-topped cane. Come on now, or you’ll be sorry.”
Reggie smiled disarmingly at him, and said, “I don’t think so young man. The watch belonged to my father and I have owned this cane for over forty years. I am extremely attached to both.”
Roscoe raised a meaty fist and lunged towards the older man, who sidestepped neatly out of the way. Within an instant the innocuous looking walking cane had shed its sheath and become a swordstick.
“My turn, I believe,” said Reggie, and, for an instant, the swordstick seemed to flicker in his hand.
Roscoe looked down aghast, in the general direction of his stomach.
“Oh no,” he said, horrified. “Now look at what you’ve done…”
“I almost felt sorry for him,” Reggie said with a grin, holding court that evening in the snug of The Squid and Teapot.
“You see, after I cut through his belt, his trousers fell down. What made things worse for him was the appearance of a party of young ladies from the orphanage. Oh, how they laughed.”
“I’ll bet they did,” said Norbert Gannicox. “D’you have any idea who he was?”
“No, never set eyes on the chap before, though I seem to remember that one of the girls called him Roscoe.”
“Roscoe?” said Norbert, suddenly alarmed. “I reckon that was Roscoe Chevin. He’s trouble, that’s for sure. You’ve made a bad enemy there.”
“I have been surrounded by enemies throughout the whole of my army career. I’m not going to lose sleep over one scallywag who can’t keep his trousers up,” said Reggie.
“But he’s a Chevin,” broke in Seth Washwell.
“I don’t care who he is,” said Reggie. “Why, I pulled the same trick on Jan Smuts back in ninety-nine, and have lived to dine out on the tale on several occasions.”
“Maybe that Smuts guy didn’t have the back-up that Roscoe has,” said Seth.
“Only the entire Boer army,” replied Reggie, carelessly. “Anyway, enough of this fighting talk. Anyone for another drink?”
Despite his airy dismissal of their warnings, Reggie could not help but be a little concerned. He looked down at Drury, snoozing in front of the fire.
“All the same,” he thought to himself. “One doesn’t necessarily have to flâneur alone. Maybe I’ll take the dog with me, next time.”
“It is quite past a joke,” declared Lady Margaret D’Avening, haughtily. “I have been putting up with the indignity for the best part of a hundred years, and I cannot stand it anymore!”
“I can talk to Mr Middlestreet,” said Philomena Bucket, “But, to be honest, I am by no means sure what can be done.”
Lady Margaret scowled, popped her head beneath her arm and disappeared into the wall.
“I do feel for her,” said Father Ignatius Stamage. “It is difficult enough for me, but at least I don’t have to haunt the privy all the time. I can go wherever you choose to put my hat.”
It was true. It was Father Stamage’s lot to haunt his beloved black, battered Capello Romano, so wherever that particular item of apparel was placed, became home to the ghostly Jesuit. Lady Margaret, on the other hand, was forever doomed to haunt the wall of the flushing privy of The Squid and Teapot, which had once been part of her bed-chamber. This was obviously a lot less portable than a hat and, after nearly a century, was causing her a certain amount of distress.
“If she doesn’t want to be in the privy, she could always haunt the other side of the wall,” said Bartholomew Middlestreet. “There’s only a cobbled path out there, but she could wander around a bit.”
“I suggested that,” said Philomena, “but she said that no one ever uses the path, so she would get lonely. She likes some company.”
“But not necessarily the company of people using the privy,” said Bartholomew. “I can understand that, I suppose. Couldn’t we put Father Stamage’s hat out there?”
“It would blow into the sea,” replied Philomena. “Besides, he enjoys the atmosphere of being in the bar of The Squid. He really wouldn’t want to be outside.”
“I’ll have a look in Sebastian Lypiatt’s old journal. It’s a mine of information for anyone interested in the history of The Squid,” said Bartholomew. “He was the one who built the privy, after all. There might be a clue in there as to what can be done.”
Following a period of neglect and mismanagement of the inn by one Tobias Thrupp, a shipwrecked English sailor, Sebastian Lypiatt, took charge and became the saviour of The Squid and Teapot, making it the welcoming hostelry that it is today. According to an entry in his journal, Sebastian, and his son, Isaac, had salvaged a quantity of dressed stone blocks, and also a fully functioning flushing lavatory, from the wreckage of a merchant steamer, the ‘Daneway’. Sebastian had written that the ship’s log revealed that her captain had ‘liberated’ the stones from the port of Newhaven, Connecticut (the full story of how they came to be there can be found in the tales ‘The Jacobean Manor House’ and ‘The Headless Lady’).
There was little in Sebastian’s journal that was not already known, but he made a reference to the Hopeless Annual Rock Race. Although interest in the race had waned in recent years, it had, traditionally, been held on the day preceding the first full moon following the vernal equinox. This sounds unnecessarily complicated, but the logic of the race’s founder, Reverend Crackstone, was that those islanders who could never remember when Easter was likely to fall in any given year, could use this event as a reminder (for as you probably know, Easter is celebrated on the first Sunday following this particular moon). It appears that one year, in order to give Lady Margaret a change of scenery, one of the stones of the privy was prised out and moved to a different part of the island. Unfortunately, someone decided that the smooth, dressed stone would be perfect for the rock-race and, to cut a long story short, it ended up in the shadow of Chapel Rock, famously haunted by the Mad Parson, Obadiah Hyde. By pure coincidence, during the English Civil War, Hyde had been the puritan cleric responsible for beheading Lady Margaret. She had, unfortunately, ticked the boxes of almost everything that he despised; she was an adulteress, a Royalist and a Catholic. Good enough reasons, in Hyde’s mind, to be killed on the spot. To put it mildly, neither ghost was thrilled to discover that they were sharing the same island and Lady Margaret was swiftly returned to the comfort of the privy, where she has been ever since.
“In those days,” observed Bartholomew, “she feared that she was fading away, so only manifested when there was a full moon. Now she is bolder, and comes out whenever she feels like it.”
“I think that’s Miss Calder’s fault,” said Philomena, “filling her head with ideas that ghosts should be free to haunt whenever they want, and not being bound to phases of the moon and suchlike. That’s why she’s getting fed-up with people going in and out of the privy all the time. When it was for just for the full moon, it was bearable; people made a point of avoiding the place.”
“Well, we can’t make the privy out of bounds to customers, just because it upsets the resident ghost,” said Bartholomew, reasonably. “What if we prise a block out, like they did in the old days? We could put it somewhere else on the island.”
“We can ask her,” said Philomena, doubtfully.
“That sounds marvellous,” said Lady Margaret, when she heard the suggestion. “And Father Stamage… my dear Ignatius… you’ll join me, won’t you?”
Stamage paused for a second before he spoke.
“But I like it here, Lady Margaret. I don’t really want to be anywhere else. Besides, while I’m in the inn, Bartholomew can keep an eye on my hat and make sure no one moves it.”
“But I’ll be lonely without you,” she wailed. “Pleeeeaasse come with me.”
“No, I’m sorry,” said Father Stamage firmly. “As I said, I’m very happy where I am. I’m not moving.”
“You can always go and live up into the attics,” suggested Philomena, but Lady Margaret shook her head. This involved holding it in front of her with both hands and wobbling it about.
They toyed with taking a block from the privy to the Orphanage, but when asked, Miss Calder expressed the opinion that the appearance of a headless lady wandering the corridors would frighten some of the children. Knowing what the orphanage children are like, this, quite honestly, is unlikely. I can only think that the appearance of Lady Margaret, headless or no and wearing only the diaphanous nightgown that she was slaughtered in, would not be in the best interests of some of the more impressionable boys.
When she found that no one had any real solution to her problem, Lady Margaret stamped a ghostly foot, went into a sulk and disappeared into the wall, vowing that she had no intention of coming out again, ever.
“She’ll get over it,” said Philomena, philosophically.
“If Sebastian had not bothered to salvage those blocks, the steamer would have sunk and she would have had nothing to haunt but cephalopods and fishes,” said Bartholomew. “He gave her a home! Why can’t she be grateful for that, at least?”
“Don’t be too hard on her, she’s very young,” broke in Father Stamage.
While the others had been talking, Stamage had allowed himself to fade unobtrusively into the coat stand, where his hat was hanging. They had quite forgotten that he was there.
“No she’s not young, she was killed hundreds of years ago,” protested Bartholomew.
“That’s as may be, but she told me that she was forced into an early – and ultimately unhappy – marriage, and was no more than a girl of nineteen, at the time of her death,” said the ghostly priest, manifesting fully before them. “That was an awfully young age for her to lose her life, whatever her sins were. The tragedy is, she will always be nineteen.”
The others were silent for a while as they mentally digested this thought.
“Just give her time,” added Father Stamage, disappearing once more into the coat stand. “She’ll get over it.”
