By Martin Pearson

“That young fellow,” declared Reggie Upton, “must have the luck of the devil himself.”

Philomena Bucket nodded in agreement.

“At least he survived the shipwreck, which no one else managed to do,” she said.

“And without a scratch,” said Reggie. “Why, even his clothes look as though they had been bought only yesterday.”

No one approved of good tailoring more than Reggie, but the well-dressed young man who had presented himself at the door of The Squid and Teapot, claiming to be the sole survivor of the recent catastrophe at Scilly Point, seemed almost too good to be true.

“Well, maybe he was just born lucky,” said Philomena. “Let’s just be thankful that things have turned out well for him.”

As related in the tale ‘Sea Fever’, the shipwreck, and the subsequent survival of the vessel’s only passenger, had been the handiwork of Trickster, and was all part of a plot to make Durosimi O’Stoat’s life totally miserable. While Durosimi would never win any prizes in a popularity poll, and had more than his fair share of dark secrets, the reason why Trickster was conducting a vendetta against him in particular is anybody’s guess. Trickster, of course, does not need a reason, and rarely has one. He would not be Trickster otherwise.

The well-dressed young man had introduced himself to all and sundry at The Squid and Teapot as one Erasmus Cam, prestidigitator and stage-hypnotist extraordinaire. As might be expected, this caused a small flurry of excitement among the patrons of the inn. While most had absolutely no idea what a prestidigitator is or does, the words ‘Stage-Hypnotist’ happily suggested the possibility of some distracting entertainment on the immediate horizon.  It would be an excuse to roll out the Edison Bell phonograph again, get Les Demoiselles Can-Canning, and persuade Bartholomew Middlestreet to crack open a fresh barrel of Old Colonel for the common good. This last matter usually involved a certain amount of negotiation, which invariably led to Bartholomew’s agreeing only on the condition that he and his wife, Ariadne, be allowed to perform their deathless, (and drastically cleaned-up for polite society) rendition of ‘Barnacle Bill the Sailor’.

Erasmus – who, of course, was Trickster, draped in his meat-suit – took little persuasion to take part in the event. This fitted his plans perfectly.

“It is, at times like this,” he mused, “that I really love the people of Hopeless, Maine.”

Whatever you may think of the strange ways of the islanders, there is no denying that these days they can arrange a concert at the drop of a hat. This, however, has not always been the case. It was the arrival of the Edison Bell phonograph, replete with a collection of wax discs, that gave them a glimpse of a world that few scarcely knew existed. Evenings of music, interspersed with poetry and monologues, soon formed a popular distraction from the horrors that abounded, and ‘Molly Malone’ became the unofficial anthem of the island, with its rousing refrain of ‘Alive, alive-o’. Later, when Les Demoiselles de le Moulin Rouge turned up on Hopeless, the entertainment stakes moved up a notch.  Their Can-Can, to the strains of Offenbach’s ‘Infernal Gallop’, inspired many to take up dancing themselves, and Les Demoiselles opened their famous dance studio to accommodate the growing demand. And now this latest arrival, a young man who claimed to be both a hypnotist and a prestidigitator (whatever that was supposed to be), promised to bring a real frisson of excitement to the proceedings in the town-hall.

The evening was not a disappointment. After the obligatory chorus of ‘Molly Malone’, Les Demoiselles changed the mood entirely, giving their usual spirited performance, even though their heavily pregnant leader, Mirielle, had been replaced by the unfortunately named Hilda Shambles. Hilda was an ex-orphanage girl who had been trained at the dance studio, and exhibited a rare talent for this particular variety of the Terpsichorean arts. Most anticipated, however, was the mysterious Erasmus Cam – or The Great Erasmus, as he styled himself that particular evening.

To the great relief of Philomena Bucket, Erasmus really seemed to be no more than a run-of-the-mill, second-rate illusionist, performing tricks with playing cards and silk scarves, which he drew from a borrowed top-hat. Given his miraculous escape from the shipwreck, Philomena’s fear had been that the young man possessed supernatural powers and had come to the island for nefarious purposes. Besides that, Drury, the skeletal hound, had taken an instant dislike to the magician and, unusually, had not come to the concert. Of course, the barmaid should have trusted Drury’s instincts,

Had it suited Trickster, Elephants could have materialised from thin air, dragons would have flown through the town-hall doors and angels and demons might have danced, hand in hand, to the strains of ‘Come Landlord Fill the Flowing Bowl’.  All that, however, would have been too much, and given the game away completely, for Trickster was not called Trickster for no reason. The biggest illusion that he pulled off that evening was to convince the audience that he was charming, good-natured and a very, very ordinary young man.

For the last part of his act, The Great Erasmus invited a member of the audience on to the stage, promising that he or she would be placed in a hypnotic trance. A grinning Norbert Gannicox swaggered up, confident that he was incapable of being hypnotised.

“I promise that I am not going to make you look foolish,” said Erasmus. “Instead I will regress you, and together we will dredge up memories from your very earliest childhood.”

Some of the audience looked crestfallen. They had hoped that Norbert might have been hypnotised into believing that he was a ballerina, or something equally undignified, and be forced to break into a pirouette or plie whenever he heard the word ‘rhubarb’.

The Great Erasmus was as good as his word, and before long the sceptical Norbert was reliving the events of fifty years earlier. This was so convincing that his elderly mother, who was sitting in the front row, was reduced to tears.

The evening ended, as usual, with another blast of the strangulated Irish tenor singing ‘Molly Malone’, via the miracle of the Edison Bell phonograph, and all that remained was to pack up, and for the audience to go home to their beds.

The Great Erasmus was stowing his playing cards and silk scarves safely in his borrowed top-hat when Septimus Washwell, nudged forward by his wife Mirielle, wandered up to him and shyly said,

“Erasmus, I wonder if you can help me, please?  I seem to have lost a couple of weeks of my life. Do you think that you would be able to help me get them back?”

Septimus was referring, of course, to the time not long ago, when he had been a slave, spell-bound and drugged, and in thrall to Durosimi O’Stoat.

Trickster shivered with delight in his meat-suit. That had been even quicker than he had hoped.

“Of course I will,” he smiled. “It would be a pleasure.”