By Martin Pearson

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.