By Martin Pearson

Had Father Ignatius Stamage not been a ghost, he would have breathed a sigh of relief. As it was, he emitted an eerie groan that sent tingles down the spines of most of the wedding congregation.

“My sincere apologies,” said the phantom priest, seeing their reaction. “But that is my first wedding in a long, long time and I am only too relieved that it went almost without a hitch.”

“It was a lovely wedding, Father,” said Philomena, “and didn’t Septimus and Mirielle look like the perfect happy couple?”

Stamage nodded. Since he had agreed to officiate at the wedding, he had grown quite fond of Septimus and Mirielle. Because of his Jesuit credentials, they had jokingly referred to him as their ‘Holy Ghost’. Father Stamage was not sure whether he should approve of this; after all, it amounted to blasphemy. However, since his untimely death, nothing had turned out quite as Father Stamage had hoped or expected, so, in the scheme of things, it did not seem to matter anymore.

The ceremony, which had been held in the Town Hall, had gone well enough, although some of the guests would have preferred it if the non-living population of Hopeless had not been quite so well represented. Mirielle had insisted that the celebrant of their nuptials had to be a Catholic priest. It was inevitable, therefore, that Father Stamage, who was the only available candidate, alive or dead, should be present. However, the wraith of The White Lady, Lady Margaret D’Avening was not universally welcomed. A few eyebrows were raised when a stone block was carried from the flushing privy of The Squid and Teapot in order for her to attend. No one had ever seen her so excited; after all, the last wedding she had been to was her own, and that was in 1646. With her head tucked firmly beneath her arm, Lady Margaret cut an alarming figure, drifting as she did through the trestle-tables and knots of wedding guests.

The Little Drummer Boy, who had invited himself, marched up and down, thankfully outside the Town Hall, rat-a-tat-tatting for all he was worth, and the maiden-ladies of the Mild Hunt dropped by, with their yappy spaniels and flatulent mules. The only ghost who made an effort to be unobtrusive was Granny Bucket, who lurked in the shadows, quietly disapproving of the antics of the dead and undead alike.

“What is Reggie Upton looking so worried about?” she asked Philomena, her long-suffering granddaughter. “He looks as though he’s lost a shilling and picked up a penny.”

“He is concerned that something awful is going to happen when Septimus reaches his twenty-first birthday, in a few days’ time,” said Philomena. “It is about him being a seventh son, or something.”

It was true. Reggie was convinced that Septimus was going to unconsciously unleash an awful revenge upon everyone who had ever upset him, when the full power of the Seventh Son was released on his birthday. During the previous few days Reggie had been wandering around the island, or flâneuring, as he preferred to call it, surreptitiously making enquiries into Septimus’ past, and enemies he may have gathered along the way.

“The lad is a walking war-zone,” he had confided to Bartholomew Middlestreet. “I don’t think that there is a family on the island with whom he has not had some grudge. Especially the Chevins! And then there was that Rimsky-Korsakov incident with his brother, Egbert.”

“Rimsky-Korsakov? What was that about?” asked Bartholomew, puzzled.

“It was the classical concert night, and Septimus was in charge of introducing the music being played on the phonograph,” explained Reggie. “Egbert was doing his damnedest to make Septimus embarrass himself by trying to make him say ‘Rips His Corset Off’.”

Bartholomew grinned.

“That’s brothers for you,” he said.

“Indeed,” agreed Reggie, “but this particular brother is like a time-bomb waiting to go off. I won’t lie to you, Bartholomew, I am worried.”

Granny Bucket made herself invisible, and drifted through the ranks of wedding guests, to where Mabel and Seth Washwell were sitting, surrounded by their family. The Washwells had been blessed with a set of male twins, followed by four more boys, before Septimus had been born. The reluctance of each son to settle down and raise a family had been a source of bafflement and concern to both of their parents.

“Look how happy your brother looks with his new wife,” said Mabel, to any of the young Washwells who would listen. “There are plenty of nice girls on this island to choose from.”

This last statement might not have been strictly true, but, Mabel reasoned to herself, there were still three Moulin Rouge dancers available.

Suddenly, a cold chill ran down Mabel’s back.

“Oh, someone just walked on my grave,” she said with a shudder.

“No they didn’t,” thought Granny. “It was just me, poking around.”

“Reggie, you look as though you have seen a ghost.”

“I have seen several today, Granny, your good-self included, and not one of those disturbs me in the least. However, I must confess, I am a worried man.”

Ever since his army career in India, when he had enjoyed a brief flirtation with the Theosophist, Annie Besant, the supernatural had become almost commonplace for Reggie. Upon arriving unexpectedly on the island some months earlier, the man previously known as Brigadier Reginald Fitzhugh Hawkesbury-Upton had taken the ghosts and strange creatures of Hopeless in his stride. In fact, he had become quite friendly with Granny Bucket, Father Stamage and Lady Margaret, with whom he shared a common ancestor.

Granny, who by now was only slightly transparent, gave the old soldier a reassuring smile.

“Reggie, my lad, are you still fretting about this seventh son business with Septimus?”

“Philomena told you? Yes, it is a matter of grave concern.”

“It need not be,” said Granny. “Look at them Washwell twins. What do you see?”

“Perfectly ordinary lads, nothing of consequence,” said Reggie, wondering where this conversation was going.

“Look at their earlobes.”

“What?” Reggie was confused. “Their earlobes? They look like perfectly good earlobes to me.”

“Look at Mabel and Seth’s earlobes. Have a good look, go on.”

“Granny, it’s rude to stare… oh, by Jove, I see what you mean. Is that significant?”

“It most certainly is,” said Granny with a self-satisfied grin. “Those twins have got attached earlobes and the rest of the family haven’t. Between you and me, I feel almost certain that they were not fathered by Seth. I doubt that he knows, and quite possibly, neither does Mabel either. If I was a betting woman, which I used to be when I was alive, I would wager that those two lads were thought to be born a few weeks prematurely. Just early enough to make everyone feel happy that they were little Washwells.”

“Which means that Septimus is not Seth’s seventh son,” said Reggie, relief in his voice.

“It is most unlikely,” said Granny. “To be honest, it would not have been too much of a scandal, this being Hopeless, but I reckon it’s best that only you and I know about it.”

“Absolutely!” exclaimed Reggie. “A secret scandal. Who would have guessed?”

“Only someone very, very clever,” said Granny smugly.