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Nobody knew how many type three ghosts inhabited London, not even Marissa Fittes. For that matter, the Type Threes themselves didn’t even know for sure. At least four, of that much they were sure.
The first to arrive was Lord Bradley, Duke of Suffolk. He was a tall, thin man who had died in a duel with his neighbour the Earl of Norwich. The duel had concerned a spat over the ownership of a plot of land and also a particularly fine sandwich. Lord Bradley claimed to be driven entirely by a thirst for vengeance, though given the jubilant way in which he always said this and the fact that his erstwhile enemy had been dead over a hundred years, nobody quite believed him.
Second was Mr. Murdoch, who appeared grumbling about the fact that he still wore glasses, even in the afterlife. He had died after experimenting on a steam powered horse of his own design. He liked to joke that the only reason he clung so tenaciously to the land of the living was his determination to see what incredible inventions humanity came up with next.
Third was Mrs. Stoughton, a small, round lady with somewhat wild hair and a sweet disposition that could turn to cheese-curdling ferocity at the drop of a hat. She was accompanied by five or so ghost felines and claimed that she needed to stick around in order to feed them all, the poor dears.
They assembled in their usual place at Speaker’s Corner in Hyde Park, in the hazy realm between the land of the living and wherever the dead were supposed to go if they didn’t hang around.
“The boy is late,” observed Lord Bradley.
“We’re all late,” said Mr. Murdoch with a snigger.
“Yes, but the boy is tardy,” Lord Bradley said with the air of one who had very best breeding and only ever notices when others are tardy, but never when they themselves are.
“He’s a dear boy, though, isn’t he? We mustn’t be too hard on him,” said Mrs. Stoughton, petting the head of Skimbleshanks, a long, tatty-eared tabby.
Mr. Murdoch eyed the cat, once again trying to discern if it was its own apparition or if it was actually a part of its dearly almost-departed owner.
They lapsed into silence for a time that might have been an hour or a fortnight, who was to say, really. In fact they didn’t speak at all until the boy in question appeared, his dark hair sticking up every which way, his trousers fraying at the bottoms over his bare feet.
“Ah, jolly good!” declared Lord Bradley. “We are finally all assembled.”
“Remind me again why we do this?” the boy asked sullenly, plopping himself down to sprawl indolently on the ground.
“Tradition,” said the Duke.
“An exchange of information and ideas,” said Mr. Murdoch.
“It’s lovely to see you again, dearie,” said Mrs. Stoughton. “Do tell us how you're getting on with that sweet lass of yours, won’t you? There’s a good lad.”
The boy sighed. “Well, a bit’s happened,” he admitted. “We’re back in that big house in Marylebone with the arrogant one and the annoying one.”
“Sorry, I’ve forgotten, which is which?” asked Mr. Murdoch.
“Doesn’t matter,” said the boy, his head rolling back to look up at the blank, black sky.
“So what does that mean for you?” asked Lord Bradley. “Are they shoving you in the oven again?”
Mrs. Stoughton tsked at the mention of such an improper use of an oven. Her thoughts on the matter were well known by all present.
“No, no. They’re still a bunch of bell ends, but I’ve at least negotiated better treatment. They are slowly learning to treat me with the respect that is my due. Very slowly.”
“Well, that sounds delightful,” said Mrs. Stoughton. “And have you told the girl how you feel about her?”
“How I feel? You mean that I want out of my thrice damned jar so I can experience death hood as it’s meant to be? Free from shackles and constraints?”
“Yes dearie.”
“No.”
“Well, as Tibbles would say, there’s always next year.”
The other three looked side-eyed at Tibbles, a black and white cat with glowing green eyes who was sitting with a regal air, his tail wrapped around his delicate paws.
“Erm, yes…” said Mr. Murdoch, “About that…”
“Oh, before I go, I did have one bit of news,” said the boy.
“What’s that then?” asked Lord Bradley.
“I bumped into Marissa Fittes. You know, the shining woman we keep seeing around on this side of things?”
“Oh?”
“She’s got a new body on the other side.”
“Has she? Well, well done her,” said Lord Bradley, sounding impressed.
“Does it seem to be working correctly?” asked the always shrewd Mr. Murdoch.
“Invite her to join us the next time you see her, won’t you, dearie?” said Mrs. Stoughton, absently scratching the ears of two cats at once.
“Er… sure thing,” said the boy. He leapt up and dusted imaginary dust from his trousers, causing the mist to eddy and swirl around him. “Well, I must be off.”
“Ta,” said Lord Bradley.
“Good bye,” said Mr. Murdoch.
“Don’t be a stranger, dearie. And do tell your little friends to stop by when they finally kick the bucket!”
The boy laughed, shaking his head, then with a jaunty wave, he walked off into the mists.
“He’s a good lad,” said Mrs. Stoughton.
The other two nodded in agreement, then sat in silence for a long, long time.