MRS Wynn, the housekeeper, laid the post on the table beside the breakfast things.

"I'll be going into Newcastle this morning, Vicar. Got some shopping to do and I've got to visit my sister Peggy. She's in bed with 'flu."

"Thank you, Mrs Wynn. Take the rest of the day off if you like. I've only a meeting this evening, of the Parish Council. They want me to talk to them about how the old and the sick are coping with the coal shortage."

I ate breakfast, reading the post as usual, and came across a letter from the Revd. Peter Benson, an old friend from the army who was now vicar of Whittonshaw, not far from the Roman Wall in Northumberland.

"My dear Hall," he began, "I need some advice about a problem. I do not profess to know anything about such things and, quite frankly, I would appreciate your help. I admit I professed scepticism when we spoke about this during a lull in the fighting in Italy, but I confess I do not know what to think now. Perhaps you could come round and see me.

Yours ever,

Peter Benson."

I read and re-read the letter. It did not make sense. Peter Benson was one of the most stable and lucid men I ever knew, yet this garbled message read as though it had been dashed off in a moment of carelessness.

My curiosity was aroused and I decided to telephone Benson. The number gave only the out-of-order signal. Irritated, I dialled again. Again, Benson's number was out of order. I dialled the operator.

"Could you get me Whittonshaw 436, please?"

I could hear the clicking and whirring as she tried to make the connection. I also heard the out-of-order signal.

"I'm sorry," said the operator, "I'll have to ring the engineers. Perhaps you'd like to try again in an hour or so."

"I see. Thank you, I'll do that. Goodbye."

The bright November sunlight streamed through the stained glass inner hall door of my old vicarage. The smell of age mingled with the ubiquitous gentle air of town gas, something which, thankfully, we no longer need suffer. The old grandfather clock tocked slowly and heavily, and Meg, the jet-black cat which Mrs Wynn had adopted, rubbed her head against my trouser leg and purred.

Mrs Wynn took our ration books and went to catch the train into town. I sat in the study, musing over Benson's letter. I took it out of the envelope and read it again.

An hour crawled by. The fire stopped winking on the brass fire-dogs and shrank into a low red glow. I managed, with difficulty, to suppress my mounting impatience and excitement for another thirty minutes before ringing Benson's number again.

At exactly ten minutes before eleven I went to the hall and dialled. The number was still out of order.

I took the telephone directory and dialled the Roman Catholic church in Whittonshaw. That number too was out of order. I selected at random three other Whittonshaw numbers. All answered normally.

By now I was consumed with curiosity and determined to go immediately to Whittonshaw, a distance of some thirty-eight miles by road, though just over half that as the crow flies. With luck I should be there in an hour and a half.

I had no other engagements that day, so I collected my pipe and tobacco, closed the front door behind me, and put the key under the flower pot.

In the drive stood my pride and joy, a 1934 maroon Y type Ford 8, and a four door model at that!

It was an uncomfortable journey by the standards of today. The car I have now in 1979 is a Japanese model with heater, radio and clock fitted as standard. I do not have to garage it on blocks for the winter, nor need I drain the radiator in case it freezes on cold nights. But then - oh then - we motorists were a hardy breed. No heater warmed us, no radio warned us of traffic delays - not that there were many outside the big cities - and punctures were much more common than they are now.

The roads were narrow and winding, the car had but two cross-leaf springs, and no indicators - or trafficators as we called them - so that every signal was made by hand. Nor were the byroads gritted, so one could seldom reach even thirty miles per hour on a crisp sunny November morning. The hoar frost still clung tenaciously to the bushes, and the whiteness of the roads gave but slowly to the welcome black of wet, frost-free tarmacadam. But it was a glorious morning and I could not help but be uplifted by the dazzling beauty of it all.

Riding Mill and Corbridge were quiet, though it was about lunchtime when I passed through them. Stagshaw Bank, thankfully, had been gritted, though the old Ford needed bottom gear to reach the top. Apart from the great alien radio mast reminding one of the present difficult age, it was almost possible to imagine oneself as a Roman traveller, for not another soul did I see on those quiet roads.

Just south of Hadrian's Wall itself, I turned left where a signpost said "Whittonshaw 2¾ miles", and, selecting second gear, I descended the hill. It was mercifully clear of frost, having basked all morning in the bright if weak sunlight. The hill is long and winding for over a mile, until it levels out quite suddenly on the valley bottom through which runs the Whitton Burn, a burbling brook which is nowhere more than about six feet across.

The village of Whittonshaw was a typical Northumbrian farming village - stark grey buildings softened with the subtle mellowness of lichen, dark leafiness of ivy, and the first brave yellow flowers of winter jasmine, totally lacking the showy opulence of the climbing roses of summer, but all the more welcome at this tim

e of year. Now there is a rash of council houses on the outskirts, and a few "executive" homes, ugly and incongruous in their urban style with their picture windows and flat garage roofs. At that time there were only about sixty houses, mostly cottages in neat rows, nestling beneath the knitted brows of Whitton Crag, an outcrop of rock which dominates the north side of the village. At one time there had been four times the population, but an outbreak of smallpox in 1671 had decimated the inhabitants and in more recent times the drift into the towns had chipped away at the foundations of village life. Nevertheless, there were two churches - an ancient Anglican church, the size of which bore testimony to the previous prosperity of the area, and a more recent Roman Catholic one, built to cope with the religious needs of the district's traditionally large Roman population.

A market cross marked the centre of the village, although even in 1946 no-one could remember a market being held. Close by stood the only inn, The Weavers, again bearing testimony to a long-forgotten, more illustrious past. Apart from the churches with their appropriate priestly houses, and farmhouses at the east and west ends of the village, the only building of note at that time was a fine double-fronted Victorian residence standing in its own well-kept grounds. In 1946 it was the home of Dr Wainwright who had practised in the area for over twenty years. Past the garden gate, and through the centre of the village, ran the Whitton Burn, one of the finest trout streams in South Northumberland.

The gravel crunched beneath the tyres of the Ford as I turned off the road in the west end of the village and entered the vicarage drive. It was too overgrown with laurel and juniper for my liking. I parked beside a black, mud-stained Vauxhall Twelve of just pre-war vintage, which stood beside a trim brown-painted greenhouse to the side of the vicarage. As I got out, the front door of the house opened and Benson himself, jacketless and wearing carpet slippers, rushed down the steps to meet me.

"My dear chap!" he called. "What a surprise! What a surprise!

Before I could answer, he slapped me on the back and went on: "I never expected you so soon. My dear Hall, this is absolutely splendid!"

"I got your letter this morning," I managed to interject. "I tried to telephone, but -"

"My dear chap," he interrupted, propelling me through the door, "you must have some lunch. Margaret, make that two portions of shepherd's pie - two large portions. We have a visitor. Come out and meet him."

An attractive dark-haired woman of about thirty came out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a starched white apron.

"James Newton-Hall, my dear. James, this is Margaret, my wife. Margaret, James is an old friend from the Italian campaign."

She smiled, and her eyes shone with the joy of living. She was a beautiful person and for a moment, no more, I saw another face, one I had loved and cherished, but I banished it quickly from my mind.

"Welcome, James," she beamed. "I've heard so much about you, but I really must get on with lunch. I hope you can wait half an hour. It's steak and kidney, by the way, not shepherd's. Peter, take James into the study for a sherry."

We entered the study and pulled up comfortable red leather armchairs close to the welcoming log fire, burning in a black-leaded and beautifully tiled fireplace. Benson poured out two glasses of dry sherry and placed them carefully on the small, round mahogany wine table. For the first time his expression revealed something of his troubled mind.

"I tried to telephone," I began, "but could only get the out-of-order signal."

"Yes, I know. The wire's broken just under the hall window. Strange."

"Look, Peter, what is going on? Why the letter and what does it mean?"

"James," he said, looking me wretchedly in the eye, "I hardly know where to begin. I've been thinking of everything I have to tell you, but there's so much of it."

"Start slowly and calmly from the beginning. Leave nothing out. I have all afternoon."

"Very well."

He took the meerschaum pipe from the rack on the mantelpiece and began to fill it.

"Two or three days before the end of August, I'm not sure exactly when, the gravedigger found some disturbance round a new grave in the churchyard. At first we thought it was probably an animal, a pony or a goat or something, which had wandered in as they often do. Then, on the morning of the second of September, the wooden cross marking the grave while the family were having a marble one made, was found torn out of the ground and broken."

He paused to light his pipe, but I said nothing, anxious not to disturb his train of thought. As I sipped my sherry the blue smoke wreathed the hearth and my friend went on.

"Well, on September the fourth, and again I'm sure about the date, the verger, Mr Rawlinson, went to visit his sister in Sunderland. I made the rounds of the church, as I've done every day since, incidentally, because his sister is still extremely ill and he is still staying with her. I noticed another cross, this time on another grave, a much older one, had been broken clean off. The same happened on the sixth, a Friday, even though the policeman from Acomb, P. C. Kilner, was keeping a sharp lookout. Again, the grave was an old one. Then the desecration stopped, so I thought that whoever it was must have had enough, or moved on, or something."

"But you were wrong?" I said, taking another sip of sherry.

"Yes. On the eighteenth of September a shepherd, Joseph Harbottle, was reported missing by his employer, Mr Langhorne of Roughsyke. Another man had found his dog wandering aimlessly. It ran off when approached. The poor animal seemed to have gone wild and although it was followed on a number of occasions over the next few days, it always ran away. After a while, no-one saw it again."

"And the shepherd?"

"Yes. I was coming to that. Joseph Harbottle was found two days after he had been reported missing. He was sitting bolt upright on a rock above Whitton Burn about two miles from here. He was alive, but soaking wet and cold. Yet he didn't seem to feel a thing."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, he didn't seem to see or feel anything, and Dr Wainwright, who lives at Burn House just up the road - well, Dr Wainwright said he was suffering from exposure."

"Where is he now?"

"Dead. He died two days later. Again, I can give you the exact date, September the twenty-second. A Sunday."

"What did he die of? Pneumonia?"

"That's just it, James. We just don't know!"

"But surely the doctor had to put something on the death certificate?"

"Oh yes. Dr Wainwright was convinced it must have been exposure. But, James, although Harbottle was a big man, by the end he was a living skeleton. And his eyes!" He shuddered. "They were dead already!"

"Didn't he eat or drink?" I asked. Immediately, I regretted such a useless question, for nobody could lose as much weight as that in such a short time, even if he did not eat.

"Not a drop, not a morsel."

"I see. I'd like a talk with Dr Wainwright some time, Peter."

"I'm sure he'd welcome it, James."

At that moment lunch was announced.

Benson's rectory was a large and rambling building, dating in part from the seventeenth century, with Georgian outbuildings and Victorian extensions.

"It's a delightful old hotchpotch of a place," said Margaret. "We love it, but it's dreadfully cold in winter. That's why we eat in this back room, she went on, throwing open a door.

"On a day like this," said Benson, "it's hard to believe that anything untoward could happen here."

"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio," I offered.

At that we burst out laughing and Margaret brought in a splendid steak and kidney pie as we seated ourselves at the table which stood in a large bay window.

"Oh look!" she said. "There's the hunt crossing the fields. Aren't they splendid?"

They were indeed a glorious sight in their red coats as they streamed across open pasture two fields away, the hounds leading in a loose pack, the riders bouncing along behind.

"Go on, Reynard!" said Benson, laughing as he helped me to a sumptuous array of vegetables.

"Doesn't rationing affect you much in these parts?" I queried.

"We're always careful, of course," said Margaret, "but we do have our own kitchen garden and whoever heard of farming folk going hungry?"

"After all," said her husband, glancing out of the window at the disappearing hunt, "they do well for themselves. No stresses or strains of modern town living there, James. It's the life to live, all right."

Beside the table was a small pram, in which there was a stirring. Margaret looked into it.

"He's just dreaming. He's sound asleep."

"That's the life," I said, though my hearty tone was a little forced. They noticed, and for a moment there was an embarrassed silence.

After lunch I decided that I would have to be getting back to my own parish, for a Parochial Church Council meeting was an important event and, in those days of austerity, I was keen to discuss ways of helping the less fortunate in our area. I did not want to upset my friend by appearing uninterested, however, so I resolved to return, for I wished to discuss the recent events with Dr Wainwright.

"Of course you must go back, James," said Benson, "and I'll organise a get together with the doctor. Perhaps we'll have dinner and you can stay the night."

"Or even a weekend," offered Margaret, "and we could invite Father Manston."

"It would be best to resist the temptation," I smiled.

"You'll like our Catholic colleague, James," continued Benson. "The life and soul of the party, and a very knowledgeable man."

He broke off to answer the telephone.

"Excellent!" he beamed after replacing the receiver. "It's back on. And so is Father Manston's."

I watched the little khaki Morris Eight van belonging to the telephone engineer as it crunched out of the vicarage drive and set off toward Newcastle.

"I'll be back later this evening, I expect," I said to Benson, checking the time on the big wall clock in the hallway. It was three minutes past two.

Halfway up the bank out of Whittonshaw was a hairpin bend, the little Ford crawling towards it in the lowest of her three gears. Rounding the bend, I saw the Post Office engineer's van parked at the roadside. I stopped in front of it.

The back doors of the van were wide open, the offside rear tyre was completely flat, and beside it lay a wheelbrace and jack. There was no sign of the driver, although I walked a little way up the road. No-one was on the steep hillside above and below the road. Only the almost bare deciduous woods made any sound as the dry leaves chattered their November death rattle. No birds sang, no sheep bleated, no cattle lowed.

I called but heard only a faint echo and the distant burbling of a curlew away across the valley. The silence was oppressive and eerie. Panic terror took hold of me. I ran to my car and sped back to the village, pulling up in the vicarage drive as Benson was about to get into his car.

"James! What the dickens! Are you ill, man? You're as white as a sheet."

I waved him away.

"No, I'm all right, Peter. Just a little shaken."

"But what's happened?"

I told him about the Post Office engineer's van.

"Well?" said Benson, puzzled.

"There was no sign of him, Peter. No sign at all."

I awoke. The afternoon light was fading rapidly and the sky was filled with low, threatening rain clouds. The bedside clock said ten past four. I felt drowsy and my mouth was dry. There was a fire in the grate and I lay in a pleasant trance.

Margaret Benson entered carrying a tea tray.

"Had a nice sleep?"

My mouth was almost too dry to speak.

"Why am I here?"

"You came back this afternoon. The driver of the telephone van. Don't you remember? He's missing. Men are out looking for him, and Peter is with them."

I thought I had dreamed the whole incident, but I was so tired.

"I can hardly keep my eyes open."

"Dr Wainwright gave you a sedative. You were in a pretty severe state of shock."

She poured us both a cup of tea and sat down. After that, I must have gone back to sleep until the next morning.

After breakfast, Benson and I sat in his study by the fire.

"Dr Wainwright says he's very weak, James. He's arranged for him to go to hospital in Newcastle. Mr Cohen will keep an eye on him. He's a good friend as well as a specialist."

The engineer had been found sitting by the Whitton Burn, just as Joseph Harbottle had been. I was still light-headed, but more in control of myself, until suddenly I remembered something.

"Good heavens, Peter! The P.C.C. meeting! I missed it, and nobody will know why."

Benson put his hand on my shoulder.

"Calm down, old man. I 'phoned your curate and told him you weren't feeling well. He said he'd take care of things and emphasised that you weren't to think of going back until you felt up to it. If you ask me, I think he rather relishes being in charge."

"He's a very capable young man," I agreed. "But I can't stay here forever. I have no clean clothes and my ration book's at home."

"Don't give it another thought, my dear fellow. There's plenty of spare linen, plenty of clean shirts, and as Margaret said, have you ever known a farming community go hungry?"

That afternoon we heard that the telephone engineer had died. Dr Wainwright invited us round for dinner. It turned out that the hospital in Hexham had called in the specialist, Mr Cohen, to determine the cause of death. He was also a dinner guest. He was a small, active man with twinkling eyes and a dry wit.

Dr Wainwright discussed the post mortem with Mr Cohen.

"The pathologist called me in," explained the specialist to us, "because he was unable to come to any definite conclusion of the cause of death. I was unable to help. We cannot say what killed this man."

No one spoke. The grandmother clock ticked steadily and the green velvet curtains drawn over the French windows stirred slightly in the draught.

"May I make a contribution?" I began. "Although this will not be from any medical or scientific position, you understand. There are stories of similar occurrences as from places as far apart as Russia and the West Indies. The people there provided an answer. They blamed black magic."

A smile passed among the others. Wainwright's daughter brought us a tray of coffee and I waited until she had left.

"I agree it is a great deal to swallow, but I should be interested to hear the medical theories."

We left the table and sat at ease. I was in a slightly shabby green leather winged armchair.

"Well," began Dr Wainwright, "it's as if a gigantic vacuum cleaner had somehow sucked the life out of these men and left only a shell which lingered on for a few days."

"Like a shrivelled wasp skin?" said Benson.

"The problem seems to be a sudden and massive loss of weight and energy quite unheard of in medical experience," said the specialist.

"Joseph Harbottle was like a zombie," added Wainwright.

I smiled.

"Surely you don't believe in that sort of thing, doctor?"

"Touché, reverend. But let's face the fact that this is no laughing matter," he concluded, becoming serious again.

"No, it certainly is not," I mused. "Now, let's take stock of the situation. We have two mysterious deaths and two desecrated graves. Benson, have you noticed anything mysterious about Joseph Harbottle's grave?"

"Nothing," said Benson.

"What are you going to do with the engineer's body?" I asked of Mr Cohen.

"I don't know," he confessed. "The coroner won't release the body for burial until a cause of death has been established and a certificate signed."

We sat in silence. It was Dr Wainwright who broke it.

"What say we meet here a week tonight and discuss the situation?"

Mr Cohen started.

"Good lord! A week? Do you think it will take as long as that?"

"I would expect, gentlemen," I said, "that the business would take a good deal longer."

The party broke up when our medical friends left about ten. Benson and I smoked a pipe each, still a respectable thing to do in those days. We sat and stared at the glowing fire. There must be a perfectly valid medical explanation of the deaths. Something would surely be found.

For the umpteenth time I went over the story in my mind. When I got to the verger who had been missing since September 4th, more than two months ago, things seemed to come to an abrupt end.

"Benson," I said, "where does Rawlinson live?"

My friend blinked at me like an owl.

"In the stone cottage with the white door, almost opposite the churchyard gate," he answered, looking at me curiously.

"Have you had any communication from him?"

"I haven't, now that you mention it. Do you think that's important?"

"I don't know, Peter, but I think he ought to have contacted you before now. Can we look round his cottage?"

"There's a key in my study. But James, it's almost half past ten."

"Never mind," I snapped, knocking out my pipe on the blackleaded fireplace. "Come on!"

It was one of those old cottages where one steps straight from the street into the front room. Benson switched on the electric light, still an innovation in this particular village. The room was tidy and had that musty smell of Victoriana. Above the fireplace the Monarch of the Glen bayed at the silver moon, on the high mantelpiece two glass cases contained a stuffed raven and magpie, and beside the mahogany wireless set on the wide window sill stood a huge china parrot. The floor was stone, covered with worn mats, all home-made.

"Well, James," said Benson as I closed the front door and pulled the heavy gold curtain over it. "What now?"

"We search every nook and cranny until we find something."

"What?"

"I don't know, but we must ensure that nothing here connects your verger with anything suspicious, or - well, I don't know what we might find."

Benson took off his jacket and, removing the expandable armlets he always wore, rolled up his shirtsleeves. We searched the room and found nothing. It was the same in the kitchen, outhouse and outside lavatory.

"What on earth do you expect us to find in the outside lavatory, James?"

"I don't know, Peter. I don't know what we're looking for, but I don't intend to leave this place unsearched."

Upstairs was an unmade bed in the tiny box room. The bedroom was locked and we had no key.

"I'm beginning to feel uncomfortable," said Benson.

"You're right," I said, mopping my brow. "It's warm work for a cold November night. Has the house suddenly grown warmer?"

"I don't like it," said Benson. He was visibly perspiring, even in his shirtsleeves. "What shall we do?"

"We could force the bedroom door."

Benson was aghast.

"James, we can't! We can't just barge into someone's home and break down locked doors with no good grounds for doing so. Unless you think - you think he might be in there."

"No, I don't think he is, Peter. We've made so much noise he would have at least called out."

"You don't think he's - dead, behind that door?"

For a moment I paused.

"No. No, the house would smell of death. Let's go and get a good night's sleep. Tomorrow we'll think more clearly."

"Good. This house is really oppressive. I've been here so many times without noticing how stuffy it is."

We descended the steep, narrow stairs and Benson picked up his jacket, took his armlets from the pocket and began to put them on. Then he stopped and stared at something on the wall.

There was a letter rack with a letter and two seaside postcards. Above it was an old-fashioned perpetual calendar in a wooden frame. The date read September 8th, four days after Rawlinson left to see his sister.

"How careful was Mr Rawlinson?" I asked.

Benson nodded. He knew what I had been thinking.

"It must be a mistake. Normally he's very careful - meticulous about small details like that, as you can see by looking about."

I had already noticed how tidily the room was kept. I glanced at the two postcards, then, ignoring Benson's scandalised expression, quickly read the letter. It was from Rawlinson's sister, dated Sunderland August 16th. In it she mentioned that, far from feeling ill, she had never felt better. I memorised her address, replaced the letter, and we left.

I spoke to my curate by telephone next morning, telling him to hold the fort for a while longer. As Mrs Moore in Sunderland had no telephone, I decided to drive there. Once again it was a fine day and, to be honest, I felt a little claustrophobic in the somewhat depressing atmosphere of Whittonshaw.

The weather was milder and there was no ice, although the roads were wet. I made good time into Gateshead and onto the Sunderland road. I crossed the Wear by the bridge which has its counterpart over the Tyne. I headed for the post office in a district called Sunniside, although no sun was to be seen that day.

The post office directed me south to Grangetown, on the southern extremity of the town. After carelessly getting the car tyres stuck in the tramlines, a driving hazard of those days, I was directed to a neat row of single storey terraced cottages of a type very common in Sunderland.

A cheery, grey-haired lady of about sixty answered my knock at number 144. She invited me inside and gave me a cup of tea. My "cover story" was that I had business in Sunderland. My friend Benson had asked me to call.

"How nice," smiled Mrs Moore. "My brother Arthur is verger for Mr Benson."

"Oh, really?"

"How is he, by the way? Did Mr Benson say?"

"I don't know," I replied. "Has he been ill?"

"I wouldn't know, Vicar," said Mrs Moore. "He keeps himself to himself, you know. Always did. Why, I haven't had a line from him for at least two months, much less seen him."

That was all I needed to hear, but it was another quarter of an hour before I could politely leave, and not before a refill and a couple of excellent home made scones.

"My regards to Mr Benson," said Mrs Moore as I got into my car. "And ask him to make that idle brother of mine write."

Round the corner was a telephone box. There was no dial, and the operator took an age to connect me to Whittonshaw.

"Benson," I said, "take Dr Wainwright and go to Rawlinson's house. Search that bedroom. The Lord alone knows what you'll find. Mrs Moore hasn't heard from her brother for months."

My mind was so much in turmoil that I remember very little of the journey back to Whittonshaw, but I arrived at about three o'clock. Margaret offered me tea, but I could not wait to hear what had been found in Rawlinson's house.

"Come over to the cottage," said Benson, "although I warn you, you will probably be disappointed."

Dr Wainwright was reading a book in Rawlinson's bedroom when we arrived.

"Afternoon, James. Are you better now?"

"Perfectly, thanks. What have you found?"

"Well, our friend seems to have some pretty rum ideas if you ask me. Can't say I approve of his reading matter. Witchcraft, ghosts and the like. Lot of tommy-rot if you ask me."

I examined the bookcase next to the bed. It was full of books on the occult and witchcraft. Some surprisingly old editions, I imagine, must have been quite valuable, but there seemed to be nothing that could not have been found in a good second-hand bookshop. The room was quite bare apart from a washstand with bowl and jug, a small mirror, a fireplace, and "oilcloth" on the floor. The chest of drawers was empty. I looked at my silent companions.

"I'm sorry, gentlemen. This would seem to be a wild goose chase."

"Afraid so," said the doctor. "All the same, James, I wish we had found something. Good Lord, man! You almost had me believing that mumbo-jumbo stuff."

I was very unhappy with the situation.

"But," I mused, "why did Rawlinson lie about his sister and where in heaven's name has he been for the last two months?"

"His business, I suppose," offered Wainwright.

I smiled.

"I suppose so. Well, I'm starving, and I could have sworn, Peter, that I smelled rabbit pie cooking when I came in."

"Before you satisfy your hunger," said the doctor in mock seriousness, "You'd better fix that bedroom door, James, since it was you who told us to break it down."

"I'll see to it tomorrow," I promised. We laughed, shut the door and went downstairs.

I did not sleep well that night. At first I lay awake, going over and over the whole business in my mind. Then I dozed fitfully, dreaming of witches and post office vans and hideous, ghoulish, laughing faces. Finally I decided to calm my nerves by smoking a pipe of tobacco. I looked at the luminous dial of my alarm clock, which read 4.10 a.m., got out of bed and immediately regretted it, because the air and the linoleum were freezing. I stood on the rug, and then it came to me. The rug! The rug! There was a rug in Rawlinson's bedroom! It might mean nothing, of course, but an idea had formed in my mind.

Shivering in the cold, dark room, I dressed quickly and went downstairs. Then I remembered that Benson had the key to Rawlinson's cottage. I would have to wait until he was awake. Because he had to take early communion on Wednesday, he would be up at six, but that was two hours away. I returned to bed and, as often happens, in trying to stay awake I fell into a heavy slumber.

The alarm clock started me into life at seven. Outside it was dark, but I could smell the mouth-watering aroma of frying bacon. I dressed for the second time that morning and fairly ran downstairs.

In the kitchen Benson was munching hot buttered toast.

"Morning, James. There was no need to get up so early. But since you're up, have some breakfast."

"When I come back from Rawlinson's. Have you the key, Peter?"

Benson was taken aback.

"James, what on earth?"

"Listen, Peter, it may be nothing, but I forgot something yesterday. It could prove once and for all that something evil is going on here. Give me the key, please. I must check this now."

"Shall I come with you?"

"Have you time?"

"Just, if we go now."

Everything in the cottage was as we'd left it. The morning was still dark, although dawn had broken, but we needed the bedroom light.

"What are we looking for?" asked Benson.

"We're going to lift the bedside rug, Peter."

As Benson wondered at my sanity, I moved the rug aside and gave a shout of triumph.

"There it is, Peter!"

"Good Lord! What is that?"

"A magic circle, very carefully painted. I had the idea this morning that there might be one hidden somewhere. Friend Rawlinson is a magician."

"Good Lord!" said Benson, staring. "I say, James! The painted area is a trapdoor. See the rings set in either side?"

"Let's pull this and see if we get a prize," I replied.

"Only a book," said Benson in a disappointed tone as we raised the trap.

"Ancient, but not dusty," I said, picking it up. "This has been handled fairly recently, I would say. Peter, let's go to Holy Communion. I shall pray for strength. Afterwards I shall be in your study, and I shall be grateful if you will join me."

It was a book of spells, printed in 1767 as a reprint of a much older work, probably seventeenth century. There was nothing unusual about it, except the sheet of modern writing paper folded carefully inside the front cover. It was in Rawlinson's handwriting.

"B. P. - N. E. C. 100 due East. Stop. Hawthorn leaning R - 45 deg. C 3 ft. G. Preston."

"B. P.," mused Benson. "Mmm. I suppose it could stand for Bishop's Pele. It's an old ruined pele tower about half a mile west of the village. There were more houses near it centuries ago. It was used for protection during the border raids. Yes, it could be Bishop's Pele."

"Well, that could be a starting point, I suppose. let's go there, anyway. Apart from 'N. E. C.', the directions are pretty clear, or can be worked out, I think. What do you make of 'G. Preston'?"

"There's an old woman, very old, in her nineties, I think. Ganny Preston, they call her. Lives up on Whincrag in an old shepherd's cottage. She's supposed to be a bit of a witch, but I confess I haven't met her. Father Manston will probably know. She's a Roman, of course."

"I was wondering if I'd get a visit," smiled the small, bald, ruddy-faced man of sixty as we were ushered into the study by his housekeeper.

"I'm sorry, Father Manston, but I didn't wish to disturb anyone unnecessarily."

He beamed, and his blue eyes sparkled impishly as he spoke with a soft southern Irish brogue.

"You'll be coming clean about the witchcraft, then?"

I was taken aback, and so was Benson.

"How on earth -"

Father Manston cut him short.

"Sure it's all over the district that someone's been putting curses on the Protestants. It's maybe strange to the likes of you, but I've been parish priest here for twenty-two years. Even though we have the atom bomb now, there's still a lot of ignorance in country areas."

He beckoned us to sit and settled himself by the fire, taking an old mahogany captain's chair.

"I want to come straight to the point, Father. I - that is, we - have evidence to suggest that something sinister may be going on."

He laughed out loud.

"Gentlemen, as I said, I have lived here twenty-two years. During that time I have heard all kinds of weird and wonderful tales about hauntings and black magic. I have even been cursed by the Devil in human form, who turned out to be an itinerant alcoholic knife grinder who had spent some years in a mental home. Not once has any of the mumbo-jumbo been substantiated."

I had heard that expression before in connection with the case.

"Nevertheless, Father, I'd like you to listen to our story and give us your opinion when we have brought it right up to date."

I told him everything that had happened without trying to prejudice him. He listened with a growing air of seriousness. When I finished there was a pause before he spoke.

"You say that old Mrs Preston might be able to shed some light on things?"

I showed him Rawlinson's mysterious notes.

"Very well, gentlemen, I'll see her after lunch if that will be all right."

"Splendid," I replied. "And we'll take a look at the Bishop's Pele."

"Why not have tea at the vicarage, Father?" suggested Benson. "I'm sure we could find something to tempt your palate."

The priest's face was like a beacon as his blue eyes shone.

"Delighted. I've never refused a free meal in my life, and your wife's are better than most."

Under normal circumstances the Bishop's Pele would not have been a forbidding place, but Benson and I felt a chill which was not altogether due to the late November fog. It was the sort of grey, sodden day that must have convinced the luckless Roman auxiliaries who manned Hadrian's Wall that this was indeed the end of the earth.

"N. E. C.," mused Benson. "N. E. C. What could that be?"

I looked around, aware of nothing save the drizzle and the mist closing in. I could not concentrate. There was something wrong. I heard Benson as though from a distance. I knew what he was saying, but could not take it in. A hand on my shoulder brought me out of my trance.

"North East Corner, James. I said it could mean North East corner."

I started.

"I'm sorry, Peter. I'm sorry, but I don't feel comfortable in this place."

"No? Do you know, James, I've been here a dozen times, but there's something different about it today. Something - I don't know, just something."

"Well, let's see if N. E. C. does mean north-east corner and get on with it."

We walked to what we reckoned would be the correct corner of the ruined pele.

"Now," said my friend, taking charge, "one hundred paces due east. Can't see any hawthorn, though. Come on, James," he added, tugging my arm. "Stop. Well, so far so good, eh? Hawthorn leaning right at forty-five degrees, perhaps?"

We looked around. There was no sign of any hawthorn, leaning or otherwise. It was not going to be as easy as it looked on paper. We walked all round the ruins and found no hawthorn in the vicinity.

Benson looked at the paper again.

"The only hawthorn visible from here would be in that short hedge in the dip down by the stream," he added, pointing.

We picked our way carefully down the heather-tangled slope, sliding on loose scree and stumbling several times. Apart from a couple of trees that Benson identified as elder, all the trees were hawthorn. They all leaned to our right. We were wrong somewhere, but where? Evening was closing in. It was wet and unpleasant. The place was depressing.

"Let's go home," I said. "We're doing no good here."

"I'm disappointed, James, and frustrated by all this," said Benson. "I really thought we would find something. The whole business is affecting me, I'm afraid."

We stumbled back to the road in silence. Darkness seemed to be overtaking us and we hurried the half mile to the nearest house. We passed through the village to the vicarage, where we found Father Manston munching buttered toast and drinking tea in the study.

"Yes, Mrs Preston was remarkably forthcoming. Do you realise she's ninety-one and insists on living alone? Remarkable, remarkable."

"Did she know anything about Rawlinson?" asked Benson with obvious impatience.

"She does know something, but she insists on telling only James here."

"Why?" I asked.

"Well, it appears that Mrs Preston's grandmother was of Romany stock and she had the 'gift', which Mrs Preston has inherited. She knows something of what they call the 'old religion' and what I call witchcraft. However, she insists that she's a good Catholic and I have never found her at fault."

"Can we pay her a visit in the morning?" I asked.

"I dare say so," smiled Father Manston. "In fact," he added with that impish twinkle in his steel-blue eyes, "I took the liberty of inviting the three of us for ten o'clock tomorrow morning. I don't want to miss any fun if there's going to be any, and I'm sure Peter doesn't."

"I should think not," smiled Benson. "Let's go in to tea."

The next day was Friday and I had been away from St Godric's for over a week. I found myself torn between a very definite duty to my parish, which I felt I was neglecting, and a conviction that my immediate work lay in trying to help rid this rural community of its fear. I really would have to go back on Saturday evening to spend a few days in the parish.

The next morning was bright but cold. The three of us travelled the two and a half miles to Mrs Preston's in Benson's Vauxhall Twelve. The scenery was beautiful and I was much taken by the flocks of seagulls which had moved to the small artificial lake lying but three hundred yards from Ganny Preston's front door.

A rough, unmetalled farm track led from the road to the house. Her grand-daughter Mary welcomed us and put on the kettle for a welcome cup of mid-morning tea. The old lady smiled, and I was much taken with her healthy looks. She looked not a day over seventy and was remarkably active for someone over ninety.

"Vicar," she smiled at me, "I only have to look at you to know you've got the gift."

"I'd like you to help us if you can, Mrs Preston," I replied.

"It will be about Mr Rawlinson, then?"

"Have you seen him recently?" I asked.

"No, I haven't seen him for weeks, but mind, before that he came up two or three times a week."

"What did he want?" asked Father Manston.

"Just interested in the old times at first. There's nothing wrong with that, is there? But after a bit he seemed to change and I knew that it was the darkness he wanted and not the light."

"What do you mean by that, Mrs Preston?" asked Benson.

"What happens to a lot of them when they're tempted," she smiled. "They get greedy and curious. Should never get curious, young man. You should be content to leave some things alone."

"What exactly was he interested in?" I pressed her.

"Oh, he wanted to know about spells. He knew a fair bit about them, mind, but only from books. Like a lot of people, he believed I was a witch."

She laughed heartily, and I could not help smiling as she continued.

"Aye, a witch," she chuckled. "Fancy, me dancing around with nothing on. I never was like that, but I've got the gift all right."

"Have you any idea what Mr Rawlinson did after you last saw him?" I asked, keeping to the point of our visit.

"No, Vicar. The last time I saw him he only stayed a few minutes. He seemed uneasy about something, then he went off over the hill. Said he'd have a walk round Braxton's Pond."

"Braxton's Pond?" interrupted Benson.

"Aye. The reservoy you passed on the way up. A man called Braxton built it years ago as a drinking place for his beast."

"Thank you, Mrs Preston." I stood up. "I hope you'll excuse us, but we haven't a moment to lose."

"Aye," smiled the old lady, "I know, Vicar. Once something comes to you, you've got to see it through. Is there anything you need?"

"I'd like to borrow a spade if you have one."

"There's one in the toolshed. Mary will get it for you. Mind, the ground's like bell metal."

"What did she mean by Braxton's beast?" I asked Benson as we tramped back to his car.

"Beast is the collective noun for animals," said Benson.

"I confess," laughed Father Manston, as Benson started his car, "I never thought of Braxton's Pond."

The car bumped slowly along the rough, stony track until Benson brought it to a halt in a turning circle overlooking the northern edge of the reservoir. Braxton's Pond was a rectangle about a hundred yards long and three quarters of that wide. It was built during the 1860s, within the lifetime of Ganny Preston. Its purpose was that served by dewponds in the south.

At the north east corner our spirits rose. It was easy to work out the directions.

"One hundred paces due east, if you please, Father," smiled Benson.

"Delighted," replied Father Manston.

We paced out the distance. There, a few hundred yards away in the bottom of a depression stood the hawthorn we had vainly sought elsewhere.

"Race you to it!" shouted Benson, beaming like a fourth-former. "Last one there makes lunch."

"Well," declared Father Manston, as Benson bounded over the turf, "I'm blowed if I'm going to run."

"Come on," I laughed. "I can't cook anyway."

Benson was pacing round the tree and stooping at the ground.

"Look at this," he said. "The ground's been disturbed and a square of turf replaced."

"And I would be very disappointed," I replied, "if we failed to find something buried."

Father Manston rolled back the square of turf and I began to dig. The soil was quite friable and after removing three spadefuls I struck what seemed to be a stone.

"A shilling that it's an old drainpipe," chuckled Father Manston.

"No, no, it's the lost treasure of the Border reivers," said Benson. His face was flushed, not only with running, but also with a boyish excitement which he never lost throughout his life.

"A tin box!" he exclaimed as I scraped away the earth. "Come on, James, let's get it out."

He had rolled up his sleeves, his armbands going into his pockets as before, and I helped him to heave out the box. It was not heavy, but it fitted tightly into the hole. It was painted brown, about two feet square, with the lid held by metal clasps.

We eased them open and pulled back the lid. Benson held it shut for a moment with one hand.

"What do you say?" he asked us. "Money? Books?"

"Money," grunted Father Manston. "James?"

"Books," I said. "There's a faint smell of something coming from it."

Benson removed his hand and I opened the lid. We all three staggered back, coughing and retching, as the sickly-sweet stench clawed into our stomachs. We were all sick, vomiting onto the winter turf. After we had recovered, Benson supporting Father Manston, I covered my nose and mouth with my handkerchief and pushed over the box with my foot. Father Manston crossed himself with a shaking hand, and Benson and I did the same as we saw the contents.

It was a human head in an advanced state of decomposition. Like a grinning parody of a football it rolled onto the grass, maggots crawling in and out of the putrescent rotting jelly of the eyes and the blackening tatters that were once a face.

Father Manston grasped his rosary and prayed. Benson and I stood reverently until he had finished, joining in the amen. Benson and I had seen more than enough of death in all its horror during the war, first in Italy then later in Normandy, where we had both held men as they died, legs, arms, faces blown away. But this was different. It was evil.

"James!" Benson's voice brought my swimming brain back to reality. "There's something else there. Look!"

My friend held a small bag, made from remarkably pliant leather, pulled together at the top by means of a drawcord. By now all three of us had recovered sufficiently to be curious. I took the bag and undid the fastening.

"I'll tip whatever it is on the ground," I said.

Father Manston shut his eyes and his lips moved while he fingered his rosary, but it was an anticlimax. On the ground lay six black kidney beans.

"What do you think of that, James?" asked Benson.

"Mrs Preston may be able to tell us," I replied, scooping them back into the bag.

"And what about that?" asked Father Manston, nodding towards the festering object on the grass. "We must take it back for burial."

"If I'm right," I said, "Peter will have a grave in his churchyard with a headless body."

We rolled the head back into the box and clamped the lid securely. Even with it in the boot of the car the smell caused us to open all the windows for the short drive back to Ganny Preston's.

"Six black beans," mused Mrs Preston.

"And a head," I reminded her, shuddering at the thought of that tin box in the boot of Benson's car.

"I'm sorry, Father, I don't know of anything like that, but -"

She rose from the high-backed wooden chair and picked up a walking stick.

"Come into the room," she beckoned, and opened a varnished door leading into a small, cluttered sitting room.

It was like stepping back into Victorian England. The old lady took a small key from the pocket of her starched white apron and opened the middle drawer of a highly polished ebony sideboard.

"Take this out for me, would you, Vicar?"

An ancient leather-bound book lay in the drawer on its own. Taking it, I followed the old lady to a big dining table covered by a lace-edged linen tablecloth. Mrs Preston put on her gold-rimmed spectacles while I opened the book.

I read with amazement "The King's Grimoire. Dedicated to our Sovereign Lord James, by the Grace of God King of England, Scotland, Ireland and France. A work of Spells of the Powers."

I turned to the preface. "Authorised in the Year of Our Lord one thousand six hundred and eighteen, by our dread lord and King, James, by the Grace of God &c, the contents whereof have been gathered together by our Bishops as a Counterblast to the Forces of Evil at work throughout his Kingdoms and Dominions."

The rest of the book seemed to be a collection of spells.

"Mrs Preston!" I exclaimed. "This is amazing! A book of black magic actually authorised by James the First?"

"No, no, Vicar," replied the old lady. "Not black magic. King James himself wrote a book against witchcraft. This book was intended to assist the church in its ceaseless struggle against evil powers. Apart from those bishops whose names are in the preface, not many folk know this grimoire exists. Only a few were printed, and only a few survive."

"I didn't know you had this," said Father Manston.

"Is it wrong, Father?"

"Well, not if you make no evil use of it, Mrs Preston," replied the priest, looking over Benson's shoulder as he carefully turned the ancient pages, his face alight with excitement.

"Do you know, Mrs Preston, this book is almost priceless?" said my friend.

"It is priceless, Mr Benson," beamed the old lady. "It's been handed down for generations in my family. My grandfather made use of it to defeat a necromancer living in these parts in - oh, it must have been about the time of Waterloo."

"To question the spirits of the dead," quoted Benson from the book. "To become invisible," he continued. "To fly distances great or small. To ease the griping of the guts."

"That's appendicitis, you know," said Father Manston. "Fatal then, of course."

Benson continued to leaf through the grimoire.

"The only problem," continued our Roman friend, "is where to begin. I suppose we'd better leaf through till we find something about black beans, eh, Peter?"

"There is something," said Mrs Preston, reaching for the book. Her bony hands leafed carefully through the pages, her spectacles glinting.

"It was when Mr Benson mentioned invisibility. Here we are."

She pointed out a passage. Father Manston peered closely at it.

"Listen to this, James. 'To become invisible, take the severed head of a newly-dead man and place severally within the natural orifices, viz., eyes, ears, nostrils and mouth, a black bean. Perform the rites for speaking with the dead, and sprinkle the head with spirits of Cognac for seven nights. On the eighth, the spirit of the dead man will appear before you. Command it to grant you the power of invisibility. The spirit will command you to place the beans in your mouth. For as long as you keep them there, you will be invisible to mortal eye. See that you swallow none of the beans, for then you will remain invisible for ever. Thanks be to God.' "

Father Manston looked up.

"Is this what we're facing, Peter? Is it someone invisible? A severed head. Six black beans."

"It should be seven," I pointed out. "Eyes, ears, nose mouth. Seven orifices, seven beans."

"Unless you swallow one," mused Benson. "Then you have six."

"And he's invisible for ever now," said Father Manston.

"And condemned to torment," said Ganny Preston. "You see, that rite, although it is included in this sacred book, is dangerously close to the black arts. An inexperienced practitioner can easily fall foul of the powers that wait in the shadows."

We fell silent, contemplating the fate of the unfortunate verger.

"Is Rawlinson working evil?" asked Benson at length.

"He'll be forced to," said Mrs Preston. "You see, Vicar, once a man steps over the thin line dividing good from evil, his path is downwards into the pit."

"Repentance," muttered Father Manston.

"Aye, repent and be saved, Father," chuckled the old lady. "But how many are strong enough to do so?"

Only the clock broke the silence that descended upon the humble sitting room.

"I'll make a cup of tea," said Ganny Preston after a few minutes.

Father Manston and Benson leapt to their feet.

"Allow us."

"I'll allow no such thing!" snorted Mrs Preston. "I'll have no guests making their own tea in my kitchen."

With surprising sprightliness she went into her small kitchen and soon the clatter and rumble of the tap announced that the kettle was being filled. Father Manston sat down with a wry smile and Benson picked up the "Hexham Equerry", the local weekly paper.

"This is interesting," he said after scanning the front page. "Phantom raider strikes at local P. O.s."

"Post Offices?" I asked.

"Yes. Three have been robbed in the past ten days. As much as forty pounds was taken from Stagshaw. And money was stolen from other local sub-post offices in the previous four weeks. Aydon, Horsley, Newton, places like that, not that far away. More than two hundred pounds has gone up to now."

"That's a lot of money," muttered Father Manston. "Local gang, is it?"

"The postmaster at Stagshaw said it happened one morning. 'It must have been the Invisible Man, because I saw nothing,' he says."

The three of us looked at one another.

"Good grief!" said Father Manston. "Perhaps it was the Invisible Man."

"He's stealing to survive," I said.

"But -" Benson's worried voice cut in. "But what can he possibly spend it on?"

"He can't go and openly buy provisions," said Father Manston, as Mrs Preston appeared struggling with a tray.

The three of us sprang to help her set out the tea things, and over a cup we revealed to the old lady what we had just deduced.

"Ah," she said knowingly. "He'll need the money to find a necromancer to get him out of his invisibility. But he won't succeed." She shook her snow-white head. "Them that steps over the bounds never find their way back. What he'll be wanting is food. See if there's been any robberies from grocers, Mr Benson."

"Good heavens!" said Benson. "There was something. Let's see."

He picked up the paper.

"Yes. Here, on an inside page. Two robberies at small local grocery shops. The paper's calling it a crime wave, which it is in this area. Various provisions stolen. Police taking the matter very seriously. Affecting stores held for rationed use. H'm." He put down the paper. "Do you know, James, if we could establish a sort of - of pattern to his movements from looking at these robberies on a large scale map, we could work out where he is, don't you think?"

"Perhaps," I agreed. "But have you any maps, or did you destroy them during the war, as we were told to do?"

Father Manston smiled smugly and drew a map from his pocket.

"I used to be quite a keen rambler, you know. I've carried this about since I got interested in this business."

As we drank Ganny Preston's tea we pored over a large scale map of the area. The old lady had some coloured pins which we inserted to mark the places where the various robberies had taken place. They formed a definite pattern round a farm on the outskirts of the village.

"Potter's Farm," said Benson. "You see how none of these robberies took place more than about an hour's walk from the farm."

"Of course!" exclaimed Father Manston. "Rawlinson worked as a labourer for Potter from time to time. I've seen him there when I've called - old Potter's a Catholic, you know. He lives alone; his wife died some years ago, and he's getting on in years and doesn't see as well as he used to. Now what if Rawlinson's hiding out there, in an outbuilding, say? Naturally old Potter won't know he's there, and Rawlinson could roam at will about the house and outbuildings for warmth and shelter."

"Incidentally, James," said Benson, "I've just been thinking about the Invisible Man, you know, the character in H G Wells. He was invisible, but his clothes weren't, so to achieve true invisibility he had to go around naked. Do you suppose Rawlinson's doing that?"

"Another thing strikes me," added Father Manston. "Invisibility results from light either passing completely through an object, or somehow being made to pass round it. Now, if I remember my school science correctly, we see things because light strikes the retina of the eye, yes?"

Benson nodded.

"Well," went on the Father, "surely if light passes either through or round the retina, the invisible man will be blind?"

I nodded. The same thought had occurred to me some time ago and I could not imagine how anyone could remain invisible. Father Manston was right, as Benson also admitted. An invisible man was indeed a blind man, unless -

"Hypnotism!" I said.

"What?" said Benson.

"Rawlinson achieves invisibility through some form of suggestion which influences everyone else. He's visible enough to anyone or anything not under suggestion -"

But," interrupted Father Manston, "you realise what you're saying, James? That the whole village, indeed the whole district, has been put under some form of auto-suggestion. Impossible, man!"

"Mind you," said Benson thoughtfully. "I've seen it done. We had a chap at Clare - my old college - who could hypnotise people. He could make people believe someone else to be invisible. But how could Rawlinson influence a whole area like this?"

"With the help of the Evil One, Father."

Old Ganny Preston had sat silent, listening to us and drinking her tea. Now she stood up and came over to the table where we had spread out the map.

"Yes, people don't believe in the Devil any more, but he still prowls up and down like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour. With his help, Mr Rawlinson stays invisible. I don't understand all you've said about eyes and hypnotists, but I do understand that when a man gives himself to Satan, the Evil One will look after his own. That's your answer, Vicar. The Devil."

As modern clergymen, we should have dismissed notions of the Devil, but the old lady's firm belief left us somewhat chastened as we returned to Benson's vicarage. We had no firm plan, but resolved to visit Potter's Farm forthwith to find out what we could. But first we quietly buried that rotting head in consecrated ground.

The farm was a tumbledown collection of buildings to the north of the village, a mere ten minutes' walk from the vicarage. Everything about it spelt neglect and decay, from the missing roof tiles to the old collie shambling about the muddy yard. The dog ambled up to us in the friendliest way, and Benson tickled its ears as we looked about us.

"Old Albert Potter's probably asleep in his chair," said Father Manston. "He keeps very little here now. A pig or two, a few hens that take little looking after. No. I'm wrong. He's over there, I think."

A door swung shut as he pointed to an outbuilding.

"The stables. Not that there's anything housed there now," said Father Manston as he led the way across the yard. The collie ambled behind us and followed us into the dim-lit stables. They had been disused so long that the sweet, acrid smell of horses had disappeared.

"Mr Potter! Albert!" called Father Manston. There was no answer.

"Well, that's strange," said the priest. "I could have sworn -"

"There's certainly been someone here," I said, pointing to footprints.

Benson let out an exclamation.

"James! These prints are barefoot!"

At that moment the dog began to growl deep in its throat, the warning growl as it stared upwards at the hayloft ladder. A straw spun down from the hatchway.

"Mr Potter?" we called.

From the open hatchway threaded a fine drift of black smoke.

"I don't like that," said Father Manston. "Is there a stirrup pump about?"

Benson began to climb the ladder. As his head drew level with the rim of the hatchway he stopped.

"What is it, Peter?" asked Father Manston.

"I don't know, but - Oh my God!"

Benson slid down the ladder and sprawled in a heap at the foot. We helped him up. He was gasping for breath.

"Is it fire?" I asked urgently.

"No. Not fire. It was - it was - horrible! Don't go up there, James!"

But I was halfway up the ladder. As my head drew level with the hatchway I stopped, as Benson had done. It was not smoke, but more like a black mist, cold, wet, reaching down into my throat as I paused, trying to peer through it. Below me, Benson was reciting the Lord's Prayer, and after a moment Father Manston joined in.

I gasped for breath as the mist suddenly seized my throat. I was dizzy. I hung onto the ladder, desperate to avoid the fall that my friend had taken. I heard another voice joining in the Lord's Prayer, and after a moment I realised that it was mine.

Throughout my life I have instinctively known whenever I have encountered evil. Now I knew for certain that we were in the presence of the unutterable. I shook my head and crossed myself, then, for a moment, the mist cleared. The surroundings of the loft and stable melted away and I looked into a deep abyss. It was bottomless, without sides, without bounds, a palpable darkness that beckoned me into it.

"No!" I cried, for I knew that it was the ultimate darkness, the home of all evil, that dread country from which God preserve us all. Deep within it was a naked man, an elderly man, white haired and with a stubble of white beard. He was so far away that he seemed no more than a foot tall, yet, oddly, I could number the very hairs of his beard.

He was standing, though on what I could not see, his arms stretched towards me. He looked directly at me, and I heard a despairing cry, "Help me! Help me for the love of Jes-"

His cry was choked off and he clutched at his throat. He seemed to be taken off his feet and tumbled over and over into a blackness that was deeper than anything I could imagine. The blackness closed over him, for an instant I had the impression of a great mouth shutting fast, and he was gone.

I woke from a nightmare of darkness, despair, clutching hands and agonised cries for help. Dr Wainwright was sitting by the bed. But what was I doing in bed? A moment before I had been up a ladder, looking into - no! I could not bring myself to remember what I had seen.

"Well?" said Dr Wainwright. "And how's the patient this morning?"

"Morning? What morning? How long have I been here?"

"Just overnight. But you've had one hell of a shock, James. Father Manston and the Vicar brought you back from Potter's Farm yesterday afternoon. We had a very interesting talk, you and I, as you lay here."

"I remember nothing."

"No, you wouldn't. You see, I know enough about hypnotism to have got into your subconscious while you were - well, unconscious, asleep, in a state of severe shock. I don't blame you for being shocked. I could only take a few minutes of what you described to me before stopping you. Peter Benson immediately went off with Father Manston and I think they've been praying for you since."

"And thank God our prayers have been answered!"

Benson and the Roman priest strode in at that moment. Benson wrung my hand fervently.

"James, James, we were very concerned. You've seen a vision of - well, I know what it was for I saw some of it myself."

He shuddered.

"That's where Rawlinson's gone," added Father Manston. "And the modern church is trying to tell us there's no such place, eh, Peter?"

I noticed that his rosary was constantly between his fingers as he spoke.

"Well, you rascal," he chuckled. "You're back with us at last."

There is little more to tell. The black beans were buried along with the bag, which turned out to be made of human skin. Benson and Father Manston practically tore the insides out of Rawlinson's cottage, but found nothing other than what we had already seen. The magic circle in the bedroom was erased and the books were taken away. Mr Albert Potter, incidentally, the farmer, had been asleep in his parlour the whole time and knew nothing of our visit. We never enlightened him.

Ganny Preston had the last word.

"As I feared, Father, he followed the path that led him to his reward."