The Professor sank into a high-backed Windsor chair. “Then he did come, I knew he would.”

The first rays of sunlight were falling through the still-open, though now curtainless, French windows. “Here,” said Pooley. “What time is it?” As if in answer the ormolu mantelclock struck five times. “I’ve been out for hours,” said Jim, holding his head, “and I do not feel at all well.”

“You had best go home to your bed,” said the Professor. “Come again tonight and we will speak of these things.”

“No,” said Pooley taking a Turkish cigarette from the polished humidor. Through force of habit he furtively thrust several more into his top pocket. “I must know of these things now.”

“As you will.” The Professor smiled darkly and drew a deep breath. “You will recall the evening when you first came to me with that single bean. You saw my reaction when I first observed it, and when later that night you brought me the other four I knew that my suspicions were justified.”

“Suspicions?”

“That the Dark One was already among us.”

Pooley lit his cigarette and collapsed into an immediate fit of coughing. “The Dark One?” he spluttered between convulsions. “Who in the name of the holies is the Dark One?”

The Professor shrugged. “If I knew exactly who he was Jim, our task would be simpler. The Dark One has existed since the dawn of time, he may take many forms and live many lives. We are lucky in one respect only, that we have observed his arrival. It is our duty to precipitate his end.”

“I know of no Dark Ones,” said Jim. “Although I do remember that several months ago the arrival of a mouldy-looking tramp caused a good degree of speculation within the saloon bar of the Flying Swan, although in truth I never saw this dismal wanderer myself.”

The Professor nodded. “You have seen him twice, once upon the allotments and again this very night within my own garden.”

“Nah,” said Pooley. “That was no tramp I saw.”

“I am certain there is a connection,” said the Professor. “All the signs are here. I have watched them for months, gathering like a storm about to break. The time, I fear, is close at hand.”

Jim sniffed suspiciously at his Turkish cigarette. “Are these lads all right?” said he. “Only they smell somewhat doubtful.”

“You are still a young man, Jim,” said the Professor. “I cannot expect you to take altogether seriously all that I say, but I swear to you that we are dealing with forces which will not be defeated by simply being ignored.”

Jim glanced distastefully towards the covered glass case. “You can hardly ignore those,” said he.

“By fire and water only may they be destroyed,” said the Professor. “By fire and water and the holy word.”

Pooley pulled at his sideburns. “I’ll put a match to the blighters,” he said valiantly.

“It is not as simple as that, it never is. These beans are the symptom, not the cause. To destroy them now would be to throw away the only hope we have of locating the evil force which brought them here.”

“I don’t like the sound of this ‘we’ you keep referring to,” said Jim.

“I want you to tell me, Jim, everything you have heard about this tramp. Every rumour, every story, anything that might give us a clue as to his motives, his power and his weaknesses.”

Pooley’s stomach made an unmentionable sound. “Professor,” said he, “I would be exceedingly grateful for some breakfast, I have not eaten for twenty-four hours. I am feeling a trifle peckish.”

“Of course.” The Professor rang the bell which summoned his musty servant. Presently a fine breakfast of heated rolls, eggs, bacon, tomatoes, coffee and toast appeared and Pooley set about it with ravenous zeal.

For the next hour thereafter Jim spoke of all he had heard regarding the mystery tramp, from Neville’s first encounter to Norman’s terrifying experiences in the Plume Café, and of the welter of theories, conjectures and speculations which had been rife in the Swan. He spoke of Soap Distant’s talk of.he Hollow Earth, omitting his own experiences within the mysterious subterranean world, and of Omally’s faerie ramblings and of those folk who held the belief that the tramp was the Wandering Jew.

The old Professor listened intently, occasionally raising his snowy eyebrow or shaking his head until finally Jim’s tale had run its course. “Fascinating,” he said at length, “quite fascinating. And you say that all those who had any personal dealings with this tramp felt an uncanny need to cross themselves?”

“As far as I can make out, but you must understand that a lot of what I have told you was heard second-hand as it were, nobody around here gives away much if they can possibly help it.”

“So much I know.”

“And so, what is to be done?”

“I think at present there is little we can do. We must be constantly on watch. Report to me with any intelligence, no matter how vague, which comes to hand. I will prepare myself as best I can, both mentally and physically. Our man is close, that is certain. You have seen him. I can sense his nearness and it is likewise with the creatures in the case. Soon he will come for them and when he does so, we must be ready.” Pooley reached out a hand towards the humidor. “Why don’t you have one of the ones in your top pocket?” asked the old Professor, smiling broadly.

15

Pooley sat that lunchtime alone in a corner seat at the Flying Swan, a half of pale ale growing warm before him. He sighed deeply. All that the Professor had said weighed heavily on his soul, and he wondered what should be done for the best. He thought he should go around to the Mission and confront Captain Carson regarding what Holmes would have referred to as “the singular affair of the purloined wheelbarrow”, which was something he and Omally should really have done the very next day. But the Captain’s animosity towards visitors was well known to all thereabouts, especially to Jim who had once been round there to scrounge a bed for the night and had been run off with a gaff hook. Anyway, it was Omally’s wheelbarrow and if he chose to forget the matter then that was up to him.

Maybe, he thought, it would be better for the Professor simply to hand over the bean things to this Dark One, whoever he might be, in the hope that he would depart with them, never to return. But that was no good, Pooley had felt the evil and he knew that the Professor was right. It would not go away by being ignored. Pooley sighed anew. A bead of perspiration rolled down the end of his nose and dropped into his ale.

Archroy entered the Flying Swan. Pooley had not seen him for some weeks; he had been strangely absent from the Cowboy Night fiasco. Jim wondered in which direction his suspicions pointed in the matter of the stolen beans. “He doesn’t know how lucky he is,” he thought.

Archroy, however, looked far from lucky upon this particular occasion. His shoulders drooped and his lopsided hairpiece clung perilously to his shining pate. Pooley watched him from the corner of his eye. He could not recall ever having seen anybody looking so depressed, and wondered whether the sorry specimen might appreciate a few kind words. For the life of him Jim couldn’t think of any. Archroy looked up from the pouring of his ale and sighted Pooley, nodded in half-hearted greeting and sank back into his misery.

Pooley looked up through the pub windows. The flat-blocks quivered mirage-like in the heat and a bedraggled pigeon or two fluttered away into the shimmering haze. The heat strangled the bar-room air, everything moved in slow motion except Father Moity, resident priest to St Joan’s, Brentford, who unexpectedly entered the bar at this moment. He strode towards the bar, oblivious to the battering heat, and ordered a small sherry. Neville poured this and noted that the priest made no motions towards his pocket upon accepting same. “You are far from your cool confessional upon such a hot day,” said Neville cynically.