“No, and nor can they. Now, I have listened to certain propositions put forward by Professor Slocombe.”

Neville nodded. “A good and honourable man.”

“Exactly, and he believes that there has come amongst us of late an individual who can affect the laws of chance and probability to gain his own ends. This individual is presently ensconced in the Seamen’s Mission and calls himself Pope Alexander VI. I believe that he is to blame for what happened to the Captain, and I also believe that he cannot afford to be tied into it and will therefore arrange for the disposal of same.”

“You went over your two minutes,” said Neville, “but if all is as you say, it would go a long way towards explaining certain matters which have been puzzling me for some months now. Have I ever spoken to you of the sixth sense?”

“Many times,” said Omally, “many, many times, but if you wish to retell me then may I suggest that you do it over a glass or two of scotch?”

“Certainly.”

“And may I also suggest that we keep a watch on the road at all times?”

“I will do it,” said Norman, “for I have had little to say or do during this entire chapter.”

Night fell. Almost at once the sky became a backcloth for a spectacular pyrotechnic exhibition of lightning. The lights of the saloon bar were extinguished and the frozen Captain stood ghostly and statuesque, covered by his linen cloth. Norman stood at Neville’s window staring off down the Ealing Road, and Omally drained the last of the scotch into his glass. Neville held his watch up to what light there was. A bright flash of lightning illuminated the dial. “It’s nearly midnight,” he said. “How much longer?”

Omally shrugged in the darkness.

The Guinness clock struck a silent twelve below in the bar and in Neville’s room Norman said suddenly, “Look at that, what is it?”

John and Neville joined him at the window.

“What is it?” said Neville. “I can’t make it out.”

“Down by Jack Lane’s,” said Norman, “you can see it coming towards us.”

From the direction of the river, moving silently upon its eight wheels, came an enormous jet-black lorry. It resembled no vehicle that the three men had ever seen, for it bore no lights, nor did its lustreless bodywork reflect the street lamps which shone to either side of it. There was no hint of a windscreen nor cracks that might indicate doors or vents. It looked like a giant mould as it came to a standstill outside the Flying Swan.

Omally craned his neck to look down upon it but the overhang of the gabled roof hid the mysterious vehicle from view. The familiar creak of the saloon bar door, however, informed the three men that someone had entered the bar. “Here,” said Neville suddenly, “what are we doing? Whoever it is down there could be rifling the cash register.”

“Go down then,” said Omally, “you tell them.”

The part-time barman took a step towards the door then halted. “Best leave it, eh?”

“I think it would be for the best,” said Omally.

The saloon bar door creaked again and after a brief pause Norman said from the window, “It’s moving off.” The three men watched as the hellish black lorry crept out once more into the road and disappeared over the railway bridge past the football ground.

Together the three men descended the stairs. The bar was empty, lit only by the wan light from the street. The lightning had ceased its frenzied dance on the great truck’s arrival and the night had become once more clear and silent. In the centre of the floor lay the white linen table cloth. Neville flicked on the saloon bar lights. Norman picked up the table cloth. Holding it out before him he suddenly gave a cry of horror and dropped it to the floor. Omally stooped to retrieve it and held it to the light. Impressed upon the cloth was what appeared to be some kind of negative photographic image. It was clear and brown as a sepia print and it was the face of Captain Carson.

“There,” said Omally to the part-time barman, “now you’ve something to hang behind your bar. The Brentford Shroud…”

Omally lost little time in conveying news of the previous night’s events to Professor Slocombe. The old man sat behind his desk surrounded by a veritable Hadrian’s Wall of ancient books. “Fascinating,” he said at length. “Fascinating although tragic. You brought with you the tablecloth, I trust?”

“I thought it would be of interest.”

“Very much so.” The Professor accepted the bundle of white linen and spread it over his desk. In the glare of the brass desk lamp the Captain’s features stood out stark and haunting. “I would never have believed it had I not seen it with my own eyes.”

“It takes a bit of getting used to.”

The old Professor rolled up the tablecloth and returned it to Omally. “I would like to investigate this at a future date when I have more time upon my hands, but matters at present press urgently upon us.”

“There have been further developments?”

“Yes, many. News has reached me that our adversary is planning some kind of papal coronation in the near future, when I believe he will reach the very zenith of his powers. We must seek to destroy him before this moment comes. Afterwards I fear there will be little we can do to stop him.”

“So how long do we have?”

“A week, perhaps a little more.”

Omally turned his face towards the French windows. “So,” said he, “after all this waiting, the confrontation will be suddenly upon us. I do not relish it, I must admit. I hope you know what you are doing, Professor.”

“I believe that I do John, never fear.”

The door to the Seaman’s Mission was securely bolted. Great iron hasps had been affixed to its inner side and through these ran a metal rod the thickness of a broom handle, secured to the concrete floor by an enormous padlock. Within the confines of the Mission the air was still and icy cold. Although long shafts of sunlight penetrated the elaborate stained glass of the windows and fell in coloured lozenges upon the mosaic floor, they brought no warmth from the outer world. For no warmth whatever could penetrate these icy depths. Here was a tomb of utter darkness and utter cold. Something hovered in the frozen air, something to raise the small hairs upon the neck, something to chill the heart and numb the senses.

And here a face moved from the impenetrable darkness into the light. It was rigid and pale as a corpse, a face cut from timeless marble. The nose aquiline, the nostrils flared, the mouth a cruel slit, and the eyes, set into that face, two hellish blood-red orbs of fire. The face traversed the stream of frozen sunlight and was gone once more into the gloom.

Slow yet certain footsteps crossed the marbled floor and firm hands gripped a monstrous throne which rose at the end of the pilastered hall. The brooding figure seated himself. Whatever thoughts dwelt within his skull were beyond human comprehension. His being was at one with the sombre surroundings, the gloom, the terrible cold.

And then from hidden recesses of the darkling hall, there came other figures, walking erect upon two legs yet moving in a way so unlike that of humankind as to touch the very soul with their ghastliness. Forward they came upon dragging feet, to stand swaying, five in all, before their master. Then low they bowed, touching the chill floor with their faces. They murmured softly, imploringly.

The being upon the throne raised a languid hand to silence them. Beneath the hems and cuffs of their embroidered garments, touched upon briefly by the cold sunlight, there showed glimpses of their vile extremities. Here the twisted fibrous claw of a hand, here a gnarled and rootlike leg or ankle, for here were no human worshippers, here were the spawn of the bottomless pit itself. Foul and unspeakable creations, sickening vomit of regions beyond thought.