The red-eyed man gazed down upon them. A strange light began to grow around him, increasing in power and clarity. His very being throbbed with a pulsating energy.

He raised his mighty hand above his head and brought it down on to the arm of his throne. A voice rose up in his throat, a voice like no other that had ever spoken through earth’s long aeons.

“I will have it,” he said, “soon all shall be mine.” The creatures below him squirmed at his feet in an ecstasy of adoration. “There will be a place for you my children, my five grand Cardinals of the Holy See, you will know a place in my favour. But now there is much to be done; those who would plot my destruction must be brought to their destiny; the Professor, he must be dragged before me, and the Irishman. Tonight you must go for them. I will tolerate no mistake or you shall know my displeasure. Tonight it must be, and now be gone.”

The writhing creatures drew themselves erect, their heads still bowed in supplication. One by one they shuffled from the great hall leaving the red-eyed man alone with his unspeakable thoughts.

Atop the Mission roof and hanging sloth-like by his heels, a lone figure had watched this gothic fantasy through a chink in the Mission’s ventilator. The lone figure was none other than Jim Pooley, Brentford’s well-known man of the turf and spy for the forces of mankind, truth and justice, and he had overheard all of the ghastly speech before he lost his footing and descended to the Mission’s row of dustbins in a most undignified and noisy manner.

“Balls,” moaned mankind’s saviour, wiping clotted fish scales from his tweeds and making a timely if somewhat shop-soiled departure from the Mission’s grounds and off across the Butts Estate.

Archroy was working out on Father Moity’s horizontal bars. Since the arrival through the post of book two and later book three of Count Dante’s course in the deadly arts of Dimac the lad had known a renewed vigour, a vibrant rejuvenation of his vital forces. The young priest watched him exercise, marvelling at the fluency of his movements, the ease with which he cleared the vaulting horse at a single bound. All he could do was to clap enthusiastically and applaud the astonishing exhibition of super-human control and discipline.

“You are to be congratulated, Archroy,” said Father Moity. “I have never seen the like of this.”

“I am only beginning, Father,” Archroy replied, “watch this.” He gave out with an enormous scream, threw his hands forward into the posture the Count described as “the third poised thrust of penetrating death” and leapt from the floor on to a high stanchion atop the gymnasium clock.

“Astonishing.” The young priest clapped his hands again. “Amazing.”

“It is the mastery of the ancient oriental skills,” Archroy informed him, returning to the deck from his twenty-foot eyrie.

“Bravo, bravo, but tell me my son, to what purpose do you intend that such outstanding gymnastics be put to? It is too late now for the Olympics.”

Archroy skipped before him, blasting holes in the empty air with lightning fists. “I am a man sorely put upon, Father,” said he.

The priest bowed his head in an attitude of prayer. “These are sorry times for all of us. Surely if you have problems you might turn to me, to God, to the Church?”

“God isn’t doing much for your Church at present.”

The priest drew back in dismay. “Come now,” said he, “these are harsh and cruel words, what mean you by them?”

Archroy ceased his exercises and fell into a perfect splits, touched his forehead to his right toe and rose to his feet. “You have no congregation left, Father, hadn’t you noticed?”

The young priest dropped to his knees. “I have fallen from grace.”

“You have done nothing of the sort, your flock has been lured away by a callous and evil man. I have taken a lot of stick over the past few months and I have gone to some lengths to find out what is going on hereabouts. My ear has, of late, been pressed against many a partition door and I know what I’m talking about.”

Father Moity rose clumsily to his feet. “I would know more of this my son, let us repair to my quarters for a small sherry.”

“Well, just a small one, Father, I am in training.”

The breathless Pooley staggered in through the Professor’s open French windows and flung himself into a fireside chair.

“I take it from your unkempt and dishevelled appearance, Jim, that you bring news of a most urgent nature,” said Professor Slocombe, looking up from his books.

Pooley took a heavy breath. “You might say that,” he gasped.

“Steady yourself, Jim, you know where the scotch is.”

Pooley decanted himself a large one. “Not to put too fine a point on the matter, Professor,” said he, “you and Omally are in big trouble, in fact, the biggest.”

“So, our man is going to make his move then?”

“Tonight he is sending those nasty looking creatures after you.”

“Well now.” Professor Slocombe crossed to the windows, pulled them shut and lowered the heavy iron screen. “We must not be caught napping then, must we?”

“Where is John?” Pooley cast his eyes about the room. “I thought he was here.”

Professor Slocombe consulted his watch. “I should imagine that by now the good Omally is propped up against the bar counter of the Flying Swan raising a pint glass to his lips.”

“I’d better go round and warn him.” The Professor nodded. “Bring him back as soon as you can.”

Omally was indeed to be found at the Swan, a pint glass in his hand and a large waxpaper package at his elbow. “The Professor,” he would say by way of explanation to the curious who passed him by at close quarters, “very valuable, very old.”

Pooley entered the saloon bar. Neville greeted him with a hearty “Morning Jim, pint of the usual?” and Omally merely nodded a greeting and indicated his parcel. “The Professor,” he said, “very valuable, very old.”

Pooley accepted his pint and pushed the exact change across the counter in payment. Neville rang it up in the till. “No Sale,” it said. “The brewery have been offering me one of these new computerized micro-chip cash register arrangements,” the part-time barman told Pooley. “They do seem to have some obsession about cash registers actually registering the money that is put into them. I can’t see it myself.”

“Possibly they would take it kindly if you were to keep accounts,” Pooley suggested, “it’s a common practice among publicans.”

“We always run at a profit,” Neville said in a wounded voice, “no-one could accuse me of dishonesty.”

“Of course not, but breweries are notorious for that sort of thing. Why don’t you just accept the new cash register and let Omally give it the same treatment he gave to the juke box?”

The Irishman grinned wolfishly. A brewer’s dray drew up before the Swan and Neville disappeared down the cellar steps to open the pavement doors. Pooley took Omally aside.

“You had better get around to the Professor’s right away,” he said urgently. “There is a bit of trouble coming your way from the direction of the Mission, our man Pope Alex is out for your blood.”

“Always the bearer of glad tidings eh, Jim,” said Omally. “I have to go down there anyway, the Professor’s last book has arrived.” Omally gestured to the parcel upon the bar.

“More magic of the ancients?” said Pooley. “I wonder what this one is all about.”

“More unreadable Latin texts I should expect. That old fellow absorbs knowledge like a sponge, I do not understand where he puts it all, for certain his head is no larger than my own.”

Pooley lifted the package from the counter and shook it gently. “It is extremely heavy for its size. You are sure that it is a book?”

“I have no reason to doubt it, all the others have been.”