"It doesn't matter," said Adam, who was getting fed up with on­ions. "France is nearly Spanish, an' I don't expect witches know the differ­ence, what with spendin' all their time flyin' around at night. It all looks like the Continong to witches. Anyway, if you don't like it you can jolly well go and start your own Inquisition, anyway."

For once, Pepper didn't push it. She'd been promised the post of Head Torturer. No one doubted who was going to be Chief Inquisitor.

Wensleydale and Brian were less enthralled with their roles of Inquisitorial Guards.

"Well, you don't know any Spanish," said Adam, whose lunch hour had included ten minutes with a phrase book Sarah had bought in a haze of romanticism in Alicant6.

"That doesn't matter, because actually you have to talk in Latin," said Wensleydale, who had also been doing some slightly more accurate lunchtime reading.

"And

Spanish," said Adam firmly. "That's why it's the Spanish Inquisition."

"I don't see why it shouldn't be a British Inquisition," said Brian. "Don't see why we should of fought the Armada and everything, just to have their smelly Inquisition."

This had been slightly bothering Adam's patriotic sensibilities as well.

"I reckon," he said, "that we should sort of start Spanish, and then make it the British Inquisition when we've got the hang of it. And now," he added, "the Inquisitorial Guard will go and fetch the first witch, por favor. "

The new inhabitant of Jasmine Cottage would have to wait, they'd decided. What they needed to do was start small and work their way up.

– – -

"Art thou a witch, oh lay?" said the Chief Inquisitor.

"Yes," said Pepper's little sister, who was six and built like a small golden‑haired football.

"You mustn't say yes, you've got to say no," hissed the Head Tor­turer, nudging the suspect.

"And then what?" demanded the suspect.

"And then we torture you to make you say yes," said the Head Torturer. "I told you. It's good fun, the torturin'. It doesn't hurt. Hastar lar visa," she added quickly.

The little suspect gave the decor of the Inquisitorial headquarters a disparaging look. There was a decided odor of onions.

"Huh," she said. "I want to be a witch, wiv a warty nose an' a green skin an' a lovely cat an' I'd call it Blackie, an' lots of potions an'‑"

The Head Torturer nodded to the Chief Inquisitor.

"Look," said Pepper, desperately, "no one's saying you can't be a witch, you jus' have to say you're not a witch. No point in us taking all this trouble," she added severely, "if you're going to go round saying yes the minute we ask you."

The suspect considered this.

"But I wants to be a witch," she wailed. The male Them exchanged exhausted glances. This was out of their league.

"If you just say no," said Pepper, "You can have my Sindy stable set. I've never ever used it," she added, glaring at the other Them and daring them to make a comment.

"You have

used it," snapped her sister, "I've seen it and it's all worn out and the bit where you put the hay is broke and‑"

Adam gave a magisterial cough.

"Art thou a witch, viva espana?" he repeated.

The sister took a look at Pepper's face, and decided not to chance it.

"No," she decided.

– – -

It was a very good torture, everyone agreed. The trouble was get­ting the putative witch off it.

It was a hot afternoon and the Inquisitorial guards felt that they were being put upon.

"Don't see why me and Brother Brian should have to do all the work," said Brother Wensleydale, wiping the sweat off his brow. "I reckon it's about time she got off and we had a go. Benedictine ina decanter."

"Why have we stopped?" demanded the suspect, water pouring out of her shoes.

It had occurred to the Chief Inquisitor during his researches that the British Inquisition was probably not yet ready for the reintroduction of the Iron Maiden and the choke‑pear. But an illustration of a medieval ducking stool suggested that it was tailor‑made for the purpose. All you needed was a pond and some planks and a rope. It was the sort of combi­nation that always attracted the Them, who never had much difficulty in finding all three.

The suspect was now green to the waist.

"It's just like a seesaw," she said. "Whee!"

"I'm going to go home unless I can have a go," muttered Brother Brian. "Don't see why evil witches should have all the fun."

"It's not allowed for inquisitors to be tortured too," said the Chief Inquisitor sternly, but without much real feeling. It was a hot afternoon, the Inquisitorial robes of old sacking were scratchy and smelled of stale barley, and the pond looked astonishingly inviting.

"All right, all right," he said, and turned to the suspect. "You're a witch, all right, don't do it again, and now you get off and let someone else have a turn. Oh lay," he added.

"What happens now?" said Pepper's sister.

Adam hesitated. Setting fire to her would probably cause no end of trouble, he reasoned. Besides, she was too soggy to burn.

He was also distantly aware that at some future point there would be questions asked about muddy shoes and duckweed‑encrusted pink dresses. But that was the future, and it lay at the other end of along warm afternoon that contained planks and ropes and ponds. The future could wait.

– – -

The future came and went in the mildly discouraging way that futures do, although Mr. Young had other things on his mind apart from muddy dresses and merely banned Adam from watching television, which meant he had to watch it on the old black and white set in his bedroom.

"I don't see why we should have a hosepipe ban," Adam heard Mr. Young telling Mrs. Young. "I pay my rates like everyone else. The garden looks like the Sahara desert. I'm surprised there was any water left in the pond. I blame it on the lack of nuclear testing, myself. You used to get proper summers when I was a boy. It used to rain all the time."

Now Adam slouched alone along the dusty lane. It was a good slouch. Adam had a way of slouching along that offended all right‑think­ing people. It wasn't that he just allowed his body to droop. He could slouch with inflections, and now the set of his shoulders reflected the hurt and bewilderment of those unjustly thwarted in their selfless desire to help their fellow men.

Dust hung heavy on the bushes.

"Serve everyone right if the witches took over the whole country and made everyone eat health food and not go to church and dance around with no clothes on," he said, kicking a stone. He had to admit that, except perhaps for the health food, the prospect wasn't too worrying.

"I bet if they'd jus' let us get started properly we could of found hundreds of witches," he told himself, kicking a stone. "I bet ole Tor­turemada dint have to give up jus' when he was getting started just because some stupid witch got her dress dirty."