I got out of the shower to find my tablet bleeping at me. The detectors at Pyon Wood Camp and at the crossroads on the Roman road had stopped broadcasting. Coincidence? Don’t make me laugh.

I had a pair of khaki combat trousers which were strictly for cleaning jobs and definitely not street wear, unstylish but reinforced at the knees and with lots of pockets. I pulled them on plus my PSU boots.

We could also drag in folklorists and vicars and start working up lists of likely castle sites, plus Professor Postmartin could dig out the County Practitioner records for Herefordshire and the surrounding counties – somebody was bound to have noticed a faerie castle.

East of the Roman Road the detector at Yatton went out.

Next, I put on my utility belt with extendable baton, pepper spray, handcuffs and then my Metvest over what I realised had to be one of Beverley’s T-shirts because it was tight on me and had STOP STARING AND GET OUT OF MY WAY written across the chest. As I pulled it on I smelt Beverley, not her vestigia but a human smell of sweat and clean skin.

I considered the shotguns – but I’d probably only shoot my foot off. The same probably applied to Hugh Oswald’s staffs, but when I pulled one out of their bag it felt solid and comforting in my grip.

The night may be dark and full of terrors, I thought, but I’ve got a big stick.

‘Is there something I should know?’ asked Dominic when I re-joined him outside the Old Rectory. I showed him the detector track on my tablet and told him that back-up was on hold. He sighed.

‘You were right,’ he said. ‘Tonight’s the night.’

‘Looks like it,’ I said.

‘Have I got time to get changed?’ he asked.

‘Yeah – I don’t think anything’s going to happen until the moon gets up.’ I checked my notebook. ‘Which isn’t until about half past ten.’

So, while Dominic was off girding his loins, I called Beverley who seemed to be attending a party in a steam organ.

‘I’m negotiating,’ she shouted over a background of hurdy-gurdy and screaming children.

‘Negotiating what?’ I shouted back.

‘River stuff,’ she shouted. ‘I’ll tell you all about it when I get back – don’t wait up.’

Dominic returned half an hour later wearing cargo pants and real authentic farmer’s Wellington boots. Apparently you can tell they’re authentic when the muck has permanently discoloured the rubber up to the ankle level. He’d brought his own extendable baton and his stab vest in the beige ‘undercover’ sleeve.

He’d also brought a folding table, a pair of folding chairs and a picnic hamper. We set them up at the back of the Nissan, sat down and had a drink.

‘Outstanding,’ I said. ‘Now all we need is a deck of cards.’