‘Yes, John, but is this to the point?’

‘Yes, of course, no, you’re quite right. Remedies are what you must have, I see that, I really do. Now, let me think. We shall assume that the violator is (and I have not a scrap of doubt that he is), properly versed in all the side-knowledge of his dread religion. Therefore, he can be daunted in several ways. First and easiest, common salt (rock-salt is better) sprinkled liberally on all entrances into the room; door-sills, window-sills, hearth-stones and even transoms and ventilation-louvres. Second, garlands of wild garlic festooned around those same apertures are reckoned sovereign, but you would be hard put to find wild garlic in Jersey, or anywhere, at this time of the year and its smell is really quite beastly.’

‘I know. I have tried to eat wild duck which have been feeding off it. The very dustbin rejects them.’

‘Just so. Third, and this has not been known to fail, the person fearful of visitations from a witch or warlock should go to bed clutching a crucifix made either of wood, or, much better, of either or both of the two noble metals – gold and silver: the very best of all is a cross made of one of the hardest woods such as ebony or lignum vitae and inlaid with silver and gold. He or she should memorize a simple cantrip to recite to the emissary of the Desired – chrm – that is to say, the Evil One, which I shall now dictate to you.’

‘Look John, forgive me, but I don’t think we are approaching this on the right lines. For one thing, I’ve no intention of distributing cantrips and costly crucifixes to every rapable woman in the Parish of St Magloire. For another, we don’t want just to keep the beggar out of our bedrooms, we want to catch him if possible – kill him if that becomes necessary – but at all costs to stop him for good.’

‘Oh dear, that is a very different matter indeed. You really mustn’t kill him if you can help it, you know; he may very well be the last living receptacle of some extremely ancient knowledge, we have no way of guessing whether he has yet initiated a successor to the Black Goatskin. No, no, you must try not to kill him. You might, in any case, find it a little difficult, heh, heh.’

‘I know; I’m thinking of ordering a box of silver bullets.’

‘My word, Mortdecai,’ he cried, clapping his hands merrily, ‘you always were a resourceful fellow, even the Dean said as much when you almost won the Newdigate with a thousand lines lifted from Shelley’s Cenci. Did you get rusticated that time?’

‘No, I played the “youthful prank” gambit. The Proctors hit me for fifty pounds. My father paid. I threatened to marry a barmaid if he didn’t.’