‘There you are again, you see. Resourceful. But no, try to avoid killing him. As to capturing him, I really cannot offer any suggestions. He will be endued with Fiendish cunning, you understand, and will have all sorts of other resources which we cannot gauge, it really depends on whether he’s been to Chorazin or not.’ He seemed to be addressing himself.

‘Chorazin?’

‘Ah, yes, well, just a scholarly aside, not to the point really. It’s a place mentioned in the Bible, just a few mounds today – or so they tell me – and one goes there, or rather chaps like your witchmaster go there, to complete their education, so to speak.’

‘A sort of Sabbatical?’ I prompted.

‘Just so, ha ha. Very good. Yes, they went there to, as it were, pay their respects to Someone; it was called the Peregrinatio Nigra, the Black Pilgrimage, you know.’

‘Thank you,’ I said.

‘I’m sorry, dear boy, I had forgotten that undergraduates once used to have a little Latin. Now; catching this chap; I honestly cannot think of a method which would have much hope of success. I suppose one could leave an attractive young woman unguarded in a spinney or copse – but who would volunteer to be the bait? One could hardly tether her, could one, it would look suspicious. No, I think your best plan is to fight him on his own terms and bar him from your neighbourhood for good – make him cry vicisti, which – ’

‘Thank you,’ I said.

‘Oh dear, I’m sorry. Yes; you must give him a whiff of grape-shot and let him know that he’s outgunned; he will give you best, I’m sure, and turn his talents elsewhere. In short; you must have a Mass said.’

‘A Mass?’

‘A Satanic Mass, naturally. One of the real, juicy ones. You will then be, as it were, under the protection of his, ah, Supervisor, and he’ll have no choice but to leave you and yours alone. You might say it will put the fear of the Devil into him, heh heh.’

I found myself in a quandary. How real was the witchcraft element in our rapist? Dryden, the top scholar in the field, clearly was satisfied that the man was a dangerous adept – but then, how potty was Dryden? Could I go back to Jersey and tell George and Sam that what we needed was a Black Mass? On the other hand, what was on the other hand? Lying out night after night in damp potato fields, hoping that the chap would blunder into one’s arms? And what would that prove? Or lie in wait in the wardrobes of likely victims’ bedrooms? Quite absurd; moreover, if the Beast of Jersey was any guide, our man would have been watching the chosen house for hours, perhaps days, and rapable women abound in Jersey – if you don’t object to legs like bedroom jugs.