More and more people came to join us and I spotted Inspector Newcombe, wearing a red balaclava and matching red scarf. Then the publican came out of the Hag and Hounds.

“People of Tiddleton-under-Lovey, the time has come,” he announced. “I charge you all to rid this place of ghosts and ghouls, of witches and warlocks, of all manner of enchanted folk who would do us harm.” He gave a mighty beat on a big gong. In reply came a barrage of sound from the crowd. Saucepan lids were crashed together. Spoons beat on pots and a great cry rose from the crowd. It was an eerie sound that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. A sound that belonged to another age and time. If I’d been an evil spirit, I’d have vanished then and there. I hoped Robbins would take the hint if he was anywhere around. I searched the crowd but saw nothing unusual.

Then the crowd launched into a chant of sorts. I couldn’t make out the words and decided that it must be in an old, long-forgotten tongue—Old Cornish, maybe. We were close to the Cornish border. In its way it was as unsettling as the cry had been. We set off, chanting, dancing, banging our noisemakers, first through one house and then another. Darcy and I deliberately hung back and watched Lady Hawse-Gorzley and Inspector Newcombe go ahead of us. We moved across to the cottages on the other side of the green. My mother and grandfather were standing at the door, smiling as everyone trooped inside and then out again. I noticed that Miss Prendergast’s cottage was avoided. Perhaps everybody sensed that true evil still lurked in there.

Through the vicarage and then on to the cottages on the other side of the village. Nothing strange happened and I began to believe Robbins had really fled. Then up the driveway to Gorzley Hall. In through the front door, around the foyer and out again, while the servants stood on the stairs, laughing and clapping along. We waited by the front door as the first revelers came out again and began their long trek back down the drive.

I noticed Willum’s startling red hat as he lumbered down the side of the column, nodding and dancing in his clumsy way, like a giant in a child’s fairy tale. Then suddenly it hit me. I ran and grabbed the inspector.

“That’s not Willum, it’s Robbins,” I shouted. “Willum’s in bed with a cold.”

The inspector didn’t waste a second. “That’s him, men. Get him.”

At those words the fake Willum drew out a gun and fired directly at Lady Hawse-Gorzley. She stumbled and fell as he took off into the darkness. The noise of the crowd turned to howls as they pursued him.