Ahead, lit by the golden haze of gaslight - for so remain the street lamps of the Butts - there rose the house of the Professor. A glorious mellow Georgian job, the Slocombe clan had owned it since it was built. High casement windows, chequered brick, a tribute to the mason's craft.

They halted at the garden gate, and waited a moment. Neither man knew why, but it was something they always did before they went inside. Then, taking up a breath apiece, they entered.

And stepped as through a veil that separated one world from another.

The moonlit garden was a thing of rare beauty. The heady fragrances of night-blooming orchids burdened the air. Chrysanthemums, like brazen hussies, swayed voluptuously, while snowdrops peeped and gossiped. Ancient roses showed their faces, craning for attention. Everywhere was colour, everywhere was life.

Ahead light showed through the great French windows and the fragile form of the Professor could be seen from behind, bent low over some ancient book upon his desk.

"Come on, Jim," said John, hoisting his sagging companion. "We're here now and we're safe."

As John reached out a hand, the French windows opened of their own accord and the Professor swung round in his chair. "Welcome, my friends," said he.

John waggled the fingers of his free hand. Jim managed a lopsided smile.

The Professor's face took on a look of concern. Blue twinkling eyes narrowed, the nostrils of the slender nose flared, the merry mouth turned down at the corners. "Set him into the chair beside the fire, John," said the ancient. "I will ring for assistance."

His mottled hand took up a small brass Burmese temple bell and jingled it. John helped Jim onto the chair and then himself onto a Persian pouffe.

Firelight danced in the grate. The Professor's study, with its tall shelves crammed with leathern tomes, its lifeless creatures under high glass domes, its noble furniture and priceless rugs, was silent and was safe.

Presently the Professor's aged retainer, Gammon, appeared, clad in antique livery and bearing a silver tray. On this reposed a ship's decanter containing brandy, three glasses and a small medicine chest.

"Please see to our wounded friend, Gammon," said the Professor.

"Certainly, sir," the other replied.

Jim squawked and moaned as Gammon tested limbs, felt ribs, cleaned wounds and applied Band Aid dressings. "Superficial, sir," said Gammon as he left the room.

"What does he know?" grumbled Jim.

"A very great deal," said the Professor, pouring brandy.

"Thanks very much," said John, accepting his.

"And thank you too," said Jim. "And say thank you to Gammon for me. I really appreciate this."

The Professor settled himself back behind his desk and viewed his visitors through his brandy glass. "I feel you have a tale to tell," said he.

"And then some," said John.

"A bit of a bar fight, nothing more," said Jim.

John looked aghast.

"Difference of opinion," said Pooley. "You should see the other bloke."

Professor Slocombe shook his head, his mane of silky hair white as an albino bloater. "Come, come, Jim," he said. "That is not what your aura says."

"My aura is probably drunk. I certainly wish I was."

"Jim got beaten up by the Garda," said John. "And all on account of a book."

"A book?"

"Brentford: A Study of its People and History."

"By Mr Compton-Cummings."

"You know of it?"

"Indeed, I did a small amount of research for it. And I had him suppress certain passages."

"Not nearly enough," said Jim, holding out his empty glass.

"You mean he left in that bit about you and the great wind from the East? I told him to delete it."

"Oh," said Jim, as the old man gave him a refill. "Well, thank you very much."

"It was another passage entirely," said John. "One about ..." He looked furtively around before whispering words into the Professor's ear.

"Idrophrodisia?"

"You don't want to know what it means."

"I know exactly what it means."

"I don't," said Jim.

"The publishers called in all the copies of the book and pulped them," said John. "Except Jim got one in the post. The police were very anxious to get it back."

"Exactly how anxious?" the Professor asked.

"They were prepared to kill us," said John.

"They killed John's bike," said Jim.

"Somewhat over-zealous. But I suppose, considering the nature of the allegations ..."

"There're photos as well."

"Oh dear, oh dear. But you got off lightly." The Professor pointed towards John's shiner.

Omally fingered his eye. "That was Jim. We had a slight contretemps over a theological matter."

"I see."

"Actually," said John, "while I'm here, there's something I wanted to ask you."

"Ask away." Professor Slocombe refilled John's glass, then his own.

"Mine too," said Jim, as his was somehow empty again.

"The Brentford Scrolls," said John. Jim groaned.

"The Brentford Scrolls?" Professor Slocombe laughed. "I have spent nearly two hundred years, ahem, I have spent a very long time searching for those. They are somewhere in the borough, I can sense it. But where, I do not know."

"Told you, Jim," said John.

"But what exactly is your interest in the scrolls?" Professor Slocombe raised his glass and tasted brandy.

"Purely historical," said John.

"Aura," said the Professor.

"John thinks he's found a way of making millions of pounds from the Millennium Fund," said Jim. "There's more than eight hundred Days of God owing to Brentford, so Brentford is entitled to celebrate the millennium two years before the rest of the world. We could celebrate it this year, on New Year's Eve."

Professor Slocombe threw back his old head and laughed.

And laughed.

And laughed some more.

"Priceless," he said, when he was able. "And you're perfectly right. If the scrolls could be discovered and of course if the papal bull was never revoked."

"I'm sure it wasn't."

"I can easily check that, John. Hand me," the ancient pointed, "that large green volume, second shelf up at the end next to the shrunken head."

Omally hastened to oblige. He tugged and wrestled with the book but could not draw it from the shelf.

"Oh, my apologies." Professor Slocombe made a mystic pass with his right hand. Omally toppled backwards clutching the book. He crawled over to the desk and set it down upon the tooled-leather surface.

"Sorry about that," said Professor Slocombe. "The books are, as always, protected."

"No problem," said John, crawling back to his pouffe.

The Professor flicked through the pages, his long thin fingers tracing lines. Presently he closed the book. "You would seem to be in luck," said he.

"Yes!" said John, raising a fist.

"But of course you'd have to find the scrolls, and if I can't, well ..."

"Two heads are better than one," said John.

"Not necessarily."

"Three, counting Jim."

"No, count me out." Jim folded his arms painfully.

"He's had a rough day. He'll be all for it tomorrow."

"Oh no I won't."

"Oh yes you will."

"Won't."

"Will."

"Gentlemen." Professor Slocombe raised a calming hand. "Whether you will or whether you won't, you have pressing business to attend to first."

"We do?" asked John.

"The police."

"Ah."

"But I think I can sort that out for you. Chief Inspector Westlake of the Brentford Constabulary is a good friend of mine. We are both members of the same lodge. If I were to ask him a personal favour, he would not refuse it."

"You're a saint," said John.

"Not yet. But I am also a good friend of the present Pope."

"Say hello from me next time you see him."

"I certainly will. But in order to smooth things over with the police, it will be necessary to give them Jim's book. Do you have it about your person?"

"I do." Omally fumbled at his trouser pocket. "Oh, no. I don't."

"He's lost it." Jim threw up his hands. "Ouch."

"No, I haven't lost it. I ..." John's thoughts returned to an hour before. To a terrible hour before. To the kitchen of Mrs Bryant. In all the horror and madness, he had left the book upon the reproduction olde worlde table. "Oh dear, oh dear," said John Omally.

The newly widowed Mrs Bryant was not at her reproduction olde worlde table, but huddled on a chair at the Brentford Cottage Hospital. Outside the mortuary.

Within this cold and dismal room the duty physician was filling in Jack Bryant's death certificate.

"The subject died through lack of blood caused by excessive straining on the toilet, leading to acute rectal prolapse and arterial rupture."

At the bottom of the death certificate the duty physician signed his name: Dr Steven Malone.

And having signed, he turned and pointed in profile to a wrinkled naked thing which lay upon the mortuary block just off the page. "Bung that in a drawer," he told a nurse.