you don’t know any Spanish,” said Adam, whose lunch hour had included ten minutes with a phrase book Sarah had bought in a haze of romanticism in Alicanté.
“That doesn’t matter, because actually you have to talk in Latin,” said Wensleydale, who had also been doing some slightly more accurate lunchtime reading.
“And Spanish,” said Adam firmly. “That’s why it’s the Spanish Inquisition.”
“I don’t see why it shouldn’t be a British Inquisition,” said Brian. “Don’t see why we should of fought the Armada and everything, just to have their smelly Inquisition.”
This had been slightly bothering Adam’s patriotic sensibilities as well.
“I reckon,” he said, “that we should sort of start Spanish, and then make it the British Inquisition when we’ve got the hang of it. And now,” he added, “the Inquisitorial Guard will go and fetch the first witch, por favor.”
The new inhabitant of Jasmine Cottage would have to wait, they’d decided. What they needed to do was start small and work their way up.
“ART THOU A WITCH, oh lay?” said the Chief Inquisitor.
“Yes,” said Pepper’s little sister, who was six and built like a small golden-haired football.
“You mustn’t say yes, you’ve got to say no,” hissed the Head Torturer, nudging the suspect.
“And then what?” demanded the suspect.
“And then we torture you to make you say yes,” said the Head Torturer. “I told you. It’s good fun, the torturin’. It doesn’t hurt. Hastar lar visa,” she added quickly.
The little suspect gave the decor of the Inquisitorial headquarters a disparaging look. There was a decided odor of onions.
“Huh,” she said. “I want to be a witch, wiv a warty nose an’ a green skin an’ a lovely cat an’ I’d call it Blackie, an’ lots of potions an’—”
The Head Torturer nodded to the Chief Inquisitor.
“Look,” said Pepper, desperately, “no one’s saying you can’t be a witch, you jus’ have to say you’re not a witch. No point in us taking all this trouble,” she added severely, “if you’re going to go round saying yes the minute we ask you.”
The suspect considered this.
“But I wants to be a witch,” she wailed. The male Them exchanged exhausted glances. This was out of their league.
“If you just say no,” said Pepper, “you can have my Sindy stable set. I’ve never ever used it,” she added, glaring at the other Them and daring them to make a comment.
“You have used it,” snapped her sister, “I’ve seen it and it’s all worn out and the bit where you put the hay is broke and—”
Adam gave a magisterial cough.
“Art thou a witch, viva espana?” he repeated.
The sister took a look at Pepper’s face, and decided not to chance it.
“No,” she decided.
IT WAS A VERY GOOD TORTURE, everyone agreed. The trouble was getting the putative witch off it.
It was a hot afternoon and the Inquisitorial guards felt that they were being put upon.
“Don’t see why me and Brother Brian should have to do all the work,” said Brother Wensleydale, wiping the sweat off his brow. “I reckon it’s about time she got off and we had a go. Benedictine ina decanter.”
“Why have we stopped?” demanded the suspect, water pouring out of her shoes.
It had occurred to the Chief Inquisitor during his researches that the British Inquisition was probably not yet ready for the reintroduction of the Iron Maiden and the choke-pear. But an illustration of a medieval ducking stool suggested that it was tailor-made for the purpose. All you needed was a pond and some planks and a rope. It was the sort of combination that always attracted the Them, who never had much difficulty in finding all three.
The suspect was now green to the waist.
“It’s just like a seesaw,” she said. “Whee!”
“I’m going to go home unless I can have a go,” muttered Brother Brian. “Don’t see why evil witches should have all the fun.”
“It’s not allowed for inquisitors to be tortured too,” said the Chief Inquisitor sternly, but without much real feeling. It was a hot afternoon, the Inquisitorial robes of old sacking were scratchy and smelled of stale barley, and the pond looked astonishingly inviting.
“All right, all right,” he said, and turned to the suspect. “You’re a witch, all right, don’t do it again, and now you get off and let someone else have a turn. Oh lay,” he added.
“What happens now?” said Pepper’s sister.
Adam hesitated. Setting fire to her would probably cause no end of trouble, he reasoned. Besides, she was too soggy to burn.
He was also distantly aware that at some future point there would be