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‘Which is?’ inquired Mr Van DeVanter.

‘Cacophony.’

Isaac felt himself tense up again.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Catcher...?’

‘The thing that was seen at the church was neither daemonic nor a freak weather condition. It was an agent of Cacophony.’

Astonishingly, Mr Van DeVanter was nodding. ‘This Cacophony. Is it a Spanish agency, at all? Or is it Jewish?’

‘Cacophony is the force that seeks to plunge the human race into a dark age of superstition, Mr Van DeVanter,’

Catcher intoned. ‘There were two individuals seen entering the church before the "apparition" arrived. These are, I have it on good authority, diabolists in the service of Cacophony.’

‘Diabolists?’ squawked Mrs Wilson. ‘Are you suggesting, er, some form of Devil-worship?’

Catcher’s head cocked to one side, mechanically. He blinked with absolute precision and determination. ‘Ignorant terms,’ he announced.

Mrs Wilson blanched.

‘Then what do you suggest we do?’ asked Mr Wolcott.

‘Obviously, there is a risk of mass panic. Cacophony operates by spreading chaos throughout civilized society. We must be rational.’

‘Yes. Yes, that makes sense.’

‘The entire town must be taught to be rational. Especially now that... things... are about to change.’

Mr Wolcott coughed. ‘Taught in what way, exactly?’

‘The Renewal Society is an organization of sane, rational minds. It will thus be immune to the effects of the discord.

Therefore, the Society’s members should seek to spread their influence throughout the affected areas. A quite obvious, rational precaution to take.’

‘I’m not sure I understand what you’re suggesting,’

grumbled Mr Wolcott. ‘I mean, the town has its own watchmen ...’

‘They can hardly be expected to handle this kind of disturbance,’ cut in Mrs Wilson.

Catcher opened his mouth to agree – Isaac was sure he heard the man’s jaw click into place – when there was a heavy knock at the door. Other sounds could be heard from the corridor outside, murmurs and scrapings.

‘Enter,’ chirped Mrs Wilson. To Isaac’s surprise, two of the larger residents of Hazelrow Avenue entered the hall, followed by a third man with a makeshift club in his hand. Between them they carried the limp, soot-stained figure of a man, a white hat pulled over his face, a walking-cane stuffed into his belt. His suit was the kind of thing that might be fashionable in one of the less sensible nations of Europe.

‘Sir –’ one of the men began, addressing no one in particular.

‘The diabolist,’ said Catcher, quite calmly.

The word turned the room to ice. Everybody stared at the unconscious man in the cream suit.

The fire had been burning for so long that the flames had grown tired, becoming sick and listless in their old age. The Doctor frowned as the two guards (dressed in gleaming astronaut suits, which made a kind of sense) tied him to the stake, but the chambers of Hell smelt of burned toast, and the Inferno was as sticky as a bad nightclub.

‘I see you’ve gone for a hellfire-and-damnation motif,’ said the Doctor. ‘Very gauche. Personally, I prefer a more metaphysical Hell. Do you have anything with Daleks in it?’

At the far side of the cavern, the four judges shuffled excitedly behind their desks, searching their pockets for their black hats.

‘He’s a witch,’ said the twelfth-century warrior with the cross burned into his chest. ‘Burn him. Burn him and all of his little helpers.’

‘Sounds good to me,’ said the fat man in the toga sitting next to him. ‘Throw another violin on the fire, eh?’

‘Death by particle dissemination!’ croaked the Time Lady at his right hand. ‘Death by particle dissemination!’

The fourth judge just coughed and arbitrarily apologized about something.

The Doctor’s frown deepened by three microns. ‘Frankly, I don’t feel like wasting my breath arguing with any of you.

You’re all very dull and predictable, and I’d hoped for a better class of final inquisition.’

‘Ding-dong,’ said the machine as it strode confidently into the heart of Hell. ‘You called?’

‘Ah,’ said the Doctor. ‘Now might be a good time to raise