Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 100, Nos. 4 & 5. Whole Nos. 603 & 604, October 1992

He squealed with joy as the final course — pears and comfits, medlars and peeled nuts, hippocras and wafers — arrived.

When the meal was over they went out to show him the rat. “It isn’t very large,” he observed.

“No,” said Eugene, “and that made him all the harder to kill. He was quick and wily.”

As Alain was leaving, Eugene clapped him on the shoulder and said, “I’m glad you came by today.”

Denise hugged him and kissed his cheek, saying, “Come more often.”

He promised them he would and left determined to do something about the witches. It was not right that good people like the Latteurs should worry about the safety of their son.

It was partly youthful impatience, partly a feeling that if he delayed acting immediately, something awful might happen that he could have prevented, and partly a knowledge that if he let Mandeville get going on his tavern yarns, serious conversation might be impossible. For a combination of reasons, therefore, Alain set out to find Mandeville early the next morning.

Shortly after noon he found him at the house occupied by the notary, Jean d’Outremeuse. Mandeville was helping the latter fashion a chronicle of the life of Ogier de Danois. They had reached that point in collaboration where any interruption is welcomed, so Alain was greeted warmly.

His story about the witches produced two different results. Mandeville shared Alain’s view that they must take action. His friend shrank from the idea. “Only a great hero like Ogier could battle witches,” he said. “And even he would not attempt to do so unless they had worked great devastation. Let us instead go down to the Church of the Holy Cross and pray to be rescued from this evil.”

The notary dumped a lap full of verses into a chest and prepared to leave. Alain and Mandeville followed him, discussing plans for deeds of a more mundane sort.

An hour later Alain and Mandeville were alone in the latter’s room. “You’ve seen a few witches,” Mandeville said, “and I’ve seen more — mostly when they were being burned, of course. For the greater part they are old women without money or charm, completely powerless but willing to give anything, even their souls, for ability to control someone or something. Some are very young girls who cannot wait for life to bring them its fruits. All are easy victims of false promises made by others or imagined by themselves. It is ridiculous that people like Jean should tremble before them.”

“He is not the only one. How many men in Liege do you think will join us?”

“You have a point. And we ought not tell the whole city we plan to go after the coven. Do you think we could do it by ourselves?”

“I’m willing to try.”

“Good. We’ll see if we can get help from a few discreet people, then Friday we go witch hunting.”

With the decision made, reaction set in. It was all very well for Mandeville to picture witches as pitiful persons seeking some way to make their dull lives more interesting. But evil did exist.

Alain had seen Grimoria, books of black magic. He had read parts of them: bizarre and confused instructions of pointless ritual, garbled names, and extravagant claims of demonic results. He could reject the comical pictures of horned devils, of fanged furies, of naked women with talons and serpentine hair. But he could not cast off the sinister intent of the books. Evil might express itself poorly, but it existed. And out by the Spring of Beelzebub evil had hold of someone. Evil, or Satan himself, took control of human beings and drove them to diabolical actions.

Alain was silent, moodily pondering such thoughts as he walked with Mandeville to see the bishop and tell him of their plans. As they entered the episcopal palace, an elderly priest met and led them to the bishop’s chambers.

The bishop was delighted to see Sir John Mandeville. He was surprised to see Alain Schram and at first thought that the echevin had come on official business. He thawed a bit when he found that this was not so. Mandeville began to tell the bishop about the witches, only to find out that he was many weeks too late.

The bishop, a short sturdy man with a square head and a strong jaw, laughed before Mandeville had got well started. “My dear Sir John,” he interrupted, “are you just finding out about that outrage? The town has been talking about little else for over a month.” He pulled at his long beaklike nose with stubby fingers. Then he pounded a powerful fist into the palm of his other hand. Black hairs on the back of his fingers shook like antennae. “I have been preaching against those witches every Sunday. I won’t have witches in Liege!”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Mandeville replied. “Alain and I want to break up this little game, but since they are your witches...”

“They are not my witches!”

“Well, they are on your property. They meet out where the little shrine used to be. We thought we ought to get your permission to go after them, and perhaps your help.”