‘Interesting cars, these. So practical.’ He eyed her pink jeans appreciatively. Indicating his own dark suit and clerical collar, he added: ‘I’m in uniform, I’m afraid. Sunday, you know.’
‘You’re sure you’ve caught one of our giants?’
‘Judge for yourself. It’s still in the trap.’ His eyes twinkled and he took her arm as he led her round the side of the house to the back garden. ‘It fits all the detail you supplied, so your observation was obviously accurate. But I thought I’d wait till you got here before taking it out.’
‘And it’s alive?’
‘Of course.’
‘Just one of them?’
‘Just one.’
The trap amounted to a deep circular dish made of some dark material together with a Perspex, cone-shaped lid through which a section of the giant moth’s wings was visible, revealing the scarlet and purple eye-shaped markings. In the centre of the lid was a hollow in which the mercury vapour bulb was inserted, with an electric cable leading down over the exterior.
‘I heard on my radio something of what happened in your village yesterday, and I telephoned a few people to see if I could help, though by then it was too late,’ he began to explain before touching the trap. ‘Then Dr Rendell this morning was able to fill in a few details. I can hardly tell you how distressed I was.’
‘There really was no way you could have helped,’ she told him gently.
‘Oh, I realise I’m not young any longer, but I think I do understand something about moths. What Dr Rendell described is quite outside my experience. They’re normally such harmless creatures. I’ve never known a moth to hurt anybody.’
‘But these do.’
‘And we must respect that,’ he nodded. ‘Which is why we’re going to be particularly careful in taking this one out. If I’ve understood rightly, they spit a defensive fluid at people.’
‘They spit, yes. Whether defensive or offensive depends on your viewpoint.’
‘I expect it does, my dear. Either way we must watch our eyes.’
From the garden shed he produced two pairs of safety goggles and an old anorak for her to slip over her blouse. For himself he found a paint-stained overall coat which he changed into, leaving his jacket hanging on a nail, then slung a faded college scarf around his mouth and nose.
‘I’d advise you to stand well back while I’m doing this,’ he said when they had returned to the trap. ‘One can never tell when things go wrong.’
Cautiously he went down on one knee in front of the trap. In his left hand he held a large butterfly net; with his right he removed the transparent Perspex cover. The giant moth remained motionless, gorgeous to look at, while he held the net ready to prevent it flying off. He stretched his hand slowly underneath it ready to grip its tubby body.
Then suddenly the moth set up an alarmed fluttering, attempting to escape, its wings becoming ever more agitated as it felt the net restraining it. And it spat: directly at the Reverend Davidson’s face.
‘There!’ he exclaimed in triumph, pulling off his goggles and stripping the college scarf away from his face. ‘Now we’ve got it!’
He held up the net. The giant moth’s struggles were already diminishing as it accepted its fate. Its saliva had been accurately aimed, splashing across the scarf and goggles.
‘Won’t it spit again?’ Ginny asked anxiously, not wishing to get too close to it even now.
‘For the time being I imagine it’s expended its poison, though it’ll be busy making a new lot. That should give us long enough to take a look at it. Let’s go into the house.’
Out of curiosity she crouched down for a moment to take a closer look at the trap. Inside the bowl-shaped base he had placed torn sections of supermarket egg-boxes and four or five other moths — small ones mostly, no larger than a couple of postage stamps — were peacefully dozing in the indentations. Other insects were in there too, crawling aimlessly about.
He was waiting for her, so she ran over the grass to catch up. It amazed her, after the hectic days of her television job when there had never been a moment to think, that he could have lived here quietly year after year and actually been paid for doing it.
‘Let’s go to the work station, my dear,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘I’ve prepared a cage for our friend here — something a little larger than usual, though it’ll still be a bit cramping. Have you decided what you want to do with him?’
‘Is it a “he”?’
‘We’ll see if we can find out.’
Once in the work station — his name, she remembered, for the large back room he used as a laboratory — he fished inside the net and carefully extracted the giant moth, holding it by the body between fingers and thumb. Ginny’s mouth went dry as he invited her to take a closer look at it.
‘Nothing to be afraid of, my dear.’
‘Don’t be so sure!’ she said, swallowing.
‘I want to show you the antennae. In a butterfly these would be smooth with a slight swelling at the ends, but in this moth you can see they’re like feathers. It’s a beautiful example, don’t you think?’
‘Yes,’ she tried to agree with him. Yet when they had first met only a few months ago she’d have been so enthusiastic, she thought. Now she wished he’d put the thing away, and quickly.
Instead, gripping the moth with his left hand, he took hold of a slight protuberance with his right and gradually unwound it, showing it to be a slim, thread-like tentacle a couple of inches long.
‘Know what this is?’
‘No.’ Again she swallowed. ‘Please — is it safe?’
‘Oh yes! I hope.’ He grinned at her, an old man’s impish grin, knowing he was taking a risk. ‘This is the proboscis. He can poke this down inside a flower, or even into a honeycomb, and suck up his food. And I think I told you this is what produces the whistling sound. Now — sex. Mmm.’
Outside, a car drove up and a horn sounded to announce its arrival. The Reverend Davidson glanced at Ginny with a resigned, half-annoyed look on his face. He carried the moth over to a large glass aquarium tank on the laboratory bench and dropped it inside, immediately covering it with a rectangle of double netting held in place by a draw-string.
‘Only temporary,’ he explained apologetically. ‘Now I wonder who our visitor can be? I do hope it’s not the men from the County Council again.’
Through the window she caught a glimpse of Jeff Pringle. He obviously knew his way around and had come down the side of the vicarage, thinking to find the Reverend Davidson in the garden.
‘You there, padre?’ he called out.
‘I’m sorry,’ Ginny apologised hastily. ‘I left a message telling Jeff I was here.’
‘We are old acquaintances,’ the old man said drily. ‘I suppose I’d better let him in. No doubt he will be interested in our prisoner.’
Jeff was brisk and businesslike. He greeted Ginny and stooped to view the giant moth through the glass, remarking how useful it was to have a live one to supply to the university. Then he straightened up and suggested they should go into the living room where he could spread things out on the large table.
‘You’ve heard about the attacks last night?’ he asked Ginny as they went through. ‘I spent a couple of hours with the Chief Constable — he’s a member of the Flying Club, so we see quite a bit of each other — and he’s been in touch with both the Min of Ag and the Home Office. We’re going to need your cooperation too, padre. As a naturalist you’ll be more used to recognising insect behaviour patterns.’
The Reverend Davidson cleared away his books and papers from the living room table to enable Jeff to spread out his map. It showed the whole of Surrey with the edges spreading into neighbouring counties. On it he had drawn crosses and circles in various colours.