The Witches of Chiswick (17 page)

“Or a Holy Guardian sprout. Elvis Presley’s Holy Guardian sprout. Depends on what you choose to believe, I suppose.”

“I think I’ll remain unconvinced, if you don’t mind.”

“That’s fine with me, chief.”

“So, would you care to come out of my ear now?”

“All in good time, chief. After I’ve helped you out. Because by helping you out, I’ll also be helping me out. And I’ll be helping everybody out. You see my work here is not yet done. I might have forestalled the Nuclear Holocaust Event, but there’s big trouble in this day and age, which is why I’m here. I was on the job with Mr Rune, but now he’s gone, I’m on the job with you.”

“How very comforting,” said Will. “So with you to help me I can probably expect to end up the same way Rune did.”

“If he’d listened to me, he’d have never come to grief. That man was a law unto himself. He refused to take my advice.”

“Refused to stick you in his ear, you mean.”

“That’s part of it, perhaps.”

“Well I’ve had enough.” Will rose from the armchair and took himself over to the tantalus that stood upon the George III satinwood dresser. He poured scotch whisky into a crystal glass and sipped upon it. “If I can’t get rid of you,” he said, “then understand this. I have had enough of being a pawn in someone else’s game. From now on I’m going to do things my way.”

“Oh dear,” muttered Barry.

“What was that?”

“I said, ‘Oh
cheer
’. Three cheers for you.”

“Right,” said Will. “I’m going to be running this show from now on. We will be doing things my way. And, when I’m done, you can take me back to my own time,
like you promised
. And then you go your own way. Are we agreed on this?”

“I want what you want,” said Barry. “More than you know.”

Will finished his scotch and poured himself another. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he said. “And I’ll do it without your help.”

“But chief.”

“If I need your help I’ll ask for it.”

“Be hearing from you soon then, chief.”

“What was that, Barry?”

“Nothing, chief.”

Will dressed in the smart new clothes that Barry had acquired for him.

“I hope you didn’t pay for these,” Will said.

“Certainly not, chief. Opened an account for you with one of Mr Rune’s tailors. They were happy to offer credit to Lord Peter Whimsy.”

“Who?” Will asked.

“Makes a change from ‘what’,” said Barry. “It’s an alias. Tradespeople are always willing to offer credit to toffs, you know that. And anyway, I didn’t think you’d want to give your real name. You wouldn’t want any more of those knocks at the door from the black-eyed smelly clockwork chap with the deeply-timbred Germanic accent, would you?”

“Certainly not.” Will admired his suit and matching cap. “And Boleskine tweed. I always rather envied Rune’s suit.”

“I know you did, chief.”

“Hmm,” went Will. “And so to work. I have the map of Whitechapel, so all I need is the …
damn
!”

“The
damn
? Chief?”

“The case notes. Damn. I left them behind when I threw myself out of the window.”

“No probs, chief. I knew you’d need them. I had you sneak back and pick them up. They’re over there on the Louis XVI mahogany desk.”

“You were very busy with my body, weren’t you?”

“All in a good cause, chief. Your interests at heart.”

“Well, let’s have a look at them.” Will gathered up the notes and the map, sat himself down at the Louis XVI mahogany desk, took the fountain pen from his top pocket (“thought you’d need a pen too, chief”) and set about studying.

And so Will studied. He studied the map and the case notes. He also studied what files he had contained within his palm-top. And he studied his fingers, and then the ceiling and then the floor.

“How’s all the studying coming on?” Barry asked him, at length.

“Fine, thanks,” said Will. And he studied the bottom of his glass.

“Might I make a suggestion, chief?”

“No, Barry, you may not.”

“No probs, chief, you study on, then. Study the curtains, if you feel it might help.”

“Please don’t interrupt me; I’m thinking.”

“So sorry, chief. Don’t wish to interfere with your thinking. They’re nice curtains though, aren’t they?”

“Splendid,” said Will. “But it’s not helping. Just be quiet and let me ponder over this. There have to be clues here. There has to be something.”

“They
are
nice curtains,” said Barry. “Nice pattern.”

“Something obvious,” said Will.

“Very nice
pattern
,” said Barry.

“Something staring me right in the face.”

“Extremely nice
pattern
.”

“Like a—”

“Pattern, chief?”

“Hold on,” said Will, and he studied the map once more. He marked the sites of the five original murders and then he searched for—

“There’s a twelve-inch rule in the drawer, chief.”

Will opened the drawer and took out the rule. And then he worked away at the map. And then—

“Aha!” went Will.

“Aha, chief? What is aha?”

“I’ve found it,” said Will.

“You have, chief. What have you found?”

“A pattern,” said Will. “I’ve found a pattern.”

And it
was
a pattern. And so it is to this very day. Simply join the dots, as it were, and see what you will see.

“A star,” said Will. “A five-pointed star.”

“A pentagram,” said Barry. “An inverted pentagram.”

“Significant, eh, Barry?”

“Highly, chief. Well done for coming up with it all on your own.”

“And the site of Rune’s murder.” Will marked the spot. “It’s outside the pentagram. I wonder—” He drew further lines.

“What are you doing now, chief?” Barry asked.

“Just a hunch. According to the police report, which I managed to acquire a copy of, Rune was pursued for some distance before his murderer caught up with him and did the evil deed. I’m tracing his route; he travelled along here and then there, and then here. What do you make of that?”

“That he had more puff in him than I’d have given him credit for.”

“No,” said Will. “Not that. He wasn’t running in the direction of our lodgings. Although he could have done. So what was he running towards?”

“A police station, chief?”

“No, he passed one, here.” Will drew a line upon the map, from the centre of the pentagram to the site of Rune’s murder. “He was always running northeast. Why would he do that, was he trying to tell us something? What I really need is—”

“A map of Greater London, chief? There’s one in the drawer.”

“Thank you.” Will took out the map of Greater London and spread it across the desk. He redrew the line and extended it. “Well, well, well,” said Will. “What do you make of that Barry?”

“What exactly should I make of it, chief?”

“See where the line goes to?”

“Well, I do chief, but I don’t quite see—”

“Buckingham Palace,” said Will.

“Well, yes, chief, it does, but if you carry the line on, I think you’ll find—”

“Buckingham Palace,” said Will once again. “And there’s enough stuff written to suggest that there was some kind of scandal involving a member of the Royal household. A child born out of wedlock to a prostitute, that sort of business, and—”

“If you extend the line, chief, I think you’ll find it leads to—”

“Perhaps that’s what Rune was trying to tell us, Barry. That’s why he ran in that direction.”

“No, chief. I’m sure that—”

“Stop it, Barry.”

“But chief.”

“Barry, just stop it. You’re simply miffed because I found this out without your help.”

“As if you did, you—”

“We’ll take a cab straight over there, ask a few questions.”

“An omnibus would be cheaper.”

“An omnibus it is then.”

“The number 39 goes that way, chief. And then it continues in a northeasterly direction, the same direction as the line on the map, until it terminates at
Chiswick
.”

“A number 39 it is then.”

“Terminates at
Chiswick
, chief.
Chiswick
.”

“A number 39 it is then.”

“To
Chiswick
, chief?”

“To Buckingham Palace.”

“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.”

Will settled himself into a front seat on the open upper deck of the Chiswick omnibus. The bus was a three-storey vehicle, electrically powered.

Ground floor, first class, with cocktail lounge, served by a cocktail waiter.

Second floor, middle class, with lounge bar, served by a suited barman.

Third floor, working class, with a pile of beer crates in one corner, booze by the bottle, served by a toothless hag.

“Care for a pint of old Willydribbler, dearie?” enquired this hag, leaning over Will’s shoulder and showering him with flecks of jellied eel.

“No thanks, missus,” said Will. “Have to keep a clear head, off to see the Queen, you know.”

“We’ll forget all about those two large scotches you had back at the Dorchester shall we, chief?”

“Silence, Barry.”

“What’s that, dearie?”

“I said nothing, thank you.”

The hag shuffled off to serve a party of Japanese sightseers.

And Will took in the sights and sounds of London. The bus was travelling slowly down the Strand and Will looked out upon the swank storefronts.

There was Mr Dickens’ famous Old Curiosity Shop. And there was Woolworths, the Kwik Fit Fitter, and there was the Little Shop of Horrors. And there was a Babbage superstore, with a range of automata displayed in its front window; many different varieties, none of which were black-eyed and monstrous. And there was the Electric Alhambra, where Little Tich was topping the bill and performing his ever popular Big B …

“Fine view,” said the man on the seat next to Will.

“It certainly is,” said Will.

“And how would you know that?” asked the man. “I haven’t given it to you yet.”

“Pardon me,” said Will. “I don’t think I quite understand you.”

“Ignore him, chief: ‘nutter on the bus’. There’s always one. It’s a tradition, or an old charter, or something.”

“Silence, Barry.”

“And my name isn’t Barry,” said the man.

Will glanced at the man. He was an average-looking man: average height (even when sitting down), average weight, average face, averagely dressed. He raised his average hat to Will.

“I’m The Man,” said he.

“Really?” said Will, and he addressed his attention once more to the scenery.

“The Man,” said The Man once more. “
The
Man.”

“I’m sorry,” said Will, “but I really don’t understand. And I’d prefer to be alone with my thoughts at the moment, if you don’t mind.”

“You can’t let an opportunity like this slip by,” said The Man. “Not when you meet The Man.”

“The Man?” asked Will.

“The Man on the Clapham Omnibus,” said The Man. “Don’t say that you’ve never heard of me.”

“Fair enough,” said Will. “I won’t.”

“The Man on the Clapham Omnibus,” said The Man. “It’s me, it’s really me.”

“But this is the Chiswick omnibus.”

“It started off at Clapham,” said The Man. “And to Clapham it will return. With me on board. As I have been now for more than thirty years.”

Will raised an eyebrow beneath his tweedy cap. “Why?” he enquired.

“Vox pop,” said The Man. “I am the voice of the people. I
am
public opinion. When I’m not on the bus, do you know what I am?”

Will shook his head.

“I’m The Man in the Street,” said The Man. “Same fella, it’s me.”

“Very pleased to meet you.” Will now found his hand being shaken.

“So go on. Ask my opinion. Ask for my fine view.”

“About what?” Will wrenched back his hand and crammed it into his pocket.

“Anything you like, and I’ll give you my uninformed opinion.”

“But why would I want to have it?”

“Was that your first question?”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“So why did you ask it?”

“Would you please be quiet?” asked Will.

“Was
that
your first question?”

Will sighed. Deeply. “Sir,” said he. “I must inform you that I am a master of Dimac, the deadliest form of martial art in the world. I was personally trained by Mr Hugo Rune.”

“Gawd rest his Dover sole,” said The Man, “scoundrel that he was. Or loveable rogue, if you prefer. Although he was a toff and toffs ain’t worth the time it takes to wipe your arse with a copy of
The Times
. In my opinion.”

“I didn’t actually ask for your opinion,” said Will.

“I don’t always have to be asked. I give my opinions freely. There’s no charge, although a small gratuity is never refused.”

“As I was saying,” said Will, “about the Dimac. My hands and feet are deadly weapons. With little more than a fingertip’s touch I could disable and disfigure you. So please, as the popular parlance goes, put a sock in it!”

“How about a tour then?”

“I’m on my way to Buckingham Palace.”

“Me too. Well, passing by there. But I could give you a talking tour on the way. Point out places of interest, tell you all about this wonderful city. You ain’t no Londoner, is you?”

“Actually, I’m from Brentford,” said Will.

“Ah,” said The Man. “Wonderful place. Believed to be the actual site of the biblical Garden of Eden.”

Will shook his head. A swooping pigeon laid a dropping on his cap.

“Damn!” said Will.

“That’s good luck,” said The Man.

“Good luck?”

“Good luck it hit you and not me.”

Will took off his cap and wiped its top beneath his seat.

“To your right,” said The Man, “Trafalgar Square.”

“I’ve been to Trafalgar Square before,” said Will.

“Know all the statues, then?”

“Well, no. No, I don’t.”

“Then let me introduce you.” The Man pointed. “We are now passing the statue of Lord Palmerston, who will be remembered for his cheese.”

“That’s Parmesan,” said Will.

“And there you see the statue of Lord Babbage, great genius of our age. Without him the British Empire wouldn’t be what it is.”

“And what is it?” Will asked.

“Spreading all the time, across the world and upwards. The British Empire will continue to expand until it encompasses the entire globe, before moving on to the stars.” The Man pointed upwards. “Tomorrow the moon; the next fortnight, the stars.”

“Tomorrow the moon?” said Will.

“Well, not actually tomorrow; the launching is in a few days’ time, but you know what I mean,” said The Man.

“To the
moon
?”

“Where have you been, mate? Don’t you ever read the news or listen to the wireless?”

“Well,” said Will. “I haven’t much, actually, though I really should do, I suppose.”

“Well, we have Lord Babbage to thank for it all. With the help of Mr Tesla. That’s his statue there, by the way. Though he’s a Johnny foreigner, so we don’t care much for him.”

“A lunar flight,” Will mulled this over. Jules Verne had written about that. So had H.G. Wells. Fact, not fiction.

“I was there when they launched Her Majesty’s Electric Airship
Dreadnaught
,” said The Man. “Took a day off being The Man on the Clapham Omnibus or The Man in the Street and became A Face in the Crowd. Made a change. And spectacular it was. And I saw the assassination attempt and how Captain Ernest Starling of The Queen’s Own Electric Fusiliers bravely gave up his life to save Her Majesty the Queen, Gawd bless her. We just passed his statue in Trafalgar Square too. Posthumously knighted, he was, which makes him
Sir
Captain Ernest Starling, I suppose.”

“What?” went Will. “
What
?”

And memories once more returned to him, of his noble ancestor,
and
of his noble ancestor’s meeting, in the waiting room of Brentford station with a certain Hugo Rune, now also dead and gone.

“I remember that.” Will buried his face in his hands.

“Easy now, chief,” said Barry.

“Shut up!” cried Will.

“Sorry,” said The Man. “What did I say?”

“Nothing,” said Will. “Nothing. Captain Ernest Starling. He was my—” Will paused.

“Not your daddy?” said The Man. “Gordon Bennett’s old brown trousers! I should have spotted the resemblance. You’re the dead spit. Blimey, it’s a pleasure to meet you and shake your hand.” The Man dragged Will’s right hand from his face and shook it warmly.

The driver’s voice came over the omnibus speaker system.

“Buck House,” said the driver’s voice. “Toffs off, if you please.”

“I have to go,” said Will, rising. “But thank you very much. It’s been a pleasure talking to you.”

“Any chance of a gratuity?” The Man stuck his hand out.

“Certainly,” said Will and he dug into his pocket and brought out a silver threepenny bit.

“Your generosity is only exceeded by your personal charm and good looks,” said The Man, accepting the coin and trousering it.

“Thank you,” and Will took his leave.

“Ugly sod,” The Man called after him.

And so Will found himself standing outside the gates of Buckingham Palace. Buckingham Palace looked pretty much as Buckingham Palace has always looked and probably always will look, but for the occasional difference in the colour of the railings. This season’s colour was presently black, because black was always the new black as far as Queen Victoria was concerned.

“So now we’re here, chief, what do you propose to do?”

“Go inside,” said Will. “Search for clues.”

“You’re on a total wrong’n, chief.”

“I’m doing this my way, Barry.”

“They’ll never let you in, chief. You’re a commoner.”

“You don’t think I can pass myself off as Lord Peter Whimsy?”

“No,” said Barry. “I don’t.”

They were changing the guard at Buckingham Palace. A young lad was peering through the railings. His name was Christopher Robin. He’d come down with his nurse called Alice to watch them go through their changes.

Will marched past the young lad and approached the newly changed guard.

“I’d like to see the Queen please,” said Will.

“Hold on a mo.” The guard fiddled with his suspender belt. “I’m not quite changed yet,” he said.

Will looked on in amazement.

“Dyslectic clerk,” said Barry. “At the Ministry of Defence. The regiment was supposed to be called The Queen’s Own Home Foot Regiment, but he put it down as The Queen’s Own Cross-dressing Nancy-Boy Shirt-lifting Fusiliers. Easy mistake to make if you’re a dyslexic, I suppose.”

“That’s not funny and it’s not clever, Barry.”

“You’re right there,” said the guard. “And how did you know my name was Barry?”

“Lucky guess?” said Will.

“Amazing,” said the guard, now done with his adjustments and smoothing down his corset. “So bugger off, will ya?”

“I’m here to see Her Majesty, Gawd bless Her,” said Will. “It’s very important.”

“It always is.” The guard took various items from his handbag and began to powder his nose.

“I have to see Her Majesty
now
.”

“Ooooooo,” went the guard. “Get her. Mince off, will ya? Ya can’t come in.”

“Please tell Her Majesty I’m here,” said Will.

“You’re wasting your time, chief.”

“Keep out of this, Barry.”

“It’s not my job to keep out of it,” said the guard. “It’s my job to keep riff-raff like you out. Although if you’d care to hang about, we might go for a drink later. I know a little club in Soho, the Brown Hatters. I might treat you to a cocktail.”

“Give it up, chief, you’re beaten.”

“I’m not,” Will whispered. And then he said. “Very well done, guard. I will commend your vigilance to Her Majesty. And now you can let me through the gates. I am William Starling, son of Sir Ernest Starling of The Queen’s Own Electric Fusiliers who valiantly gave up his own life to save Her Majesty from the assassin at the launching of the
Dreadnaught
.”

The guard stared at Will. And then he blinked and stared again. And then he put away his make-up and said, “Bugger off”

“What?” said Will.

“Only joking,” said the guard. “Recognised you immediately.”

“No you didn’t,” said Will.

“Do you want to go inside, or what?”

“I do,” said Will.

“Then do.”

“So what now?” asked Barry, as Will marched across the parade ground and up to the big front door. “This is such a waste of time.”

“I’m doing it my way, Barry. And I’ll thank you to keep out of it. The Queen has her own special surgeon, does she not?”

“Of course she does, chief. Sir Frederick Treves.”

“Do you think he owns a pair of very long tweezers?”

“Sure to, chief.”

“Think about it, Barry.”

“Ah yes, chief, I get you. I’ll just keep quiet then.”

Will knocked upon the big front door. After no great length of time, a liveried automaton of the stylish and non-threatening persuasion opened it. Will stared at the liveried automaton.

“You’re all covered in liver,” said Will.

“And?” the automaton enquired.

“Oh I see,” said Will. “Dyslectic clerk at the Ministry of Defence?”

“No,” said the automaton. “Fancy-dress ball.”

“Right,” said Will. “Well, I am William Starling, son of the late Sir Captain Ernest Starling, who nobly laid down his life for Queen and country. I’m sure you know the one.”

“I do,” said the liveried automaton. “But why are you not in fancy dress?”

“But I am.” Will did a kind of a twirl. “Can’t you guess what I’ve come as?”

The liveried automaton cocked his head upon one side and viewed the uninvited guest. “Ah yes,” said he. “Most subtle, most amusing. Do come inside.”

“Ludicrous,” said Barry.

“Tweezers,” whispered Will.

“I think I’ll take a nap now,” said the sprout.

The interior of Buckingham Palace was something to behold. Will beheld it and whistled.

It had been designed by Sir Joshua Sloane, who would later be remembered for his Rangers. He’d done Buck House in the “Palace Style”, very heavy on the gold leaf and the chandeliers and the statuary and the plush fitted carpets, not to mention the ormolu-mounted kingwood and marquetry commodes, with the blind fret-carved friezes, flanking broken scroll pediments ornamented with gold japanned paterae and fluted balusters, rendered in the style of Thomas Chippendale (who, with the aid of his brothers, would later find fame for dancing about in front of drunken young women and whipping out his todger [nice work if you can get it!]).