The Witches of Chiswick (34 page)

“A computer room,” said Will, now inside the computer room.

“A computer room,” said Tim, now also inside the computer room.

“A computer room,” said Gammon, now entering the computer room. “Haven’t either of you ever seen a computer room before?”

“Well, yes,” said Will, seating himself in a steel swivel chair upholstered in royal blue leather, “but not in this day and age.”

“But surely anyone who is anyone has a Babbage nowadays? There’s one in every well-to-do household. And these are the top of the range. The 1900 series.”

Will did big shruggings. “I’ve never seen anything like these,” he said, and he ran his fingers lightly over the keyboard of the nearest computer. It was of the manual typewriter persuasion, wired to a magnificent brass-bound processor bustling with valves. The monitor screen was set into a mahogany cabinet. The mouse was a silver pentacle.

Tim sat down upon another chair and faced another keyboard. “I’m definitely loving
this
,” he said.

“Five computers,” said Gammon. “Macro processor, Babbage 1900s, linked to the Information Super Side Street: the Empire-net. My knowledge of such matters is great, although not so great as it yet might become.”

“Just one thing,” said Tim. “And don’t get me wrong, I
am
loving this, but I definitely recall something about icons and hacking weapons and magical accoutrements.”

“Computer terms, sir,” Gammon stepped forward, tapped at the keyboard. The screen before Tim lit up. “Those are icons,” he said, and he pointed.

“Okay,” said Tim. “I know what a computer icon is.”

“Splendid, sir, and—”

“Ah,” said Tim. “Hacking weapons, as in computer hackers?”

“Sir
does
know about computers.”

“And the magical accoutrements?”

“Has sir never heard the phrase, ‘the magic of technology’?”

“He has you by the short and curlies there,” said Will.

“Hardly an expression you’d normally use.” Tim raised an eyebrow beneath his hair. Will raised one beneath
his
.

Tim tapped at a key or two.

“If you’d allow
me
, sir,” said Gammon, leaning over his shoulder and breathing upon him that particular variety of halitosis which is the exclusive preserve of the elderly, “I’ll put us online.”

“Online,” said Tim fanning at his nose. “How cool is this?”

“I’ve been working on my own household page,” said Gammon.

“
Home
page,” said Tim.

“Household page,” said Gammon. “Ten thousand things you’ve always wanted to know about Gammon, but were always too polite to ask. I’m up to five now.”

“Five
thousand
?”

“No,
five
, sir. Do you think your question merits number six?”

Tim shook his head.

“Is there a Hugo Rune home page?” Will asked.

“Indeed, sir. The Master was always adding to his pages. Many pages, many, many pages; many, many, many—”

“I get the picture,” said Will. “Might we see it?”

“Restricted access only, sir. Perhaps, when you have completed your intensive training.”

“This really isn’t helping.” Will swivelled about on his chair. “It’s all very impressive, if somewhat unlikely, but what is the point? How is this going to help with me getting the job jobbed?”

“As I said to you, sir, you are dealing with modern witches. Thoroughly modern witches. These witches do not prepare their magic spells with toad’s blood and bubbling cauldrons. They do it through computers.”

“They never do?” said Tim. “Not in this day and age, surely.”

“Hold on,” said Will. “Are you implying that they do in
ours
?”

Tim shrugged. “I’ve heard rumours. Magic is a very precise science. If spells really work, they can only be made to do so by casting them correctly: pronouncing every syllable with absolute exactness, the precise intonation, accent, everything. A syllable wrong and the whole thing goes bum upwards. Spells are a formula to bend and mould space. You can’t just read them from the paper; that will never work.”

“I have found no evidence to support the theory that spells
do
work,” said Will. “I’ve read a lot of books on the subject.
A lot
. But I have no tangible proof.”

“They work,” said Gammon. “Magic works, I can assure you of that. In nearly two hundred years of service with the Master, I have witnessed many inexplicable things and I have observed the power of magic. Mr Tim is correct; the secret lies in the technique, in the precision. This precision can be achieved by programming a computer to so achieve it.”

“And that is what you intend to train me to do?”

“No, sir. The Master’s intention was to hack into the witches’ computer network. Allow me to show you.” And he leaned once more over Tim’s shoulder, breathing further halitosis.

“Impressive,” said Tim, fanning once more at his nose.

“You’ll have to pardon my slowness, sir. My fingers are not as young as they were.”

“Nor as old as they yet will be.”

“Please don’t take the piss, sir.”

“Sorry,” said Tim.

Tim’s screen lit up with a sepia display. It had much of the look of an embroidered cushion cover to it. A central inverted pentagram, with goat’s head motif, was encircled by lettering and surrounded by four skeletons holding handbags.

Will peered at it and read the letters. “The Chiswick Townswomen’s Guild,” said he. “If it’s really a coven of witches, surely the inverted pentagram and the goat’s head are a bit of a giveaway.”

“This is a
restricted
site, sir. The Master hacked into it.”

“I see.” Will saw. “So what is on this restricted site?”

“Absolutely no idea, sir. This is as far as the Master got. He was never very comfortable with computers. His fingers were rather large for the keyboard.”

Will laughed. “He’d have been at home in our age,” said he. “Big fat keypads.”

“Hang about here,” said Tim. “This all makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“Does it?” asked Will.

“Of course it does,” said Tim. “Rune wanted his magical heir to continue with his work. And that’s me, right?”

Will nodded.

“And why did he need his magical heir? Don’t say anything, I’ll tell you. Because in the time we come from computers are far more advanced than this. And what am
I
, Rune’s magical heir, skilled at? Computers, that’s what.”

“So am I,” said Will.

“You’re rubbish,” said Tim. “All those books you downloaded into your palm-top from the British Library. You’d never have got away with that if I hadn’t hacked into their system and covered up for you.”

“You never told me,” said Will.

“I’m your friend,” said Tim. “I did it because I didn’t want you getting into trouble. We were like brothers. That was before I knew we
were
brothers. But the point is, Rune couldn’t hack into the witches’ system. Perhaps no one in this age could. But
I
could. It would be as easy as can be.”

“So why did he cart me around the world for a year?”

Gammon affected a knowing smile. “Everything the Master did, he did for a reason. Everything he taught you, he taught you for a reason. Everything you have learned, you have learned for a reason. Everything—”

“All right,” said Will. “Stop now.”

“The two of you are here together now,” said Gammon. “Reason enough, I believe.”

“Right then,” said Tim and he interlocked his fingers and made cracking sounds with them. “Let’s have a hack at these witches.”

Will shrugged towards Gammon. “This will probably take
some
time,” he said. “Would you care to show me your household page?”

“
Home
page,” said Gammon. “I like the sound of Mr Tim’s suggestion. I’ll put it to my chums next time I’m in the cyber restaurant.”

“Café,” said Will. “You can have that one on me.”

“Café restaurant?” said Gammon. “I don’t think that scans, as our colonial cousins might say.”

“Show me your home page,” said Will.

And Gammon showed Will his home page.

And it was really, really dull.

“Why is your favourite colour
puce
?” Will asked.

“It’s not
really
,” said Gammon. “I only put that to make myself sound more exciting.”

“It’s
black
, really, isn’t it?”

Gammon nodded gloomily. “You’ve seen the future,” said he. “Tell me that one day black will
not
be the new black.”

“In the nineteen eighties it’s
grey
,” said Will.

“That’s not much of a consolation.”

“Things are likely to change.”

“Eureka!” cried Tim.

“Already?” cried Will.

“No,” said Tim. “Just thought I’d get you going.”

“Fact number three,” said Gammon. “Favourite song.”

“Let me guess,” said Will. “Little Tich’s ever-popular Big Boot Dance.”

“How ever did you know?”

“It’s a gift,” said Will. “No doubt inherited from Hugo Rune.”

“Would you care for a go at fact four? Favourite present British monarch?”

Will stroked at his magnificent beard. “Would you care to give me a clue?” he asked.

Fact five, that Gammon’s favourite employer was one Hugo Rune, had as much surprise about it as a
Blue Peter
presenter’s cocaine habit.

“Eureka!” cried Tim once again.

This time Will ignored him.

“No,
really
. Eureka,” said Tim. “I’ve cracked it. We’re in.”

“Oh,” said Will and he wheeled his chair upon its castered feet in Tim’s direction.

“Ingenious encryption,” said Tim. “Based upon the Kabbalah.”

“I’ve read the Kabbalah,” said Will. “Couldn’t make any sense of it though.”

“Not many can,” said Tim. “It’s purposely obscure and designed to confuse. But it’s not actually an occult work at all; it’s a cookery book. The entry code to the witches’ restricted computer files is a recipe for plum jam.”

“I’d have got it eventually,” said Will.

“You wouldn’t,” said Tim. “But here it all is. Care for a look?”

“Indeed.” Gammon now leaned over Will’s shoulder, favouring him with his dire breath. Gammon viewed the screen.

It was covered in little icons, in the shape of bats and pumpkins, cauldrons and black cats, and broomsticks. Below each of these were little titles:
My incantations. My book of shadows. My favourite curses. My wart charms
. And so on and so forth, and not very funny at all.

“Cool,” said Tim. “What shall we go for?”

“If I might make a suggestion,” said Gammon. “Select
My World Domination Proposal
”

“Good choice that,” said Tim and he moved the silver star-shaped mouse.

MY WORLD DOMINATION PROPOSAL

Tim read, and then he paused before reading further. “I can’t read this,” he said.

Will peered at the screen. “It’s Latin. I can read it.”

“Then please do.”

Will read it.

“Out loud,” said Tim.

Will read it out loud.

“Translated into English,” said Tim.

Will translated it into English.

“That’s incredible,” said Tim.

“It is,” said Will.

“Could you explain it to me?” said Gammon. “My English isn’t all that good.”

Will sighed. “What it says is this—” he said.

“It says here,” said a pinch-faced woman, who sat at a computer screen not at all dissimilar to the one that Tim and Will now sat at, “that someone is hacking into our restricted files.”

Another pinch-faced woman leaned over her shoulder. The breath of this pinch-faced woman made Gammon’s smell like fresh-baked bread by comparison.

“Locate the intruder,” said the smelly-breathed one.

The seated pinch-face tapped away at her keyboard. “The Butt’s Estate, Brentford,” said she. “See the street plan. That house right there.”

“Call up the land registry,” said she of the smelly breath. “Let us see who owns this house.”

“Won’t take a moment.” The sitter tapped further keys. “Aha,” cackled she. “According to this, the owner-occupier is one Hugo Rune.”

“Rune.” The smelly-breather spat out the name, as one might spit out a maggot from a Granny Smith. “Our would-be nemesis from the future must be at Rune’s manse. We will deal with this directly.”

And with that said, she picked up a telephone receiver, cunningly fashioned into a facsimile of a stallion’s plonker, and dialled out a three-digit number.

Somewhere another telephone rang and another receiver was lifted. And then a dark voice, a sinister voice; a darkly sinister voice said, “Count Otto Black.”

“Your Highness,” said she whose breath smelled none too sweet. “Our enemy has hacked into our restricted files.”

“And there you have it,” said Will to Gammon.

“I almost do,” said Gammon. “Explain the last part again.”

“The witches have formulated a spell,” said Tim. “Using their computer system. They intend to employ it on the last day of this year, when the clock strikes midnight.”

“The witching hour,” said Gammon.

“Exactly. What would be more appropriate?”

“This spell will infect every piece of Victorian electro technology, anything linked to the Tesla broadcast power system. Everything. It will destroy
everything
. Wipe it out as if it had never existed. Every Tesla transmission tower. Every wonder created by Lord Babbage. Everything. Effectively erase it all from history. It’s a very serious spell. The most serious and potent spell ever formulated, in my opinion.”

“The stroke of midnight,” said Gammon. “On the last night of the year.”

“The last night
of this
year,” said Will. “This year 1899. It’s what we might call a Millennium Bug.”

“Surely, sir,” said Gammon. “It would be a Centennial Bug, not a Millennium Bug. The Millennium is not due for another hundred years.”

“Millennium Bug sounds much more dramatic,” said Will.

“Yes, sir, but it is technically incorrect.”

“Just leave it,” said Will.

“As you wish, sir. And so, can Mr Tim disable this Millennium Bug?”

“Of course.” Tim plucked at his beard. “Given time, but I doubt very much whether it’s even programmed into their system yet. If it were me, I’d leave it until the very last minute before programming it in, in case there was someone like me thinking to sabotage it.”

“Surely you’d want to test it,” said Will. “To make sure that it worked.”

Tim shook his head. “This is a bit different from your everyday computer virus,” he said. “If it involves magic, and this is Big Magic, then I’ll bet it involves all manner of big things; alignments of the planets, a series of rituals, probably even a human sacrifice.”

“You are joking, surely.”

“Mr Tim is
not
joking,” said Gammon. “And there have already been five such sacrifices.”

“What?” went Will.

“The Ripper murders, sir. Surely you are aware of them.”

Will made a thoughtful face.

“Why are you scowling?” Tim asked.

“I wasn’t scowling, I was making a thoughtful face.”

“That’s not how you do it,” said Tim. “You do it like this.”

“Very good, sir,” said Gammon.

“Thank you, Gammon,” said Tim.

“Stop this,” said Will. “It’s not funny and it’s not clever. You think that the Ripper murders were definitely human sacrifices?”

“No doubt of it, sir. If you join up the sites of the murders on a map you will see that an inverted pentagram is formed.”

“Yes,” said Will. “I know.”

“But of course you would, sir. The Master informed me that you had agreed to take on the case. Any suspects?”

Will sighed.

“Quite so, sir,” said Gammon.

“Tell you what,” said Tim. “I’ll crack on here, see what I can come up with. Why don’t you carry on with Gammon’s website? I’m looking forward to reading the answer to question six, ‘What is Gammon’s favourite proprietary brand of pork scratchings?’”

“Good idea, sir,” said Gammon.

“Not so good idea,” said Will.

“I could get supper on,” said Gammon.

“Good idea,” said Will. “I’ll help you.”

“I’d rather that you didn’t, sir. I can manage quite well on my own. I’ve been years getting that kitchen exactly the way I want it.”

“I’ll help
you
then, Tim.”

“I can manage.” Tim rattled away at the keyboard. “Go and play in Rune’s study, or something.”

“Oh all right. Lead the way to the lift, please, Gammon.”

Gammon led the way.

And while Tim busied himself at the keyboard and Gammon busied himself in the kitchen, Will, without anything in particular to busy himself with, loafed about in Rune’s study.

He ran a finger, beringed with a circlet of varnished gristle (which a talisman salesman in Cairo had assured him was nothing less than the Holy foreskin of St Thomas, the very sight of which would strike fear into the most fearsome of witches), along the leathern spines of a row of antique tomes and plucked one out at random:
The Autobiography of Casanova
.

Will sat himself down next to the fire and idly leafed through it. The book, a first edition, was actually autographed. Will whistled. This book alone would be worth a fortune in the twenty-third century. Rune had amassed a most remarkable collection.

Will gazed at Casanova’s signature, a flamboyant piece of calligraphy, and at the date 1792. Will read the dedication above the signature.

To Hugo Rune, who introduced me

to the pleasures of the flesh.

From your disciple,

Giovanni Jacopo Casanova

“What?” went Will. And he looked once more at the date. That couldn’t be true, could it? The inscription had to be a forgery. Will put the book aside, rose from his seat and selected another at random.

I’m the Pope and You’re not!
The life and merry times of Rodrigo Borgia, Pope Alexander the Sixth. 1492.

Will read what was written on the flyleaf.

For Hugo, who—

“No!” went Will. And he struggled to pull an enormous tome from the bottom shelf. He laid it out upon the floor and opened it.
The Domesday Book
, signed in the hand of King William himself.

To my dear friend Hugo,

for all his help in putting this together.

“No!” and Will pulled another one and then another.

It
couldn’t
be true.

It just couldn’t.

Rune had to have forged these signatures.

A bound manuscript of Shakespeare’s
The Tempest
bore the inscription:
Thanks for the inspiration, Hugo
.

Will slammed it shut.

“Ah,” said Gammon entering the study with a tray. “I see you are admiring the Master’s library sir. Five thousand volumes, and each with a personal dedication to the Master.”

“It can’t be true,” Will shook his head and replaced
The Tempest
onto its shelf. “He couldn’t really have lived for hundreds and hundreds of years.”

“And why would that be, then, sir?” Gammon placed the tray upon a padouk wood and ivory-mounted chess table, that had been a gift to Hugo Rune from Genghis Khan. “Muffins?” he asked.

“Impossible,” said Will.

“You haven’t tasted them yet, sir.”

“Not the muffins. You know what I’m talking about.”

“Sir,” said Gammon, “you stand before one of the most valuable book collections in the world. I believe that you must be aware that the Master was, how shall I put this,
careful
with money. Do you really believe that he would have amassed such a collection of priceless tomes and then defaced and devalued them by forging signatures and dedications into them?”

Will made a very thoughtful face.

“Good face, sir,” said Gammon. “And, as our American cousins might say, right back at ya!”

“But I just can’t believe it.”

“Sir.” Gammon buttered muffins. “I informed you and Mr Tim that I had been in the Master’s employ for nearly two hundred years. During this time I have kept diaries. Daily diaries. They are all in my room. Perhaps you might care to examine them. They might blunt the edge of your scepticism.”

Will shook his head. And he sniffed the muffins, took one up and munched upon it. “How old
was
he?” Will asked between munchings.

“I really couldn’t say, sir. He once informed me that he was Christ’s thirteenth disciple – his spiritual adviser, in fact – but that he’d asked for his name to be left out of the New Testament for personal reasons.”

“That’s rather unlikely, isn’t it?” Will finished his muffin and licked at his fingers.

“How so, sir? His name does not appear in the New Testament, which rather proves the truth of his statement, I would have thought.”

Will shook his head. “No,” he said.

“Although,” Gammon glanced about the library shelves, “I’m sure there’s a first draft of the New Testament somewhere here. Written in Christ’s own hand and dedicated to—”

“Stop it,” said Will. “I fear that my brain is about to explode.”

“Above the fireplace there,” said Gammon, “hangs the very sword that cleaved the head from John the Baptist. The Master was not present on the night of that tragedy, or he would no doubt have prevented it. He did however later have, I believe it is called,
a fling
with Salome. She gave him the sword as a souvenir.”

“Enough,” said Will.

“Another muffin?” asked Gammon.

“No! Yes!” Will took another muffin and returned to his fireside chair.

“Sir,” said Gammon. “Sir, I know everything about you. Everything. I was in constant communication with the Master during all of your time here. I know, for instance, that you imbibed a drug called Retro.”

“Yes,” said Will. “I did. What about it?”

“This chemical released the memories of your ancestors that were previously locked away in your brain, am I correct?”

“You are,” said Will.

“Then surely the Master’s memories were unlocked to you. The countless years of his remarkable existence.”

“No,” said Will. “I recall the memories as far back as Captain Starling, father of Colonel Starling who should have piloted the moonship today and whose present whereabouts are unknown to me.”

“Captain Starling was the Master’s son, although he never knew it. And the Master allowed his own son to die, saving Her Majesty the Queen (God bless Her).”

“All right,” said Will. “I understand what you are saying. But this is fantastic stuff. Unbelievable stuff.”

“Sir, but for the Master, have you ever met and spoken to any of your ancestors?”

“No,” said Will, and he rose and helped himself to another muffin. “I wanted to, of course, but Rune advised me against it. He said it might be dangerous for them.”

“And so indeed it might be, it certainly proved disastrous for the Master.”

“You’re not suggesting that it is
my
fault that he was murdered?”

“Well, sir, I—” But Gammon’s words were brought short by the ringing of the front doorbell.

“I wonder who that might be?” wondered Gammon.

“If Tim were here,” said Will, “he’d probably make the suggestion that it was the postman with a cheque for your back wages.”

“Do you think it might be, sir?”

“Stranger things have happened,” said Will. “To me, in the last half an hour, for instance.”

“Then if you’ll pardon me, I shall answer the door.”

“And I’ll have just one more muffin.”

Gammon shuffled from the study and Will wolfed down the final muffin and gave his fingers a final thorough licking.

Will heard the sound of the front door being opened and then soon after being closed again.

And then Gammon returned to the study.

“Most strange, sir,” said he. “I opened the door, but there was no one there. Children playing Knock Down Ginger, perhaps.”

“Perhaps,” said Will. “Are there any more muffins?”

Gammon cast a rheumy eye over the empty platter. “I see that you have eaten Mr Tim’s muffins also,” said he.

“Have to keep my strength up,” said Will. “Witch-finding is a hungry business.”

“Quite so, sir.”

And then the doorbell rang once more.

“Shall I ignore it this time?” Gammon asked.

“Never mind,” said Will. “I’ll go.”

“Oh no, sir, that wouldn’t do. Protocol must always be observed. There’s no telling where things might lead if the Master of the house was to answer his own front door.”

“It’s no big deal,” said Will.

“The precise meaning of that phrase alludes me,” said Gammon. “But I gather the gist. And trust to what I say, sir. One thing leads to another. A decline in standards would lead to chaos. Women being given the vote. The prohibition of opium. Even, God forbid, the decriminalisation of sodomy. Not to mention frotteurism.”

“Frotteurism?” said Will.

“I told you not to mention that.”
[29]

“Answer the door then, Gammon.”

And Gammon went to answer the door.

And once more Will heard the front door open.

But this time he also heard a voice.

He heard the voice of Gammon ask, “How might I help you, sir?”

And then Will heard another voice, a voice that he recognised, and a voice that he also feared.

It was a deeply-timbred voice of the Germanic persuasion. It said, “William Starling? Where is William Starling?”

Will who had been seated once more, now leapt up to his feet and drew both his pistols from their holsters.

“No, sir,” came the voice of Gammon from the hall. “You will have to make an appointment. I cannot allow you admission without a prior appointment. Protocol must always—”

And then there was a thumping sound and Gammon said no more.

Will flattened himself against a bookcase, both pistols raised and cocked. “Barry,” he whispered. “Are you awake?”

A gentle purring sound echoed in the rear recess of Will’s brain. Barry was still fast asleep.

“Barry!” went Will, more urgently. “You’re supposed to be my Holy Guardian, who warns me when trouble is heading my way.”

“Zzzzzzzzzzz,” went Barry.

“Hopeless,” whispered Will. “But I can deal with this.”

He peeped around the corner of the bookcase, and found himself staring into the dead black eyes of a terrific figure. It was a terrific figure identical in every detail to the ones that Will had formerly encountered in the future, so to speak. And it smelt equally as bad.

“Ah,” went Will. “Ah … well … hello there.”

“William Starling?” The mouth, a cruel hard line, corded with muscle, crooked into an evil leer.

“You, er, just missed him,” said Will. “He left.”

“Take me to him now.”

“Can’t,” said Will. “Sorry.”

“Then you die.”

“Indeed, I do think not.” And Will fired a pistol at point blank range, right into the chest of the automaton.

And back went he with the force of the blast, and fell onto a Herez carpet, which had been a present to Rune from Shah Jahan for designing the Taj Mahal.

Will blew into the smoking barrel of his gun.

“Job done,” said he.

The terrific figure lay prone upon the carpet. It showed no signs of simulated life.

“However,” said Will, “I have seen the movies too. And so it would be safer to be sure.” And he stepped forward, over the fallen figure, and emptied the contents of both his pistols into the helpless form.

“And now the job
is
done,” said he. “And most efficiently too, if I do say myself.”

And then Will called to Gammon. “Are you all right?” he called.

And then Will was knocked from his feet.

It came in fast, very fast, and through the closed French windows. Amidst a maelstrom of shattered glass and fragmenting timbers, another demonic, black-eyed and evil-smelling figure of terror burst forward and struck Will from behind.