The Witches of Chiswick (19 page)

Whitechapel was beautiful at this time of the morning. But then so many places are. Unlikely places, even scrapheaps and abattoirs, have a romantic quality about them at sun up. It’s probably down to the fresh air and the silence and the light.

Will wandered through the deserted streets.

It was all rather magical, but Will’s head hurt him very much.

A potato lay in the gutter and, much to Barry’s horror, Will kicked it along before him.

“So what are your plans for today, then, chief?” asked the sprout. “Scarf down a big boy’s breakfast, then back on the omnibus and off to—”

“Wimpole Street,” said Will. “That’s where we’re going.”

“But why are we going there, chief? It’s so obvious that Mr Rune was pointing you towards—”

“Chiswick?” Will dribbled the potato along the pavement.

“Finally sunk in has it, chief? And kindly leave that poor spud alone.”

Will paused in mid dribble and took in big-breath-lungfuls. They never really help when you have a hangover, but you feel compelled to take them nonetheless.

“I will get to Chiswick in my own good time,” said Will. “And if those witches really exist and are the terrible threat to society which Rune considered them to be, perhaps I’ll look into the matter.”

Barry made oh dear, oh dearings.

“But I don’t believe that witches were responsible for the brutal murdering of five women. Witches, as far as I understand them, have strongly-held feminist convictions.”

“But you joined up the sites of the murders, chief. You saw the inverted pentagram. That spells witchcraft, whichever way you care to spell it.”

“I could have joined the sites together to form almost anything,” Will said. “A pentagon, for instance.”

“Well, yes, chief, I suppose you could.”

“And I could have chosen any point to draw a line to the site of Rune’s murder. The permutations are endless.”

“So hang about, chief. Why then did we go to Buckingham Palace?”

“Because there was someone I hoped to meet there.”

“Her Majesty the Queen, Gawd bless Her?”

“No, Barry, one of her guests. According to the copy of
The Times
that I read while having my bath at the Dorchester, he was to be at the ball. You might or might not recall that I checked the guest list when we entered the palace. He was on the list. He was not, however, at the ball.”

“Okay, chief, I’m intrigued now. Who is it?”

“Aha.” Will tapped the potato with a polished toecap and continued his wandering along. “When you saw the line on the map, all that you could see was that it led to Chiswick. I saw something else. Rune wasn’t giving us a clue. Rune was trying to reach the house of his friend, to take shelter there. He nearly made it too; the house is only two streets away from where the murderer caught up with him.”

“So, who is it, chief?”

“I haven’t quite finished yet. I know that this friend of Rune’s lives in Wimpole Street, because I’ve read his biography. He lives next door to a family called Barrett. I have a very good memory for this kind of detail. And I’ve been really wanting to meet him ever since I found myself in this day and age.”

“Yes, all right, chief; you’re very clever, I’m sure.”

“Thank you, Barry.”

“But if you knew the address, why didn’t we go there first?”

“Because he was supposed to be at the ball! Are you losing the plot, Barry?”

“Not just me, I’m sure,” said the sprout.

“What was that?”

“Nothing, chief.”

Will booted the spud across the deserted street. “And Starling scores the winning goal for Brentford,” he cried, and then he wished he hadn’t, and clutched at his head once again.

“What?” went Barry.

“Did I just hear you say, ‘
What
’?”

Barry took to a sulking silence and Will wandered on.

At length Barry tired of his silence. “All right, I give up,” he said. “Who
is
it we are going to see?”

Will whispered the name to Barry.

“Complete waste of time, chief. No point at all in going to see him.”

“Really, Barry, and why do you say that?”

“Because he was just a friend of Rune’s. He won’t know anything. It’s Chiswick we should be going to. The witches, that’s what this is all about.”

“I’d like a word with this chap first.”

“But he’s a nutter, chief. A loony, trust me.”

“A quick chat, that’s all.”

“It’s a waste of time. We should be pressing on.”

“You seem very definite about this, Barry.”

“I just think we should be pressing on.”

“And I think we should do things
my way
.”

“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.”

Will found the house without difficulty. An elegant ivy-hung Georgian dwelling, it looked much the same as it had when pictured in the biography Will had downloaded into his palm-top, but for the neon uplighters and the rather swish electric carriage with the blacked-out windows which stood outside. Will slicked down his hair with spittle, straightened his cravat, squared his shoulders and pressed the button, which activated the electric doorbell. In a distant part of the house the opening notes of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony chimed out.

Will waited a while and then rang the doorbell again.

“He’s out, chief. Let’s be on our way.”

“It’s early, Barry; he’s probably still in bed.”

“So let’s have breakfast and come back later. Or better still not at all.”

“You really don’t want me to meet this man, do you, Barry?”

Barry returned to his sulking silence.

“There’s a window open up there,” said Will, peering up.

Barry returned from his sulking silence. “Don’t even think about it, chief. Not with our hangover.”

But Will was already on the ivy. He struggled and climbed and struggled and climbed some more.

“Someone will see you, chief.”

“Please be quiet, Barry.” Will reached the window ledge, eased himself into it, stooped, slid up the sash window and with difficulty and care, to equal degree, succeeded in entering the house.

“This is so bad, chief. This is trespass.”

“Sssh!” Will shushed him.

“Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The room Will now found himself in was an elegant study, cum laboratory, cum workroom. Leather-bound books bricked its walls and the early morning light fell upon a workbench loaded with much strange apparatus. The room was filled with many interesting items and Will found interest in each and every one of them.

Will peered at this and that. And then Will touched this and that.

“Don’t touch that,” said Barry.

So Will touched this instead.

“
Chief!
” Barry piped, with a very shrill, “chief”. “Chief, get out of here at once. Big trouble’s coming. I can feel it.”

“Don’t try to trick me, Barry,” Will whispered.

“No, I’m serious, chief. Something’s not right. In fact something’s very wrong. And that very wrong something is heading our way.”

“I’m not listening to this. I’m not—” And then Will heard it, and saw it also – the polished doorknob turning on the door.

“Don’t worry, Barry. I expect it’s just the master of the house. I’ll apologise for breaking in, I’m sure he’ll understand.”

Will smiled towards the door, and the door swung open, but no one stood in the opening.

“Hello,” called Will. “Hello Mr—”

And then something struck Will hard in the face and knocked him from his feet. Will went down in a confusion of gangly limbs and hit the wooden floor.

“Who did that?” And “Ouch, oh damn, oh ouch,” went Will.

A cold wind seemed to engulf him and Will was hauled aloft. He could feel the fearsome force, but could not see his attacker.

“Who are you?” howled Will as he found himself being flung across the room. “
What
are you?” Will tumbled through the open doorway and out into the corridor beyond. It was a charming corridor. Its walls were decorated with William Morris wallpaper and hung with family portraits. Brass wall sconces held scented candles, which favoured the air with delicate fragrances of musk, vanilla and White Rose of Cairo.

The charm of the corridor was however lost upon Will, who collided with a wall and sank once more to the floor.

“Don’t hit me any more.” Will’s arms flailed away at his unseen attacker. And suddenly a voice spoke at his ear.

“A common criminal,” said this voice, “who dares to enter here. What is your name, boy?”

“Will,” went Will. “Will Starling.”

“I am the guardian of these premises, Will Starling. You have chosen the wrong house to rob.”

“I’m no robber,” Will protested. “I’ve come to speak to Mr—”

But once more Will was hauled aloft and this time flung down the stairs, which was very painful, especially when you have a hangover.

Will lay flat upon his back at the bottom of the stairs, panting and gasping and groaning by turns. This was not at all good. In fact, this was very bad indeed. Will tried to rise but a terrible pressure forced down upon his chest.

“I must punish you,” said the voice, “so that you desist from your evil ways, so that you never steal from honest folk again.”

“I’m not a thief,” Will put up his hands to fight off his unseeable assailant and found himself gripping
something
. Will gripped at this something with all his might and fought to remove it from his chest.

A Dimac move, known as
The whip of the wild weasel’s wanger
and taught to him by Hugo Rune, entered Will’s mind and Will twisted and snapped something invisible.

“Oooooow!” howled the voice. “My ankle, you’ve broken my bally ankle.”

Something crashed down beside Will and Will fell upon this something and punched it and punched it and punched it until it made no further sounds.

Sunlight fell in through high casement windows into a pleasant front sitting room. It lit upon an elegant Georgian fireplace, with an ormolu clock of the French persuasion ticking away on its mantelshelf; numerous over-stuffed comfy-looking chairs, an escritoire, a folio stand and a whatnot loaded with whatsits.

The sunlight also lit upon something altogether strange, something that was now bound to a chair in the middle of the room.

The upper parts of this were white and man-shaped.

The lower parts were invisible. The man-shaped something struggled. The man-shaped something had a handkerchief stuffed into its mouth.

Will Starling sat in another chair facing this man-shaped something. Will Starling said, “I’m very sorry it had to turn out this way, sir. And I’m very sorry that I broke your ankle.”

“Mmmph,” went the man-shaped something.

“I’ll take the gag out of your mouth,” said Will, “if you promise not to shout. You will promise that, won’t you, Mr Wells? You are Mr H.G. Wells, aren’t you?”

What could be seen of Mr H.G. Wells nodded its head.

Will removed the gag. “I had to sprinkle you with talcum powder,” he said. “I got it from your bathroom. Floris of Jermyn Street talcum. Personal blend; you have very good taste. Mr Rune had his cologne and lavender water blended there.”

“Get me to a hospital,” wailed Mr H.G. Wells. “I am seriously injured.”

“It doesn’t look too bad,” said Will. “But then, I can’t see it. It’s invisible.”

“You sadistic fiend.”

“You started the fight,” said Will. “I was only defending myself. You threw me down the stairs, I’m bruised all over; I could have been killed.”

“So much the better for it,” hissed Mr Wells.

“You’re not a very nice man,” said Will. “And I was so looking forward to meeting you.”

“Untie me,” wailed Wells. “I’m in agony.”

“No you’re not,” said Will. “I administered some morphine that I found in your bathroom cabinet. I’m sure you’re not hurting at all. And I will see that you get medical attention if you really want to go to hospital, in your present physical condition, you being invisible and everything.”

“I’ll deal with my ankle myself,” said Wells. “Just release me.”

“I don’t think that would be for the best; you might shake off the talcum and attack me again.”

“You have my word as a gentleman that I will not.”

“And I value your word,” said Will. “But you will remain bound until I take my leave. It’s nothing personal. Well, actually, it is.”

Wells struggled some more, but Will had done a good job with the tying up.

“I am sorry,” said Will. “I hoped we’d meet under more civilised circumstances. I did knock at the door.”

“I don’t answer my door. You can see why.”

“I’m amazed,” said Will. “And very impressed. I mean, I’ve read all your books, including
The Invisible Man
, but I didn’t think it was true. I thought it was fiction.”

“Fiction?” said Wells. “What are you talking about?”

“You are one of my favourite novelists.”

“Novelist? I am not a novelist. I am a scientist.”

“Yes, well, certainly. Rune told me all about the time machine.”

“You are acquainted with Rune?”

“I am his magical heir,” said Will. “I have spent the last year travelling with him. He taught me many things, including Dimac”

“Set me free,” said Wells.

“All in good time,” Will sipped upon something.

“What are you drinking there?” Wells asked.

“I believe you’d call it ‘hair of the dog’,” said Will. “I’ve a terrible hangover, which hasn’t been helped by the beating you gave me. I helped myself to the bottle of port on the escritoire there.”

“My vintage port. My Corney and Barrow 1807. That cost me thirty guineas.”

“Oh dear,” said Will. “I didn’t look at the label. But I should have recognised it. Rune and I shared a bottle at Claridges, although we didn’t actually pay for it.”

“For the love of God,” wailed Wells. “If you’ve opened it, then at least have the common decency to let me sample a glass.”

“It might not to go too well with the morphine.”

“I care not,” said Wells. “I am beyond all caring.”

Will went over to the escritoire, poured some port for Mr Wells, held the glass to his mouth and let him sip it.