The Witches of Chiswick (26 page)

“Might I approach the bench, your honour?” said a gentleman in a gown and a wig and a pair of high-heeled boots.

“And who might you be?” asked Mr Justice Doveston.

“I am the counsel for the defence, Freddie ‘the loser’ Lonsdale.”

“Eh?” said Will.

“Do I know you?” asked Mr Justice Doveston.

“Of course you do, your honour,” said Freddie. “I only live around the corner. I’m the duty counsel for the defence. When I’m not gathering the pure.”

“Are you a Freemason?” asked the magistrate.

“Not as such,” said Freddie.

“Then things look very bad for your client.”

“On the face of it, yes,” said Freddie. “But you never know, I might strike it lucky this time. Sooner or later I’m bound to get it right.”

“I admire your spirit,” said the magistrate. “Although you smell a bit iffy. But I don’t think you’ll win this one, and the penalty for common affray is death.”

“It never is,” said Freddie.

“It is, today,” said Mr Justice Doveston, “because today is Tuesday.”

“Ah,” said Freddie. “I see. That makes sense. Still, I’ll try my best, and if I foul up again, well, tomorrow is another day. Wednesday, I suppose.”

“If I might approach the bench,” said another fellow.

“And who might you be?” asked the honourable one.

“Gwynplaine Dhark,” said the fellow. “Freemason and counsel for the prosecution.”

“He’s one of
them
.” The other Will shrank down upon the bench that he shared with Will. The other Will was holding his head; he had the first hangover of his life. It was a blinder, but at least, now sober, he could no longer hear the voice of a certain Larry.

“
Them
?” whispered Will.

“Them,” said the other Will. “The witches. That man is in league with the devil. He made me judge the most-blackest black cat competition.”

“What?” went Will.

“What was that?” asked Mr Justice Doveston.

“I object,” said Will, rising to his feet.

“Shut it,” said Constable Meek, applying his truncheon to Will’s head.

“Ow!” went Will, sitting down again.

“I
do
object,” went Will, standing up again.

Constable Meek raised his truncheon once more.

“Less of that please, constable,” said the honourable magistrate. “You can do that at your leisure down in the cells, but not here.”

“Your honour,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark. “I was summonsed here late last night from Scotland Yard, when the mugshots of these twin malcontents were faxed over there from Brentford police station. One of these men is an escaped criminal, who broke out of his cells at Whitechapel police station. He is indeed none other than Jack the Ripper.”

“Oooooooh!” went the folk who packed the gallery.

“Knew it,” said the lady in the straw hat, who sat among them. “The one in the smart suit, it’ll be. There’s something about his eyes. He’s got murderer’s eyes. You can always tell. My late husband had burglar’s eyes. And he was a cutlery salesman. Which is the exception that proves the rule, in my opinion.”

“Madam,” said Mr Justice Doveston, “I must ask you to remain silent, or I will be forced to have you thrown from the court and into a muddy puddle.”

“You have lovely eyes, your honour,” said the lady in the straw hat. “Blue as a bruised behind and clear as an author’s conscience.”

“Thank you,” said the magistrate. “You can stay. And I’ll see you in my chambers at lunchtime.”

“Your honour,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark, “I don’t think it will be necessary to keep you until lunchtime. I have here a crudely forged document signed by Her Majesty herself, God bless Her, to the effect that both the accused are to be transported at once to Tyburn for immediate public execution.” Mr Gwynplaine Dhark handed this document to the magistrate.

“Seems sound enough to me.” Mr Justice Doveston exchanged a Masonic wink with the counsel for the prosecution.

“No!” cried Will.

And “No!” too cried the other Will.

And down came two truncheons in perfect harmony.

“Well, I’m done here,” said Freddie “the loser” Lonsdale. “You can’t win them all. Or in my case, none at all. Such is life.”

“Taken like the man you are,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark. “I can get you a front row seat at the execution, if you’d like one. Bring the wife, it’s always a good day out.”

“Thank you very much indeed.”

“I object!” Will covered his head with his hands to shelter his skull.

“Object?” said Mr Doveston. “It’s a bit late for objections, surely? You should be showing remorse, it might lighten your sentence.”

“Really?”

“No,” said the magistrate, “only joking.”

And he laughed.

And Mr Gwynplaine Dhark laughed. And Freddie “the loser” Lonsdale laughed. And the constables laughed. And the lady in the straw hat laughed. And the big bargee and the small bargee and all the folk in the public gallery laughed too.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get the hang of humour,” said the other Will.

“I
do
object,” said Will. “Please hear me out.”

“Go on then,” said the magistrate. “I’m a fair man. Say your piece and then I’ll pass sentence and we’ll send you off to your execution.”

“I need a moment,” said Will. “Just a moment. I have to think.”

“Would you like me to adjourn the court?” Mr Justice Doveston asked.

“Yes please,” said Will.

“Then I will.”

“Thank you,” said Will.

“Only joking.” And all and sundry, including Mr Montague Summers, laughed again.

“Lost on me,” said the other Will.

“Just a moment,” said Will. “Please, just a moment.”

“Clerk of the court,” said Mr Justice Doveston. “I am going to give the accused ‘just a moment’. How long will that be, exactly?”

The clerk of the court flicked through legal tomes. “Well,” said he, “in Bacon versus the British Empire, the defendant, accused of subversion and intent to knob one of Her Majesty’s (God bless Her) ladies-in-waiting, was granted a ‘moment’ to reconsider his statement, that ‘she was gagging for it.’ The ‘moment’ in question was precisely two ‘ticks’ and three quarters of a ‘jiffy’.”

“And is that a precedent?”

“Well, I can refer you also to Shields versus Carroll, two pugilists who both sued the other for ‘hitting in the face in the ring’. On that occasion—”

“I’m bored,” said Mr Justice Doveston. “I will grant the accused three ‘ticks’, one ‘jiffy’ and ‘half-a-sec’, because I’m such a very nice man.”

“He is,” said the lady in the straw hat. “Lovely eyes. Just like my Malcolm, although he was a bit weird. Had this thing about tubas, thought they were golden toilet bowls. He went to see the London Symphony Orchestra play one night and—”

“Madam,” said Mr Justice Doveston.

“Sorry, your worship,” said the lady in the straw hat.

“Right then,” said Mr Justice Doveston. “Three ‘ticks’, one ‘jiffy’ and ‘half-a-sec’ starting—” And he took out his gold Babbage Hunter digital watch and scrutinised his face. “Now.”

There was silence in the court and all eyes turned towards Will.

Will raised a hand to cover his mouth. The wrist of this hand wore a handcuff. As did Will’s other wrist.

“You have to do something for me, Barry,” whispered Will.

“Zzzzzzzz,” went Barry.

“Barry, wake up. This is important.”

“Only joking, chief. I’m on the case.”

“Then you have to do something for me
now
. You’re supposed to be my Holy Guardian sprout and a time travelling sprout, to boot. Get me out of here.”

“No sweat, chief. We’re out of here.”

“
And
my other self.”

“What, chief?”

“Well, I can’t just go without him, can I? They’ll execute him.”

“Nothing I can do about that, chief, sorry.”

“Work your magic, Barry. Get us both out of here.”

“No can do, chief. If he didn’t have a sitting tenant in his head, then I could do it. I could move two people through time simultaneously. But he does have, so I can’t.”

“Well, stir the tenant into action, time’s running out.”

“Time’s running out,” said Mr Justice Doveston.

“Tell you what, chief. I’ll just take you and—”

“That won’t do, Barry. I can’t just leave my other self to die. I can’t. That’s all there is to it. But, hold on, you’ve given me an idea, a brilliant idea. We’ll
whisper, whisper, whisper
.”

“Why all the
whisper whisper whisper
, chief?”

“Because I don’t want to ruin the surprise.” Will whispered some more.

“That’s a bad idea,” said Barry. “In fact, that’s a
really bad
idea.”

“Time’s up,” said Mr Justice Doveston. “I trust you made good use of your three ‘ticks’, one ‘jiffy’ and ‘half-a-sec’.”

“I did,” said Will, who now it appeared, wore a complete change of clothing. “I have decided to discontinue the services of my counsel, Mr Freddie ‘the loser’ Lonsdale and engage a new counsel for the defence.”

“Is that allowable?” Mr Justice Doveston asked the clerk of the court.

The clerk of the court consulted further legal tomes.

“Well,” said he, “in the Crown versus Hill, the defendant Mr Graham Hill, manager of the Big Cock Inn, Tillet, Herts, who had been accused of an anarchist bomb outrage upon the German Embassy, there was—”

“I’m yawning again,” said Mr Justice Doveston.

“It’s all above board,” said the clerk of the court. “And on the square and on the level and Masonic things of that nature generally.”

“Then I have no objection. Wheel in your new counsel for the defence, Lord Whimsy. If he’s suddenly on hand.
Is he
?”

“He is, your honour.” Will rose to his feet, and smiled towards the door of the court. “I would like to introduce my counsel for the defence. Mr Timothy McGregor.”

The door of the courtroom opened and Tim McGregor appeared in the opening. Tim smiled upon the assembled multitude, at the magistrate and the gathered everybodies and up at Will. It was a somewhat sheepish smile. It somewhat lacked for confidence.

“This is such a bad idea, chief,” said Barry. “I could have got you anyone: the now legendary Mike Mansfield, solicitor to the stars; Robert Shapiro and ‘The Dream Team’ – they got O.J. Simpson off; or Vincent Lugosi, or Rumpole of the Bailey, or even Quincey – he never loses a case. Or Boyd QC, or Kavanagh QC. But you choose your mate Tim.”

“He’s my half-brother and my best friend,” said Will. “And I’ve told him everything now. And I had to go forward and save him anyway. I couldn’t let him get killed.”

“But he knows nothing about being a counsel for the defence.”

“He’ll do okay. And remember I’m doing things
my
way.”

“And brilliantly too, I don’t think.”

“What was that, Barry?”

“I said, ‘brilliantly too, you won’t sink’.”

“As if you did! You sarcastic little sod.”

“What was that, chief?”

“Nothing, Barry.”

“Your honour,” said Tim McGregor, mooching into the courtroom. He wore his long black leather coat and had fastened his abundant hair behind his head in an abundant ponytail. He carried a bulging briefcase and continued with his smiling. “My client has acquainted me with the details of this case and I feel that I can offer a defence that will prove to exonerate him and his brother of all charges.”

Mr Gwynplaine Dhark glared at Tim.

Tim felt his bladder pressing for an adjournment to the gents.

“I object,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark.

“Upon what grounds?” asked Mr Justice Doveston.

“Upon the grounds that this may prove prejudicial to myself.”

“These are somewhat unusual grounds,” said Mr Justice D. “Do we have a precedent for them?”

The clerk of the court consulted his tomes once again.

“No, don’t bother,” said Mr Justice Doveston. “Frankly, I can’t be arsed to listen. Let’s hear Mr McGregor out. Hear what he has to say.”

“Thank you, your honour,” said Tim. “I will seek to prove that my client is an innocent man. And so is his twin brother. That they have been wrongly accused and that a conspiracy exists to overthrow the British Government, destroy the technology of the British Empire and plunge the world into a new Dark Age. And that the root cause of this conspiracy is a cabal of witches who represent themselves as The Chiswick Townswomen’s Guild.”

“Grrrr!” went Mr Gwynplaine Dhark.

“This sounds most interesting,” said Mr Justice Doveston. “Will it take long, do you think?”

“A couple of months, perhaps,” said Tim. “I’ll be calling a lot of witnesses, including Her Majesty the Queen (God bless Her), Lord Charles Babbage, Mr Nikola Tesla, Mr Sherlock Holmes, and countless others.”

“Sounds like a lot of fun,” said the magistrate. “We don’t usually get a group of celebrities like that in this courtroom.”

“I object,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark. “This counsel is only seeking to muddy the waters. This is an open and shut case. Tyburn’s tree awaits these madmen. It is time for them to dance a jig for Jack Ketch.”

“Well, naturally I appreciate that. But imagine having Her Majesty—”

“God bless Her,” said all those present.

“Quite so,” said the magistrate. “Imagine having Her Majesty right here in this courtroom.”

“I can imagine that,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark. “Legs in the air and backwards over the bench.”

“Pardon me?”

“It is outrageous, your honour. Her Majesty would never consent to give evidence.”

“She already has,” said Tim. “I’ve just come from Buckingham Palace. And I’ve spoken, by telephone, to all the others; twenty-three in all. I am well prepared.”

“See,” said Will to Barry. “Tim’s on the case.”

“This is never going to work, chief.”

“It will, Barry. And with no violence and killing and with me and my other self walking free from the court and not dying. And the witches getting arrested and—”

“Dhark the warlock too?” said Barry. “He’ll just put his hands up and be led quietly to the cells, will he?”

“One thing at a time, Barry.”

“You’re on such a wrong ’n here, chief.”

“Well, it can’t hurt to give it a go.”

“And I shall go on to prove—” – Tim McGregor had continued speaking throughout Will’s brief conversation with Barry “—that Mr Gwynplaine Dhark is none other than a warlock working for Satan himself, and so must be put to torture and burned alive at the stake.”

“That sounds like a lot of fun, too,” said Mr Justice Doveston.

Mr Gwynplaine Dhark glared even harder at Tim, and Tim felt boils breaking out around his willy.

“This is never going to work, chief,” said Barry. “This is such a bad idea.”

Will whispered once more behind his hand. “I have no intention of being executed,” he whispered, “nor letting my other self get executed. And if this cabal of witches really exists, and some psychopathic killer, who my other self thinks is Satan, is connected with them, well, let’s get it all out in the open. Let’s bring them all into this court. Let’s see what happens.”

“It’s a really duff plan, chief.”

“And you had a better one?”

“It’s all in
The Book Of Rune
, chief.”

“Which you’d neglected to mention.”

“It would have been cheating. But I’d have got you through it without
The Book Of Rune
. Got you to do the right thing.”

“And I’d have ended up dead.”

“Not necessarily so, chief. Your other self would, but that’s his fate. We can’t mess around with that.”

“I can do what I want, Barry. And I want to do things my way.”

“It will end in disaster, chief. Let me get you out of here, now.”

“Get
us
out of here, now. My other self and me.”

“Can’t do it, chief, sorry.”

“Then we’ll just have to do things my way.”

Barry made groaning sounds.

“And save the world,” Tim was still continuing.

“Do
what
?” asked Mr Justice Doveston.

“My client,” said Tim McGregor. “He will save the world. This is his destiny. His fate, we can’t mess about with that.”

“We’ll see,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark.

“I think,” said Mr Justice Doveston, “that I will adjourn the court now. It’s getting near to lunchtime and because of the nature of this case, I feel it best that members of the paparazzi and the British Broadcasting Company wireless service be alerted. This will give the Borough of Brentford the kind of publicity it has always needed. People don’t appreciate Brentford, they don’t understand it. A case like this will put Brentford on the map.”

Mr Gwynplaine Dhark made snarling noises. Sulphurous fumes issued from his mouth. The whites of his eyes became black.

“So,” said Mr Justice Doveston. “Court adjourned for two hours. Lady in the straw hat up to my chambers for a bit of how’s-your-father. And Mr Dhark—”

“Yes your honour?”

“Clean your teeth,” said the magistrate. “Your breath smells something wicked.”

The cell had been recently decorated in pastel shades with a nautical theme. A lifebelt framed the window, through which could be seen that tent of blue the prisoner calls the sky. Several driftwood boats hung upon the wall beside the door and the customary straw pallet had been replaced by a hammock. Upon this hammock sat the other Will. Upon a throw rug with seagull motifs sat Will and lounging by the door stood Tim, attempting to smoke a Victorian cigarette and grinning all over his face.

“Isn’t this just entirely brilliant?” said Tim, coughing somewhat.

Will managed less than half a smile.

The other Will managed nothing but a frown.

“But it is,” Tim gave the cell a twice-over, for he had already given it the once. “I’d imagined rats and water dripping down the walls.”

The other Will made groaning sounds.

Will said, “You are up for this, aren’t you, Tim?”

“I am,” Tim grinned if anything more broadly. “And this
is
brilliant. Thanks for bringing me back here with you from the future. I’m loving this, I really am.”

“I haven’t introduced you,” said Will to the other Will. “This is my—”

“Brother,” said the other Will. “It has to be; he looks just like
my
brother. Apart from the silly hair and the ridiculous coat.”

“Your brother has those, does he?” Tim asked.

“No,” said the other Will. “You do.”

Tim’s grin hardly faded. “He’s as much fun as you said he was,” he said to Will. “So what’s going to happen next?”

“Shall we have a look at
The Book Of Rune
and find out?”

“That’s cheating, chief.”

“I’m doing things my way, Barry.”

Tim delved into his briefcase and pulled out
The Book Of Rune
. “Picked it up from your room at the Dorchester, as you requested. There’s a bit of bother there, by the way. Apparently you paid a week up front when you arrived at the hotel, but your cheque bounced. I don’t think you’d better go back.”

“Perfect,” Will sighed.

“You didn’t
really
want to pay for the room, did you, chief?” Barry asked. “You are Rune’s magical heir, well, sort of. You’re following in his footsteps. Your money’s in a different account.”

“Let’s have a look at the book,” said Will and Tim handed it over.

“You’re wasting your time,” said the other Will. “There’s nothing about this in Scripture.”

“There isn’t?” said Will.

“Of course there isn’t. I know Scripture by heart. I’ve had it drummed into me all my life. Do you think that if it said I’d get drunk in a Brentford pub, get arrested and then put on trial for my life, I would have let it happen?”

“Well, I’d like to see exactly how I’m supposed to do the thwarting of the witches.”

“Thwarting,” said Tim. “I like that.”

“We’re frankly sick of the word,” said Will.

“Then you could use ‘confounding’ or even ‘trouncing’ or even ‘vanquishing’. Or ‘creaming’. That’s a good word, one of my favourites.”

“I’ve never heard you use it.”

“One of my
new
favourites.”

Will flicked through
The Book Of Rune
. “My goodness,” he said. “This is all terribly exciting. It reads like a Lazlo Woodbine thriller.”

“Never heard of those.” The other Will jiggled about on the hammock. “I’m really hungry,” he said. “Do you think they’ll serve us lunch, or will they just starve us?”

“I’ve already ordered lunch,” said Tim. “A delivery from The Flying Swan. It’s called a sowman’s lunch. It includes a lot of pork scratchings. But go on, Will. What’s a Lazlo Woodbine thriller?”

“Stumbled on them by accident,” said Will, “when I was downloading books from the British Library. I was looking for stuff by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and the Woodbine books had been filed there by mistake. Woodbine was a nineteen fifties American genre detective, the greatest of them all. He worked only four locations: his office, where clients came over to offer him business; an alleyway, where he got into sticky situations; a bar, where he talked toot with the barman; and a rooftop, where he had the final confrontation with the villain. Who always took the big plunge to oblivion at the end.
The Book Of Rune
reads just like one of these thrillers.”

“So,” said Tim, “are you going for Woodbine or are you going to stick with the Sherlock Holmes technique?”

“I’m going to stick with the Will Starling technique. I’m doing things my way.” Will pushed
The Book Of Rune
into his pocket. “Let’s see what we can pull off in the courtroom, eh, Tim?”

“No sweat,” said Tim and he made an “O” with his thumb and forefinger. “After all, we’ve spent ages planning this, haven’t we?”

“
Have you
?” asked the other Will. “How did this come about?”

“I, er, did a little time-travelling,” said Will. “From the court a few minutes ago. Surely you noticed that one moment I was wearing my somewhat besmutted morning suit and the next I was, as I am now, rather nattily dressed in this Boleskine three-piece.”

The other Will shrugged. “I thought I was just hallucinating. This hangover is wrecking my brain. But how did you travel through time, did you reacquire my time machine?”

“No,” said Will. “But I don’t want to bore you with the details.”

“But I
want
to be bored by the details. You travelled through time and you didn’t take me?”

“I couldn’t,” said Will. “It was only possible for one of us to go.”

“Then it should have been me. Remember, I’m the innocent party. Let me travel through time
now
.”

“It can’t be done,” said Will.

“This is outrageous,” said the other Will and he made a very grumpy face.

There came a knock at the cell door, followed by the sound of a key turning in the lock, followed by the opening of the door and the entrance of a portly gentleman wearing, amongst other things, a chef’s hat and a leather apron. He carried a food hamper. “Good day gents,” said he. “I’m Croughton the pot-bellied potman from The Flying Swan. And I bring you your lunch.”

“Splendid,” said Will.

“Give it to me, please,” said the other Will. “I will eat my fill and you can share whatever remains.”

“We’ll all have fair shares,” said Will.

“That is fair shares. I am the Promised One. I eat before lesser folk.”

“He’s losing it again, chief,” said Barry. “Get Tim to give him a little smack.”

Will took the hamper, opened it and shared out its contents. Croughton the pot-bellied potman bowed and departed, closing the cell door behind him. The other Will sat on the hammock, folded his arms and sulked. At length however, he unfolded his arms and ate.

“That Gwynplaine Dhark is pretty scary,” said Tim, between munchings. “If he really is in league with the Devil and the witches, he could well be ordering up another demonic clockwork terminator, even as we speak.”

“He’s in league with the Devil, all right,” said the other Will, who had finished munching and now was supping from a bottle of ale. “We’re all going to die and it’s all your fault. He’ll have us all killed!”