The Witches of Chiswick (29 page)

Three figures issued slowly from the courtroom, heads bowed down, cowering somewhat. Miss Poppins pushed the wheelchair containing the Brentford Snail Boy, smothered by blankets. Mr Gwynplaine Dhark, head bowed, arms raised, followed on behind.

The police cordon parted to let them through.

The crowd beyond parted also.

And then the Babbage Miniguns opened up upon the building.

And they did it style. They fairly stuffed that courthouse.

The crowd cheered wildly, and waved Union Jacks. Why? Who knows; crowds often do! The policemen launched mortars, employed flamethrowers, flung grenades, lobbed in canisters of nerve gas and other weapons of mass destruction. And when it was finally assumed that nothing above ground level could possibly have lived through the holocaust, they moved in to search for what might be left of the bodies.

Beyond the crowd, and someways far down the Brentford High Road towards Kew Bridge, Miss Poppins said, “That was a good plan.”

“As long as they’re safe,” said the Brentford Snail Boy.

“They’ll be safe enough,” said Miss Poppins. “They’re locked in the cell downstairs. The police will release them.”

“Then I think that we can say that plan ‘C’ was a definite success.”

A hansom cab was passing and Miss Poppins hailed it. “Piccadilly, cabbie,” said she.

“You’ve a very manly voice for a nanny,” said the cabbie.

“Sore throat,” said Will, for it was he. “Now all aboard. We’re out of here.”

When your credit no longer holds good at the Dorchester, move on to the Savoy. And when the Savoy refuses to cater to your needs without further payment, then call upon Simpsons to accommodate you. And when Simpsons will no longer do this, and threatens to retain your luggage and personal effects subsequent to the settling of your bill, then it is time to take humble lodgings in Whitechapel, or board a steamer across the Channel to begin once more at the top.

So much, Hugo Rune had taught to Will.

But, as Rune had worn out his welcome at all of London’s top hotels several years before Will met him, and as Will could no longer return to the Dorchester, it was at the Savoy that Will chose to spend the night with his companions.

“Lord Peter Whimsy,” said the other Will as Will had instructed him to do, “travelling with my charge, Master Makepiece Scribbens, the famous Brentford Snail Boy, and his nurse and nanny, Miss Poppins. A three-bedroomed suite, if you will.”

The benign automaton desk clerk at the Savoy smiled obsequiously and turned the visitors book in the other Will’s direction for him to sign. “Your luggage, your Lordship?” he asked.

“I am Lord Peter Whimsy!” said the other Will. “I do not have
luggage
. Whatever I require is tailored to my needs, as and when I require it. And I require it now. Have a tailor, a shoemaker, and a representative from Asprey sent up to my suite at the soonest.”

“Yes, your Lordship.”

The suite was splendid enough in its way: three bedrooms and a bathroom leading from a central sitter, with a well-stocked mini-bar and a great deal of comfortable furniture.

Tim sprawled upon a box ottoman.

“I hope the tailor doesn’t take too long,” said he. “Being dressed as the Brentford Snail Boy really doesn’t suit my image.”

“Oh, too bad,” said Will. “I just love being dressed as Miss Poppins.”

“I think it looks rather good on you.”

“I’m fine with Mr Gwynplaine Dhark’s outfit,” said the other Will. “And I will rejoice forever in the memory of him handcuffed in that cell wearing nothing but his underpants. Thank you, at least, for that.”

“I’m glad it made you happy,” said Will.

“Momentarily. But I’m gloomy enough now because by now our escape will have been discovered. And we will be at the top of the most wanted list. We’re in bigger trouble than ever.”

“Don’t go putting a downer on things,” said Tim, fishing into the mini-bar. “We’re free, we escaped, and it was all down to Will.”

“It was all down to Master Makepiece Scribbens,” said Will. “It was his idea.”

“Our pictures will be in all the papers tomorrow,” said the other Will. “We should flee to France, or America, or Australia.”

“Do you have a plan ‘D’, Will?” Tim asked.

“In a few minutes from now,” said Will, “in fact, in possibly less than a ‘trice’ and a ‘twinkling’, a tailor and a shoemaker and a representative from Asprey will arrive. This is Victorian London. Our new clothes and shoes, accoutrements, cufflinks and whatnots will be ready for us by the morning. When we have them, we will leave. I have to sort out all this witch business, I know I do. I know that it’s me who has to do the thwarting. And I know that I
will
do the thwarting, because if I didn’t, then my other self here wouldn’t exist. I have to do it, no matter what it means for me.”

“And me,” said Tim. “What about me? If you do this, then the me that is me may cease to exist.”

“Which is why I have to do it
my
way. Not as it is written in
The Book Of Rune
.” Will pulled
The Book Of Rune
from his bodice and flung it onto the bed. “I have to save both our futures somehow.”

“How?” Tim asked.

“I don’t know, but if I do it differently, things will be different. Perhaps both futures will exist. Perhaps both futures always existed. I don’t know. This is very complicated, Tim, and I don’t understand it. I’m just making it up as I go along.”

“Like the author,” said Tim.

“What author?” asked Will.

“Any author,” said Tim. “They just make it all up as they go along.”

“No they don’t,” said Will. “Authors research everything. They plan every chapter, paragraph and sentence. They never waste a word. That’s what makes them such very special people.”

“Turn it in, chief,” said Barry. “Everyone knows that authors are a lot of drunken bums.”

“All I know,” said Will, “is that I’m really messed up. Rune has been murdered. The witches are on to me. There’s trouble after trouble. But I
will
sort it, somehow.”

“You won’t,” said the other Will. “We’ll both die. You cannot cheat your fate and neither can I. And believe me, I tried.”

“And you’ll keep on trying,” said Will. “Because you are me and that’s what we do.”

A knock came at the door.

Tim drew out his pistol.

Will made him put it away. “It’ll be the tailor and the shoemaker and the representative from Asprey,” he told Tim, and to his other self Will said, “let them measure you up and order two suits of clothes. I’ll go and hide in the bathroom until they’re gone, I don’t want to be seen dressed like this.”

Tailors and shoemakers and a representative from Asprey entered. Measuring ups were done, accoutrements, cufflinks and whatnots were chosen. Tailors and shoemakers and the representative from Asprey departed.

“What now?” asked Tim.

“Dinner,” said Will returning from the bathroom. “I believe that the Savoy serves a particularly fine cod and chips. We’ll have some sent up.”

They wined and dined and then they wined some more, and brandied also. And when the brandy was gone they emptied the mini-bar.

And the other Will cheered up once more and even laughed at a joke Tim told him that concerned a pop star and a plastic surgeon, although he didn’t really understand it. And when they all had finally drunk themselves to oblivion, they slept where they sat, or lay, for it had been, all in all, a stressful day for them.

Although possibly less stressful than the days that were to follow, like the following one, for instance.

A loud and lusty bout of door-banging tore Will from the amorous arms of Morpheus.

“What?” went Will, in some confusion. “What is going on?”

“Porter,” called a voice. “Porter, your lordship.”

“No,” went Will. “I don’t want any porter, nor any ale at all for that matter. I’ve drunk quite enough.”

“
I’m
the porter, your lordship. Your apparel and accoutrements, cufflinks and whatnots have just been delivered.”

“Ah.” Will blinked his eyes and sought to focus them. “Please leave them outside. I’ll fetch them in a minute.”

“As your lordship pleases.”

“What is going on?” Tim awoke in slightly less confusion, but then, Tim was a hardier drinker than Will. “Why is the world upside down?” he asked.

Will sought to focus his eyes upon Tim. “It’s you,” he explained.

“Oh yes, you’re right.” Tim righted himself. “That was a good old piss-up,” he said.

“Our new clothes have arrived.” Will arose from the carpet and clicked various joints. “It will be a pleasure to put on a pair of trousers.” Will rubbed at his forehead. “We didn’t do anything stupid last night, did we?”

“Not that I recall.” Tim, now in the upright position, parted his hair and beard. “No, I’m sure that we didn’t.”

“Good,” said Will. “Where is my other self?”

Tim fumbled up a glass and set to filling it from the dregs of various others that littered the suite. The suite was no longer quite so swish as it had been when Will’s party entered it. The suite now had the look of a Holiday Inn hotel room that had played host to a heavy metal band on tour, although it lacked for sleeping naked females.

Sadly.

“Where is he?” Will asked.

“Perhaps in the bathroom.” Tim shambled to the bathroom and pushed open the door. “Not here,” he said.

Will peered under the ottoman. “And not here either. In one of the bedrooms?”

Will and Tim checked the bedrooms, and returned once more to the sitter.

“Any luck?” said Tim.

“None,” said Will.

“He’ll be around. Perhaps he’s in the mini-bar.”

“That’s not very likely, is it, Tim?”

“Why not? You got in there last night, didn’t you?”

“Ah,” said Will. And he checked the mini-bar.

His other self was
not
in the mini-bar.

Nor was he anywhere else in the suite.

“Perhaps he’s gone down for breakfast,” said Tim, tossing back a cocktail of gin dregs and ginger beer. “That hits the spot,” he continued.

“Oh dear,” said Will. “What’s this?”

Upon the mantelpiece of the previously unmentioned Louis XV Carrara fireplace, with the serpentine mouldings and the scrolling foliate friezes, an envelope leaned against the similarly unmentioned Louis XIV scarlet Boulle mantel clock, with the Berainesque panels, inlaid with pewter and brass, and the gilded central finial figure in the shape of a dancing bear.

Will took down the envelope and read what was written upon it.

“To Will,” he read.

“It’s for you,” said Tim.

“Thanks, Tim.” Will opened the envelope and took out a sheet of paper. Savoy stationery. Will now read aloud the words that were written upon this.

“‘Dear Will’,” he read.

“It’s for you too,” said Tim.

“Turn it in, please.”

“Sorry,” said Tim.

“‘Dear Will,

‘By the time you read this letter I will be gone.’

“It’s a ‘dear John’ letter,” said Tim. “Why’s it addressed to you?”

“Tim,” said Will, “I have learned Dimac. Be silent now or you will in future walk sideways in the manner of a crab.”

“That’s a bit harsh,” said Tim, jiggling bottles and coming up trumps with a measure of crème de menthe.

“‘I no u hv mi intres at ?’,” Will continued. “‘But I hv 2 go.’ This seems to be written in code.”

“I think that you’ll find it’s written in ‘drunk’,” said Tim. “Give it to me.”

Will handed Tim the letter. “Let’s have a sip of the crème de menthe,” he said and Tim let him have a small sip.

“‘I know you have my interests at heart,’” Tim translated. “‘But I have to go. I will be far away from here by the time you read this. Don’t waste your time trying to find me. Perhaps we will meet again once
YOU
have thwarted the witches. Best wishes, Will.’”

“No,” said Will, and he tore the letter from Tim’s hands. “He can’t do that. He’ll come to grief. He can’t survive by himself. We have to find him.”

“It’s all for the best, chief,” said Barry.

“Shut up, you,” said Will.

“I didn’t say anything,” said Tim, “although if I had, I’d have probably said that it was all for the best.”

“We have to find him,” said Will once more. “I’ll call room service.”

“How will that help?”

“I need another drink.”

“Oh good,” said Tim. “I’ll join you.”

Will phoned down for breakfast. He ordered a bottle of champagne and a jug of iced orange juice. Well, a Buck’s Fizz
is
breakfast, isn’t it?

The lad who brought the tray up also carried in the new clothes from the corridor. He had been trained in the arts of multiple carrying at a special academy in Greenwich.

“Impressive carrying,” said Will.

The boy looked Will up and down. “Thank you, madam,” he said.

“Give the lad a tip please, Tim,” said Will.

“Fair enough,” said Tim. “Stay away from Brentford,” he tipped the lad.

“Most amusing,” said Will on the lad’s rather grumpy departure, “but this is really bad.”

“Looks good to me.” Tim popped the cork from the champagne and decanted the bubbly into the nearest glasses.

“I mean, my other self. We’ll have to find him.”

“And where would we look?” Tim handed Will a glass of champagne. Will would have topped it up with orange juice, but there wasn’t any room.

“Our pictures will be in all the papers,” said Will. “The police will catch him in no time.”

“Then, fine,” Tim swigged champagne. “We’ll wait until they do, then liberate him. We’re pretty hot stuff on liberation.”

“And what if Count Otto and his witches get to him first?”

“Chief,” said Barry. “You could easily forestall that by getting to
them
first.”

“I have to think.” Will took up a new suit of clothes and took himself off to the bathroom for a shower, a shit and a shave.

He presently returned, well shaved and dashing, to find Tim grinning foolishly at him.

“You’ve drunk all the champagne,” said Will.

“Damn right,” said Tim.

“Then sleep it off again. I’m going for a walk.”

“Is that safe?”

“I need some fresh air. I’ll be careful.”

Will took the lift down to the reception area. The lift boy grinned up at him. Will avoided his gaze, but the lad just kept grinning.

“What are you grinning at?” Will asked.

“It’s
you
, isn’t it, sir?”

“What?” said Will.

“You, sir. It
is
you. Could I have your autograph?”

“My autograph? Why would you want that?”

“To prove that I met you, sir. I will treasure it, pass it on to my firstborn son, when I have one.”

“What?” said Will once again.

“Well sir—” But the lift had reached the ground floor and the lift boy pressed back the retractable brass gate.

Will left the lift and entered the Savoy’s lobby.

The lobby was crowded with people; smartly dressed people, expensively dressed people, and people of all nationalities. Will even recognised one or two of them: the Greek ambassador and a member of the Chinese trade delegation that he’d met at Queen Victoria’s fancy dress ball. And as he left the lift, the heads of these people turned. And the voice of the lad who had delivered Will’s champagne and accoutrements was heard to cry out, “There he is. I told you it was him.”

“Oh dear,” said Will. “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.”

And he hastened his footsteps and prepared to make a run for it.

And “Hoorah!” went the expensively dressed people, and they clapped their hands together and cheered.

Will went “What?” for the umpteenth time that morning and pushed through the crowd, which patted his back and shook his hand and wished him the very bestest of luck also.

And when Will reached the Savoy’s front doors, these were opened for him by twin doormen, who raised their thumbs and wished him good luck.

Will stumbled out into the street beyond.

That street was the Strand.

He shook his head and scratched it also and glanced back over his shoulder.

Folk were crowded against the now closed doors, waving and cheering. Will shook his head once more and stumbled on.

On the corner of Oxford Street stood a newsboy. “Read orl abowt it!” he cried. Will straightened his sagging shoulders and approached the newsboy. The newsboy viewed his approach.

“Gawd lather my love muscle,” said the newsboy.

“It’s
you
, again,” said Will. “Winston.”

“And it’s
you
guv’nor. And I never knowed. Gawd bless you guv’nor and Gawd save the Queen.”

Will patted his pockets for change, but his new suit contained none at all.

“On the ’ouse guv’nor,” said the newsboy, handing him a paper. “And might I shake yer Alice also?” He stuck out his grubby mitt and Will shook it.

“And to think,” said the newsboy, “that I ’ad you down as a Berk.
[22]
Looks can be deceiving, eh?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Come on, guv’nor; you’re looking for your arse
[23]
in the paper, ain’t ya? And it’s there, right on the front page.”

Will groaned.

“And a regular ’ero you are, and I never knowed.”

“Eh?” went Will and he unfolded the broadsheet.

“MOONSHIP LAUNCH TODAY,” ran the banner headline.

“Oh yes,” said Will. “The launch. In all the excitement I’d forgotten about that. But—” And then he glanced down the front page. And then he saw the photograph – his photograph – and he read the copy beneath it.

It had nothing to do with his trial in Brentford, nor his hostage taking, nor his escape.

Nor in fact, did it have anything to do with him whatsoever.

Will read the copy:

Will stared at the picture once more and then he stared at it again. The resemblance to himself was uncanny, but for the colonel’s somewhat more splendid sideburns. “Colonel William Starling,” mumbled Will. “Son of Captain Ernest Starling, my great-great-great—”

“Great ’ero of the Empire,” said the newsboy. “D’ya fink there’s blokes up there, Colonel?”

Will mouthed a silent “What?”

“On the moon? The theory that extraterrestrial life might exist is ’ardly new, is it, Colonel, guv? And this world of ours is literally littered with ancient monuments of gargantuan proportion that defy rational explanation and seem to point to an extraterrestrial ’ypothesis. For instance, the great pyramid of Cheops, the monuments at Karnac. Even our own Ston’enge. Do you not think it possible that members of an advanced cosmic civilisation landed upon this planet in the distant past?”

Will clipped the newsboy about the earhole.

“Shut it,” said he.

“Thank you very much, guv’nor,” said the newsboy, rubbing at his ear. “To say that I ’ave suffered child abuse from an ’ero of the British Empire will look very good on my CV when I apply for that assistant curator’s job at the Tate Gallery that I’m up for next week.”

Will stalked away, and as he stalked away, he leafed through the broadsheet. There were no pictures of the real him. Not even a mention of the events the day before in Brentford.

Master Scribbens had been right. Nothing to do with the trial had reached the media. Although. Will found a small article on the back page:

POET LAUREATE GOES STONE BONKER.

This told how the Great McGonagall had supposedly forced his way into a BBC studio the previous day and broadcast a bogus report about a fictitious trial in Brentford before dying in a freak electric lawnmower/microphone accident. Will raised his eyebrows to this.

A gent in a top hat, fly-fronted beaver-skin ulster coat and spats saluted Will. “My very best wishes upon your historic voyage,” said he. Will sidestepped this gent and returned to the Savoy.

The expensively dressed folk of all nations were no longer to be seen. The desk clerk waved at Will and wished him all the best.

Will signed an autograph for the lift boy and returned to his suite.

Tim wasn’t sleeping. He was up and about. He hadn’t bathed and he never shaved, but he was all togged up in his brand new suit.

“You look rather perky,” said Will, “for a man who’s just downed a bottle of champagne.”

“I drank the orange juice,” said Tim. “Full of vitamin C, sobers you up in an instant.”

“Does it?” said Will.

“Not really. I’m still as pissed as a pudding.”

“Well, read this. It will sober you up.”

Tim read the front page. “My goodness,” he said. “Electric garters that cure arthritis. What will they think of next?”

“Not the adverts. The copy.”

Tim read the copy. “By the Goddess,” he said. “Colonel William Starling, that would be—”

“One of my ancestors.”

“This is a surprise.”

“Isn’t it.”

“Yes,” said Tim. “But it shouldn’t be, should it. I mean, you took the Retro drug, didn’t you? You should be able to remember about this. Does he get to the moon okay?”