The Witches of Chiswick (33 page)

“Is it him?” asked the lady in the straw hat.

“I’m taking care of this,” said the big bargee.

“There’s a ten thousand pound reward for his capture,” said the lady in the straw hat.

“It’s
one
thousand quid,” said the big bargee. “It’s in the paper.”

And he flashed his paper.

“It’s
ten
thousand,” said the lady in the straw hat. And she drew from her handbag
her
newspaper and flourished it at the big bargee. Her newspaper was a copy of
The Times
, a late-afternoon edition. It had upon its front page a picture of Colonel William Starling, Britain’s Most Wanted Man. He had a ten thousand pound reward upon
his
head.

“Muffler,” said the big bargee.

“No,” said Will.

“I’m warning you, mister.” The big bargee placed his paper on Will’s table and raised his fists in a threatening manner.

Will rose carefully to his feet.

“Easy,” whispered Tim. “We don’t want to cause a scene, now do we?”

Will slowly removed his muffler.

“Oh dear,” said Tim.

“Gotcha,” said the big bargee.

But Will shook his head. “Do you recall what happened to you the last time we met?” he asked. “Do you not recall the battering I gave you?”

The big bargee sniffed through his broken nose.

“Do you really want some more?” Will asked.

The big bargee stroked his grazed chin with a bruised knuckle. “There’s a one thousand quid reward on you,” he said.

“Ten thousand,” said the lady in the straw hat.

“My friend and I are leaving now,” said Will. “If you attempt to stop us—”

“I’ll shoot you,” said Tim and he drew out his pistol.

“Fair enough,” said Will. “That will save me the effort.”

“But—” went the big bargee. “But—”

“I’m sorry,” said Will. “But I have to go. I’m off to save God and the future.”

“Bravo, chief,” said Barry, when he, Will and Tim were several streets away from the Golden Rivet and walking unfollowed. “I think you handled that very well. And I’m glad that at last you’ve come around to doing the right thing.”

“Tim,” said Will, “down here”. And Will steered Tim into an alleyway. “I am just going to have a few words with Barry. Keep a look out for trouble, will you?”

“Will do,” said Tim.

Will walked a few paces further. “All right,” he said to Barry. “I will get the job jobbed, but I’ll do it my way. Take me to the future so that I can get myself an arsenal of formidable hardware, then convey me to the exact time and place when these witches will be casting their spells or whatever they do to change the future. Then I’ll blast the lot of them and we can all go home to bed. Or whatever.”

“Ah, chief,” said Barry.

“Ah, Barry?” said Will.

“No can do,” said Barry. “Not the last bit anyway. That would be cheating. That would be like Divine Intervention. That’s not in my remit. I can’t do that. I can advise you, if you’ll take my advice, which you haven’t done so far. But I can’t actually put you in the right time and the right place. Until
you
know what the right time and the right place is. You have to find that out by yourself. Sorry.”

“That is
exactly
what I thought you’d say.”

“Sorry, chief.”

“Then do something else for me.”

Tim turned. “The coast is clear,” said he. And, “Oh my –
God
, who are you?”

“It’s me, Tim.”

“You? Who you?”

“It’s Will,” said Will.

“No it’s not.”

“It is.” Will grinned at Tim. And Tim recognised the grin. But he didn’t recognise much else. Will had changed – dramatically. He was—

“Older,” said Tim. “You’re older. You’re
old
.”

“I’m
not
old,” said Will. “I’m six months older. I’ve been in the future for six months, growing this beard and getting myself all prepared.”

Tim, peered hard at this slightly older Will. “What exactly have you been up to?” he asked.

“I’ve been to the future,” said Will. “The other future. Not our future. I had to persuade Barry to take me, he didn’t want to do it. But I did persuade him and it
is
a good future. In fact, it’s an incredible future, apart from the worshipping of Hugo Rune that goes on there. We’ll have to put a stop to
that
. But I stayed there for six months. Grew the beard.” Will stroked at his long blondy beard. “And the hair.” Will stroked at this also.

“It’s a better beard than mine,” said Tim. “And your hair’s longer.”

“They have very advanced cosmetics in the other future. Their shampoos enhance hair growth. There’s no more baldness. You see, I couldn’t do anything here if I’m on the Most Wanted list. I had to change my appearance. And I had to learn too, all about those witches, and do research and train my body.” Will raised his right arm. “Feel the muscles,” he said. “They have very effective steroids in that future. You can just buy them over the counter.”

Tim felt the muscles. “Big muscles,” he said. “I don’t know whether I think they suit you.”

“I like them. I had to prepare myself for the getting of the job jobbed. I’m all prepared now.”

“I like the get-up,” said Tim.

Will was dressed in a ground-length coat of black leather, white lacy silk shirt, black leather waistcoat, black leather trousers, black leather boots. Well, if you
are
going to be a hero and save the world, you really have to do it dressed in black leather.

Everybody knows
that
!

“It’s the only way, isn’t it?” said Will. “I styled the coat on yours. Took the bespoke tailor two months to get it right.”

“But you weren’t even gone for a moment.”

“Six months,” said Will. “Six long months. I missed you, I really did.”

“Sorry that I didn’t get the chance to miss you.” Tim shook his head and pushed away his hair. “This is intense,” he said.

“A witch-finder is always intense,” said Will.

“A what?”

“Witch-finder,” said Will. “Will the Witch-finder. That’s me. Seek ’em out and destroy ’em, that’s my mission.”

“Right,” said Tim. “Well, I don’t know quite what to say.”

“Don’t say anything then. Just follow me. We’re off to hunt witches.”

Will led Tim from the alleyway and off at the briskest of paces.

“Can I say something now?” Tim asked, as he did his best to keep up.

“Go on,” said Will.

“Where exactly are we going now?”

“To my manse,” said Will.

“Your what?”

“My manse. A magician always has a manse and so too should a witch-finder. Who is in turn a magician of sorts, a white magician. You must know the kind of thing, Tim. You’ve watched the movies: a Gothic pile with an extensive library of occult books and a veritable museum of curious artefacts.”

“And you have one?”

“I’ve done my research. I know where there is one. It’s not a Gothic pile though. It’s an elegant Regency dwelling, it’s presently unoccupied, and it’s ours for the taking. We’re entitled to it.”

“Will,” said Tim. “I have to say that I have no idea what on earth you’re talking about, or exactly what you’re up to. But I have to tell you this. I’m loving it.”

“Splendid,” said Will and he marched on ahead.

Tim followed on behind. “Loving it,” he said once more.

Will hailed a horse-drawn hansom. “Brentford, please,” he told the cabbie. “The Butts Estate, Brentford.”

And an hour and a “smidgen” later, the cab drew up outside an elegant Regency house in Brentford’s Butts Estate, and Will and Tim climbed down from it. Will paid off the cabbie and Tim stared up at the imposing house.

“One classy dwelling,” said he. “And nobody lives here?”

“Not for years.”

“And you’re going to break in?”

“No, I have a key.”

“Lead on,” said Tim. “I’m loving it.”

Will swung open the wrought-iron gate and marched up the gravel path.

“Are you sure nobody lives here?” Tim asked, “because the lawn is newly cut and the garden well tended.”

“No one lives here,” said Will. “But behold who did,” and he drew Tim’s attention to a small engraved-brass plate upon the panelled front door.

Tim stared and said, “Rune. The plate says ‘Hugo Rune’.”

“His home,” said Will, “and possibly his best kept secret. I knew there was more money somewhere. It took a lot of research to uncover the location of this house, this manse. He kept it a very closely-guarded secret. Didn’t want its contents to fall into wrong hands in the event of his untimely death. I traced his strongbox to a left-luggage locker in Euston station. The front door key was in it. Shall we go inside?”

“If you think it’s okay,” said Tim. “I mean, there won’t be traps and things in there, will there?”

“I wouldn’t be at all surprised.”

“Then perhaps I’ll just wait out here until you’ve disabled them.”

“We’ll go together,” said Will. “Remember this is your home as much as mine. Probably more so, as
you’re
his magical heir.”

Tim made sighing sounds. “I am confused about that,” said he. “Surely our great-great-and-so-on- granddad is Colonel William Starling. Where exactly does Rune fit into his family equation?”

“That doesn’t take too much imagination, does it?” said Will. “You didn’t know who your
real
father was, did you? I think Rune was Colonel Starling’s grandfather.”

“Then he sent his own son, Captain Starling, to his death to save Her Majesty at the launching of the
Dreadnaught
. You told me that you remembered that when you took the Retro drug.”

“This really isn’t the time for that conversation. Let’s go inside.” Will placed the key in the front door lock and gave it a forceful twist.

Tumblers engaged, levers moved and the lock gave forth to a satisfying click. Will pushed upon the front door. “We’re in,” said he.

And they were.

They stood now in a broad hallway. The mounted heads of numerous exotic animals peered sightlessly from the walls. Tim examined that of a mammoth. “Bagged by Rune in Siberia, 1852, it says on this little plaque. And this dodo – Mauritius, 1821. And surely this is the head of a unicorn. Narnia, 1818, it says here. He favoured a bit of big-game hunting, did Rune.”

Will nodded and peered at the horns of a dilemma.

“It’s all very clean.” Tim stroked the beak of a mounted griffin’s skull. “I would have expected cobwebs at the very least.”

“It
is
clean,” said Will and he drew a finger along the polished cranium of a hippogriff. “No dust at all.”

“Magic, do you think?” Tim asked. “Some spell that repels dust and maintains the garden?”

Will shook his head. “I think not,” said he. “Come on.”

Tim followed Will along the hall and into a large and splendid study.

“Whoa,” went Tim. “Now you’re talking.”

The room was about as broad as it was long, and as high as it was broad. And its broadness and its longness were packed with wonderful treasures. On every wall were cases loaded with marvellous books, the spines of which twinkled with gemstones and gilded ornamentations. And there were furnishings of abounding richness, golden thrones and couches, sofas piled with cushions of silk and satin and cloth-of-gold. And there were countless beautiful artefacts displayed in glass-fronted cabinets, and antique weapons and suits of armour and statues of the religious persuasion.

“Rather special, isn’t it?” said Will. “I don’t think I expected quite so much.”

“This collection must be worth a fortune.” Tim picked up a gem-encrusted Fabergé roc’s egg and stared at it in wonder. “He could probably have paid off all of his debts just by selling this one piece alone.”

“I think he considered that never paying for anything added to his charisma.”

“He must have paid a lot for
this
.”

“You think so?”

Tim shrugged. “And look at that.” Tim drew Will’s attention to an elaborately decorated golden casket with a cut crystal lid.

“Very special,” said Will. “That’s a reliquary, containing, if I’m not mistaken, the beard of the prophet Mohammed’s wife.”

Tim raised his eyebrows into his hair. “And now all this is
ours
?”

“To use in the right way.”

“Can I keep this Fabergé egg, as a souvenir?”

“Put it down,” said Will. “Remember what we’re here for, saving God and the future and everything.”

“But I could keep this. It wouldn’t matter really, would it?”

“It would.”

Tim stared at Will. “You said that without moving your lips,” he said.

“That’s because
I
didn’t say it,” said Will.

“Then who—”

Tim turned and Will turned also.

In the doorway of the study stood the ancient gentleman. He was liveried as a footman, but in an antique costume of the pre-Regency persuasion: green velvet frocked coat, with slashed sleeves and emerald buttons; red silk stockings and black buckled shoes. His hair was long and white. His face was old and wrinkled.

“Who are you?” Will asked.

“My name is Gammon, sir. I am Mr Rune’s retainer.”

“Ah,” said Will. “Then I’m very pleased to meet you, my name is—”

“I know what your name is, Mr Starling. And I know why you’re here. All has been kept in readiness for your arrival.”

Will looked at Tim.

And Tim looked at Will.

“Loving it,” said Tim.

“If you gentlemen would be so gracious as to beseat yourselves, I will hasten to bring you beverages,” said Gammon, and he indicated an ebonised sofa, bowed deeply and departed the study.

Will and Tim exchanged glances, then the both of them sat down.

“He’s a weirdo,” said Tim.

“Not so loud,” said Will.

Presently Gammon returned, bearing a silver galleried tray which supported a dusty bottle, a brace of Georgian rummers and an ornate corkscrew, fashioned in the shape of a dragon. Gammon set down the tray upon a gopher-wood side table, took up the ornate corkscrew and then struggled to withdraw the cork.

“Let me,” said Will, rising.

“My thanks to you, sir. I am not as young as I once was, but nor am I as old as I might yet become.”

“Absolutely,” said Tim.

Will took the corkscrew, drew the cork. Sniffed it and held up the bottle. “No label,” said he.

“The Master set it aside for you. He thought that you would appreciate it.”

“Indeed.” Will trickled wine into a rummer, held it towards the light, gauged its colour, took another sniff and then a sip. And then a bigger sip.

“Well,” said Will. “A 1787 Chateau Lafitte claret. A most superior vintage.”

Gammon nodded his ancient head. “The Master taught you well,” said he.

Will filled both rummers. “Will you join us?” he asked Gammon.

“Oh no, sir. My palate is not what it was, although it is probably better than it eventually will be. Such fine wine would be wasted upon me.”

“As it will upon Tim,” said Will. “But do have some if you fancy it.”

“No, sir.”

Will handed a rummer to Tim and they both enjoyed the wine.

“So,” said Will, licking his lips. “You have clearly been expecting me, Mr Gammon.”

“The Master had the gift of prophecy, sir. All is predicted. Surely you have read
The Book Of Rune
.”

“Several times,” said Will. “This encounter however is not chronicled there. It is my intention to use these premises as a base for our operations. Do you have any objection to this?”

“On the contrary, sir. I have everything prepared for you. The icons, the hacking weapons, the—”

“Magical accoutrements?” Tim asked.

“Of course, sir.”

“Brilliant,” said Tim. “I’ve been really looking forward to getting my hands on some magical accoutrements.”

“Sir,” said Gammon to Will, “I assume this gentleman to be your manservant, yet you feed him upon the finest wine and allow him to make such outrageous statements.”

“He’s not my manservant,” laughed Will. “He’s my half-brother. He’s Mr Rune’s magical heir.”

“Oh, I am so sorry, sir. My apologies for such an oversight. So
you
are
his
manservant.”

“Let’s not go any further with this.” Will sipped wine. “And I have sufficient weaponry of my own, as it happens. But, as a matter of interest, who employs you now that Mr Rune is dead?”

Gammon put a wrinkly finger to his wrinkly lips. “Please do not use the word
dead
when speaking of the Master.”

“He definitely
is dead
,” said Will. “I attended his funeral.”

“I too, sir, but I still find it impossible to believe. The Master assured me that he was immortal.”

“He had a penchant for exaggeration,” said Will.

“But he had discovered the philosopher’s stone. Distilled the elixir of life.”

“I don’t think he was telling the truth,” said Will.

“But I also drank of the elixir.”

“Then keep your fingers crossed,” said Tim. “And always sniff the milk before putting it in your tea.”

Gammon made a bewildered face.

“Tell me something,” said Will. “You might know the answer to this. For all the research I did, I could never trace either Mr Rune’s birthplace, nor the date of his birth. Do you know?”

Gammon shook his snowbound head. “He did not confide such personal details to me, sir. But then I was only in the Master’s employ for some two hundred years.”

“What?” went Will.

And Tim coughed wine up his nose.
[28]

“
I
exaggerate, of course,” said Gammon.

“Of course,” said Will.

“It would be one hundred and ninety years at most.”

Tim shook his head and pushed away his hair and then he said with a grin. “Did he ever pay you at all during this time?”

Gammon made a thoughtful face, but it was hardly a patch on those that Tim was so good at making. “I did once broach the subject of my salary,” said he. “About one hundred and fifty years ago. The Master assured me that a cheque
would
be in the post.”

“Perhaps it got lost,” said Tim, grinning further. “But you never know, it might turn up.”

“It didn’t today,” said Gammon. “I looked on the mat.”

“So,” said Will. “This is all hugely enjoyable, but—”

“It is for me,” said Tim. “I’m loving it.”

“—but,” Will continued, “Tim and I have pressing business. We have witches to thwart.”

“You are then already skilled in the necessary arts?”

“To a degree,” said Will. “I have done a
lot
of research. I know what I’m dealing with. And I’m well tooled up.”

Gammon shook his head once more and this time tut-tut-tutted.

“Why do you do this tut-tut-tutting?” Will asked. “I’ll get by.”

“Not without a period of intensive training.”

“And
you
can provide this training?”

“That is why I awaited your arrival, sir.”

“No need,” said Will. “I know all the basic stuff about thwarting witches, driving horseshoe nails into their footprints, manufacturing witch-bottles from urine and fingernails and so on.”

“That is
very
basic stuff, sir. I would not wish to open a book upon your chances of success, let alone your survival.”

“You think so?” said Will. “Well, check this lot out,” and he flung open his long leather coat to expose a veritable armoury of weapons. Tim looked on approvingly.

Upon his hips, Will wore a brace of pistols. He drew one from a holster and twirled it upon his finger. “This pistol,” said he, “contains—”

“Bullets forged from silver chalices, inscribed with the sign of the cross and blessed by the Pope?” asked Gammon.

Will nodded.

Gammon shook his head.

“Then this.” Will reholstered his pistol and whipped a stiletto from his belt. “Fashioned—”

“From nails and timber reputed to come from the True Cross?”

Will nodded once more.

“Then this.” Will reached for something else.

But Gammon said, “I’m so sorry, sir. Clearly you have done a considerable amount of research, but I suspect that your researches have been into witches of the medieval persuasion.”

Will nodded. “Yes,” he said.

“You will be dealing with modern witches, sir. Thoroughly modern witches. It is no longer bell, book and candle, nor phials of the Virgin Mary’s tears.”

“Aw,” said Will.

“You haven’t?” said Tim.

“Paid a fortune for them,” said Will.

“Nor,” said Gammon, “threads from the Holy Shroud of Turin, woven into the undergarments.”

“Damn,” said Will.

“In your underpants?” said Tim. “Isn’t that blasphemous?”

Will waggled the claret bottle at Gammon. “Are you telling me,” he said, “that none of these things will be any good against witches?”

“The pistols would no doubt prove effective in regards to shooting them dead, sir. But it’s doubtful whether you would ever get the opportunity to test this proposition. Personally I would advise the icons, the hacking weapons—”

“The magical accoutrements,” said Tim.

“I suspect that your definition of these differs from my own,” said Gammon. “And if you will pardon my forwardness, I will take the liberty of suggesting that we have spoken enough of these things and that it might be better if I were to show you rather than try to explain.”

“Please do,” said Tim, putting down his glass and rubbing his hands together.

“Sir?” said Gammon.

“Go ahead,” said Will.

“Then follow me, please.” Gammon turned upon an antique heel and shuffled from the study. Will topped up his glass and Tim took his up for a topping also.

“Follow the leader,” said Tim. “And I’ll follow you.”

In the hallway, Gammon produced a ring of keys and introduced one to the lock of a low iron-bound door. The door swung open to the sound of suitably dramatic creaking noises. Gammon reached into the darkness, threw a switch. Neon lighting illuminated a stone stairway that led down and down and down and down some more.

And Gammon hobbled down this stairway, followed by Will and Tim.

“I had the lighting installed myself,” said Gammon, when they had descended a considerable distance. “I know that candles tend to make for a more forbidding atmosphere, but if you’d fallen down these steps as many times as I have—”

“Is it much further?” Will asked.

“Much,” said Gammon.

“I don’t fancy walking all the way back up again,” Tim said.

“Nor me, sir,” said Gammon. “That’s why I always take the lift.”

As all good things must come to an end, so too did the stone stairway.

Tim looked up at the big door that lay (or rather stood, or perhaps, more precisely
hung
) before them.

“That’s a big door hanging there,” said Tim.

“Don’t be fooled by it,” said Gammon. “It’s not so big as it thinks it is.”

“Is it just me?” Tim asked, “or do things always get whacky the moment we go underground? Remember the police station and all that interior-decorating nonsense?”

“
You
weren’t at the police station,” said Will.

“See what I mean?” said Tim. “Continuity and logic all go to pot underground.”

“A consequence of time travel,” said Gammon, selecting a key about four feet in length from his key ring. “Something to do with the transperabulation of pseudo cosmic antimatter.”

He turned the key in the miniscule keyhole and gave the door a little nudge with the toe of his buckled shoe.

“Gentlemen,” said he as he threw another switch and brought neon tubes stuttering to light. “The adytum. The naos. The cella. The Master’s Sanctum Sanctorum.”

Tim looked in.

And Will looked in.

And then Will looked at Tim.

And Tim looked at Will.

“It’s—” said Will.

And, “It’s—” said Tim.

“A computer room,” said Gammon.