The Witches of Chiswick (14 page)

Tim looked appalled. He was appalled.

“Dead?” said Tim. “Murdered?”

“Murdered,” said Will. “By Jack the Ripper.”

“You never told me this.”

“I’ve just told you.”

“But you never told me this earlier. I was getting really excited about meeting him. I’m his magical heir.”

“Sorry,” said Will. “And believe me, I was pretty sorry too. For all the chicanery and the bravado and braggadocio, I really liked him. And all the time I was with him, when I thought that he wasn’t teaching me anything, he was, like I said, he was teaching me how to survive. I owe him a lot.
A lot
.”

“But dead. I can’t believe it.”

“Sorry,” said Will. “But he was dead. It was him. I saw the body and I went to the funeral. You wouldn’t believe how many famous folk of the day turned up to it. It was a real celebrity gathering.”

“You’re being very off-hand about this,” said Tim.

“It did happen a very long time ago. I’m over it now.”

“I’m shocked,” said Tim. “I’m really shocked.”

“So was I.” Will supped upon his pint of Large. “But like I say, his funeral. That was really something. Queen Victoria came to it.”

“Queen Victoria came?” Tim’s eyebrows were up into his hair.

“Close personal friend, apparently.”

“But Rune didn’t die in Victorian times. He lived until 1947, when he died penniless in a Hastings boarding house.”

“In our version of history.”

“Oh,” said Tim. “I see. But weren’t you supposed to be changing history, by catching Jack the Ripper and stuff like that?”

Will winked at Tim. “Certainly was,” he said. “I was very angry about Rune being murdered. Very angry indeed. I can’t tell you how angry. More angry than I’ve ever been about anything ever before. I was determined upon one thing and that was to bring Jack the Ripper to justice. He’d committed those other murders, which had nothing to do with me, but this time it was
personal
.

“And when I say,
personal
, I mean
personal
”

The personal effects of Hugo Rune, the guru’s guru, Logos of the Aeon, The Lad Himself and now, in death, the stuff of future legend, were contained within a steamer trunk which stood within the rat-infested hovel that was William Starling’s not so home from home.

The reading of Rune’s will had been an event that Will would long remember and cherish. Will had returned from it with tears in his eyes, but they were not of sorrow. Rather were they of laughter.

The reading had been held in public. So many were there, in fact, who wished to be present at the reading of this will, that the Royal Albert Hall had been loaned for the occasion by Her Majesty Queen Victoria (Gawd bless Her), who sat in state in her royal box to witness the proceedings.

Rune had left elaborate instructions, which were published in
The Times
newspaper, regarding the reading of his will, and the manner of his interment. The latter was to be a time of celebration, he stated, the celebration of a life well lived in the service of others. His body was to be embalmed in the manner favoured by the pharaohs, dressed in his magical robes, his ring of power upon his nose-picking finger, and seated upon a Persian pouffe within a pyramidal coffin of gopher wood, embellished with topaz and lapis lazuli. This was to be set upon a gun carriage, swathed by the flag of his former regiment, then drawn by six white horses to Westminster Abbey, where a selection of his poetry, including “Hymn to Frying Pan” was to be read by the poet laureate whilst a choir of virgins sang lamentful anthems to his praise.

Will had been rather looking forward to that, once the reading of the will was out of the way.

And Will was much impressed by the interior of the Royal Albert Hall, with its terracotta reliefs depicting the arts and sciences of all ages. He looked with appreciation upon the tiers of boxes and galleries, which allowed the seating of some seven thousand individuals around the central arena. And he gazed up in some awe at the great dome of wrought iron and glass. He had visited it before with Rune to attend a gala ball and hear Dame Celia Asquith sing an operetta by Gilbert and Sullivan, which had also impressed him considerably.

There had been so much of old London that Will had wished to see: the British Museum, the Tate Gallery, the Victoria and Albert Museum. Rune had taken him to each in turn and spent much time explaining to Will the whys and wherewithals and what-abouts of classical architecture, sculpture, fabric, fashion, and art, art, art. Rune’s knowledge of all the arts was indeed profound, and whilst he had stoically refused to offer Will any insights to the magic he claimed to possess, he was always vociferous in expounding upon what he knew of other matters. And Will had taken in the knowledge he had been offered, gratefully. “Education,” Rune had told him, “is what remains after you have forgotten everything that you have been taught.”

Will considered this an erudite statement.

Will was certainly fond of the Royal Albert Hall, and certainly amazed by the folk who filled it to hear the reading of Rune’s will. They were not the cultured folk who attended the opera, the top-hatted dandies and gorgeously attired ladies. These people were strictly of the lower orders. Tradespeople.

Will, who could by now identify a tradesman by the manner of his garb, spied hat-makers, silversmiths, manufacturers of occult paraphernalia, vintners, brewers, book-binders, milliners, cobblers, hoteliers, inn-keepers, boarding-house proprietors, travel agents, shipping clerks, and sundry others. Many sundry others. There was not a free seat in the house.

There was an air of expectancy in that great domed room, an atmosphere that could have been cut with a cheese knife, all of which would have no doubt tickled Mr Rune.

And there was no doubt at all, that for this moment, and this moment alone, all of Rune’s creditors were assembled in the selfsame place.

Mr Richard Whittington, the Lord Mayor of London, had been given the unenviable job of reading the will. He wore his robes of office and after ringing his big hand-bell in the fashion of a town crier and calling for order, broke the seal upon the envelope that had been lodged with Coutts’ bank, withdrew the parchment contained within and read aloud the words printed there upon.

“This is the last will and testament of I, Hugo Artemis Solon Saturnicus Reginald Arthur Rune, Magus to the Hermetic Order of the Golden Sprout, Twelfth Dan Grand Master of the deadly art of Dimac, Logos of the Aeon, Lord of the Dance, King of the Jungle, snake-charmer, unicyclist, three-way cross-channel swimmer, Mr Lover Lover, Wild Colonial Boy, and one Hell of a Holy Guru, being of the soundest mind ever lodged within the human form and signed in my own hand in the presence of His Royal Highness, Prince Albert Saxe Coburg Gothe, and our most Regal Majesty Victoria. May the Gods bless Her.” At the mention of the monarch’s name, the crowd removed its collective headwear and bowed its collective head.

The Lord Mayor of London read aloud the will of Hugo Rune.

“I have nothing.

“I owe much.

“The rest I leave to the poor.”

Will, who had learned from Rune always to take the seat nearest to the door, “in case some unforeseen unpleasantness might occur”, was the first out of the door and so not only avoided potential injury during the ensuing riot, but also potential immolation during the conflagration which followed, and which indeed consumed the Royal Albert Hall. Will had glimpsed, upon his departure, Her Majesty making her own departure from the Royal Box. To Will’s great amusement, he noted that Her Majesty was also, upon this occasion,
amused
.

Rune did not get the funeral he’d been hoping for. He was cremated at the expense of Hastings Borough Council. Although many close personal friends, the Queen included, did attend the funeral. The general public, in particular members of the trading class, were excluded.

And now it was all done and Will was alone, alone in the hovel with Rune’s steamer trunk. And Will was wondering what he should do about it and its contents. Whose were they now? Were they his? He was after all, Rune’s heir. But here was an anomaly. Rune had apparently died wifeless and heirless. No one had come forward and none had been mentioned in Rune’s will. Perhaps the answers to the many questions Will had, might be found within the steamer trunk.

There was no doubt in Will’s mind that Rune had possessed wealth. He was born of noble stock, a member of the landed gentry. He was
not
the son of a brewer, as he had originally told Will. His entry in
Who’s Who
filled three whole pages. Will had always considered Rune’s refusal to pay for anything an amusing, if somewhat dishonest, affectation, curiously typical of the very rich, who have been notorious throughout history for failing to pay their bills.

The chances that the trunk was crammed not only with Rune’s clothes but indeed with countless stocks and shares bonds, jewels of high value and large denomination money notes seemed most probable to Will.

And as Will was a stranger in a strange land and presently without funds, hungry and awaiting the knock upon the door that presaged eviction into the street, now would be as good a time as ever to open up the trunk and take a look inside.

And after all, Will had dragged that trunk across five continents and never been granted a peep within. Rune had kept the key upon a chain around his neck. Will had not been able to gain possession of this key.

Will sighed, rose from his verminous pallet, took up the crowbar he had “acquired” and gazed down at the trunk.

“Mr Rune,” he said, “I am going to open your trunk. You will pardon me for this, I trust. I swear that I will avenge your death and bring your murderer to justice. But in order to do this, I require funds. If, to this end, I am forced to sell your clothes and whatever magical accoutrements are held within this trunk, so be it. I am hoping, however, that this trunk contains treasure. And that’s all I have to say really.” Will might well have crossed himself after this brief speech, but instead he made the sign of the pentagram as he had seen Rune do upon many occasions, mostly before a moonlight flit.

And then Will put his crowbar to the lock of the steamer trunk and forced it open. He put the crowbar aside, applied his hands to the lid, and lifted it.

A curious fragrance breathed out from the open trunk, as of lilacs; the “odour of sanctity” that issues from the incorruptible bodies of the saints. Will sniffed this fragrance. “It pongs of his aftershave,” said Will.

And then Will delved into the trunk. He heaved out Rune’s clothes: the hand-made shirts, and vests, (no underpants, for Rune had always gone “commando”), socks, garter-straps and spats. And suits: the Boleskine tweed six-piece suit, the linen tropical number, Rune’s pink chiffon evening dress. There were papers, many papers, but most of these were unpaid bills. And then there were books. Will did what you did with books, Will pored over them. Tomes they were, books of magical lore. Here was Joseph Glanvil’s
Saducismus Triumphatus
and also the
Daemonolatreia
of Remigius, the 1595 Lyons edition; and
The Book of Rune,
and inevitably
The Necronomicon
of the Mad Arab Abdul Alhazred. Will knew of
The Necronomicon
, because, let’s face it,
everyone
knows of
The Necronomicon
. He set it aside for a later bedtime read and proceeded with his search for Rune’s hidden wealth.

It did not appear to be forthcoming.

He came across Rune’s swordstick, the slim ebony shaft topped by a silver skull. Will twirled it between his fingers. He’d always rather fancied that cane.

There were boxes now, beneath where the books had been stacked. Cufflinks; many, many sets of cufflinks. Will viewed these approvingly. Some were set with diamonds and emeralds. There was wealth here. And watches, gold hunters, several embossed with Masonic symbols set about their faces in substitute for numbers. And there were the golden brooches and the watch chains.

“There is money here,” Will smiled to himself. “He certainly favoured a bit of jewellery.”

Will opened box after box after box. Many great rings displayed themselves, magical rings, inscribed with enigmatic symbols, inlaid with cabochons and turquoise and lapis lazuli. Will gasped anew as each new treasure revealed itself. There
was
wealth here, great wealth: the legacy of Hugo Rune. Will plucked a ring at random from its box and put it onto his finger. The ring was far too big for his slender digit, but Will blew upon the ring and buffed it on his sleeve. “Splendid,” he said. He took up another and another until his hands could hold no more. “Thank you, Mr Rune,” said Will. “None of this will be wasted, I assure you.”

Will let the rings drop from his fingers onto his bed and sought further treasure. Only one box remained in the trunk. Will fished it out. It was larger than a ring box, and weighty too; of considerable weight in fact.

“This has to be it,” said Will. “The mother lode.”

And Will sought to open the box, but could not.

Will puzzled at this. There was no sign of a keyhole. It was just a box with a lift-up lid; a curious box though; an interesting box. Will studied the interesting box. It was of tanned hide, tanned pink hide. Will could not guess from what manner of beast this hide had been extracted, but there was something about it which Will found unsettling.

Regarding the dimensions of the interesting box, it was cuboid and about ten centimetres to a side. Upon its lid was an engraved brass disc. Will studied the engraving upon this disc: a name, a single name.

And lo, this name was Barry.

“Barry,” read Will. “Now I wonder who Barry might be. Some former owner of this box, I suppose. So how do you get it open?” Will fought with the box but it was an unequal struggle. The box would not be opened. Will took out his pocket knife and selected a suitable blade. He struggled and forced, and the blade sheared off and almost took his eye out.

“Right,” said Will. “Well, I’m not going to be beaten by a little box. If I can’t pry you open, then I’ll stamp you open. Even the most vigorous stamping is unlikely to damage a diamond.”