The Witches of Chiswick (21 page)

“How can you be sure of that?” Will asked.

“Because that someone or something dropped something when they stole the time machine. And I found it and I used it, which is why I am now invisible.”

“And what was this something?” Will asked.

“A computer,” said Mr Wells. “A miniature computer. It took me considerable time to fathom its workings, but when I did, I discovered that it contained a veritable storehouse of arcane knowledge: certain mathematical formula, mathematical and magical formula.”

Will shook his head. “Will you show this to me?” he asked.

“No,” said Mr Wells. “I destroyed it. Cast it into the fire.”

“Why?” Will asked.

“Fear, I suppose.”

“What did it look like?” Will asked.

“It was about this size.” Mr Wells motioned with invisible fingers. “You pressed it in at its lower edge and the top slid aside. On the inside of the inner lid were a number of markings. A serial number.”

Will dug into his pocket and brought out his palm-top. “Did it look anything like this?” he asked.

Mr Wells stared at Will’s palm-top. “It looked exactly like that,” he said.

Will pressed the lower edge of his palm-top and the top slid aside. “Do you remember the serial number on the inside of the inner lid?” he asked.

“I do,” said Mr Wells. “It was 833903.”

Will studied the number embossed upon his palm-top. He really didn’t need to study it, he knew it well enough by heart.

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

Will had breakfast with Mr Wells. He cooked up a big boy’s breakfast, which included mushrooms, tomatoes and potatoes. He and Mr Wells enjoyed it thoroughly.

“So what
will
you do now?” asked Mr Wells, upon the completion of their considerable repast.

Will wiped a napkin over his mouth. “Continue,” he said. “Search for Rune’s murderer. I have sworn to do this and so I shall.”

“And for all the rest?”

“If it is connected, and I agree that perhaps it might well be, then I shall do what I can. You had my palm-top computer, which somehow came from the twentieth century, which means that I must have been there, or will be there, or something. I’m sure it will all become clear eventually. But can I ask you this? Might I rely upon your assistance if the need should arise?”

“You feel now that you can trust me?”

“I have no reason not to. I will ache for some time from the violence you visited upon me, but your port has at least cleared my hangover.”

“I thought you a potential assassin,” said Wells. “You can understand that.”

“I can.” Will rose from his chair. “I will take my leave now. Will you be all right, with your ankle and everything?”

“I will telephone for the services of my good friend Dr Watson.”

“Not
the
Dr Watson.”

“
The
,” said Wells.

“You’ll have to call someone else,” said Will. “He’s away with Mr Holmes, solving the case of the Hound of the Baskervilles. The butler did it, by the way.”

“My turn to be speechless, I think,” said Mr Wells.

“A pleasure to meet you,” said Will. “Farewell.”

“So, where are we off to now, chief?” asked Barry, when Will was once more in the street. “Chiswick, is it?”

“No,” said Will. “I don’t think so.”

“But, chief, I’ve told you everything. We’re on the same side, we share the same goals. Sort of.”

“Barry,” Will spoke behind his hand to avoid the attention of passers-by, “we will do things my way or not at all. You are free to depart whenever you wish.”

“You won’t get back to the future without me, chief.”

“Perhaps I’m not bothered,” said Will. “Perhaps I like it here. I’m used to it now, and frankly, it’s better than the time I come from. Much more exciting.”

“Come off it, chief. You don’t mean that really.”

“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t, but I won’t be bullied by you. Since I’ve put myself in charge, I’ve found out all manner of things. I think I’ll just carry on doing things my way.”

“Then we’re all doomed,” said Barry.

“What was that?” Will asked.

“I said, ‘then we’re all doomed’, as it happens.”

“We’ll see,” said Will. “We’ll see.”

Will hailed a hansom and returned to his room at the Dorchester. Here he bathed and then dressed himself in one of the morning suits from the extensive range of clothing that Barry had acquired for him. Will took up Rune’s cane, twirled it between his fingers and examined his reflection in the cheval glass.

“Very dashing, chief. A regular dandy, you are. So what do you have in mind to do next?”

“A visit to Whitechapel police station,” said Will. “We will see if any new clues have turned up regarding the Ripper murders.”

“A waste of time, chief. You
know
that they haven’t.”

“I can no longer trust history, Barry. I will follow the case. There has to be a reason why those women were murdered. And if, and I mean
if
, the same murderer killed Hugo Rune, then we’ll see what we shall see.”

“But chief, come on, the witches, the forces of darkness. The End Times at hand, the death of God, the—”

“My way, Barry. My way or not at all. If the case can be solved. I will solve it.”

“How, chief? How will
you
solve it?”

“By deduction, Barry. The science of deduction. I’ve read all the Sherlock Holmes books. I know his methods.”

“So you are now a consulting detective?”

Will took up the envelope of case notes. “I’m Will Starling,” he said. “Associate of Mr Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street, and out to make a name for myself in history as the man who brought Jack the Ripper to justice.”

“Oh d—”

“Don’t say it,” said Will.

“I’m sorry, chief.”

“That’s better.”

Whitechapel police station was a dreary-looking building, constructed of grimy London Stocks and painted all around its wooden bits with dull grey paint. It did have the big blue lamp outside, but there was just no cheering it up. It was dull, and it was dreary, it was grim.

Will entered the grim police station. It’s interior was stark and joyless: faded oak-panelled walls, what were now old-fashioned gas lights, a miserable desk that barred the way to depressing offices beyond. A sleeping policeman lay slumped upon a sorry chair behind this miserable desk.

A sad brass desk bell stood mournfully upon this miserable desk.

Will struck the button of this sad brass desk bell.

The sleeping policeman awoke.

“Let’s be having you!” he cried as he awoke. “You’re nicked chummy. Put your hands up, it’s a fair cop.”

“Good day to you,” said Will.

“Ah.” The policeman focused his eyes. “Good day to you too, sir.”

The policeman raised himself from his chair of gloom and Will stared at the policeman. “I know you,” he said. “I know you from somewhere.”

“Constable Tenpole Tudor,” said the constable. “I never forget a face, and I don’t know you.”

“Starling,” said Will. “
Lord
William Starling, son of the late Sir Captain Ernest Starling, hero of the British Empire. I am an associate of Mr Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street.”

“Never heard of him,” said Constable Tenpole Tudor.

“Your superiors have; they placed this case file in his hands, and I am dealing with it now.” Will placed the envelope upon the miserable desk, the constable turned it towards himself and gave it a peering at.

“The Ripper,” said he, and then he began to laugh.

“Why do you laugh?” Will asked. “This is no laughing matter.”

“I laugh,” said the constable, “because we’ve already caught the blighter. Less than an hour ago. We have him banged up in the cells even now. That’s why I laugh.”

“You have
caught
Jack the Ripper?”

“Didn’t give up without a struggle. Took four officers to bring him down.”

“And you have him in custody? Here? Now?”

“Down below in the cells. Presently being interrogated by Chief Inspector Samuel Maggott.”

“Samuel Maggott?” said Will. “Of DOCS?”

“Docs?” asked the constable. “I wouldn’t know about any docs. The fiend might need a doctor by the time we’ve finished with him though. Doesn’t seem too keen to confess to his evil crimes.”

“But you’re sure you have the right man? How can you be sure?”

“Covered in blood, he was. And raving too. Well he was at the time, when we caught him. ‘I did it’, he shouted. ‘I had to. God made me do it.’ Can you imagine that? God made him do it? That’s a new one, ain’t it?”

“It will stand the test of time,” said Will. “Can I see him?”

“See him? Why would you want to see him?”

“Because I was assigned to this case. Look, there’s a letter in this envelope. Passing the case on to Mr Holmes. He passed it on to me.”

“A lot of passing about,” said the constable. “That’s not how things are done through official channels.”

“Yes it is,” said Will. “That’s always how it’s done.”

“Is it?” asked the constable. “Well, nobody’s ever told me. All I ever get is orders from above.”

Will paused.

“Oh I see,” said the constable. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Then I can see the suspect?”

“The murderer, you mean.”

“The murderer, then.”

“Well,” said Constable Tenpole Tudor, and he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together in a significant fashion. “I don’t know. Just letting anyone in. That might be more than my job’s worth. I just don’t know.”

Will reached into his pocket and brought out a golden guinea. “See this,” he said.

“I do,” said the constable.

“Then take me to the murderer’s cell and perhaps I’ll show it to you again.”

“This way, sir,” said the constable and he raised a depressing flap upon his miserable desk and led Will down to the cells.

The down-to-the-cells way was all that Will might have expected, had he been expecting it: dark, dank, damp and dripping stone walls; sounds of steel doors clanging in the distance, horrid smells, slimy steps.

“Like the decor?” asked the constable. “We’ve just had it redecorated. Chap off the wireless. Laurence Llewellyn-Morris.”

“Very, er, atmospheric,” said Will, stepping over something vile that lay upon a step.

“A bit too modern for my taste,” said the constable. “I prefer things traditional. Can’t be having with this trendy stuff. It was all aluminium tiles and pine decking down here before.”

“Please lead on,” said Will. “I’m becoming confused.”

“We’ve had them all down here,” said the constable, as he led on. “Sweeney Todd, the demon barber of Fleet Street, Sawney Bean, the Galloway cannibal; the Count of Monte Cristo, the Prisoner of Cell Block H. And
the
Prisoner, of course, played by Patrick McGoohan.”

“What?” said Will.

“I’m a member of the fan club,” said the constable. “Six of One; you get a badge and everything. I’d send away for the t-shirt, but they’re a bit expensive.”

“Chief,” said Barry. “There’s something very wrong here, we should be going, I think.”

“I know what you mean,” Will whispered.

“Oh and Hannibal Lecter,” said the constable. “He’s a real terror. We have to keep him in a straitjacket with a leather mask, or he’ll bite your face off. Happened to Constable Colby last week. He was token policewoman; took the mask off to give Mr Lecter’s teeth a clean. Bad mistake that.”

“Away, chief,” said Barry. “Now.”

“I think I’d like to see the prisoner,” said Will.

“Mr McGoohan, your lordship?”

“No, Jack the Ripper.”

“That’s what you’re,” the constable tapped at his nose, “you know, bribing me for.”

“It’s official business,” said Will. “But you will be recompensed for your trouble.”

“That’s it, your lordship ‘Recompensed’. Good word, that.”

“Please just lead the way,” said Will. And the constable continued with his way-leading.

“Now down here,” he said, “there used to be all big cells, very spacious, en-suite bathrooms and that kind of thing, but Mr Llewellyn-Morris split them up, made them more down-market. Newgate chic, he called it. Retro-look. Ah, here we are. Would you like to go in?”

They had stopped before an iron door, an iron door with one of those little grilles upon it with the sliding panel that you can move aside to have a peep into the cell and a good old gloat if you’re that way inclined.

“Could I just have a peep through the little grille?” Will asked.

“Certainly, your lordship. And have a good old gloat too if you wish. I always do. The captured villain on the inside, the good fellow on the outside, that’s always worthy of a good old gloat in my opinion.”

“A peep,” said Will. “I’m not ready for a gloat just yet.”

“Please yourself,” said the constable. “And I suppose that really
you
don’t have anything to gloat about. After all,
you
didn’t catch Jack the Ripper. I did.”

“You said it took four of you.”

“But I caught him. Wandering in the street, burbling like a mad man. Covered in blood from head to toe. I’ll take the credit. My name will go down in history for this.”

“Well done,” said Will, but not with enthusiasm.

“So have a little peep, your lordship, and then we’ll settle up.” And the constable rubbed his thumb and forefinger together once more.

“Indeed we will.”

The constable pushed the little sliding panel aside and Will peered through the grille and into the cell.

Within the tiny wretched-looking cell sat two men, either side of a table, one the suspect, the other Chief Inspector Samuel Maggot.

Will viewed the suspect. He was strapped into a straitjacket. There was much blood upon the straitjacket. There was much blood upon the suspect also. It was clotted into his hair. It was all around the edges of his face also. The suspect’s face was contorted, madly contorted.

“It wasn’t me,” he was yelling. “You don’t understand,” he was yelling. “You have to do something,” he was yelling also.

The suspect’s yelling hurt Will’s ears. And Will’s face made a very pained expression. But it wasn’t the yelling that did it. It was the suspect.

Will stared at the suspect and Will’s mouth opened.

“Chief,” said Barry. “I see that. Do you see that?”

“I see that,” Will whispered.

“But chief, it’s … it’s …”

“It’s me, Barry,” said Will. “That man in the cell is me!”