The Witches of Chiswick

17

Will settled himself into a front seat on the open upper deck of the Chiswick omnibus. The bus was a three-storey vehicle, electrically powered.

Ground floor, first class, with cocktail lounge, served by a cocktail waiter.

Second floor, middle class, with lounge bar, served by a suited barman.

Third floor, working class, with a pile of beer crates in one corner, booze by the bottle, served by a toothless hag.

“Care for a pint of old Willydribbler, dearie?” enquired this hag, leaning over Will’s shoulder and showering him with flecks of jellied eel.

“No thanks, missus,” said Will. “Have to keep a clear head, off to see the Queen, you know.”

“We’ll forget all about those two large scotches you had back at the Dorchester shall we, chief?”

“Silence, Barry.”

“What’s that, dearie?”

“I said nothing, thank you.”

The hag shuffled off to serve a party of Japanese sightseers.

And Will took in the sights and sounds of London. The bus was travelling slowly down the Strand and Will looked out upon the swank storefronts.

There was Mr Dickens’ famous Old Curiosity Shop. And there was Woolworths, the Kwik Fit Fitter, and there was the Little Shop of Horrors. And there was a Babbage superstore, with a range of automata displayed in its front window; many different varieties, none of which were black-eyed and monstrous. And there was the Electric Alhambra, where Little Tich was topping the bill and performing his ever popular Big B …

“Fine view,” said the man on the seat next to Will.

“It certainly is,” said Will.

“And how would you know that?” asked the man. “I haven’t given it to you yet.”

“Pardon me,” said Will. “I don’t think I quite understand you.”

“Ignore him, chief: ‘nutter on the bus’. There’s always one. It’s a tradition, or an old charter, or something.”

“Silence, Barry.”

“And my name isn’t Barry,” said the man.

Will glanced at the man. He was an average-looking man: average height (even when sitting down), average weight, average face, averagely dressed. He raised his average hat to Will.

“I’m The Man,” said he.

“Really?” said Will, and he addressed his attention once more to the scenery.

“The Man,” said The Man once more. “The Man.”

“I’m sorry,” said Will, “but I really don’t understand. And I’d prefer to be alone with my thoughts at the moment, if you don’t mind.”

“You can’t let an opportunity like this slip by,” said The Man. “Not when you meet The Man.”

“The Man?” asked Will.

“The Man on the Clapham Omnibus,” said The Man. “Don’t say that you’ve never heard of me.”

“Fair enough,” said Will. “I won’t.”

“The Man on the Clapham Omnibus,” said The Man. “It’s me, it’s really me.”

“But this is the Chiswick omnibus.”

“It started off at Clapham,” said The Man. “And to Clapham it will return. With me on board. As I have been now for more than thirty years.”

Will raised an eyebrow beneath his tweedy cap. “Why?” he enquired.

“Vox pop,” said The Man. “I am the voice of the people. I am public opinion. When I’m not on the bus, do you know what I am?”

Will shook his head.

“I’m The Man in the Street,” said The Man. “Same fella, it’s me.”

“Very pleased to meet you.” Will now found his hand being shaken.

“So go on. Ask my opinion. Ask for my fine view.”

“About what?” Will wrenched back his hand and crammed it into his pocket.

“Anything you like, and I’ll give you my uninformed opinion.”

“But why would I want to have it?”

“Was that your first question?”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“So why did you ask it?”

“Would you please be quiet?” asked Will.

“Was that your first question?”

Will sighed. Deeply. “Sir,” said he. “I must inform you that I am a master of Dimac, the deadliest form of martial art in the world. I was personally trained by Mr Hugo Rune.”

“Gawd rest his Dover sole,” said The Man, “scoundrel that he was. Or loveable rogue, if you prefer. Although he was a toff and toffs ain’t worth the time it takes to wipe your arse with a copy of The Times. In my opinion.”

“I didn’t actually ask for your opinion,” said Will.

“I don’t always have to be asked. I give my opinions freely. There’s no charge, although a small gratuity is never refused.”

“As I was saying,” said Will, “about the Dimac. My hands and feet are deadly weapons. With little more than a fingertip’s touch I could disable and disfigure you. So please, as the popular parlance goes, put a sock in it!”

“How about a tour then?”

“I’m on my way to Buckingham Palace.”

“Me too. Well, passing by there. But I could give you a talking tour on the way. Point out places of interest, tell you all about this wonderful city. You ain’t no Londoner, is you?”

“Actually, I’m from Brentford,” said Will.

“Ah,” said The Man. “Wonderful place. Believed to be the actual site of the biblical Garden of Eden.”

Will shook his head. A swooping pigeon laid a dropping on his cap.

“Damn!” said Will.

“That’s good luck,” said The Man.

“Good luck?”

“Good luck it hit you and not me.”

Will took off his cap and wiped its top beneath his seat.

“To your right,” said The Man, “Trafalgar Square.”

“I’ve been to Trafalgar Square before,” said Will.

“Know all the statues, then?”

“Well, no. No, I don’t.”

“Then let me introduce you.” The Man pointed. “We are now passing the statue of Lord Palmerston, who will be remembered for his cheese.”

“That’s Parmesan,” said Will.

“And there you see the statue of Lord Babbage, great genius of our age. Without him the British Empire wouldn’t be what it is.”

“And what is it?” Will asked.

“Spreading all the time, across the world and upwards. The British Empire will continue to expand until it encompasses the entire globe, before moving on to the stars.” The Man pointed upwards. “Tomorrow the moon; the next fortnight, the stars.”

“Tomorrow the moon?” said Will.

“Well, not actually tomorrow; the launching is in a few days’ time, but you know what I mean,” said The Man.

“To the moon?”

“Where have you been, mate? Don’t you ever read the news or listen to the wireless?”

“Well,” said Will. “I haven’t much, actually, though I really should do, I suppose.”

“Well, we have Lord Babbage to thank for it all. With the help of Mr Tesla. That’s his statue there, by the way. Though he’s a Johnny foreigner, so we don’t care much for him.”

“A lunar flight,” Will mulled this over. Jules Verne had written about that. So had H.G. Wells. Fact, not fiction.

“I was there when they launched Her Majesty’s Electric Airship Dreadnaught,” said The Man. “Took a day off being The Man on the Clapham Omnibus or The Man in the Street and became A Face in the Crowd. Made a change. And spectacular it was. And I saw the assassination attempt and how Captain Ernest Starling of The Queen’s Own Electric Fusiliers bravely gave up his life to save Her Majesty the Queen, Gawd bless her. We just passed his statue in Trafalgar Square too. Posthumously knighted, he was, which makes him Sir Captain Ernest Starling, I suppose.”

“What?” went Will. “What?”

And memories once more returned to him, of his noble ancestor, and of his noble ancestor’s meeting, in the waiting room of Brentford station with a certain Hugo Rune, now also dead and gone.

“I remember that.” Will buried his face in his hands.

“Easy now, chief,” said Barry.

“Shut up!” cried Will.

“Sorry,” said The Man. “What did I say?”

“Nothing,” said Will. “Nothing. Captain Ernest Starling. He was my—” Will paused.

“Not your daddy?” said The Man. “Gordon Bennett’s old brown trousers! I should have spotted the resemblance. You’re the dead spit. Blimey, it’s a pleasure to meet you and shake your hand.” The Man dragged Will’s right hand from his face and shook it warmly.

The driver’s voice came over the omnibus speaker system.

“Buck House,” said the driver’s voice. “Toffs off, if you please.”

“I have to go,” said Will, rising. “But thank you very much. It’s been a pleasure talking to you.”

“Any chance of a gratuity?” The Man stuck his hand out.

“Certainly,” said Will and he dug into his pocket and brought out a silver threepenny bit.

“Your generosity is only exceeded by your personal charm and good looks,” said The Man, accepting the coin and trousering it.

“Thank you,” and Will took his leave.

“Ugly sod,” The Man called after him.

And so Will found himself standing outside the gates of Buckingham Palace. Buckingham Palace looked pretty much as Buckingham Palace has always looked and probably always will look, but for the occasional difference in the colour of the railings. This season’s colour was presently black, because black was always the new black as far as Queen Victoria was concerned.

“So now we’re here, chief, what do you propose to do?”

“Go inside,” said Will. “Search for clues.”

“You’re on a total wrong’n, chief.”

“I’m doing this my way, Barry.”

“They’ll never let you in, chief. You’re a commoner.”

“You don’t think I can pass myself off as Lord Peter Whimsy?”

“No,” said Barry. “I don’t.”

They were changing the guard at Buckingham Palace. A young lad was peering through the railings. His name was Christopher Robin. He’d come down with his nurse called Alice to watch them go through their changes.

Will marched past the young lad and approached the newly changed guard.

“I’d like to see the Queen please,” said Will.

“Hold on a mo.” The guard fiddled with his suspender belt. “I’m not quite changed yet,” he said.

Will looked on in amazement.

“Dyslectic clerk,” said Barry. “At the Ministry of Defence. The regiment was supposed to be called The Queen’s Own Home Foot Regiment, but he put it down as The Queen’s Own Cross-dressing Nancy-Boy Shirt-lifting Fusiliers. Easy mistake to make if you’re a dyslexic, I suppose.”

“That’s not funny and it’s not clever, Barry.”

“You’re right there,” said the guard. “And how did you know my name was Barry?”

“Lucky guess?” said Will.

“Amazing,” said the guard, now done with his adjustments and smoothing down his corset. “So bugger off, will ya?”

“I’m here to see Her Majesty, Gawd bless Her,” said Will. “It’s very important.”

“It always is.” The guard took various items from his handbag and began to powder his nose.

“I have to see Her Majesty now.”

“Ooooooo,” went the guard. “Get her. Mince off, will ya? Ya can’t come in.”

“Please tell Her Majesty I’m here,” said Will.

“You’re wasting your time, chief.”

“Keep out of this, Barry.”

“It’s not my job to keep out of it,” said the guard. “It’s my job to keep riff-raff like you out. Although if you’d care to hang about, we might go for a drink later. I know a little club in Soho, the Brown Hatters. I might treat you to a cocktail.”

“Give it up, chief, you’re beaten.”

“I’m not,” Will whispered. And then he said. “Very well done, guard. I will commend your vigilance to Her Majesty. And now you can let me through the gates. I am William Starling, son of Sir Ernest Starling of The Queen’s Own Electric Fusiliers who valiantly gave up his own life to save Her Majesty from the assassin at the launching of the Dreadnaught.”

The guard stared at Will. And then he blinked and stared again. And then he put away his make-up and said, “Bugger off”

“What?” said Will.

“Only joking,” said the guard. “Recognised you immediately.”

“No you didn’t,” said Will.

“Do you want to go inside, or what?”

“I do,” said Will.

“Then do.”

“So what now?” asked Barry, as Will marched across the parade ground and up to the big front door. “This is such a waste of time.”

“I’m doing it my way, Barry. And I’ll thank you to keep out of it. The Queen has her own special surgeon, does she not?”

“Of course she does, chief. Sir Frederick Treves.”

“Do you think he owns a pair of very long tweezers?”

“Sure to, chief.”

“Think about it, Barry.”

“Ah yes, chief, I get you. I’ll just keep quiet then.”

Will knocked upon the big front door. After no great length of time, a liveried automaton of the stylish and non-threatening persuasion opened it. Will stared at the liveried automaton.

“You’re all covered in liver,” said Will.

“And?” the automaton enquired.

“Oh I see,” said Will. “Dyslectic clerk at the Ministry of Defence?”

“No,” said the automaton. “Fancy-dress ball.”

“Right,” said Will. “Well, I am William Starling, son of the late Sir Captain Ernest Starling, who nobly laid down his life for Queen and country. I’m sure you know the one.”

“I do,” said the liveried automaton. “But why are you not in fancy dress?”

“But I am.” Will did a kind of a twirl. “Can’t you guess what I’ve come as?”

The liveried automaton cocked his head upon one side and viewed the uninvited guest. “Ah yes,” said he. “Most subtle, most amusing. Do come inside.”

“Ludicrous,” said Barry.

“Tweezers,” whispered Will.

“I think I’ll take a nap now,” said the sprout.

The interior of Buckingham Palace was something to behold. Will beheld it and whistled.

It had been designed by Sir Joshua Sloane, who would later be remembered for his Rangers. He’d done Buck House in the “Palace Style”, very heavy on the gold leaf and the chandeliers and the statuary and the plush fitted carpets, not to mention the ormolu-mounted kingwood and marquetry commodes, with the blind fret-carved friezes, flanking broken scroll pediments ornamented with gold japanned paterae and fluted balusters, rendered in the style of Thomas Chippendale (who, with the aid of his brothers, would later find fame for dancing about in front of drunken young women and whipping out his todger [nice work if you can get it!]).

The entrance hall was about the size of Victoria Station, its walls dressed with many huge canvasses, the work of Mr Dadd in his “you chuck it on and I’ll spread it” period, which was to say, his present period.

Will whistled once again.

“Very good,” said the liveried automaton. “The whistling goes with your costume, are you a professional actor?”

“No,” said Will. “I’m a time traveller, on a mission to catch Jack the Ripper.”

“Most amusing, sir. I must introduce you to Mr Oscar Wilde. I’m sure the two of you will have much to talk about.”

“I doubt that,” said Will. “I’m easily bored. Might I just peruse the guest list. I feel that one or two of my old friends may be here.”

“Certainly. Sir.” The liveried automaton took up a clipboard from one of the ormolu-mounted kingwood and marquetry commodes (the one on the right-hand side of the front door as you’re coming in) and offered it to Will.

Will perused and returned it. “Thank you,” said he. “Now if you will just steer me in the direction of Her Majesty.”

“As you wish, sir.”

The liveried automaton led Will through rooms filled with many wonders.

These had the looks of engineeriums. Mighty machines of shining steel and buffed-up brass, all cogs and flywheels, pistons and ball-governors, rose in the midst of these rooms. The air was heavy with the rich smell of engine oil and of ozone, which has something to do with electrical jiggery-pokery.

“Her Majesty appears to show a great deal of interest in electronics,” Will observed.

“The future lies in technology,” the liveried automaton replied. “And as long as the Crown holds every patent, the British Empire will continue to expand until it encompasses the entire globe, before moving on to the stars.”

“Do you have a brother?” Will asked.

“No, sir. I’m an automaton.”

“Then I perceive that you reside in Clapham and travel here every day upon the omnibus.”

“Gawd bless my soul,” said the liveried automaton. “You’re a regular Miss Shirley Holmes, ain’t you, sir?”

“The man’s an amateur,” said Will.

“We’re all gonna die,” said Barry.

“Tweezers,” whispered Will.

“Talking in my sleep,” said Barry. “Zzzzzzz.”

“The Great Hall,” said the liveried automaton. “You’ll find Her Majesty somewhere in here. I’ll have to leave you now, sir. I’m on door duties.”

“Fine,” said Will. “Thank you very much. See you on the way out, or perhaps I’ll catch you on the Clapham omnibus some time.”

“I’ll look forward to it, sir. Farewell.”

Will gazed into the Great Hall. It was a very wonderful Great Hall.

The ceiling was a magnificent dome, painted in the style of Michelangelo, but with more cherubs and a great deal more naked folk indulging in what toffs euphemistically refer to as the pleasures of the flesh, but what the commoners call shagging. The ceiling had been designed by Mr Aubrey Beardsley, but he hadn’t actually done any of the painting himself, because he had a bit of a cough. His brother Peter (who would later find fame playing football for Liverpool and earning fifty-nine caps for England) had done all the colouring in.

The walls of the Great Hall were hidden beneath swathes of red toile de Jouy fabric, which presented a most lustrous effect. The furnishings were splendid, and resembling, as they did, those in the famous apartments of Louis de Champalian, there is no need for description of them here.

So, all in all, it was a pretty natty Great Hall.

It was also a very crowded Great Hall, and it swelled with swells and glittered with the glitterati. Wilde was holding court before a bevy of breathless beauties. Wilde had come dressed as the Pope, who in turn had come dressed as Wilde. Count Otto Black was to be seen, clad in the star-spattered robes and conical hat of Merlin the magician. He was chatting with Queen Victoria herself, whom Will was surprised to see wore nothing but a diaphanous gown and a pair of high-heeled clogs.

Little Tich was there, of course, wearing his now legendary ever-popular big boots. Will was slightly disappointed to observe that they were not quite so big as he’d hoped they’d be. But then, you can’t have everything, and Will consoled himself with the fact that he had at least caught a glimpse of Queen Victoria’s muff.

Dadd was there, dressed as a packet of pork scratchings. And there were countless others, far too many for Will to count, although he was looking for one in particular.

A minion in a gorilla suit approached Will. The minion bore a silver tray with glasses of champagne. Will helped himself to one of these, took it up and sipped at it.

It was quite exquisite.

Will took another sip and said, “Oh yes.”

This was really something. Really something. Will had seen a lot of somethings during his travels with Hugo Rune. He had dined with potentates and emperors, and even with the Pope in Rome. (Will recalled how he had warned the Pope about the growing threat of vampires, who had been misidentified as saints, and wondered whether the Pope had paid any heed to his warnings.) And Will had visited many palaces. In fact, Will had done a whole lot of wonderful things with Mr Rune, the importance and relevance of which were only now becoming apparent to Will.

Rune had taught him how to fit in, and a whole lot more than that.

But for all that whole lot more, Will had never seen anything quite so splendid and eccentric as this, and as his eyes took it in, his brain did somersaults, which awoke the snoozing sprout, who was similarly impressed when he peered out through Will’s eyes.

“This is good,” said Barry, “if perhaps a little silly. Isn’t that the Duke of Wellington, who, if I’m not mistaken, will later go on to find fame as a lightweight summer sandal with a Velcro strap? Why is he dressed as a grandfather clock?”

Will shrugged. “Just go back to sleep, Barry. I am going to mingle and learn what there is to be learned.”

“And after that we can leave here and get back on the trail of Jack the Ripper.”

“Tweezers, Barry.”

“Good night, chief.”

Will grinned. He felt confident that the word “tweezers” would now be figuring prominently in his future conversations with Barry.

“Don’t forget the law of diminishing returns,” said Barry.

“What?” went Will. “Can you read my thoughts too?”

“No,” said Barry. “But that one was pretty damn obvious.”

“Good night, Barry.”

“Good night, chief.”

And so Will mingled.

Will mingled with members of the French aristocracy. They had come dressed as the cast of Joseph and the Technicolor Dreamcoat, which was having its very first run in London’s West End. Will conversed with them in the fluent French that Hugo Rune had taught him. The members of the French aristocracy were much taken with Will. They talked a lot to him. Their talk seemed mostly concerned with the spread of the British Empire.

Will asked whether they’d come here by bus.

Will learned that they had not.

Will enjoyed a conversation with a Chinese trade delegation. They were pleased to meet an Englishman who could speak Mandarin. The spread of the British Empire bothered them, they told Will.

The Greek ambassador shared a joke with Will. Did the spread of the British Empire give him cause for concern, Will asked. The Greek ambassador said that it did and praised Will for his grasp of the language.

Will sat apart from the crowd of partying folk and took stock of the situation, his situation.

He really did teach me, thought Will. Rune. He may not have chosen to share his magic, if he did have any magic, but I really have learned so much. He prepared me. That’s what he did, prepared me. And I’ll just bet that he would have shared his magic, if I’d been his magical heir. But of course I’m not; Tim is.

And Will thought about Tim and how he missed Tim and how he’d really like to tell Tim all about this, and if it were possible, bring Tim back here and show it all to him.

But then Will thought about the job he had to do. The job he had sworn to do; bring Jack the Ripper to justice, and then, with the help of Barry, go home.

So what was he doing here?

Will knew exactly what he was doing here. And it had nothing to do with meeting the Queen, or searching for clues in the palace.

“Might I sit beside you?” A soft voice spoke at Will’s ear, a soft and lisping voice, a voice with a certain pain in it. Will looked up and found himself staring at a black mask; a sack more like, with a single eyehole cut into it. This sack hung about a head which seemed grossly overlarge. Some eccentric costumery, Will supposed. The figure who wore the sack upon his head was stunted, bowed; there was something altogether uncomfortable about his posture.

“Please do,” Will smiled. “Sit yourself down.”

“My thanks.” The figure seated himself, awkwardly.

Uncomfortably, Will noted the feet of the figure. They seemed huge in comparison to his height.

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance,” the lisping voice said slowly. “My name is Joseph Merrick.”

“Please to meet you, Mr Merrick,” said Will. “I am William Starling, son of the late Sir Captain Ernest Starling. I am puzzled by your costume; what exactly have you come as?”

“I have come as myself. This is a carnival of curiosities and I am surely the greatest curiosity of this age.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Will.

“You do not recognise my true name. Then perhaps you might recognise my professional name. I am known as the Elephant Man.”

“The Elephant Man!” Will stared at the Elephant Man. “I have heard of you. I’ve read about you. This really is a very great pleasure.” Will extended his right hand for a shake. Joseph Merrick extended his and Will shook it.

“Are you enjoying the ball?” Will asked.

“Oh yes, it is wonderful, wonderful. Everyone had been very kind.”

Will nodded, and smiled in that excruciating sympathetic/condescending manner that folk just can’t help doing when confronted with a freak.

“I hate that smile,” said Joseph Merrick.

“Sorry,” said Will. “But you are having a good time?”

“Splendid,” the Elephant Man nodded his oversized head. “And I’m hoping to score later. I’ve been chatting up the Belgian ambassador’s wife and I’m taking her back to my room at the London Hospital later.”

“What?” went Will.

“They can’t resist me. And they can’t help themselves wondering, what’s his tackle like? Is he hung like an elephant?”

Will opened his mouth, but could find nothing to say with it.

“Got any tottie sized up for yourself?” asked Mr Merrick.

“Well, no,” said Will. “I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“You’re not in The Queen’s Own Cross-dressing Nancy-Boy Shirt-lifting Fusiliers, are you?”

“Certainly not.”

“Well, there’s plenty of pussy going begging. And these posh bints bang like an outhouse door, if you know what I mean.”

“I think I have to be going,” said Will and he rose to his feet.

“Well, don’t be a stranger now. My light’s always on. Bedstead Square, back of the London Hospital. You can shin over the railings. And I’m always up for a threesome.”

“Good luck to you,” said Will. “And goodbye.”

“I’m not him, you know,” said Mr Merrick. “I know some folk think I am, but I’m not.”

Will turned back. “Him?” he asked. “What do you mean?”

“You know who I mean: Jack the Ripper. I know there’s been talk. Rumour. Every murder has been committed within a ten-minute walk from the London Hospital. Some folk even say it’s Sir Frederick Treves, the Queen’s physician. He arranged for me to take refuge at the London Hospital, you know. So very kind. But it’s not him and it’s not me either.”

“I don’t think anyone has ever had you down as Jack the Ripper,” said Will.

“Well I think that’s most unflattering. But then it’s obvious who the murderer really is, isn’t it?”

Will sat back down again. “Is it?” he asked.

“Of course it is.”

“So who is Jack the Ripper?”

“Was,” said Joseph Merrick. “Was, because he did himself in. Committed suicide, he did. Sickened by his own crimes he took his own life.”

“Really?” said Will. “So you know who it was?”

The Elephant Man nodded his bulbous bonce. “Plain as the great big nose on my face,” said he. “His name was Hugo Rune.”