The Witches of Chiswick

39

“And that is that for you.”

Another voice was to be heard in the devastated study. The automaton raised its head and looked around. Above it a scimitar which bore the autograph of Salome hung in the air, motionless and all alone. Hovering. And then it swung down in a vicious sweeping arc and swept the head from the automaton. The robot’s single remaining hand left Will’s throat and clawed at the empty air that its owner’s head had so recently occupied.

And then the automaton collapsed, and that was that for it.

“Wake up now. Come on, William, rouse yourself.”

Will lurched into consciousness, coughing and gagging.

The face of Tim looked down upon him. “Tim, you saved my life.”

“I’d like to take the credit,” said Tim. “But it wasn’t me. I missed all the excitement.”

“I’m sorry I waited so long before coming to your rescue,” said a voice. “But I needed, as you did, to know the answer to the question you asked the automaton.”

“Mr Wells,” said Will.

“Pleased to be of service,” said the voice of H.G. Wells.

“And Gammon?” Will did some more coughing and gagging.

“I am in excellent health, sir, a mere concussion, nothing more.” The face of Gammon loomed over Will. “I telephoned the Flying Swan and had this sent over for you. I thought you might appreciate it.” And a pint of Large now filled Will’s vision.

“Let’s get him up,” said Tim, and Will was aided into the vertical plane. He clutched at his throat.

“That really hurt,” he said. “I thought I was finished there.”

“You gave a very good account of yourself,” said Mr Wells. “All that leaping about and those kicks. Most impressive.”

“The bullets worked somewhat better.”

“Bullets tend to do that.”

Tim righted what was left of the fireside chair Will had recently occupied and helped him onto it. “There’s not much left of our legacy,” he said. “Couldn’t you have been a bit more careful?”

“I was fighting for my life!” Will coughed and gagged some more.

Gammon handed him the pint of Large. “This will help,” he said. “Alcohol always does.”

Will sipped and coughed, then gulped, then coughed somewhat less. Then gulped a bit more and a bit more after that.

“Mr Wells,” said he. “Thank you; thank you for saving my life.”

“My pleasure, I assure you. I received the telegram you sent earlier, asking me to meet you at this address. Came as soon as I could.”

“I unknowingly let Mr Wells in,” said Gammon. “That first ring at the door. The one I thought was children.”

“I knew it was him,” said Will. “The second ring, however, I thought was someone else.”

“He’s outside,” said Mr Wells. “He’s hungry. He’s eating the privet hedge.”

“Eating what?” said Tim.

“The fourth member of our party,” said Will. “Master Makepiece Scribbens, the Brentford Snail Boy.”

“Eh?” said Tim. “What’s all this?”

Will eased his throat with further Large. “Allies,” he said. “In the cause. We’re going to need all the help we can get. I telegrammed Mr Wells to meet us here, also Master Scribbens.”

“Why him?” Tim asked.

“Because he helped us at the court house. Remember that it was his idea that we disguise ourselves as him and Miss Poppins in order to escape.”

The doorbell rang.

“That will be him,” said Will. “Gammon, will you, please?”

“At once, sir.”

Master Makepiece Scribbens peered through the broken doorway at what was left of Hugo Rune’s study. He took in the ruinations and slowly shook his bloated head.

“Well,” said he. “This must have been an incredible party, I’m sorry I missed it.”

“It was not a party.” Tim pointed to the two defunct automata.

Master Makepiece Scribbens stared down upon them and then he raised phlegm from his throat and spat it onto the nearest. “Spawn of Satan,” said he. “The evil cat’s-paws of Count Otto Black.”

“Come in and meet Mr Wells,” said Tim.

“Mr Wells?” said Master Scribbens, peering all around and about.

“Mr Wells,” said Mr Wells.

And all was explained to the Snail Boy, regarding Mr Wells.

Well, not perhaps all, but some.

“And so we are four,” said Master Scribbens and he moved forward into the wreckage of the room. But he didn’t walk. His legs and feet didn’t move. He slid along. He glided, upon a silky, silvery trail.

“Nice to see you out of your wheelchair,” said Tim, making the kind of face that implies that it wasn’t that nice, as it happened.

“Miss Poppins had to leave my employ. A more favourable position came up for her, nannying some children in Ludgate Hill.”[30]

“Well.” Will finished his pint of Large, smacked his lips and drew his knuckle across them. “I feel fully reinvigorated and I am glad that we are all here. Tim, what did you come up with on Rune’s computer?”

“Not much,” said Tim. “Shortly after you left me the Chiswick Townswomen’s Guild website went offline. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear that they’d discovered that I’d hacked into it.”

Will sighed.

“Nice sighing, sir,” said Gammon. “You may not be Dan Leno when it comes to performing the thoughtful face. But when it comes to sighing, your performance is nonpareil.”

Will sighed once more.

“Bravo,” said Gammon and he clapped his wrinkly hands.

“I will explain everything,” said Will, “to you, Master Scribbens, and to you, Mr Wells, wherever you might be.”

“I’m here,” said Mr Wells.

“And then I will explain my plan. We, together, can win the war against this Count Otto Black and his coven of witches. It can be done, and it will be done, and I know how to do it.”

“Do what, chief?” asked a voice in Will’s head.

“Barry,” said Will.

“Barry?” said Master Scribbens.

“Will’s Holy Guardian,” said Tim. “Inside Will’s head. It speaks to him.”

Master Scribbens now sighed.

“Not bad,” said Gammon.

“You little green sod,” said Will. “Where were you when I needed you?”

“Sorry, chief. Oh my goodness, Mr Rune’s study, what have you done to it?”

“I was in mortal peril and you were sleeping.”

“Time travel, chief. Very exhausting. I needed time to regenerate my awesome powers.”

“I nearly died.”

“You seem fine to me, chief. Although perhaps a bit puffed. Heart rate’s up somewhat.”

“Just be quiet,” said Will.

“And Master Scribbens is here,” said Barry. “What’s that slimy schmuck doing here?”

“He’s helping me, and so is Mr Wells.”

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

“Just be quiet. I’m dealing with this.”

“And another oh dear for luck.”

“How’s Barry?” Tim asked.

“Taking a nap!” said Will. “Now let’s continue. We are here, and we will succeed; the gang of five.”

“Five, sir,” said Gammon. “Are you thinking to include me?”

“Why not?” Will asked.

“Because I’d rather not, if you don’t mind. I have a great deal of cleaning up to do here.”

“All right, the gang of four.”

“Five,” said Barry. “Don’t forget me, chief.”

“Four!” said Will.

“Ungrateful oaf.”

“What was that?”

“I said, ‘You’ll probably want to take a faithful oath’.”

“Yes,” said Will. “Something like that,” and he raised his empty glass. “To success,” said he. “To the destruction of the witches and to saving the future. We will save the future. We will save history. We are the four.”

“We are the four,” said Master Makepiece Scribbens.

“We are the four,” said Mr H.G. Wells.

“The Fantastic Four,” said Tim.

“That’s been done,” said Will.

“The Fab Four, then.”

“That too.”

“The Four Tops?” said Tim. “The Four Feather Falls Appreciation Society? The Four Mile Island? The four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie? The Four Gospels? The Four Horsemen of the—”

“Stop!” said Will.

“How about The Far-Fetched Four?” said Barry. “That seems about right to me.”