The Witches of Chiswick

40

Whoa – War! Uh!

Now, what is that good for?

In most opinions.

Absolutely nothing!

God Gawd, y’all—

The Far-Fetched Four held a counsel of war, but not in the manse of the late Hugo Rune.

Gammon ushered them out of there amid many apologies regarding pressing cleaning duties and the need for the Four to make good their getaway lest robotic reinforcements arrive.

“I will, as our colonial cousins are want to put it, muff it out with them, should they appear,” he said.

“It’s bluff it out,” said Tim, tittering foolishly.

“You will be needing this, sir,” said Gammon, and he handed Will a slim metal pouch engraved with enigmatic symbols.

“What is it?” Will asked.

“It’s a slim metal pouch engraved with enigmatic symbols,” Gammon informed him.

“And what is in this pouch?”

“The Scorpion, sir. The Master’s Scorpion. To be used against the witches when the moment arises.”

“But what exactly does it do?”

Gammon tapped at his veiny nose.

“And what does that mean?” Will asked.

“Shagged if I know,” said Gammon. “The Master said that I should give it to you when the time was right, and I consider the time to be right. At least it is upon my watch, I don’t know about yours. And so, farewell and may God travel with you. And if I might just offer you a piece of advice which is an ultimate truism and guide to life.”

“You might,” said Will. “If you really want to.”

“It’s the best advice I’ve ever had,” said Gammon. “I read it on the side of a matchbox. It is, ‘keep dry and away from children’.”

“Well, thank you very much,” said Will and he waved goodbye to Gammon.

And now the Far-Fetched Four sat in the Flying Swan, in a corner booth, but close to the door. Tim returned from the saloon bar counter with four pints of Large, skilfully held, and placed them upon the mahogany top of the cast iron Britannia table.

“Cheers, everybody,” he said as he seated himself.

“Cheers,” said Master Makepiece Scribbens, underaged drinker of the borough.

“Cheers,” said Mr William Starling, prospective saviour of the Future.

And, “Cheers,” said Mr H.G. Wells and his glass rose magically into the air and emptied half its contents into nothingness.

“How does he do that?” Tim asked. “You’d think you’d be able to see the ale swilling around in his guts.”

“It has to be magic, doesn’t it?” said Mr Wells. “Because otherwise, how could I actually see? The light passes through my retinas and travels straight out of the back of my head. Logically I should be blind.”

“Let’s not let logic get in the way of anything,” said Will. “How’s the ale, Master Scribbens?”

“Eminently superior to the hog’s piss that Count Otto Black used to feed me upon.”

“He treated you badly, then?”

“Not badly, not really, just without care. He is a man without any human conscience. People mean nothing to him.”

“Psychopath,” said Tim.

“I don’t know what that word means.”

“It’s a person afflicted with a personality disorder, characterised by a tendency to commit antisocial and even homicidal acts without conscience or a sense of guilt,” said Tim. “Or at least that’s what it says in the dictionary.”

“That would be Count Otto.”

“The murderer of Hugo Rune?” Will asked.

Master Scribbens shrugged his shapeless shoulders, replaced his glass onto the tabletop and slid it about in a distracted fashion. The glass’s bottom left a silvery trail.

Aware that the eyes of his fellows were upon it, Master Scribbens said, “Sorry, it happens. I can’t help it.”

“Forget it,” said Will. “I’m glad that you decided to join us upon our quest. You are aware that great danger lies ahead for us?”

“Obviously so. I might be weird, but I’m not wyrd, if you understand my meaning.”

“I do,” said Will. “So let us formulate our plan of campaign.”

Tim put down his glass and rubbed his hands together. “I just know I’m going to love this,” he said. “So, what is the plan?”

“Well, the way I see it,” said Barry.

Will shook his head. “No, Barry,” he said, “I will take care of this.”

“But, chief. It’s really straightforward. All you have to do is—”

“No!” Will took from his belt the stiletto fashioned from nails and timber reputed to come from the True Cross, pushed the blade into his left ear and rooted all about with it.

“Ow!” went Barry. “Oooh. Ouch. Stop.”

“Then be still,” said Will.

“It will all end in tears, chief.”

Will applied the blade once more.

“I’m taking another nap,” said Barry. “Wake me up when things reach crisis point and I’ll do my best to get you out of the mess.”

Will wiggled the blade.

“Zzzzzzzzz,” went Barry.

“The way I see it is this,” said Will, refreshing his palate with further ale. “We have fifteen days to locate and destroy the witches’ Millennium Bug programme.”

“Plenty of time,” said Tim. “It should be a breeze.”

“We do have to find it first,” said Will.

“Oh yes, we have to find it.”

“So, where do we look?”

“The Headquarters of the Chiswick Townswomen’s Guild would seem favourite.”

“I agree.”

“I do not,” said Mr Wells.

“You don’t?” said Will.

“And nor do I,” said Master Makepiece Scribbens.

“Why?” asked Will.

Mr Wells finished his ale. “I do not go out much at this time of the year,” said he. “The wind blows right through me. But one of the benefits of being invisible is that you can travel upon public transport without having to pay the fare. Only today I was upon the Clapham omnibus and I overheard a fellow talking. The air was abuzz with rumours and theories of a conspiratorial nature regarding the destruction of the moonship at the Crystal Palace. This fellow believed that the moonship had been sabotaged by Martians.”

Will said nothing.

And nor did Tim.

“An interesting theory,” said Mr Wells, “although wholly ludicrous in my opinion. However, I do have to say that it gave me an idea. I dabble with literature and have always considered writing a whimsical novel. I thought that I might base a novel upon this. A war between the Martians and men. I have even toyed with a title: Punch-up of the Planets. What do you think?”

“War of the Worlds sounds better,” said Tim. “But what has this to do with anything?”

“The man on the Clapham omnibus spoke also of witches. It was his belief that a witch coven existed, dedicated to bringing down society, overthrowing the social order, wiping out technology and installing itself as secret rulers of the world, running the planet through the application of magic”

“Surely we know all this,” said Will.

“Allow me to continue,” said Mr Wells. “He suggested that they would do it subtly. Not hurl magical spells about but influence the present rulers of the planet. Kings and Queens have always had astrologers who advise them. They are superstitious enough to take their advice. Prime ministers and potentates, presidents and tyrants all over the world do likewise. Always have done, always will do. Read your history; you will find out that this was ever the case, back to the time of the Pharaohs and the Caesars.”

“Where is this leading?” Will asked.

“Towards the future,” said Mr Wells. “Towards a future controlled by witches in the guise of astrologers who advise heads of state. That is how they will rule the world once they have swept away all traces of Victorian technology.”

“I understand this,” said Will. “But what is your point?”

“You will find nothing at the headquarters of the Chiswick Townswomen’s Guild. Perhaps a computer or two, but not the Doomsday Programme, if I might call it that.”

“You certainly might,” said Tim. “Millennium Bug was good, but Doomsday Programme – I love it. Brilliant stuff.”

“Her Majesty the Queen—”

“Gawd bless Her,” said Tim.

“Her Majesty the Queen,” Mr Wells continued, “has her own astrologer.”

“I didn’t know this,” said Will.

“But you know the identity of this astrologer. Count Otto Black. The programme will be in his possession.”

“I suppose that’s obvious really,” said Will. “If he is the King of all the witches. So where is he to be found?”

“The Sudan,” said Mr Wells.

“Where?” said Tim.

“His Circus Fantastique is presently playing a season for King Gordon in Khartoum.”

“Right then,” said Will. “Let’s finish up our drinks and head off to Khartoum.”

“A pointless exercise,” said Mr Wells.

“And why?” Will asked.

“Well,” said Mr Wells. “We might engage an aerial hansom to take us as far as Portsmouth. We would be there before morning. But the next steamer bound for North Africa is in five days’ time and will take eight days to reach Khartoum.”

“Still time,” said Will.

“No.” Mr Wells shook his head, although nobody saw it.

“The circus will have left Khartoum by then and be on its way back to England.”

“Then we will intercept it on the way. Take a steamer to Calais and then the Orient Express.”

“And you would miss him once more.”

“Why?” asked Will.

“Because Count Otto Black’s Circus Fantastique does not travel by land or sea. It is a flying circus.”

“Like Monty Python’s?” said Tim.

“I fail to understand you,” said Mr Wells. “The circus is airborne. A dirigible, constructed in the shape of a five-pointed star, powered by Tesla turbines. It travels at an altitude of five thousand feet, beyond the range of any aerial hansom. I feel that we must await Count Otto’s return to this sceptred isle. According to the posters I have seen all over London …”

“The circus will be playing here on the thirty-first of December,” said Will. “For the celebrations to mark the dawn of the twentieth century.”

“Precisely,” said Mr Wells. “It has been licensed by Her Majesty—”

“Gawd bless Her,” said Tim.

“Shut up,” said Will.

“—to moor directly above the Whitechapel area.”

“Whitechapel,” said Will, and he said it slowly and meaningfully.

“I’ll just bet,” said Tim, “that this pentagram-shaped flying circus will be hovering directly over the inverted pentagram formed by joining the sites of the Ripper murders. What do you think, Will?”

“Exactly,” said Will.

“Bullshitter,” said Barry.

“Go back to sleep.”

“Sorry?” said Tim.

“Barry,” said Will.

“So,” said Mr Wells. “We have to await Count Otto’s return.”

“I’m good with this,” said Tim. “Christmas is coming up. I’ve never enjoyed a Victorian Christmas. Will we have crackers and Christmas pudding and Tamagotchis?”

“Perhaps the first two,” said Will. “Please get another round in.”

Tim went up to the bar and got in another round.

“This is a particularly splendid ale-house,” said Mr Wells. “The beer is beyond reproach, the service remarkable, the seating most comfortable.”

Tim returned from the bar. “There’s a big bargee and a small bargee buying drinks up there,” said he. “And they keep looking over at our table.”

“I’ll go and have a word with them,” said Will.

“No need,” said Tim. “I did. The part-time barman is throwing them out.”

Will looked up. And indeed the part-time barman was.

“Top bar,” said Mr Wells.

“You’re not wrong there,” said Will. “So this is the plan.”

“Just one thing,” said Master Scribbens, “before you outline your plan. I am contracted to appear, ‘by popular demand’, at Count Otto’s circus during the New Year celebrations.”

“A man on the inside,” said Tim.

“You really want to do that?” Will asked.

“The money is good and I need it.”

“Mr Wells,” said Will. “Do you believe that this Doomsday Programme will be on board Otto Black’s flying circus?”

“I have no reason to doubt it, do you?”

Will shook his head. “So we have to do it then. When his circus reaches England and hovers above Whitechapel on the thirty-first of December.”

“And we enjoy Christmas in the meantime,” said Tim. “Where shall we spend it? Do you know any other posh hotels you can talk your way into, Will?”

“Many,” said Will. “But that’s not how we’re going to play this. Action now is what is called for. We will dispense with the fifteen days in between and go directly to where the action is.”

“And how do you propose that we do this?” Tim asked.

“Barry,” said Will.

“Zzzz,” went Barry.

“Barry!” went Will once again.

“Oh-ah-what, chief?”

“Barry, it is time to rouse yourself and go into action.”

“Have you messed up already, chief? Sorry I missed it.”

“No,” said Will. “I haven’t. But there’s something I want you to do for me. Remember when you told me that you could not take me to the exact time and place when the big trouble was going to occur?”

“I do indeed, chief. If it was only known to me and not to you, then I can’t do it. Outside my remit. Sorry; that’s the way it works.”

“Well, Barry,” said Will. “Now I do know where and when I want to be. Exactly where and when. So you can take me there right?”

“Certainly can,” said Barry.

“So I’d like you to take all of us to—”

“All of you, chief?”

“All of us, Barry.”

“No can do, once more, chief. I can take you and Mr McGregor, but not Mr Wells and Master Scribbens.”

“No matter,” said Will. “They can meet us there in the future.”

“How far?” Barry asked.

“Not far,” said Will. “Only fifteen days.”

“Ah,” said Barry.

“Ah,” said Will. “Take Tim and me to the circus.”