“Top man,” said Tim. “But there must have been some purpose to all this travelling, other than for evading creditors.”

“I’m sure there was, but Rune did not see fit to confide it to me. I learned a lot though, which might well have been the purpose. I learned how to handle myself, how to mix in society, and it all came in very useful. Shall I continue with the story?”

“Please do so,” Tim raised his glass. “But promise me that when you’ve done, you’ll definitely take me back into the past with you.”

“That’s why I’m here. I need your help, Tim. You’re the only person I can turn to. There’s big trouble going on back there.”

“Right,” said Tim. “So continue with your story.”

“Right,” said Will. “But you must understand that although being with Rune was never dull and did involve a high risk factor, which I found personally appealing, I was trapped in an age that wasn’t mine and an age that is not how our history records it. There were wonders back then, scientific wonders, in England at least. It was all very confusing to me and I was homesick. Can you believe that? A chance at real adventure and I got homesick. I missed my mum and dad, and you too.”

“Nice,” said Tim. “I suppose.”

“And I still didn’t understand why the truth about Victorian times had been covered up. I wanted to know a lot. Rune said that he had engineered it for me to return to the past, although it was you that he really wanted. And that the intention was for me to aid him in his struggle against the forces of evil, which came in the shape of The Chiswick Townswomen’s Guild. But he wouldn’t confide his plans to me.”

“Does it all become clear in the story?” Tim asked.

“Sort of,” said Will.

“Then perhaps you should continue the story now. Then we can both, you know, whip back in time and stuff. Eh?”

“Right,” said Will once more. “I’ll tell you the lot. I have to or you won’t understand. It’s exciting stuff. You’ll enjoy it. And when I’m done you’ll understand what you have to do and we’ll return to the past together. Are you all right with that?”

“I’m all right with that.” Tim raised his glass a little higher. “A toast?” said he.

“A toast?” said Will.

“To the future,” said Tim. “Which might lie in the past. And to our mutual ancestor, Mr Hugo Rune.”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Will.

And he did so.

“The champagne to your liking?” asked Hugo Rune.

Will studied his glass. The light that fell upon it came from one of the crystal chandeliers that hung from the ornately gilded ceiling of the Café Royal, Piccadilly. It was November, the year was eighteen ninety-nine.

“Somewhat inferior,” said Will, as he viewed the rising bubbles in the golden liquid. “I would hate to take issue with the wine waiter over this.” Will now studied the label on the bottle. “However, I would suggest that this is not a Chateau Rothschild, but rather a Chateau Vamberry.”

Rune nodded approvingly. Tonight the guru’s guru, The Logos of the Aeon, The One and Only, The Lad Himself, wore full Highland dress, for reasons of his own that were not explained to Will, but which were probably something to do with it being Friday. With a tweed bonnet with brooch and eagle’s feathers, ceremonial dress tunic of crimson damask, a kilt in a tartan of Rune’s own design, a dirk in his left sock and silk slippers on his feet, Rune, as ever, cut a dash.

Will was smartly turned out in a black satin evening suit, white tie and patent leather shoes. Neither he, nor Rune, had actually paid for their apparel.

Will glanced all around and about at his surroundings.

The interior of the Café Royal had come as something of a surprise to him, as he had expected the full Victorian over-the-topness: gilded columns, ornate statuary, marble fireplaces and Rococo furnishings. But there was little of the Victorian left to the decor, except the ceiling and the crystal chandeliers.

The Café Royal had gone post-modern.

The chairs and tables looked to be of the IKEA persuasion. The crockery was white, the cutlery had plastic handles. The walls of this famous establishment had been stripped of their decorative plaster mouldings, painted in pastel shades and hung with huge canvasses.

“The work of Richard Dadd,” said Hugo Rune. “Her Majesty’s favourite artist.”

“And one of mine too,” said Will. “But Dadd never painted pictures like this. These paintings look more like the work of Mark Rothko. They’re just big splodges of colour. They’re rubbish.”

Rune put a finger to his fleshy lips. “Mr Dadd is a most fashionable artist,” said he. “His latest portrait of the Queen hangs in the Tate. Three gallons of red emulsion slung over a ten foot-square canvas. Not my cup of Earl Grey, to be sure, but fashion is fashion. And by the by, Mr Dadd sits yonder.”

Will turned to view Mr Dadd. “Which one?” Will asked.

“Short fat fellow, sitting with that womaniser, Wilde.”

“Oscar Wilde?” Will asked.

“That’s the chap; dabbles a bit in theatre, when he’s not bedding some countess or another.”

“But I thought Oscar Wilde was gay.”

“Oh, he’s cheerful enough.”

“I mean, as in him being a sweeper of the chocolate chimney.”

Rune laughed loudly. “Quite the reverse,” said he. “A big ladies man is our Oscar.” And Rune caught the eye of Wilde and waved. “Evening, Oscar,” he called.

Oscar Wilde made a face and raised two fingers at Rune.

“Commoner,” said Rune. “Still bearing a grudge over the twenty guineas I borrowed from him.”

“Do you know anyone else here?” Will asked, as he viewed the fashionably dressed patrons of the Café Royal.

“Indeed,” said Rune. “Most, if not all. See that tall fellow lounging by the jukebox; that is Little Tich, who has found fame with his ever-popular Big Boot Dance. And there, the gaunt creature with the long black beard. That is Count Otto Black, proprietor of the Circus Fantastique, who has found fame through the exploitation of freaks, foul fellow that he is.”

Rune pointed out Dame Nellie Melba, who would later find fame as a popular dessert, and Aubrey Beardsley, whose erotic novel Under the Hill had given Will a stiffy on the tram in the twenty-third century, and who would later find fame by dying young from TB.

“And that is Mr Gladstone,” said Rune. “Who will be remembered for his bags. And that is Lord Oxford, who will also be remembered for his bags. And that is Lord Duffle, who will similarly be remembered for his—”

“Bags?” said Will.

“Bags,” said Rune. “And that is Lord Carrier, and that is Lord Johnny.”

“I think that’s enough bags for now,” said Will.

“I agree,” said Rune. “The secret lies in knowing when to stop.”

“Isn’t that Lord Colostomy?” Will asked.

“No,” said Rune. “It isn’t.”

“Why are we here?” Will asked of Hugo Rune.

“Now that is indeed a question,” the guru’s guru replied. “A question which has puzzled Man since his genesis. Darwin claims that he holds the answer, but so too does the Archbishop of Canterbury. Both these fellows are good friends of mine, and both are mistaken in their beliefs. The real reason why we are here—”

“I mean, why are you and I sitting here, now, drinking inferior champagne?”

“A far easier question to answer. We await the arrival of the gentleman who invited us here. We are a little early. Cigar?” Rune proffered the open silver humidor which stood upon the crisp white linen tablecloth.

Will shook his head. Rune scooped up a fistful of cigars, placed one in his mouth and crammed the others in his top pocket. “Magic,” said he.

“Speaking of magic,” said Will. “You have been promising for some time now, for as long as I have known you in fact, which is over a year, to demonstrate some of yours to me. Perhaps you would care to impress me by improving the flavour of the champagne?”