16

“Well,” said Barry. “Thanks be to me for getting you out of that spot of bother unscathed.”

“I’m not talking to you,” said Will. “And you’re not staying in my head.”

“Pardon me, sir,” said the gentleman behind the counter of Asprey, as he viewed the somewhat bedraggled figure that stood before him. The gentleman behind the counter was not truly a gentleman. He was an automaton, although not a scary black-eyed, evil-smelling grim satanic automaton. He was an elegant well-spoken upmarket model: a Babbage 1900 series. “Pardon me, sir,” he said once again.

“Nothing,” said Will. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

“As you please, sir. So what is it that you require?”

“A pencil,” said Will. “A really sharp one.”

Asprey was a wonderful shop, is a wonderful shop and hopefully will always be a wonderful shop. Asprey is set in the heart of Mayfair, a glorious emporium where are to be found porcelain and silverwares, antique books and travelling cases, china and crystal, guns, games and goblets; and a range of stylish automata on the first floor. Everything is beautiful at Asprey, especially the pencils.

“Certainly sir,” said the liveried gentleman’s gentleman.

“Now hold on, chief,” said Barry. “What do you need a pencil for?”

“I’m going to stick it in my ear and winkle you out.”

“Pardon me, sir?”

“Not you,” said Will. “Just sell me the pencil, please.”

“And sir wishes to poke it into sir’s ear?”

“I’ve a foreign object lodged in there.”

“Then perhaps sir should see a surgeon, rather than risk serious injury.”

“Just sell me the damned pencil.” Will made a very fierce face.

“As you wish, sir. Would you care to have it wrapped?”

Will made an even fiercer face.

“He’s right, though, chief,” said Barry. “You will injure yourself. Can’t we just talk this over, sprout to man, as it were?”

“No,” said Will. “You tricked me. You’re some kind of evil parasite.”

“Well really sir. There’s no need for that.”

“I’m not talking to you!”

Well-dressed patrons raised their noses and muttered “disgraceful” and “commoner”.

“And you lot can mind your own business.” Will was now most unsteady on his feet. He raised and shook a feeble fist.

“Forget the pencil, chief,” said Barry. “You don’t even have enough cash on you to pay for it. Or perhaps you were thinking to charge it to Mr Rune’s account.”

“Actually I was,” said Will.

“But Mr Rune’s dead, chief. What you really need is a bit of peace and quiet. Why don’t we hock a pair of Mr Rune’s cufflinks and check into the Dorchester?”

“What?” went Will.

“Here we go with the ‘whats’ again. Time goes slipping by and if you really want to avenge Mr Rune’s death you really should be concentrating on the job in hand.”

“I don’t feel at all well,” said Will.

“Take a nap then, chief. Leave it to me.”

Will almost said, “what?” once more.

But he didn’t. Instead he just fainted dead away.

He later awoke to find himself lying on a most comfortable Regency rosewood bed in a private suite at the Dorchester.

It was an elegant suite, elegantly furnished, with a carpet of William Morris design, a George III satinwood dresser, a Louis XVI mahogany desk, a French ebonised and Boulle breakfront side cabinet, with brass mouldings, and gadrooned plinth, whatever that may be; and a settee and chairs in the style of Thomas Hope, whoever he may be.

And then Will did say “what” once again.

“What am I doing here?” he said, and, “How did I get here?”

“Ah, we’re back in the land of the living are we?” The voice of Barry was once more in the head of Will.

Will made dismal groaning sounds.

“But no more cheerful I perceive,” Barry chuckled. “For your information, I sort of animated you while you were out cold. Hocked the cufflinks and the rings, opened a bank account and deposited the money in Coutts’, then got you to book yourself in here. What a nice chap I am, eh?”

“What?” Will’s eyes were now very wide. “You animated me? Like a zombie?”

“Hardly that, chief. Well, a bit like that, I suppose. You will find that your knees are a bit grazed. It took me quite some time to get all your odds and bods coordinating properly. I’m afraid I bumped you into a doorpost or two. But I got the hang of it in the end.”

“This is a nightmare” Will began to weep.

“Oh I don’t know, chief. I think it’s a pretty nice room. And it’s got a bath. And frankly you need a bath. You’re definitely a bit niffy. What with all the excitement and underarm roll-on deodorants not being invented yet. And everything.”

“I can’t go on.” Will drummed his fists on the scented bed linen.

“Then have another kip and I’ll take care of your bathing.”

“No you damned well won’t.”

“The ingratitude of some people.”

“Please get out of my head.”

“I’m sorry, chief. I told you, I can’t. But I can help you. And I will. We’re one now. Your problems are my problems, so to speak. And I’ll help you avenge Mr Rune’s death and get you back to your own time. That’s a pretty good deal, isn’t it?”

“If it’s true,” Will blubbered.

“It is true. And I’ve already got you started. Although you weren’t aware of it, you called in at a cartographer’s shop, a gentleman’s outfitters and a purveyor of pistolry on your way here.”

Will shook his miserable head and asked, “Why?”

“You’ll be wanting a map of the Whitechapel area, new clothes and a gun. I was just doing what you’d naturally have chosen to do for yourself.”

“Oh,” said Will. “Well, naturally, yes.”

“And you had dinner, because you were hungry. All meat, I hasten to add. I personally find the concept of eating vegetables positively obscene, don’t you, chief?”

“Well,” said Will.

“I knew you’d agree. So, after you’ve had your bath, we can get started. What do you say?”

“Would you mind coming out of my ear while I have my bath?”

“Oh I see. You’re a bit embarrassed about me being in your head and looking through your eyes and seeing your private bits.”

“Actually I am.”

“Well forget it, I’ve already seen them. And so has the young woman you picked up after dinner last night.”

“What?”

“Well, I wanted to know what, um, doing it as a human being felt like. You and I really enjoyed it, although naturally you won’t remember that you did.”

“No!” and Will wailed some more and went, “No,” and “No,” again and again and again.

“But look on the bright side, chief. Your bits are no mystery to me, so you can have your bath without worrying about that.”

And eventually Will did have his bath. He lay in the warm and scented water, reading a copy of The Times newspaper. And as it was the first that he’d taken in quite some time, and as Barry had seen his bits before and everything, Will really enjoyed that bath. He lay and he soaked and he read the newspaper and life didn’t seem too bad.

“So, what’s the plan?” Barry asked. “To apprehend Saucy Jack. What do you have in mind?”

“Ah,” said Will laying aside his newspaper, which was growing rather soggy about its bottom regions. “Well.”

“Not really anything then.”

Will sponged at himself. “You tell me,” he said. “You seem to know everything about everything. And you know something about this Jack the Ripper business, don’t you?”

“I know some, chief. Which was why I told you that you really wouldn’t want to get involved.”

“So, what do you know?”

“He kills people, chief. Carves them up something wicked.”

“And that’s all you know?”

“You don’t pick up too much about current affairs when you’re locked in a box at the bottom of a steamer trunk.”