Will finished his scotch and poured himself another. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he said. “And I’ll do it without your help.”

“But chief.”

“If I need your help I’ll ask for it.”

“Be hearing from you soon then, chief.”

“What was that, Barry?”

“Nothing, chief.”

Will dressed in the smart new clothes that Barry had acquired for him.

“I hope you didn’t pay for these,” Will said.

“Certainly not, chief. Opened an account for you with one of Mr Rune’s tailors. They were happy to offer credit to Lord Peter Whimsy.”

“Who?” Will asked.

“Makes a change from ‘what’,” said Barry. “It’s an alias. Tradespeople are always willing to offer credit to toffs, you know that. And anyway, I didn’t think you’d want to give your real name. You wouldn’t want any more of those knocks at the door from the black-eyed smelly clockwork chap with the deeply-timbred Germanic accent, would you?”

“Certainly not.” Will admired his suit and matching cap. “And Boleskine tweed. I always rather envied Rune’s suit.”

“I know you did, chief.”

“Hmm,” went Will. “And so to work. I have the map of Whitechapel, so all I need is the … damn!”

“The damn? Chief?”

“The case notes. Damn. I left them behind when I threw myself out of the window.”

“No probs, chief. I knew you’d need them. I had you sneak back and pick them up. They’re over there on the Louis XVI mahogany desk.”

“You were very busy with my body, weren’t you?”

“All in a good cause, chief. Your interests at heart.”

“Well, let’s have a look at them.” Will gathered up the notes and the map, sat himself down at the Louis XVI mahogany desk, took the fountain pen from his top pocket (“thought you’d need a pen too, chief”) and set about studying.

And so Will studied. He studied the map and the case notes. He also studied what files he had contained within his palm-top. And he studied his fingers, and then the ceiling and then the floor.

“How’s all the studying coming on?” Barry asked him, at length.

“Fine, thanks,” said Will. And he studied the bottom of his glass.

“Might I make a suggestion, chief?”

“No, Barry, you may not.”

“No probs, chief, you study on, then. Study the curtains, if you feel it might help.”

“Please don’t interrupt me; I’m thinking.”

“So sorry, chief. Don’t wish to interfere with your thinking. They’re nice curtains though, aren’t they?”

“Splendid,” said Will. “But it’s not helping. Just be quiet and let me ponder over this. There have to be clues here. There has to be something.”

“They are nice curtains,” said Barry. “Nice pattern.”

“Something obvious,” said Will.

“Very nice pattern,” said Barry.

“Something staring me right in the face.”

“Extremely nice pattern.”

“Like a—”

“Pattern, chief?”

“Hold on,” said Will, and he studied the map once more. He marked the sites of the five original murders and then he searched for—

“There’s a twelve-inch rule in the drawer, chief.”

Will opened the drawer and took out the rule. And then he worked away at the map. And then—

“Aha!” went Will.

“Aha, chief? What is aha?”

“I’ve found it,” said Will.

“You have, chief. What have you found?”

“A pattern,” said Will. “I’ve found a pattern.”

And it was a pattern. And so it is to this very day. Simply join the dots, as it were, and see what you will see.

“A star,” said Will. “A five-pointed star.”

“A pentagram,” said Barry. “An inverted pentagram.”

“Significant, eh, Barry?”

“Highly, chief. Well done for coming up with it all on your own.”

“And the site of Rune’s murder.” Will marked the spot. “It’s outside the pentagram. I wonder—” He drew further lines.

“What are you doing now, chief?” Barry asked.

“Just a hunch. According to the police report, which I managed to acquire a copy of, Rune was pursued for some distance before his murderer caught up with him and did the evil deed. I’m tracing his route; he travelled along here and then there, and then here. What do you make of that?”

“That he had more puff in him than I’d have given him credit for.”

“No,” said Will. “Not that. He wasn’t running in the direction of our lodgings. Although he could have done. So what was he running towards?”

“A police station, chief?”

“No, he passed one, here.” Will drew a line upon the map, from the centre of the pentagram to the site of Rune’s murder. “He was always running northeast. Why would he do that, was he trying to tell us something? What I really need is—”

“A map of Greater London, chief? There’s one in the drawer.”

“Thank you.” Will took out the map of Greater London and spread it across the desk. He redrew the line and extended it. “Well, well, well,” said Will. “What do you make of that Barry?”

“What exactly should I make of it, chief?”

“See where the line goes to?”

“Well, I do chief, but I don’t quite see—”

“Buckingham Palace,” said Will.

“Well, yes, chief, it does, but if you carry the line on, I think you’ll find—”

“Buckingham Palace,” said Will once again. “And there’s enough stuff written to suggest that there was some kind of scandal involving a member of the Royal household. A child born out of wedlock to a prostitute, that sort of business, and—”

“If you extend the line, chief, I think you’ll find it leads to—”

“Perhaps that’s what Rune was trying to tell us, Barry. That’s why he ran in that direction.”

“No, chief. I’m sure that—”

“Stop it, Barry.”

“But chief.”

“Barry, just stop it. You’re simply miffed because I found this out without your help.”

“As if you did, you—”

“We’ll take a cab straight over there, ask a few questions.”

“An omnibus would be cheaper.”

“An omnibus it is then.”

“The number 39 goes that way, chief. And then it continues in a northeasterly direction, the same direction as the line on the map, until it terminates at Chiswick.”

“A number 39 it is then.”

“Terminates at Chiswick, chief. Chiswick.”

“A number 39 it is then.”

“To Chiswick, chief?”

“To Buckingham Palace.”

“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.”

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 …