“Fine view,” said the man on the seat next to Will.

“It certainly is,” said Will.

“And how would you know that?” asked the man. “I haven’t given it to you yet.”

“Pardon me,” said Will. “I don’t think I quite understand you.”

“Ignore him, chief: ‘nutter on the bus’. There’s always one. It’s a tradition, or an old charter, or something.”

“Silence, Barry.”

“And my name isn’t Barry,” said the man.

Will glanced at the man. He was an average-looking man: average height (even when sitting down), average weight, average face, averagely dressed. He raised his average hat to Will.

“I’m The Man,” said he.

“Really?” said Will, and he addressed his attention once more to the scenery.

“The Man,” said The Man once more. “The Man.”

“I’m sorry,” said Will, “but I really don’t understand. And I’d prefer to be alone with my thoughts at the moment, if you don’t mind.”

“You can’t let an opportunity like this slip by,” said The Man. “Not when you meet The Man.”

“The Man?” asked Will.

“The Man on the Clapham Omnibus,” said The Man. “Don’t say that you’ve never heard of me.”

“Fair enough,” said Will. “I won’t.”

“The Man on the Clapham Omnibus,” said The Man. “It’s me, it’s really me.”

“But this is the Chiswick omnibus.”

“It started off at Clapham,” said The Man. “And to Clapham it will return. With me on board. As I have been now for more than thirty years.”

Will raised an eyebrow beneath his tweedy cap. “Why?” he enquired.

“Vox pop,” said The Man. “I am the voice of the people. I am public opinion. When I’m not on the bus, do you know what I am?”

Will shook his head.

“I’m The Man in the Street,” said The Man. “Same fella, it’s me.”

“Very pleased to meet you.” Will now found his hand being shaken.

“So go on. Ask my opinion. Ask for my fine view.”

“About what?” Will wrenched back his hand and crammed it into his pocket.

“Anything you like, and I’ll give you my uninformed opinion.”

“But why would I want to have it?”

“Was that your first question?”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“So why did you ask it?”

“Would you please be quiet?” asked Will.

“Was that your first question?”

Will sighed. Deeply. “Sir,” said he. “I must inform you that I am a master of Dimac, the deadliest form of martial art in the world. I was personally trained by Mr Hugo Rune.”

“Gawd rest his Dover sole,” said The Man, “scoundrel that he was. Or loveable rogue, if you prefer. Although he was a toff and toffs ain’t worth the time it takes to wipe your arse with a copy of The Times. In my opinion.”

“I didn’t actually ask for your opinion,” said Will.

“I don’t always have to be asked. I give my opinions freely. There’s no charge, although a small gratuity is never refused.”

“As I was saying,” said Will, “about the Dimac. My hands and feet are deadly weapons. With little more than a fingertip’s touch I could disable and disfigure you. So please, as the popular parlance goes, put a sock in it!”

“How about a tour then?”

“I’m on my way to Buckingham Palace.”

“Me too. Well, passing by there. But I could give you a talking tour on the way. Point out places of interest, tell you all about this wonderful city. You ain’t no Londoner, is you?”

“Actually, I’m from Brentford,” said Will.

“Ah,” said The Man. “Wonderful place. Believed to be the actual site of the biblical Garden of Eden.”

Will shook his head. A swooping pigeon laid a dropping on his cap.

“Damn!” said Will.

“That’s good luck,” said The Man.

“Good luck?”

“Good luck it hit you and not me.”

Will took off his cap and wiped its top beneath his seat.

“To your right,” said The Man, “Trafalgar Square.”

“I’ve been to Trafalgar Square before,” said Will.

“Know all the statues, then?”

“Well, no. No, I don’t.”

“Then let me introduce you.” The Man pointed. “We are now passing the statue of Lord Palmerston, who will be remembered for his cheese.”

“That’s Parmesan,” said Will.

“And there you see the statue of Lord Babbage, great genius of our age. Without him the British Empire wouldn’t be what it is.”

“And what is it?” Will asked.

“Spreading all the time, across the world and upwards. The British Empire will continue to expand until it encompasses the entire globe, before moving on to the stars.” The Man pointed upwards. “Tomorrow the moon; the next fortnight, the stars.”

“Tomorrow the moon?” said Will.

“Well, not actually tomorrow; the launching is in a few days’ time, but you know what I mean,” said The Man.

“To the moon?”

“Where have you been, mate? Don’t you ever read the news or listen to the wireless?”

“Well,” said Will. “I haven’t much, actually, though I really should do, I suppose.”

“Well, we have Lord Babbage to thank for it all. With the help of Mr Tesla. That’s his statue there, by the way. Though he’s a Johnny foreigner, so we don’t care much for him.”

“A lunar flight,” Will mulled this over. Jules Verne had written about that. So had H.G. Wells. Fact, not fiction.

“I was there when they launched Her Majesty’s Electric Airship Dreadnaught,” said The Man. “Took a day off being The Man on the Clapham Omnibus or The Man in the Street and became A Face in the Crowd. Made a change. And spectacular it was. And I saw the assassination attempt and how Captain Ernest Starling of The Queen’s Own Electric Fusiliers bravely gave up his life to save Her Majesty the Queen, Gawd bless her. We just passed his statue in Trafalgar Square too. Posthumously knighted, he was, which makes him Sir Captain Ernest Starling, I suppose.”

“What?” went Will. “What?”

And memories once more returned to him, of his noble ancestor, and of his noble ancestor’s meeting, in the waiting room of Brentford station with a certain Hugo Rune, now also dead and gone.

“I remember that.” Will buried his face in his hands.

“Easy now, chief,” said Barry.

“Shut up!” cried Will.

“Sorry,” said The Man. “What did I say?”

“Nothing,” said Will. “Nothing. Captain Ernest Starling. He was my—” Will paused.

“Not your daddy?” said The Man. “Gordon Bennett’s old brown trousers! I should have spotted the resemblance. You’re the dead spit. Blimey, it’s a pleasure to meet you and shake your hand.” The Man dragged Will’s right hand from his face and shook it warmly.

The driver’s voice came over the omnibus speaker system.

“Buck House,” said the driver’s voice. “Toffs off, if you please.”

“I have to go,” said Will, rising. “But thank you very much. It’s been a pleasure talking to you.”

“Any chance of a gratuity?” The Man stuck his hand out.

“Certainly,” said Will and he dug into his pocket and brought out a silver threepenny bit.

“Your generosity is only exceeded by your personal charm and good looks,” said The Man, accepting the coin and trousering it.

“Thank you,” and Will took his leave.

“Ugly sod,” The Man called after him.

And so Will found himself standing outside the gates of Buckingham Palace. Buckingham Palace looked pretty much as Buckingham Palace has always looked and probably always will look, but for the occasional difference in the colour of the railings. This season’s colour was presently black, because black was always the new black as far as Queen Victoria was concerned.

“So now we’re here, chief, what do you propose to do?”

“Go inside,” said Will. “Search for clues.”

“You’re on a total wrong’n, chief.”

“I’m doing this my way, Barry.”

“They’ll never let you in, chief. You’re a commoner.”

“You don’t think I can pass myself off as Lord Peter Whimsy?”

“No,” said Barry. “I don’t.”

They were changing the guard at Buckingham Palace. A young lad was peering through the railings. His name was Christopher Robin. He’d come down with his nurse called Alice to watch them go through their changes.