Will marched past the young lad and approached the newly changed guard.

“I’d like to see the Queen please,” said Will.

“Hold on a mo.” The guard fiddled with his suspender belt. “I’m not quite changed yet,” he said.

Will looked on in amazement.

“Dyslectic clerk,” said Barry. “At the Ministry of Defence. The regiment was supposed to be called The Queen’s Own Home Foot Regiment, but he put it down as The Queen’s Own Cross-dressing Nancy-Boy Shirt-lifting Fusiliers. Easy mistake to make if you’re a dyslexic, I suppose.”

“That’s not funny and it’s not clever, Barry.”

“You’re right there,” said the guard. “And how did you know my name was Barry?”

“Lucky guess?” said Will.

“Amazing,” said the guard, now done with his adjustments and smoothing down his corset. “So bugger off, will ya?”

“I’m here to see Her Majesty, Gawd bless Her,” said Will. “It’s very important.”

“It always is.” The guard took various items from his handbag and began to powder his nose.

“I have to see Her Majesty now.”

“Ooooooo,” went the guard. “Get her. Mince off, will ya? Ya can’t come in.”

“Please tell Her Majesty I’m here,” said Will.

“You’re wasting your time, chief.”

“Keep out of this, Barry.”

“It’s not my job to keep out of it,” said the guard. “It’s my job to keep riff-raff like you out. Although if you’d care to hang about, we might go for a drink later. I know a little club in Soho, the Brown Hatters. I might treat you to a cocktail.”

“Give it up, chief, you’re beaten.”

“I’m not,” Will whispered. And then he said. “Very well done, guard. I will commend your vigilance to Her Majesty. And now you can let me through the gates. I am William Starling, son of Sir Ernest Starling of The Queen’s Own Electric Fusiliers who valiantly gave up his own life to save Her Majesty from the assassin at the launching of the Dreadnaught.”

The guard stared at Will. And then he blinked and stared again. And then he put away his make-up and said, “Bugger off”

“What?” said Will.

“Only joking,” said the guard. “Recognised you immediately.”

“No you didn’t,” said Will.

“Do you want to go inside, or what?”

“I do,” said Will.

“Then do.”

“So what now?” asked Barry, as Will marched across the parade ground and up to the big front door. “This is such a waste of time.”

“I’m doing it my way, Barry. And I’ll thank you to keep out of it. The Queen has her own special surgeon, does she not?”

“Of course she does, chief. Sir Frederick Treves.”

“Do you think he owns a pair of very long tweezers?”

“Sure to, chief.”

“Think about it, Barry.”

“Ah yes, chief, I get you. I’ll just keep quiet then.”

Will knocked upon the big front door. After no great length of time, a liveried automaton of the stylish and non-threatening persuasion opened it. Will stared at the liveried automaton.

“You’re all covered in liver,” said Will.

“And?” the automaton enquired.

“Oh I see,” said Will. “Dyslectic clerk at the Ministry of Defence?”

“No,” said the automaton. “Fancy-dress ball.”

“Right,” said Will. “Well, I am William Starling, son of the late Sir Captain Ernest Starling, who nobly laid down his life for Queen and country. I’m sure you know the one.”

“I do,” said the liveried automaton. “But why are you not in fancy dress?”

“But I am.” Will did a kind of a twirl. “Can’t you guess what I’ve come as?”

The liveried automaton cocked his head upon one side and viewed the uninvited guest. “Ah yes,” said he. “Most subtle, most amusing. Do come inside.”

“Ludicrous,” said Barry.

“Tweezers,” whispered Will.

“I think I’ll take a nap now,” said the sprout.

The interior of Buckingham Palace was something to behold. Will beheld it and whistled.

It had been designed by Sir Joshua Sloane, who would later be remembered for his Rangers. He’d done Buck House in the “Palace Style”, very heavy on the gold leaf and the chandeliers and the statuary and the plush fitted carpets, not to mention the ormolu-mounted kingwood and marquetry commodes, with the blind fret-carved friezes, flanking broken scroll pediments ornamented with gold japanned paterae and fluted balusters, rendered in the style of Thomas Chippendale (who, with the aid of his brothers, would later find fame for dancing about in front of drunken young women and whipping out his todger [nice work if you can get it!]).

The entrance hall was about the size of Victoria Station, its walls dressed with many huge canvasses, the work of Mr Dadd in his “you chuck it on and I’ll spread it” period, which was to say, his present period.

Will whistled once again.

“Very good,” said the liveried automaton. “The whistling goes with your costume, are you a professional actor?”

“No,” said Will. “I’m a time traveller, on a mission to catch Jack the Ripper.”

“Most amusing, sir. I must introduce you to Mr Oscar Wilde. I’m sure the two of you will have much to talk about.”

“I doubt that,” said Will. “I’m easily bored. Might I just peruse the guest list. I feel that one or two of my old friends may be here.”

“Certainly. Sir.” The liveried automaton took up a clipboard from one of the ormolu-mounted kingwood and marquetry commodes (the one on the right-hand side of the front door as you’re coming in) and offered it to Will.

Will perused and returned it. “Thank you,” said he. “Now if you will just steer me in the direction of Her Majesty.”

“As you wish, sir.”

The liveried automaton led Will through rooms filled with many wonders.

These had the looks of engineeriums. Mighty machines of shining steel and buffed-up brass, all cogs and flywheels, pistons and ball-governors, rose in the midst of these rooms. The air was heavy with the rich smell of engine oil and of ozone, which has something to do with electrical jiggery-pokery.

“Her Majesty appears to show a great deal of interest in electronics,” Will observed.

“The future lies in technology,” the liveried automaton replied. “And as long as the Crown holds every patent, the British Empire will continue to expand until it encompasses the entire globe, before moving on to the stars.”

“Do you have a brother?” Will asked.

“No, sir. I’m an automaton.”

“Then I perceive that you reside in Clapham and travel here every day upon the omnibus.”

“Gawd bless my soul,” said the liveried automaton. “You’re a regular Miss Shirley Holmes, ain’t you, sir?”

“The man’s an amateur,” said Will.

“We’re all gonna die,” said Barry.

“Tweezers,” whispered Will.

“Talking in my sleep,” said Barry. “Zzzzzzz.”

“The Great Hall,” said the liveried automaton. “You’ll find Her Majesty somewhere in here. I’ll have to leave you now, sir. I’m on door duties.”

“Fine,” said Will. “Thank you very much. See you on the way out, or perhaps I’ll catch you on the Clapham omnibus some time.”

“I’ll look forward to it, sir. Farewell.”

Will gazed into the Great Hall. It was a very wonderful Great Hall.

The ceiling was a magnificent dome, painted in the style of Michelangelo, but with more cherubs and a great deal more naked folk indulging in what toffs euphemistically refer to as the pleasures of the flesh, but what the commoners call shagging. The ceiling had been designed by Mr Aubrey Beardsley, but he hadn’t actually done any of the painting himself, because he had a bit of a cough. His brother Peter (who would later find fame playing football for Liverpool and earning fifty-nine caps for England) had done all the colouring in.

The walls of the Great Hall were hidden beneath swathes of red toile de Jouy fabric, which presented a most lustrous effect. The furnishings were splendid, and resembling, as they did, those in the famous apartments of Louis de Champalian, there is no need for description of them here.