“I don’t understand,” said Will.

“I brought the evil to you.”

“I really don’t understand.”

“I travelled in the time machine myself,” said Mr Wells. “Before my dinner with Rune. Before the machine was stolen.”

“You did?” said Will. “When did you go to?”

“I went forward into the latter part of the twentieth century. I only altered the date Rune had set. Not the location. I travelled forward to Brentford, and I became involved in a number of most extraordinary adventures, before I returned here. Ten minutes before Rune arrived to take me to dinner, I met two remarkable fellows in Brentford; a Mr Pooley and a Mr Omally. But I have reason to believe now that I did not return from that time alone. Someone, or something, returned with me. And that someone or something absconded with my time machine.”

“How can you be sure of that?” Will asked.

“Because that someone or something dropped something when they stole the time machine. And I found it and I used it, which is why I am now invisible.”

“And what was this something?” Will asked.

“A computer,” said Mr Wells. “A miniature computer. It took me considerable time to fathom its workings, but when I did, I discovered that it contained a veritable storehouse of arcane knowledge: certain mathematical formula, mathematical and magical formula.”

Will shook his head. “Will you show this to me?” he asked.

“No,” said Mr Wells. “I destroyed it. Cast it into the fire.”

“Why?” Will asked.

“Fear, I suppose.”

“What did it look like?” Will asked.

“It was about this size.” Mr Wells motioned with invisible fingers. “You pressed it in at its lower edge and the top slid aside. On the inside of the inner lid were a number of markings. A serial number.”

Will dug into his pocket and brought out his palm-top. “Did it look anything like this?” he asked.

Mr Wells stared at Will’s palm-top. “It looked exactly like that,” he said.

Will pressed the lower edge of his palm-top and the top slid aside. “Do you remember the serial number on the inside of the inner lid?” he asked.

“I do,” said Mr Wells. “It was 833903.”

Will studied the number embossed upon his palm-top. He really didn’t need to study it, he knew it well enough by heart.

“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear,” said Will.

21

Will had breakfast with Mr Wells. He cooked up a big boy’s breakfast, which included mushrooms, tomatoes and potatoes. He and Mr Wells enjoyed it thoroughly.

“So what will you do now?” asked Mr Wells, upon the completion of their considerable repast.

Will wiped a napkin over his mouth. “Continue,” he said. “Search for Rune’s murderer. I have sworn to do this and so I shall.”

“And for all the rest?”

“If it is connected, and I agree that perhaps it might well be, then I shall do what I can. You had my palm-top computer, which somehow came from the twentieth century, which means that I must have been there, or will be there, or something. I’m sure it will all become clear eventually. But can I ask you this? Might I rely upon your assistance if the need should arise?”

“You feel now that you can trust me?”

“I have no reason not to. I will ache for some time from the violence you visited upon me, but your port has at least cleared my hangover.”

“I thought you a potential assassin,” said Wells. “You can understand that.”

“I can.” Will rose from his chair. “I will take my leave now. Will you be all right, with your ankle and everything?”

“I will telephone for the services of my good friend Dr Watson.”

“Not the Dr Watson.”

“The,” said Wells.

“You’ll have to call someone else,” said Will. “He’s away with Mr Holmes, solving the case of the Hound of the Baskervilles. The butler did it, by the way.”

“My turn to be speechless, I think,” said Mr Wells.

“A pleasure to meet you,” said Will. “Farewell.”

“So, where are we off to now, chief?” asked Barry, when Will was once more in the street. “Chiswick, is it?”

“No,” said Will. “I don’t think so.”

“But, chief, I’ve told you everything. We’re on the same side, we share the same goals. Sort of.”

“Barry,” Will spoke behind his hand to avoid the attention of passers-by, “we will do things my way or not at all. You are free to depart whenever you wish.”

“You won’t get back to the future without me, chief.”

“Perhaps I’m not bothered,” said Will. “Perhaps I like it here. I’m used to it now, and frankly, it’s better than the time I come from. Much more exciting.”

“Come off it, chief. You don’t mean that really.”

“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t, but I won’t be bullied by you. Since I’ve put myself in charge, I’ve found out all manner of things. I think I’ll just carry on doing things my way.”

“Then we’re all doomed,” said Barry.

“What was that?” Will asked.

“I said, ‘then we’re all doomed’, as it happens.”

“We’ll see,” said Will. “We’ll see.”

Will hailed a hansom and returned to his room at the Dorchester. Here he bathed and then dressed himself in one of the morning suits from the extensive range of clothing that Barry had acquired for him. Will took up Rune’s cane, twirled it between his fingers and examined his reflection in the cheval glass.

“Very dashing, chief. A regular dandy, you are. So what do you have in mind to do next?”

“A visit to Whitechapel police station,” said Will. “We will see if any new clues have turned up regarding the Ripper murders.”

“A waste of time, chief. You know that they haven’t.”

“I can no longer trust history, Barry. I will follow the case. There has to be a reason why those women were murdered. And if, and I mean if, the same murderer killed Hugo Rune, then we’ll see what we shall see.”

“But chief, come on, the witches, the forces of darkness. The End Times at hand, the death of God, the—”

“My way, Barry. My way or not at all. If the case can be solved. I will solve it.”

“How, chief? How will you solve it?”

“By deduction, Barry. The science of deduction. I’ve read all the Sherlock Holmes books. I know his methods.”

“So you are now a consulting detective?”

Will took up the envelope of case notes. “I’m Will Starling,” he said. “Associate of Mr Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street, and out to make a name for myself in history as the man who brought Jack the Ripper to justice.”

“Oh d—”

“Don’t say it,” said Will.

“I’m sorry, chief.”

“That’s better.”

Whitechapel police station was a dreary-looking building, constructed of grimy London Stocks and painted all around its wooden bits with dull grey paint. It did have the big blue lamp outside, but there was just no cheering it up. It was dull, and it was dreary, it was grim.

Will entered the grim police station. It’s interior was stark and joyless: faded oak-panelled walls, what were now old-fashioned gas lights, a miserable desk that barred the way to depressing offices beyond. A sleeping policeman lay slumped upon a sorry chair behind this miserable desk.

A sad brass desk bell stood mournfully upon this miserable desk.

Will struck the button of this sad brass desk bell.

The sleeping policeman awoke.

“Let’s be having you!” he cried as he awoke. “You’re nicked chummy. Put your hands up, it’s a fair cop.”

“Good day to you,” said Will.

“Ah.” The policeman focused his eyes. “Good day to you too, sir.”

The policeman raised himself from his chair of gloom and Will stared at the policeman. “I know you,” he said. “I know you from somewhere.”

“Constable Tenpole Tudor,” said the constable. “I never forget a face, and I don’t know you.”

“Starling,” said Will. “Lord William Starling, son of the late Sir Captain Ernest Starling, hero of the British Empire. I am an associate of Mr Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street.”