“Get out of my head!” cried the other Will, beating at his temples with his fists.

“Don’t go all stone bonker, squire,” said Larry. “I’m one of the good guys, I’m here to help.”

“I am cursed.” The other Will beat some more at his temples.

“Definitely the same geezer,” said the small bargee. “Must tread the boards. Seems to have only the one act.”

Will eased himself between big bargee and small. “Excuse me gents,” he said. “Beer coming through.”

“Gawd damn my eyes,” said the big bargee. “It’s another of them and just the same.”

Will glanced up at the big bargee.

“Oh,” said he. “It’s you.”

“Can I interest you in a copy of the War Cry?” asked the lady in the straw hat to Will. “It’s to help our missionaries save the savages of darkest Africa. I’m hoping they’ll save a couple for me.”

“What?” said Will.

“Get out of my head!” shouted the other Will.

“Here,” said a gatherer of the pure who had wandered far from home upon this day in search of the white stuff,[19] “I recognise that voice.”

“I saw him first,” said the big bargee.

“And me second,” said his smaller counterpart.

“I know you,” said the lady in the straw hat to Will.

“Chiesh,” said Barry. “I think I’ll take my nap now.”

“Squire,” said Larry. “Stop beating at your temples. It’s rocking me all about.”

“Aaaaagh!” went the other Will.

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

And then as surely as night follows day, or seagulls follow a mackerel boat, or the dustcart follows the Lord Mayor’s show, or drunken girls wearing halos and angels wings and enjoying a hen night in Brighton sing “follow the leader, leader, leader,” before getting ruthlessly shagged by young men who have been following them from bar to bar all evening, a bit of a fight got started.

And things got somewhat out of hand.

And.

“Lord Peter Whimsy,” said the presiding magistrate, Mr Justice Doveston, at the Brentford Magistrate’s court, as this was the name Will had given to the police who had arrested him. “You are charged with the following crimes. That you and your twin brother entered the local hostelry known as the Hands of Orloc in Greendragon lane, in or about the time of eight thirty yesterday evening, in a state of advanced inebriation and did there cause a common affray. That you did employ Dimac, the deadliest of all the martial arts, whereby a fingertip’s pressure can maim and disfigure, upon Mr Michael Mugwump, otherwise known as the big bargee; Mr Charles Windsor, otherwise known as his smaller counterpart, constables Norman Meek and Reginald Mild. Mrs—”

A cough from the gallery was silenced by an usher of the court.

“—otherwise known as the lady in the straw hat, Mr Nigel Dempster, society columnist for The Brentford Mercury newspaper—”

“Eh?” said Will. He sat as far as he could from his other self upon a bench in the dock, flanked by burly police constables; burly police constables who sported bandaged heads and bruised chins; burly police constables named Meek and Mild.

“—the cast of the musical Joseph and the Technicolor Dreamcoat, which is presently enjoying its first run in the West End, and sundry others—”

“I never hit anyone called Sundry Others,” said Will.

The magistrate consulted his notes. “Ah no,” he said. “It’s not ‘sundry others’, it’s Mr Montague Summers, historian and occultist.”

“He had it coming,” said Will. “He hit me with his rhythm stick.”

“Three fat persons, click, click, click,” sang Barry.[20]

“And ‘a wandering-minstrel-I-a-thing-of-heirs-and-braces’,” said the magistrate. “Who is a dyslexic”

“He hit me first,” said Will. “With his janbo.”

“And so, how do you plead?”

“Innocent,” said Will. “My brother and I were set upon by ruffians; we were only defending ourselves.”

“And the two policemen, constables Meek and Mild, whom you laid unconscious when they arrived upon the scene of the disturbance?”

“I did no such thing,” said Will.

“A bystander says that a friend of his saw you.”

“That’s hearsay,” said Will.

“No,” said the magistrate, “Hearsay was a short-lived, manufactured vocal harmony group. You are, however also accused of assaulting Little Tich, the popular music hall entertainer.”

“He stood upon one of my big boots,” said Little Tich, poking his nose over the gallery rail.

“Never laid a foot on him,” said Will. “This is all a case of mistaken identity.”

“Might I approach the bench, your honour?” said a gentleman in a gown and a wig and a pair of high-heeled boots.

“And who might you be?” asked Mr Justice Doveston.

“I am the counsel for the defence, Freddie ‘the loser’ Lonsdale.”

“Eh?” said Will.

“Do I know you?” asked Mr Justice Doveston.

“Of course you do, your honour,” said Freddie. “I only live around the corner. I’m the duty counsel for the defence. When I’m not gathering the pure.”

“Are you a Freemason?” asked the magistrate.

“Not as such,” said Freddie.

“Then things look very bad for your client.”

“On the face of it, yes,” said Freddie. “But you never know, I might strike it lucky this time. Sooner or later I’m bound to get it right.”

“I admire your spirit,” said the magistrate. “Although you smell a bit iffy. But I don’t think you’ll win this one, and the penalty for common affray is death.”

“It never is,” said Freddie.

“It is, today,” said Mr Justice Doveston, “because today is Tuesday.”

“Ah,” said Freddie. “I see. That makes sense. Still, I’ll try my best, and if I foul up again, well, tomorrow is another day. Wednesday, I suppose.”

“If I might approach the bench,” said another fellow.

“And who might you be?” asked the honourable one.

“Gwynplaine Dhark,” said the fellow. “Freemason and counsel for the prosecution.”

“He’s one of them.” The other Will shrank down upon the bench that he shared with Will. The other Will was holding his head; he had the first hangover of his life. It was a blinder, but at least, now sober, he could no longer hear the voice of a certain Larry.

“Them?” whispered Will.

“Them,” said the other Will. “The witches. That man is in league with the devil. He made me judge the most-blackest black cat competition.”

“What?” went Will.

“What was that?” asked Mr Justice Doveston.

“I object,” said Will, rising to his feet.

“Shut it,” said Constable Meek, applying his truncheon to Will’s head.

“Ow!” went Will, sitting down again.

“I do object,” went Will, standing up again.

Constable Meek raised his truncheon once more.

“Less of that please, constable,” said the honourable magistrate. “You can do that at your leisure down in the cells, but not here.”

“Your honour,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark. “I was summonsed here late last night from Scotland Yard, when the mugshots of these twin malcontents were faxed over there from Brentford police station. One of these men is an escaped criminal, who broke out of his cells at Whitechapel police station. He is indeed none other than Jack the Ripper.”

“Oooooooh!” went the folk who packed the gallery.

“Knew it,” said the lady in the straw hat, who sat among them. “The one in the smart suit, it’ll be. There’s something about his eyes. He’s got murderer’s eyes. You can always tell. My late husband had burglar’s eyes. And he was a cutlery salesman. Which is the exception that proves the rule, in my opinion.”

“Madam,” said Mr Justice Doveston, “I must ask you to remain silent, or I will be forced to have you thrown from the court and into a muddy puddle.”

“You have lovely eyes, your honour,” said the lady in the straw hat. “Blue as a bruised behind and clear as an author’s conscience.”