“His Holy Guardian is speaking to him, chief.”

“You’ve a voice in your head?” Will asked.

“I can hear it, it speaks to me.”

“Don’t be alarmed,” said Will. “It’s all right. It’s your Holy Guardian. You have nothing to fear.”

“I have everything to fear, and so do you.”

“All done,” said Tim, returning to the courtroom. “So what are we going to do now? You don’t have a plan ‘C’ do you?”

“Don’t need one,” said Will. “What we want is publicity, right? To expose the witch cult, if it really exists.”

“It exists,” said the other Will. “How can you doubt it?”

“Okay. I’m not stupid. I’m well aware that the witch cult conspiracy business is what all this is about, whether they are real witches or not. But the best way to deal with them is to expose them to the public. I’d hoped to do it through the court case, but this is even better. A courtroom siege, a hostage situation; this will stir up the media. We’ll get our say on prime-time radio.”

“They’ll kill us,” said the other Will. “They’ll send in the army and shoot us all dead.”

“Not until we’ve had our say on the BBC.”

“You’re wasting your time,” said a little voice.

“Who said that?” asked Will.

“I did,” said the Brentford Snail Boy. “You’re wasting your time. It won’t work.”

“You can speak,” said Will.

“Of course he can speak,” said Tim. “He makes those pssh noises, then he whispers. That’s how the magistrate heard him. I heard him when I was up there with him.”

“That is so crap,” said Will.

“Your plan won’t work,” said Master Makepiece Scribbens.

“And why?” asked Will. “I think it’s a great plan. No violence and lots of press coverage.”

“Firstly,” said Master Makepiece Scribbens, “you know nothing about the witches. A few theories, is all you seem to have. Everyone has theories. And secondly, they will never let you broadcast your theories to the nation. They control the media. You’re wasting your time.”

“Hm,” said Will. “So what do you know about all this? You lied in the court.”

“I had no choice. They threatened to kill me.”

“Fair enough,” said Will. “But what do you know about these witches?”

“As much as he does,” said the Brentford Snail Boy, raising a wobbly hand and pointing one of its shapeless fingers towards the other Will. “I was caged up in the cell next to him. I used to listen to him screaming. I played dumb. They thought I was an imbecile.”

“Why did they capture you?” Will asked.

“They didn’t capture me. They borrowed me from the circus, Count Otto Black’s Circus Fantastique.”

“Count Otto Black,” said Will. “I know that name. I saw him at the Café Royal on the night that Hugo Rune was murdered, and then at Buckingham Palace. Does he have something to do with all this?”

“He has everything to do with everything,” said Master Scribbens. “Count Otto Black is the King of all the witches. You could never have won this case, even with all the witnesses you hoped to call. Count Otto holds the ear of Her Majesty the Queen (Gawd bless Her). He is above the law, which is why you will never be heard. You have to get out of here, or you will surely die.”

“Your thoughts on this, Barry,” said Will.

“My thoughts are that I thought you were doing things your way, chief.”

“I am,” said Will. “All right. Then we have to get out of here.”

“Will,” said Tim. “You could just make the broadcast yourself. The BBC men have left all their equipment behind.”

“And say you did,” said Master Scribbens. “What can you really say? What can you really prove? What do you really know?”

“We have to get out of here,” said Will.

And then a voice entered the courtroom. Entered was the word. This voice entered loudly, dramatically. It was a very noisy voice.

It came through one of those police bullhorns, electric bullhorns, state-of-the-Victorian-art-technology. It said: “Give yourselves up, you are surrounded,” very loudly indeed.

Tim began to panic, as did the other Will.

They panicked in different ways. Tim flung his hands in the air, one holding the gun and the other not, and began to spin around in small circles. The other Will clapped his hands over his head and assumed the foetal position.

“Release the hostages,” called the voice through the state-of-the-Victorian-art police bullhorn. It was the voice of Chief Inspector Samuel Maggott. “Release the hostages or we storm the building and shoot everyone, hostages included, just to be on the safe side.”

“Your thoughts on this, chief,” said Barry.

“We’re going to plan ‘C’,” said Will.

There was now a big presence all about the Brentford court house: a big crowd presence, a big media presence, and a big police presence. The big police presence had a lot of state-of-the-Victorian-art weaponry to its account. It is recognised and understood by experts in the field of antique weaponry that the Gatling gun was the nineteenth-century progenitor to the General Electric Minigun, that now legendary weapon, favoured by Blaine in Predator and Arnie in Terminator 2.

But, as it must now be understood by all, history cannot be trusted. And so several M162 Babbage Miniguns were being moved into strategic positions around the courthouse, much to the delight of the crowd, which was really looking forward to watching those bad boys being put into service.

Tim took a peep through a window.

“Cops,” said he.

“How many?” asked Will.

“All, I think.”

“Plan ‘C’ it is then,” said Will.

“And what exactly is plan ‘C’?” Tim asked.

“Release the hostages,” said Will.

“If I might make a suggestion,” said Master Makepiece Scribbens.

There were an awful lot of guns trained upon the court house door when it opened; an awful lot of guns, an awful lot of awful guns, terrible guns; hideous, heinous, horrible guns. They all took aim and they all cocked but happily none of them had a hair trigger.

Three figures issued slowly from the courtroom, heads bowed down, cowering somewhat. Miss Poppins pushed the wheelchair containing the Brentford Snail Boy, smothered by blankets. Mr Gwynplaine Dhark, head bowed, arms raised, followed on behind.

The police cordon parted to let them through.

The crowd beyond parted also.

And then the Babbage Miniguns opened up upon the building.

And they did it style. They fairly stuffed that courthouse.

The crowd cheered wildly, and waved Union Jacks. Why? Who knows; crowds often do! The policemen launched mortars, employed flamethrowers, flung grenades, lobbed in canisters of nerve gas and other weapons of mass destruction. And when it was finally assumed that nothing above ground level could possibly have lived through the holocaust, they moved in to search for what might be left of the bodies.

Beyond the crowd, and someways far down the Brentford High Road towards Kew Bridge, Miss Poppins said, “That was a good plan.”

“As long as they’re safe,” said the Brentford Snail Boy.

“They’ll be safe enough,” said Miss Poppins. “They’re locked in the cell downstairs. The police will release them.”

“Then I think that we can say that plan ‘C’ was a definite success.”

A hansom cab was passing and Miss Poppins hailed it. “Piccadilly, cabbie,” said she.

“You’ve a very manly voice for a nanny,” said the cabbie.

“Sore throat,” said Will, for it was he. “Now all aboard. We’re out of here.”