Sadly.

“Where is he?” Will asked.

“Perhaps in the bathroom.” Tim shambled to the bathroom and pushed open the door. “Not here,” he said.

Will peered under the ottoman. “And not here either. In one of the bedrooms?”

Will and Tim checked the bedrooms, and returned once more to the sitter.

“Any luck?” said Tim.

“None,” said Will.

“He’ll be around. Perhaps he’s in the mini-bar.”

“That’s not very likely, is it, Tim?”

“Why not? You got in there last night, didn’t you?”

“Ah,” said Will. And he checked the mini-bar.

His other self was not in the mini-bar.

Nor was he anywhere else in the suite.

“Perhaps he’s gone down for breakfast,” said Tim, tossing back a cocktail of gin dregs and ginger beer. “That hits the spot,” he continued.

“Oh dear,” said Will. “What’s this?”

Upon the mantelpiece of the previously unmentioned Louis XV Carrara fireplace, with the serpentine mouldings and the scrolling foliate friezes, an envelope leaned against the similarly unmentioned Louis XIV scarlet Boulle mantel clock, with the Berainesque panels, inlaid with pewter and brass, and the gilded central finial figure in the shape of a dancing bear.

Will took down the envelope and read what was written upon it.

“To Will,” he read.

“It’s for you,” said Tim.

“Thanks, Tim.” Will opened the envelope and took out a sheet of paper. Savoy stationery. Will now read aloud the words that were written upon this.

“‘Dear Will’,” he read.

“It’s for you too,” said Tim.

“Turn it in, please.”

“Sorry,” said Tim.

“‘Dear Will,

‘By the time you read this letter I will be gone.’

“It’s a ‘dear John’ letter,” said Tim. “Why’s it addressed to you?”

“Tim,” said Will, “I have learned Dimac. Be silent now or you will in future walk sideways in the manner of a crab.”

“That’s a bit harsh,” said Tim, jiggling bottles and coming up trumps with a measure of crème de menthe.

“‘I no u hv mi intres at ?’,” Will continued. “‘But I hv 2 go.’ This seems to be written in code.”

“I think that you’ll find it’s written in ‘drunk’,” said Tim. “Give it to me.”

Will handed Tim the letter. “Let’s have a sip of the crème de menthe,” he said and Tim let him have a small sip.

“‘I know you have my interests at heart,’” Tim translated. “‘But I have to go. I will be far away from here by the time you read this. Don’t waste your time trying to find me. Perhaps we will meet again once YOU have thwarted the witches. Best wishes, Will.’”

“No,” said Will, and he tore the letter from Tim’s hands. “He can’t do that. He’ll come to grief. He can’t survive by himself. We have to find him.”

“It’s all for the best, chief,” said Barry.

“Shut up, you,” said Will.

“I didn’t say anything,” said Tim, “although if I had, I’d have probably said that it was all for the best.”

“We have to find him,” said Will once more. “I’ll call room service.”

“How will that help?”

“I need another drink.”

“Oh good,” said Tim. “I’ll join you.”

Will phoned down for breakfast. He ordered a bottle of champagne and a jug of iced orange juice. Well, a Buck’s Fizz is breakfast, isn’t it?

The lad who brought the tray up also carried in the new clothes from the corridor. He had been trained in the arts of multiple carrying at a special academy in Greenwich.

“Impressive carrying,” said Will.

The boy looked Will up and down. “Thank you, madam,” he said.

“Give the lad a tip please, Tim,” said Will.

“Fair enough,” said Tim. “Stay away from Brentford,” he tipped the lad.

“Most amusing,” said Will on the lad’s rather grumpy departure, “but this is really bad.”

“Looks good to me.” Tim popped the cork from the champagne and decanted the bubbly into the nearest glasses.

“I mean, my other self. We’ll have to find him.”

“And where would we look?” Tim handed Will a glass of champagne. Will would have topped it up with orange juice, but there wasn’t any room.

“Our pictures will be in all the papers,” said Will. “The police will catch him in no time.”

“Then, fine,” Tim swigged champagne. “We’ll wait until they do, then liberate him. We’re pretty hot stuff on liberation.”

“And what if Count Otto and his witches get to him first?”

“Chief,” said Barry. “You could easily forestall that by getting to them first.”

“I have to think.” Will took up a new suit of clothes and took himself off to the bathroom for a shower, a shit and a shave.

He presently returned, well shaved and dashing, to find Tim grinning foolishly at him.

“You’ve drunk all the champagne,” said Will.

“Damn right,” said Tim.

“Then sleep it off again. I’m going for a walk.”

“Is that safe?”

“I need some fresh air. I’ll be careful.”

Will took the lift down to the reception area. The lift boy grinned up at him. Will avoided his gaze, but the lad just kept grinning.

“What are you grinning at?” Will asked.

“It’s you, isn’t it, sir?”

“What?” said Will.

“You, sir. It is you. Could I have your autograph?”

“My autograph? Why would you want that?”

“To prove that I met you, sir. I will treasure it, pass it on to my firstborn son, when I have one.”

“What?” said Will once again.

“Well sir—” But the lift had reached the ground floor and the lift boy pressed back the retractable brass gate.

Will left the lift and entered the Savoy’s lobby.

The lobby was crowded with people; smartly dressed people, expensively dressed people, and people of all nationalities. Will even recognised one or two of them: the Greek ambassador and a member of the Chinese trade delegation that he’d met at Queen Victoria’s fancy dress ball. And as he left the lift, the heads of these people turned. And the voice of the lad who had delivered Will’s champagne and accoutrements was heard to cry out, “There he is. I told you it was him.”

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

And he hastened his footsteps and prepared to make a run for it.

And “Hoorah!” went the expensively dressed people, and they clapped their hands together and cheered.

Will went “What?” for the umpteenth time that morning and pushed through the crowd, which patted his back and shook his hand and wished him the very bestest of luck also.

And when Will reached the Savoy’s front doors, these were opened for him by twin doormen, who raised their thumbs and wished him good luck.

Will stumbled out into the street beyond.

That street was the Strand.

He shook his head and scratched it also and glanced back over his shoulder.

Folk were crowded against the now closed doors, waving and cheering. Will shook his head once more and stumbled on.

On the corner of Oxford Street stood a newsboy. “Read orl abowt it!” he cried. Will straightened his sagging shoulders and approached the newsboy. The newsboy viewed his approach.

“Gawd lather my love muscle,” said the newsboy.

“It’s you, again,” said Will. “Winston.”

“And it’s you guv’nor. And I never knowed. Gawd bless you guv’nor and Gawd save the Queen.”

Will patted his pockets for change, but his new suit contained none at all.

“On the ’ouse guv’nor,” said the newsboy, handing him a paper. “And might I shake yer Alice also?” He stuck out his grubby mitt and Will shook it.

“And to think,” said the newsboy, “that I ’ad you down as a Berk.[22] Looks can be deceiving, eh?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Come on, guv’nor; you’re looking for your arse[23] in the paper, ain’t ya? And it’s there, right on the front page.”