Everybody knows that!

“It’s the only way, isn’t it?” said Will. “I styled the coat on yours. Took the bespoke tailor two months to get it right.”

“But you weren’t even gone for a moment.”

“Six months,” said Will. “Six long months. I missed you, I really did.”

“Sorry that I didn’t get the chance to miss you.” Tim shook his head and pushed away his hair. “This is intense,” he said.

“A witch-finder is always intense,” said Will.

“A what?”

“Witch-finder,” said Will. “Will the Witch-finder. That’s me. Seek ’em out and destroy ’em, that’s my mission.”

“Right,” said Tim. “Well, I don’t know quite what to say.”

“Don’t say anything then. Just follow me. We’re off to hunt witches.”

Will led Tim from the alleyway and off at the briskest of paces.

“Can I say something now?” Tim asked, as he did his best to keep up.

“Go on,” said Will.

“Where exactly are we going now?”

“To my manse,” said Will.

“Your what?”

“My manse. A magician always has a manse and so too should a witch-finder. Who is in turn a magician of sorts, a white magician. You must know the kind of thing, Tim. You’ve watched the movies: a Gothic pile with an extensive library of occult books and a veritable museum of curious artefacts.”

“And you have one?”

“I’ve done my research. I know where there is one. It’s not a Gothic pile though. It’s an elegant Regency dwelling, it’s presently unoccupied, and it’s ours for the taking. We’re entitled to it.”

“Will,” said Tim. “I have to say that I have no idea what on earth you’re talking about, or exactly what you’re up to. But I have to tell you this. I’m loving it.”

“Splendid,” said Will and he marched on ahead.

Tim followed on behind. “Loving it,” he said once more.

Will hailed a horse-drawn hansom. “Brentford, please,” he told the cabbie. “The Butts Estate, Brentford.”

And an hour and a “smidgen” later, the cab drew up outside an elegant Regency house in Brentford’s Butts Estate, and Will and Tim climbed down from it. Will paid off the cabbie and Tim stared up at the imposing house.

“One classy dwelling,” said he. “And nobody lives here?”

“Not for years.”

“And you’re going to break in?”

“No, I have a key.”

“Lead on,” said Tim. “I’m loving it.”

Will swung open the wrought-iron gate and marched up the gravel path.

“Are you sure nobody lives here?” Tim asked, “because the lawn is newly cut and the garden well tended.”

“No one lives here,” said Will. “But behold who did,” and he drew Tim’s attention to a small engraved-brass plate upon the panelled front door.

Tim stared and said, “Rune. The plate says ‘Hugo Rune’.”

“His home,” said Will, “and possibly his best kept secret. I knew there was more money somewhere. It took a lot of research to uncover the location of this house, this manse. He kept it a very closely-guarded secret. Didn’t want its contents to fall into wrong hands in the event of his untimely death. I traced his strongbox to a left-luggage locker in Euston station. The front door key was in it. Shall we go inside?”

“If you think it’s okay,” said Tim. “I mean, there won’t be traps and things in there, will there?”

“I wouldn’t be at all surprised.”

“Then perhaps I’ll just wait out here until you’ve disabled them.”

“We’ll go together,” said Will. “Remember this is your home as much as mine. Probably more so, as you’re his magical heir.”

Tim made sighing sounds. “I am confused about that,” said he. “Surely our great-great-and-so-on- granddad is Colonel William Starling. Where exactly does Rune fit into his family equation?”

“That doesn’t take too much imagination, does it?” said Will. “You didn’t know who your real father was, did you? I think Rune was Colonel Starling’s grandfather.”

“Then he sent his own son, Captain Starling, to his death to save Her Majesty at the launching of the Dreadnaught. You told me that you remembered that when you took the Retro drug.”

“This really isn’t the time for that conversation. Let’s go inside.” Will placed the key in the front door lock and gave it a forceful twist.

Tumblers engaged, levers moved and the lock gave forth to a satisfying click. Will pushed upon the front door. “We’re in,” said he.

And they were.

They stood now in a broad hallway. The mounted heads of numerous exotic animals peered sightlessly from the walls. Tim examined that of a mammoth. “Bagged by Rune in Siberia, 1852, it says on this little plaque. And this dodo – Mauritius, 1821. And surely this is the head of a unicorn. Narnia, 1818, it says here. He favoured a bit of big-game hunting, did Rune.”

Will nodded and peered at the horns of a dilemma.

“It’s all very clean.” Tim stroked the beak of a mounted griffin’s skull. “I would have expected cobwebs at the very least.”

“It is clean,” said Will and he drew a finger along the polished cranium of a hippogriff. “No dust at all.”

“Magic, do you think?” Tim asked. “Some spell that repels dust and maintains the garden?”

Will shook his head. “I think not,” said he. “Come on.”

Tim followed Will along the hall and into a large and splendid study.

“Whoa,” went Tim. “Now you’re talking.”

The room was about as broad as it was long, and as high as it was broad. And its broadness and its longness were packed with wonderful treasures. On every wall were cases loaded with marvellous books, the spines of which twinkled with gemstones and gilded ornamentations. And there were furnishings of abounding richness, golden thrones and couches, sofas piled with cushions of silk and satin and cloth-of-gold. And there were countless beautiful artefacts displayed in glass-fronted cabinets, and antique weapons and suits of armour and statues of the religious persuasion.

“Rather special, isn’t it?” said Will. “I don’t think I expected quite so much.”

“This collection must be worth a fortune.” Tim picked up a gem-encrusted Fabergé roc’s egg and stared at it in wonder. “He could probably have paid off all of his debts just by selling this one piece alone.”

“I think he considered that never paying for anything added to his charisma.”

“He must have paid a lot for this.”

“You think so?”

Tim shrugged. “And look at that.” Tim drew Will’s attention to an elaborately decorated golden casket with a cut crystal lid.

“Very special,” said Will. “That’s a reliquary, containing, if I’m not mistaken, the beard of the prophet Mohammed’s wife.”

Tim raised his eyebrows into his hair. “And now all this is ours?”

“To use in the right way.”

“Can I keep this Fabergé egg, as a souvenir?”

“Put it down,” said Will. “Remember what we’re here for, saving God and the future and everything.”

“But I could keep this. It wouldn’t matter really, would it?”

“It would.”

Tim stared at Will. “You said that without moving your lips,” he said.

“That’s because I didn’t say it,” said Will.

“Then who—”

Tim turned and Will turned also.

In the doorway of the study stood the ancient gentleman. He was liveried as a footman, but in an antique costume of the pre-Regency persuasion: green velvet frocked coat, with slashed sleeves and emerald buttons; red silk stockings and black buckled shoes. His hair was long and white. His face was old and wrinkled.

“Who are you?” Will asked.

“My name is Gammon, sir. I am Mr Rune’s retainer.”

“Ah,” said Will. “Then I’m very pleased to meet you, my name is—”

“I know what your name is, Mr Starling. And I know why you’re here. All has been kept in readiness for your arrival.”

Will looked at Tim.

And Tim looked at Will.

“Loving it,” said Tim.