“This is a restricted site, sir. The Master hacked into it.”

“I see.” Will saw. “So what is on this restricted site?”

“Absolutely no idea, sir. This is as far as the Master got. He was never very comfortable with computers. His fingers were rather large for the keyboard.”

Will laughed. “He’d have been at home in our age,” said he. “Big fat keypads.”

“Hang about here,” said Tim. “This all makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“Does it?” asked Will.

“Of course it does,” said Tim. “Rune wanted his magical heir to continue with his work. And that’s me, right?”

Will nodded.

“And why did he need his magical heir? Don’t say anything, I’ll tell you. Because in the time we come from computers are far more advanced than this. And what am I, Rune’s magical heir, skilled at? Computers, that’s what.”

“So am I,” said Will.

“You’re rubbish,” said Tim. “All those books you downloaded into your palm-top from the British Library. You’d never have got away with that if I hadn’t hacked into their system and covered up for you.”

“You never told me,” said Will.

“I’m your friend,” said Tim. “I did it because I didn’t want you getting into trouble. We were like brothers. That was before I knew we were brothers. But the point is, Rune couldn’t hack into the witches’ system. Perhaps no one in this age could. But I could. It would be as easy as can be.”

“So why did he cart me around the world for a year?”

Gammon affected a knowing smile. “Everything the Master did, he did for a reason. Everything he taught you, he taught you for a reason. Everything you have learned, you have learned for a reason. Everything—”

“All right,” said Will. “Stop now.”

“The two of you are here together now,” said Gammon. “Reason enough, I believe.”

“Right then,” said Tim and he interlocked his fingers and made cracking sounds with them. “Let’s have a hack at these witches.”

Will shrugged towards Gammon. “This will probably take some time,” he said. “Would you care to show me your household page?”

“Home page,” said Gammon. “I like the sound of Mr Tim’s suggestion. I’ll put it to my chums next time I’m in the cyber restaurant.”

“Café,” said Will. “You can have that one on me.”

“Café restaurant?” said Gammon. “I don’t think that scans, as our colonial cousins might say.”

“Show me your home page,” said Will.

And Gammon showed Will his home page.

And it was really, really dull.

“Why is your favourite colour puce?” Will asked.

“It’s not really,” said Gammon. “I only put that to make myself sound more exciting.”

“It’s black, really, isn’t it?”

Gammon nodded gloomily. “You’ve seen the future,” said he. “Tell me that one day black will not be the new black.”

“In the nineteen eighties it’s grey,” said Will.

“That’s not much of a consolation.”

“Things are likely to change.”

“Eureka!” cried Tim.

“Already?” cried Will.

“No,” said Tim. “Just thought I’d get you going.”

“Fact number three,” said Gammon. “Favourite song.”

“Let me guess,” said Will. “Little Tich’s ever-popular Big Boot Dance.”

“How ever did you know?”

“It’s a gift,” said Will. “No doubt inherited from Hugo Rune.”

“Would you care for a go at fact four? Favourite present British monarch?”

Will stroked at his magnificent beard. “Would you care to give me a clue?” he asked.

Fact five, that Gammon’s favourite employer was one Hugo Rune, had as much surprise about it as a Blue Peter presenter’s cocaine habit.

“Eureka!” cried Tim once again.

This time Will ignored him.

“No, really. Eureka,” said Tim. “I’ve cracked it. We’re in.”

“Oh,” said Will and he wheeled his chair upon its castered feet in Tim’s direction.

“Ingenious encryption,” said Tim. “Based upon the Kabbalah.”

“I’ve read the Kabbalah,” said Will. “Couldn’t make any sense of it though.”

“Not many can,” said Tim. “It’s purposely obscure and designed to confuse. But it’s not actually an occult work at all; it’s a cookery book. The entry code to the witches’ restricted computer files is a recipe for plum jam.”

“I’d have got it eventually,” said Will.

“You wouldn’t,” said Tim. “But here it all is. Care for a look?”

“Indeed.” Gammon now leaned over Will’s shoulder, favouring him with his dire breath. Gammon viewed the screen.

It was covered in little icons, in the shape of bats and pumpkins, cauldrons and black cats, and broomsticks. Below each of these were little titles: My incantations. My book of shadows. My favourite curses. My wart charms. And so on and so forth, and not very funny at all.

“Cool,” said Tim. “What shall we go for?”

“If I might make a suggestion,” said Gammon. “Select My World Domination Proposal”

“Good choice that,” said Tim and he moved the silver star-shaped mouse.

MY WORLD DOMINATION PROPOSAL

Tim read, and then he paused before reading further. “I can’t read this,” he said.

Will peered at the screen. “It’s Latin. I can read it.”

“Then please do.”

Will read it.

“Out loud,” said Tim.

Will read it out loud.

“Translated into English,” said Tim.

Will translated it into English.

“That’s incredible,” said Tim.

“It is,” said Will.

“Could you explain it to me?” said Gammon. “My English isn’t all that good.”

Will sighed. “What it says is this—” he said.

“It says here,” said a pinch-faced woman, who sat at a computer screen not at all dissimilar to the one that Tim and Will now sat at, “that someone is hacking into our restricted files.”

Another pinch-faced woman leaned over her shoulder. The breath of this pinch-faced woman made Gammon’s smell like fresh-baked bread by comparison.

“Locate the intruder,” said the smelly-breathed one.

The seated pinch-face tapped away at her keyboard. “The Butt’s Estate, Brentford,” said she. “See the street plan. That house right there.”

“Call up the land registry,” said she of the smelly breath. “Let us see who owns this house.”

“Won’t take a moment.” The sitter tapped further keys. “Aha,” cackled she. “According to this, the owner-occupier is one Hugo Rune.”

“Rune.” The smelly-breather spat out the name, as one might spit out a maggot from a Granny Smith. “Our would-be nemesis from the future must be at Rune’s manse. We will deal with this directly.”

And with that said, she picked up a telephone receiver, cunningly fashioned into a facsimile of a stallion’s plonker, and dialled out a three-digit number.

Somewhere another telephone rang and another receiver was lifted. And then a dark voice, a sinister voice; a darkly sinister voice said, “Count Otto Black.”

“Your Highness,” said she whose breath smelled none too sweet. “Our enemy has hacked into our restricted files.”

“And there you have it,” said Will to Gammon.

“I almost do,” said Gammon. “Explain the last part again.”

“The witches have formulated a spell,” said Tim. “Using their computer system. They intend to employ it on the last day of this year, when the clock strikes midnight.”

“The witching hour,” said Gammon.

“Exactly. What would be more appropriate?”

“This spell will infect every piece of Victorian electro technology, anything linked to the Tesla broadcast power system. Everything. It will destroy everything. Wipe it out as if it had never existed. Every Tesla transmission tower. Every wonder created by Lord Babbage. Everything. Effectively erase it all from history. It’s a very serious spell. The most serious and potent spell ever formulated, in my opinion.”