“Enough,” said Will.

“Another muffin?” asked Gammon.

“No! Yes!” Will took another muffin and returned to his fireside chair.

“Sir,” said Gammon. “Sir, I know everything about you. Everything. I was in constant communication with the Master during all of your time here. I know, for instance, that you imbibed a drug called Retro.”

“Yes,” said Will. “I did. What about it?”

“This chemical released the memories of your ancestors that were previously locked away in your brain, am I correct?”

“You are,” said Will.

“Then surely the Master’s memories were unlocked to you. The countless years of his remarkable existence.”

“No,” said Will. “I recall the memories as far back as Captain Starling, father of Colonel Starling who should have piloted the moonship today and whose present whereabouts are unknown to me.”

“Captain Starling was the Master’s son, although he never knew it. And the Master allowed his own son to die, saving Her Majesty the Queen (God bless Her).”

“All right,” said Will. “I understand what you are saying. But this is fantastic stuff. Unbelievable stuff.”

“Sir, but for the Master, have you ever met and spoken to any of your ancestors?”

“No,” said Will, and he rose and helped himself to another muffin. “I wanted to, of course, but Rune advised me against it. He said it might be dangerous for them.”

“And so indeed it might be, it certainly proved disastrous for the Master.”

“You’re not suggesting that it is my fault that he was murdered?”

“Well, sir, I—” But Gammon’s words were brought short by the ringing of the front doorbell.

“I wonder who that might be?” wondered Gammon.

“If Tim were here,” said Will, “he’d probably make the suggestion that it was the postman with a cheque for your back wages.”

“Do you think it might be, sir?”

“Stranger things have happened,” said Will. “To me, in the last half an hour, for instance.”

“Then if you’ll pardon me, I shall answer the door.”

“And I’ll have just one more muffin.”

Gammon shuffled from the study and Will wolfed down the final muffin and gave his fingers a final thorough licking.

Will heard the sound of the front door being opened and then soon after being closed again.

And then Gammon returned to the study.

“Most strange, sir,” said he. “I opened the door, but there was no one there. Children playing Knock Down Ginger, perhaps.”

“Perhaps,” said Will. “Are there any more muffins?”

Gammon cast a rheumy eye over the empty platter. “I see that you have eaten Mr Tim’s muffins also,” said he.

“Have to keep my strength up,” said Will. “Witch-finding is a hungry business.”

“Quite so, sir.”

And then the doorbell rang once more.

“Shall I ignore it this time?” Gammon asked.

“Never mind,” said Will. “I’ll go.”

“Oh no, sir, that wouldn’t do. Protocol must always be observed. There’s no telling where things might lead if the Master of the house was to answer his own front door.”

“It’s no big deal,” said Will.

“The precise meaning of that phrase alludes me,” said Gammon. “But I gather the gist. And trust to what I say, sir. One thing leads to another. A decline in standards would lead to chaos. Women being given the vote. The prohibition of opium. Even, God forbid, the decriminalisation of sodomy. Not to mention frotteurism.”

“Frotteurism?” said Will.

“I told you not to mention that.”[29]

“Answer the door then, Gammon.”

And Gammon went to answer the door.

And once more Will heard the front door open.

But this time he also heard a voice.

He heard the voice of Gammon ask, “How might I help you, sir?”

And then Will heard another voice, a voice that he recognised, and a voice that he also feared.

It was a deeply-timbred voice of the Germanic persuasion. It said, “William Starling? Where is William Starling?”

Will who had been seated once more, now leapt up to his feet and drew both his pistols from their holsters.

“No, sir,” came the voice of Gammon from the hall. “You will have to make an appointment. I cannot allow you admission without a prior appointment. Protocol must always—”

And then there was a thumping sound and Gammon said no more.

Will flattened himself against a bookcase, both pistols raised and cocked. “Barry,” he whispered. “Are you awake?”

A gentle purring sound echoed in the rear recess of Will’s brain. Barry was still fast asleep.

“Barry!” went Will, more urgently. “You’re supposed to be my Holy Guardian, who warns me when trouble is heading my way.”

“Zzzzzzzzzzz,” went Barry.

“Hopeless,” whispered Will. “But I can deal with this.”

He peeped around the corner of the bookcase, and found himself staring into the dead black eyes of a terrific figure. It was a terrific figure identical in every detail to the ones that Will had formerly encountered in the future, so to speak. And it smelt equally as bad.

“Ah,” went Will. “Ah … well … hello there.”

“William Starling?” The mouth, a cruel hard line, corded with muscle, crooked into an evil leer.

“You, er, just missed him,” said Will. “He left.”

“Take me to him now.”

“Can’t,” said Will. “Sorry.”

“Then you die.”

“Indeed, I do think not.” And Will fired a pistol at point blank range, right into the chest of the automaton.

And back went he with the force of the blast, and fell onto a Herez carpet, which had been a present to Rune from Shah Jahan for designing the Taj Mahal.

Will blew into the smoking barrel of his gun.

“Job done,” said he.

The terrific figure lay prone upon the carpet. It showed no signs of simulated life.

“However,” said Will, “I have seen the movies too. And so it would be safer to be sure.” And he stepped forward, over the fallen figure, and emptied the contents of both his pistols into the helpless form.

“And now the job is done,” said he. “And most efficiently too, if I do say myself.”

And then Will called to Gammon. “Are you all right?” he called.

And then Will was knocked from his feet.

It came in fast, very fast, and through the closed French windows. Amidst a maelstrom of shattered glass and fragmenting timbers, another demonic, black-eyed and evil-smelling figure of terror burst forward and struck Will from behind.

Will tumbled over a William and Mary side table that had been a present to Hugo Rune from William and Mary, and joined the fallen automaton on the carpet.

The second automaton hauled away the table and cast it across the study, bringing down one of the bookcases, smashing priceless artefacts, spoiling precious tomes.

Will was down, but far from out. He leapt to his feet and, as the monstrous figure pressed forward for the kill, somersaulted over its head.

The evil robot turned, snarled at Will.

Will stood amidst the ruination. He thumbed his nose and did a bit of an Ali shuffle. “In your own time,” said Will and he beckoned his would-be assassin forward.

And forward it came at the hurry up.

It swung a left hand; Will parried it away.

A right; Will parried this also.

And then Will pivoted upon his heel, brought up his other leg in a blurry arc and kicked the thing of dread right in the gob.

The thing of dread paused and readjusted its now lop-sided jaw. “Dimac,” it said. “The most deadly of all the martial arts.”

“Best leave now,” advised Will. “Or I will be forced to punish you further.”

“I have been programmed to destroy you,” said the evil automaton. “And I have also been programmed with the entire Dimac manual. And also those of Karate, Ninjitsu, Kung Fu and Baritso.”

Will span once more upon his heel and kicked it once more in the face, and the black-eyed monster once more repositioned his jaw.