“And macrame,” it added.

“That’s not a martial art,” said Will.

“It’s a hobby,” the thing replied. “I will knit a plant pot holder from your beard, as soon as I have torn your head from your shoulders.”

“Who sent you?” Will asked.

“That is no concern of yours. Prepare to die.”

“I’m prepared,” said Will and he cracked his knuckles and knotted his fingers into fists. “But come on, before you kill me, what harm can there be in telling me?”

“None,” said the automaton. “And I will confide this information to you, one second before you die.”

The evil creation flexed its muscular shoulders, pushed out its barrelly chest, took up the martial arts stance known as the prelude to The Curl of the Curlew’s Codpiece.

Will took up that known as the prelude to The Peck of the Pigeon’s Pecker.

And then the two engaged in battle.

And it was battle proper.

Fists flew with fearsome rapidity. The study’s air boomed as the sound barrier was breached again and again. Furniture splintered, and big chunks of plaster were blasted from the walls and also the ceiling as leaping kicking fighting bodies hurtled here and there and forward and backwards, performing impossible aerobatics and doing all the damn fine stuff that aficionados of martial arts movies (the original Hong Kong dubbed into English versions) know and love, and love some more.

A wonder and a joy to watch, but a blighter to put down in words.

The martial mechanoid tore the marble shelf from the fireplace and swung it at Will. Will kicked it into fragments.

The rampaging robot now flung his right fist at Will, Will caught the fist and tore it free of the arm.

“Bugger,” said the handless horror, and it kicked Will in the stomach.

“Bugger,” croaked Will, doubling up.

And then the evil clockwork creature kneed Will right in the face, and Will went down with a bit of a thump.

The monster came at him.

The fingers of its remaining hand fixed about Will’s throat.

Will grabbed at the wrist but was head-butted in the face. Will sank back, half conscious, and the automated fingers closed in about his windpipe.

“You enquired, regarding who sent me,” said Will’s erstwhile assassin, applying lethal pressure. “I am the servant of Count Otto Black, King of all the witches.”

Will gagged and floundered. He flailed at the force that bore down upon him, but his strength was gone.

“See me,” said the voice of Will’s doom. “Look into my eyes and see your nemesis.” And he held Will’s face close to its own. Will looked into the eyes of his destroyer, and he saw a face there, in those dead black eyes, as through a camera lens.

A gaunt face with a long hooked nose, dark deep-set eyes, a high forehead and a long black beard. The last face he would ever see; the face of Count Otto Black.

And that face smiled, and that face laughed, exposing a mouthload of crooked yellow teeth. And a voice echoed in Will’s ear; the voice of the Count.

“Goodbye to you,” said this voice.

And the fingers closed, and that was that for Will.

39

“And that is that for you.”

Another voice was to be heard in the devastated study. The automaton raised its head and looked around. Above it a scimitar which bore the autograph of Salome hung in the air, motionless and all alone. Hovering. And then it swung down in a vicious sweeping arc and swept the head from the automaton. The robot’s single remaining hand left Will’s throat and clawed at the empty air that its owner’s head had so recently occupied.

And then the automaton collapsed, and that was that for it.

“Wake up now. Come on, William, rouse yourself.”

Will lurched into consciousness, coughing and gagging.

The face of Tim looked down upon him. “Tim, you saved my life.”

“I’d like to take the credit,” said Tim. “But it wasn’t me. I missed all the excitement.”

“I’m sorry I waited so long before coming to your rescue,” said a voice. “But I needed, as you did, to know the answer to the question you asked the automaton.”

“Mr Wells,” said Will.

“Pleased to be of service,” said the voice of H.G. Wells.

“And Gammon?” Will did some more coughing and gagging.

“I am in excellent health, sir, a mere concussion, nothing more.” The face of Gammon loomed over Will. “I telephoned the Flying Swan and had this sent over for you. I thought you might appreciate it.” And a pint of Large now filled Will’s vision.

“Let’s get him up,” said Tim, and Will was aided into the vertical plane. He clutched at his throat.

“That really hurt,” he said. “I thought I was finished there.”

“You gave a very good account of yourself,” said Mr Wells. “All that leaping about and those kicks. Most impressive.”

“The bullets worked somewhat better.”

“Bullets tend to do that.”

Tim righted what was left of the fireside chair Will had recently occupied and helped him onto it. “There’s not much left of our legacy,” he said. “Couldn’t you have been a bit more careful?”

“I was fighting for my life!” Will coughed and gagged some more.

Gammon handed him the pint of Large. “This will help,” he said. “Alcohol always does.”

Will sipped and coughed, then gulped, then coughed somewhat less. Then gulped a bit more and a bit more after that.

“Mr Wells,” said he. “Thank you; thank you for saving my life.”

“My pleasure, I assure you. I received the telegram you sent earlier, asking me to meet you at this address. Came as soon as I could.”

“I unknowingly let Mr Wells in,” said Gammon. “That first ring at the door. The one I thought was children.”

“I knew it was him,” said Will. “The second ring, however, I thought was someone else.”

“He’s outside,” said Mr Wells. “He’s hungry. He’s eating the privet hedge.”

“Eating what?” said Tim.

“The fourth member of our party,” said Will. “Master Makepiece Scribbens, the Brentford Snail Boy.”

“Eh?” said Tim. “What’s all this?”

Will eased his throat with further Large. “Allies,” he said. “In the cause. We’re going to need all the help we can get. I telegrammed Mr Wells to meet us here, also Master Scribbens.”

“Why him?” Tim asked.

“Because he helped us at the court house. Remember that it was his idea that we disguise ourselves as him and Miss Poppins in order to escape.”

The doorbell rang.

“That will be him,” said Will. “Gammon, will you, please?”

“At once, sir.”

Master Makepiece Scribbens peered through the broken doorway at what was left of Hugo Rune’s study. He took in the ruinations and slowly shook his bloated head.

“Well,” said he. “This must have been an incredible party, I’m sorry I missed it.”

“It was not a party.” Tim pointed to the two defunct automata.

Master Makepiece Scribbens stared down upon them and then he raised phlegm from his throat and spat it onto the nearest. “Spawn of Satan,” said he. “The evil cat’s-paws of Count Otto Black.”

“Come in and meet Mr Wells,” said Tim.

“Mr Wells?” said Master Scribbens, peering all around and about.

“Mr Wells,” said Mr Wells.

And all was explained to the Snail Boy, regarding Mr Wells.

Well, not perhaps all, but some.

“And so we are four,” said Master Scribbens and he moved forward into the wreckage of the room. But he didn’t walk. His legs and feet didn’t move. He slid along. He glided, upon a silky, silvery trail.

“Nice to see you out of your wheelchair,” said Tim, making the kind of face that implies that it wasn’t that nice, as it happened.

“Miss Poppins had to leave my employ. A more favourable position came up for her, nannying some children in Ludgate Hill.”[30]