“Ow!” went Barry. “Oooh. Ouch. Stop.”

“Then be still,” said Will.

“It will all end in tears, chief.”

Will applied the blade once more.

“I’m taking another nap,” said Barry. “Wake me up when things reach crisis point and I’ll do my best to get you out of the mess.”

Will wiggled the blade.

“Zzzzzzzzz,” went Barry.

“The way I see it is this,” said Will, refreshing his palate with further ale. “We have fifteen days to locate and destroy the witches’ Millennium Bug programme.”

“Plenty of time,” said Tim. “It should be a breeze.”

“We do have to find it first,” said Will.

“Oh yes, we have to find it.”

“So, where do we look?”

“The Headquarters of the Chiswick Townswomen’s Guild would seem favourite.”

“I agree.”

“I do not,” said Mr Wells.

“You don’t?” said Will.

“And nor do I,” said Master Makepiece Scribbens.

“Why?” asked Will.

Mr Wells finished his ale. “I do not go out much at this time of the year,” said he. “The wind blows right through me. But one of the benefits of being invisible is that you can travel upon public transport without having to pay the fare. Only today I was upon the Clapham omnibus and I overheard a fellow talking. The air was abuzz with rumours and theories of a conspiratorial nature regarding the destruction of the moonship at the Crystal Palace. This fellow believed that the moonship had been sabotaged by Martians.”

Will said nothing.

And nor did Tim.

“An interesting theory,” said Mr Wells, “although wholly ludicrous in my opinion. However, I do have to say that it gave me an idea. I dabble with literature and have always considered writing a whimsical novel. I thought that I might base a novel upon this. A war between the Martians and men. I have even toyed with a title: Punch-up of the Planets. What do you think?”

“War of the Worlds sounds better,” said Tim. “But what has this to do with anything?”

“The man on the Clapham omnibus spoke also of witches. It was his belief that a witch coven existed, dedicated to bringing down society, overthrowing the social order, wiping out technology and installing itself as secret rulers of the world, running the planet through the application of magic”

“Surely we know all this,” said Will.

“Allow me to continue,” said Mr Wells. “He suggested that they would do it subtly. Not hurl magical spells about but influence the present rulers of the planet. Kings and Queens have always had astrologers who advise them. They are superstitious enough to take their advice. Prime ministers and potentates, presidents and tyrants all over the world do likewise. Always have done, always will do. Read your history; you will find out that this was ever the case, back to the time of the Pharaohs and the Caesars.”

“Where is this leading?” Will asked.

“Towards the future,” said Mr Wells. “Towards a future controlled by witches in the guise of astrologers who advise heads of state. That is how they will rule the world once they have swept away all traces of Victorian technology.”

“I understand this,” said Will. “But what is your point?”

“You will find nothing at the headquarters of the Chiswick Townswomen’s Guild. Perhaps a computer or two, but not the Doomsday Programme, if I might call it that.”

“You certainly might,” said Tim. “Millennium Bug was good, but Doomsday Programme – I love it. Brilliant stuff.”

“Her Majesty the Queen—”

“Gawd bless Her,” said Tim.

“Her Majesty the Queen,” Mr Wells continued, “has her own astrologer.”

“I didn’t know this,” said Will.

“But you know the identity of this astrologer. Count Otto Black. The programme will be in his possession.”

“I suppose that’s obvious really,” said Will. “If he is the King of all the witches. So where is he to be found?”

“The Sudan,” said Mr Wells.

“Where?” said Tim.

“His Circus Fantastique is presently playing a season for King Gordon in Khartoum.”

“Right then,” said Will. “Let’s finish up our drinks and head off to Khartoum.”

“A pointless exercise,” said Mr Wells.

“And why?” Will asked.

“Well,” said Mr Wells. “We might engage an aerial hansom to take us as far as Portsmouth. We would be there before morning. But the next steamer bound for North Africa is in five days’ time and will take eight days to reach Khartoum.”

“Still time,” said Will.

“No.” Mr Wells shook his head, although nobody saw it.

“The circus will have left Khartoum by then and be on its way back to England.”

“Then we will intercept it on the way. Take a steamer to Calais and then the Orient Express.”

“And you would miss him once more.”

“Why?” asked Will.

“Because Count Otto Black’s Circus Fantastique does not travel by land or sea. It is a flying circus.”

“Like Monty Python’s?” said Tim.

“I fail to understand you,” said Mr Wells. “The circus is airborne. A dirigible, constructed in the shape of a five-pointed star, powered by Tesla turbines. It travels at an altitude of five thousand feet, beyond the range of any aerial hansom. I feel that we must await Count Otto’s return to this sceptred isle. According to the posters I have seen all over London …”

“The circus will be playing here on the thirty-first of December,” said Will. “For the celebrations to mark the dawn of the twentieth century.”

“Precisely,” said Mr Wells. “It has been licensed by Her Majesty—”

“Gawd bless Her,” said Tim.

“Shut up,” said Will.

“—to moor directly above the Whitechapel area.”

“Whitechapel,” said Will, and he said it slowly and meaningfully.

“I’ll just bet,” said Tim, “that this pentagram-shaped flying circus will be hovering directly over the inverted pentagram formed by joining the sites of the Ripper murders. What do you think, Will?”

“Exactly,” said Will.

“Bullshitter,” said Barry.

“Go back to sleep.”

“Sorry?” said Tim.

“Barry,” said Will.

“So,” said Mr Wells. “We have to await Count Otto’s return.”

“I’m good with this,” said Tim. “Christmas is coming up. I’ve never enjoyed a Victorian Christmas. Will we have crackers and Christmas pudding and Tamagotchis?”

“Perhaps the first two,” said Will. “Please get another round in.”

Tim went up to the bar and got in another round.

“This is a particularly splendid ale-house,” said Mr Wells. “The beer is beyond reproach, the service remarkable, the seating most comfortable.”

Tim returned from the bar. “There’s a big bargee and a small bargee buying drinks up there,” said he. “And they keep looking over at our table.”

“I’ll go and have a word with them,” said Will.

“No need,” said Tim. “I did. The part-time barman is throwing them out.”

Will looked up. And indeed the part-time barman was.

“Top bar,” said Mr Wells.

“You’re not wrong there,” said Will. “So this is the plan.”

“Just one thing,” said Master Scribbens, “before you outline your plan. I am contracted to appear, ‘by popular demand’, at Count Otto’s circus during the New Year celebrations.”

“A man on the inside,” said Tim.

“You really want to do that?” Will asked.

“The money is good and I need it.”

“Mr Wells,” said Will. “Do you believe that this Doomsday Programme will be on board Otto Black’s flying circus?”

“I have no reason to doubt it, do you?”

Will shook his head. “So we have to do it then. When his circus reaches England and hovers above Whitechapel on the thirty-first of December.”

“And we enjoy Christmas in the meantime,” said Tim. “Where shall we spend it? Do you know any other posh hotels you can talk your way into, Will?”

“Many,” said Will. “But that’s not how we’re going to play this. Action now is what is called for. We will dispense with the fifteen days in between and go directly to where the action is.”