The Witches of Chiswick

by Robert Rankin

  “Oh d—”

  “Don’t say it,” said Will.

  “I’m sorry, chief.”

  “That’s better.”

  Whitechapel police station was a dreary-looking building, constructed of grimy London Stocks and painted all around its wooden bits with dull grey paint. It did have the big blue lamp outside, but there was just no cheering it up. It was dull, and it was dreary, it was grim.

  Will entered the grim police station. It’s interior was stark and joyless: faded oak-panelled walls, what were now old-fashioned gas lights, a miserable desk that barred the way to depressing offices beyond. A sleeping policeman lay slumped upon a sorry chair behind this miserable desk.

  A sad brass desk bell stood mournfully upon this miserable desk.

  Will struck the button of this sad brass desk bell.

  The sleeping policeman awoke.

  “Let’s be having you!” he cried as he awoke. “You’re nicked chummy. Put your hands up, it’s a fair cop.”

  “Good day to you,” said Will.

  “Ah.” The policeman focused his eyes. “Good day to you too, sir.”

  The policeman raised himself from his chair of gloom and Will stared at the policeman. “I know you,” he said. “I know you from somewhere.”

  “Constable Tenpole Tudor,” said the constable. “I never forget a face, and I don’t know you.”

  “Starling,” said Will. “Lord William Starling, son of the late Sir Captain Ernest Starling, hero of the British Empire. I am an associate of Mr Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street.”

  “Never heard of him,” said Constable Tenpole Tudor.

  “Your superiors have; they placed this case file in his hands, and I am dealing with it now.” Will placed the envelope upon the miserable desk, the constable turned it towards himself and gave it a peering at.

  “The Ripper,” said he, and then he began to laugh.

  “Why do you laugh?” Will asked. “This is no laughing matter.”

  “I laugh,” said the constable, “because we’ve already caught the blighter. Less than an hour ago. We have him banged up in the cells even now. That’s why I laugh.”

  “You have caught Jack the Ripper?”

  “Didn’t give up without a struggle. Took four officers to bring him down.”

  “And you have him in custody? Here? Now?”

  “Down below in the cells. Presently being interrogated by Chief Inspector Samuel Maggott.”

  “Samuel Maggott?” said Will. “Of DOCS?”

  “Docs?” asked the constable. “I wouldn’t know about any docs. The fiend might need a doctor by the time we’ve finished with him though. Doesn’t seem too keen to confess to his evil crimes.”

  “But you’re sure you have the right man? How can you be sure?”

  “Covered in blood, he was. And raving too. Well he was at the time, when we caught him. ‘I did it’, he shouted. ‘I had to. God made me do it.’ Can you imagine that? God made him do it? That’s a new one, ain’t it?”

  “It will stand the test of time,” said Will. “Can I see him?”

  “See him? Why would you want to see him?”

  “Because I was assigned to this case. Look, there’s a letter in this envelope. Passing the case on to Mr Holmes. He passed it on to me.”

  “A lot of passing about,” said the constable. “That’s not how things are done through official channels.”

  “Yes it is,” said Will. “That’s always how it’s done.”

  “Is it?” asked the constable. “Well, nobody’s ever told me. All I ever get is orders from above.”

  Will paused.

  “Oh I see,” said the constable. “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Then I can see the suspect?”

  “The murderer, you mean.”

  “The murderer, then.”

  “Well,” said Constable Tenpole Tudor, and he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together in a significant fashion. “I don’t know. Just letting anyone in. That might be more than my job’s worth. I just don’t know.”

  Will reached into his pocket and brought out a golden guinea. “See this,” he said.

  “I do,” said the constable.

  “Then take me to the murderer’s cell and perhaps I’ll show it to you again.”

  “This way, sir,” said the constable and he raised a depressing flap upon his miserable desk and led Will down to the cells.

  The down-to-the-cells way was all that Will might have expected, had he been expecting it: dark, dank, damp and dripping stone walls; sounds of steel doors clanging in the distance, horrid smells, slimy steps.

  “Like the decor?” asked the constable. “We’ve just had it redecorated. Chap off the wireless. Laurence Llewellyn-Morris.”

  “Very, er, atmospheric,” said Will, stepping over something vile that lay upon a step.

  “A bit too modern for my taste,” said the constable. “I prefer things traditional. Can’t be having with this trendy stuff. It was all aluminium tiles and pine decking down here before.”

  “Please lead on,” said Will. “I’m becoming confused.”

  “We’ve had them all down here,” said the constable, as he led on. “Sweeney Todd, the demon barber of Fleet Street, Sawney Bean, the Galloway cannibal; the Count of Monte Cristo, the Prisoner of Cell Block H. And the Prisoner, of course, played by Patrick McGoohan.”

  “What?” said Will.

  “I’m a member of the fan club,” said the constable. “Six of One; you get a badge and everything. I’d send away for the t-shirt, but they’re a bit expensive.”

  “Chief,” said Barry. “There’s something very wrong here, we should be going, I think.”

  “I know what you mean,” Will whispered.

  “Oh and Hannibal Lecter,” said the constable. “He’s a real terror. We have to keep him in a straitjacket with a leather mask, or he’ll bite your face off. Happened to Constable Colby last week. He was token policewoman; took the mask off to give Mr Lecter’s teeth a clean. Bad mistake that.”

  “Away, chief,” said Barry. “Now.”

  “I think I’d like to see the prisoner,” said Will.

  “Mr McGoohan, your lordship?”

  “No, Jack the Ripper.”

  “That’s what you’re,” the constable tapped at his nose, “you know, bribing me for.”

  “It’s official business,” said Will. “But you will be recompensed for your trouble.”

  “That’s it, your lordship ‘Recompensed’. Good word, that.”

  “Please just lead the way,” said Will. And the constable continued with his way-leading.

  “Now down here,” he said, “there used to be all big cells, very spacious, en-suite bathrooms and that kind of thing, but Mr Llewellyn-Morris split them up, made them more down-market. Newgate chic, he called it. Retro-look. Ah, here we are. Would you like to go in?”

  They had stopped before an iron door, an iron door with one of those little grilles upon it with the sliding panel that you can move aside to have a peep into the cell and a good old gloat if you’re that way inclined.

  “Could I just have a peep through the little grille?” Will asked.

  “Certainly, your lordship. And have a good old gloat too if you wish. I always do. The captured villain on the inside, the good fellow on the outside, that’s always worthy of a good old gloat in my opinion.”

  “A peep,” said Will. “I’m not ready for a gloat just yet.”

  “Please yourself,” said the constable. “And I suppose that really you don’t have anything to gloat about. After all, you didn’t catch Jack the Ripper. I did.”

  “You said it took four of you.”

  “But I caught him. Wandering in the street, burbling like a mad man. Covered in blood from head to toe. I’ll take the credit. My name will go down in history for this.”

  “Well done,” said Will, but not with enthusiasm.

  “So have a little peep, your lordship, and then we’ll settle up.”
And the constable rubbed his thumb and forefinger together once more.

  “Indeed we will.”

  The constable pushed the little sliding panel aside and Will peered through the grille and into the cell.

  Within the tiny wretched-looking cell sat two men, either side of a table, one the suspect, the other Chief Inspector Samuel Maggot.

  Will viewed the suspect. He was strapped into a straitjacket. There was much blood upon the straitjacket. There was much blood upon the suspect also. It was clotted into his hair. It was all around the edges of his face also. The suspect’s face was contorted, madly contorted.

  “It wasn’t me,” he was yelling. “You don’t understand,” he was yelling. “You have to do something,” he was yelling also.

  The suspect’s yelling hurt Will’s ears. And Will’s face made a very pained expression. But it wasn’t the yelling that did it. It was the suspect.

  Will stared at the suspect and Will’s mouth opened.

  “Chief,” said Barry. “I see that. Do you see that?”

  “I see that,” Will whispered.

  “But chief, it’s … it’s …”

  “It’s me, Barry,” said Will. “That man in the cell is me!”

  22

  “Well that’s handy, chief,” chirped Barry. “You’ve got an evil twin and he’s Jack the Ripper. Case solved, then. Let’s head for Chiswick.”

  “Stop it!” Will made a fist and struck his temple with it. “That man in the cell is me.”

  “Could be a great-granddaddy, chief.”

  “It’s me. I know it’s me.”

  Constable Tenpole Tudor stared Will up and down and then gently eased him aside and had a good peer through the little metal grille.

  “I’ll be a red-nosed burglar!” said he. “There’s a definite resemblance and no doubt about it. Do you want to put your hands up to being an accessory and come quietly with me? Or would you prefer to enjoy the privilege accorded to the titled classes of this time, tip me a guinea and stroll away unmolested to your London club?”

  “The latter indeed.” Will peeped once more into the cell and Will had a good old tremble going. “It’s me,” he whispered to Barry. “It is me. What are we going to do?”

  “We, chief? I thought you were calling all the shots now.”

  “I must interview the suspect, constable,” said Will.

  “You’ll have plenty to choose from then, your lordship.”

  “What?” said Will.

  “If you want to interview a suspect constable, half of the constables here are decidedly suspect.”

  Will looked at the constable.

  And the constable looked back at Will.

  “Sorry,” said the constable. “Couldn’t resist it.”

  “But it wasn’t funny.”

  “Maybe not to you,” said Constable Tenpole Tudor. “But to me, it was hysterical. I’m all torn up inside over it, me. Can hardly keep a straight face. You can never beat a little humour to lighten a stressful situation.”

  “Let me speak to the prisoner,” said Will.

  “Mr Patrick McGoohan, your lordship?”

  “Hit him, chief,” said Barry. “Employ your Dimac. Put this dullard out for the count. The Count of Monte Cristo, if you like.”

  “The other day,” the constable continued, “I was in this hardware shop, needed some nails, see. And I said to the chap behind the counter, ‘I’d like some nails please’. And he said, ‘How long would you like them?’ And I said—”

  “‘Forever’,” said Barry. “‘I want to keep them.’ That’s quite a good ’n.”

  “It’s rubbish!” said Will.

  “No,” said the constable. “That’s not what I said. I said, ‘About six inches will do. Or at least that’s what my wife always says!’” And the constable began to laugh.

  “Different punch-line,” said Barry. “I preferred mine. The element of time being involved and everything.”

  “And the other day,” said the constable, “I was playing cards in the jungle with some natives and—”

  Will employed a Dimac move known as The Donk of the Dark Dragon’s Doodle, struck the constable hard in the chin and knocked him to the newly flag-stoned floor.

  “Try that for a punch-line,” said Will.

  “Nice one, chief. So what now?”

  Will rapped the tip of Rune’s cane on the steel cell door.

  The yelling which hadn’t ceased, but which hadn’t been mentioned because it would have interfered with the achingly funny dialogue, stilled away to nothing at all. And a voice called, “What is it, constable?” It was the voice of Chief Inspector Samuel Maggott.

  “Special visitor, sir.” Will did his best to imitate the constable’s voice. “Sent from Scotland Yard to interview the prisoner. Member of the aristocracy.”

  “Let him in, constable.”

  “Very good, chief.”

  Will knelt, relieved the constable of his keys and, after several attempts, selected the correct one and managed to open the door. He eased himself inside, calling “‘wait for me in the corridor, constable’,” over his shoulder.

  Samuel Maggott turned in his chair and stared up at Will.

  “By the—”

  But he said no more as Will made free with his Dimac. This time the move was The Terrible Twist of the Tiger’s Todger. It involved the same fist and the outcome was identical. Samuel Maggott toppled from his chair and lay very still on the floor of the cell.

  “You’re a regular twelfth-dan master, chief,” said Barry.

  “Just leave this to me.”

  Will sat himself in the now vacant chair and stared at the jacketed prisoner. The jacketed prisoner stared back at Will and there was fear in his eyes.

  “Just be calm.” Will raised his hand. The prisoner flinched and Will lowered it again. “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Who are you?” Will’s living double replied.

  “My name is William Starling.”

  “No.” The prisoner struggled and struggled. “This is some trick. You’re trying to drive me insane. You’re not me. You can’t be me.”

  “Me?” Will shook his head slowly. He trembled now from blondy head to patent leather toe. “Are you me?”

  “You’re one of them. Pure evil. Just kill me. I won’t tell you anything.”

  “Nobody’s going to kill anyone. And I’m certainly not going to kill you.”

  The two men looked at each other. Both were scared. But one was on the point of terror.

  “What do you want from me?” The prisoner’s teeth chattered together. “How did I get here? Where am I? When am I?”

  “Ah,” said Will. “When?”

  “Chief, we really should be going. The lads from Scotland Yard are probably on their way here now. Things won’t look good for you, trust me on this.”

  “I’m not leaving him here.”

  “Then bring him with you. But let’s get out of here now.”

  “Right,” Will jumped to his feet. “I’m getting you out of here. Come on now.” And he reached out his hand towards the prisoner.

  “No!” Barry’s voice echoed in Will’s head, causing him to drop his cane and clasp his hands over his ears. “No, chief. Don’t touch him.”

  “Not so loud.” Will clawed at his head.

  The prisoner looked on with a horrified expression.

  “You mustn’t touch him, chief. I’ve just had a terrible thought.”

  “Tell me something new.”

  “Oh ha ha ha, chief. A little humour to lighten a stressful situation. But I’m not kidding you. Don’t touch him. Under no circumstance touch him.”

  “Why not?” Will asked.

  “Because if it is you, there’s no telling what might happen. Well, actually, there is and it’s not good, I can tell you.”

  “I don’t have time for this.”

  “You do, chief. And time is what it’s all about. This could be you, due to some time-travelling anomaly. And if it
is, the two yous must not come into physical contact. It’s all that time paradox business. Two yous cannot occupy the same space. It would be like matter and antimatter meeting. Big explosion and then no yous at all. Did you ever see Time Cop? David Warner was in that and he got pushed into his other self and the two went whoosh. Horrible, it was, but a damn good movie. Actually, David Warner was in several movies with a ‘time’ theme. Time after Time, Time Bandits—”

  Will thought for a moment. It was not a particularly long moment. It was possibly longer than a “trice”, but not as long as “a mo”. Or perhaps it was the other way around.

  “Up!” he shouted at his blood-splattered doppelganger. “Come with me, if you want to live.”

  “Good line, chief. Wrong movie, but still one of my favourites.”

  The prisoner sat shaking. He turned his face away.

  “They’ll kill you if you stay here,” Will told him. “It’s capital punishment in this era. They’ll hang you for being Jack the Ripper.”

  “I’m not—” the prisoner groaned.

  “Hurry,” Will told him.

  The prisoner struggled to rise. Will almost helped him. Almost.

  “Keep thinking David Warner,” Barry told him.

  “Out.” Will threw open the cell door.

  “What happened?” asked Constable Tenpole Tudor, peering dizzily in.

  Will felled him with a second blow and snatched up Rune’s cane from the floor. “Out.” He waved the cane at the prisoner. “Out, and hurry.”

  The prisoner stumbled across the cell, he stepped over the unconscious Chief Inspector and then the unconscious constable. Will prodded him into the corridor with the cane. “Along to the end and up the stairs,” he told him. “And hurry. I really do mean hurry.”

  And along the corridor and up the stairs the prisoner stumbled. He seemed in a state of near collapse and he was buffeted from one wall to another. Will kept prodding and urging and in more than a “mo”, but less than a “bit”, they reached the miserable front desk.

  And then Will saw them, through the melancholic front windows of the police station. Two hansom cabs were drawn up outside and folk were climbing down from them: official-looking fellows in high top hats and long dark-jacketed morning suits, and a number of women. Well-dressed women, lavishly-dressed women, but with preposterously slender bodies and tiny pinched faces, these women, four in number they were, looked curiously alike, as if sisters. But—