Retromancer

  ‘Mr Rune,’ said Fangio. ‘Tell this foolish boy who I am.’

  Hugo Rune cocked his head on one side and said, ‘You are Vera Lynn.’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Fangio. ‘The Forces’ Sweetheart. An uncanny resemblance, don’t you think?’

  ‘Well, now that you mention it,’ I said, ‘I do not.’

  ‘Well, there better had be,’ said the barlord, pulling pints with fingers that were heavy on the nail varnish with some even on the nails. ‘Firstly because—’ And he nodded to a poster.

  BRENTFORD INTER-PUB

  LOOKALIKE

  COMPETITION

  ‘Just our luck,’ I said to Hugo Rune. ‘These posters have all the potential for a half-decent running gag and we have to run off and leave them.’

  ‘And that also,’ said the barlord. ‘You will note perhaps the scarcity of any cardboard boxes hereabouts.’

  I nodded that indeed this was the case and asked just why it was.

  ‘I’ve had the rozzers in,’ said Fangio, presenting us with our pints. ‘It seems that someone grassed me up for selling hokey goods.’

  ‘In the King’s English, Rizla,’ said Hugo Rune, ‘our noble barlord has been reported to the police for selling contraband. And so he intends to evade capture by cross-dressing, in the hope that no one will see through his cunning disguise.’

  ‘Ah,’ I said. ‘But I do see a flaw in this. Surely if you enter the lookalike competition you will give the game away that you are not the real Vera Lynn.’

  ‘Hm.’ Fangio stroked at his stubbled chin. ‘That is food for thought,’ he said. ‘And while we’re on the subject—’

  ‘It is a bit early for luncheon,’ said Hugo Rune, ‘in that we have only just finished breakfast.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Fangio. ‘This is not so much about you eating your lunch here. It is more of a pecuniary matter.’

  Himself raised an eyebrow to this. His stout stick tapped at his leg. ‘Pecuniary?’ he asked politely. ‘What mean you by this?’

  ‘I will, I regret, have to ask you to settle your account, Mr Rune,’ said Fangio, taking a brisk step backwards beyond the range of the stout stick.

  ‘My . . . ? My . . . ?’ The word did not come easily to the mouth of Hugo Rune.

  ‘Your account, sir, yes. I hadn’t troubled you about it before because I felt that you’d probably settle up in your own time. I’ve kept an accurate tally of all that you and your companion have drunk and consumed here over the last six months. You’d be surprised just how much it has all added up to.’

  ‘I would not,’ I said.

  ‘So if perhaps you would care to take out your chequebook.’

  And I now took a step back. It was of course possible that Hugo Rune did possess a chequebook. All gentlemen possessed cheque-books. But I had certainly never actually witnessed such a chequebook and felt it unlikely that I would do so now.

  Violence, yes.

  Chequebook, no.

  ‘I’ll go and fetch the bill,’ said Fangio. ‘You can have those two pints on the house, as it were.’

  And with that said he left the bar, returning moments later with the bill. Well, I assume that he probably did return in such fashion. Mr Rune and I, however, were not there to meet this return. Our two now-empty glasses stood upon the otherwise empty counter and silence echoed all throughout the otherwise empty bar.

  46

  ‘Outrageous,’ said Himself, a-striding and a-swinging of his stick. I sought hard to keep up with this striding and already was growing quite weary.

  ‘Please slow down,’ I puffed and panted. ‘I am sure we can deal with the matter.’

  ‘Deal with the matter? Deal with the matter?’ Hugo Rune turned fiercely upon me. ‘How many times have I told you, Rizla? I offer the world my genius. All I expect in return is that the world cover my expenses.’

  ‘You have told me more than once,’ I said. ‘I, however, unlike Fangio, have not been keeping a record.’

  ‘I shall never again grace those premises with my august personage,’ quoth the Magus. And I for one had no reason to doubt the sincerity of his words.

  ‘Where to now then?’ I asked. ‘No telegrams. Nothing in the newspapers. No seemingly irrelevant something that later proves most pertinent to be found at The Purple Princess. It looks like we are stuffed for a case. As it were.’

  ‘There is always the Ministry,’ said Hugo Rune, gloomily.

  ‘But they always contact you.’

  ‘A change is as good as a rest. Let us hail up a cab.’

  Recalling Hugo Rune’s wanton excesses in the field of violence towards cab drivers, I was not altogether keen. And I only agreed to accompany him by cab if he crossed his heart and saw-this-wet-and-saw-this-dry and swore upon a stack of imaginary Bibles that under no circumstances would I see him visiting physical hurt upon the driver of our cab.

  Grudgingly he conceded to this and I hailed up a cab.

  Cabs were so much better in wartime days. They were huge inside, with great high ceilings, so that a gentleman had no need to take off his topper, nor a lady her bird-bedecked bonnet. And each cab had a built-in cocktail cabinet, plush leather seats and, even though this cab was motorised, a bale of hay in the boot to feed the horse.10

  ‘’Op in, your lordships,’ said the cabby, his cockney tones at odds with his dapper livery. ‘I expect you swells will want taking to the h’opera, or the ’ouses of Parleyament.’

  I watched the guru’s guru’s knuckles whiten around his stick. I grinned and whispered, ‘Do not forget what you promised.’

  Hugo Rune contained himself and named our destination.

  ‘Mornington Crescent, is it?’ said the cabby, smiling back at us over his shoulder. ‘Now there’s a place and no mistake. ’It by a bomb last night, it were. Blew a great terrible ’ole.’

  I looked up at Hugo Rune.

  And he looked down at me.

  ‘Drive at your swiftest and there is a silver sovereign in it for you,’ said Mr Rune, in a manner that, to a stranger or casual listener-in (because all walls had ears), would certainly have passed for convincing.

  ‘Drive then I will, your ’onour,’ said the cabby and off we jolly well went.

  We jolly well went at a fearsome pace, much to the amusement of Mr Rune, who cheered loudly and clapped his hands together when our driver had a passing cleric off his bicycle near Tottenham Court Road.

  ‘You know what, your worshipfulness,’ called the cabby, ‘they do say as what there is a secret underground horganisation down below Mornington Crescent Tube. The Ministry of Dipperdy-do-dah, or some such. And ’ow there’s elves and goblins and bugaboos from the middle of the Earth does work with them. And ’ow a gigantic fat troll called Hugo R—’

  ‘Stop the cab here, please,’ said Hugo Rune.

  ‘Soon as you like then, your nobleness.’

  The cabby slammed on the brakes and I shot forwards to land in an untidy heap upon the elegantly carpeted floor. Mr Rune, however, was made of sterner stuff and never even spilled the cocktail I had mixed for him.

  He politely excused himself from my presence and left the cab. I climbed shakily to my feet and saw Mr Rune escorting our driver into a nearby alleyway.

  The Magus returned most swiftly, wiping down the pommel of his stick. He opened the passenger door and I shook my head.

  ‘You promised,’ I said. ‘On a stack of imaginary Bibles and everything.’

  ‘You should have worded your directive a little more carefully, Rizla. I distinctly recall you saying that you did not want to see me visiting physical hurt upon the driver of the cab. Now kindly please take to the front seat and drive.’

  I shook my head once more. Sadly. But did as Mr Rune bade me to do and I must say rather enjoyed it. Certainly I did do some basic graunchings of the gears and did shunt into a brewer’s dray, but essentially I soon had the knack and there were no fatalities.

  And, in truth, Mr Rune knocking the cabby about gave me a warm fee
ling inside. A warm and cosy feeling. Because as nothing so far this day had gone the way it should have gone, falling back on a tried and tested, if slightly clichéd, old favourite such as Mr Rune walloping a cab driver was not without its share of comfort and joy.

  Presently this joy died away when we beheld Mornington Crescent. The station had taken a direct hit from a V2 flying bomb. I had seen one of those missiles in the Science Museum when I was a child and had been amazed by its size. I now stood and viewed the full horror of its capabilities.

  Hugo Rune leaned over the chasm that yawned where the station had been. He kicked a stone into it and listened for a distant report. A policeman then chivvied us away and I asked Mr Rune what he thought we should do now.

  ‘Regrettably, Rizla, we will be forced to use the tradesmen’s entrance. Kindly follow me.’

  His leadings led to a nearby and unscathed Lyons Corner House. Which was a wonderful art deco masterpiece of a café, all polished chrome and black enamel panelling. Mr Rune had a word or two with the head waiter and we were escorted backstage, as it were, to another one of those glorious brass-cage lifts. Mr Rune gave the head waiter a certain handshake, applied his special key to the lift and down we went at a big hurry-up.

  The Ministry of Serendipity was deep deep down and safe from even the V2’s excesses. We sauntered along the curious corridors and Mr Rune rapped with his cane onto the office door of Mr McMurdo.

  I felt a certain dread attendant to that knocking. What, I wondered, would be the condition of Mr McMurdo this time? What horridness had Mr Rune ‘accidentally’ wrought upon him?

  The knocking was answered by a bright and breezy, ‘Come,’ and we two entered the office.

  Mr McMurdo was seated at this desk and all looked natural enough. He was not the size of a small country. Nor had his fingers grown in the manner of bamboo plants come summer. He smiled at us as we entered.

  And then he rose to his feet.

  And my eyes widened, as I beheld . . .

  That he was perfectly normal.

  ‘How good to see you, Mr Rune,’ he said. ‘And you too, Rizla. Would you care for a humbug?’

  ‘Not for me, sir, thank you,’ I said, trying hard not to stare.

  ‘You would appear to be all present and correct,’ said Hugo Rune. And he said this with a degree of puzzlement in his voice.

  ‘New doctor,’ said Mr McMurdo. ‘Harley Street chap. All the latest gizmos. You’d be surprised what they have in their surgeries today, extraordinary apparatus.’

  ‘And so you are now fully restored,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘And,’ and he sighed most slightly, ‘all through the aid of technology.’

  ‘As right as ninepence,’ said Mr McMurdo, ‘and bright as a new pin. And trim and chipper as a pony girl’s harness too, as it happens. I’ve never felt better than this.’

  ‘I am so very pleased for you.’ And Hugo Rune put out his hand, but the chipper chap did not shake it.

  ‘And I will let bygones be bygones, no hard feelings, old fellow,’ he said.

  I could swear I heard Mr Rune’s teeth grind at this, but he remained most calm.

  ‘Care for a cocktail?’ asked Mr McMurdo. ‘I can knock us up a rather nifty Tokio Express. I have purchased one of these new electric cocktail shakers. Japanese built, perhaps a tad unpatriotic, but it certainly gets the job jobbed. Double for you with a little umbrella?’

  But Hugo Rune shook his head.

  ‘No?’ said Mr McMurdo.

  ‘No?’ said I. Amazed.

  ‘Given it up,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘Strictly teetotal from now on.’

  And I held my breath.

  ‘Well, never mind, never mind, sit yourself down, do.’

  Mr McMurdo returned to his desk and sat himself behind it. We dropped into the visitors’ chairs and Mr Rune cradled his stick.

  ‘Been meaning to give you a call, actually,’ said Mr McMurdo.

  ‘A case?’ said Hugo Rune.

  ‘Not as such, dear fellow. In fact quite the opposite.’

  Hugo Rune went, ‘Mmmm?’

  ‘Change in the air,’ said Mr McMurdo. ‘The wind of change, you might say. The Ministry is going through changes. Words from above regarding efficiency and suchlike. Bigwigs upstairs and all that kind of carry on.’

  I wondered where this was leading. I did not have to wonder for long.

  ‘Retirement,’ said Mr McMurdo.

  ‘You are going to retire?’ said Hugo Rune. ‘How splendid.’

  ‘No, not me, my goodness no. So much paperwork, although less actual paperwork, what with all these new computers going “on line” as the boffins will have it.’

  ‘I fail to understand,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘If not you—’

  ‘You, dear fellow, retirement for you.’

  ‘For me!’ And Hugo Rune rose to his feet.

  ‘Lucky old you, eh?’ said Mr McMurdo, fiddling with papers on his desk. ‘Time to put up those old feet of yours and let younger men do the hard work.’

  I wondered perhaps whether I should excuse myself and slip quietly from the room. I dreaded to think as to where and to what this conversation would inevitably lead.

  ‘Don’t think of it so much as being put out to pasture,’ said Mr McMurdo brightly. ‘See it more as a just reward for services rendered.’

  Mr Rune’s face momentarily brightened. ‘Ah,’ said he. ‘I see, a retirement, but on a pension equal to my present retainer, of course.’

  ‘Ah, no,’ said Mr McMurdo. ‘Regrettably not. I tried to push that through with the bigwigs upstairs, but they said, sorry, no can do. All belts have to be tightened with a war on, you see. Your retainer constituted a considerable amount of our yearly budget. Had to stop your latest cheque to the bank, I regret to say.’

  ‘I really think I should be leaving now,’ I said.

  ‘Please wait outside,’ said Mr Hugo Rune.

  I waved goodbye to Mr McMurdo and fled the room. And paced up and down outside. I did not wish to press my ear to the brassy door, for fear of what I might hear. Instead I whistled loudly as I paced and la-la-la’d and fol-de-roll’d and made a lot of noise.

  Presently the door to Mr McMurdo’s office opened and Hugo Rune emerged, wiping down the pommel of his stick. Under his arm he carried a briefcase.

  ‘You did not—’ I said. ‘Please tell me you did not. Please.’

  ‘I did not, Rizla, truthfully. We, how shall I put this? Haggled. And came to an agreement regarding a financial settlement. A golden handshake, I believe is the term.’

  ‘Is that briefcase full of money?’ I asked.

  ‘Regrettably, no, Rizla. I have agreed to perform one final service for Mr McMurdo, in return for which he will furnish me with a sum of money sufficient to cover two first-class tickets aboard a luxury liner to America.’

  ‘There is a certain symmetry to that,’ I said. ‘You seem to be taking this ever so well.’

  ‘All good things must come to an end, Rizla. Even as the plumed peacock paradiddles plaintive parodies, the cackling crow doth hold no hallowed noodle. North nor South!’

  ‘I cannot argue with that,’ I said. ‘So what is in the briefcase, if not money?’

  ‘Secrets, dear Rizla, secrets. Which must be placed into the hands of the prime minister, by myself, at precisely three o’ clock this afternoon.’

  ‘Winston Churchill?’ I said. ‘Can I meet him, please?’

  ‘I have told you that you will not like him.’

  ‘Yes, but he is Winston Churchill. But why at precisely three o’ clock this afternoon?’

  ‘He is to make an important speech at three-fifteen on the wireless. This is that very speech.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘How exciting. Can we have a read of it now?’

  ‘Absolutely not! I have given my word to Mr McMurdo that I will not open the briefcase. He swore me to it, in fact. Upon a stack of actual Bibles.’

  ‘All very hush-hush and top secret,’ I said. ‘It must be very important. ’
/>
  ‘Naturally, Rizla. Or else the delivery would not have been entrusted to me.’

  If I had any remarks to make about that, I kept them to myself.

  ‘And so,’ said Hugo Rune, ‘might I suggest that we repair to an upper-class eatery and take a light lunch?’

  ‘A light one?’ I said. ‘Now that I would like to see.’

  47

  The meal went far beyond my expectations. Which, I must say, were great. We dined at the Savoy Grill, but my initial difficulty was actually in gaining admittance.

  We arrived in our commandeered cab and I held wide the door for Hugo Rune. But when I tried to enter the restaurant, I was informed it was not for my kind.

  ‘You just wait until the nineteen sixties,’ I told the commissionaire, who had me by the collar of my nice pale linen suit and was hauling me back down towards the cab.

  Mr Rune set matters straight, explaining that I was his son, an eccentric millionaire in my own right who had taken to the driving of a cab as part of the War Effort, me being too sickly and weak to uniform-up and stick bayonets in the enemy.

  The Savoy Grill quite took my fancy and, as I was certain that it survived the war, I thought that when (or perhaps if) I returned to my own time, I would visit it again to see how much it had changed.

  On stage was a band called Liam Proven’s Lords-a-Leaping Jazz Cats. The band leader Liam was an imposing figure in white tie, tailcoat and khaki shorts. There seemed to be a novelty element to the performance, with constant humorous interjections of the, ‘I say, I say, I say, my wife once went to Hartlepool on a charabanc.’

  ‘Zulus?’

  ‘Yes, thousands of them.’

  Followed by a drum-roll and a cymbal-crash.

  ‘It is hard to believe, I know,’ said Hugo Rune, taking out a pre-lunch cigar and slotting it into his mouth, ‘but fifty years from now no one will remember Liam Proven.’

  ‘I will remember him,’ I said to Hugo Rune. And I do remember him well.

  The band launched into a number called ‘When Common Sense Walks on a Single Leg, I’ll Wear My Viable Trousers’, and we launched into our soup.