The Reluctant Assassin

Mr. Charismo


GROSVENOR SQUARE. MAYFAIR. LONDON. 1898

Chevie first thought that Riley was anxious in the carriage, but she quickly realized that the boy was excited.

“Hey, kid. Are you okay?”

Riley was bobbing up and down in the brougham’s seat, bumping shoulders with Jeeves and Noble, who had been tasked with escorting them.

“Yes, Chevie, I am dandy. Don’t you know where we are going?”

Nowhere, thought Chevie glumly. We are staying right here in Victorian London. I could end up being my own greatgrandmother.

She looked out of the carriage’s window.

Check your surroundings, Special Agent.

They were somewhere in Piccadilly, perhaps driving toward Mayfair, judging by the spruced-up surroundings. The shoals of urchins had stopped clustering around the carriage’s rear wheels soon after they had left the Haymarket, and the number of beggars on the street had decreased as the number of bobbies walking the beat increased.

Riley answered his own question. “We are being sent to Mr. Charismo’s house. The Mr. Charismo. Surely you must have heard of him?”

Chevie elbowed Noble, who sat on her left, for a little more room. “No. I have not heard of this Charismo guy.”

“You have not heard of Mr. Tibor Charismo?” said Jeeves, laughing. “Where’ve you been bunking? In a wigwam?”

“In a wigwam,” repeated Noble, slapping his knee. “You do occasionally throw up a good comment, Jeeves.”

Chevie scowled. “So who is this Charismo person? Somebody famous?”

All three were struck momentarily dumb by Chevie’s ignorance. Riley was the first to recover. “Somebody famous? Mr. Charismo is like Arthur Conan Doyle, H. G. Wells, and Robert-Houdin all compacted into one individual. He is our most illustrious novelist, composer, and, of course, spiritualist.”

“Sounds like I should have seen this guy on the History Channel.”

“Queen Vic herself consults Mr. Charismo,” said Noble, touching the brim of his shabby bowler at the mention of Her Majesty.

“And Gladstone, too, before he popped his clogs,” added Jeeves.

“You are familiar with the James Bond series?” asked Riley.

Chevie jerked in her seat. “Er . . . yeah, actually.”

“The novels featuring Commander James Bond of Her Majesty’s navy. He is second only to Holmes himself for exposing villains, though his methods are a little more direct.”

“The name is Bond. James Bond,” chorused Noble and Jeeves, shooting finger pistols into the air.

“And of course Charismo’s symphonies are world famous,” continued Riley. “Another Brick in Yonder Wall is my favorite, featuring the crazed lute player Pinkus Floyd.”

Chevie frowned. “Yonder Wall?”

“Yes. And who does not adore the stage play The Batman of Gotham City?”

Jeeves seemed genuinely scared. “That Joker character gave me the right willies!”

James Bond. Pink Floyd. Batman?

Chevie was pretty sure these things should not exist for decades. Whoever this Charismo character was, he seemed to know an awful lot about the future.

So how come the future doesn’t know about him?

The carriage transported them to higher ground, and the street noise subsided almost completely but for the far-off rattle and clang of an omnibus and the click-clack of genteel horses pulling plush carriages. If this was not the richest area of London town, then it was certainly no more than a stone’s throw away. Chevie would have been willing to bet that she and Riley were the only people on this street wearing manacles. The carriage creaked to a halt outside a six-story town house that would cost untold millions in the twenty-first century.

“’Ere we are,” called the driver’s booming voice from above. “Grosvenor Square. North side, all ashore wot’s going ashore.”

Before the passengers could disembark, a small, rotund man came barreling down the steps and across the footpath, clapping his hands delightedly. He was impeccably dressed in a gold-brocade waistcoat and navy trousers. But what really caught Chevie’s attention was the purple jeweled turban perched on his head.

“Visitors,” he sang. “Visitors today for Tibor.”

The man leaped nimbly onto the carriage step and flung the lacquered wooden door wide.

“Children, welcome,” he said, poking his head into the doorway. His broad smile changed to pantomime horror when he saw the manacles. “But no! This is unspeakable! Remove these chains from the delicate limbs of my guests. Tout de suite!”

Jeeves was somewhere between starstruck and dutiful. “I dunno, Mr. Charismo. King Otto told me not to take off the bracelets till we get inside the house. I adores yer work, by-theby. Behold the Rooftop Fiddler is the wife’s absolute favorite.”

Tibor Charismo’s eyes flared, and Chevie thought she spotted eyeliner. “Inside the house? You will never set foot in my dwelling. The carpets are from Arabia, for heaven’s sake.”

It pained Jeeves to argue with his wife’s hero, but he knew that Otto was a stickler for his orders being followed. “Be that as it be, but orders is orders, sure as the early bird and so forth.”

Chevie noticed that Charismo was sporting a molded theater mask that covered the left side of his face from hairline to cheekbone. It was cleverly painted to blend in and would only be noticed close up. Chevie wondered if this was a kind of show-business affectation, like the turban, or did it hide something?

Charismo’s curled mustache actually quivered with rage. “I do not understand you, sir. Tell Charismo your name.”

Jeeves pressed himself against the carriage wall. “There’s no call to be looking for a man’s name when he’s only doing his job.”

“Don’t tell him, Ben,” advised Noble. “He’ll have the evil eye on you.”

Jeeves actually shrieked. “You glocky toad.”

“Aha!” said Charismo. “Benjamin!”

Noble rolled his eyes. “Calm yourself, there must be dozens of Bens in London. He don’t know Jeeves, does he?”

Chevie groaned. Stupid criminals were stupid criminals in any century.

Charismo placed the thumb of his right hand on a large ruby in his turban, then pointed the index finger at Jeeves, who at this point was cowering in the corner.

“Benjamin Jeeves,” he intoned, and by some trick of the light his eyes seemed to glow. “Beeenjamin Jeeeeeeeves.”

And that was all it took. “Look, Mr. Charismo, see,” said Jeeves, fumbling a key from the band of his tatty hat and getting to work on Chevie’s handcuffs. “I am removing the bracelets. No need to look into my future.”

Charismo broke contact with his ruby. “Very well, uncouth lout. Now free the boy.”

“No need,” said Riley, tossing the cuffs to Noble. “I took ’em off back on Piccadilly, while these two were spying on a group of Oriental ladies.”

“I ain’t never seen one before,” mumbled Noble guiltily.

Charismo stepped down onto the footpath. “I shall take delivery of the prisoners, and responsibility, too. Please inform Mr. Malarkey that I am delighted with his service and to await my call on the Farspeak.”

Even the mention of the miraculous Farspeak had the henchmen touching their brims, as though the machine was royalty.

“We will do that, Mr. Charismo, and thank you.”

Suddenly Tibor Charismo stiffened and pressed both forefingers to his temples. “I am getting something from a year hence. I see crowds cheering and I hear hooves galloping. Manifesto, the word Manifesto. Does that have any significance to you gentlemen?”

Noble and Jeeves clutched at each other in a flurry of excitement. Charismo’s tips were famous. He was never wrong. A man could make his fortune on a tip from Mr. Charismo.

“Manifesto,” said Jeeves in hushed tones. “I bet on that beauty last year at Aintree. She won by twenty lengths. I ate beef for a week.”

“She’s going to win it again,” said Noble. “Not a word of this to anyone. No need for the odds to shorten.”

“No. No need whatsoever. Me and you only, Noble.”

Charismo clapped his hands briskly. “Gentlemen, our business is done, and I would feed my guests.”

Jeeves more or less booted Chevie from the carriage, followed by Riley.

Charismo raised his face to the gigantic coach driver, who kept a cudgel on the seat beside him in case of hijack. The driver gave the impression of someone who had seen every horror London had to offer and had probably been responsible for inflicting a good portion of them. His head was completely shaved, with a star-shaped scar above his right ear.

“Barnum, take these two gents wherever they want to go and then come directly back here.”

“Yessir, master,” said the driver, and he whistled to the horses to move along.

“I know,” said Charismo, as the carriage rumbled down the avenue. “Master. It’s so melodramatic, but I get a shiver every time I hear it. Humble beginnings, you see.”

Chevie rubbed the cuff marks on her wrists and wondered when her world would make sense again.

What should I do here? she thought. What does the FBI handbook say about dealing with spiritualists in the past?

The pavement seemed hard and gritty beneath her feet, and she could smell flowers from the window boxes in the evening air.

We have been beaten, drugged, dragged, and beaten some more, she thought. We need rest.

“Perhaps you are considering flight,” said Charismo, linking arms with them both. “After all, who is this mysterious benefactor who has pulled you from the frying pan? Perhaps only to toss you into the fire, eh? If that is your decision, then leave now. Charismo will be devastated, as I have prepared for your coming. A hot bath, fresh linen, soft pillows, roasted fowl, and beer for the boy, but, as you wish. I saw you both in my vision, and I felt that somehow you were special. I would simply like to talk with you, and perhaps document something of your story for my next novel. I was working on a comedy of errors for the stage entitled The Panther That Was Pink, but that can wait; I have a feeling that your story is far more interesting. So, you may stay with me for as long as you wish, and in return for a few hours of your time each day, I shall treat you like royalty and perhaps introduce you to some. What say you?”

What say we? thought Chevie. I have no idea who this guy is or what is going on here. The Panther That Was Pink? Riley and I need a few minutes to talk.

She turned to consult her young friend, but he was already halfway up the steps to the spectacular town house.

“It looks like we are staying,” she said to Charismo.

The tiny gentleman squeezed her arm. “Capital. You have no idea how happy that makes me. We will get you cleaned up and find you some ladies’ clothing, instead of that boyish rigout that you were obviously forced to wear by your abductors.”

Chevie spied two young women stepping from a nearby carriage wearing enormous bonnets and a million layers of skirts.

Ladies’ clothing? she thought. Not in this lifetime.



•••



Chevie was woken by a vertical shaft of sunlight slicing through a gap in the curtain. She ignored it for as long as possible, but whichever way she turned her head it seemed to follow, lighting the inside of her eyelid. Eventually she summoned the energy to drag a pillow over her head, and she would have drifted off to sleep once more had it had not been for the sheep.

Sheep? Aren’t sheep supposed to help a person go to sleep?

Her subconscious threw up the idea that she should try to count the sheep.

No, Chevie thought. I am not counting sheep.

But the mind is its own master, and hers was soon trying to figure out how many sheep were in the flock, based on the tones of their bleatings.

It is amazing how each sheep has its own little personality, if you really listen.

And this thought finally forced Chevie to open her eyes. A thought like that could be enough to get a person kicked out of the Bureau if you happened to voice it aloud to the agency shrink.

“Sheep!” she moaned. “Why are there sheep in Bedford Square at this time in the morning?”

Then she sat up and saw that the bed was a showy brass affair heaped with flounces, ribbons, and crocheted cushions, and she remembered that she was not in Bedford Square anymore.

She sighed. “Not a dream, then. What a pity.”

Chevie pulled aside the gauze drapes, climbed out of bed, and padded across a deep carpet to a purple velvet curtain with golden ropes and tassels.

Chevie stood in the tall sash window and looked down on a perfect Victorian mews, thronged with staff and traders, their industry hidden from the view of important people.

She remembered something Charismo had told them at dinner the previous night.

The Duke of Westminster, one of my society clients, lives nearby in Grosvenor Street, and I have a Farspeak line running directly to his office. All I have to do is pick up this receiver and one of the most powerful men in Great Britain listens attentively to whatever I have to say.

Whoever this Charismo guy was, he had all sorts of clout. Funny that the same guy would have one line to the Duke of Westminster and another to Otto Malarkey.

Something caught Chevie’s eye. An elderly gent was walking down the back lane, tugging four sheep on a string behind him.

Four, thought Chevie. I knew it.

Charismo had ordered a maid to remove Chevie’s clothing for burning, promising a selection in the room that would be suitable for a young lady about town. Chevie checked the wooden wardrobe and found that in the ladies’ half there was room for two dresses with their voluminous bustles, while the men’s side held a selection of suits and hunting wear. Chevie chose a pair of jodhpurs, probably tailored for a teenage boy, tucked them into knee-high riding boots, and topped the lot off with a crisp white shirt.

We need to get out of here, she thought. I don’t trust this guy: he is being too nice to us. And he knows far too much about the future to be from the past. I do not buy this spiritualist story for a minute.

She placed her ear to the door and could hear sounds of conversation from downstairs.

No doubt Riley the fan-boy is asking any question he can think of.

The conversation drifted up to her with the aroma of coffee and fresh bread. Chevie realized that she was starving, in spite of the feast Tibor Charismo had served up the previous night.

Chicken, guinea fowl, turkey, pheasant. How many birds can a person eat in one sitting?

She twisted the painted knob and found the door locked.

Odd. Why would our supposed benefactor lock me in?

As far as Chevie was concerned, this was simply another tick on the evidence sheet against Charismo.

This guy has some kind of link to the future. He is connected to this case, and with any luck he can show us the way home.

But before she confronted him with her suspicions, Chevie decided that it would be wise to snoop around and gather some evidence.

I’m a federal agent, she thought. Snooping is what we do best.

The window was also locked, which slowed Chevie down. She discovered a cushion that had been embroidered with Charismo’s own face and thought of ramming her elbow through Charismo’s nose to crack the pane beyond.

But the glass breaking was not a clever idea. The noise would still be heard in the mews, and there were people on the flagstones in the yard. As soon as she smashed the window there would be a hundred eyes on her.

There’s something about this guy Charismo. Either he’s from the future or he knows someone who is, but it’s not just that. I have a bad feeling about him. And it’s not just the circumstantial evidence and that creepy mask.

Not a hunch; more than that. An un-remembered memory. Come on, subconscious; where are you when I need you? There must be another way out besides the window. Chevie spent a minute knocking on the walls, searching for the secret passage that all Victorian houses had in the movies, but there was no hollow echo, just the flat rap of solid brick. Then she noticed a silk screen, again embroidered with Charismo’s face. In petty annoyance she put the toe of her riding boot through the screen, only to feel a draft. It was a fireplace with a driedflower arrangement in the grate.

The chimney. Garrick came down the chimney in the Garden Hotel. I never thought I would steal one of his tricks.

Chevie knelt and poked her head into the flue. It led to a redbrick chimney. Chevie saw the bricks were red, even through a scaly skin of soot, because a splash of light fell across them from above.

Light, thought Chevie. That means there’s another fireplace one floor up.

She wriggled her shoulders into the flue—while there was enough space for a wriggle, there certainly was no room for a shrug.

I had better not shrug, then, thought Agent Savano, and twisted herself completely into the fireplace.

While Chevie was scraping her nose along the redbrick of a chimney, Riley was being interviewed in the writing room by society darling Tibor Charismo. Riley was an adoring fan of Charismo’s work, and Tibor seemed extremely satisfied to take this as the starting point of their relationship.

They sat at an extraordinary mahogany writing desk fashioned in the shape of a stylized gryphon, with a lion’s body and the head of an eagle, covered in gold leaf, protruding from one side. The lion’s flat back was upholstered in pale orange leather, with cubbyholes for bottles, pens, and blotter.

And even though Riley had visited the twenty-first century, he believed this desk to be the most fantastic single object he had ever seen.

“You are admiring my desk, I see,” said Charismo. On this morning he wore an old-fashioned powdered wig over his dark curls, his mask was painted in garish orange and red to give him a slightly demonic appearance, and his dressing gown was quilted silk with a lush fur collar.

“Yes, sir,” said Riley. “It’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

Charismo drummed his fingers on the wood. “A gift from the tsar of Russia. I baked a poultice for a boil on his nose, if you can credit that. The offending blemish was reduced in circumference by more than sixty percent. Alexander was most grateful.”

Riley’s jaw dropped. “You are a doctor, too?”

“I have no formal qualifications,” said Charismo, in a way that suggested formal qualifications were a waste of a gentleman’s time. “I am connected with the spirit world, which is composed of the sum of human experience, past, present, and future. The spirits communicate with me in my dreams. They whisper to me of words and music, but also of future events. Wars, catastrophes. Plague and famine. It is a terrible burden.” Charismo rested his weary, tortured brow on his knuckles. “No one can ever comprehend the cross I bear.”

Riley dared to pat his hero’s elbow. “Sherlock Holmes said, ‘Genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains.’ And surely, sir, you are the greatest genius who ever lived.”

Charismo smiled a touch sadly. “Dear boy. Yes, perhaps I am. And how pleasant it is to have the fact acknowledged. You truly are a perceptive young fellow.”

Charismo dabbed a lace kerchief near his right eye. “Perceptive and mannerly. You have no doubt noticed my various masks and yet made no comment.” Tibor Charismo tapped the smooth plaster of the mask molded to the left side of his face. “This particular model is a Japanese Noh mask representing the devil.” He giggled. “I wear it for séances. A little melodramatic, I know, but it gives the ladies such a naughty thrill.” He paused, his mouth drooping in long-suffering sadness. “I know what they say, those so-called gentlemen of the press. Charismo hides his warts. Or Tibor Charismo cultivates mystery because he is a sham. But the truth is, I wear these masks to hide a terrible disfigurement. A birthmark that was the subject of so much childhood ridicule that I cannot bear to expose it now. Even at night I wear a silken veil.” Tibor banged his fist on the desk. “Why must Tibor endure this curse?” he shouted to the heavens, and then, “Oh, look. Tea!”

Barnum, the enormous driver, was also a butler. He now entered, squashed into a uniform and pushing a trolley heaped with cakes and hot drinks.

“I know how you young scamps enjoy your treats,” said Tibor, filling a plate for Riley.

“Oh, no, sir,” objected Riley, his stomach already full to bursting after a glutton’s breakfast. “I’m not used to such rich food.”

“Nonsense,” proclaimed Charismo. “You must sample les macarons. My chef is French, and they are his speciality. Though I have been credited with inventing the different flavors. A tip from the spirits.”

“Perhaps just one,” said Riley, selecting a small cake.

Charismo filled his own china plate and ate for several minutes with concentration and enjoyment, growling low in his throat with each mouthful. Eventually he sat back and belched into his handkerchief with such force that the material fluttered.

“Now, what was our topic? Ah, yes, the trials of Tibor, but enough of that. You will think me a terrible boor. We are here to talk about you. The spirits assure me that you have had a fascinating life. Let us start with those unusual eyes.” Charismo placed a finger to his temple. “The spirits inform me that this condition is known as anisocoria, and it is usually the result of trauma, but it can also be inherited.” Tibor leaned forward, suddenly paying very close attention. “Can you remember, my dear boy?” he asked, flecks of sugar on his lips. “Can you remember your parents? Did they have anisocoria?”

Riley sipped his tea. “I do not know for certain, sir. Sometimes I have dreams, or visions. I was young when my parents died . . . were murdered, actually. By a man named Garrick. Now he’s on my trail.”

Charismo stuffed his kerchief in his mouth. “Quelle horreur! Murdered, you say. But this is terrible, awful.” He patted Riley’s knee. “You are safe here, my boy.”

Riley placed his cup on its saucer, tracing the pattern of dancing girls on the china with his index finger. “I can’t stay long, sir. You have been wonderful to grant us shelter, but Garrick will find me, and then you would be in danger. My conscience could not bear that responsibility.”

Charismo harrumphed. “With your leave, Riley, I shall worry about this Garrick individual.”

Riley’s scratched the scab on his shoulder, though the tattooist Farley had warned him against this. “Everyone says that, sir. Then Garrick kills them.”

“Shall we make a gentlemen’s agreement?” asked Charismo. “We will have our little talk and I shall take my silly notes, and then I will set all the resources at my disposal, which are considerable and include Otto Malarkey and his stooges, a-looking for your Garrick. How does that sound?”

Riley forced a smile.

“Capital,” he said, resolving that he and Chevie must be away before nightfall.

Chevie’s first thought upon emerging through the fireplace into the chamber directly above her bedroom was that perhaps she should not have worn a white shirt.

I am not having much luck with clothes these days, she thought, and then, These days? What does that even mean anymore?

The climb had been difficult, but far from impossible for someone whose first month in training had included a half-mile crawl along a disused latrine drain, with barbed wire overhead and a permanently disgruntled FBI instructor above the wire. Her only worry in the chimney had been that she would lose her purchase on the mortar between the bricks and slide down to the cellar.

Chevie climbed over the grate’s brass railing, then stood upright, grateful to have space on every side—she had been about two minutes away from developing claustrophobia.

She looked around. This room was three times the size of hers and infinitely more luxurious. The bed was the size of a trampoline and seemed to be built on a nautical theme, with posts designed to look like masts and drapes rigged like sails. Blue-and-white-striped cushions were heaped in a mountain in the center, and what looked like a veil was tied to a brass hook on the headboard. Chevie counted over a dozen gas jets on the walls, as well as four electric lamps. One of Charismo’s Farspeak devices stood on a marble-topped bedside table and another on the rolltop writing desk. Gold-framed pictures lined the walls, and all depicted Charismo. Some were seated portraits, but others documented his extraordinary career. Here he was onstage with Robert Louis Stevenson in Covent Garden, and there was Tibor presenting a leather-bound book to Queen Victoria herself. By the window was a framed cover of Harper’s Magazine, split by a Union Jack ribbon into two halves, the left depicting Charismo speaking into his Farspeak device, the right showing an amazed mother with her petticoated daughters listening raptly to the receiver.

Chevie looked around for anything that might justify her nagging suspicions about Tibor Charismo. She knew in her gut that something was wrong. Her instincts had served her well when she’d been undercover in Los Angeles.

I knew those guys were clean, and I just know that Tibor Charismo is dirty. I need to find the connection. There were only two men from the future hiding back here. One was Riley’s father, an FBI agent, and the other was the man he was guarding.

Charismo’s collection of half-masks was displayed on a board on the wall, each dangling from a dedicated brass hook.

This guy sure likes his masks, Chevie thought, tapping a mask that looked like solid gold but was actually painted plaster.

Nothing is as it seems.

Almost unconsciously, she began humming the intro of a song that her father had played over and over again on his beatup turntable: Eric Clapton, “Behind the Mask.”

Now this is real music, squirt, her dad said every single time he dropped the needle on the record.

Behind the mask. I wonder what is behind the mask.

There was a crack in the display board running right down the center. No, not a crack—a gap, because the board was actually a set of doors.

Where is the handle?

There was no handle, so Chevie put a finger against each door and pressed. The doors gave slightly and then swung open to reveal a recessed cupboard and bulletin board. There were line drawings pinned to the board and an assortment of objects placed on the shelf.

Calm down, she cautioned herself. And don’t miss a thing.

“Oh, my God,” she said aloud, surprised that her suspicions had proved to be spot on. “I’ve got you now, Tibor.”

What a fancy name he’s given himself, Chevie thought. Much fancier than Terry.

Suddenly she heard the rapid footfalls of a big person jogging up a nearby set of stairs.

I need proof for Riley.

Chevie snatched two small objects: a glittering ring from its velvet cushion, and the second to get her home again. She was back in the chimney before the masks stopped rocking on their hooks.

Inside the chimney, Chevie plotted her next move.

I need to get Riley alone and show him what I found. I hate to destroy his hero, but Charismo is not quite as gifted as he pretends to be.

She inched down the shaft toward the light below. The light. My room.

No one entered the chamber above. The footsteps she’d heard had been a false alarm. Still, it would be foolhardy to go back up. She should count herself lucky that she’d escaped detection this time.

Chevie imagined her Quantico instructor screaming abuse in her ear, and this motivated her to descend a little faster. In three minutes flat her boots were sticking out of the fireplace in her bedroom.

She twisted onto her stomach and pushed herself into the room, once again feeling that immense sense of relief at being free from confinement.

I made it , she thought.

A voice above her said, “Well, well, well. What do we have here, a-droppin’ down the chimney? One of Father Christmas’s elves, perhaps?”

If that voice belongs to Barnum, the humongous coach driver, then I am in trouble, thought Chevie.

It did, and she was.

Albert Garrick always felt a little jittery passing through Mayfair. In spite of his dandy getup and his long hair, a style affected by many a lordling, he had the nagging idea that his humble origins somehow shone through his eyes for all to see.

In spite of everything I know, everything I have seen, I cannot make myself comfortable on these streets.

He tried to bolster his own confidence with an inner pep talk: Buck yourself up, Alby. You are no longer a starving urchin combing the cobbles for the scraps from a rich man’s table. Time to scrape that shame off your soul like dog filth from the toe of your boot.

A flower girl actually curtsied as she approached. “A carnation for your buttonhole, m’lord.”

This simple greeting raised Garrick’s spirits more than his own strictures ever could, and he smiled with more sincerity than he had in some time. He reached behind the girl’s ear and found a shiny sovereign.

“This is for you, my dear. Buy something that is as pretty as yourself.”

The maid stammered a thank-you, then stood a-staring at the currency in her hand as though it would melt.

Garrick continued down the north side of Grosvenor Square toward the residence of Tibor Charismo, the man who had hired Otto Malarkey to kill him.

There was a well-tended private park opposite Charismo’s famous dwelling, reserved for residents only and accessible by a heavy, locked gate. Armed with his magician’s tools, Garrick was no more troubled by the gate than a dog would be by a keep off the grass sign. In seconds he was reclining on a clean, varnished bench, admiring the Himalayan rhododendrons, and keeping a close eye over their bobbing heads on the fabulous Charismo residence.

So, now Tibor Charismo wishes me dead, as he once did Riley’s family.

For it had been Tibor Charismo who had contracted Albert Garrick over a decade ago to dispose of Riley’s entire family in their Brighton residence. And now, all this time later, he had obviously discovered Garrick’s deception and decided to settle the affair with some finality.

Could that be the entirety of it? Charismo would pit himself against me over the life of a boy?

Garrick thought that if the situation allowed, he would put this question to Charismo before he killed him.

There was some movement in a window. Garrick’s rejuvenated eyes had no difficulty recognizing the figure, even from this great distance.

Charismo.

Garrick sat up as though the bench had been electrified.

So, my nemesis is at home today. That makes my job easier.

He was suddenly glad that he had tipped the young flower girl so heavily.

You see, Albert. It is like Felix Smart’s mother always said: If you do nice things, then nice things will happen to you.

Inside the house on Grosvenor Square, Tibor Charismo was treating himself to yet another macaron while the barbiturates he had mixed into Riley’s tea took hold of the lad’s brain. The sweet delights of the belly had always been Riley’s weakness.

Once the boy’s eyes had glazed and his arms hung limply by his sides, Charismo began his questioning in earnest, revealing the true motives for his kindness.

“Now, Riley, let me explain what is happening. I have given you a blend of barbiturates that I cooked up myself. A truth serum. You could try to fight it, but you would simply damage your brain, so it would be far better for your mental health if you answered all my questions truthfully. Do you understand?”

“Yesh,” said Riley, around a fat tongue. He felt drunk and compressed by the weight of air above him.

Charismo clapped his hands. “Excellent. Now, first question: Did you come through the wormhole, or were you just squatting in the house on Half Moon Street?”

It did not seem strange to Riley then that Charismo should know about the wormhole. Perhaps the spirits had told him?

“Wormhole,” he slurred. “From future.”

Charismo frowned. “I imagine you somehow were pulled into the time tunnel on Bedford Square, then returned through Half Moon Street, correct?”

“Yesh. Pulled and returned. Future smells lovely.”

“And Miss Savano—what is that sweet girl’s part in this affair?”

Riley closed his eyes and smiled. “She is FBI. Special agent pretty.”

Charismo stood, wringing his hanky like a turkey’s neck. “FBI? F . . . B . . . blooming . . . I.”

“Like my old dad. FBI. I saw his shield.”

“Like your old dad?” said Charismo slowly, allowing the words to sink in, confirming his suspicions. “Of course. I heard Garrick had a boy. But I didn’t know you were that boy.” He steered his mind back to Chevie.

“Has she come for me?”

“For you, sir? Oh, no. We simply flee from Garrick. He wants the Timekey. It’s the last one for this wormhole. Or it was the last one, till Otto Malarkey pulverized it.”

“The last one,” breathed Charismo, relaxing considerably. “Well, then, I am safe. Garrick should be deceased already, and even if he isn’t, he will have no inkling that I have another key.”

“That’s wrong, sir.”

Charismo flapped his kerchief, irritated. “What’s wrong, boy?”

“Garrick is not deceased. Everyone makes that mistake.”

“Not Tibor Charismo,” said Tibor Charismo. “I have taken care of Albert Garrick. He crossed me once, but never again.”

Tibor popped the final macaron into his mouth and hummed while he chewed. “That’s the chorus of a new song I am crafting entitled ‘We All Live in a Yellow Submarine,’ which I won’t be able to release until submarines become commonplace.”

The door burst open and the manservant Barnum entered, dragging Chevie behind him. She was bound fast with coils of rope, but still struggling.

“What ho!” said Charismo. “This is unexpected.”

“I found ’er in the chimney,” said Barnum, tossing Chevie to the floor at Charismo’s feet.

“Unexpected?” said Chevie, cheek burned by the carpet. “Didn’t the spirits warn you?”

Charismo poked Chevie’s shoulder with the tip of his pointed slipper so that she lay on her back. “That is not how it works”—he placed a finger to his temple—“Agent Savano of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

Chevie sneered. “Hey, why don’t you ask those spirits if they can tell you anything about Terry Carter, a crooked banker from New York City?”

Charismo shrieked at the mention of Carter’s name, then kicked Chevie in the stomach, driving the air from her lungs.

“Put her on the chair,” he ordered Barnum, sitting down to rub his toe. “Then leave us.”

Barnum’s hands were quick to the job, but his brow was puzzled. “Leave you, master? But this gal has strange maneuvering in her, and you are not yourself entirely, throwing kickings and such.”

“She is tied, is she not?” said Charismo irritably. “Do as you are told, but wait outside the door. There will be some lifting before long.”

Barnum threw Chevie a threatening look and left the room, muttering about how a man never knew where he was, and a little manners would not go astray.

“Apologies,” said Charismo. “Sometimes Barnum forgets his place.”

Chevie jerked herself upright in the chair. “Nice desk. Who gave you that? The spirits of cheap and vulgar?”

“I shall not be manipulated to anger,” said Charismo. “The great Charismo rises above base emotions.”

“How about Terry Carter? What does he do?”

Charismo toyed with a letter opener in the shape of a dagger. Or perhaps it was a dagger in the shape of a dagger. “Terry Carter is dead. He died almost thirty years ago, when I arrived here.”

Chevie noticed that Riley was not reacting to any of this and seemed to be humming a Beatles song.

“What did you do to the boy?”

Charismo waved his fingers as if to say Hardly anything. “Oh, him. I gave him a few drops of sodium thiopental and a little deadly nightshade. I favor it as a mix. You speak the truth and then die. Don’t worry about the lad. Riley will drop off to sleep and never wake up, which is about the best way to go in Victorian London. You’re going to adore it.”

Chevie struggled against her bonds, but they had been tied by a man who tied things up as part of his job description.

“The great Tibor Charismo. You’re nothing but a common murderer.”

Charismo seemed genuinely offended. “No. Absolutely not. I am the greatest human being since Leonardo da Vinci, whom I suspect may also have been a WARP veteran. I write, I compose, I see. In the twentieth century I was nothing, a Mob banker. Here, I am the darling of high society. Why on God’s green earth would I ever go back?”

“I see how it could happen,” said Chevie. “You knew the Mob would track little Terry down eventually. No matter how many of them you put away with your testimony, there would always be more wiseguys. But in Victorian London, you could really be somebody.”

“Exactly,” said Charismo. “And do you know how? I have a photographic memory. Everything I ever read, saw, or even heard, I remember forever. Simple as that.”

“Genius,” said Chevie, half meaning it.

Charismo rose to his feet. “Queen Victoria herself listens to my advice. As soon as the Feds told me I was moving to Victorian London, I read everything I could about any subject I thought might be useful. I know things about world politics, sporting events, simple inventions, fashion trends. It’s a gold mine.”

Chevie took a few breaths to calm herself. “Okay, Terry, listen to me. Just let us go. Give the kid an antidote. Don’t become a murderer on top of everything else.”

“Become a murderer?” said Charismo laughing. “This is Victorian London. Even with my gifts, you have to carve your way to the top, or hire a big strong Barnum to do it for you. When I found Barnum, he was bleeding to death in Newgate prison; now he is loyal to me unto the grave.”

“Really?”

“No. I hired him in the pub, but I plan to use the Newgate story in my memoirs.”

“You don’t have to kill the boy, Charismo. I’m the law here. He’s just a kid.”

Charismo smiled, perching on the edge of the desk. “Oh, he’s the one I need to kill most of all. You still haven’t put it together fully, Agent, have you?”

“Oh, I think I understand most of it,” said Chevie. “It’s a pretty basic tale of human greed. Little Terry Carter decides he likes it in the Victorian era and so hires Albert Garrick to cut any ties to the future, specifically Agent Riley and his family.”

Charismo showed no remorse. “That was not my fault. Bill Riley was not supposed to marry anyone. I was meant to be his priority; but, no—Agent Riley decides to fall in love, so I had no alternative but to unleash Garrick on his entire family. No loose ends.”

Chevie looked at him. “But you needed Bill Riley’s Timekey?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Charismo. “Garrick delivered it to me without ever suspecting what it was. How could he? All programmed and ready to suck Bill back to the twentieth century—the twenty-first now, I suppose. I have it secured safely, just in case I need to escape this time zone. There will always be medical procedures—chemotherapy, for example— that I may need to avail myself of. That is the only reason I have not disassembled the portals. Of course, I only recently found out where the portals were.”

“Well, poor little Mob banker Terry wouldn’t be told the locations. Information like that would be strictly need-to-know.”

“Precisely. On the night I arrived, they hustled me out of there with a sack over my head. Can you believe it? In my condition?”

When he said the word condition, Charismo touched his mask lightly, and Chevie wondered again what precisely was under there.

“So, even with Agent Riley out of the way, you still needed to find Charles Smart and whatever portals there might be; otherwise you could never be sure that they wouldn’t come after you.”

“The alternative was keeping a low profile,” explained Charismo. “And what was the point in doing that?”

“Yeah,” said Chevie. “Why be a nobody in two centuries?”

“You’re doing awfully well so far,” said Charismo coldly, adjusting his devil’s mask. “Would you like to continue? Or should I kill you now?”

“It takes a while to build up your funds, but as soon as you can afford it you cultivate a relationship with Otto Malarkey, because only the Battering Rams have the network you need to find Charles Smart and the portals.”

“All I had was a sketch of Smart, which I drew from memory, and a description of a basement with a bed mounted on a metal plate. Not much to go on.”

Chevie took over the narrative. “It took years, but eventually the Rams found that Smart was actually living in this century in Bedford Square. And they followed him to Half Moon Street.”

“I kept him under surveillance, as you Feds might say, until I was satisfied that Smart was the only one using the portals. No one was looking for him or coming for me.”

“And you wanted to keep it that way. You wanted sole control of the wormhole, so Charles Smart had to go. And that’s when you contacted Garrick again, to finish the job he began a decade ago.”

“Yes. After all, my freedom to evolve was at stake.”

Charismo leaned forward and parted Chevie’s hair with his letter opener. “I had forgotten how much effort it is speaking with my fellow Americans. So confrontational.” “You made one mistake, Terry,” said Chevie.

“Oh, I don’t think so. After all, you are prostrate before me, as is the entire city.”

“Garrick. You should never have hired him. He can’t be controlled.”

Charismo covered his smug smile with a kerchief. “Believe me, Garrick has been controlled into an early grave. Otto Malarkey has seen to that. He was the last direct connection between me and the future.”

“Until we came along.”

“Otto was supposed to kill anyone who arrived at either portal, but it is in his nature to try to squeeze a few extra sovereigns from every situation. Luckily I have a man in the Rams who is loyal to my gold, and he informed me there was activity in the Half Moon house. Can you imagine my surprise when one of the fugitives from Half Moon Street bore a striking resemblance to William Riley? It must be a coincidence, I told myself, and I almost believed it, until the boy himself revealed to me that his father was an FBI agent. So young Riley here is the only wild card in this game, and he is, as you can see, not really playing anymore.”

Charismo clapped his hands, which seemed to be something of a trademark. “And so, the game is over, and Charismo has triumphed.”

Riley moaned and spasmed in his chair.

“Come on, Carter!” said Chevie. “Cure the boy! Let him go. What harm can he do to you?”

“None whatsoever. Little Riley is harmless. And soon that will be a permanent condition.”

Chevie’s pulse pounded in her forehead. “That boy idolized you, and you’ve killed him.”

Charismo fluttered his kerchief. “Well, you know what they say? A person should never meet his heroes. And I haven’t killed him yet, he’s simply dreaming. The poison is still in his stomach. He won’t die for hours.”

Riley was half-dreaming, and he would have loved to lose himself entirely to slumber, but something was glinting in his eye. The boy squinted, attempting to focus, but he could see nothing, except the small shining object on Chevie’s finger. It was blurred and surrounded by a golden nimbus, until Charismo moved in front of the window and blocked the sunlight, bringing the golden object into relief.

It was a horseshoe ring.

A horseshoe ring. There was a man with a horseshoe ring. Mr. Carter.

In his dream state Riley was closer to his visions; he remembered that his father had protected the man wearing this ring, and this was enough to wake him slightly, just in time to hear Charismo say, “That was not my fault. Bill Riley was not supposed to marry. I ordered Garrick to kill Agent Riley and his precious family, no loose ends.”

Bill Riley, thought Riley groggily. My dad.

Riley could not fathom the circumstances, but he had heard a confession, and the ring made him believe it was the truth.

With superhuman effort, he breathed himself back to the surface of consciousness. It took several moments, but finally he had the energy to act. Riley dragged himself from the chair and flailed at Charismo, striking out clumsily.

“Oh, please,” tutted Charismo. “This is embarrassing. I am embarrassed for both of you, really.”

He placed a hand on Riley’s forehead and tipped him over backward. Riley fell awkwardly, knocking over a marble-topped table and sending the Farspeak skittering to the end of its wire.

“Now look what you have done!” said Charismo, mildly irritated.

“You animal!” shouted Chevie, lurching from the chair; but she was well trussed and succeeded only in toppling herself onto the floor, cracking her head on a gryphon wing on the way down.

Charismo rolled his eyes. “Oh, now look, there is blood on Tibor’s special desk. I shall be exceedingly glad when you are dead, Miss Savano. I had hoped to interrogate you as I did the boy, perhaps learn how the world has turned since my day, but now I think I shall forgo that pleasure and proceed directly to the endgame.”

Chevie spat blood on the rug. “What about your queen? How would she feel about all these murders?”

“Old Vic?” said Charismo. “I do not care a fig for Her rheumatic Majesty, beyond the fact that her patronage secures my status. At any rate, she will die confused at the dawn of the new century, and her daughter the following year, which will ring the closing bell on the house of Hanover.”

“And what of your precious Duke of Westminster?”

Charismo laughed bitterly. “That old coot will be gone before Christmas. Would that he should survive another twenty years, as it is extremely convenient to have the ear of the richest man in Britain. But no, the outdoor life will sow the seeds of bronchitis, and that shall do the duffer in.”

Charismo knelt and tousled Chevie’s hair. “Do you know, I would have preferred to have kept you alive. We could have spoken of the future. I have so many plans. One, for example, is that I could change the course of wars. Imagine how different World War One would be if the Germans were warned not to torpedo the Lusitania. America would never enter the war, and by 1918 England would be a German colony, with Tibor Charismo very nicely placed in its court. That is just one of my many ideas.”

“You’re mad,” said Chevie, trying hard to keep Charismo’s attention on her.

“Mad, delusional, comatose. Who cares? I am happy, and I intend to remain happy for as long as possible.”

Charismo dinged a service bell on his desk and Barnum entered, still a little sulky from his recent dismissal.

“Oh, you wants me back in the room, does you, master?”

“Don’t be petulant, Barnum. Your boxer’s countenance does not suit the expression.”

“Very good, master. What’s the drill with these two? I was thinking a quick stab over the kitchen sink, for to catch the blood, then into a sack and roly-poly down the embankment.”

Charismo tick-tocked his letter opener, considering this. “No, Barnum. I want these two to disappear entirely. Not so much as a hair left.”

“Then there are two avenues we can advance along. One, I has an old army pal with a pig farm by Newport. Pigs will eat from crown to toe, brain and bone, makes no differ to a pig.”

“I think not,” said Charismo. “The last time you tramped pig dung all over my carpets. What is our second choice?”

“Burning,” said Barnum simply. “I chop ’em in the kitchen and feed ’em slow into the furnace. Takes a few days and is grisly labor, but once the job is done, all the king’s horses couldn’t put these two bad eggs together again.”

Charismo giggled. “Nicely put, Mr. Barnum. You do make me smile. The furnace it is, but do your stabbing business in the kitchen.”

“Very good, master,” said Barnum, and he slung Chevie over one shoulder. “Can you manage for an hour while I make a start on the butchering?”

“You go ahead,” said Charismo magnanimously. “I shall be perfectly fine. . . . Oh, perhaps you might bring some more cakes when you have finished cutting. Tibor is peckish.”

“More cakes. Of course, master.”

Charismo winked at Chevie. “Master. I get shivers, every time.”

To Tibor’s utter surprise, Chevie had enough spirit for one last comment. She looked the WARP witness directly in the eye and said, “You talk too much.”

A statement not just of opinion but of fact, as it would turn out.

Barnum swung Riley by the belt in an arc toward his other shoulder. However, as soon as the manservant’s hand was free, the poisoned boy somehow found the strength to roll off and land on Charismo’s chest.

“Murderer!” he slurred. “You killed my family.”

“Eeek!” said Charismo. “Get him off me, Barnum. He could have lice.”

Had Riley been more alert, he might have been able to land a painful or even fatal blow, but in his drugged state it was all he could do to squirm a little and pat Charismo’s chest like an infant.

“C’mere, boy,” said Barnum, and he reclaimed his prisoner with strong fingers, tossing him back onto his free shoulder.

“Take care, Barnum,” said a shaken Charismo, checking his mask. “Even a dying dog can be dangerous.”

“Sorry, master,” said Barnum, inserting the toe of his boot into a crack in the door and nudging it open. “I should have taken more care that you were not overpowered by the incapacitated child that you had just poisoned to death.”

Charismo glared after his manservant as he left, wondering if perhaps he should begin docking his wages for insolence.

Barnum bundled the condemned pair into the dumbwaiter in the adjoining room and winched them down toward the kitchen. As the elevator dropped into its shaft, Chevie heard Charismo’s voice drift through: “You are such a slacker, Barnum. The dumbwaiter, honestly.”

The small compartment creaked slowly toward the basement, and Riley moaned and tried to stretch, which was impossible in the confined space. The air was heated, the walls stank of meat, and the box seemed incapable of sustaining their weight. Though she could not see it, Chevie felt the shaft yawn below them, waiting for the box to pop its cord and drop down and down.

“Hey, Riley,” Chevie said, nudging the boy’s leg with her elbow. “Are you okay?”

Riley was not alert enough to reply.

I wonder, has the poison begun to do it work? No. Charismo said he had hours left. There is still time.

The dumbwaiter came to an abrupt halt, and the trapped pair could do nothing but breathe recycled air and wait until Barnum pulled them out. Chevie was first.

He tossed her on the wooden worktop like a side of beef, then tied on an apron and ran his fingers across a row of kitchen knives.

It’s funny, thought Chevie. I am not afraid. That is because I still believe we will get out of this alive, in spite of all the evidence.

Barnum selected the largest knife, with a stained bone handle and serrated blade.

“Ah, Julia,” he said to the knife. “You knew I would choose you.”

He talks to his knives, thought Chevie. I bet Garrick would love this guy.

Barnum froze suddenly, like a deer that has heard a sound not meant for the forest.

What does he hear?

Then Chevie heard it too: a trundle of carriages, but also the clatter of marching feet.

“What now?” said Barnum, then cocked his head, waiting for the commotion to rumble past. But it did not. Instead, the cavalcade came to an abrupt stop outside Charismo’s residence.

“Next door,” muttered Barnum to himself. “Surely the militia have business next door?”

But it was not next door, as was made abundantly clear by a barked command from outside: “Halt! Charismo residence, blue door! Ready the cannon.”

“Cannon?” said Barnum, in a voice that was surely two octaves above his usual register.

The manservant dropped his beloved blade, drew a revolver from inside his coat, and raced across the kitchen and through the service doors.

The doors had not yet finished flapping when a thundering explosion rattled the very foundations, channeling compressed air through the house’s stairwells and passageways. The blast threw Barnum and his gun back through the service doors. The six-shooter pinwheeled across the kitchen, shattering a wall tile with its butt, then skittered into a sink.

Barnum himself was not in good shape. His waistcoat had been shredded, and a hundred small wounds on his chest allowed his life’s blood to leak onto the wooden floor.

Barnum had seen enough of death to know that his number was up. He turned his gaze laboriously to where Chevie lay on the worktop.

He attempted to speak, but before he could get it out, a final rattle signaled his departure for the next world.

Chevie rolled herself from the worktop, landing with a thump on her shoulder, which did not break.

Lucky break, or lucky non-break.

Barnum’s battered face was two inches from hers on the cold floor, and his blank stare motivated her to keep moving in spite of the pain in her shoulder.

Find the knife, she urged herself. Find Julia.

It was not far away, jutting from between the floorboards, like Excalibur from the stone. Embedded where Barnum had dropped it.

Another stroke of luck, Chevie thought.

She wriggled like a snake toward the knife.

Come on, Julia. I hope you’re sharp.

She was. Once Chevie got a palm on either side of the knife, it took seconds to saw through the rope securing her wrists and, with her hands free, the rest of her bonds could be sliced off easily.

Overhead was regimented chaos. Chevie could hear the battle roar of a dozen troops as they stampeded through the house, searching for Charismo. Their tread knocked dust from the fractured ceiling, and one gas jet on the wall seemed to catch fire spontaneously, shooting a blue flame across the kitchen.

We need to get out of here, thought Chevie.

She heard footsteps split off from the others and descend the steps to the kitchen.

Chevie grabbed Barnum’s gun from the sink and squashed herself inside the dumbwaiter next to Riley, back into the oppressive heat and stale food stink, closing the hatch behind her.

Through a crack she saw a soldier’s black boots and pants push through the door. He strode briskly around the room, turning quickly as he looked behind the table and chairs. He paused over Barnum’s corpse, checking that the giant had indeed passed on.

Riley moaned in his half-conscious state, and Chevie stuffed her knee in his mouth, stifling whatever noise he might make next.

Luckily for the concealed pair, the soldier was still a little battle-deaf from the cannon’s roar, and he missed the muffled sound.

“Big,” he said, loudly, nudging Barnum’s corpse with his toe. “Big, big.” Then he snapped to and exited the room.

Chevie waited till the sound of the soldier’s footsteps had faded, then she yanked the leather strap, opening the hatch, and backed herself out into the kitchen.

Riley was moaning when she tugged him out of the tiny space, but also smiling.

“Agent Pretty,” he said. “A kiss from pretty Annie Birch.”

Boys are the same down through the years, thought Chevie, then punched Riley in the stomach.

“Sorry, kid,” she said as Riley doubled over, retching. “One more should do it.”

She punched him again and stood clear as the boy vomited a stream of half-digested macarons and, she hoped, deadly nightshade onto the floorboards.

“Okay,” she said, to herself mostly. “Okay. He should make it now. I hope.”

Chevie swabbed Riley’s face as best she could with a damp cloth from the sink, then she helped the boy stagger to the kitchen door, which led conveniently to the back of the house.

We gotta get out of here, thought Chevie again, grabbing an overcoat from a hook by the door. But I wish I could stay long enough to see the look on Charismo’s face. I bet the spirits didn’t warn him about this.

The look on Charismo’s face was a blend of disbelief and petulant terror, an unusual cocktail of emotions for a set of features to display. The result was that Tibor appeared to be sucking on an invisible bottle when Colonel Jeffers of the Knightsbridge Barracks strode into his office, flanked by two privates and a doctor.

Once they were certain that Charismo was unarmed and alone, the soldiers relaxed a fraction, though the barrels of the privates’ Lee-Enfield repeater rifles were rock steady and aimed squarely at Charismo’s torso.

Charismo fluttered his kerchief, as though that could deflect bullets from their course.

“Am I in danger, Captain?” he enquired querulously. “Has the duke sent you to protect me? Is there a credible threat?”

“There is a threat, sir,” replied Jeffers. “Indeed there is, and I have the misfortune to be staring directly at it.”

Charismo’s hanky fluttered like a hummingbird’s wing. “Right at it? I am the threat? Tibor Charismo threatens? And whom does he threaten, Captain? Answer me that.”

Jeffers did not answer, but he followed a cable on the floor until his eyes lighted on the Farspeak, which lay where Riley had tipped it.

“Somebody wishes to speak to you, sir,” he said, picking up the device and holding it out to Charismo.

Charismo understood then, and his curled mustache quivered. “I do not wish to converse at present,” he said, almost childishly.

“I advise you to take it,” said Jeffers firmly, and Charismo correctly inferred that to refuse again would have dire consequences. He accepted the Farspeak with trembling hands and pressed the transmitter close to his mouth.

“Hello? Your Grace?”

On the other end was the rattling breathing of a pipe smoker, then: “I am dreadfully disappointed, Tibor. Dreadfully.”

Charismo tried to talk his way out of it. “Your Grace, I can only imagine what you must have thought. Sometimes when I am in the grip of the spirits, my words are not as I would choose.”

“Silence!” thundered the Duke of Westminster. “I am to die! The queen is to die. The rheumatic queen, for whom you do not care a fig! The end of the house of Hanover.”

“Perhaps I overstepped the mark,” admitted Charismo.

“Overstepped the mark? You plan to aid the Germans in a war against Britannia! Germany is our friend. This is high treason, nothing less.”

“It was idle chatter. A passing notion.”

“Imagine the scandal. Imagine the heartache this would inflict on Her Majesty, at her age. Her own spiritualist conspiring against her. My blasted spiritualist. We trusted you, Tibor. Damn you, sir.”

Charismo thought fast. “A trial would cause considerable scandal.”

The duke chuckled, the laugh of a harsh man. “There will be no trial, sir. I have declared you insane and, while you languish inside Bethlehem Lunatic Asylum, I shall systematically erase you from history. Your works will be unofficially banned, your books burned, your songs will never again be heard on the music-hall stage. We shall see which of us survives to see the new century.” A loud click from the earpiece signaled that the conversation was over.

“No!” Charismo protested to Jeffers. “No, I will not stand for it. I am Tibor Charismo.”

Jeffers drew himself to attention. “You are a traitor, sir, possibly foreign to boot. The madhouse is too good for you.”

“This is all a mistake, Captain. If you search downstairs in the kitchen, you will find my manservant. He is the real criminal here.”

“We found your manservant. He, at least, died with honor.”

Reality finally dropped on Charismo like an anvil from the sky. “Barnum dead? I am lost.”

Jeffers stepped close. “There is an option, sir, but I would be amazed if you availed yourself of it. You may accept my challenge and we can end this affair right now.” The captain took off his left glove and struck Charismo across the cheek, causing his mask to fly off.

Jeffers stepped back in momentary horror, but his stiff upper lip quickly reasserted itself.

“My God, man. You are an animal.”

The left side of Tibor’s face was covered with green and brown reptilian scales, which seemed to change color as he moved.

“It was the wormhole!” he howled. “Quantum mutation. The professor swore it would not happen to me.”

Jeffers clicked his fingers. “Take him. I will not fight an animal.”

Tibor continued his rant, even as the privates dragged him from the room to the ambulance outside.

“Make sure he is locked away from the other inmates,” said Jeffers, stamping on the Farspeak until the casing gave up its entrails of wires and fuses. “And send up some squaddies. I want everything taken from this house and burned.” Charismo’s cries echoed through the ruins of his devastated hallway and set the ambulance horses a-whinnying in distress.

Albert Garrick watched events unfold, leaning forward on the park bench in rapt attention. One minute all was quiet on Grosvenor Square, and the next a squad of Her Majesty’s finest had double-timed it to the front door with an honest-to-God cannon in tow, followed by a black carriage.

“Well, blimey,” he said, forgetting his carefully cultivated accent for a moment. “This is a right royal turnup.”

Whatever maneuver was about to be employed would certainly not go off half-cocked. There were enough troops here to fight the Boxers.

The soldiers expertly swiveled their cannon and blew the door in, sending a flock of starlings soaring into the sky.

A battle in London town. How extraordinary!

It occurred to Garrick that the presence of all these soldiers would hamper his efforts to cancel Charismo’s contract with the Rams.

And all because I neglected to kill Riley in his bed all those years ago. Could that be the whole reason? Would Charismo pit himself against a man of my caliber over the life of a child?

Suddenly Garrick remembered the first time he had spied a Timekey.

Riley’s father had one on his person. I took it from his corpse and delivered it to Charismo. He asked for the device specifically.

It occurred to Garrick then that Mr. Tibor Charismo had seen the future and was benefitting from his knowledge.

But not anymore. Charismo has gone too far with someone, and now the military are involved, which would suggest a government connection, perhaps even the monarchy.

This pleased Garrick greatly, as he had always thought the man a trifle smug and had never liked his music. Another Brick in Yonder Wall. Honestly.

The spirit of Felix Sharp suddenly made the connection, and Garrick physically reeled with the realization.

He knew that song, or rather Agent Sharp knew it, because it originated in the future. Tibor Charismo had not only been to the future, he belonged there.

Garrick closed his eyes, focusing on his train of thought. He pictured Charismo’s face, then allowed his memory to make it younger and draw on a ratty beard.

Tibor Charismo was Terry Carter, the missing witness. Agent Sharp had the file in his desk. William Riley had been his handler.

This put a completely different complexion on the matter. Charismo could not be allowed to talk to anyone. If he had a Timekey, then he could demonstrate its workings, and Garrick could become a fugitive once more.

I must act now, he thought. Carpe diem. The circumstances are far from ideal, but the risk is acceptable.

Garrick’s on-the-hoof plan involved subduing the carriage driver and then hopefully absconding with Charismo in the back.

He might even believe I am rescuing him.

Garrick smiled grimly. This misapprehension would not last for long.

The blossoming scheme dried up and withered when two soldiers emerged from the house with Charismo suspended between them, his short legs bicycling the air.

There is no time. No time.

Garrick knew that, even with his speed, he could not vault the railings and overpower the driver in time.

But all was not lost. Garrick was nothing if not adaptable. He stepped behind the trunk of a large hawthorn bush and pulled his laser-sighted pistol. It was a shame to waste a bullet on the likes of Charismo, but at least it would be only one.

Garrick sighted quickly along the barrel and placed a red dot over Charismo’s heart.

I will never know the full truth of why you wished me dead, he thought. It is a pity we could not chat, you and I, but better a niggling mystery than a dangerous loose end.

Garrick’s finger was about to squeeze the trigger when he noticed that the carriage was actually a secure ambulance, with the Bethlehem Lunatic Asylum logo inked on the side.

They are taking him to Bethlehem, Garrick realized.

He watched bemused as Charismo was stripped down and roughly bundled into an asylum work shirt. His clothes were tossed onto a growing pile of his possessions on the basement stairwell, which was doused with lamp oil and set alight.

Charismo’s Timekey is busted now, if he kept it, Garrick realized with some satisfaction. Tibor can talk of wormholes to his heart’s content, and all it will earn him is a spike between the eyes.

Garrick pocketed his gun and strolled casually toward the far side of the park.

I will come to find you, Tibor, he thought. Before very long I will know all of your secrets. After all, you don’t need them anymore.

In seconds, Garrick’s mind was once again focused on his main mission to find Chevie and Riley, with absolutely no idea that he had come within a hair’s breadth of snagging them for the second time.

By this time, my spies will be scouring the city, he thought, all craving the reward for information on the boy with the odd eyes and his Injun companion.

Although slightly aggrieved at being denied the opportunity to question Charismo, Garrick judged it to be a fair morning’s work, all in all.

One more enemy safely out of the way, he thought, whistling the opening bars of Another Brick in Yonder Wall.

Only two remain.