I did not faint this time. I felt that it would have been such a cliché to do so, and so I did not. I just stared at Mr Rune and asked, ‘How?’

‘The “how” need not concern you, Rizla. Only know that I brought these circumstances about. A great wrong has been done and we are the ones who must right this wrong. The Nazis must not win the Second World War. America must not be destroyed by an atomic holocaust. England must not be invaded. Are you with me on this?’

‘I am,’ I said. And I was. ‘But please tell me how you transported us through time. Do you have a time machine, or a police telephone box, or something?’

Hugo Rune did enigmatic tappings of the nose. ‘The magician never divulges how his magic is accomplished,’ said he. ‘But know that you and I are now in nineteen forty-four. This house, my manse, is a safe haven – we inhabited it in nineteen sixty-seven, therefore it does not get bombed in the time we now inhabit. But out there-’ and Mr Rune waved his hands towards the world beyond his home ‘-there is great danger, Rizla. A war wages. We must be ever upon our guard.’

‘One question,’ I said. ‘Although countless spring readily to mind. One question, please. This is your house and has been for many years, am I correct?’ And Mr Rune nodded. ‘So you owned this house during the Second World War?’ He nodded again. ‘And did you live in it then?’

‘Aha,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘You are thinking to yourself, where is the Hugo Rune of nineteen forty-four? Will I bump into my former self and cause some cosmic paradox to occur that might rend the fabric of time and bring about the destruction of the universe. Yes?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I just did not fancy the prospect of having two of you nicking my breakfast.’

Oh how we laughed.

Then we stopped.

‘Twelve Cosmic Conundra,’ said Mr Rune. ‘Twelve cases that we must solve in order to defeat the Nazi peril, save America, save Mankind, secure a future for England that is free and liberated.’

‘I am for all of that,’ I said and I raised an imaginary glass.

‘And so it falls to you, Rizla. Through your choice, or at least through you, shall the cases be chosen.’

‘How?’ I asked. And not without reason, I think.

‘Through these.’ And Mr Rune produced from his pocket a small leather box.

‘A cigarette case,’ I said, ‘containing Wild Woodbines, I hope.’

‘A card case,’ said Mr Rune, ‘containing a set of tarot cards, designed by myself and illustrated by a delightful creature by the name of Lady Frieda Harris. Tarot cards, young Rizla. Tarot cards.’

‘Then you intend to read my fortune?’

‘No!’ Hugo Rune did once more the stamping of his foot. And once more everything jumped.

‘I wish you would not do that,’ I told him. ‘It fair puts the wind up me.’

‘Then pay attention. This is my personal tarot deck. Each card is symbolic. Heavily symbolic. Each represents a potential Cosmic Conundrum. You will shuffle the pack and you will deal out twelve cards. The future of Mankind depends upon this.’

‘Oh my,’ I said. And, ‘Oh dear. I do believe that this would be a responsibility well beyond myself. Please do the shuffling and dealing out, Mr Rune. You know so much and I know nothing. It would be better if you did the dealing out. Yes?’

‘No!’ And there almost came another stamp. But not quite. Mr Rune’s foot hovered airwards and I took the card case from his hands.

‘Now take yourself over to the breakfasting table, which you will notice has been cleared of its breakfasting paraphernalia by an agency of my commission-’

‘A demon?’ I said. ‘A calling?’

‘My butler, Gammon.’

‘Ah.’

‘Deal twelve cards. Go on, now.’

And so it came to pass. I took the card case and returned to the breakfasting table. I took the cards from the case and slowly, but thoroughly, shuffled them. They were beautiful cards, each unique, gorgeously wrought, magical and mystical, and I was quite entranced.

‘Shuffle them up and then deal out twelve.’

And so that came to pass.

I shuffled the beautiful cards and then I dealt twelve. Onto the linen tablecloth, twelve cards, in a circle, as if they were the numbers on a clock face.

And I stared down upon the cards that I had dealt.

And Mr Rune came forwards and peered over my shoulder. And then he called out the numbers and the names that were written upon those twelve cards.

0 THE FOOL

1 THE MAGICIAN

2 THE HIGH PRIESTESS

7 THE CHARIOT

9 THE HERMIT

10 THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE

11 JUSTICE

12 THE HANGÈD MAN

13 DEATH

16 THE TOWER

18 THE MOON

19 THE SUN

And then Mr Rune said, ‘Well done, Rizla. Now choose one, from anywhere, choose one.’

I pointed and I said, ‘THE HERMIT.’

And Mr Rune said, ‘What an excellent choice. That will be our first case.’

THE HERMIT

So there I was in nineteen forty-four.

I was eager to get out and about. I was also filled with questions. How had Mr Rune conveyed us through time? How had history changed so drastically as to require this miraculous conveyancing? But more than anything, I did want to get out and about. Have a shufti, as it were, see what lay beyond the walls of Mr Rune’s marvellous manse. See what the Brentford of nineteen forty-four looked like. A little perambulation about the borough could surely do no harm at all.

But Mr Rune said no.

He seemed genuinely concerned for my safety and impressed upon me again that dire consequences might well come to pass from my wanderings.

‘You must understand, Rizla,’ said he to me. Over breakfast it was, I recall. ‘We are strangers in this particular portion of time. We should not really be here. A wrong move on our part could easily result in some future calamity. We are here in the past to alter the future, after all. But to alter it correctly, as it were. We tread a fine line; care must be our watchword.’

‘I will not break anything,’ I said. ‘I just want to have a look around Brentford. You can understand this, surely.’

‘I understand all,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘Trust me, I am an avatar.’

‘Then you must know that I will not cause any harm.’

And perhaps he did, or knew to the contrary, but he forbade me to leave the house, so I just sat and sulked.

‘You’ll turn the powdered milk sour,’ said Mr Rune. ‘Perk up and read from the paper. You are au fait with my method of doing things. Seek us out a case.’

The daily paper in question was the borough’s organ, the Brentford Mercury. This venerable news-sheet, founded by the legendary Victorian newspaper magnate Sir Cecil Doveston in eighteen seventy-five, had hardly changed its basic format since that time. Indeed, but for the date, and the general contents, the copy I held in my hand seemed all but identical to any one that I might have held, or did hold, or would hold, in nineteen sixty-seven. Some things were just built to last and a classic never dates.

I read aloud the banner headline.

BRENTFORD ALLOTMENTEERS DIG FOR VICTORY

The Brentford Mercury always led with local news, no matter the nature or importance of ongoing world events. I recall that on the day after Kennedy’s assassination it ran a front-page article about the local electrical shop stocking a new make of battery.

‘Thrilling stuff,’ I said, and I made a certain face.

‘It’s an improvement on the sulky one,’ said the breakfasting avatar, ‘but not much. Dig into the inside pages, worm us out a little nugget on which to hang our first case. Let us do some digging for victory.’