‘You know the hangman’s name?’ said Mr Rune.

‘Another of my heroes, I’m afraid.’

‘But not one I hope you’ll be meeting. But it is an intriguing card and one that will no doubt have a certain resonance. We will need transportation to Bletchley Park. I have retained the keys to Lord Jason’s Rolls-Royce, but I don’t think you’ll be up to driving.’

‘I have only had one beer,’ I protested. ‘I will be fine.’

‘We have lunch to take,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘And I observed two guest ales on the hand pumps.’

‘Hm,’ went I, once more. ‘It is always a shame to pass up a guest ale.’

‘My opinion entirely. I think we should presume upon the squadron leader to provide us with transportation.’

And so we did.

We took a suitably heroic luncheon, which included a haunch of venison, which had apparently ‘fallen off the back of a Harrods van’. A selection of vegetables which had, we were given to understand, ‘fallen off the back of an ENSA catering truck’. And a bottle of Château Lafitte, which had taken a similar tumble from the rear of yet another carelessly secured vehicle, but had landed safely and softly in the hands of Fangio.

Waistcoat buttons were once more undone. Cigars (we did not ask) we secured from Fangio. These cigars were then smoked, in the company of brandy. And, after a little snooze, Hugo Rune announced that it was time to go and that I should cease my slacking, as work of National Importance awaited us.

He then awakened the squadron leader, who was taking a similar snooze. Although his was punctuated by various mutterings and mumblings, of the, ‘Good Lord, woman, it’s the size that matters,’ and, ‘Take tea with the parson? Not with my back,’ persuasion. And told him that we must requisition the squadron leader’s mode of transport as the fate of the nation depended upon it.

‘Need to get back to Ruislip by sparrow-fart though,’ said the squadron leader. ‘Think you can do that? Can I come along for the ride?’

Hugo Rune nodded that this was acceptable. Told me to expect a long, but exciting, night and told me also, as I kept asking more than just once-

That yes I would be meeting Alan Turing.

We travelled in an Armstrong Hepworth-Stapleford RAF staff car. And it was not the most enjoyable ride of my life. It is a long haul from Brentford to Bletchley Park and more than once the air-raid sirens screamed.

And we moved on as the bombs rained down and the sounds and the sights were terrible. The mindless destruction sickened me and made me fierce and angry. The Allies would win this war, right would prevail against wrong and I would do all that I could to aid Hugo Rune in whatever it took to achieve this end.

It was late in the evening when we finally arrived and what with the blackout and everything, I would not have been able to discern much of the mansion itself had it not been for the fine full moon that swam in the cloudless heavens.

This was a wonderful Victorian pile and as a great fan of Victorian architecture, I was thrilled at the prospect of going inside. But even more thrilled at the prospect of meeting Mr Turing.

I have always had this thing about back-room boffins. Other boys at my junior school chose more obvious heroes to emulate and praise. Douglas Bader with his tin legs. And curiously now as I now remember it, Lord Jason Lark-Rising, who performed great feats of valour. But as I never saw myself as ever likely to be any kind of a hero, in the sense that, in all truth, I would probably never actually have the guts to do anything really brave, I liked to read of those other heroes who worked quietly away cracking codes, inventing marvellous weapons and ‘being-the-brains-behind’.

I always fancied ‘being-the-brains-behind’.

‘Pacy-pacy, Rizla,’ called Hugo Rune to me as he stepped from the staff car and onto the gravel drive. ‘When attacked by a grand piano, you had better not play for time.’

And I marvelled at the brains behind that.

Squadron Leader Lancaster bumbled along in the wake of Hugo Rune. And I wondered whether indeed he was a hero. Had he shot down Heinkels and Messerschmitts? Did he have any artificial body parts?

Would they make a film about him after the war, with Kenneth More or David Niven in the starring role?

Hugo Rune rapped upon the big front door with the pommel of his stout stick. Then called, ‘Open up there,’ through the letterbox. But nothing stirred. All was silent. Silent, that is, but for the muffled sounds of distant bombing. And the call of a nearby owl.

‘Most curious,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘And most alarming also.’

‘Perhaps they are having an early night,’ I suggested. ‘After all, they did work very hard. Well, do work very hard. Or perhaps they’ve taken to the shelters and not heard the all clear?’

Hugo Rune did shakings of the head. ‘They work around the clock,’ he said. ‘And do you see that window up there?’

‘Top floor, beneath the copper dome?’ I asked.

‘That very one. That is Winston Churchill’s room. He spends a great deal of time here. And he should be here tonight.’

‘Winston Churchill,’ I said. And I whistled as one would. I mean, Winston Churchill. ‘Will I get to meet him?’ I asked. As Hugo Rune struck the door once more.

‘Hopefully not,’ replied the Magus. ‘I don’t think you’d take to him at all. And he certainly would not take to you.’

I opened my mouth to protest at this, but instead said, ‘There is an open window.’

And Hugo Rune asked where and I told him.

‘Up there, on the first floor. I could perhaps-’

‘You could indeed.’ And with a single, and might I say violent, motion, Hugo Rune hoiked me from my feet and propelled me skywards. And I made the wailing, as of a lost soul, and floundered about with my hands in the hope of gaining some purchase.

Which I did amidst the climbing ivy. And puffing and blowing in, I admit, a most unheroic fashion, I shinnied to the windowsill, then wriggled in through the open window.

I slid untidily to a carpeted floor, struggled to my feet and gently parted the blackout curtains. Soft candlelight welled within this room, which appeared to be some kind of office. There were many papers all littered about and I noticed that drawers had been pulled from a pine desk and emptied onto the floor. This did not look good.

I returned to the window and stuck my head out of it. ‘There is an office up here,’ I called down, ‘and it looks all ransacked. I will come down and let you both in.’

I left the ransacked office and found myself upon a wide landing. I thought about calling, ‘Hello, is there anyone there?’ but I chose not to. There was something altogether uncomfortable about the silence in this great house. Something oppressive. Something somehow alien.

I made off down the stairs at the hurry-up, crossed a marble floor and opened up the big front door.

‘Things are not right at all,’ I whispered as Hugo Rune entered the house. ‘There is a terrible atmosphere here – can you feel it?’

‘I feel it and more,’ said Himself. ‘There is evil afoot in this place.’

‘Perhaps I should just wait in the staff car,’ said Squadron Leader Lancaster, giving up all hopes of ever being played by David Niven.

‘No, come along, do.’ And Hugo Rune chivvied him in. He then closed the door and requested that I turn on the lights. I clicked at the switches.

‘The lights do not work,’ I said. ‘The office upstairs is candle-lit. Perhaps there has been a power cut, so they have all gone down to the pub.’

‘Perhaps we should go there and check,’ said the squadron leader. Whose film part, if any, now seemed likely to be filled by Charlie Drake, or Kenneth Williams at best.

‘No electrics and no signs of life,’ said Hugo Rune, raising his stout stick in the fashion of Moses calling upon the waters of the Red Sea to part. ‘We must step carefully, Rizla. But boldly too, I think.’