He then clocked the squadron leader on the head.

I opened my mouth to ask why as I watched that fellow sink to the floor.

Hugo Rune replied that it was all for the best and that I should follow him.

After which he did that thing with his stout stick again – the bringing-light thing that he had done in the tunnel of the London Underground. And the stout stick’s pommel cast a beam of light before us and I followed Mr Rune.

‘What do you think has happened here?’ I whispered. ‘You always have a theory. Or an answer before a question has even been asked. So what do you think about this?’

‘If you are asking what I suspect, Rizla, then I must say the worst. But in order to learn what has specifically occurred, we must find a survivor.’

And I did not like the sound of that word at all. ‘Do you think then that there has been some kind of massacre here? This establishment is top secret, surely.’

‘This way, Rizla, come.’

We passed under a Gothic arch, all decoratively diddled in the Arts and Crafts style, and entered what was surely the operations room.

There was a great world map on the far wall, acupunctured all over by myriad coloured flag-pins.

There were rows of desks and upon these desks were the amazing Enigma machines. I had never before seen one up close and the temptation was great to have a little tinker.

‘Tinker ye not,’ said Hugo Rune. Which made me think that indeed the part of Squadron Leader Lancaster should be played by Frankie Howerd.

‘And oh dear me.’ And Hugo Rune held high his stick and gestured with his free hand towards the floor.

I peeped past his elbow and gave out with a low, slow whistle, and then I said, ‘Oh my goodness, what is that?’

Before us, and twinkling slightly in the magical light, was a blackened shape. As it were a shadow or silhouette cast upon the carpeted floor. And the more I looked upon it, the more I became aware of just what it was and just how nasty also.

‘It is the shape of a man,’ I whispered. ‘The shape of a man who has been flung to the floor. But the shape is formed from ashes.’

‘That’s just what it is, young Rizla. And I have seen such a phenomenon before. A case of Spontaneous Human Combustion.’

‘Golly gosh and things of that nature generally,’ I said. ‘I am now once again most confused. You think that we have stumbled upon that rarest of all rare Fortean phenomena – a case of Mass Spontaneous Human Combustion?’

And Hugo Rune clocked me with his stick.

Although not sufficiently hard as to induce unconsciousness.

‘Ouch,’ I said, as to do so was appropriate at this time.

‘Buffoon,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘This is not the work of God.’

‘The work of God?’ I said. In considerable surprise. ‘Are you telling me that Spontaneous Human Combustion is really caused by God smiting people down with a thunderbolt, or something?’

‘You have, perchance, a better explanation?’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘I read this article about an experiment that these scientists did with a piggy’s leg and a gentleman’s pyjama bottom. There is this effect called the slow-burning candle-’

But Hugo Rune raised his stick once more.

‘But if you say God, then God it must be,’ I said.

‘But this is not the work of God.’ And Hugo Rune stepped over the blackened shape and approached the big wall map of the world.

And this he examined at considerable length.

I stood and shuffled my feet. There were the ashes of a dead person right there on the carpet before me and I did not like that very much. I quite fancied being off on my way. Perhaps I would get to meet Mr Turing another day. But for now all I wanted was to be out of this house of oppressive gloom and body ashes and away to my cosy bed.

‘This is all most interesting,’ said Hugo Rune suddenly.

So suddenly in fact that I all but dampened my trousers.

‘It would appear that the progress of the war that is displayed upon this map scarcely mirrors that which is displayed daily before us in the news-sheets.’

‘And that surprises you?’ I said.

‘I know that propaganda naturally plays its part in the War Effort,’ said the Perfect Master, ‘but this is something more. This map shows military ground offensives that are either presently underway, or are planned soon to be so. But these are the most extraordinary strategies. These put me in mind of a game of chess. And I do like a game of chess.’

And indeed Mr Rune did like a game of chess. He had taught me how to play, but not, so it seemed, how to win. And Mr Rune did not play chess upon the standard sixty-four-square board. He had created a somewhat larger board with two extra rows of squares. To accommodate the extra chess piece he had invented. This piece stood to either side of the castle on the new squares of the board. This piece was introduced to me as The Gentleman. And as I examined one of these extraordinary pieces, I discerned it to be a small and beautifully carved facsimile of Hugo Rune himself, shaven head and stout stick and everything.

The Gentleman, I was informed, was a rather special chess piece. He could duplicate any movement made by any other piece, including the horsey. And could not be taken, no matter the circumstances. I only played chess with Mr Rune twice. The first time he huffed one of my bishops and the second, one of his Gentlemen took all of my pieces, including both of my Gentlemen and my King. Mr Rune then poked one of his Gentlemen up my left nostril and made me pay a forfeit.

I decided at this point that chess was not the game for me.

‘It’s a work of genius,’ said Hugo Rune, gazing at the big wall map of the world. ‘But of unworldly genius. With these strategies the Allies will surely trounce the Germans. Although at great human cost. Indeed-’ And he stepped back from the map and gestured with his effulgent stick. ‘Do you see it, Rizla, do you see it?’

And I gazed too at that map and I saw it.

The flag-pins that represented Allied troops, regiments and units and squadrons too of planes, were tipped with black, the Nazis’ tipped with red.

And these black flags’ pin-tips formed, it seemed, a great pictorial representation upon that map of the world. And if one stepped back, as I did, and took to slight squintings of the eyes, it was quite clear that they formed a recognisable shape.

And this shape, it seemed, was that of a hangèd man.

‘What does it mean?’ I asked of Hugo Rune. ‘What does it mean and what is going on in this place?’

And I think he might have told me, because he probably knew, but he did not get the chance to speak, which was in itself most odd for Hugo Rune.

Because a door, which was clearly camouflaged because neither Mr Rune nor I had noticed its presence, suddenly flew open to the right of the great map and a fellow staggered through the opening and dropped to the floor in a crumpled tweedy heap.

Hugo Rune gazed down upon this tweedy heap and said, ‘Step lively Rizla and meet Mr Alan Turing.’