Newer, but basically the same.

But for the boxes, of course. And there were many of these, stacked upon floor and countertop. Cardboard boxes they were, bearing numbers and symbols suggestive of a military origin.

I looked at Mr Rune.

He looked at me.

And both of us spoke the name, ‘Fangio.’

And up from behind the counter bobbed the head of Mr Hartnel. And that head gave me something of a start, so closely did it resemble the looks of my Norman.

Like father like son indeed. But somewhat spooky when seen in this order.

‘How might I help you, gentlemen?’ And Mr Hartnel took from the top pocket of his brown shopkeeper’s coat a pair of pince-nez and slotted them onto his nose. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Mr Rune. And who is this young schoolboy with you? A regular scallywag, he appears to be. Would you care for a toffee, young fellow?’ And he dug into an open toffee jar upon the counter and proffered a toffee to me.

‘No thank you,’ I said, taking half a step back. ‘And I will have you know that I am not a schoolboy. And also that offering sweeties to children is not considered politically correct.’

And Hugo Rune smote me with his stick.

And, ‘Ouch!’ I cried, with very good reason.

‘Not off to a good start,’ the Magus whispered gruffly into my ear. ‘Keep silent and keep your wits about you.’

And I rubbed my ear, where the smiting had smitten, and nodded my head that I would.

‘He can be a naughty boy,’ said Hugo Rune to Mr Hartnel, ‘but he generally responds to a good smacking.’

‘Would you care for me to lay into him?’ Mr Hartnel asked. ‘I’ve been practising my smacking lately and also my jumping-out. Please observe.’ And he ducked down beneath the counter level then suddenly jumped out further along, to most alarming effect.

I fell further back in shock.

And Mr Rune said it was ‘nice jumping-out’.

‘Thank you,’ said Mr Hartnel. ‘So would you care for me to take a swing or two at him for good measure?’

‘I’ll bear it in mind, should the need arise,’ said Himself. ‘But for now I am here upon more pressing business.’

‘The cigars that you ordered, of course. Although, and it pains me greatly to mention this matter. A matter regarding your account. It was agreed that it would be paid six-monthly. And now six years have passed.’

‘Good God, man!’ cried Hugo Rune, throwing up his stick-bearing hand. ‘Don’t you know there’s a war on?’

‘Well, of course, yes. I’m so sorry to bring the matter up.’

‘Then just don’t do it again. I am here upon far weightier affairs than a few pounds’ worth of cigars!’

‘A few hundred pounds’ worth,’ said Mr Hartnel, in the tone that is known as ‘hopeless’ and the manner known as ‘doomed’.

‘Details, details. I am here at the behest of the Ministry of Serendipity. ’ And I raised my eyebrows to this. For I knew we were not. ‘Are you aware of this august body?’

‘Absolutely,’ said Mr Hartnel. ‘They are a secret organisation that represents the real power behind throne and Government.’

I raised my eyebrows also to this. The Ministry of Serendipity was both of these things. But it was also Top Secret.

Mr Rune and Mr Hartnel joined hands in a certain fashion. And I noticed for the first time that Mr Hartnel wore a Masonic ring upon his left-hand pinkie finger.

‘Quite so,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘And I am here regarding your vision.’

‘The chariot drawn by the winged horses, as the local rag reported it? How might this be of interest to the Ministry?’

‘The Ministry takes an interest in all things.’ Hugo Rune put great emphasis on the final two words of this statement. ‘These boxes here, for instance.’

‘Ah,’ said Mr Hartnel, his face taking on a haunted expression. ‘I’m disposing of them. They’re gremlins. The very scourge of the War Effort. As a member of the Home Guard I have taken on the responsibility for disposing of them. They’re not too easy to get rid of, you see, but I’m doing my best. Fangio at The Purple Princess kindly took a load off my hands.’

I looked up at Hugo Rune.

And he looked down at me.

‘You are disposing of them?’ said the mage.

‘Oh yes, they’re terribly dangerous. They can break anything. Between you and me, and I say this to you as you are of the Brotherhood and my walls have no ears at all. These gremlins were developed by the Ministry of Serendipity. They were to be dropped by parachute onto German armament factories to disrupt production. The Nazi War Machine is gremlin-free, you see. But the gremlins multiplied and now they must be disposed of.’

‘Then why not simply drop them on Germany?’ I asked.

‘He’s speaking out of turn again,’ said Mr Hartnel. ‘Should I take off my shoe and belabour him with it?’

‘It’s tempting,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘But no. However, his point is well made. Why did the RAF not drop the gremlins on Germany?’

‘They tried, but the gremlins got free in the aircraft, ruined the control systems, brought down an entire squadron. That newly knighted Squadron Leader Lancaster parachuted into the English Channel. It was three days before he was washed up at Dover and then he got arrested and interrogated – they thought he was a German spy.’

Both Hugo Rune and I grinned somewhat at this, which perhaps was not altogether nice of us.

‘Anyway,’ said Mr Hartnel, ‘I am now in charge of the disposal of these gremlins, before they can do any more damage.’

Hugo Rune nodded thoughtfully. ‘And how do you propose to do that?’

‘Well,’ said Mr Hartnel, ‘between you and me, I thought I’d just dig a hole under the kitchenette and bung them all into it.’

‘No!’ I screamed. ‘You must not do that!’

And Mr Hartnel hit me with his shoe.

The shoe-hitting scarcely quietened me down and I made loud my protestations that Mr Hartnel should not engage in any excavation work within his kitchenette.

Hugo Rune hauled me from the premises and demanded an explanation. And when I gave it to him, he stroked at his chin and nodded his head and said the words, ‘Well done, Rizla.’

‘I did the right thing by speaking out?’ I asked.

‘You did. Now say no more and leave all further speaking to me.’

And we returned inside.

Mr Hartnel was nowhere to be seen. But I suspected that I knew what was coming and so did not fall back in alarm a second time when he jumped out on us.

‘Bravo,’ said Hugo Rune, miming the clapping of hands. ‘Now, as time and the tide wait not even for Norman, I suggest that we get down to business. Tell me everything you can remember about this vision of yours and in return I will take personal responsibility for the disposal of the gremlins, to save you soiling your sensitive hands with the digging.’

‘Sensitive hands?’ said Norman Hartnel. ‘Well, my mother did say that with hands like mine I should be a pianist. But then she came to a sad end when she was attacked by a piano.’

I mouthed, ‘What?’ but did not say it aloud.

‘The vision,’ said Hugo Rune.

And Mr Hartnel told us what he knew.

‘It came about this way,’ he told us. ‘I am a member of the Church of Banjoleleology. I know the local paper has damned it as an End Times Cult and scorns and condemns our credos, but we are good people, Mr Rune, who mean no harm to others. All we ask for is the freedom to worship in the church of our choice. And the council agreed that as long as we eschew the practices of human sacrifice and drinking the blood of children, then we should be left to our own devices and desires.’

‘Quite so,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘Do you dance around in your bare scuddies at all?’

‘Most of the time,’ said Mr Hartnel. ‘Particularly on Thursday nights at nine at the Good Shepherd Hall in South Ealing Road.’

‘Many lady members?’ Hugo Rune enquired.

‘They outnumber gentlemen two to one.’