‘What?’ I said. And I really meant that what.

‘It is my old friend Roberta Newman,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘Well, outwardly at least. And the Miss Roberta I knew would never become a traitor. But, oh, what have we here?’

And I gazed down at the spine of the fallen person. Now exposed to us as I had undone the corset.

‘Do not tell me that is what I think it is,’ I said.

‘If you think it is a zip-fastener,’ said Hugo Rune, ‘then that is what it is. But if you would rather I didn’t tell you, then I will not.’

‘I do not want to unzip it,’ I said, and I stood. ‘There is bound to be something absolutely horrid in there. A demon monster, or something, perhaps.’

‘Or a slender girl,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘One whose clothes you discovered in the instrument storeroom.’ And he now stooped and unzipped the zipper, though I turned my face away.

But when I looked back there were two bodies lying on the white floor. A rather deflated-looking one which had so recently been that of Roberta Newman. And beside that, one of a small and beautiful, yet bloody, young woman, who even now Hugo Rune was helping to her feet.

‘Rizla, allow me to introduce you to Count Otto’s daughter, Citrus,’ said the Magus. ‘It is quite the family business with the count, is it not? Recall that I sniffed the foundation garment in the storeroom? I detected a certain Germanic perfume – Edelweiss for Fräulines, a favourite of the Black family women.’

‘But how was she inside that?’ I asked. Gaping down at the corpse and all but throwing up.

‘The work of the sinister Baron von Bacon, creator of the Hellish Man-Hound of Mons. Recently resurrected from his self-imposed human hibernation beneath Old Pete’s allotment patch. He must have hollowed out Roberta Newman, allowing Citrus to take up residence inside and work the outer remains of the body like a puppet. Clearly a portion of Roberta’s brain was retained, which would account for the intact memories of myself and the continued running of this establishment. Ingenious, if somewhat gruesome, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘I really do think that I am now going to be sick,’ I said.

And, regrettably, I was.

And not just the once, as it happened.

Because later, whilst celebrating our success at having solved the case, and drinking many celebratory pints of the latest guest ale, Human Serif, Hugo Rune actually gave me one of his cigars, saying that I had earned it.

And I tried hard to smoke that very cigar.

A cigar that, as was the way with Hugo Rune, had been previously soaked in rum.

It turned out to be a horrible cigar.

And I, once more, was sick.

THE SUN

It was a Tuesday early in July when the arrival of a parcel caused great excitement in our household.

Hugo Rune examined this parcel and gave it a little shake. ‘This fellow has travelled far,’ he said. ‘From Switzerland, by the postmark, and through several diplomatic bags.’

‘An early Christmas present?’ I suggested. ‘It does look somewhat bashed about. I hope whatever lurks within is not broken.’

‘I’m sure I would have packed it properly,’ said Mr Hugo Rune.

‘Sure you would have packed it? I do not understand.’

‘Examine the handwriting of the name and address,’ said Hugo Rune and handed me the parcel.

I examined this writing with care and then said, ‘It is your handwriting! ’

‘Exactly, Rizla. Packed up and posted to me by my other self. The one who resides naturally in this time period. And resides presently in Switzerland.’

‘Wow,’ I said. ‘That is deep. You have sent yourself a present. That seems rather generous of you.’

‘No present, this. I must study the contents of this parcel in private.’

And with that Hugo Rune left the room and took to his bed for two days.

I was rather bored without him and I did wonder whether I might just take the opportunity to slip out and have that wander around the borough that I had been promising myself. But I had sworn upon an actual stack of Bibles that I would not.

And so I did not.

I perused the daily papers and it did amuse me slightly, although perhaps it should not have, to read a tiny piece on an inside page entitled

PRIESTESS FLIES FROM HER FLOCK

Lady Citrus Black, convicted spy and murderess, and leader of an End Times Cult formed from her fellow inmates at HMP Holloway, escaped last night in a daring fashion that has left prison authorities baffled. She apparently picked the lock on her cell door and stole up to the cell-block roof. And after that was never seen again.

‘I rather suspect that her father popped by on his motorcycle combination to pick her up,’ I said to myself. And it did make me smile just a bit, because although I had picked the tarot card depicting THE HIGH PRIESTESS, it was only now with the reading of this newspaper piece that it had even the vaguest connection to our previous case.

Another thing that had occurred regarding that last case, which made me smile a little too, was the matter of the Mark Seven gut-mashing sonic terror-weapons, otherwise known as steel pans. I had asked Mr Rune what was going to happen to the Mark Sevens. Surely, I said, they represented that great breakthrough which the BBT Team had been hoping for and could be used in the winning of the war. Which would at least have paid some kind of posthumous tribute to poor Miss Roberta Newman.

But to my surprise and disappointment, Hugo Rune had said, no, they would not be used. And had gone on to explain that they represented another of those mysterious anomalies that were not supposed to exist in this time period. And that if they were utilised, even in the cause of good, there could be dire future consequences.

‘And so what will become of them?’ I had asked.

‘They’ll be disposed of,’ Hugo Rune replied.

And they were. In a way. They were flown off in a transport plane to be dumped into the sea. But word reached me, through Lord Jason Lark-Rising, now a dashing Spitfire ace, that the plane had run off course and crashed into shallow water just off the coast of Port-of-Spain, Trinidad.

And that before authorities had been able to secure the area, locals had thoroughly looted the plane.

Which, I suppose, sort of put history straight.

But I was having my doubts as to where, if anywhere, things were leading. We had solved five cases so far, which meant that the next would be our sixth and we would be halfway through our mission. But as to what we were actually doing to stop the Germans developing the atomic bomb, destroying America and winning the war, I was not quite sure at all.

On the third day Hugo Rune rose again. He appeared at the breakfasting table, the opened parcel in his arms, deposited it into my lap and availed himself of my breakfast.

‘I want you to read all the way through this, Rizla,’ he told me. ‘Take notes if you wish, but make yourself thoroughly conversant with the contents. I feel that this is the catalyst I have been awaiting.’

‘I will just finish my breakfast,’ I said, reaching out.

But he waved me away and that was that for my breakfast.

I took the parcel into Mr Rune’s study, sat down in the fireside chair that had been designated as mine, tipped out the contents and gave them a thorough perusal.

A biffed-about box file with the words

PROJECT RAINBOW

ABOVE TOP SECRET

printed on it reached my gaze and I opened this up and dug in.