Death of a Rake (4/4)

Hibbert found himself being thrust forward, the gaoler’s rough hand bruising his back with its force.

“You’ll get some food tomorrow. Meantime you’ll have plenty of time to pray,” sneered the functionary.

The cell was dark and bare, except for a chamber pot and a bed without a mattress. An anemic light dribbled in from a tall, high window. John Chichester, Lord Hibbert saw the door clank behind him and heard the key turn in the lock with a sense of unreality.

“Zounds,” he muttered and sat dejectedly on the bed, which was really just a plank.

The hangover had finally caught up with him and it certainly was a large one. He felt that his head was caught in a vice and that pressure was gradually and steadily being applied by some cruel scientist testing the reliance of his skull.

What had that fool of a copper said? They were arresting him for unpaid debts, for countless offenses against Venetian purity—ha! And unless someone came forward admitting responsibility for the murder, he’d probably be charged with that too.

“It’s all that wretched witch’s fault. My damned chivalrous instincts have led me to this .” Hibbert groaned. But then he thought of the diamond and something was galvanized in his soul. Glittering, large, shiny…With that, he could get out of goal, bribe a few councilors, pay off his debts. His friend the Mage knew a jeweller who’d pay through the nose for it.

It would solve all his problems. But how was he going to get it? That witch said she’d do it if he helped her find out who killed the chap.

Then his heart sank again. That was all fine, but how was he going to that, stuck in this hellhole?

He noticed a little movement on the bed and realized to his horror it was a rat.

“Villain!” he growled and leapt off the bed, pulling it away from the wall in order to get at the visitor. As he did so, the rat slipped past a wooden board and disappeared, in the process knocking the board over and revealing a hole big enough for a man.

Lord Hibbert gazed at the hole for a few moments. Was it his imagination or was heavenly music emanating from it? It seemed like a miracle. Or perhaps…witchcraft? Was his new friend working a new wonder to release him?

Whatever the cause, he wasn’t going to question it too long. He scrambled in after the rat and pulled the bed back after him to hide his means of escape. The hole was unpleasantly cozy and smelled of warm rats and their activities but Hibbert didn’t care—he was guided by the beautiful choir of angels calling him to his liberty.

At last, after wriggling like a serpent for what seemed like years, he came up against a barrier. With a sinking heart, he feared that the tunnel had come to an end and that there was no exit. A few seconds’ investigation heartened him again, as it seemed he obstruction was light wood. When he pushed it lightly it moved—clearly it was some kind of board similar to the one in his cell. He pushed it again.

Suddenly he heard birdsong—a high, decorated melody. It took him a while to realize that it was a soprano practicing arpeggios. Someone was in the room.

He tapped on the surface again. The singing stopped.

“Giordano?” A woman’s voice came, close and urgent.

“A friend,” he said in Venetian, hoping it would convince her.

The board was removed and he was temporarily blinded after the blackness of the tunnel. As his eyes adjusted, he saw a very pretty face with plump cheeks and bright blue eyes framed by a cloud of blonde curls.

She looked dismayed.

“Who are you?” she asked, frowning slightly.

“John Chichester, Lord Hibbert. At your service, signorina.”

“Where is Giordano?”

“I know no one of that name, alas. I have been hearing it enough in the last minute that I understand he is some kind of local celebrity.”

“Giordano has not been to see me for too many days. I am worried.

He struggled out of the snug tunnel and landed on the girl’s bedroom floor, brushing dust off of his clothes and noting with displeasure that his blouse was now filthy and torn.

“There, there,” he patted her on her arm. “I’m sure the old tavern-trawler is hale and hearty. There was no one in the cell when I got there—no doubt he’s been released.”

“Ah, yes, perhaps!” she brightened. “But if so, why not has he come to see me?” she got depressed again.

“There is a chance that he has met his Maker.”

The girl looked at him in alarm.

“You are not…a murderer?”

“I assure you, I am nothing so vile. I am a gentleman. The bumbling constabulary shut me up there by mistake. Alas, in these sad times, a man can be imprisoned merely for existing, for enjoying the fruits of God’s Earth—the thrill of the gambling table, the nectar of Bacchus, the enchanting cheek of a Venetian maiden.”

He leered.

“You are Eenglish?” she asked, cooly assessing the quality of his lace cuffs and his well made wig.

“No less,” he bowed again. “And you, conversely, must surely be a citizen of the Celestial Realms. An angel, I mean.”

She shook her head.

“I am a humble orphan. My mother was a fish gutter.”

“Your name?” he asked, stepping closer.

“Maria Celeste.”

“Maria-Celeste,” repeated Hibbert, capturing her hand, which was warm, soft, and plump as a little bird, and bringing it to his lips.

The satisfaction he felt with himself for having escaped, together with the remarkable prettiness of the girl had the effect of making him rather giddy .He sighed and pulled her to his chest. A short-lived struggle ensued, the nun yielding to his importunities to remarkable celerity and even betraying signs of enthusiasm, a couple of times moaning “Giordano” softly. Hibbert had a tolerant attitude to this.

Their congress was interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the staircase outside.

Maria-Celeste broke away, looking distraught.

“You must leave! It’s the abbess! If she knows there’s a man in here she’ll roast me on a spit!”

“My dear girl,” Hibbert said, recovering himself, “But where should I go? There is no other door.”

Her eye fell on a large wooden chest.

“Get in there,” she hissed.

He darted in and no sooner had Marie-Celeste shut the door behind him, he heard the door open and an older woman’s voice bark.

“There you are! I’ve been looking for you everywhere. What on earth are you doing up here? The choir has assembled downstairs and everyone’s waiting. What is that peculiar smell? Have you been smoking fish up here?”

“No, Your Reverence. I’m sorry, it slipped my mind.”

“Well, don’t dither! Come on,”

“Yes, My Reverence.”

Hibbert heard hurried footsteps, a few drawers opening and closing and finally the voice of Marie-Celeste close to the chest.

“There are clothes in the chest. Some of them may fit you—they belonged to a nun who died last week. She was quite tall.”

Hearing her footsteps hurry away, he opened the lid of the chest, climbed out and saw that she was right—there were several habits. He quickly put one on and fashioned a kind of veil out of a lace handerchief.

He then calmly descended the stairs from the nun’s chamber, nodded to the porter, who unlocked the door.

To his surprise, Hibbert found himself in Campo San Stefano with its huge church consecrated to the Order of Saint Augustine and felt that he could relax a little.

“Odds bodkins,” he muttered. “That was a close escape!”

Next stop: Lucia Mocenigo, daughter of one of the most powerful families in the Serenissima. He knew her palazzo was near this very piazza and proceeded to hasten thither, trying to stay in the shadow of the wall.

“Good day sister,” said a man as she passed. Several children also greeted him respectfully.

The great door of the palazzo was closed. The impressive looking porters stood with straight backs and grim faces. Hibbert decided to risk it.

“God be with you,” he said in a falsetto.

“And with you, sister,” the guards said in unison.

“I beg admittance. The young mistress summoned me on the occasion of All Souls Day. She wishes for spiritual guidance.”

One of the guards was about to admit him, but then the other one intervened.

“The master said no one is to be admitted without his express consent. Can I have your name?”

“Oh sir,” Herbert fluted, “My name, for that matter is Sister Constantia Celsi. I only came because Miss Lucia said she had some old clothes she wished to donate to the poor orphans. I know not whether Signor M—is aware of it. You know what girls are these days.”

“Certainly, certainly, sister,” said the sympathetic guard.

“Who’s there, Ubaldo?” said a gruff voice from the inner darkness.

“A Sister, Sister Constantia Celsi. She says Miss Lucia sent for her to donate some clothes.”

A very small and frail man of about fifty came out, peering at the nun. His eyes had the milky appearance of cataracts.

“Ah, Sister, you are welcome. I’ll have someone show her up to the room.”

“God be with you,” Hibbert purred.

Once the maid announced the nun’s arrival, Lucia looked up suspiciously. She recognized what no one else seemed to—that this was an odd looking nun. She knelt respectfully and waited for the maid to leave.

“Who are you?”

Hibbert took off his veil and smiled.

“Hibbert!” Lucia gasped. “Why the Carnivale costume?”

“I have just this moment snatched my Liberty from the jaws of Oppression. But that’s by-the-by. I bring you tidings that may grieve you.”

“What? Is it Giordano?”

“Giordano again,” Hibbert muttered. “Perhaps. Is he young, Apollonine?”

“Yes.”

“Ah,” said Hibbert sadly.

“What is it, by Saint Mark? Tell me!” she cried, clutching his arm.

“This morning, I happened on the corpse of a young man stabbed through the heart. Lucia clapped a hand over her mouth and seemed to sway.

“I found this among his possessions. Did you give this to Giordano?” He reached under his habit and produced his purse, from which he then took the locket the dead man had kept in his pocket.

She took it with a trembling hand, looked at it carefully, and then laughed.

“No—this isn’t the locket I gave Giordano. It’s a bit of rubbish I fobbed off on someone else. I remember a Syrian merchant bought it for my father.”

“Who was the someone else?” Hibbert asked. “Did he have a name?”

“It might have been any number of people,” Lucia shrugged.

Hibbert had the diamond in his mind’s eye. He had to winkle the boy’s identity out of this coquette if it killed him.

“Names? Do you remember a boy who favored Casanova? Almost feminine looking.”

She shook her head.

“Giordano’s all right, that’s the main thing. Why does it matter to you anyway?”

Hibbert felt his temper rising and resisted throttling her.

“The young man in question worshipped your image. Surely, he deserves consideration from you?”

She held her chin in thought.

“Well, it could have been the one I met at Carnivale this April… We blew the grounsels a couple of times. I think he was a glassblower’s son.”

“What was his name?”

“I think it started with an ‘M’. Mario? No, Marco. Marco Murano.”

“Marco Murano. Good. Did he have brown hair?”

“No, he’s a red head.”

“All right. Anyone else?”

“Well, there was Emmanuele. I had a brush with him last year and he begged for a miniature. It might have been this one.”

“What color hair did he have?”

“I don’t think I saw his hair. He wore a wig.”

“Anyone else you gave a locket to?” Hibbert was starting to feel very irritated.

“I think there was one other boy. Yes. He was Austrian, very young and good looking but we had an...imperfect enjoyment. He declared his love and whatnot. A tiresome character.”

“His name?”

“I had no occasion to remember it,” she said curtly. “He was no good to me.”

Hibbert was no exasperated.

“Do you remember nothing more about him?”

“No I don’t. And now I find myself growing tired of your company.

“Lascivious wench,” said Hibbert, now really angry. “Tell me his name!”

He grabbed her arm and was about to give her a Chinese burn when she hissed at him.

“Lay off me or I’ll scream and discover your deception.”

He hastily laid off.

“His name was Frederick, now get out.”

“Frederick who?” Hibbert said.

“Frederick Ludwig von Sckell, he was the son of the Austrian ambassador. Satisfied?”

“Supremely,” Hibbert bowed.

Lucia glared at him and then started to scream. At that same moment the house started to sway and screams were heard all over the city. Hibbert took advantage of the situation to escape, darting down the stairs in her habit, murmuring prayers in a falsetto voice as he ran.

Stepping through, he hastened away through scenes of confusion—children crying, men talking excitedly to one another, women praying to the effigies of saints on the sides of buildings.

***

In a dark, vasty room of the Doge’s Palace, a conference was taking place.

The Doge sat in a raised seat, regarding Tina Martin with a long, dispassionate gaze. Griffiths looked like he was about to faint. A clever young man in velvet breeches stood to one side of the Doge, raising his eyebrows at them both.

“Your Excellency,” said the man, “This foreign woman, calling herself Leonora the Luminous, caused a public disturbance in Piazza San Marco. She appears to be some species of Sorceress—soon after she summoned an earthquake we felt the ground shake. Moreover, she has drawn attention to a dead youth—it seems likely that she killed himself with the evil eye, as a witness has claimed. Furthermore, she was suing for the release of a rascally Englishman named Lord Hibbert, a renowned gambler, whoremonger and petty thief. He has been known to cavort with the charlatan Mage Paracelsus the Second. Not half an hour ago, the scoundrel vanished suddenly from his prison cell. We have every reason to believe that this witch was involved. She spirited him away.”

“What’s he saying?” Tina whispered to Griffiths.

“He says you’re a witch,” he whispered back.

“I don’t like him,” she said. “His eyes are too close together.”

“This shabby upstart,” the man continued, “Is the witch’s translator and factotum. The witness I mentioned earlier said the man’s true form is that of a skinny black tomcat. He personally saw the cat turn into this character here.”

The Doge’s watery eyes shifted to Griffiths, who was sweating profusely.

Tina asked, “What’s he saying?”

Griffiths held up a hand to quit her. Then he spoke in Venetian dialect.

“Your Excellency, this man is only speaking half the truth. In fact, this woman is a dangerous witch. I myself, however, am blameless. She threatened to turn me into an anchovy if I didn’t cooperate with her stratagems! What choice did I have?”

There were tears in his eyes, and he had fallen to his knees.

“This witch—” he gestured at Tina, “She is a very powerful sorceress in league with Lord Hibbert. No doubt she came here to confer with Paracelsus the Second, whom he reveres. I believe they are plotting against the Serenissima and stuck close to them in order to glean more information, which I intended to tell your Excellency.”

The lawyer gasped and the Doge raised an eyebrow.

“That’s the stuff,” said Tina encouragingly, “You’ve got his attention now.”

Seeing him get emotional and hearing Hibbert’s name, she assumed Griffith was pleading their case, not betraying her.

For a while, the high-ceilinged chamber was quiet except for Griffiths’s quietly echoing sobs. The Doge looked grim and pointed a finger at Tina.

Griffiths translated his utterance.

“He wants you to do some magic,” he said to her.

Tina thought a moment, then pulled out her cellphone. It still had 65% battery power.

“Tell him,” she said, “That I can paint his portrait in the blink of an eye. And the image will be so like him that he’ll think he’s looking in a mirror!”

Griffiths conveyed this to the Doge, who nodded with satisfaction, then waited.

Tina approached the dignitary, holding up the cellphone and walking with ceremonial slowness. She took his photo and then waved the phone around in a way that she thought was magician-like.

“Abracadabra!” she exclaimed.

The Doge looked around for a canvas and then spoke to Griffiths.

“He wants to know where the painting is,” he said, dabbing sweat from his forehead.

“Tell him I have it in my hand.”

The Doge looked at the image on the phone for a long time. He looked at Tina then he looked back at the phone. She was encouraged.

“Tell him he looks very handsome, like Harrison Ford.”

Griffiths obliged.

The Doge gestured to his young advisor and two guards immediately grabbed both of them and marched them away.

“Where are they taking us?” Tina asked in dismay.

“To the Leads,” Griffiths replied gloomily.

“The what?”

“The cells just under the roof, under the lead tiles.”

***

“I know the murderee, but not the murderer,” Hibbert muttered. “In short, I am not very far ahead.” Still his nun’s habit, he paced the calle , trying to think. A pretty mess this was…

How could he discover the truth? If only there had been a witness.

He slapped his thigh. The drunk!

When the American witch had shown him the body, he’d seen a drunk singing in the arcade. There was a chance that he’d seen something, that he was still there…

He walked back to the scene of the murder. The body was gone, but the drunk was still there, macerating in his own juices. Awake, barely. As Hibbert towered over him, he opened a bloodshot eye and grinned. In the past, nuns had been known to offer food, money, even drink.

“God be wi’ ye, Sister. How do? Can ye spare a sequin or two for an old sea dog, a poor ol’ sinner like me?” he blathered gummily.

“I’ll say a Hail Mary for you,” said Hibbert primly.

The drunk blew a raspberry in response.

“To blazes with your Hail maries Sister, they ain’t no use to me.”

“Listen, man,” said Hibbert, dropping the falsetto, “Did you see anything like a brawl last night?”

“Maybe I did, maybe I di’n,” sulked the sot.

“I herd,” said Hibbert slyly, “That it was a gang of gondoliers, they mobbed the boy.”

“Pish!” said the drunk contemptuously. “Nothing o’ the kind. It was a duel, fair and square. He lost a fair fight, swear on me eyes.” He spat.

“Who was the other party then?” asked the nun.

“Ah, that’d be telling!” the sot attempted to tap his nose but failed.

“You’re wasting my time, whistling in the wind, that’s all,” Hibbert frowned.

“No, Sister, no. You think ol’ Pietro is three sheets to the wind but he ain’t. He knows things. But he swore he wouldn’t tell anyone. Sworn to secrecy. And he’s a man of his word.”

“Then how am I supposed to believe you?” Hibbert said.

“I’ve proof, don’t I?” said Pietro triumphantly.

“What proof?”

Pietro triumphantly reached into his breeches and produced a shiny yellow disc. He bit it and showed Hibbert the teeth marks.

Hibbert gasped.

“An Imperial Roman Aureus!”

“Believe me now, don’t ye Sister,” grinned Pietro, so pleased that he didn’t mind she had no alms for him handy.

“Who gave you that?” Hibbert said.

“Oh no,” Pietro leered. “That’d be telling. I’m a man o’ me word.”

But Hibbert already knew. In a daze, he turned his steps toward the Ghetto.

***

An old man wearing what can only be described as a Phrygian cap sat in a very peculiar room, smoking tobacco in an ivory pipe—a piece of scrimshaw courtesy of one of the sailors aboard the Santa Maria with Christopher Columbus in 1492.

The man was small, pale, shrivelled as a dried mulberry, and his dark eyes glittered in the candlelight. Outside, it was the afternoon, but that didn’t concern him. He was a being outside of time, beyond time. He wrote with a quill on parchment, wearing a manic grin.

Surrounding him, adorning the shelves, tables, benches, were signs of esoteric knowledge, distant marvels, celestial learning. There was a skull said to have belonged to Pontius Pilate, an early Gutenberg Bible, tarot cards, papyrus rolls and Egyptian amulets, an automaton infant, a cuckoo clock, a silver-bound book in Hebrew aand much else besides, imperfectly lit by the flares of guttering candles.

The door opened and a boy in a turban entered the scholar’s sanctum.

“Lord Hibbert, Your Majesty,” he intoned.

“Send him in, send him in!” cried the little man, still writing furiously.

The Englishman entered, still in his habit.

“Salve,” they greeted one another, as usual, in Latin and exchanged cheek kisses.

“John,” said the Mage, “What a pleasant surprise! I’ve just this moment made a philosophical breakthrough.”

He spoke at length on a subject that ordinarily would have fascinated Hibbert, but on this occasion he felt impatient.

“Master,” he said, “I have something important to ask you.”

“Anything, anything! Come, where are my manners? Sit down! Will you have a drink? Ichor? Dionysian tears? Blood of the Lamb?”

“Aqua vitae, please,”

“Certainly,” the Mage looked at the servant, who slipped away silently.

Paracelsus the Second looked searchingly at his protégé, noticing for the first time his nun’s habit, his battered and weary appearance.

“Has something happened? All is well?”

“No, maestro. There has been a disturbance.”

“Ah, yes?” The Mage steepled his fingers, waiting and listening.

“I met a witch this morning. A young woman from the Americas. You predicted it—a maiden from over the sea would have power over me. That’s what you said, isn’t it?”

“Yes, that’s right,” said the Mage. “Though I thought it would be figurative. A maiden can be knowledge, love, inspiration…things of that kind. Go on.”

“Well, She sought me out particularly—it must have been because of my association with you. She brought me to the corpse of a young man, a young Austrian named Frederick. All day, from sheer chivalry” (Hibbert decided not to mention the diamond ring),”I have been dancing about like a puppet trying to discover the crime. I’ve been arrested, attacked, manhandled but finally I think I’ve come to the truth.”

“Yes?” the Mage breathed so hard he sounded like a snuffling hedgehog. “My word, what a marvellous advent. A witch, eh?”

“I discovered,” said Hibbert,” That the boy was killed in a duel and that you were present.”

The Mage laughed, delighted.

“Excellent! It was the witch who said so?”

“No. But you gave a beggar your gold coin.”

“Ah, that lying scoundrel gave me away, did he?” but he didn’t look as upset as he might.

“Master, you must tell me, who was the killer. You must have been his second, I assume.”

“You are wrong, my child. I was nothing of the kind. The killer did not have a second.”

“Then what were you doing there?”

“I am Giordano. I myself was the killer.”

“You! But...” Hibbert didn’t want to be rude, but the thought that passed through his mind was that this dehydrated mulberry with skinny arms can hardly have enough strength to pull the trigger of a pistol, let alone stab a young man with the point of a foil.

“It’s very simple, my dear friend,” said the Mage kindly. “For decades, I have been perfecting a recipe for a ‘potency potion’—something that will turn the feeblest reed into a kind of Herakles, that will transform the most mortal into the most damnably divine specimen of humanity: a Love Machine, you might say. Yes, and a Fighting Machine too.”

“Are you feeling quite well?” Hibbert asked, concerned for his teacher’s sanity.

“Never better, my boy, never better! Because I succeeded! Can you imagine it?” he cackled. “With a couple of sips I turn from this brittle autumn leaf you see before you into a regular Apollo—desired by all the comely Virgins and chaste Matrons of Venice. Not only that, but my strength is that of ten young men!”

Hibbert looked doubtful. The Mage smiled.

“I know what you are thinking, dear friend. I appear just as I usually do—your elderly teacher Paracelsus the Second. Yes?”

“Well…yes,” Hibbert admitted.

“Just so! But, you see, the elixir’s effect is only temporary. I take a sip of it at midnight and run amok in the city until dawn, at which time I assume my ordinary form and become a dignified professor of the Esoteric once more.” He grinned at Hibbert with a rather macabre expression.

“But…the boy?”

“Yes?” the Mage said. “What of him? He challenged me to a duel for the love of that laced mutton Lucia, who didn’t care a fig for him anyway. He was a young fool and he suffered the proper fate of all young fools.”

“What happened?” Hibbert asked, fascinated.

“Well, he’d surprised me as I left Lucia’s apartments. He was in a fury and challenged me to a duel. I tried to dissuade him but he insisted. What could I do?”

Hibbert thought for a while.

“There’s not…any chance I could try this elixir is there?” he said at last.

***

Tina Morton looked around her dark, clammy cell in ‘The Leads’ and wrinkled her nose. It smelled…close. Her eye lit on a chamber pot, clearly half-full.

“That is disgusting,” she said murmured to herself.

Suddenly she heard a rustling in a niche in the corner, a dark recess. She squealed involuntarily, assuming it was a rat.

A man emerged: Thin, pale, bearded, dressed in a long, dirty white shirt.

The two of them stared at each other for a few moments, then the man strode over to the door and banged on it loudly, yelling.

“Oh great, I’m stuck with a mentally ill customer,” Tina thought to herself.

The gaoler’s voice was heard through the door after a few moments, and the man had a loud conversation with him, expostulating vigorously and pointing at Tina as if she were a cockroach, though the gaoler could obviously not see her. Finally, the gaoler left, and the man kicked the door.

“Well, I’m not very happy about it either, buddy,” Tina said.

He swung around.

“English?”

“American,” she glared.

He seemed to see her in a new light, then tried a pretty unconvincing smile.

“You know British diplomat here?”

“No,” she said frostily. “Like I said, I’m American.”

“Yes, yes,” he waved his hand dismissively. “But then you are only British or French. You know the French ambassador maybe?”

“If I did, would I be here with you?” she asked.

He stroked his beard thoughtfully and extracted two or three fleas, popping them into his mouth.

Tina shuddered.

“Your good name madame?” he asked.

“Tina Morton. And you?”

“I am Casanova, Giacomo Casanova,” he bowed.

“But…you’re famous!” Tina gaped.

“Yes,” he said wistfully.

“I mean really famous. I’m from the future, you know. And you wrote a book and there are lots of movies about you.”

“Non capisco,” he said, frowning.

“Yes, yes, you are a great lover!” she said. “You escape from this prison.”

“Escape?”

“Yes! And you travel all around Europe seducing every woman in sight. Then you write a book.”

“I?” he said, very confused.

“Yes, believe me.”

“You are a madwoman, yes?” he said.

“No! Agh,” she felt suddenly very tired and frustrated. She decided she wouldn’t talk to this guy anymore, who was completely ruining her idea about Casanova.

Suddenly, the door was smashed open and Lord Hibbert appeared.

“Ha ha!” he cried. “Come on, you two. Suddenly I have the strength of ten men and no Venetian functionary is a match for me. You’re free, if only you follow me.”

“Hibbert!”

He grabbed Tina, gave her a passionate kiss then turned to Casanova.

“No time to explain, come on if you value your lives!”

They ran out of the Doge’s Palace, noting several bodies strewn all about. They jumped into a waiting gondola. When they were a safe distance from land, Tina asked him what happened. He produced a flask from his jacket lining.

“This, by Dionysus, this is what happened!”

“What is it?”

“I call it Rake Juice. The Mage calls it the Breath of the Bull—it turns everyone who drinks it into a famous lover and a man of prodigious strength.”

“Oh,” said Tina and was about to say something clever when suddenly the world became blurry and she felt a terrible headache coming on. The world went black.

The next thing she knew, her eyes fluttered open and she was looking into Hibbert’s face.

“Are you OK?” he said in stilted English. “You fall and ‘it your 'ead. Bang.”

“Oh, um, yes, I’m fine, thanks,” she said. She realized that she was lying in a puddle and it was a drizzly day, just like it was this morning, in the year 2023.

“Oh my God…” she thought. “So the purpose of my time travelling wasn’t to solve the murder. It was to give Casanova his mojo back. How aggravating.”

“What is that?” Casanova asked.

“Nothing, nothing. Thanks very much,” she said.

“Can I 'elp you to your destination?” asked Casanova.

“Yes. Why not?” She said and they tottered off together.