‘But that’s absurd. Fate is fate,’ objected Ferguson. ‘It can’t be changed.’
‘Fate is fate . . .’ repeated Charles, sardonically. ‘Is that what you really believe? Do you honestly prefer to hand over responsibility for your actions to the alleged author of some play we are compelled to take part in from birth?’ Claire tensed as Charles glanced questioningly at the other members of the group. ‘Well, I don’t. What’s more, I firmly believe we are the authors of our own fate – we write it each day with every one of our actions. If we really had a mind to, we could prevent this future war. Although I imagine, Mr Ferguson, that you would lose a great deal of money if you stopped producing mechanical toys.’
Ferguson was taken aback by the last jibe whereby the insolent young man, besides blaming him for something that had not yet happened, revealed he knew perfectly well who Ferguson was. He gazed at Charles open-mouthed, not knowing what to say, astonished rather than upset by the jaunty bonhomie with which the fellow delivered his barbed comments.
Claire admired Winslow’s way of disguising his observations as frivolous, protecting himself from angry ripostes as well as relegating his sharp remarks to the category of impromptu asides, spontaneous reflections, which even he did not appear to take seriously. Ferguson went on opening and closing his mouth while the others looked shocked and Charles smiled elusively All of a sudden, Ferguson appeared to recognise a young man wandering lost in the crowd. This gave him the perfect excuse to leave the group and rush to the fellow’s aid, thus avoiding the need to respond to Winslow, who did not appear to be expecting a reply anyway. Ferguson returned with an impecunious-looking youth, whom he pushed into the centre of the group and introduced as Colin Garrett, a new inspector at Scotland Yard.
While the others greeted the newcomer, Ferguson beamed contentedly, as though he were showing off the latest rare bird in his collection of acquaintances. He waited for the round of greetings to finish, then spoke to the young inspector, as though hoping to make the others forget his discussion with Charles Winslow. ‘I’m surprised to see you here, Mr Garrett. I didn’t know an inspector’s salary stretched this far.’
‘My father left me a little money’ stuttered the inspector, needlessly attempting to justify himself.
‘Ah, for a moment there I thought you might be travelling at the expense of Her Majesty’s government to bring order to the future. After all, even if it is in the year 2000, the war will still destroy London, the city you’re meant to be protecting. Or does the time difference absolve you of your responsibilities? Is your job confined to watching over London in the present? A fascinating question, wouldn’t you agree?’ Ferguson said to his audience, proud of his own ingenuity. ‘The inspector’s responsibilities cover space but not time. Tell me, Mr Garrett, does your authority extend to arresting a criminal in the future – assuming his crime is committed within the city?’
The young Garrett stirred uneasily. Had he been given time to reflect calmly, he might have come up with a satisfactory answer, but at that precise moment he had been overwhelmed by an avalanche of sheer beauty, if you will forgive the purple prose -which, on the other hand, is perfectly suited to the occasion: the young girl they had introduced to him as Lucy Nelson had troubled him considerably, so much so that he was scarcely able to concentrate on anything else.
‘Well, Inspector?’ said Ferguson, growing impatient.
Garrett tried unsuccessfully to drag his eyes away from the girl, who seemed as beautiful as she was unattainable to a poor, dull fellow like him. He suffered also from a crippling shyness that prevented him achieving any success when it came to women. He, of course, had not the remotest idea that three weeks later he would find himself lying on top of her, his lips within kissing distance of hers.
‘I have a better question, Mr Ferguson,’ said Charles, rallying to the young man’s aid. ‘What if a criminal from the future travelled in time and committed a crime here in the present? Would the inspector be authorised to arrest a man who, chronologically speaking, had not yet been born?’
Ferguson did not attempt to conceal his irritation at Charles’s intrusion. ‘Your idea doesn’t bear scrutiny, Mr Winslow,’ he retorted. ‘Why, it’s absurd to imagine that a man from the future could visit our own time.’
‘In heaven’s name, why not?’ enquired Charles, amused. ‘If we’re able to journey into the future, what’s to stop men from the future travelling back to the past, especially if you bear in mind that their science will be more advanced than ours?’
‘Simply because if that were the case they would already be here,’ replied Ferguson, as though the explanation were obvious.
Charles laughed. ‘And what makes you think they aren’t? Perhaps they’re here incognito.’
‘Why, that’s preposterous!’ cried the outraged Ferguson, the veins on his neck beginning to bulge. ‘Men from the future would have no need to hide. They could help us in a thousand different ways, bringing us medicines, for example, or improving our inventions.’
‘They may prefer to help us surreptitiously. How can you be sure that Leonardo da Vinci wasn’t under orders from a time traveller to leave in his notebooks plans for building a flying machine or a submersible boat, or that he himself wasn’t a man from the future whose mission was to travel to the fifteenth century in order to help the advancement of science? A fascinating question, wouldn’t you agree?’ asked Charles, mimicking Ferguson. ‘Or perhaps the time travellers’ intentions are quite different. Perhaps they simply want to prevent the war we are going to witness in a few minutes.’
Ferguson shook his head indignantly, as though Charles were trying to argue that Christ had been crucified upside down.
‘Maybe Fm one of them,’ Charles went on, in a sinister voice. He stepped towards Ferguson and, reaching into his pocket, added: ‘Maybe Captain Shackleton himself sent me here to plunge a dagger into the stomach of Nathan Ferguson, owner of the biggest toyshop in London, to stop him producing automatons.’
Ferguson gave a start as Charles prodded his stomach with a forefinger. ‘But I only make pianolas . . .’ he spluttered, the blood draining from his face.
Charles let out a guffaw, for which Madeleine hurriedly chided him, not without a measure of affection.
‘Come now, my darling,’ said Charles, apparently deriving a childlike enjoyment from shocking everyone. ‘Mr Ferguson knows perfectly well Fm only joking. I don’t think we have anything to fear from a pianola. Or do we?’
‘Of course not,’ burbled Ferguson, trying to regain his composure.
Claire stifled a giggle, but this did not go unnoticed by Charles, who winked at her, before taking his wife’s arm and leaving the little gathering – in order, he said, to test the excellent qualities of the punch.
Ferguson heaved a sigh of relief. ‘I hope you’ll forgive this little incident, my dears,’ he said, attempting to
