"I still think they'll try for a train. That bloke said 'e came on the train."
"We're not entirely sure it was the same man. Besides, 'e said two men, obviously friends, got off the train. What 'appened to the other?"
"I don't believe 'e did come on the train."
"What's 'e doin' in Bromley, any'ow?" said a third voice complainingly.
"Come back for 'is bit o' stuff — you know what some women're like — go 'ead over 'eels for that sort. I've seen it before — perficktly decent women brought low by a smooth-talking villain. If she ain't careful I'd say she'll be 'is next victim."
"Often the way it goes," another agreed.
They passed out of earshot. Mrs. Underwood seemed to have a high colour again. "Really!" she said. "So I already have a reputation as the consort of criminals. Mud sticks, as they say. Well, Mr. Carnelian, you will never understand the damage you have done, I know, but I am currently very much regretting that I allowed my better nature to take me to the Old Bailey in your defence! Even at the time, there was a hint of gossip — but now — well, I shall have to consider leaving the country. And poor Harold — why should he be made to suffer?"
"Leaving? Good." He stood up, brushing pieces of straw from his trousers. "Now, let's go and find Mr. Wells."
"Mr. Carnelian — it is really far too dangerous. You heard those policemen. The station is being watched. They are combing Bromley for us!"
Jherek was still puzzled. "If they wish to talk to us, why do we not let them? What harm can they do us?"
"Considerable harm, Mr. Carnelian. Take my word for it."
He shrugged. "Very well, Mrs. Underwood, I shall. However, there is still the question of Mr. Wells…"
"I assure you, also, that this Mr. Wells of yours can be nothing but a charlatan. Time machines do not exist in this century."
"I believe he has written a book on them."
Understanding dawned. She frowned. "There was a book. I read about it last year. A fantasy. Fiction. It was nothing but fiction!"
"What is 'fiction'?"
"A made-up story — about things which are not real."
"Everything, surely, is real? "
"About things which do not exist…" She was labouring, trying to find the right words.
"But time machines do exist. You know that, Mrs. Underwood, as well as I do!"
"Not yet," she said. "Not in 1896."
"Mr. Wells suggested otherwise. Who am I to believe?"
"You love me?"
"You know that I do."
"Then believe me ," she said firmly, and she took his hand and led him across the field.
Some time later, they lay in a dry ditch, looking at the outline of a building Mrs. Underwood had described as a farmhouse. Once or twice they had seen the lights of the policemen's lanterns some way off, but now it seemed their pursuers had lost the trail. Jherek was still not entirely convinced that Mrs. Underwood had interpreted the situation correctly.
"I distinctly heard one of them say they were looking for geese," he informed her. She seemed tired from all the running about and her eyes kept closing as she tried to find a more comfortable position in the ditch. "Geese, and not people."
"We must get the assistance of some influential man, who will take up your case, perhaps be able to convince the authorities of the truth." She had pointedly ignored almost all his comments since they had left the house. "I wonder — this Mr. Wells is a writer. You mentioned his reference to the Saturday Review ? That is quite a respectable journal — or at least it used to be. I haven't seen a copy for some time. If he could publish something — or if he has friends in the legal profession. Possibly it would be a good idea to try to see him, after all. If we hide in that barn during the night and leave early in the morning, we might be able to get to him after the police have decided we have made our escape."
Wearily, she rose. "Come along, Mr. Carnelian." She began to tramp across the field towards the barn.
In approaching the barn, they had to pass close to the farmyard and now several dogs began to bark excitedly. An upper window was flung open, a lantern blazed, a deep voice called: "Who is it? What is it?"
"Good evening to you," cried Jherek. Mrs. Underwood tried to cover his mouth with her hand but it was too late. "We are out for a stroll, sampling the joys of your countryside. I must congratulate you…"
"By cracky, it's the lunatic!" explained the unseen man. "The one we were warned was on the loose. I'll get my gun!"
"Oh, this is unbearable!" wept Mrs. Underwood. "And look!"
Three or four lights could be seen in the distance.
"The police?"
"Without doubt."
From the farmhouse came a great banging about, shouts and barkings, and lights appeared downstairs. Mrs. Underwood grabbed Jherek by the sleeve and drew him inside the first building. In the darkness something snorted and stamped.
"It's a horse!" said Jherek. "They always delight me and I have seen so many now."
Mrs. Underwood was speaking to the horse, stroking its nose, murmuring to it. It became calmer.
From the farmyard there was a sudden report and the deep-voiced man yelled: "Oh, damn! I've shot the pig!"
"We have one chance of escape now," said Mrs. Underwood, flinging a blanket over the horse's back. "Pass me that saddle, Mr. Carnelian, and hurry."
He did not know what a "saddle" was, but he gathered it must be a strange contraption made out of leather and brass which hung on the wall near to his head. It was heavy. As best he could, he helped her put it on the horse's back. Expertly she tightened straps and passed a ribbon of leather around the beast's head. He watched admiringly.
"Now," she hissed, "quickly. Mount."
"Is this the proper time for such things, do you think?"
"Climb onto the horse, and then help me up."
"I have no idea how…"
She showed him. "Put your foot in this. I'll steady the animal. Fling your leg over the saddle, find the other stirrup — that's this — and take hold of the reins. We have no alternative."
"Very well. This is great fun, Mrs. Underwood. I am glad that your sense of pleasure is returning."
Climbing onto the horse was much harder than he would have thought, but eventually, just as another shot rang out, he was sitting astride the beast, his feet in the appropriate metal loops. Hitching up her skirts, Mrs. Underwood managed to seat herself neatly across the saddle. She took the reins, saying to him "Hang on to me!" and then the horse was trotting swiftly out of its stall and into the yard.
"By golly, they've got the 'orse!" cried the farmer. He raised his gun, but could not fire. Plainly he was not going to risk a horse as well as a pig in his bid to nail the madman.
At that moment about half-a-dozen burly policemen came rushing through the gate and all began to grab for the reins of the horse while Jherek laughed and Mrs. Underwood tugged sharply at the reins crying, "Your heels, Mr. Carnelian. Use your heels!"
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Underwood, I'm not sure what you mean!" Jherek was almost helpless with laughter now.
Frightened by the desperate police officers, the horse reared once, whinnied twice, rolled its eyes, jumped the fence and was off at a gallop.
The last Jherek Carnelian heard of those particular policemen was: "Such goings on in Bromley! Who'd a credited it!"
There was the sound of a third shot, but it did not seem aimed at them and Jherek thought that probably the farmer and one of the police officers had collided in the dark.
Mrs. Underwood was shouting at him. "Mr. Carnelian! You will have to try to help. I have lost control!"