Riley answered his own question. “We are being sent to Mr. Charismo’s house. The Mr. Charismo. Surely you must have heard of him?”

Chevie elbowed Noble, who sat on her left, for a little more room. “No. I have not heard of this Charismo guy.”

“You have not heard of Mr. Tibor Charismo?” said Jeeves, laughing. “Where’ve you been bunking? In a wigwam?”

“In a wigwam,” repeated Noble, slapping his knee. “You do occasionally throw up a good comment, Jeeves.”

Chevie scowled. “So who is this Charismo person? Somebody famous?”

All three were struck momentarily dumb by Chevie’s ignorance. Riley was the first to recover. “Somebody famous? Mr. Charismo is like Arthur Conan Doyle, H. G. Wells, and Robert-Houdin all compacted into one individual. He is our most illustrious novelist, composer, and, of course, spiritualist.”

“Sounds like I should have seen this guy on the History Channel.”

“Queen Vic herself consults Mr. Charismo,” said Noble, touching the brim of his shabby bowler at the mention of Her Majesty.

“And Gladstone, too, before he popped his clogs,” added Jeeves.

“You are familiar with the James Bond series?” asked Riley.

Chevie jerked in her seat. “Er... yeah, actually.”

“The novels featuring Commander James Bond of Her Majesty’s navy. He is second only to Holmes himself for exposing villains, though his methods are a little more direct.”

“The name is Bond. James Bond,” chorused Noble and Jeeves, shooting finger pistols into the air.

“And of course Charismo’s symphonies are world famous,” continued Riley. “Another Brick in Yonder Wall is my favorite, featuring the crazed lute player Pinkus Floyd.”

Chevie frowned. “Yonder Wall?”

“Yes. And who does not adore the stage play The Batman of Gotham City?”

Jeeves seemed genuinely scared. “That Joker character gave me the right willies!”

James Bond. Pink Floyd. Batman?

Chevie was pretty sure these things should not exist for decades. Whoever this Charismo character was, he seemed to know an awful lot about the future.

So how come the future doesn’t know about him?

The carriage transported them to higher ground, and the street noise subsided almost completely but for the far-off rattle and clang of an omnibus and the click-clack of genteel horses pulling plush carriages. If this was not the richest area of London town, then it was certainly no more than a stone’s throw away. Chevie would have been willing to bet that she and Riley were the only people on this street wearing manacles. The carriage creaked to a halt outside a six-story town house that would cost untold millions in the twenty-first century.

“’Ere we are,” called the driver’s booming voice from above. “Grosvenor Square. North side, all ashore wot’s going ashore.”