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stairs, a silver salver on a small table at the foot of the stairs. It had to be where the family left their letters for the servants to post.
    Still in thrall to the Amazonian butterflies, Reeves insisted we park the time machine next to the salver, and materialise for just the single second it took me to reach out and deposit the letter.
    “Well, Reeves,” I said. “This is it. Next stop 1904. The dice have been rolled, the cards played, and we’ve given of our best.”
    “Indeed, sir.”
    “Whatever we see — whether it be sixty aunts, Bertie and Gertie the Siamese twins, or a house full of turnips — no blame shall rest upon your shoulders, Reeves. You have gone above and beyond — and backwards and forwards.”
    “Thank you, sir. That is most kind.”
    “Hit the button, Reeves.”
    I not only braced myself, I screwed my eyes tight shut. I felt the buffeting, heard the whirr and whine of the large parasol thingy on the back.
    And then felt everything go quiet and still.
    I opened one eye.
    No turnips. The door to the drawing room was six feet in front of us on the right. I listened intently. Even though I knew we were insulated from the sounds and smells of the world outside of the machine, I strained to listen, hoping to pick up some early clue as to what we might find on the other side of that wall.
    Reeves turned the steering wheel and the machine swung towards the drawing room wall, moving forwards as it did so, into the wall and out into...
    ...The drawing room we’d first encountered in 1904. The chandelier was back, as was the Stubbs and the Persian rugs. But no Bertie or Gertie. Or horde of aunts. The only occupants were a single Aunt Charlotte and her husband — who I was pretty sure wasn’t Henry VIII. She was reading a magazine and he a newspaper.
    “Is this good?” I asked, hopefully.
    “It is a positive sign, sir,” said Reeves.
    “What do we do next?”
    “I think the safest course of action, sir, is to take the machine to the flat. There we can consult Who’s Who to verify that Mr Wells has been restored to his former position and, if so, where he resides.”
    I didn’t want to say anything — in case I tempted the butterflies — but this felt very much like the last page of a penultimate chapter. You know the one — the detective has unmasked the murderer, and is quietly accepting the plaudits before he wraps up all the loose ends.
    Reeves engaged the spatial whatnot, swung the time machine around and drove straight through the nearest wall. We emerged into the hazy brightness of the street outside, and turned for Piccadilly. Sometimes we drove on the pavement. Sometimes we drove on the road. And sometimes we drove through people’s houses.
    I warmed to this mode of transport. If it could go a little faster, and wasn’t surrounded in its own permanent pea-souper, I’d order one myself. Having automobiles and Hansom cabs drive straight through one was a bit disconcerting at first, but one soon got used to it.
    We sailed into the old flat through a second floor window.
    “Do we have to give this back to Mr Wells, Reeves? I can see it coming in very handy in future cases. No pun intended.”
    “I would advise strongly against it, sir. I do not wish to find myself in the unexpected employment of Miss Regina Worcester, gentleman’s turnip consultant.”
    Reeves had a point.
    He parked the machine in the sitting room, and hesitated.
    “Before I commence rematerialisation, sir. May I enquire if you have any memories of Queen Charlottes?”
    “You’re asking the wrong person, Reeves. I never could keep up with all the queens Henry VIII married.”
    “Very good, sir.”
    My beloved apartment shed its misty veil and crystallised into sharp relief. We were back!
    I beetled over to the bookcase, pulled out Who’s Who and began to thumb through the pages. Wells, Wells, Wells... And there he was! Herbert George Wells, publications: Time Machine 1895; address:13 Hanover Terrace,