The intergalactic trader, part time thief, confidence trickster, and all round scoundrel known to several police forces as Sabalom Glitz was extremely out of place in Camden, London, Earth. He had left his usual collection of edged weapons and ray guns in his cloaked ship parked under the trees in a triangular shaped space called Harrington Square Gardens. Even so, his usual attire – leather adorned with lots of buckles and studs – stood out from the everyday clothes of the usual pedestrians at the commuter hour of the morning.

He didn’t care what he looked like. He wasn’t planning to be there for long. He had an appointment to keep and then he would be gone.

He was not the only stranger visiting Camden town that morning, in fact. As he approached the triangular junction where Camden High Street met five other roads splitting off into different directions he spotted two people stepping out of a blue box parked incongruously next to a statue in the middle of the traffic island. The man was tall and broad-shouldered and wearing an outfit that would stand out just about anywhere. The wide-brimmed hat and ludicrously long knitted scarf over a waistcoat and ankle length overcoat belonged to no era of fashion in the known galaxies.

The petite young woman beside him was dressed in a pastel-blue calf length skirt and jacket, white blouse and a straw hat with a blue ribbon around it. Sabalom Glitz wasn’t somebody who naturally recognised or appreciated elegance, but he couldn’t miss it in that young lady. He knew they both had to be time travellers. Why else would somebody with so much fashion sense be with somebody with none at all.

There were two others who were obviously on the same mission. One of them was dressed in a black opera coat and top hat over evening dress even though it was eight o’clock in the morning. He carried a silver topped cane and stopped to check the time by a pocket watch on a silver chain before heading to a building faced with deep red-brown tiles and bearing the ubiquitous circular symbol for the London Underground.

The other was a dwarf in a crumpled brown suit. Glitz recognised a shimmer cloak when he saw one. It was a Graske in disguise. He wasn’t at all surprised. They were the scavengers of the universe, devious and untrustworthy. They would sell their own grandmothers for any advantage on offer.

Of course, all of those things had been said about Sabalom Glitz at some time in his colourful career, but he still thought he was a rung or two above the Graske when it came to morality.

He watched all the others go into Mornington Crescent underground station before following.

“The name of the game comes from a long-running BBC radio programme,” The Doctor explained to his Time Lord companion, Romana, who knew only as much about planet Earth as he had been able to teach her. “It was adopted by the wealthy fifty-first century inventor of the Vortex Manipulator, Lord Arthur Sweetwell. Having put a modest sum into a bank in 1800, he collected the compound interest and retired to the second half of the twentieth century where he initiated the annual scavenger hunt for individuals and teams of amateur and professional time travellers.”

“Our people ALLOWED this?” Romana asked, slightly shocked by the idea of time travel as a leisure pursuit.

“They aren’t exactly keen,” The Doctor admitted. “But they let it go on as long as there is at least one Time Lord competing. Naturally they call on me quite often. But they have been known to send gifted graduates from the academies to see if they have the nous to join the Celestial Intervention Agency.”

“It still sounds a little… frivolous… for the High council. Not to say reckless, allowing people to wander all over time.”

“Hence their calling on me… the most frivolous and reckless Time Lord they’ve ever known, to keep an eye on things.”

“Those are not the only adjectives the High Council have applied to you, Doctor,” Romana reminded him. He grinned that grin that spread across his whole face and finished with a twinkle in his wide eyes. Ironically, Romana, who was neither frivolous nor reckless, had been sent to accompany The Doctor precisely for that reason. He thought he was mentoring her, a young, newly qualified Time Lord, but she was actually there to be a brake on his excesses.

She was very doubtful about the wisdom of this venture, but the High Council were caught out by their own policies when it came to things like this. As long as they stood by their insistence on non-interference in the affairs of other planets and species, they could not overtly put a stop to other races who developed time travel, only send operatives from the Celestial Intervention Agency to secretly scupper the more dangerous projects.

They probably thought this was too small time to worry about.

Glitz was the last to step onto the escalator down to the platform level. He clutched his ticket in his rough and calloused fingers. It was a standard London Underground ticket in all respects except that there was no destination on it. It was a single fare from Mornington Crescent to… Mornington Crescent.

At the bottom he watched the dwarf standing nervously as a train rushed through the station. The shimmer cloak shimmered and revealed his true form momentarily as the ground beneath his feet vibrated. Nobody else appeared to have noticed. Humans were good at not noticing things like that.

When it was quiet again the dwarf moved on towards a tiled wall near the far end of the platform. None of the humans waiting for trains noticed him disappear into the wall. They didn’t notice Glitz vanish into it, either.

Inside the perception wall there was a small room decorated lavishly with velvet curtains over a false window – it was underground, after all – and elegant mahogany furniture with silk and satin cushions.

Lord Arthur Sweetwell was sitting in a silk covered armchair in the middle of the room. He was dressed in ermine and velvet and smoking a huge cigar. He was flanked by two curvaceous women and two slender men dressed in silk robes. He smiled with a mouthful of gold fillings that glinted in the warm lamplight and consulted a list of names that one of the women brought to him on a gold clipboard. Everyone was present who should be present.

“As I call your names, step forward and take an envelope,” he said, waving a hand with diamond rings on each finger at a small basket full of silver-edged envelopes. “These will be the clues to your first location. The winner of the grand prize is the first man, woman or other to turn up on Mornington Crescent platform with all six of their scavenged souvenirs. The rules are simple – no causing temporal paradoxes, no obstruction of other competitors. All events are in real time. The clock starts when the last one of you goes back out through that door and it keeps on running no matter how much time travel you do. Nobody is permitted to use their time machines to beat the clock. Otherwise, anything goes. Good luck, ladies, gentlemen… others.”

The first name called out was Inigo Flume. The man in the opera clothes stepped forward and took an envelope. He secreted it beneath his cloak as he turned and left the room. Next was a team of two consisting of a nondescript looking man in a pinstripe suit and bowler hat who answered to the name of Boolian Logic and a dark skinned man called Negaq Fotatu. The dwarf went under the name of Tofamebu Zorezi and scurried away with his envelope clutched to his chest.

“The Doctor,” Sir Arthur Sweetwell called out. The man with the scarf and hat bowed his head respectfully as he stepped forward. Sir Arthur nodded in response. “Your fourth attempt,” he added. “Perhaps you’ll have better luck this time round.”

“I hope so,” The Doctor answered, taking his envelope and turning to leave with his companion. Sabalom Glitz was the last one to be called. He felt surprisingly nervous. Of course, the invitation to take part wasn’t his. He had liberated it from the body of a Bellusian bounty hunter who had drunk himself to death in the Maelstrom Bar on the edge of the Hydrox Galaxy. He had also liberated the Bellusian time ship and quickly learnt how to operate it. All he had to do was fool this old geezer and he would be on for the grand prize. He wasn’t sure what it was, exactly, but rumours and gossip led him to believe it was priceless.

“Tariq Azal,” Lord Sweetwell called out. Glitz stepped forward. Sweetwell looked him up and down carefully then nodded towards the basket. Glitz took the last envelope.

“Good luck, Mr Azal,” Lord Sweetwell said to him.

“Yeah, er… thanks,” Glitz replied. “Huh… yeah… thanks. See you later, I suppose.”

He turned and walked towards the exit with a measured pace, resisting the urge to run, feeling the eyes of Lord Sweetwell and his entourage burning into his back.

He stepped through the wall and out onto Mornington Crescent underground platform just as another train thundered through. The metal ornaments on his leather outfit rattled and vibrated as he ran towards the escalator and took the down stairs three at a time. He jumped across the ticket barrier and out through the door into the crowded Camden Street where he knew he was relatively safe. Nobody was going to shoot him in the back with so many innocent bystanders around him. Even so he didn’t slow his pace until he reached the place where he had left his ship.

“How come this park is called a square when it’s a triangle?” asked his faithful muscle-man, Dibber, as he came aboard.

“Have you been wondering about that since we parked up?” he asked. The one muscle that didn’t work especially well on Dibber was his brain. He wasn’t expecting a lot of help from him in this quest.

“So, what’s the first clue?” Romana asked when they were safely back in the TARDIS parked up next to the statue of Richard Cobden, the Victorian liberal thinker whom The Doctor claimed among his personal friends.

“Get the measure of an Imperial perch under Lord Nelson’s gaze.”

“That’s a bit cryptic. What does it mean?”

“Fishing,” The Doctor answered with absolute certainty. “Perch… fish… Lord Nelson… navy man… boats. HMS Victory. We have to catch a perch from the deck of the HMS Victory.”

“HMS Victory?”

“His ship,” The Doctor explained. “The Battle of Trafalgar, off the coast of Spain.”

Romana calmly consulted the TARDIS database and found a map of the Spanish coast, including Cape Trafalgar. She looked up the salient details of the famous battle.

Then she looked up sport fishing on planet Earth.

“Hardly,” she told The Doctor. “The perch is a freshwater fish.”

“Ah.”

Glitz was puzzled by his clue. He had no idea what it meant, and there was no point in expecting Dibber to contribute anything much.

“At the Centre!” He almost growled the words out loud. “The centre of what? The planet? I don’t think I’m going to try that in a ship like this.”

Dibber shrugged.

“City centre?” he suggested. “This IS a city, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it’s a city. A huge sprawling city. How do you think we’re supposed to go about finding the centre of it?”

“Well,” Dibber began, watching Glitz carefully. “On Salastophus, in the city I come from, there’s a big concrete thingummy, marking the centre – it’s where they start from when they measure how far it is to the next city.”

Glitz looked at Dibber as if he had just said the most stupid thing in the history of thought, then gave a smile rather like a fox who has found the loose bit of fence around the hen house.

“You know where the centre of London is?” Dibber asked.

“No idea,” Glitz answered. “But I bet at least one of the other competitors does. We’ll keep an eye on them. That Doctor one, for a start. He looks like a smart geezer. We’ll get a lock on his ship and follow him if he looks like he’s going anywhere near the middle of London.”

If he was being honest, and that would be a rare thing for Glitz, he really had no other choice. He didn’t know where any of the other competitors had gone or where their time machines were. The Doctor’s funny looking box was the only one within range. It was giving off vortex energy signals like a camp fire gives off heat. Glitz got ready to follow it as soon as it moved.

The TARDIS materialised outside the National Gallery in London in 1970. The date wasn’t especially important except that it was several years before CCTV was installed in Trafalgar Square and The Doctor had a strong suspicion he might have to do something just a little bit illegal.

Slightly illegal things were allowed in the Mornington Crescent Scavenger Hunt, just as long as they didn’t cause temporal paradoxes.

“I was on completely the wrong track,” The Doctor explained to Romana. “Perch… isn’t just a fish. It’s an old unit of measurement.”

“Really?” Romana looked genuinely interested. “So how long is a perch – the measurement, not the fish.”

In England it is defined as one quarter of a chain, or sixteen and a half feet – five point three metres in metric measure.”

Romana took hold of The Doctor’s long scarf and measured a length of it in her hands. Six blocks of colour were a metric metre. Five point three times the length of scarf she was holding was a very long souvenir to bring back into the TARDIS.

But The Doctor seemed to have an idea. He stepped out of the TARDIS commenting on the bracing air of early morning on an autumn day. Romana thought it just felt a little damp. The paving beneath her feet was wet and there was obviously more rain in the air.

The Doctor walked along the north wall of Trafalgar Square, directly opposite the Gallery, until he came to a place where brass plates had been set into the granite. One of them looked like a very long ruler with one foot, two foot, a yard, and an inch, the smallest imperial measurement of length marked on it. Another explained that these were official measurements placed by the Standards Department of the Board of Trade in the year MDCCCLXXVI – or 1876 in a more manageable form of date. A third plaque pointed out that the measurements were only accurate at 62° Fahrenheit. Of course, metal expanded and contracted depending on temperature. That was very basic thermodynamics. Romana didn’t comment about that since The Doctor was an expert in advanced thermodynamics and could get quite boring about it once he got started.

At the bottom of the wall was another brass plaque which The Doctor pointed out to her. It was at the end of a line carved into the granite and ending in the middle of the plaque itself. The words ‘one pole or perch’ were inscribed on it.

The plaque was far less than five point three metres long, but it was still quite big, and set firmly into the base of the wall.

“We could do a brass rubbing,” Romana proposed, and, indeed, The Doctor was unfolding a sheet of paper that had been in his voluminous pocket. But he used it to kneel on to keep his trousers dry while he used the sonic screwdriver to loosen the masonry screws that kept the plaque in place. Romana looked around guiltily to make sure there was nobody watching this act of public larceny. To her horror she actually spotted a policeman patrolling the Square. He stopped to check a car parked near the Gallery. He hadn’t spotted either of them, yet.

“Come along, Romana, don’t dawdle,” The Doctor said, slipping the plaque under his coat and throwing a loose end of his scarf around his neck. Romana followed him quickly and they were at the door of the police box when the constable passed them by with a friendly ‘morning guv’nor, miss,’ to them both.

“I NEVER dawdle,” Romana insisted when they were safely inside the TARDIS. “And what do you think you’re doing STEALING that plaque.”

“I’m not stealing it,” he answered. “Just borrowing it. I’ll bring it back afterwards.”

“You COULD have just taken a rubbing,” she repeated.

“No, I couldn’t. The next clue is on the underside of the plaque.”

Romana looked closely at the letters etched into the brass.

“Where the Queen of Time rides the Ship of Commerce, see a Scotsman’s vision unveiled.”

Romana was more than a little puzzled.

“The Queen of Time?” Her people were known as the Lords of Time, and occasionally, by the poetic and fanciful, as princes of the universe. But none of them had ever been known as the Queen of Time.

Women weren’t even recognised separately on Gallifrey. Time Lord was the designation for male and female in their meritocratic system of hierarchy. The idea of a Queen of Time would never enter their heads.

Though she thought she wouldn’t mind if somebody was to call her that.

The Doctor grinned as if he had seen her thoughts.

“It’s not about you, Romana,” he said. “Or any of our kind. As it happens, I know EXACTLY what this one is about.”

It was a complete coincidence that following The Doctor and Romana led Sabalom Glitz to his own clue, which happened to be only a few perches away from where the standard imperial measurements were recorded. If he had bothered with the history Glitz would have known that the centre of London was established in the thirteenth century when a memorial to Queen Eleanor, wife of King Edward I was built at Charing Cross on the south side of what later became Trafalgar Square. The Eleanor Cross was later replaced by a statue of King Charles I on his horse, but another brass plaque still marked the place where all distances to and from London began and ended.

Glitz kept a close eye on the policeman who had stopped to chat with his two rivals while Dibber worked around the plaque with a fusion chisel.

“Hurry up,” he hissed as the policeman walked on past the National Gallery. “He’s going to spot us any moment.”

And the policeman might well have done if he hadn’t been distracted by the sound of the TARDIS dematerialising. He looked back then walked to the spot where an unmistakeably solid police public call box had been a moment before. He looked all around for either the box or the two respectable people he had been talking to on that spot. It was then that he noticed the missing brass plaque marking the length of a perch or a pole. He looked around again and spotted the two scruffy looking characters hurrying away across the Square, one of them carrying something under his arm. By the time he reached Charles I, though, they were gone, and so was another plaque.

He didn’t mention the police box when he reported the incidents to his sergeant, later. He thought it was a detail too many. As for the brasses, he was quite surprised by the response from his superiors.

“Don’t worry. They go missing every so often. They always come back, good as new, a few hours later. We don’t know who does it, or why. We’ve never been able to catch them. When we do, their explanation had better be a good one.”

“Here we are,” The Doctor announced, standing before the entrance to a large department store in Oxford Street. The street was busy with pedestrians and road traffic, both of which reflected the era they belonged to – 1925, when the poor were just making ends meet and industrial strife was always looming, but the middle and upper classes had fashionable places like this to spend their money.

Romana looked like one of those middle classes in the outfit she had changed into. She quite liked the slimline mint green dress with just a hint of a flare from the waist for ease of walking. It went with white stockings and black court shoes, a silk scarf and very simple cloche hat and she felt delightfully feminine.

The Doctor, of course, looked just the same as ever. He was all things to all times.

“This is Selfridges,” he said with a wide sweep of his hand. Romana had guessed that much from the name across the entrance. He drew her attention to another feature above the main door. It was an elaborate clock with a multicoloured sculpture around it.

“The Queen of Time Riding the Ship of Commerce,” The Doctor said in explanation of the figure.

“So I see,” Romana answered. “What about the Scotsman’s vision?”

“That will be revealed inside,” The Doctor assured her. He took her arm and they stepped into what was, at that period, the world’s biggest department store, even outstripping its rivals in New York. The most feminine instincts within Romana longed to browse the perfume counter and the jewellery section, to try on dresses off the peg or select china for a dinner service. She had to remind herself very firmly that she was a Time Lord with a solemn duty, above such mere consumerism.

The Doctor led her upstairs to a gallery used for demonstrations of new products. There a man was setting up a very unusual exhibition of a product that would not be sold in the store for more than ten years, yet. When he set his complex machinery going, though, the first members of the public to see television were thoroughly impressed. The images were more like silhouettes than fully defined pictures of anything, but they were the very first transmitted images to appear on a screen.

When the demonstration was over, most of the spectators drifted away. A few stayed to ask questions about the remarkable new technology. The Doctor waited until they, too, had gone before approaching the inventor of television and addressing him by name.

“Baird, old chap, you’ve done it, at last,” he said. “After all your experiments, your system works.”

“There’s still a lot to do,” John Logie Baird answered in a broad Scots accent. “I’m glad you were here to see it, Doctor. You gave me a lot of encouragement in the early days.”

“You had a good idea. It needed encouraging, even though some of the future consequences of your invention are less than noble. There really is no excuse for Crossroads.”

Baird looked at The Doctor curiously for a moment then dismissed his comments from his mind completely.

“I wonder if I might just borrow something from you,” The Doctor said after a little more conversation about the experimental television equipment. He picked up a burnt out light bulb from the table. Baird must have wondered why The Doctor wanted a useless remnant of the demonstration, but of course he gave him permission. The Doctor pocketed the bulb and bid his old friend farewell.

“Find ananas comosus aurum at Wren’s largest parish church!” Sabalom Glitz looked worried as he read the clue on the underside of the plaque from Trafalgar Square. “What in Hades does that mean?”

Dibber shrugged.

“Isn’t a wren a sort of bird?” he asked. “I used to shoot birds when I was a kid.”

Glitz shrugged. If that was the right answer it didn’t help very much.

“Aurum?” he considered. “That sound a lot like the Salastophian word Auru – GOLD.”

His eyes lit up. So did Dibber’s. That was what they called a scavenger hunt.

“Saturday, August 10 1895,” Romana read the date printed on the old light bulb. “Is that our clue or when the bulb was made?”

“That’s our clue,” The Doctor answered. “Why don’t you solve it this time? Have fun with it.”

Glitz still hadn’t solved the clue, but he had managed to find the location of the ananas comosus aurum. He did so by following one of the other contestants, the thin man in the opera cloak called Inigo Flume, who travelled in time using an ion fusion cabinet that left a distinctive trail.

Flume had travelled to 1897, leaving his time capsule in the churchyard of St Andrews Parish Church, Holborn. Flume knew what Glitz and Dibber didn’t – that this church was built by Sir Christopher Wren in the restoration of London after the Great Fire of 1666. He also knew that the wrought iron railings around the church were topped off with gold-painted pineapple shapes. Pineapples were a symbol of hospitality and London had many examples of the pineapple decoration on public buildings.

Flume might have explained that to Glitz if he had asked politely. He might even have added that ananas comosus was the Latin name of the pineapple, therefore making the whole clue perfectly clear.

But Glitz didn’t ask anything politely. Instead he knocked Flume on the head with a fusion chisel and grabbed the gold-painted pineapple that he had carefully detached from the railings.

Flume woke a few minutes later with a sore head and a feeling of utter indignation. Contestants were not supposed to steal from each other. When he found out who was responsible, he would lodge a formal complaint.

Meanwhile, he set his time machine to go back a few days. He cut the pineapple off the railing with his hand held sonic lance and put it into a small leather bag. After the competition was over it would be put back again and the join seamlessly repaired, which meant it would be there for him to take the first time, and for his assailant to steal from him. Time travel was funny like that.

Meanwhile there was another clue to solve, another location in time and space to find.

Many things happened on Saturday August 10th, 1895. Many things happen every day, of course. But Romana was fairly sure that she had worked out what was the most important thing to happen in London on that particular day.

“The very first First Night of the Proms,” The Doctor said as he and Romana strolled along Langham Place to the classically built Queens Hall where a great British institution was about to begin. Romana listened as he told her all about the great Proms he had attended over the centuries since this day in 1895, the hundredth anniversary Prom in 1995, the two hundredth in 2095 when the orchestra played on the Last Night on a gravity cushion above the audience, the time when the guest tenor got a sore throat and he, The Doctor, stepped in at the last moment to lead the crowd in Rule Britannia.

Actually, Romana was sure that was one of The Doctor’s really big whopping lies, the sort too big to really believe.

But it all began here on this night, with ordinary people dressed up nicely for an outing but still far less elaborately than the top hats and silk suits of the usual concert-going gentry, paying a shilling each for the promenade or gallery. The Doctor bought two tickets and a programme promising God Save The Queen as the opening music, followed by Wagner’s Overture to Rienzi, Leoncavallo, Chabrier, Saint-Saens and Lizt in a concert lasting over three hours, during which the audience were free to eat, drink and smoke or even walk around – hence the term Promenade.

“This is what we came for,” The Doctor said, looking at a line of very small print on the back of the programme. “This is our next clue. We’ll get on with it after the concert. Take a seat, Romana. Have a chocolate.” He offered a small but exquisitely presented box to her. She took it hesitantly.

“Shouldn’t we go?” she suggested. “If we have the clue?”

“Oh, there’s time enough to watch the concert. Don’t you worry.” He relaxed in a seat at the front of the balcony as the orchestra tuned up, dipping in his pocket for a jelly baby. Romana sat and tried a chocolate and decided she might as well enjoy herself.

Glitz was cheating again. He could not make head nor tail of the clue on the pineapple so he followed the Graske disguised as a dwarf. He was using a vortex manipulator of the sort commonly used by the Time Agents of fifty-first century Earth. Glitz knew that any such tool in the hands of anyone but a Time Agent had to be either stolen or bought from the thief, so he felt absolutely no qualms about following somebody who was also cheating.

Then again, Glitz rarely had qualms about anything, and Dibber couldn’t even spell the word, let alone worry about having them.

The Doctor and Romana were making their way out of the Queen’s Hall after a very pleasant evening when they met two of the other Mornington Crescent Questers. They almost didn’t recognise Boolian Logic, so nondescript were his clothes and his demeanour, but his companion, Negaq Fotatu, was an object of curiosity for the Promenaders. A tall man with coal black skin and piercing blue eyes, dressed in a highly embroidered ankle length Dashiki was bound to stand out in any London crowd – apart from the one at the Notting Hill Carnival, anyway.

“Good evening, gentleman,” The Doctor said, tipping his hat to them. “Well met by moonlight.”

There WAS a moon. Romana glanced up at it, but the phrase was not exactly the sort Victorian men would use. The Doctor was using an intergalactic greeting that was known to all time and space travellers.

“Well met, indeed, Doctor,” Boolian Logic answered. “It is inevitable, of course, that some of us should meet in the course of the quest. You are doing well thus far?”

“We are,” The Doctor answered. Romana noted that the friendliness was genuine, but it was obvious that neither The Doctor nor either of the other two competitors were going to give anything away about their progress in the game.

But there was one thing that Negaq Fotatu had to say to his fellow Quester.

“Watch your back, Doctor. There’s somebody not playing the game fairly. Inigo Flume got knocked on the head for his souvenir earlier, and somebody picked Boolian’s pocket here at the Promenade - his programme with the next clue on was stolen.”

“Do you think it WAS one of the competitors?” Romana asked. She ventured the opinion that pickpockets would be in any crowded place, and the Promenade concert had been crowded.

“But who other than a Mornington Crescenter would think a sixpenny programme worth the risk?” Boolian Logic pointed out with perfect and indisputable logic. “The culprit will be revealed when we all return to the station, however. Flume’s souvenir bears the mark of his personal sonic lance, a distinct signature, and I had marked the front of my programme with my initials.”

“That is reassuring,” The Doctor said.

“But a cheat taking part in Mornington Crescent!” Negaq Fotatu shook his head mournfully. “What is the universe coming to when gentlemen no longer play by the rules?”

“I’m afraid the universe is the same as it always was,” The Doctor replied. “With true gentlemen few and far between. But we must be going. There are still clues to be solved.”

“Yes, indeed,” Boolian Logic answered. “Farewell, Doctor. And may the best team win.”

Glitz and Dibber mingled with the crowd and acquired a couple of nice pocket watches in addition to the vital programme from the Promenade. When they sold them in three or four hundred years time as genuine antiques they would more than make up for the fact that the pineapple they went to so much trouble to acquire was only a lump of cast iron with gold paint on it. But Glitz still had his eye on the prize for getting back to Mornington Crescent with all six of his souvenirs intact.

To be Continued….