The Chickens of Atlantis and Other Foul and Filthy Fiends (22 page)

‘Praise be for that,’ said Cameron Bell.

‘But I must be sure.’

Darwin left his monkeys in the care of Mr Bell and was gone from the ship for almost an hour, but he was smiling when he returned.

‘All is indeed safe,’ said he. ‘There are no dinosaurs, nor did I smell any monkey-eating predators. This is where my monkeys can live in freedom.’

The monkeys left the time-ship two by two.

They ambled into the sweet-smelling glade and stood in a big hairy horde.

Darwin addressed his monkeys from the port of the
Marie Lloyd
. ‘This is my goodbye to you,’ he said. ‘You will be happy here with no man to hunt you down, or cage you in, or bother you in any way at all. You can make good lives for yourselves here. Some of you have already mastered the rudiments of Man-speak and indeed the formative skills of reading and writing, and I have given you the power of Man's red flower. My friend Mr Bell and I must leave you now. I love you all. Farewell.’

The monkeys waved to Darwin, and Darwin sniffed away a tear as the port rose up and closed.

The
Marie Lloyd
shimmered in the dawn-of-time sunlight, then was gone.

An ape, slightly bigger than the rest, raised a thumb and said, ‘Goodbye.’

The monkeys grinned, the monkeys skittered, then got down to monkey business.

And, as a fairy tale should end . . .

They all lived very happily ever after.

25

‘
hat really was a
very
happy happily-ever-after, wasn't it, Mr Bell?’ I said (once more in ‘first monkey’) as I put the
Marie Lloyd
into forward-mode and we set off
Back to the Future
.

Mr Bell sat with his head in his hands. ‘Look at the state of the ship,’ said he. ‘Look at the state of the ship.’

I sniffed the air and had to confess that it did rather smell of monkey. ‘But we did a great thing,’ I said. ‘And it
was
a happily-ever-after.’

Mr Bell shrugged but had to agree that it was.

‘My monkeys will be happy back there and then,’ I said. ‘It is a wonderful place for them to be. In fact, I would go so far as to say that it was quite the Garden of Eden.’

Mr Bell looked up and opened his mouth.

And a very strange expression came to his face.

‘Darwin,’ he said. ‘Oh, Darwin, what have you done?’

‘I think we should open the champagne now,’ I said to Cameron Bell.

26

rather enjoyed that champagne. I felt that I had earned it. Mr Bell, however, did not drink it down with his usual enthusiasm. He kept mumbling phrases such as ‘Garden of Eden’ and ‘Man evolved from monkeys’ and ‘you might be the Father of all Mankind’.

I did not mind these mumblings, for they did not spoil the taste of that champagne.

Quite the opposite, in fact.

There was an awful lot of clearing up to be done aboard the
Marie Lloyd
. An awful lot of scrubbing floors and polishing things now covered with fingermarks. But together Mr Bell and I returned our time-ship to a clean and serviceable state.

But it did take several days to do it. And we did refresh ourselves each night with champagne.

‘Aha,’ said I, upon the fifth morning after our departure from the past. ‘The dials and counters on the dashboard are once more within the limits of recorded time. Should I bring us to a halt in eighteen twenty-four at the Theater am Kärntnertor
in Vienna, so we can finally enjoy Beethoven conducting the premiere performance of the Ninth?’

Mr Bell, now well shaved, well kempt and somewhat less wild of eye, shook his head. ‘My work is not yet done with Arthur Knapton,’ he said.

‘I regret we have lost him for sure,’ I replied, though I did
not
regret it at all. ‘We have no idea where and when he is now, and you told me that we cannot return to wheres and whens we've already visited or we will encounter ourselves and things will get overly complicated.’

‘True enough,’ said himself. ‘But there are still ways and means.’

I gave myself a hearty scratch. ‘What do you mean by
that
?’ I asked.

‘Think about it,’ said my friend, drawing an armchair near to my pilot's seat. ‘Think about what he said in Fairyland. What he boasted about. That he would be ruler—’

‘In every age,’ I said, and I scratched myself again. ‘He intends to rule everywhere in every period of time. To my mind a most original ambition. If somewhat difficult to realise.’

‘If anyone can do it,
he
can,’ said Mr Bell in a grudging tone. ‘And why do you keep scratching at yourself?’

‘It started a week ago,’ I said, ‘when we had my monkeys on board. I hate to admit it, but I think they have given me fleas.’

Mr Bell moved his armchair away from my seat. ‘We'll get you some flea powder the next time we stop,’ said he.

I shook my head. ‘Actually, I think I will keep them,’ I said. ‘There is something almost comforting about them. They will always remind me of my monkeys.’

Mr Bell rose, came over and gingerly patted my shoulder.
‘I understand,’ he said. ‘But if any of those fleas choose to change their allegiance and seek residence upon my person, you will be taking a big deep antiseptic bath and no arguments at all about
that
.’

‘We are almost out of bananas and champagne,’ I said. ‘We will have to stop somewhere and sometime, sometime soon. So to speak.’

‘And some
where
and some-
when
, where and when Mr Arthur Knapton is not already King of the Castle.’

‘Nor has his cronies lying in wait to catch us.’

‘Quite so, my little friend, and I know the very time and very place.’

I held my breath and wondered what was coming.

‘Eighteen fifty-one,’ said my friend. ‘We shall go to the Great Exhibition.’

Now, I had been keen to visit the Great Exhibition anyway, what with its purported abundance of banana trees, but I did ask my friend why he chose that particular time and place above all others.

‘Because that is where Arthur Knapton's henchman assassinates Queen Victoria!’

Which had me all but falling from my pilot's seat.

‘What of this?’ I asked when I was able.

‘Recall our time in Blitz-torn London?’

I nodded without enthusiasm.

‘When I visited a bookshop and discovered that history only remembered us as fictional characters?’

‘I did not like that one bit,’ I said.

‘Well, I read other things in other books in that shop, and it turns out that the reason the past changed—’

‘It changed because Arthur Knapton changed it.’

‘True, but the question I wanted answered was, “How?” The answer was that Queen Victoria was assassinated during a visit to the Great Exhibition in eighteen fifty-one and her crown was passed on to—’

‘Do not tell me,’ I said. ‘Good King Arthur, was it?’

‘Prince Arthur of Bavaria, a previously unknown son of Victoria. Certain papers found in the Queen's bedchamber stated implicitly that the crown of England should be placed upon the head of this Arthur should any ill befall her. Arthur Knapton was crowned King of England the following year and he brought a halt to the marvellous technology of Mr Tesla and Mr Babbage, effectively changing history.’

‘Just fancy
that
,’ I said. And then I had a little think. ‘Hold on right there,’ I further said. ‘If this is the case and you knew of it back in war-torn London, why did we waste our time following the bus-ticket clue and nearly getting our heads chopped off when we could have gone straight to the Great Exhibition?’

Mr Bell said something about a pressing appointment in the toilet and left the cockpit at the hurry-up.

I must say that when first I read of the Great Exhibition, I found it a Wonder of the World. Built in eighteen fifty-one, it was a triumph of that modern age, a masterpiece of prefabricated construction. It simply bristled with ‘first time ever’ statistics.

I list here but a few.

It took only nine months from organisation to opening and remained open in Hyde Park for less than six months before it was taken down and reconstructed in a slightly different form upon Sydenham Hill. It became the very symbol of the British Empire, and when I learned that we were going to visit it, I was very excited indeed and went at once to my wardrobe to seek out suitable attire.

Exactly where we would set down the time-ship became a matter for debate. This was, after all, an adapted Martian warship, and although in eighteen fifty-one no one had ever encountered a Martian warship as the invasion did not occur until eighteen eighty-five, there was still the matter of it being an advanced metal-clad flying machine, and such craft did not exist at the time of the Great Exhibition. We had no wish to cause alarm, or indeed occasion our own arrests.

My various ‘sensible’ suggestions were overruled by Mr Bell, who decided that the best place to land the
Marie Lloyd
would be in the orchard to the rear of a country house in Kent which at that time was owned by his family.

‘I recall my father telling me that they spent the summer of eighteen fifty-one in London, visiting the Great Exhibition.’

So that was settled, then.

We landed on the twelfth of July, eighteen fifty-one, in the orchard to the rear of Hyphephilia House, which I recall had rather interesting curtains. We landed without incident and, to the best of our knowledge, unseen.

Mr Bell commandeered a horse from a neighbouring field, hitched it to a two-wheeled trap commandeered from a nearby barn and we set off for London.

We looked very dapper, did Mr Bell and I, both in our morning suits. I cut a rather dashing figure in top hat and kid gloves and all.

It was a beautiful summer's day and the lanes of Kent were glorious to drive through. Mr Bell took some pains to knock the occasional passing cleric from his bicycle, as he told me that nothing very funny had happened for a while.

I shook my head in a dignified way and pondered over the various bulges in my friend's apparel. Ray guns and dynamite, I supposed.

‘Please tell me what you know of this assassination,’ I asked Mr Bell as merrily we rode along.

‘The newspapers of the time describe him as an anarchist who approached the Royal Party and murdered the Queen.’

‘Did the papers name him?’ I asked. ‘And perhaps give his address? That would be useful. We could pay him a visit before he sets off and bonk him on the head.’

‘Sadly, no,’ said Mr Bell. ‘But we do know the time and the place of the assassination itself.’

‘And if we save the Queen and prevent Arthur Knapton from taking her throne, we can consider that a job well done. We will have saved history as well as the Queen.’

‘Precisely. And I make no bones about it – I am prepared to kill Arthur Knapton, should the need arise.’

‘Do warn me when the time comes,’ I said. ‘I would dearly like to watch.’

Because, gentle reader, I really hated Arthur Knapton now. He had, after all, sent myself and Mr Bell to the executioner's block and in one version of history arranged
the assassination of Queen Victoria, and frankly I could find no good whatsoever in this dreadful person.

‘I hate to ask this,’ I said to my friend, ‘but do you have any sort of plan?’

Mr Bell beamed and his face fairly glowed. ‘Oh yes I do,’ said he. ‘I will not be caught napping by Knapton this time. We have two days before the assassination will take place – more than enough time for me to do what I do best.’

‘Blow things up?’ I asked Mr Bell.