The Chickens of Atlantis and Other Foul and Filthy Fiends (31 page)

‘Well, they will this time,’ I said, ‘if we are unable to stop them.’

‘Bravo, Darwin,’ said my friend, and he patted me on the shoulder. ‘I knew you would not let me down. In for a penny, in for a pound, as it might be.’

If we had inhabited the pages of a comic book, I am certain that a question mark would have formed above my head at this moment. ‘What do you mean by
that
?’ I asked Mr Bell.

‘You volunteered yourself without being asked by me,’ he replied. ‘You said, “If
we
are unable to stop them.’”

‘Well, stop them
we
must,’ I said.

And we shook hands upon
that
.

We returned to the
Marie Lloyd
and within her we travelled back in time.

‘Would it be presumptuous of me to ask,’ I ventured, ‘whether you have any plan of campaign whatsoever germinating, as it might be, as some seedling in your mind?’

Mr Bell was opening champagne. ‘I plan to share
this
with you,’ he replied.

‘And then?’

‘A bath and some sleep. I will cogitate upon these pressing matters. I will not let you down this time, I promise you.’

I gave myself a scratch and said, ‘I trust you.’

‘But tell me,’ said my friend as he poured champagne for me, ‘how do you feel in yourself? How
do
you feel?’

‘I feel very well indeed,’ I said, ‘and glad to be once more alive. Being dead was not so bad, but I prefer life any time.’ I took my champagne. We clinked our glasses. I toasted Mr Bell.

‘So,’ said he. ‘To eighteen eighty-five.’

In the early months of that momentous year, the man of the hour was that fearless explorer, big-game hunter and pioneer of the air Colonel James Richardson-Brown. Lionised by high society, admired by ladies and envied by men, Colonel James had slashed his way through the jungles of darkest Africa in search of lost cities, bagged lions on the plains of the Serengeti and taken potshots at aerial kraken from the bewickered basket of a hot-air balloon. His lectures at the Egyptian Hall, Piccadilly, were given before packed audiences with the assistance of his
amour
and travelling companion, that silken lovely Miss Defy, a winsome creature of proven courage and outstanding natural beauty.

Together they reflected the glory of the British Empire and personified all that was
right
with the world.

Mr Cameron Bell had, in his youth, been a great admirer of Colonel James Richardson-Brown, and, it had to be said, a solitary worshipper of the gorgeous Miss Defy.
^*
It seemed
natural therefore to my friend that he should seek out this hero and heroine of the Empire and enlist their help to protect the realm from the forthcoming Martian invasion.

I landed the
Marie Lloyd
at night, to the rear of the Bell family home in Kent, switched off the ignition and hung the key once more about my neck.

Then to be assailed by a dreadful odour.

‘Whatever is
that
?’ I asked in dismay. ‘Has something died hereabouts?’

‘That's quite enough of
that
,’ said Mr Bell, who was as always impeccably dressed. Impeccably dressed but smelling (as I believe the phrase goes) like a tart's handbag in summer.

‘It is eau de cologne,’ said my friend, wafting his fragrance in my direction.

‘It is awful,’ I told him.

‘To
you
it is.’ Mr Bell did dustings at his dust-free lapels. ‘It is not concocted to attract those of the simian species. Ladies, I am told, find it quite irresistible.’

‘Ladies?’ I queried. ‘And who told you this?’

Mr Bell gave a little throat-clearing cough. ‘Aaaaagter Cxrronay,’ he said.

‘I did not quite catch that,’ I said.

‘Aleister Crowley,’ said my friend. ‘It is composed from civet, ambergris and musk – ladies adore it.’

‘Ah,’ I said, and, ‘All becomes clear. You are thinking to entrance this Miss Defy woman with your godless perfume?’

Mr Bell's face became tomato red.

‘It just will not do,’ said I to Mr Bell.

‘I know my own business best,’ said himself.

‘No,’ I said. ‘It will
not
do. It is far too late in the story to suddenly introduce a “love interest”. Or, I would argue, even a “strong lead female”. I do not think we have encountered a single woman throughout the entire course of our
adventures. And whilst this is inconceivable and will certainly preclude Nineteenth Century Fox from wishing to acquire the film rights, some might argue that we have created the very first “buddy book”.’

Mr Bell's mouth opened and closed but no sounds came from it. When finally they did, they came in words to the effect that breaking down the fourth wall was not a good thing, and I should for the remaining pages of the adventure keep such thoughts to myself.

I shrugged and nodded. ‘You smell very nice,’ I said to Mr Bell.

‘That is much better. So, dress for a day in the city. Bring some light armaments, and if you are thinking to do something witty, such as smearing the soles of your shoes with dung, do
not
!’

‘As if I
would
,’ I said to Mr Bell, and repaired to my cabin and my wardrobe.

An hour later, moonlight found us in an acquired carriage, pulled by an acquired horse and travelling in the direction of central London.

‘Colonel Richardson-Brown will be signing copies of his latest best-selling epistle
The Life of the Air Kraken
at Foyles
^*
this evening, with a champagne reception later at The Ritz.’

‘I do like champagne.’ I smacked my lips. ‘And I do very much like The Ritz.’

‘Then you will find the evening very much to your liking. I must convince the colonel and his lovely lady –’ and Mr Bell's cheeks coloured once more ‘– of the reality of the forthcoming Martian invasion. This will not be easy.’

‘You could show them your ray gun, or even give them a guided tour around the
Marie Lloyd
.’

‘If it proves necessary, then so it must be.’ Mr Bell had a very intense expression on his face and I could see that he was a very worried man. This was hardly surprising, really, because it was after all
his
abortive attempt to capture Arthur Knapton at the Great Exhibition of eighteen fifty-one which had caused that rotter to vow terrible vengeance and unleash his bacteriologically immune Martians upon the world. Mr Bell must certainly have been feeling some guilt and some consternation. I have to say that
I
did not feel particularly confident.

We drove on in silence.

It was wonderful to be back in London. So much was exactly as I had remembered it. Certainly, as this
was
eighteen eighty-five, the great city lacked for the tall Tesla towers which broadcast electricity across the Empire's capital without the need for cables, and none of the back-engineered technology gained from the abandoned Martian spaceships was in evidence. No mighty airships passed overhead, no electric hansoms purred by. But it
was
London.
My
London. Mine and Mr Bell's, and we were glad to see it again. Although we worried for its survival.

‘You had best exhibit discretion regarding your vocal capabilities,’ said my friend. ‘And you
do
look
very
smart and smell
very
nice.’

‘Carbolic soap,’ I said to Mr Bell. ‘Clean in body and thought and deed. That is me.’

‘Quite so.’

There was quite a queue outside Foyles, of lords and ladies dressed in the height of fashion. The lords affected noble poses, shoulders back and chins thrust upwards. The ladies
fluttered fans before their faces. As well they might, given the preponderance of male perfume that burdened the evening air.

Mr Bell did not, of course, have an entrance ticket. He did, however, have his handshake and his imagination. And without a by your leave from myself, he lifted me suddenly into his arms, shouted, ‘Exotic animal delivery for Colonel Richardson-Brown,’ and pressed his way to the front of the queue. Where he employed his handshake.

We had very good seats, right at the front, and I thoroughly enjoyed the lecture. There was no doubt that the colonel was an extremely good-looking and charismatic young man, or that the astonishing Miss Defy was anything less than adorable.

But as the colonel's tales continued, tales of adventure and bravery and derring-do, growing ever in extravagance and wonder, I began to smell something that was not composed of civet, ambergris and musk.

I began to smell a rat.

‘Mr Bell,’ I whispered to my friend. ‘I do believe that the colonel is, how shall I put this, being a little economical with the truth.’

The colonel was at this moment holding forth about his encounters with a yeti on the slopes of Kangchenjunga. And miming the employment of a martial art he named as Dimac to demonstrate how he had saved the lives of numerous Sherpas, to then be carried shoulder-high to their village where he was immediately added to the pantheon of Tibetan Gods.

Mr Bell shushed me and sighed. I noted a rather foolish expression spread over his face. It was clear that he had eyes and ears for none but Miss Defy.

*

The book signing went almost without incident. My appearance at the signing table in the arms of Mr Bell occasioned Miss Defy to draw out a derringer and express a wish to ‘bag’ me.

I enjoyed the champagne and The Ritz, though.

Mr Bell and I dwelt on the outskirts of the crowd.

‘You do know,’ I whispered to my friend, ‘that he makes most of this stuff up. I will wager you he's never travelled further south than Brighton.’

Mr Bell did chewings at his lip. ‘I have made my observations of the colonel,’ he said, ‘and have drawn certain conclusions of my own.’

‘Such as that his complexion is not “tanned by the relentless sun of the Sahara” as he averred, but tinted by coconut oil from Boots the Chemist?’

‘Harsh,’ said Mr Bell. ‘But true. That Miss Defy is a beautiful woman, don't you think?’

‘Enchanting,’ I said. ‘But do you
really
believe these people can actually help us?’

‘Trust me,’ said Mr Bell.

And I trusted him.

Presently the champagne was done and in ones and twos the gentry drifted away. Eventually all that remained were the colonel and his small entourage: publisher, publicist, broken-nosed guardian and his lovely companion.

And us.

‘Colonel,’ said Mr Bell, marching up to the colonel and offering a smart and faultless salute.

‘At ease,’ said the colonel, giving some kind of salute in reply. Then, sighting me, he continued, ‘Chap with the ape, do keep that under control.’

Mr Bell ignored this slight. ‘I have an urgent matter to discuss,’ said he. ‘The future of the Empire rests upon it.’

‘Future of the Empire, eh?’ The adventurous author tugged out his pocket watch. ‘Can give you a couple of mins, I suppose. Spit it out.’

‘A private matter,’ said Mr Bell.

‘No secrets here,’ said the colonel.

Mr Bell leaned forwards and whispered certain words into the colonel's ear. I was not privy to these words, but I assumed that Mr Bell had drawn something incriminating from his observation of the colonel and was making the hint that this incriminating something might well be publicised should the colonel not deign to offer him a private audience.

The colonel coughed and flustered. ‘Best come up to my rooms,’ said he. ‘We will discuss these matters in private.’

‘Do bring your charming companion,’ said Mr Bell. ‘I have every intention of bringing
mine
.’

And so we adjourned to the colonel's suite of rooms.

Where interesting things occurred.

*
It is quite clear what Darwin means by
this,
but it is best not dwelt upon. (R. R.)

*
Foyles, the discerning reader will have realised, did not open until 1903. But given all that has gone before, do we
really
care? (R. R.)

37

‘
ou are a hero of the Empire,’ said Mr Cameron Bell. ‘And you, madam, too, are possessed of heroic qualities to the degree that you are idolised.’ Mr Bell bowed low to the lovely Miss Defy.

We were sipping the chilled champagne that Mr Bell had ordered and sitting in the luxurious lounge room of the colonel's suite at The Ritz.

The wallpaper was Chinese, the coffee tables Turkish, the champagne from the south of France and the bananas from the Temperate House in Kew Gardens. And none of us gave a fig for the fact that The Ritz was not built until the twentieth century.

Mr Bell, who, in my personal opinion, had indulged in rather too much champagne, was on his feet and holding forth with vigour.

‘You are,’ he continued, topping up his glass as he did so, ‘two of the most famous and feted people in all of the British Empire.’

Miss Defy smiled coyly.

Colonel Richardson-Brown just nodded his head.

‘And so it is fit and proper,’ my friend went on, ‘that the two of you play a part, a
leading
part – leading
parts
, indeed – in the drama that lies ahead.’

‘What, precisely, is the nature of this drama?’ asked the colonel, availing himself of the champagne and splashing some into the glass of Miss Defy.