The Chickens of Atlantis and Other Foul and Filthy Fiends

by Robert Rankin FVSS

  The sky above was not at all clear. Thunder rattled chimney-pots and lightning flung brightness and stark shadows about in a manner that was most alarming. The rain poured down and down and down and I grew quite afraid.

  Mr Bell, being the kindly man that he was, brought what comfort he could to me with light but caring pats upon the shoulder. Then, when the hansom had departed and we were left in an otherwise deserted street before the big locked gates, he drew a stick of dynamite from his pocket.

  ‘Surely not yet?’ I cried upon sighting it.

  ‘But we must open the gates,’ said he, ‘to gain entry. My portly form will not permit me to shin over them.’

  ‘My slight and nimble one will, however, permit me to do so,’ said I. ‘I assume that keys might be found within that little brick house there marked Gatekeeper's Lodge?’ For the lightning periodically illuminated such a building.

  Mr Bell nodded, and as I swarmed up the rain-drenched iron gates, I swear I heard his distinctive chuckle momentarily made audible amongst the thrashings of the storm.

  I returned at length in the company of keys.

  ‘The gatekeeper slept?’ asked Mr Bell.

  ‘The sleep of the inebriate,’ I said.

  ‘Or possibly the drugged.’ Mr Bell availed himself of the keys.

  ‘Please hurry now,’ I said. ‘I am growing most chilly.’

  Within minutes, we had entered both gates and building. The museum, a pleasant enough place by daylight, looked far from pleasing now, lit only by periodic flashes of lightning. The statues and ancient artefacts became fearful in this untender and uncertain illumination and I trembled from more than just cold.

  Mr Bell perused his pocket watch, a gift from a grateful Jovian plutocrat for sorting out a delicate business that involved an actress, a bishop and a kiwi bird called Cuddles. ‘It nears the hour of one,’ he whispered to me, though his whispered words echoed terribly within the great atrium. ‘We must set ourselves to hiding in the Egyptian Gallery. Follow me.’

  I did as I was bid and followed Mr Bell through deserted galleries and up a broad flight of marble steps. I tugged at my friend's trouser leg and asked him what, precisely, was the nature of the crime that was about to be committed.

  ‘Ah,’ said he, with a certain lightness of whisper. ‘The sarcophagus of the God-Pharaoh Akhenaten will be stolen tonight from its unlocked cabinet.’

  ‘Having acquired a set of keys to this museum myself with very little bother,’ I said, ‘I cannot imagine unlocking a cabinet would present much of a problem to a determined thief.’

  ‘No key unlocked that cabinet,’ said Mr Bell.

  I shrugged.

  ‘And anyway,’ he went on, ‘it was not merely the sarcophagus that was stolen – which alone weighs several tons and was removed without leaving a single trace of how it was removed. It was something more than that.’

  ‘Something more than that?’ I whispered. Thoughtfully.

  ‘Something more indeed,’ said Mr Bell. ‘All at once and all in a single night. Gone without trace and never seen again.’

  I raised my eyes and said, ‘What?’

  ‘The entirety of the British Library,’ said Mr Cameron Bell. ‘All twenty thousand, two hundred and forty volumes.’

  ‘All in a single night?’ said I. ‘Now surely you are having a gi-raffe.’

  4

  e were making a cautious passage through the Etruscan Gallery when first we heard the chanting. I looked up at Mr Bell, and in the uncertain light I saw him put his finger to his lips. Together we crept forward until, upon reaching the far doorway, we espied them.

  Nubians!

  I knew them to be such because I had most recently read an article in The Times newspaper penned by Mr Hugo Rune concerning the construction of ancient monuments. I will not tire the reader here with Mr Rune's theories on the subject as they may be found written up in considerable detail elsewhere.* The article in The Times had been profusely illustrated. A Nubian slave was pictured beneath a paragraph that claimed the Great Pyramid was merely the capping stone of a far larger obelisk that had sunk into the desert sands due to inadequate foundations.

  ‘Nubians,’ I whispered to Mr Cameron Bell.

  ‘Nubians indeed,’ this fellow whispered back to me. ‘And take a peep to see what they are doing.’

  I took such a peep and noted well that they had formed a human chain, which stretched through the doorway and off into the distance towards the Egyptian Gallery. The human links in this chain were passing from hands to hands what must surely be the contents of the British Library.

  ‘There are dozens of Nubians,’ I further whispered.

  ‘Hundreds,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘And all in the employ of the Pearly Emperor.’

  I must confess that the sight of so many Nubian slaves, so very far from the Nile Delta and stripped to the waist upon such a chilly night, caused me not only considerable concern, but did tend to lend credibility to Mr Bell's suspicions. Which should, of course, have caused me to give credit where credit was due, had it not been for the obvious thought that they were so many and we so few in number.

  This obvious thought was in turn followed by another. That the explosively inclined Mr Bell might well choose to even up the odds through the employment of dynamite.

  ‘What do you suppose they are chanting?’ I whispered, perhaps in the hope of distracting him from any such thinking.

  ‘Aom eeom Aten,’ said my friend. And, surprising me with his arcane knowledge, he added, ‘In the ancient Egyptian sacred tongue, the chant means “living spirit of the Aten” and is spoken in praise of the God-Pharaoh Akhenaten.’

  ‘He of the mysteriously stolen sarcophagus,’ I remarked.

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘And how do you know of such stuff?’

  ‘I did my research,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Here amongst the tomes of the British Library.’

  I was about to ask further questions, but Mr Bell once more put his finger to his lips and then beckoned with it that I should follow him.

  We crept forward to gain a better view of the nefarious goings-on and caught sight of a mysterious yellow glow emanating from the Egyptian Gallery, many yards and many book-passing Nubians in the distance.

  ‘Do you have that new-fangled portable telephone,’ I asked, ‘which Mr Tesla gave you as a reward for sorting out that delicate affair concerning the actress, the bishop and the collie dog called Daisy? You might well now employ it and call for police reinforcements.’

  Mr Bell offered me a certain glance, which I observed but briefly in the flashings of the lightning. ‘I fear not,’ said he, ‘for it has yet to be invented.’

  And I mused upon this.

  Mr Bell delved into his pocket.

  And brought forth, to my great relief, his ray gun.

  ‘Ah,’ whispered I. ‘Then blast away, do, Mr Bell. I shall wait here for your victorious return.’

  ‘You will accompany me,’ said the great detective. ‘But in truth I wish no harm to come to you, so climb up onto my shoulders for now, but be prepared to take cover.’

  I took off my sou'wester and mittens and tucked them away into my Ulster coat, then clambered onto the shoulders of Cameron Bell. ‘What precisely is your plan?’ I whispered at his ear.

  ‘Each floor's galleries are joined together to form a quadrangle,’ Mr Bell replied. ‘We will retrace our steps, then skirt all the way around the building and enter the Egyptian Gallery from its most distant door rather than its nearest. Do you understand what I mean?’

  I shook my head. ‘Of course I do,’ I said.

  And so we did skirtings about, through further deserted and lightning-lit galleries, eventually to come upon the most distant door of the Egyptian Gallery.

  Through which we furtively peeped.

  Mr Bell drew back of a sudden. ‘Well now, indeed,’ whispered he.

  ‘What did you see?’ I asked him.

  ‘What I had hoped not to see, but susp
ected that I might.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Akhenaten himself,’ said Cameron Bell.

  And indeed, as the two of us now peeped forwards, there was certainly no doubt in my mind that my friend spoke the truth. My knowledge of ancient Egypt is not profound, but even I know that Akhenaten was the strange pharaoh. The one with the weird long face and un-Egyptian features. The one that never seemed to fit. The one who messed about with the ancient Egyptian religion. The being that now stood in the Egyptian Gallery, bathed in a curious yellow light and directing the Nubians to load the contents of the British Library into his own sarcophagus, could, in my opinion, be none other than Akhenaten the odd God-Pharaoh himself.

  I now became once more afraid. ‘Surely,’ I whispered, ‘his body lies in that sarcophagus. This must be the ghost of Akhenaten.’

  Mr Bell nodded without conviction.

  ‘This is not work for a detective,’ I further whispered. ‘This is work for a priest and exorcist.’

  Mr Bell said, ‘We shall see,’ and cocked his ray gun.

  Then he said, ‘Hold on tightly, Darwin,’ and marched through the open doorway.

  Akhenaten was a being of considerable height, towering well over six feet tall and surely nearing seven. He wore the robes that a pharaoh should wear and that curious hat with the cobra motif and the big, long, dangly ear flaps. His body was gaunt yet his belly was large, his arms gangled long and his fingers weighed heavy with rings.

  At first he did not notice Mr Bell, but merely kept right on directing his Nubians to load more books and still more books into the apparently bottomless sarcophagus.

  Mr Bell made loud coughing sounds, then uttered the words, ‘Good evening.’

  Akhenaten swung about and the coldest pair of eyes I have ever seen turned down their glare upon Mr Cameron Bell.

  ‘Gawd strike me down,’ said Mr Bell, affecting the manner of the cockney. ‘I fort you was Bill, me assistant. Can I be as ’elpin’ of you?’

  Akhenaten's eyes grew wide and his mouth fell hugely open.

  ‘I will ’ave to ask you, sir, to return them books to the library,’ said Mr Bell. ‘You can only take three out at a time and not wivout a ticket.’

  Akhenaten's mouth gaped wider still. And then he threw back his queerly shaped head and began to loudly guffaw. The Nubians had ceased their hands-to-handsings and their loadings-in and now stood like statues, blankly staring on.

  Akhenaten's guffaws suddenly ceased. He wiped away a tear from his eye and spoke to my companion.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ he said to him. ‘My old master, Mr Cameron Bell.’

  And, ‘Well, well, well,’ the other replied. ‘My old bootboy, Mr Arthur Knapton.’

  I looked from one to the other of them.

  ‘And this must be the famous Darwin,’ said Mr Arthur Knapton. ‘The talking anthropoid. Say ’ello, little fella.’

  ‘I am most confused,’ said I.

  To which Arthur Knapton, if such was this fellow, guffawed and guffawed again.

  ‘I recall well that most annoying laugh,’ said Mr Bell to myself. ‘Arthur was my bootboy when I was at Oxford, a lad of low breeding but high ambition.’

  ‘I ’eard that,’ said Arthur in the tones of a genuine cockney. ‘You always thought so well of yerself and thought so little of me.’

  ‘You were a petty thief,’ said Mr Bell. ‘The last I heard of you was that you had been shipped off to Australia for stealing a bunch of bananas.’

  ‘Ah,’ said I, ‘bananas.’

  ‘’Tis true enough,’ said Mr Arthur Knapton, now folding his arms and idly tapping a toe. ‘But as yer peepers will attest, I ’ave now arisen to somewhat greater ’eights.’

  Cameron Bell now levelled his ray gun at Mr Arthur Knapton.

  ‘A short-lived career, I'm afraid,’ said he, ‘for you are now under arrest.’

  I must confess that the further guffaws that now issued from the mouth of Arthur Knapton, I, too, found annoying.

  ‘Under arrest?’ he croaked, between his outbursts of hilarity. ‘Look at yerself, little man, why doncha? You dare t’ threaten me?’

  Mr Bell nodded. ‘Do you have an overcoat with you?’ he asked. ‘Otherwise you might get a trifle wet in that fancy-dress costume when I escort you in handcuffs to Bow Street.’

  And once more those guffaws rang loudly in our ears.

  ‘Best gag him, too,’ I suggested.

  ‘Oh, please stop it.’ Arthur Knapton raised his gangly arms and waggled his over-long, beringed fingers. ‘I ain't bein’ taken nowheres. And this ain't no fancy dress.’

  Cameron Bell shook his head.

  Arthur Knapton continued, ‘I ’as come a long way since last we met,’ he said. ‘A long way an’ a good many “whens”. An’ I ain't Arthur Knapton no more. I'm Akhenaten, lord high muckamuck of ancient Egypt, I am. An’ I'll ’ave you talk civil when in me presence, or I'll ’ave yer ’ead chopped off.’

  ‘I don't think he's coming quietly,’ I said to Mr Bell.

  ‘Begone!’ the cockney pharaoh shouted, and then strange things occurred.

  The yellow glow grew to a blinding light and Mr Bell was flung backwards from his feet. I dodged nimbly away at this point to avoid being squashed by the most substantial detective.

  There then came a mighty crackling as of static electricity, which caused every hair I possessed to stand up aloft from my person.

  I heard a great clamour as of chiming bells, a scurrying of sandalled feet upon marble floor and then what sounded to me like water escaping from some mighty bath down a plughole.

  And then, in what appeared to be the very blinking of an eye, Mr Bell and I found ourselves the only occupants of the Egyptian Gallery. The book-shifting Nubians had gone and so, too, had Arthur Knapton, Akhenaten as he claimed, along with his mighty sarcophagus.

  Mr Bell arose from the floor and said, ‘Well now, yes indeed.’

  ‘He vanished away,’ I said in reply. ‘He and his band of Nubians. And, I rather suspect, all of the British Library with them.’

  ‘He certainly did,’ said Mr Bell. ‘And I should have seen it coming.’

  I cast a questioning glance at Cameron Bell. ‘You knew that something such as that was likely to occur?’ I said.

  ‘I suspected something of the sort, yes.’

  ‘Then he has defeated you once more.’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Mr Bell. ‘The game has only just begun.’

  ‘Begun?’ I made a further questioning glance. ‘He vanished away to who knows where. He clearly has magical powers. We have probably seen the last of him. A shame for you, but it cannot be helped.’

  ‘It can be helped,’ said Cameron Bell.

  To which I shook my head. ‘You had your try and you failed,’ I said. ‘It was a brave effort, but now it is my turn and I choose that we depart for eighteen twenty-four to watch Beethoven conducting the Ninth.’

  Mr Cameron Bell now shook his head.

  ‘You are shaking your head,’ I told him.

  ‘I am indeed,’ this man agreed, ‘because you and I both swore an oath that we would travel to wherever and whenever you wished once I had apprehended the criminal mastermind. But not before then. We shook upon this but an hour ago. I am sure that you remember.’

  ‘I do,’ I said and I hung my head. ‘And I recall your distinctive chuckle.’

  Cameron Bell chuckled now. ‘I shall have Mr Arthur Knapton,’ he said. ‘No matter where or when.’

  ‘When?’ I said, in a somewhat leaden tone.

  ‘When indeed!’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Because, as must surely now have dawned upon you, we are dealing with no ordinary criminal mastermind with delusions of world domination, but rather one in command of most singular skills. One who can travel through time.’

  * In several of my wonderfully written novels, now available for the Kindle. (R. R.)

  1353 BC

  5

  felt that Cameron Bell had deceived me and my teeth fa
irly ached to sink into some tender part of his anatomy. And most surely they would have done so had it not been for the clamorous sounds of alarm bells ringing that now grew loud to our ears.

  ‘The game is afoot,’ said Cameron Bell, ‘and we had best be away.’

  We returned to the time-ship in silence. Which is to say that no words passed between us as we sat side by side in another hansom cab and were driven along through the rain.

  Once more aboard the Marie Lloyd, Mr Bell had the temerity to tell me that I should cheer up because a great adventure lay ahead.

  I bared my teeth to signify contradiction. ‘Not my big adventure,’ was what I had to say.

  ‘We will travel, I think, to ancient Egypt itself.’ And with no more words spoken than that, Mr Cameron Bell took himself off to his cabin to select suitable apparel from his ample wardrobe.

  I sat in the pilot's chair and I confess I sulked. It was quite clear to me now that I had been tricked from the very start. Mr Bell, whose powers of observation and deduction were at that time unequalled by those of any other man on the planet, had clearly deduced before we launched into our journey that it was probable his adversary, the Pearly Emperor, was a fellow traveller through time. And that it was also probable that he might not be able to apprehend him at the British Museum and so would have to pursue him through time. And to draw me into this unfinished business of his, he had enticed me to share an oath which, on the face of it, had looked to be advantageous to myself.

  In short, he had played a very mean trick upon me, and when he returned to the main cabin his duplicity became clearer still.

  ‘These are for you,’ said Mr Cameron Bell.

  I turned about in the pilot's chair to peruse what ‘these’ these might be.

  ‘A white linen three-piece suit with fitted tail-snood and matching pith helmet,’ said Mr Bell. ‘I ordered it from your personal tailor. It has your own personally chosen lining, too.’ Mr Bell flashed this lining at me. It was the one I had designed myself, blue silk with banana motifs.

  It was a very beautiful suit, but I viewed it with a very jaundiced eye. ‘You knew!’ I said to Mr Bell. ‘You knew that he was a traveller of time.’