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.
‘In a word, or indeed several,’ said Mr Bell, ‘Mars is about to invade the planet Earth.’
‘Mars?’ The colonel laughed as he refilled his own glass. ‘I can assure you, sir,’ said he, ‘that the chances of anything coming from Mars are a million to one.’
‘But still they will come,’ said Mr Cameron Bell.
‘And how would you know this?’
I wondered whether Mr Bell might answer this by saying, ‘Because it is all my fault.’
But he did not.
‘I am employed by the Ministry of Serendipity,’ said my friend, ‘and it is the job of the Ministry to know such things.’
‘Indeed,’ said the colonel. ‘Naturally, I have heard of this Ministry. It is rumoured that it is the real power behind Victoria's throne.’
‘So it is rumoured,’ agreed Mr Bell. ‘And the Ministry has sent me here to enlist you in the fight against the Martians.’
The colonel shifted in his chair, in my opinion, somewhat uncomfortably.
‘In what capacity?’ he asked. ‘And will this be a paid position?’
‘I think you will be able to make it pay,’ said Mr Cameron Bell. ‘It will need to be written up, as it were.’
‘Ah,’ said the colonel. ‘You wish me to chronicle events. I understand.’
‘Not entirely.’ Mr Bell shook his head. Which appeared to make him rather giddy, and so he had to sit down.
‘Not entirely, eh? Well, listen to me, my dear fellow. You whispered certain things into my ear downstairs which had you marked in my book as a potential blackmailer. But now you give me some old guff about Martians attacking the Earth and it is quite clear to me that you are an escaped lunatic, or some such.’
‘All right,’ said Mr Bell. ‘Let us bandy no more words and waste no more time. I am a consulting detective and I draw inferences through close observation. You, sir, are not a colonel. Never have been one, never will be one. You have never fought a yeti with your bare hands alone. Nor have you slain a Jabberwock by piercing its skull with a sharpened pencil projected from a blowpipe fashioned from a rolled pound note. You are neither an explorer nor a big-game hunter. You, sir, are a writer of fiction.’
‘I . . . but—’ the colonel huffed and puffed.
‘And your name is not James Richardson-Brown,’ Mr Bell continued, ‘but Herbert George Wells. Or H. G. Wells, as history will know and love you, should you hearken to my words.’
I was, to say the least, most surprised.
I gaped at Mr Bell.
The lovely Miss Defy now rose to her feet. She rose upon very tall and slender boot-heels and glared at Mr Bell.
‘Sir,’ said she, and she stamped a foot. ‘Sir, you have offended me with your words.’
‘They are, nonetheless, true,’ said my friend.
‘True or not, you will never live to spread them around and about.’ With that said, she drew out her derringer and aimed it at Mr Bell.
‘Fair lady—’ said he.
‘Be quiet,’ said she. ‘You are a spoilsport and we have no time for you.’
‘Oh no, dearest lady,’ replied Mr Bell. ‘You have me entirely wrong. I understand why you do what you do. You present your wonderful personas to the public, bringing thrills and glamour into their lives. There is no harm to be had in this and I wish you no ill for it. You make the world a better place with your tall-tale tellings.’
‘Being an author can at times be rather dull,’ said Mr H. G. Wells. ‘One hankers sometimes to live the life of the hero one writes about.’
‘I quite understand,’ said my friend.
‘I think I will still shoot you dead,’ said the glamorous lady. ‘It is our secret, Herbie's and mine. Herbie has many exciting adventures to tell.’
‘I am well aware of that,’ said Mr Bell. ‘I particularly enjoyed his book The Invisible Man.’
‘The invisible what?’ asked H. G. Wells.
‘Ah,’ said Mr Bell. ‘That's right. You won't publish that until eighteen ninety-seven.’
‘What?’ went Mr Wells.
‘And of course you will be publishing the Sherlock Holmes stories at that time.’
‘Sherlock who?’ asked H. G. Wells.
‘Excuse me,’ I said to Mr Bell, ‘but as you know full well, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle wrote – or should I say will write – the Sherlock Holmes books.’
There was a sudden silence in that suite of rooms.
‘How did you do that?’ asked H. G. Wells. ‘Ventriloquism, is it?’
‘His name is Darwin,’ said my friend, ‘and he is an ape of exceptional capabilities.’
‘And I know who wrote the Sherlock Holmes books,’ I said.
‘Mr Wells will,’ said Cameron Bell.
I shook my head. ‘He will not.’
‘Oh yes he will,’ said Mr Bell, ‘under the pen name of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. H. G. Wells and Sir Arthur are one and the same person.’
‘Well, I never did,’ I said, as I did not.
‘I think that monkey is actually speaking,’ said Miss Defy, and she aimed her derringer at me.
‘Sweet lady,’ said Mr Bell, stepping between the upraised weapon and myself, ‘we are wandering – rather dangerously, I hasten to add – off the topic. I require the assistance of both of you if I am to have any hope of defeating the Martians.’
‘You personally?’ asked Miss Defy.
‘It is a personal quest. Something that I must do.’
‘But there aren't any Martians,’ said Mr Wells. ‘Not really. Although it would make for a good story. Battle of the Planets, it might be called.’
‘Or War of the Worlds?’ I suggested.
‘Even better. War of the Worlds it is, then.’ H. G. Wells smiled upon me. ‘How do you do that?’ he asked Mr Bell.
‘They will come,’ said Mr Bell. ‘Even now they will be preparing warships and armoured tripods—’
‘Let me write all this down,’ said Mr Wells.
‘Your country needs you!’ cried Mr Bell, and he pointed at the author, who was searching for a pencil. Possibly the one which had proved lethal to a Jabberwock.
‘Let us say I do believe you,’ said Mr Wells.
‘Let us say that I do not,’ said Miss Defy.
‘But if we did,’ said Mr Wells, ‘then what could we actually do?’
‘I require your assistance,’
said Mr Bell. ‘You are dining tomorrow with the Prime Minister, I believe.’
‘How do you know that?’ asked Mr Wells.
‘It is written all over your shirt-cuffs.’
‘Oh, so it is.’
‘You must alert the authorities. The Martian tripods are heavily armoured but not indestructible. I would recommend the extensive use of dynamite—’
And so Mr Bell went on. He spoke at length, eloquently and convincingly, and Mr Wells made many many notes. And when Mr Bell had finally done, the author nodded his head.
‘Either this is all true,’ he said, ‘or you are a far greater writer of fiction than myself.’
‘If doubts remain,’ I said to Mr Bell, ‘we could always show Mr Wells the time machine.’
‘The Time Machine,’ said H. G. Wells, making further notes.
‘You will introduce me as your elder brother,’ said Mr Bell.
‘Pardon me? What?’ said Mr Wells.
‘To the Prime Minister,’ my friend explained. ‘Tomorrow night. I would not wish you to carry the burden of this responsibility alone. Nor would I expect you to outline my plan for the destruction of the Martians in all its intricate detail. You can leave that to me and—’
‘Just hold on,’ said Miss Defy. ‘You are expecting us to introduce you to the Prime Minister so that you can then tell him everything that you have just told us?’
‘And a great deal more,’ said my friend. ‘The Martians can be beaten and I am the man who will beat them.’
‘Outrageous,’ said Miss Defy.
‘Unthinkable,’ said Mr Wells. ‘You might well be some dangerous anarchist intent upon assassinating the Prime Minister.’
‘Have you actually listened to anything I have said?’ Mr Bell made a most exasperated face.
‘Tell me some more about this “invisible man”,’ said Mr Wells.
Cameron Bell threw up his hands. ‘The world is about to be invaded!’ he shouted.
I felt rather sorry for Mr Bell. Because, after all, he did know that the world was about to be invaded. There was no question at all in his mind, or indeed mine, regarding that. But getting anyone else to believe it, or even to take it seriously, was going to be something of a problem.
‘Right,’ said Mr Bell, and he drew out his ray gun.
‘What is that?’ asked H. G. Wells.
‘A Martian weapon,’ said Mr Bell. ‘One that functions through the transperambulation of pseudo-cosmic antimatter.’
‘That's easy for you to say,’ said Mr Wells.
Cameron Bell aimed his ray gun and fired it.
The chair Mr Wells was sitting upon disintegrated and he fell onto the floor.
Miss Defy whistled. ‘I want one of those,’ she said, and she winked at Mr Bell.
My friend grew pink about the cheeks once more. ‘I know where you live,’ he said to Mr Wells. ‘My companion and I will call for you at seven tomorrow evening and accompany you to Downing Street. Darwin, did you bring with you a ray gun of your own?’
‘Just a little one,’ I said, producing same.
‘Then kindly give it to Miss Defy. I want there to be no mistake about this. You must both know—’ and he glanced from Miss Defy to H. G. Wells ‘—that I am telling all of the truth. If you aid me, you will both know considerable fame in the future. If I am unable to pass my knowledge on to the Prime Minister, England will fall to the might of the Martians and all of us will die.’
There was a certain silence then.
And it was most intense.
And . . .
‘. . . across the gulf of space . . . intellects vast and cool and unsympathetic, regarded this earth with envious eyes, and slowly and surely drew their plans against us . . .’
‘Tell me more about this “time machine”,’ said Mr H. G. Wells.
38
lthough, at times, my friend Mr Bell did things that I was not wholly in agreement with – to wit, his over-exuberance when it came to the employment of dynamite – never for a moment did I doubt that ultimately he would achieve his goal and bring to justice Arthur Knapton, king of this place, that place and the other.
To see him once more in his own habitat, as it were, where he could exhibit his unique skills to the very optimum, was a great joy to me, I can tell you. And if I had been wondering whether our meeting with Colonel James Richardson-Brown and the achingly lovely Miss Defy had simply been a matter of Mr Bell wishing to meet a hero of his teenage years and a lady he had clearly longed for, then what next occurred proved me wrong in these matters.
Mr Bell had plans, it appeared. Very big plans indeed.
Plans that could not be put into operation without the complete cooperation and financial assistance of Her Majesty's Government. For this he would need to win over Mr Gladstone the Prime Minister, and to this end he would employ Colonel James Richardson-Brown.
And, in particular, the lovely and remarkable Miss Defy.
That William Ewart Gladstone, Prime Minister of England, confidant of Her Majesty the Queen, philanthropist and founder of numerous charities to enrich the lives of the poor and needy, was something of a ladies’ man was a fact well known to those who knew it well.
Those being the reporters of Grub Street, the Lords of the Upper House, all of Her Majesty's Government and each and every ‘lady’ from Limehouse to Lincoln's Inn Fields.
In fact, to everyone, really. In fact, throughout history, although each has sought to hide their embarrassing peccadilloes from an unforgiving public, it appears that each and every Prime Minister has been ‘outed’, to use a twentieth-century term, and that all and sundry somehow knew about their dark desires.
And so, when it came time for the mesmerising Miss Defy to meet the Prime Minister, it was no surprise whatsoever to me that it would be my friend Mr Cameron Bell who put himself into the position of making the introductions.
Mr Bell had engaged a steam-driven phaeton to convey us to Number Ten Downing Street. It was an ungainly vehicle that belched foul-smelling smoke and showered us with cinders.
Colonel James Richardson-Brown was loud in his praises for this ‘marvel of modern-day transportation’ and said he could foresee the time when ‘vast steam-driven trains of the sky’ would traverse the globe.
Mr Bell rolled his eyes at this and I would have put the colonel (or Mr H. G. Wells, as we knew him to be) straight upon this matter had not my friend shaken his head and whispered that it really did not matter.
‘When the Martians invade,’ confided Mr Bell, ‘everything will change.’
And I knew that it would, and I worried hugely for this, for although I did trust Mr Bell, I greatly feared those Martians. And Martians, immune to Earthly bacteria, I feared very much more.
‘I have been thinking, Bell,’ said the colonel, affecting a particularly hoity-toity expression and straightening up in his seat, ‘that this Martian business is unlikely at best and total madness at worst. I make no bones about it: I am suspicious of you, sir.’
Mr Bell nodded and smiled a bit, too. ‘I am aware,’ said he, in an even manner, ‘that you do not trust me. That you fear me to be an assassin and that you have taken certain measures.’
‘Measures?’ said the colonel, a-raising his eyebrows.
‘You carry no fewer than four concealed weapons,’ said Mr Bell, ‘which, given the slightest opportunity or excuse, you will employ to bring about my destruction.’
I raised wide eyes to my friend.
‘In your place, I would have done the same,’ said Mr Bell. ‘Although, as a gentleman, I would definitely not have done what you have done, in persuading Miss Defy to conceal a weapon of her own in a place quite unsuited to its holstering.’
There was a sudden silence in our carriage.
Three jaws now hung very slack indeed.
Mr Bell just grinned.
‘I am no assassin,’ said Mr Bell, ‘and you can search me for weapons, should you wish. Indeed, you may search me most intimately.’
‘You will find no weapons upon me.’ And Mr Bell folded his arms.
And it was true. He carried no weapons at all. No weapons and indeed no dynamite.
I, however, did!
Because he had insisted upon it.
There was a certain smell about Number Ten. An earthy, musky, bodily, perfumy smell. I did not take to that smell at all, but I did like Mr Gladstone.
He was certainly a fine figure of a man. His clothes were expertly cut and I recognised his lapel detailing as the trademark stitch of my own London tailor. His shoes were well polished, his sideburns a treat, he had twinkly blue eyes and he patted my head as I passed him.
Mr Bell made very much of introducing Miss Defy to Mr William Gladstone, and Mr Gladstone made very much of his welcoming of Miss Defy. So much so, in fact, that other guests were forced to form an orderly queue outside. Which was most inconvenient for them as it was coming on to rain.
Colonel James Richardson-Brown did not take at all to Mr Gladstone. As one rogue will recognise another, he took in the honeyed words that Mr Gladstone spread lavishly over Miss Defy and once or twice even reached for the sword that he wore.
When, finally, all were within and champagne poured and chattings done and we were led to the grand dining hall,* it came as no surprise to me that we were to be seated at the top table. With Miss Defy on the PM's right hand and Mr Bell on the left.
I noticed, all around and about, security. This came in the form of tall and pale-faced men, dressed entirely in black, with blackly tinted pince-nez and gloves. These were the mysterious Gentlemen in Black, from the equally mysterious Ministry of Serendipity.
When all were seated, and there were many, and very well heeled were all, Mr Gladstone broke off his conversation with Miss Defy, did a little tink-tink upon his wine glass with an eel fork and rose from his seat to address the assembled guests.
I looked on at all and sundry, thinking to recognise a potentate here, a rajah there, a shogun over yonder. They were a magnificent crowd, a-glitter with jewels, decked out in the richest of silks and velvets. Tiaras twinkled, necklaces sparkled, gentlemen sported medallions of high orders.
The Chickens of Atlantis and Other Foul and Filthy Fiends Page 23
