The Chickens of Atlantis and Other Foul and Filthy Fiends (3 page)

I would mention here, because it is of importance, that Mr Bell and I had been taken into the confidence of the pre-eminent chemist Ernest Rutherford, the gentleman who created the world's first Large Hadron Collider, which was cunningly disguised as part of London's Underground Railway System – the Circle Line.

This piece of advanced technology powered yet another.

Mr Ernest Rutherford's time-ship.

Through a series of what the mean-spirited amongst us might describe as unlikely events, I became the pilot of Mr Rutherford's time-eliminating conveyance and returned from the future to save my past self. In doing so, my future self was shot dead by Lord Brentford, who had not in fact died when the
Empress of Mars
went down, but had survived and taken shelter on a cannibal island. It is all rather difficult to explain, and rather than waste the reader's time doing it here I would recommend perusing a copy of
The Educated Ape and Other Wonders of the Worlds
by Mr Robert Rankin, where all is set out in the most meticulous detail.

I write these words in the elegant city of Brighton, in the year two thousand and twelve. I know that I must return to
the year eighteen ninety-eight to save my younger self, and I know that in doing so I will be shot, in error, by Lord Brentford.

This is my fate. So it must be.

But between the time when I set off in Mr Rutherford's time-ship in the company of Mr Cameron Bell and the time of my inevitable extinction, there have been many years of travel and many adventures, and it is these that I intend to write of here.

Mr Bell assured me that once he had cleared up the single case that he had so far failed to solve, we would travel back in time to watch Beethoven conduct the Ninth Symphony and thereafter begin our adventures.

Things did not go quite as he had planned.

But they did get very exciting.

And it all began when we sailed the time-ship back to eighteen ninety.

1890

3

ain was falling and it was falling hard.

Had it not been for the quality of my sou'wester, Ulster coat and India rubber galoshes, I would have felt the chill of this midnight hour more cruelly than I did.

As I am possessed of considerable skills when it comes to piloting a space vessel, I was able to steer the time-ship (a back-engineered and greatly modified Martian war craft) gently down to a secluded area of Hyde Park. One frequented, when the weather was fair, by slosh-pots and Muff Mary Ellens, but deserted upon a night such as this.

‘I shall remain here whilst you conduct your business,’ I told Mr Bell as we sat in the time-ship's cabin, peering out at the night. ‘I am reading a book about tea that I'd quite like to finish.’

Mr Bell shook his hairless head at this. ‘I contend,’ said he, ‘that we should not become separated during our journeyings through time.’

‘Surely there will be times when we must part,’ said I, for I had learned to take privacy whilst engaging in latrinal excursions.

‘And we will have none of
that
.’ Mr Bell made the firmest of faces. ‘An adventure through the ages seasoned by toilet talk and innuendo would be one too rich for my palate.’

‘Look,’ said I, removing the ignition key from the time-ship's dashboard and hanging it on its chain about my neck. ‘We have agreed that you will solve your one unsolved case and then we will go back to see Beethoven conduct the Ninth. We even swore a great oath to this effect – your idea, as I recall – and shook hands on it and everything.’

‘I wanted things to be absolutely clear,’ said Mr Bell, ‘so there would be no later disagreements or unpleasantnesses.’

‘Then go off about your business and I will await your return. Or better still, let us both remain here until the weather clears up.’

‘It rains all night,’ said Mr Bell. ‘And what must be done, must be done now and by both of us together. The quicker it is done, the quicker you can experience the Ninth, played as it truly should be played and conducted by the great man himself.’

And so we left the
Marie Lloyd
(for such was the name of our time-ship) and trudged off into the rain. Mr Bell hailed a cab at Hyde Park Corner and directed its driver to take us to the British Museum.

The cabbie, who rode aloft in the rain sporting an Ulster coat not dissimilar to my own but for its lack of quality, called down to us through the little roof hatch that he might enliven our journey with tales of those who had brought him honour by deigning to ride in his cab.

‘I ’ad that Winston Churchill in the back o’ me ’ansom the other night,’ he told us. ‘Now there's a rum young gentleman if ever there was one. Very fixed in ’is opinions, is our Mr Churchill. I touched upon the matter of public Ladies’ Excuse-mes, or
conveniences
as may be, and ’ow to my
reckonin’ they would be a blessing to the dear ones, who aren't as good at ’oldin’ it in as would be a chap, and—’

Mr Bell drew shut the little hatch. Toilet talk, as he had said, was not at all to his liking.

As we had some distance to travel, I made polite conversation by asking my friend just what he knew of the villain he sought and just what the unsolved crime might be. Mr Bell had recently been all but defeated by a woman, and women appeared to be rising in prominence during this period of history – as evidenced by the spread of public Ladies’ Excuse-mes and suchlike. Was this villain a lady? I asked Mr Bell.

The great detective shook his head and his hat showered me with raindrops. ‘A man,’ said he. ‘Most definitely. There is always talk,’ he continued, ‘of a criminal mastermind, some secret orchestrator of the capital's crimes. The Moriarty, who my good friend Arthur set against his Mr Holmes. This is the work of such a fellow and a very strange business indeed.’

I yawned, rather too loudly, perhaps, but I was still a growing ape and it was after my bedtime.

‘An evil overlord,’ Mr Bell continued some more, ‘one capable of manipulating even the most powerful in the realm through blackmail and tergiversation. I have spied evidence of his sinister handiwork in everything from headlines in the broadsheets to acts passed in Parliament. Rumours abound as to his identity.’

‘Or indeed as to his very existence,’ I suggested in a tone of casual flippancy. Mr Bell raised an eyebrow to this and then went on to say more.

‘He is known as the Pearly Emperor,’ he said. ‘For as the cockneys have their Pearly Kings and Queens and Her Majesty is Empress of India and Mars, this would-be usurper of thrones has chosen such a title for himself. He is said to
have risen from a humble background in the East End, and seeks to rule this world and all the others that roll about our sun.’

‘A man of great ambition,’ I said, snuggling down in my Ulster coat and searching out my mittens. ‘A worthy adversary for your good self. You being the uncrowned King of Detectives, as it were.’

Mr Bell peered at me through his gold-framed pince-nez. ‘Are you,’ he asked of me, and here he employed suitable cockney patois in the form of rhyming slang, ‘having a
gi-raffe
at my expense?’

‘Heaven forfend,’ said I, a-putting on my mittens. ‘Here I am, rattling along in this uncomfortable conveyance, in bitter cold at an ungodly hour and all but freezing off those parts that will escape mention lest I be accused of toilet talk, bound for the British Museum. There to foil the evil intention of the Pearly Emperor, a monomaniac intent on world domination and—’

But here I paused as I could, even in the limited light available, observe the reddening of my friend's cheeks and the infuriated expression he now wore. I felt it would probably be best to keep my own counsel.

I did, however, make the observation that to my limited knowledge there had never been a single crime of any significance committed at the British Museum that had not gone unsolved.

My good friend's face had now become purple, and when next he spoke it was as one possessed. ‘A crime
did
occur,’ he cried into my little ear. ‘A crime covered up by the authorities – no doubt in the pay of this
monster made flesh
.’ (I mouthed the words
monster made flesh
.) ‘This vile creature's minions have committed numerous crimes on his behalf. I could name dozens of them. I have been involved in solving
dozens of their felonious cases. But the criminals never turn King's evidence, they never betray their master. He is never there when the crimes are committed. But tonight, tonight he will be there. I know it. My studies of case histories have led me to this conclusion. I know that I am right.’

‘Quite so,’ I said. ‘I am sorry if I misled you into believing that I harboured any doubts.’

‘He will be there tonight, and I will have him. Tonight, a seemingly impossible crime will be committed at the British Museum. I will be there to see how it is done. Then I will capture the criminal mastermind – or destroy him, if need be.’

‘Ah,’ I said. ‘Destroy?’

‘If need be,’ said my companion.

‘You brought your ray gun with you, then?’

‘Of course.’ Mr Bell patted a pocket.

‘And dare I ask if—’

‘Ask away.’

The hansom made an alarming lurch and I said, ‘Dynamite.’

‘I
have
taken the sensible precaution of bringing along a few sticks in case they are required.’

I groaned dismally, but silently.

‘Do not worry,’ said Mr Bell. ‘I am well prepared.’

‘But,’ I said, for I felt that I must, ‘it
is
the British Museum. It is filled with wonderful, beautiful things. Please do not blow up the British Museum, please, Mr Bell, oh please.’

Mr Bell smiled as to offer me comfort. ‘It is a sturdy building,’ he said. ‘Have no fear for its collapse.’

‘But the wonderful, beautiful things—’

‘Let us hope it will not prove necessary.’

‘But it
always
proves necessary to your reasoning.’

I noticed a certain twinkle come into the eyes of Mr Bell,
for most surely this fellow's love for explosions was equal to his love for justice. I sighed deeply and inwardly and prayed to my chosen deity that the British Museum would still remain standing after our departure from it.

And also that the rain might stop.

The driver raised the little hatch and called down, ‘British Museum, guv'nor.’

The British Museum truly was a beautiful building and it was my dearest hope that it would remain so.

Built in that neoclassical style so popular during the reign of Queen Victoria, designed by Sir Robert Smirke and containing no fewer than eight million artefacts at the time of my visit, it was a thing of great splendour.

In those days it also housed what would come to be known as the British Library, a collection of some twenty thousand, two hundred and forty volumes bequeathed by Sir Thomas Grenville. Exactly how a single individual had managed to acquire so vast a collection of books within a single lifetime was
at that time
quite a mystery to me.

Later, all would become very clear.

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.