The Chickens of Atlantis and Other Foul and Filthy Fiends Read online

  ‘That is much to my liking,’ I said. ‘Let us depart at once.’

  ‘Not quite so fast.’ Mr Bell shook his head. ‘I am set upon a course. That course is to bring Mr Arthur Knapton, the Pearly Emperor, to justice. The easiest way to achieve this is to catch him unawares, somewhere and some-when.’

  ‘I am in agreement with that,’ I said. ‘But the when is not now, I am thinking.’

  ‘Myself also. Here and now are dangerous places to be. I must reason out, by the study of this collection, when certain items were stolen and from where. Then we can travel to this given time and location and catch the villain red-handed.’

  ‘But surely you already tried that at the British Museum.’

  Mr Bell made a grunting sound.

  ‘In fact, though,’ I said, ‘why don't we go back there again – to the night when he stole the British Library? This time in the company of many armed constables?’

  ‘Cannot be done,’ said Mr Bell.

  ‘Of course it can,’ I said. ‘I have but to reset the controls.’

  ‘No no no.’ And Mr Bell shook his head. ‘We dare not return to any specific time that we previously visited in the time-ship, for if we do so, then all sorts of chaos might occur.’

  ‘Well, we would not want that,’ I said.

  Mr Bell raised an eyebrow. ‘If we do that, there will be chaos,’ he said. ‘There will be two time-ships there. Two sets of us. There is no telling what could happen.’

  I gave my chin a good stroking. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘You have a search about, do your detective work. But I would ask of you one favour.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Find us somewhere and some-when that are relatively safe,’ I said. ‘Not Pompeii an hour before the volcano goes off. Or indeed Atlantis ten minutes before it sinks into the sea. Some-where and some-when where we will not be in mortal danger.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Mr Bell, and set off on his way.

  I was left to my own devices, nervous lest we be discovered, somewhat hungry and indeed rather cross. I was not enjoying myself at all and it all felt terribly unfair.

  Here I was, the very first monkey to travel through time, and here I was. Right here! In an underground vault full of musty old tomes. It was no fun at all.

  There was nothing whatsoever that I liked about this particular time. I did not like those gigantic chickens and I did not like those Martians and I hadn't liked that nasty Mr MacTurnip one little bit, either. But at least Mr Bell had shot him dead with his ray gun.

  And . . . And here I peered down at myself. My lovely white linen suit was thoroughly spoiled. It was begrimed with dust from all the shinning over rooftops I had done and stained with something horrid.

  I took a sniff.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said I. ‘And I never washed my hands.’

  I sighed a long and dismal sigh, then called to Mr Bell to hurry up. Then I mooched about the shelves and peeped at all those books. There were so many of them. All those words and all that knowledge, all those works of wonder.

  From first I learned to read I have been taken with books. The earliest that I read, the one from which I was taught by Herr Döktor, was the Bible.

  I greatly enjoyed the Old Testament, although there is hardly a mention of a monkey to be found. Many animals gain starring roles but not the noble ape. In fact, I was only able to find two references to my kind in the Old Testament: in 1 Kings, chapter ten, verse twenty-two, and 2 Chronicles, chapter nine, verse twenty-one. And in both instances, apes are listed as nothing more than cargo. And not only that, but the verses are all but identical. Clearly a bit of cribbery went on amongst those who penned the Old Testament. Examine these verses for yourselves if you doubt my words.

  And whilst we are on the subject of the Old Testament, some of the allusions made to animals are quite absurd. Take, if you will, the fourth chapter of the Song of Solomon:

  1. Turn away thine eyes from me, for they have overcome me; thy hair is like a flock of goats that appear from Gilead.

  2. Thy teeth are as a flock of sheep which go up from the washing, whereof every one beareth twins and there is not one barren among them.

  3. As a piece of pomegranate are thy temples within thy locks.

  The italics are my own, but you no doubt gain the picture. Barking mad! I ask you, indeed –As a piece of pomegranate are thy temples?

  In the fifth verse, the author goes on to add:

  5. Thy breasts are like two young roes that are twins.

  And we will leave it there!

  ‘Aha!’ I heard the cry of Mr Bell, stirring me from my biblical reverie. ‘I have it, I do, I have it!’

  He was clearly in high spirits and he approached me at the trot, carrying a bundle of papers beneath his arm.

  ‘I have a place and a date,’ said Mr Bell, ‘and I think you will be pleased by both.’

  I expressed relief at his conclusion.

  ‘We shall take our leave of this time and place,’ said Mr Cameron Bell. ‘Come, Darwin, let us return to the Marie Lloyd.’

  Mr Bell put out his hand and I most gladly took it. We left the room of many books and with great care and courage stole away from the police station and the city of Akhetaten.

  After hot and breathless desert trudgings, we returned at last in safety to the Marie Lloyd, where we hastened to our bathrooms. And I was glad for that.

  We ensconced ourselves once more within our time-eliminating conveyance and I enquired of Mr Bell just where and when we would be travelling to.

  ‘Home,’ said Mr Cameron Bell. ‘Home to London, it is.’

  And I was very happy to be going home.

  To the safety of London, the heart of the British Empire.

  ‘Shall I set the controls for the year nineteen hundred?’ I asked.

  Mr Bell now shook his head. ‘A little way on from there,’ he said to me.

  I must have made a worried face at this, but my friend and companion assured me that all would be well. He knew London intimately, he told me, and I would have nothing to fear in the heart of the great Metropolis with him by my side.

  ‘London is London and always will be,’ said Mr Cameron Bell.

  ‘So what year are we travelling to?’

  ‘Nineteen forty,’ said Mr Cameron Bell.

  * There is no way of telling whether Cameron Bell actually said this, and by now the reader will have noticed numerous inconsistencies in the text. True, the book is penned by a monkey and this must be taken into account. Also there is always the problem of self-aggrandisement, which is so often to be found in autobiographies. My own I, Robert, soon to be published by Far-Fetched Books, suffers from none of this. (R. R.)

  * It is generally believed that keys did not exist in ancient Egypt (nor indeed dark blue policemen's trousers). But given all that has gone before, who would argue about such small details? (R. R.)

  1940

  11

  e agreed that we should land the Marie Lloyd at the Royal London Spaceport in Sydenham, which spread beneath the hill and the Crystal Palace.

  I set the controls for the date, month and year that Mr Bell instructed me to and we were off.

  ‘And so,’ I said to my friend, ‘explain to me, if you will, just why we are going to this particular time and place.’

  ‘To catch our thief,’ the great detective said.

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘I am aware that this is your goal. Now please offer me some specifics.’

  ‘Specifically, then,’ said Mr Bell as he uncorked champagne, ‘I discovered these papers –’ and he indicated those that were spread about upon the navigation desk ‘– which suggest that Arthur Knapton will have dealings here with a secret organisation in London during the year nineteen forty. There are dated memoranda. From numerous meetings.’

  ‘Meetings about what?’ I enquired, for this seemed a reasonable question.

  ‘ “The employment of top-secret technology”,’ said Mr Bell, reading from a memorandum. ‘Mr Kn
apton is going to be engaged in discussions with the Ministry of Serendipity.’

  ‘I believe this Ministry is unknown to me,’ I said as I helped myself to a banana from the bowl and accepted a glass of champagne.

  ‘But not to myself,’ said Mr Bell. ‘It is said that the Ministry of Serendipity has been the “power behind the throne of England” for several hundred years.’

  ‘I like not the smell of that,’ I said.

  ‘The Ministry upholds the interests of the British Empire as a whole. Rulers come and rulers go, but the Ministry remains.’

  ‘That all sounds somewhat sinister,’ I said. ‘Almost criminal, in fact.’

  ‘Not a bit of it,’ said Mr Bell. ‘We . . . I mean they, do what is for the best.’

  “‘We . . . I mean they”? You mean you are an agent of this Ministry?’

  Mr Bell nodded and toasted me with champagne. ‘I could possibly get you an honorary membership,’ he said.

  ‘Ah,’ I said. ‘So then I might have a say in the running of the country?’

  ‘No, not as such. But you could use the Ministry's bar and you get a discount on hansom cab fares.’

  ‘Do you think they will still have hansom cabs in nineteen forty?’ I had emptied my glass of champagne now and held it out for refilling.

  Mr Bell took to this refilling. ‘All vehicles will be electrically powered by nineteen forty,’ he assured me. ‘It will be thrilling to see the future, will it not, Darwin? To see the great strides forward Mankind will have made. I will wager you that the British Empire will rule not only the planets in our solar system, but many others also.’

  I dearly wish I had taken Mr Bell up on this wager.

  ‘I predict that it will be idyllic,’ my companion prophesied. ‘All men equal. Peace and harmony. The races of Ape and Man living in perfect unity.’

  Oh, how I wish I had taken him up on that.

  ‘So let us be clear,’ I said to Mr Bell. ‘You know, from the documents you found in the vault, the dates and times of Arthur Knapton's meetings with members of the Ministry of Serendipity in nineteen forty?’

  ‘I do,’ said Mr Bell. ‘And with one member in particular.’

  ‘Go on.’ I took my refilled champagne glass and set about its emptying.

  ‘An old friend of both yours and mine – Mr Winston Churchill.’

  I snorted champagne from my nose. ‘Mr Churchill?’ I said.

  ‘By the evidence of these papers, Mr Churchill has attained to the rank of Prime Minister in the era towards which we are heading.’

  ‘Ah,’ said I. ‘Mr Churchill and I are indeed acquainted. A rather headstrong fellow, Mr Churchill. Always up for a fight, as it were.’

  ‘But a man, you will agree, who holds the Empire close to his heart.’

  ‘On that I will agree.’ And I toasted Mr Bell and the ship crashed down without warning and he and I fell on the floor.

  ‘We are going to have to work on our landings,’ said my friend, when he had once more found his feet. ‘We cannot go on crashing the Marie Lloyd.’

  ‘Well, it is not my fault,’ I said to him. ‘There is no way of judging how fast this ship travels through time.’

  Mr Bell helped me to the pilot's seat and I examined the dials and year-counters.

  ‘We have reached the Royal London Spaceport,’ I said. ‘It is seven o'clock in the evening on the twenty-seventh of July in the year nineteen forty, and according to the barometer we can expect rain later, so we had best take our umbrellas.’

  Now came the question of what would be the appropriate apparel to don for the year nineteen forty. All Mr Bell had to offer on this subject was that we ought to wear ‘something smart’.

  So we repaired to our respective wardrobes and presently emerged in something smart.

  Mr Bell wore a full dress suit, with evening cape and top hat.

  I wore the rather spiffing Germanic military dress uniform that Queen Victoria's cousin Baron Claus von Zeppelin had given to me. Mr Bell had successfully solved a case for this great man. One that involved, if I recall correctly, a music hall dancer, a biscuit tin and a wiener dog named Fritzy. I remain somewhat hazy regarding the significance of the biscuit tin. But it was a really spiffing uniform, bedecked with a great deal of braid, smart golden epaulettes and German eagle motifs.

  With the jodhpurs and jackboots I looked very smart indeed!

  ‘Dashing,’ said Mr Cameron Bell as he looked me up and down.

  ‘You yourself look smart enough,’ I said. ‘Are we going somewhere special, then, tonight?’

  ‘I thought we would visit the Electric Alhambra,’ said Mr Bell. ‘That will bring back a few memories, eh?’

  ‘Not altogether good ones,’ I said. ‘Colonel Katterfelto and I performed there, as you know. He had a knack for dodging the fruit and veg that was thrown by the crowd. I, however, did not. And also that was where the colonel died.’

  ‘I will treat you to a box seat tonight,’ said Mr Bell, ‘after supper at my club.’

  And on that merry note we left the Marie Lloyd . . .

  . . . To step out onto the cobbled stone of the Royal London Spaceport . . .

  ‘Where has the London Spaceport gone?’ I asked Mr Bell. Because the Marie Lloyd was parked upon grass that spread away to the distance.

  Mr Bell made sad sounds in his throat and pointed up towards Sydenham Hill.

  ‘Where has the Crystal Palace gone?’ he asked.

  We had certainly landed in the right location – there were landmarks which attested to this. But the spaceport, its runways and buildings were gone, and so too the Crystal Palace.

  ‘I bet it burned down once again,’ I said to Mr Bell. ‘But on the bright side, at least this time it wasn't your fault.’

  Mr Bell angled his topper and said, ‘Let us search for some transport.’

  We marched away and found the road and with it a building that both of us recognised. A hotel in which I had lodged and Mr Bell had visited. A hotel known as the Adequate.

  But it was known as the Adequate no more, for it had been renamed the British Bulldog. A swinging sign imaginatively depicted the coloured representation of a bulldog wearing a Union Jack waistcoat and some kind of iron helmet, and smoking a cigar.

  ‘If we have now found ourselves in a time where bulldogs rule the world,’ I said to Mr Bell, ‘I would like to take my leave at once.’

  Mr Bell put his finger to his lips and said, ‘Now, listen to that.’

  Somewhere from far in the distance, a curious metallic wailing sound reached our ears, followed by a number of dull but definite thumps.

  All at once, a gentleman appeared from the doorway of the British Bulldog. He wore upon his head a helmet not dissimilar to the one the dog on the sign was wearing, but his had the letters ‘ARP’ painted upon it.

  ‘Gawd strike me down!’ he exclaimed as he viewed myself and Mr Bell. ‘Surely it's Count Dracula and Kaiser Bill ’iself.’

  Mr Bell grinned painfully. ‘What is that woeful wailing sound?’ he asked.

  ‘The air-raid siren?’ asked the chap. ‘Are you kidding of me?’

  ‘Air raid?’ said Mr Bell slowly, and I swear I saw the colour drain from his face.

  ‘Are you with the circus?’ now asked the chap.

  Mr Bell nodded. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere.

  ‘Well, you'd best get inside, mate. You know you can be shot for a looter if you're out after the siren.’

  Mr Bell perused the chap, his gaze moving from the fellow's shoes to his trouser-cuffs, to his waistcoat and shirt-collar. Mr Bell drew a sudden breath. ‘We are at war,’ he said.

  ‘And the geezer in the topper wins a big cigar,’ said the chap in the helmet. ‘Now inside with you both and let's ’ave no more nonsense.’

  Mr Bell looked down at me and shook his head in sadness. ‘This is very bad indeed,’ he said.

  The interior of what once had been the Adequate had not changed very much, a tad shabbier, perhaps, an
d duller to the eye, and the carpet was now threadbare. The lighting, however, was electric.

  The hotel reception area now served as a saloon bar, littered with ill-matched tables and chairs. These were adorned by working types, who upon viewing us displayed expressions of dire perplexity.

  Someone said, ‘Are you ’avin’ a gi-raffe?’ But this offered no comfort. A poster pinned to a nearby pillar displayed the words WALLS HAVE EARS, which I found most perplexing.

  ‘They're with the circus,’ said the chap with the painted helmet.

  Mr Bell doffed his topper and said, ‘Greetings, one and all.’

  The working men returned to their conversations as the chap in the helmet led us to the bar.

  ‘This is Doris,’ he said, indicating a vast woman who swelled behind the bar-counter, her costume a floral symphony, her face a crimson sunset. ‘She will serve your needs. I ’ave a call that must be made.’ And with that said, the chap in the helmet bowed and took his leave.

  Doris smiled upon Cameron Bell, then turned her gaze towards me. ‘And who is this cheeky little rascal?’ she asked.

  I opened my mouth to reply.

  ‘His name is Darwin,’ said Mr Bell, thrusting a rough hand over my face to stifle my conversation. ‘Naturally he cannot answer for himself –’ Mr Bell gave me a meaningful glance ‘– but he is a highly trained circus ape. House-trained also and not at all fierce.’

  I bit the hand of Cameron Bell, but not hard enough to draw blood.

  ‘A cheeky rascal indeed,’ said Mr Bell. And his eyes turned towards the row of handpumps.

  ‘Only bottled, I'm afraid,’ said Doris. ‘And only pale ale, I regret.’

  ‘I'll take one of those, then,’ said Mr Bell, ‘and a bowl of water for Darwin.’

  I showed Mr Bell my teeth and a second pale ale was swiftly added to the order.

  ‘One and six,’ said Doris, serving same.

  Mr Bell dug into his trouser pocket and produced a half-crown coin that bore the head of Queen Victoria on its shiny face.

  Doris received it, examined it and bit it, smiled and said fair enough and took herself off to the till.