The Chickens of Atlantis and Other Foul and Filthy Fiends

  ‘There's no need to shout,’ said the barman. ‘I heard you the first time.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Mr Bell.

  ‘And I would have answered you the first time, too, had I not become overwhelmed by wonder.’

  Mr Bell was now speechless. For after all, here was a barman, in the historical city of Akhetaten, who spoke Her Majesty's tongue.

  ‘Wonder?’ said Mr Cameron Bell in a very small voice indeed.

  ‘Wonder as to what a gentleman such as yourself is doing on a hot day as is this, wearing a three-piece suit of Boleskine tweed more suited to a spot of grouse-shooting on a Highland moor, and in the company of an ape got up in more appropriate apparel. An ape, I might add, as carries himself in such a manner as to affect a certain snootiness. And—’

  ‘A Scotsman,’ said Mr Cameron Bell, extending his hand for a shake. The barman took this hand for a shake and gave it a thorough shaking. I had learned through keeping company with Mr Bell that certain handshakes had certain significances, and I felt that this particular handshake was one of those.

  ‘Have you travelled far?’ asked the barman.

  And whispered words were now exchanged.

  ‘Well now,’ said Mr Bell, a-settling himself onto a tall and rugged stool set against the bar-counter. ‘A Scotsman serving ale in the city of Akhetaten. How could I possibly have guessed?’

  The Scotsman offered an enigmatic smile. ‘You don't think the tam-o’-shanter, the clan cloth and the kilt give it away, then?’ he asked.

  And Mr Bell laughed somewhat.

  ‘I do not think that you are altogether surprised at all,’ said the barman. ‘I would have you down as a seasoned traveller, would I not, sir?’

  ‘You would,’ said Cameron Bell.

  ‘And one who has acquainted himself with many bars in many places.’

  ‘That, too,’ agreed the detective.

  ‘And in each of these bars, all over the world, there is one thing notable?’

  ‘More than just one thing,’ said Mr Bell. ‘But perhaps the most notable is that no matter in what far-flung reach of civilisation one finds oneself, if there is a bar to be found, there will like as not be found also a Scotsman standing behind the counter.’

  The barman nodded. ‘They predict that in a future time it will be an Australian,’ said he.

  ‘Pray that it be not so,’ said Mr Bell. ‘But it is a pleasure to meet with a fellow son of the isles I call my home.’

  ‘A joy indeed,’ said the barman. ‘It will be a pleasure to shoot the breeze and chew the fat, talk the toot and drink the drink with your good self, a fellow lover of equality, liberty and egalitarianism.’

  Mr Bell nodded.

  ‘So what shall it be then, sir?’ asked the Scottish lover of freedom, equality, liberty and egalitarianism.

  ‘Two measures of your finest ale,’ said Mr Cameron Bell.

  ‘You are a thirsty gentleman indeed.’

  ‘One, of course, is for my servant.’ Mr Bell smiled upon me.

  ‘No,’ said the barman, smiling not. ‘We don't serve his kind in here!’

  7

  ‘ou are surely jesting,’ said Mr Cameron Bell.

  ‘Indeed I am,’ agreed the barman, displaying a toothless grin.

  Mr Bell shrugged, the barman continued.

  ‘I am of a whimsical disposition,’ he explained, ‘and levity lightens the burden of work.’

  ‘I see,’ said Mr Bell.

  ‘Oh no you do not, sir.’ The barman pointed at me. ‘This little chap here,’ he said, ‘had me thinking. And I thought to myself, would it not be humorous to suppose that he was an ape of singular talent, who might one day choose to pen his memoirs?’

  Mr Bell raised an eyebrow. I raised both of mine.

  ‘And that set me to thinking,’ the barman went on, ‘as to how amusing it might be for him to end a chapter upon my words that “we don't serve his kind in here!” ’

  ‘Truly mirthful,’ said Mr Bell. ‘Although a most unlikely proposition.’

  ‘And therein lies the mirth, sir,’ said the barman. ‘As unlikely a proposition as you in your tweeds there coming across me in my kilt here. Would you not agree?’

  ‘I think the matter would be best not dwelt upon,’ said Mr Bell. ‘Especially by one with a mouth so dry as mine. Might I have the two ales that I asked for?’

  ‘You may.’ The Scottish barman drew ales from a copper can and introduced himself to my companion as Sandy MacTurnip.

  ‘My name is Cameron Bell,’ said Mr Bell, ‘and this is Darwin, my simian servant. Nod to the gentleman, Darwin.’

  I nodded with little enthusiasm, but with sufficient vigour as to have my pith helmet fall from my head. Which occasioned much mirth from the fun-loving barman, who told Mr Bell that he had once owned an ape but had beaten it to death for biting him. And then he turned his toothless smile once more towards myself.

  I had no smiles to offer in return.

  Presently our ales were served, mine in a sherry glass which MacTurnip explained had previously been held in reserve for titled ladies. Should any ever choose to enter his establishment. Mr Bell and I quaffed ale and I found it less noxious than others I have sampled.

  MacTurnip served customers, few as they were, and then fell into conversation with Mr Cameron Bell.

  The detective asked him, in as subtle a manner as he could manage, what the barman knew of Akhenaten.

  ‘Now you are asking,’ said the Scotsman, and his voice sank to a whisper. ‘A queer enough fellow by any reckoning. A God, they say, and with the miracles that he causes to occur, who amongst us is to doubt it?’

  ‘Miracles?’ said Mr Bell, in the blandest tone he could muster.

  ‘They say he came down from the Heavens,’ MacTurnip whispered, ‘in a flying sarcophagus inlaid with agate, opal, amethyst and bloodstone. And also with blue labradorite, which shines like crystal sky.’

  ‘And have you yourself witnessed such an extravagant descent?’ asked Mr Bell.

  ‘Not as such, but we live in a time of wonders, and who is to say what is truly real or not?’

  ‘What became of this city's previous ruler?’ asked Mr Bell.

  The barman gave his nose a tap with a grimy finger's end. ‘There's much conspiratorial talk,’ said he. ‘Many say the chickens were behind it.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Mr Bell finished his ale and indicated that his mug should be refilled. ‘I was going to ask you about the chickens. Where exactly did they come from?’

  ‘Where did the chickens come from?’ The barman pulled further ale. ‘You are asking me that?’

  ‘I am,’ said Mr Cameron Bell.

  ‘Then I shall tell you,’ said the barman, ‘where exactly the chickens come from. They come out of an egg.’

  ‘You are a born comedian,’ said Mr Bell, lifting his pince-nez to mime the mopping of laughter tears from his eyes. ‘You are surely wasted as a barman.’

  ‘Are you having a gi-raffe?’ asked the Scotsman, which possibly dated that expression.

  ‘Are not you?’ asked Mr Bell.

  ‘I certainly am not. A foreigner you may be to these parts, sir, but know that here there are certain things that are not to be questioned. The chickens built this city. They are still at work on those pyramids, but should have them up in a couple of weeks.’

  ‘But where did they come from?’ asked Mr Bell.

  ‘Out of the egg, as I told you. The cosmic egg that rests in the holiest of most holy places within the holy temple of the holy Aten. Where too rests the flying holy sarcophagus of the holy God-Pharaoh Akhenaten.

  ‘Interesting,’ said Mr Bell, a-nodding his head.

  ‘I should keep such interest to yourself,’ said the barman. ‘You and your ape would not be let within fifty cubits of the holy temple. Strictly for the high muckamucks of the sacred faith, that is.’

  ‘Are you not one of the faithful?’ enquired my companion.

  ‘I favour no particular credo,’ said the bar
man, presenting Mr Bell with his mug of ale. ‘Rather I adhere to a syncretic world-view – that there is a little bit of truth to everything. The rationalist within me holds to the opinion that he who claims to know everything labours under delusion, and that he who wishes to know everything would possibly be better employed drinking ale and finding himself a girlfriend. You will notice there, Mr Bell, how I tempered wisdom with wit – to pleasing effect, I believe.’

  Mr Bell looked towards myself and we both rolled our eyes.

  ‘The coronation itself,’ said Mr Bell. ‘That will take place within the holy of holies, I suppose.’

  The barman MacTurnip shook his head. ‘No,’ said he. ‘In a public place, but you are too late to get tickets.’

  Cameron Bell now shook his head. ‘Tickets?’ said he. ‘To the enthronement of a pharaoh? Tickets?’

  ‘I might know where I could get you one.’ The barman's finger once more tapped his nose. ‘Seeing as how you have clearly travelled far across land and sea to be present upon this historic occasion.’

  ‘I would be very glad for that,’ said Mr Bell. ‘But herein lies a difficulty – I hold no local currency and would expect such a ticket to come at considerable cost.’

  The barman looked Mr Bell up and down. ‘You are adorned with numerous curious items,’ said he, his gaze lingering upon Mr Bell's binoculars. ‘Although clearly each is of little value by itself, together they might all add up to the price of a ticket so rare and so dearly wished for.’

  Mr Bell made throat-clearing sounds. ‘Once more you are displaying your finely honed and deeply refined sense of humour,’ said he. ‘The items that I carry upon my person are of great financial value, as a gentleman of discernment such as yourself must be well aware. I might, perhaps, deign to part with these magic eyeglasses in exchange for the ticket.’ And here Mr Bell stroked at his binoculars.

  ‘Magic, you say?’ said the barman, and his hands took to rubbing together. ‘And how does this magic manifest itself?’

  ‘You look through this end,’ Mr Bell indicated the same, ‘and the thing you look at becomes magnified in size.’

  ‘I see,’ said the barman, in the manner of one intrigued. ‘And this is the product of magic?’

  Mr Bell nodded solemnly.

  ‘So not the product of an alignment of convex lenses, as in a standard pair of binoculars?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Cameron Bell.

  ‘Ah indeed, sir. You will be telling me next that your pocket watch functions by means of captured imps under your command animating its mechanism.’

  ‘I had considered telling you something of the kind,’ said Mr Bell, ‘if you proved to be unimpressed by the binoculars.’

  ‘As I told you, sir, we live in an age of wonders. Now do you wish to bargain for this ticket or do you not?’

  ‘I do,’ said Mr Bell. ‘But before I do, tell me this. Is this ticket a numbered ticket? An authentic numbered ticket and one for a seat in a favourable position?’

  ‘All of those things,’ said the barman, and with a flourish produced the ticket in question. It was of papyrus, but colourfully printed with numerous hieroglyphics.

  Mr Bell studied this ticket.

  And then he looked up at the barman.

  ‘I believe this ticket to be genuine,’ he said, ‘and the ceremony is to be held in the Annularium. I do not believe I am acquainted with this particular word.’

  ‘It means Oval,’ said the barman. ‘The ceremony is to be held in the cricket ground.’

  8

  ‘he cricket ground,’ said Cameron Bell, and he said these words most thoughtfully. ‘The coronation of Pharaoh Akhenaten is to be held in the cricket ground.’

  ‘Well, it is the national game,’ said the barman. ‘The Egyptians did invent cricket.’

  ‘The Egyptians did not invent cricket,’ said Cameron Bell.

  ‘No,’ said the barman. ‘Of course they did not. I was only joking. The chickens invented cricket.’

  I had taken to standing upon a bar-stool next to Mr Bell. I now took to rattling my sherry glass upon the bar-top to signify that it required refilling. The barman ignored this.

  ‘Of course, it was originally called “chicket”,’ he said. ‘But you know the way Egyptians lisp.’

  Mr Cameron Bell sighed deeply.

  ‘The chickens invented cricket,’ he said, in that thoughtful tone of his.

  ‘The chickens invented everything,’ said the barman. ‘Cricket, pyramids, binoculars, the Great Games with the fox races and so on.’

  ‘I fear to ask,’ said Mr Bell, ‘but fox races?’

  ‘You may recall how the Scots invented greyhound racing,’ said the Scottish barman, ‘in the time of the old heroes. A hare is set loose, and the hounds pursue it. The fox, as you know, is the chickens’ natural enemy. The fox races are held in the arena. A fake chicken is set in motion through mechanical means and the foxes chase after it. The chickens eat the winner. And all the rest, too. Actually.’

  ‘Chickens, it would appear, have an even more perverse sense of humour than yourself,’ observed Mr Bell. ‘So let us talk business: you may have my binoculars and my pocket watch in exchange for your ticket.’

  ‘Most amusing.’ MacTurnip shook his head, raising a small cloud of dust that drifted slowly down to the bar-top. I covered my glass with my hand. Mr Bell just sighed once more.

  ‘What would you say was your most valuable possession?’ asked the barman.

  ‘My integrity,’ said Mr Cameron Bell. ‘But that is not for sale.’

  ‘Well said,’ said the barman. ‘So let us remain with physical possessions.’

  Mr Bell now shrugged.

  ‘How about your monkey?’ said the barman.

  ‘Darwin?’ Mr Bell now shook his head.

  ‘Come, come,’ said the barman. ‘A monkey is, after all, only a monkey.’

  ‘Darwin is much more than that.’

  I smiled up at Mr Bell. He was my friend and his words gained my appreciation.

  ‘That is my price,’ said the barman.

  ‘Then I must refuse you.’

  The barman cocked his head upon one side. ‘I think not,’ said he.

  ‘It is not a matter open to debate,’ said Mr Bell.

  ‘I do so agree.’ The barman now delved beneath his bar-counter and brought into the uncertain light something that looked for all the world to be a brass blunderbuss.

  ‘Invented by chickens?’ asked Mr Bell.

  The barman nodded. ‘Hand over that monkey,’ he said.

  The emergence of the blunderbuss had quite a sobering effect on the bar's other patrons. It was to be suspected that they had viewed this weapon of terror on occasions past and possibly borne witness to its effects when triggered. Whatever the case, as one they rose, finished their drinks, bade their farewells and departed.

  ‘And you have cost me trade, too,’ said the barman, ‘so I will avail myself of your binoculars and pocket watch also. In fact, clear out your pockets – I think I will take all that you have.’

  I was not at all happy about this grim turn of events and I felt my heart beat faster. I confess that I trembled somewhat, too, and I looked towards my friend to offer comfort.

  Mr Bell just stared unblinkingly at the barman.

  ‘Hurry now,’ said this villain. ‘Turn out your pockets, I say.’

  ‘Gladly, then,’ said Mr Bell, suddenly finding his voice. ‘But might I have the ticket?’

  ‘Over my dead body,’ said the barman.

  Mr Bell made the saddest of faces.

  And reached into the inner pocket of his tweed jacket.

  It was a very favourable seat, high in the grandstand and shaded from the sun. I sat upon Mr Bell's lap and licked at the ice cream he had purchased for me with currency drawn from the barman's cash box.

  ‘He certainly deserved what he got,’ I said to Mr Bell. ‘I am glad you did not forget to bring your ray gun.’

  ‘A most unsavoury individual
,’ said my companion, ‘and a most disagreeable circumstance. But a lesson learned, I suppose. These are not our times and the folk who live in these times do not necessarily share the same moral codes as we.’

  I made my most thoughtful face. ‘It does occur to me,’ I ventured, ‘that shooting him dead might not have been the most appropriate course of action.’

  ‘I acted out of self-defence,’ said Mr Cameron Bell.

  ‘That is not what I mean. I was thinking more of the future.’

  ‘As was I.’

  ‘Not of our future, but rather that of the barman's descendants. Surely by killing him you will have changed the future?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Mr Bell, ‘perhaps. But surely to no great account. This world has never lacked for Scotsmen.’

  ‘I am sure you are right,’ said I. ‘No doubt there will be millions of his clan around by the end of the nineteenth century.’

  ‘Millions,’ said Mr Bell, chewing away at his ice-cream cone. ‘Millions and millions of MacTurnips. I'm sure.’

  Then he accidentally bit his tongue.

  There was a fair old hubbub in that grandstand. A lot of excitement in the air. A lot of ice creams being eaten and big pointy-fingered hand-shaped gloves with ‘I AKHENATEN’ (although displayed in hieroglyphics) being waved about. A party spirit, you might say. A convivial atmosphere.

  Mr Bell finished his ice cream and dabbed at his chin with his handkerchief. ‘I am not at peace with any of this,’ he said.

  ‘I do not care much for those chickens,’ I replied. And there were indeed many chickens to be seen in the grandstand. ‘I never cared much for the ordinary sort. I find these most upsetting.’

  ‘They are certainly an enigma,’ said the great detective. ‘And, to my mind, anomalous. This case grows ever in complexity. There is more to every aspect than I should wish.’

  ‘Let us go and see Beethoven conducting the Ninth,’ said I. ‘We could come back here ten minutes ago, afterwards. So to speak.’

  ‘One thing at a time,’ said Mr Bell. ‘You'll see the Ninth soon enough.’

  But sadly there was no truth in these words.

  A chap in red silk robes and a broad-brimmed hat now strode out onto the neatly mown grass of the cricket pitch. He came from the pyramid end and took up a position of square leg. And then he bawled at us through an ivory mouth-trumpet.