I climbed onto the counter-top and poured my pale ale into a waiting glass. This received applause from the working men. I raised my glass and mimed a toast and they clapped once again. Doris brought change to Mr Bell and he examined this.
‘It's real enough,’ said Doris.
‘King George the Sixth,’ said Mr Bell.
Doris said, ‘God save the King.’
And all around folk raised their glasses and also said, ‘God save the King.’
I raised my glass, too, but did not speak.
I became gloomy in this future time.
Queen Victoria would now be long dead and a king sat on the throne of England. Winston Churchill was the Prime Minister and the Empire was under attack by raids from the air. Not Martians again, I hoped.
Mr Bell noted my disposition and patted me on the back. ‘All will be well,’ he said to me. ‘Do not worry yourself.’
And at that very moment, the soldiers entered the British Bulldog.
They were rather fierce-looking soldiers and they entered in the company of the chap in the painted helmet.
‘That's them,’ said this chap to the soldiers, and he pointed his finger at me and Mr Bell.
‘German spies, the both of them,’ said the man with the painted helmet.
12
oldiers are very like monkeys.
In that they are noble, brave and loyal.
But prone, at times, to great excitability.
Monkeys have, of course, at times been likened unto soldiers, as in the famous case of the Hartlepool Monkey. The story goes that during the Napoleonic Wars, a ship sank in a storm off the coast of Hartlepool. The sole survivor of this tragedy was an ape, which happened to be dressed in a French uniform and which floated ashore upon flotsam from the wreck.
The simple townsfolk of Hartlepool, never having seen a Frenchman in the flesh, assumed the monkey to be one and hanged the poor beast.
I can personally vouch for the untruth of this particular story as I was the ape in question and I escaped the hangman's noose through the timely intervention of my good friend Cameron Bell.
It is a very interesting story, as it happens, being one of the many time-travelling adventures Mr Bell and I shared. But I shall not recount it here in detail, especially as I have rather given away the ending.
But soldiers, as I have said, can be very like monkeys, and those who now pointed their fixed bayonets towards us did indeed make sounds that would have been more at home within a jungle. And as to the demand from the ‘superior officer’ that Mr Bell and I both raise our hands in the air and show our papers simultaneously, there were definitely simian qualities to that chap, I am thinking.
We were bundled from the British Bulldog and out into the night. The night, it felt to me, was full of menace. Smells came to my nostrils, of burning wood and spent gunpowder, and of blood and other things beside.
I looked up in no small fear to Mr Bell who was now being thoroughly searched by two of the soldiers.
‘Oh ho,’ cried one, ‘and what do we have here?’
He had lifted Mr Bell's trouser-cuffs to reveal that the detective had concealed a stick of dynamite in each sock.
‘And what of this?’ cried the soldier's comrade-in-arms, drawing Mr Bell's ray gun from his inner jacket pocket. ‘Some piece of Nazi super-technology, I'm thinking.’
The soldier waggled the ray gun about. I ducked for cover and Mr Bell counselled for caution.
It was as much of a surprise to me as to the soldiers exactly how much concealed weaponry Mr Bell had about his person, and the grins upon the faces of the soldiers at each disclosure were negatively mirrored by the growing look of gloom that spread about the face of Mr Bell.
By the time we had been pushed into the rear of a motorised vehicle, Mr Bell was shivering in his vest and underpants and I had been reduced to my boots and spurs. Most undignified! I was quite prepared to signal my disapproval through the medium of faecal flinging, but Mr Bell shook his head.
‘You have made a terrible mistake,’ he told the soldiers, who now joined us in the rear of the vehicle and were amusing themselves by nudging Mr Bell brutally with their bayonets whilst chanting, ‘Spy, spy, poke him in the eye.’
‘I demand to be taken at once to Mr Churchill,’ my friend continued, crossing his legs as he did so. ‘Mr Churchill is a personal friend of mine. He will have harsh words to say about my treatment, I assure you.’
But the soldiers did not heed the words of Mr Bell. In fact, the youngest-looking one, a slender private by the name of Pike, had words of his own to utter.
‘We have you bang to rights, Jerry,’ said he. ‘You're one of those SS suicide soldiers that the Daily Mail has been warning us about. I'll wager that big belly of yours is all filled up with high explosives, and if we were to take you to Mr Churchill, you'd light your arse off his cigar and blow our Winnie to kingdom come and all.’
Mr Bell was for once quite lost for words.
‘You'll go to the Tower,’ sneered another of the soldiers, a brutal Highlander by the name of Frazer. ‘Eaten by rats, you'll be, mark my words, I tell you.’
Lance Corporal Jones, an elderly soldier, remarked that we would not like it up us, whatever that meant.
I noticed that my friend was giving the soldiers considerable scrutiny, looking them up and down and nodding thoughtfully to himself. I took some comfort in this because it signified that he was once again using his remarkable powers of observation. In my opinion, he had been somewhat out of his depth in ancient Egypt, probably because everything was so utterly alien there. But here, back in London, even under the present uncomfortable circumstances, it was clear that his powers were as great as ever they had been.
We sat in the company of four soldiers. These I later learned were members of the Home Guard, a crack regiment dedicated to the defence of British soil. Fierce warriors all and not to be diddled about with. The captain of this particular group went by the name of Mainwaring, a deceptively avuncular figure, and it was to him first that my companion addressed a casual-sounding comment.
‘It is sad,’ said Mr Bell, as our uncomfortable conveyance rattled upon its way and great thumps that were clearly explosions came louder to our ears, ‘that often the most worthy of soldiers are passed over for promotion.’
Captain Mainwaring, who had been tinkering with his moustache, raised an eyebrow to this.
‘The class system,’ said my friend, in a meaningful manner.
Lance Corporal Jones asked his superior for permission to club Mr Bell over the head with the butt of his rifle. This permission was denied.
‘I understand your anger,’ said Mr Bell to Lance Corporal Jones. ‘An unfaithful wife can try a fellow's nerves.’
‘Best throttle him here,’ said Private Frazer, ‘and spare the expense of a hangman.’
‘That would certainly hide some sins,’ said Mr Cameron Bell. And he winked at Private Frazer and called him a dirty rascal.
I watched and listened to my friend and I was most impressed. On the face of it, he appeared to say so little, and what he did say did not for the most part take the form of direct accusation. His timing, too, was impeccable and we had all but reached the centre of the war-torn capital when the fight broke out in earnest.
Lance Corporal Jones started it – he clubbed down Private Frazer, was reprimanded by his superior officer, then set about him also. The young and slender Private Pike, to whom Mr Bell had addressed an oblique remark regarding his mother's fondness for men of the officer class, also chose to strike at Captain Mainwaring. Captain Mainwaring drew out his pistol, but I do not believe that he actually meant to shoot Private Frazer dead. The vehicle lurched over fallen debris; the gun went off by accident.
I do not, however, think it was by accident that Lance Corporal Jones stuck his bayonet into the captain.
The mêlée became bloody and brutal and, as no one was paying us any attention, Mr Bell gathered up our clothes and belongings and we took our leave at t
he first possible opportunity.
We watched our conveyance rumble away, and I can only suspect that its utter destruction was caused by someone accidentally pulling a pin from a hand grenade during the onboard struggle.
‘I am not sure I wholly approve of that,’ I said to Mr Bell. ‘Those soldiers were on our side, after all.’
Mr Bell was tucking sticks of dynamite back into his socks and he mumbled something that might possibly have been an apology.
I do have to say that we now found ourselves in most alarming circumstances. London was ablaze. It was terrible. Buildings were tumbling about us as deafening explosions cast awful shock waves. It was as if the city we loved had been swallowed into Hell.
‘We must take cover,’ shouted Mr Bell, struggling into his clothes. ‘And down there would be the very place.’
He pointed towards the entrance of a station. An Underground railway station named Mornington Crescent.
Mr Bell took me by the hand and together we fled the destruction.
My companion advised me against redressing myself in my Germanic uniform. The Germans were the enemy, he told me. And so, naked but for my boots and spurs, I travelled with Mr Bell down in the lift that led to the platforms beneath.
If there was horror above, there was tragedy below. Folk of London, removed from their houses, huddled together under blankets along the length of the platforms. They were trying to make the best of it, as Londoners will, putting on brave faces, singing comic songs, dishing out tea from steaming urns.
It all but broke my little heart.
I had taken a perch upon my good friend's shoulder and whispered to him how very dreadful this was.
‘We will have to stay here for now,’ he whispered in reply. ‘At least until the present assault upon the city ceases.’
‘And what if it does not?’ I asked. ‘What if it just goes on and on and on?’
Then a child cried out, ‘Look, it's a monkey.’
And Mr Bell suggested I should dance.
Dance?
But dance I did. I danced to entertain that child and all the others, too. I danced and Mr Bell sang a song from the music halls, and I know we made those children laugh and we were happy for that.
It was late and I was tired and so Mr Bell and I settled down upon that platform amongst the huddled Londoners and slept.
It was not an easy sleep, but had I any inkling of what lay ahead for us upon the following day, I am sure that I would have had absolutely no sleep whatsoever.
So I was later grateful for what sleep I'd had, for come morning, things took a terrible turn.
13
hen morning came, we left our Underground refuge with the others who had sheltered therein. We emerged into a sorrowful world. The beautiful city of London looked mortally wounded and the destruction was awful to behold.
‘I do not like the future,’ I whispered to Mr Bell.
The great detective shook his head. ‘Nor indeed do I.’
A sad-eyed lady in a straw hat was dispensing tea from a chromium-plated urn. She smiled at the sight of me and beckoned us over.
‘Tea and biscuits,’ she said. ‘And who is this fine little fellow?’ And she chucked me under the chin with a long, cold finger. Normally I would have responded to such uninvited intimacy with a summary biting, but that would have been most inappropriate now. This sad-eyed lady offered only kindness, and we were glad to accept her kindly offer.
I munched upon a biscuit and Mr Bell sipped sweet tea. Others gathered about the lady, ghost-like figures all. Some were still wrapped in blankets, their eyes downcast. No one really wished to look up at the destruction around them.
Mr Bell engaged the tea drinkers in conversation. This he did with care, as he had no wish to be misidentified as a German spy once more.
I shook my head in wonder over this war. Were we really at war with the Germans? Why on Earth would this be? The Germans were our friends. The Germans were a sophisticated people – Beethoven was a German, after all.
Mr Bell offered me a cup of water and I drank it gladly. Then he said that we should be moving along, and we left the sad-eyed lady and set off through the ruined streets of London.
I had become adept at sitting upon the shoulder of Cameron Bell and conducting a confidential conversation with him, and this I did now.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked him.
‘To a bookshop,’ he replied.
‘Now is not the time for reading,’ I told him. ‘Now is the time for action.’
‘And what action would you suggest?’
‘Departure,’ I said, ‘in the time-ship. Departure from this wretched time, and now.’
‘We will be on our way soon enough,’ said Mr Bell. ‘When I have achieved my goal.’
‘The arrest or destruction of Mr Arthur Knapton, the Pearly Emperor?’
‘One and the same,’ said Cameron Bell.
We had reached Piccadilly and things looked grim, with awful damage done.
‘You know you cannot stop him here and now,’ I said to Mr Bell.
The great detective sighed. ‘Naturally, I am aware of the difficulties,’ said he. ‘I do not have identity papers suitable for this period of time. According to the documents I obtained in ancient Egypt, Mr Arthur Knapton would appear to be engaged in legitimate business here and now with the British Government. He has the edge on me, as our American cousins might put it.’
‘And also—’ I began.
But Mr Bell cut me short. ‘I am aware of every “and also”,’ he said. ‘We are in a very difficult position.’
‘Then let us take our leave. It is far too dangerous here. What if a bomb comes down from the sky and blows up the Marie Lloyd?’
‘You make a good point,’ said my friend. ‘We would do well to depart before night falls and the Blitz begins once more.’
‘The Blitz?’ I said. ‘A horrid word is that.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Mr Cameron Bell. ‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.’
And I looked up to view the cause of his oh-dearings. And I was prompted to utter one of my own.
We stood now before the Electric Alhambra. But that beautiful building within which the greatest music hall acts of the day had entertained the plain folk and the gentry . . .
Was gone.
Destroyed.
A section of the façade was all that remained.
Mr Bell stooped down and picked up a piece of golden mosaic. ‘Such a pity,’ said he, in the softest of voices.
‘I just cannot bear it,’ I said.
‘Bookshop,’ said Mr Cameron Bell. ‘There is much I need to know, and then we will see what we will see.’
The Atlantis Bookshop had not changed at all. It lay, as it always had done, a mere tome's throw from the British Museum, which looked for its part as yet unscathed. Mr Bell indicated a lamp post and suggested that I climb to its very top and await him there until he had done whatever business he wished to do. I set to climbing the lamp post, and Mr Bell entered the shop.
I heard a distant church clock chiming and looked on as Londoners came and went. I do not think that I had ever felt so alone before as I did then, and I was very glad when Mr Bell finally emerged from the shop, a brown paper bag tucked under his arm, and beckoned me down to join him.
‘To Sydenham at once,’ said he.
‘Thank goodness for that,’ said I.
We took a taxicab to Sydenham, and a wretched taxicab it was. It smelled of sweaty men and cigarettes and it coughed black smoke as it rattled along. Recalling the sleek electric-wheelers of eighteen ninety-nine, I found that taxicab puzzling.
Mr Bell spoke not throughout our journey. He had a very queer look on his face and his fists were knotted tightly. As we drew nearer and nearer to Sydenham Hill, I felt a growing sense of unease. A feeling of dread.
I had, if you will, a sort of premonition.
There was some unpleasantness regarding payment and the driver of the taxicab availed himself
of Mr Bell's pocket watch. The great detective parted with this precious possession without a word of complaint. He had a weary look to him that I found most alarming.
The taxicab left us and we trudged back to where I had landed the Marie Lloyd.
And it came as no surprise to me, nor indeed to Mr Bell, to find that the Marie Lloyd had gone.
*
We sat together on high, on Sydenham Hill, and gazed down upon the rolling grasslands that spread beneath. No trace there of the Royal London Spaceport, of the great cobbled landing strip, of the vast Gothic-styled terminal buildings. No sign at all that they had ever existed.
I looked up at Mr Bell. ‘We both knew,’ I said. ‘Somehow, we knew that the Marie Lloyd would not be here when we returned. We knew, Mr Bell. But how did we know? What does it mean, please tell me?’
My friend took off his topper and placed it between his feet. A gust of wind caught it and it bowled down the hill. Mr Bell made no attempt to retrieve it and we watched it bounce away until it was lost to our sight.
‘Recall those chickens in ancient Egypt,’ said Mr Cameron Bell.
‘Only too well, and I did not like them at all.’
‘And recall how you said that they should not be there because they received no mention in the history books of our time?’
‘Certainly I do,’ said I.
Mr Bell sighed. ‘I engaged in a little research at the Atlantis Bookshop,’ said he, ‘and I purchased this for you.’
‘A present? How kind.’ I accepted the brown paper bag that Mr Bell offered to me and withdrew from it a colourful picture book. On the cover was an illustration of a portly monkey and an even portlier gentleman. The title of this book was The Adventures of Darwin the Monkey Butler and Mr Ball the Dangerous Detective.
‘Posterity,’ I said, with delight. ‘At least they spelled my name correctly.’
‘Have a little flick through,’ said Mr Bell. As I did so, he added, ‘Then see how pleased you are.’
Presently I closed the book and let it fall from my fingers.
‘What does all this mean?’ I asked my friend.
‘What do you think it means?’
I glanced down at the book. ‘It is a children's book,’ I said. ‘A work of fiction. It is about us, but we are foolish.’