‘My lords, ladies, gentlemen, kings, queens, princes, all of rank and noble birth, I salute you.’ Mr Gladstone did toasting with his glass and each took favour of the wine. ‘As you will know, you have all been invited here tonight to participate in an auction in order to raise funds for a worthy cause. In fact, it might be said, without fear of contradiction, to be the worthy cause. The most worthy cause upon Earth. That of eradicating poverty worldwide. My friends, and I feel I can call you my friends –’ Mr Gladstone's eyes swept over the assembled multitude, lingering here and there upon some particularly tantalising female or other ‘– to eradicate poverty, to eradicate want, to eradicate hunger, these are worthy causes indeed. Together they become the worthy cause, and we are the favoured few who will bring this world into a state of well-being.’
There was much applause at this and I clapped my hands, too. I had not thought at all about the reason for this exalted get-together – it had not in the least crossed my mind. But to find that these great folk were all gathered here to do something altruistic, something that would benefit Mankind as a whole rather than doing what the rich generally did – line their pockets at the expense of all others – this was something wonderful.
Something historic.
‘It is my regret,’ continued Mr Gladstone, ‘that our fair Queen Victoria is unable to attend tonight. She has been taken unaccountably sick and sends her sincerest apologies. But, and here I must read from a telegram lately received, she sends her apologies and states –’ And here Mr Gladstone perched pince-nez upon his nose, unfolded from his pocket the telegram in question and read from it:
TELEGRAM
We are in complete agreement with this noble cause STOP We pledge one million English pounds STOP VR STOP
And applause like thunder was offered up.
‘Quite so.’ Mr Gladstone raised a calming hand. ‘So,’ said he, ‘as you can see, England is one hundred per cent behind this.’
More applause, but I did not join in, as I noted well a certain look on the face of Mr Bell. A look of concern, shall we say.
The Prime Minister continued, ‘And so, when our meal is concluded, we will hold our auction. The goal is to raise twenty million English pounds to complete the work started by the great Indian scholar, chemist and humanitarian Notpank Ruhtra, whose wonder food Ruhtrate is now ready to go into production and, with the funds raised tonight, will be distributed across the globe. This wonder food comes in many forms. It can be planted to produce massive crops in less than a week. It can be beaten flat then used to create clothing. It can . . .’
And so the miraculous qualities of Ruhtrate were extolled. And they were many and various and rather difficult, to my small mind, for me to entirely believe. But Mr Gladstone was clearly convinced, and as he was talking here upon this evening in eighteen eighty-five to literally all of the world's current leaders – folk who, frankly, were not to be trifled with – I was prepared, up to a point, to suspend my disbelief and hope that the utopia Mr Gladstone was now enlarging upon, once the whole world was in possession of Ruhtrate, would indeed come about.
So I smiled as he went on and on and on.
But not so Mr Bell.
The look of concern upon the face of my friend had transformed first into one of enlightenment, and now into one of extreme alarm.
I noted beads of perspiration and I became a-feared.
Mr Bell suddenly rose from his seat and flung his hands in the air. ‘Fire!’ he shouted. Very loudly. ‘Please vacate the premises. Ladies first, if you will.’
Mr Gladstone stared aghast at Cameron Bell.
Colonel Richardson-Brown made motions towards his arsenal.
Gentlemen in Black did likewise.
I became more a-feared.
‘What of this?’ the Prime Minister roared. ‘There is no fire. What of this?’
‘There is fire!’ my friend shouted. ‘All will be consumed in the flames. Flee now. Fire FIRE FIRE!’
‘Cease this nonsense!’ shouted Mr Gladstone.
‘FIRE!’
Shouted my friend.
And let us be honest here, there are few cries that will get folk up on their feet and making for the door in quite the manner that FIRE! does.
FIRE! just gets the job done.
It does.
And though Mr Gladstone made mighty attempts to halt the ensuing rush, all were to no avail. Mr Bell continued with his hollerings, raising his voice to volumes that I would hitherto have considered beyond his vocal range.
Colonel Richardson-Brown now drew out a pistol.
But my friend clubbed him down with a champagne bottle.
‘FIRE!’
And they bolted, crushed through doorways, heaved along corridors, flooded into the street.
Mr Gladstone raised his fists, but Gentlemen in Black, whose role it was to protect the Prime Minister, bore him aloft and heaved his struggling form from the premises.
Suddenly the great dining room was empty but for myself, Mr Bell and the unconscious Colonel James Richardson-Brown.
‘Now, what was that all about?’ I asked my friend. ‘I was looking forward to my dinner.’
‘Help me with him, Darwin,’ said Mr Bell, taking the fallen colonel by the shoulders. ‘We must hurry – there is little time left.’
‘But there is no fire,’ I said, and I sniffed with my sensitive nostrils.
‘But there will be soon,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘And a very loud explosion.’
And he was certainly right about that.
For mere moments later, there came . . .
A VERY LOUD
EXPLOSION.
* It is a fact known to few that the interior of Number Ten is somewhat Tardis-like – far bigger on the inside than the out. (R. R.)
39
s these were the days before radar, nobody knew they were coming. The Martian warships dropped down from the sky, bound for the heart of London.
Bound was one for Ten Downing Street.
The flagship of the Martian fleet, this was. The bomb that fell from it caused fire and fury and that loud explosion.
Mr Bell and I both covered our ears. We were out of Downing Street by now and although burdened by the weight of the colonel were making good progress.
For although the cry of FIRE! has the power to move people fast, falling bombs and mighty explosions do add a spring to that already hastened step.
‘Into that Underground station,’ shouted my friend, and we made for the steps. We were not alone in making this our shelter of choice. Londoners were pouring into the Underground. Flames were rising and explosions battered the air as we humped the colonel down the steps in the company of many.
At last, on the northbound platform, we laid our cargo to rest. Mr Bell patted about at the unconscious figure.
‘Looting?’ I enquired.
‘I want all his weaponry,’ said my friend, patting and pulling and probing.
We were huddled together in a corner with no one paying us any particular interest. My heart was beating rather fast and not amongst the smallest of my regrets was that this had happened before we had eaten our dinner.
I took deep breaths and tried to steady myself.
‘You knew,’ I said to Mr Bell. ‘You knew that this would happen.’
Mr Bell nodded and pulled out a shiny revolver.
‘You shouted “fire” because you knew the Martians were coming and that they were about to bomb Ten Downing Street.’
Mr Bell nodded once more and pushed pistols into his pockets.
‘How did you know?’ I asked Mr Bell. ‘How did you know it would happen?’
‘I reasoned it out, Darwin. All those heads of state and members of foreign royalty all together in a single room. All brought together for a single worthy cause.’
‘But it is a worthy cause,’ I said.
‘If it were real,’ said Cameron Bell.
I shrugged and said, ‘Go on,’ and so he did.
‘The
miracle of Ruhtrate,’ said Mr Bell, ‘invented by that Indian philanthropist, Notpank Ruhtra.’
‘It is not a name I know,’ I said.
‘It is if you reverse the letters.’
I did this inside my head. ‘Arthur Knapton,’ I said.
‘None other than he,’ said Mr Bell. ‘And what a cunning plan – to have all those noble leaders of nations assembled in a single place, lured there by such a worthy cause, and then to destroy them all. Bang!’ Mr Bell mimed the explosion.
‘And if you had not shouted FIRE—’
Mr Bell nodded once more. ‘They would all be dead.’
I gave my head a shaking. ‘But this is all wrong,’ I said. ‘This is not the way The War of the Worlds begins. It begins on Horsell Common, where the first spaceship lands. The spaceship that will later be known as the Marie Lloyd.’
‘That was the way it happened the first time, and the outcome is well known. This time, however, all will be different.’
‘I am very afraid indeed,’ I said to Mr Bell.
‘And I myself most inconvenienced. It was my intention to win the PM around to the idea that a Martian invasion was imminent and have him requisition for me the Empire's entire stock of—’
‘Dynamite?’ I suggested.
‘Precisely. Yet here we are, cowering underground whilst the Martian horde lays waste to London. Not the outcome that I might have wished for.’ Mr Bell made a very grumpy face.
Colonel Richardson-Brown began to stir. ‘I will fight any man who dallies with my woman,’ he mumbled.
Mr Bell gave him a swift, sharp smack upon the cheek.
‘What? What? What?’ went the colonel, coming to. ‘And where?’ he asked, as he took in his surroundings. And, ‘Common folk,’ he continued, with disapproval.
‘Those Martians, whose existence you doubted, are presently destroying the Empire's capital,’ said Mr Bell. ‘And it is your duty, as a great patriot and hero of the nation, to bring these evil invaders swiftly to their knees.’
‘And where did you say we are?’ asked the colonel.
‘Safely below, in an Underground Railway station.’
‘Well, thank the Lord for that.’ The colonel patted all over himself. ‘I have been robbed,’ he declared.
‘Your armaments have been requisitioned. Together we must go to Mornington Crescent.’
‘Why?’ asked the colonel, and Mr Bell told him why.
‘Because beneath that station is the headquarters of the Ministry of Serendipity. The Prime Minister will have been conveyed there by the Gentlemen in Black.’
‘Well, I have no wish to go there,’ said the colonel.
‘The PM will have travelled in the company of that adventuress and society beauty, Miss Defy,’ said Cameron Bell.
‘Then what are we waiting for?’ The colonel rose, dusted at himself, straightened his uniform and adjusted his trouser seat. He cast a bitter eye upon my friend and then we all made off to Mornington Crescent.
Along the railway track.
‘Isn't this rather a dangerous thing to do?’ I said as we stumbled along in the dark.
‘A talking ape is an abomination unto the Lord,’ observed Colonel Richardson-Brown. And then he howled, because the talking ape had reasonably good night vision and very sharp teeth indeed.
I heard the distinctive chuckle of Mr Bell.
And on we walked.
At length, and I will not tire the reader with tales of our travails as we went upon our way – how we were nearly run over by Underground trains, eaten by legions of rats, threatened by curious mole men and troglodytes and once encountered a lost race, half of monkey, half of man – we arrived.
‘Ah,’ said Mr Bell, of a sudden. ‘We're here.’
He pressed his special key into a special lock and we three were gratified when it turned with a pleasing click.
I had wondered many times about the Ministry of Serendipity. It seemed to me one of those convenient hooks on to which one might hang the most extravagant of conspiracy theories. Whenever something appeared to be going wrong for no apparent reason, folk would say, ‘The Ministry is behind it.’ I found – to little surprise, I might add – that folk still said that in the year three thousand.
So, not a lot had changed there.
We moved along a stone lane and into the loading area where the Marie Lloyd would stand in the London of the Second World War. And on from there to that self-same top-secret conference room where Mr Bell would impersonate Winston Churchill and not lay hands upon Mr Arthur Knapton.
Mr Bell knocked on the door of this top-secret room.
Scuffling sounds issued from within, followed by the Prime Minister's voice calling, ‘Hold on there one moment and I will be with you.’
Mr Bell pressed down on the handle and flung the door wide open.
To expose a scene of nothing less than scandal.
There was Mr William Gladstone, struggling to pull up his trousers, and Miss Defy in a state of undress, struggling likewise with stockings.
I stared, aghast. I was quite lost for words.
Not so the colonel, however.
‘You absolute swine!’ cried he as he drew out his sword.
The Prime Minister stumbled in his trousers and fell heavily to the floor. As he turned to rise, the colonel kicked him hard in the bottom.
I looked up at Mr Bell.
A huge smile covered his face.
‘You can at times be a very bad man,’ I told him.
Mr Bell winked, then helped up Mr Gladstone.
‘This is all a misunderstanding,’ said the guilty man. ‘I was explaining military tactics.’
And that would have to do, it appeared, for an explanation as he added nothing more.
‘We came at once,’ said Mr Bell. ‘We knew we would be needed.’
‘Did you?’ the PM almost fell over again, for he had two legs down one trouser. ‘Why did you? What?’
Mr Bell aided the trouser-struggler. ‘The colonel is your man,’ said he. ‘To lead us to victory.’
‘Am I?’ asked the colonel.
‘Yes,’ said my friend. ‘You are.’
‘Well, if I am, then I am, I suppose.’
‘What is all this about?’ Now once more fly-buttoned into respectability, Mr Gladstone sat himself down in that chair that is slightly bigger than the rest and did, to my mind at least, a very reasonable impression of a man who had done absolutely nothing wrong whatsoever.
My gaze strayed over to Miss Defy, who was now fully dressed and sitting primly at the table's other end, gloved hands in lap, looking demure and innocent.
The colonel was rather red in the face. Mr Bell suggested that he should sheathe his sword.
‘It is this way,’ said Mr Bell to Mr Gladstone. ‘The colonel here informed me during your speech at Ten Downing Street that the sixth sense he has developed during his many exciting and dangerous adventures had alerted him to imminent danger. He directed me to shout “FIRE!” so all would be saved from the forthcoming Martian attack.’
I really admired my friend for the way that words of untruth could sometimes spill from his mouth and I wondered just what was coming next.
‘Naturally,’ continued Mr Bell, ‘you will see to it that he receives the nation's highest honour for this act of valour alone.’
I would describe the look on the face of the colonel throughout all this as baffled. It brightened considerably, however, with this talk of a decoration.
Although he did look rather bitterly towards the lovely lady.
‘And,’ continued Mr Bell, ‘the colonel, as a natural hero and ideal figurehead to spur on the nation during this time of national calamity, will be pleased to take control of the armed forces, with myself as his personal adviser.’
The Prime Minister made gagging sounds.
Mr Bell smiled serenely.
‘Naturally,’ he went on, ‘no word of what has occurred here will reach my close friends at The Times newspaper.?
??
The Prime Minister drew out an oversized red gingham handkerchief and mopped his brow with it.
‘What do you suggest, then?’ he asked in the voice of one lost.
‘I suggest,’ said Mr Cameron Bell, ‘that we formulate plans here and now to destroy the Martian strike force.’
‘And how would we do that?’ asked the Prime Minister. ‘We did not even know of the existence of Martians until an hour ago.’
‘The colonel did,’ said Cameron Bell.
‘Did I?’ asked the colonel.
‘Now, do not be so modest,’ said my friend. ‘Only last night, after your highly successful book signing, you told me that you feared such an eventuality as this and that you had gleaned secret information about the Martian invasion and the man behind it all.’
The colonel's mouth opened and shut, but no words came from it.
‘Such a modest gentleman,’ said Mr Bell to Mr Gladstone. ‘He has been working undercover for months to track down the evil villain behind this attack. A beast in human form who leads these Martian foes. A man by the name of Arthur Knapton.’
‘Is this true?’ asked the PM of the colonel.
The colonel shrugged, then nodded his head. ‘I suppose it is,’ said he.
‘Then if you know so much, tell us what is to be done.’
The colonel's mouth opened once more, then shut, then opened, then shut. Mr Bell gave him a certain look.
‘Aha,’ said the colonel, ‘I see.’
‘You do?’ asked the Prime Minister. ‘Go on.’
‘I have confided all to my aide, Mr Cameron Bell,’ said Colonel James Richardson-Brown. ‘He will brief you on the details, won't you, Mr Bell?’
‘If you insist,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘But these are your ideas.’
‘Please go ahead,’ said the colonel, and he took himself off to the table's end to engage in a rather heated, if lower-toned, conversation with Miss Defy.
‘So,’ said Mr Gladstone. ‘Say your piece, Mr Bell.’
‘The colonel's piece,’ said my friend.
‘I do not care whose it is, just say it!’
Mr Bell smiled and began.
‘We are going to need some dynamite,’ he said.
40