Mrs Darcy vs The Aliens

As the five travellers disembarked from the dirigible, which was now safely secured in a field just outside Bath, Wickham turned to Elizabeth.

“Why does Mr Darcy hate this place so?” he said.

She thought for a moment, and then shook her head. “You’ll find out,” she said with a sigh.

“Oh. That bad?”

“I’m afraid so.”

The party headed off towards the town. It was early morning, and the streets were full of people bustling around on various errands. Sutherland and H, supporting poor Darcy between them, led the way, followed by Wickham and Elizabeth.

Elizabeth was getting ever more concerned about Darcy. In truth, she was not as confident as the others that the famous spa waters would cure his ailments, but there seemed to be no choice but to leave him here whilst they continued their journey. H had said that he would stay and look after him, but she suspected the great scientist’s motives. She did not wish her husband to become a mere guinea pig for whatever quack cures he might come up with. Better surely to treat him conventionally by some light blood-letting or perhaps a mild trepanation?

The presence of the four ghosts was also a worry. She didn’t have a problem with believing in them – particularly after a brief demonstration involving a pair of dividers and Colonel Sutherland’s buttocks – but she was not yet comfortable with the idea of being so overtly in the company of dead people. Particularly ones that kept themselves invisible. H had taken her to task over this, accusing her of being “deadist”, although this just gave her one more reason to regard the man with suspicion.

“Don’t wanna be in Bath,” Darcy said, turning around. He looked awful.

“It’s all right, dear,” she said. “You’ll be well cared for.”

“Don’t like Bath. Full of odd people.”

“Now you know that’s not true.”

They were getting curious glances from passers-by now.

“I’m so sorry,” she said to a lady in an expensive bonnet. “My husband is ill.” The woman sniffed and crossed to the other side of the road.

“How much further do we have to go?” she said to Sutherland, leaning forward.

“I believe we’re close now,” he said. “Look, there’s the Jane Austen Centre!”

“The what? Are you telling me that dreadful woman has her own centre now? It’s bad enough that her residence here attracts all manner of unsavoury people to the city – ”

“She’s terribly popular, you know,” said Wickham. “I … I – ” He suddenly looked somewhat furtive and embarrassed.

“Mr Wickham, I do hope you’re not going to admit to reading books about zombies!” Elizabeth was shocked. But there was never any accounting for the reading tastes of men. Even her Fitzy had been known to read some of the most appalling tripe, such as … what was the name of that book about the Italian painter? Or the ones by that woman from Jordan? Revolting stuff.

“Well … I … never mind … never mind,” said Wickham, attempting to bring the topic of conversation to a swift close.

“As if anyone could imagine that such creatures as zombies could be real!” Elizabeth was getting into her stride now. “The undead walking the earth! Pah!”

“Zombies,” muttered Darcy.

“Indeed,” said Elizabeth, surprised to find her husband joining in the conversation.

“Good Lord, he’s right!” said Wickham. “Zombies! As if we don’t have enough to contend with already!”

All five of them had stopped and were looking in the direction where Darcy was pointing. In the road ahead of them, as far as the eye could see, were a vast array of rolling-eyed creatures that could indeed only be described as zombies, lurching towards them with a sinister shambling gait. As they drew close, Wickham pushed his way past Darcy and his two supporters and unsheathed his sword …

The dirigible floated on through the night air towards Bath. The only sounds apart from the soft chugging of the engine were the snores of Colonel Sutherland as he lay dozing in the rear of the gondola and occasional groans from Mr Darcy. Mrs Darcy was asleep too, but she maintained a ladylike silence. Keeping watch at the prow, Wickham had plenty of time to think. What he was mainly wondering about was how on earth they had managed to escape from the Mission. They had surely all been doomed to certain death until that poltergeist had appeared.

Or was it a poltergeist? Maybe it was simply a ghost with a bad attitude? How could you tell? Of course! Abandoning his post for a moment, he went to the middle of the ship and found H, busy checking the course to Bath.

“How much do you know about ghosts, H?” he said.

H narrowed his eyes. “You’ve heard it too, haven’t you?”

“Heard what?”

“The rustling.” H twitched slightly.

Wickham frowned. “Er … no, I haven’t heard anything. I was just wondering how we managed to evade Lady Catherine.”

“Yes, I was wondering about that. Queer business and no mistake.” H suddenly stiffened. “Did you hear that?” he whispered.

“Hear what?”

“Listen! There it goes again!”

This time, Wickham heard it – a definite rustle of skirts. And was he imagining it, or was there a whiff of cheap gin in the air?

“H?” he said. H put a finger to his lips and opened up a panel in the bulkhead. He motioned to Wickham to hold the wheel and started rummaging. Eventually he emerged, triumphantly clutching a device that Wickham recognised: the funnel at the end of H’s ghost detection engine.

“Good Lord!” he whispered. “What else do you have stashed away on board, H?”

H tapped his nose. “You’d be surprised, young man. Never underestimate Sir Humphry Davy.”

“I most certainly won’t.”

The conspiratorial silence was rudely broken by H starting up the engine. Sutherland sat up briefly, scratched his head and then lay down again, muttering. The Darcys slept peacefully on, undisturbed.

“So what’s the plan?” said Wickham.

“First of all, keep your hands on the wheel and your eye on the sky ahead. For my part, I will carry out a sweep of this vessel to see if we are harbouring any spectral stowaways.” H pulled out a length of hose from the machine and began to wave the funnel from side to side, moving slowly forwards, until all of a sudden a pair of female feet appeared. Unexpectedly, a second pair of female feet then appeared next to the first pair, followed by a third and a fourth.

H tilted the funnel upwards, revealing four women, each of whom was regarding Wickham and himself with some interest.

“Evening, Mr Wickham,” said Annie Chapman. “Nice to see you again.”

Wickham found himself unable to speak.

“Wickham?” said H. “Do you know this … person?”

“I … I … yes, that is to say – ”

“Oh, don’t worry, Mister,” said Annie Chapman, “’e don’t know me in the biblical sense.” She paused. “Even if ’e did ask if I did Prussian.”

“’e did what?” said the girl on her left.

“Filthy bugger,” said the one next to her.

“But ’e is ’andsome, like you said,” remarked the fourth one. “So I might – ”

“Now listen to me, Mary Jane Kelly,” said Annie Chapman. “You wanna be careful, my young lady. You don’t let no-one ask you for Prussian. More’n your life’s worth.”

“Even if I’m dead?” said the other.

“Well, that’s as maybe. I still say – ”

“Annie’s right, Mary Jane,” said the one to Annie Chapman’s left. “You wanna look after yerself.”

H held up his hand. “Ladies!” he said. “Please calm down. I’m sure that my colleague’s enquiry was entirely innocent – ”

“Yeah, right – ”

“But be that as it may, I would be very interested to know what you’re doing here. I’m not altogether certain if this vessel can cope with four extra passengers.”

“Us?” said Annie Chapman, with a hint of indignation. “We only went and saved Mr Wickham ’ere’s life. Not so say those other geezers what were with ’im. Although we still don’t know what’s up with that Mr Darcy – ”

“I can explain that,” said Wickham. “But who are you all?”

“Just four ’onest ’ores what got caught up in bad business, Mr Wickham,” said the one on Annie Chapman’s left. “Elizabeth Stride, at yer service,” she added, with a curtsey, “An’ that there is Catherine Eddowes. An’ the cheeky one on the end is Mary Jane Kelly. An’ us four ain’t goin’ anywhere right now, Mister.”

Once Wickham, bringing up the rear, was aboard, H fired up the burners and the dirigible soared upwards into the night sky. Fiddling constantly with the controls, he held her steady – or as close to steady as he could manage, which wasn’t in fact remotely close – as they told him everything that had happened to them inside the Mission. Or at least three of them managed to recount their respective tales, as Darcy was looking distinctly unwell again and was only capable of groans from where he lay in the bowels of the gondola.

“So what do we do now?” said Sutherland. “We seem to be once more without a plan.”

“Surely our aim remains the same as it ever has been – to get into Rosings?” said Wickham.

“Yes, but our means to achieve that aim was vaporised not half an hour ago. Extraordinary business. To think that he was there in front of us one moment and then – ”

“That’s as maybe, my good sirs,” said Elizabeth. “But for the moment my main concern is closer to home. I am exceedingly vexed about my husband. All this excitement and adventure is too much for him in his present frail state.”

“I agree,” said Sutherland. “The man needs a rest cure.”

There was silence for a minute or so.

“How about Bath?” said Wickham.

“What an extraordinary suggestion!” said Elizabeth. “I hardly think that sitting in a tub for half an hour is likely to do him any good, and besides, he already – ”

“No, I meant the City of Bath.”

“Oh, I see.” She thought for a moment. “He does not view that place with much pleasure, I fear. But ’tis also true that the waters may revive his spirits.”

“So ’tis agreed, then,” said Sutherland. “We shall go to Bath. And once Mr Darcy is placed in the care of the healing springs, we may resume our quest to steal our way into Rosings unnoticed and put an end to this hideous alien intrusion into our English way of life.”

“But how are we to do that?” said Wickham.

“What was it that Mr Collins said before he – as you say – vanished?” said H.

“I think he said that we should ask his wife for the key to the potting shed,” said Wickham. “Perhaps ’tis a clue.”

“Great heavens!” said Sutherland. “’Tis indeed a clue! What if the potting shed were Mrs Collins’ nickname for Rosings?”

“She must have a secret key!” said Wickham. “Collins must have needed to enter the great house without having to knock on the front door, so to speak, so he would have a key to some other entrance.”

“Brilliant!” said Sutherland. There was a slight pause.

“That is indeed an exceptionally astute piece of deduction, gentlemen,” said H. “But I yet perceive a problem.”

“Why so?” said Sutherland.

“We have no idea how to locate Mrs Collins, of course.”

Elizabeth coughed. “I think I may be able to help you there. I have lately had communication from Charlotte Collins. She is staying in Glastonbury, in a commune for artistic people.”

“Artists? Pah.” said Sutherland. “Is she of the artistic persuasion herself?”

“Thankfully not,” said Elizabeth.

Wickham suddenly clicked his fingers as if something extraordinarily important had just occurred to him. “Is not Glastonbury only a few miles from Bath?”

“’Tis true,” said H. “It seems that our twin paths do indeed run parallel. I shall set a course for Bath immediately. Once Mr Darcy has disembarked, we shall proceed thenceforth to Glastonbury.”

“I love it when a plan comes to – ” said Sutherland.

“I hate Bath,” said Darcy with a groan.

“Nonsense, Fitzy dear,” said Elizabeth. “’Tis for your own good. Now lie down again and get some sleep.” As she bent down to tuck a blanket around her husband’s supine form, she shuddered. For a moment, she was convinced that she heard the rustle of another woman’s skirts.

Elizabeth gaped in astonishment at the empty space where Mr Collins had been.

“You killed him!” she said. “How could – ”

Lady Catherine de Bourgh shook her head. “No, Mrs Darcy, your … friend Mr Collins is not dead. But he has gone to a … better place. In spite of everything, he has at least earned that.”

“So you are not going to kill us after all?” said Wickham.

“Ah, Such optimism, Mr Wickham – ”

“What is it that you want from us?” said Sutherland.

“Want? I want nothing from you, Colonel.”

“Perhaps you expect us to talk?” said Darcy.

“No, Mr Darcy. I expect you to die,” said Lady Catherine. She put away the strange, unworldly weapon that she was holding, and instead withdrew a much more conventional-looking flintlock pistol. She cocked it and took aim at each of the three men in turn. “So, who is to be executed first?” she said. “The bumbling Colonel? The dashing, yet idiotic Lieutenant? Or the pompous and rather dull Mr Darcy?”

The silence in the room was palpable. For a moment it seemed as if Lady Catherine had settled on Wickham. Then she changed her mind and aimed at Darcy. But then her choice was rendered moot by the unexpected appearance of an airborne teapot that struck her arm with some force, knocking the pistol out of her hand. For an instant, a tentacle appeared from her sleeve and flailed about for a moment, and then her human form reasserted itself.

“Damn you!” she cried. “Where are you now?”

“Where is who now?” said Elizabeth, thoroughly confused by this new development.

Lady Catherine reached down to pick up the gun, but was knocked off her chair by an ornamental vase that smashed against the side of her head. Elizabeth felt a draught of air whistle past her and something that sounded like the rustle of skirts.

“Great heavens,” said Sutherland. “A poltergeist!”

“How extraordinary! What are the chances of that happening, I wonder?” said Wickham.

Darcy, however, sounded a cautious note. “This is all terribly interesting, but I’m sure you will be aware that we are still manacled to these seats.”

There was a sudden “ping” sound.

“Well, we’re not any more,” said Elizabeth, getting to her feet. Lady Catherine was still out cold on the floor.

“Come on, then, let’s get moving!” she said. The men were all standing up now, and looking at each other, trying to decide who was going to take charge of the situation.

“Yes, let’s go!” said Sutherland.

“Yes, let’s!” said Wickham.

Darcy was looking pale again, and didn’t say anything.

Elizabeth was already halfway down the corridor by now. “Come on!” she said. All four were making their way towards the exit now, but Lady Catherine had apparently also regained consciousness again as well as she was now in hot pursuit after them.

And then, once more, Elizabeth felt that strange draught of air and a rustle of skirts next to her. She was also convinced that she heard the word “Duck!” whispered to her by an unseen voice. So she did, and the next thing she knew, an unflattering china bust of the Prince Regent had suddenly materialised in mid air and was spinning madly in the direction of Lady Catherine. It caught her right on the temple, stopping her in her tracks once again.

“Did you see that?” said Sutherland. “Dashed good aim, what?”

By this time, they had all reached the door. Wickham heaved it open, and they burst out into the night. Then they made their way round to where the steam lift was waiting to carry them up into the dirigible again. Wickham helped Elizabeth into the basket and gave a tug on the rope. There was a tense couple of seconds before they heard the unmistakeable sound of the engine chugging back into life.

When Elizabeth reached the top, H helped her out of the basket.

“Everything go according to plan?” he said, smiling absent-mindedly.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!”

Mr Collins was flying, but he knew not how nor where, nor even – now he came to think of it – when. The transporter ray – even in the hands of such a skilled practitioner as his esteemed patron, Lady Catherine de Bourgh – was an inaccurate device at the best of times and his ultimate destination could be almost anywhere in time or space.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!”

The shock at his treatment by Lady Catherine had dissipated somewhat during his journey into the unknown. In any case, no doubt she had a point. He must have let her down somehow – although he was at a loss for the moment exactly how – and she was fully entitled to exact punishment. It was, however, a shame to lose such a gracious and beneficent patron as Lady Catherine.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!”

The wind rushed past his ears, and he flailed his arms, trying to slow himself down. When was it going to end? Did this kind of thing happen every time? He hadn’t yet dared to open his eyes, so he had no idea what was going on around him, and there was every chance that the eventual landing could be an unpleasant experience. It was in fact entirely possible that he would not survive this.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!”

Come on now, he thought to himself, pull yourself together – what’s the worst that can happen? However, this did not prove to be a helpful line of enquiry. There were very many bad things that could happen to him right now and he decided that, on balance, he would prefer not to think about any of them.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!”

He decided to risk opening one eye, and almost immediately saw a tree heading straight for him. He put out his hands in front of him and somehow managed to cushion the impact. For a second, he dangled from a branch, ape-like, and then dropped heavily onto the ground. Silence reigned, broken only by the tweeting birds of the dawn chorus. A damp country smell filled the air.

“Mornin’,” said a voice.

Collins looked up towards the direction it came from. “Er … yes, good – ”

“You alright, mister?” A face peered down at him. It was florid, male and chewing a long piece of grass.

“I believe I am – ”

“Is that so? Is that so indeed? Strikes me as an odd place fer a gentleman such as yerself ter kip down fer the night? Missus kick yer out?”

“Great heavens! The impertinence! I shall report you to the authorities for insulting a minister!” He struggled to stand up, but his foot was caught in one of the lower branches and his efforts merely resulted in him ending up with his face in the mud.

“So you a man of the cloth, eh? Well, ain’t that a coincidence? ’Cos they’re a-looking for a new Rector ’round these parts. You come for the interviews?”

Collins thought for a moment. He was going to have to make a living somehow. He softened his tone a little. “Interesting. Maybe I was a little hasty just now. As you see, I am in a difficult position here.” He paused. “This may sound a curious question … but which year is it?”

The face frowned. “You don’t know? What a peculiar gentleman you are to be sure. Well, sir, ’tis the year of our Lord 1906.”

Collins finally managed to extricate his foot from the tree and succeeded in standing up. He looked long and hard at the yokel in front of him. “And where is this place?” he said.

“Why, sir, this be Stiffkey! ’Tis the finest place on God’s own earth is Stiffkey.”

Stiffkey, thought Collins. I like the sound of that. He really had fallen on his feet this time – just when he thought he might have ended up walking into the proverbial lion’s den.

Lady Catherine de Bourgh swept into the room and surveyed its occupants. “Well, well, well,” she said. “What do we have here?”

“My Lady, ’tis – ” began Mr Collins.

“Oh, do be quiet, Collins, you snivelling wretch,” said Lady Catherine. He flinched and gave an uncertain smile.

“As you w– ”

“Of course I wish. Now be quiet until I ask you to say something, and even then make sure that your answer is of the highest quality before you venture to respond. Is that understood?”

Collins made to reply, caught himself and ended up giving a passable impression of a particularly absent-minded goldfish.

“Good,” said Lady Catherine. “So, I see we have almost a complete hand to play with here, even if most of them will ultimately be … discarded.”

“You’ll never get away with th– ” said Wickham.

“Wickham, do you ever say anything else? Or does your conversation consist of a series of selections from a limited set of tiresome stock phrases?”

“You have to admit he was right last time,” said Elizabeth. Lady Catherine turned on her with an evil eye.

“Ah, the feisty Mrs Darcy! I wonder, will you be so bold when I probe your husband to within an inch of his life – ”

“No! Not the probe!” said Sutherland. Lady Catherine blinked and stared at him.

“And who on earth are you?” she said. “Do I know you? Perhaps I should probe you first.”

Sutherland gulped. “Madam, it would be an honour,” he said, his voice rising to a squeak.

“Enough!” said Darcy, twitching against the metal bands that held him in his chair. “If I am to be probed, let it be done now.”

Lady Catherine laughed. “Ha! You poor fools. There will be no probing tonight. There is no need for any more probing at all. The probes have done their work.”

There was an audible sigh of relief from all four prisoners.

“No,” said Lady Catherine. “I shall simply dispose of all of you except Mrs Darcy. Her destiny is yet incomplete.” She reached into her bag and withdrew what appeared to be a small firearm – albeit one that was far smoother in shape and more compact than anything Elizabeth had seen before. Lady Catherine pointed it at each of the four of them in turn, and then – to everyone’s astonishment – at Mr Collins, who stood up and began to edge away from her.

“Lady Catherine!” he said. “Pray wh – wh – what are you doing, ma’am? Have I not served you faithfully all these years? Have I not obeyed every command, followed every whim and indulged every nuance of your desires? Please, I beg you – ” He seemed uncertain as to whether to abase himself before her or to try to make a run for it.

“Mr Collins, you tiresome, repulsive little man, I thank you for delivering this band of deluded idiots to me and thus ensuring the success of our great Plan. But now that victory is in sight, your life serves no purpose to me any more. Moreover, I am tired of your wretched, obsequious fawning and if I have to spend one more minute in your company, there is every chance that I shall strangle myself with one of my own tentacles.”

“Lady Catherine – ”

“Enough!” She raised the firearm and pointed at Mr Collins’ body. Panic-stricken, he turned and looked at Elizabeth, pleading at her instead.

“Mrs Darcy!” he said. “Go to my wife. Ask her … ask her about … about the potting shed – ”

“I beg your pardon?” said Elizabeth, taken aback. But before he could elucidate, there was a sharp crack, a blinding flash and the room filled with smoke. When it cleared, there was no sign of Mr Collins at all.

Mr Collins led the way down the corridor, followed by Darcy, Wickham and Sutherland, with Elizabeth bringing up the rear. Sutherland seemed less than sure of foot and was clutching a kerchief to his brow at the point where he had recently made contact with the wall beyond the front door.

Even though it was still a warm summer evening outside, Elizabeth shivered. Something inside her knew that bad things had happened here. The flickering light of Mr Collins’ candle up ahead made strange shadows to dance on the walls and she could easily imagine that a more susceptible creature than herself would perceive ghosts and phantoms in a place such as this. Every now and then she even managed to convince herself that there was another set of footsteps behind her.

At the end of the corridor, Mr Collins ushered them into a room, shut the door and bade them seat themselves down in front of a large desk. He took a seat opposite them, clasped his hands together and turned to look at Darcy with an expectant air.

“So, Mr Darcy,” he said, “What can I do for you?”

Something was wrong. Elizabeth couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but Mr Collins wasn’t behaving the way she would have expected. The usual oleaginous fawning tone was absent from his voice for one thing.

“I need to take Mrs Darcy to Rosings,” he said, exactly as he had been primed to do so by Colonel Sutherland.

“Indeed?” said Collins. “So pray why did you bring her here, accompanied by these two agents of the Crown?”

Great heavens, he knows, thought Elizabeth! We are in mortal peril!

“These two agents, as you call them, are aliens in disguise,” said Darcy, sticking to his script. This was the least convincing part of the deception, thought Elizabeth.

“Eck,” said Wickham, without much conviction.

“Ecky ecky,” said Sutherland.

“Ecky ecky indeed,” said Collins. “Ecky ecky.”

Dear me, we need to get out of here, thought Elizabeth. “Excuse me, Mr Collins, “ she said, “but I need to use the – ”

“Sit down, Mrs Darcy,” said Collins. “Stay right there.”

“Now look here,” said Darcy, making as if to stand up. But before he could do so, a pair of metal bands appeared from the arms of his chair and pinned him to it. At the same time, similar devices were activated and made prisoners of the other three.

“Excuse me – ” said Sutherland, but he was cut short by Collins.

“Be quiet, you blundering old nincompoop. Did you imagine that I was so ill-informed that I would be taken in by your deception? That I would somehow be unaware that my alien friends’ replacement for your Mr Darcy here had been wounded whilst escaping from Pemberley last night?”

“Replacement?” said Elizabeth.

“Well, he’s certainly an improvement on the original, don’t you think?” said Collins. “Just think, my dear Elizabeth, you could have had me instead.”

“How dare you speak to my wife like that, you revolting little man!” said Darcy.

“Cease!” Collins was on his feet now, pacing up and down in front of them. “Now the question is, what shall we do with you all? I fear the only one of you who is not completely expendable is indeed the lovely Elizabeth here.” He bent down to stroke her chin, but she shook her head away in disgust. “I wouldn’t be so quick to disown me, my dear. Our new masters have promised you to me when this is all over.”

“No!” said Elizabeth.

“Oh yes,” said Collins. “Ecky ecky ecky.”

Darcy and Wickham were both squirming in their seats by now, taking turns to fire insults at Collins, who merely laughed at them. “You poor pathetic humans, look at you! Mankind is finished!”

“Traitor!” said Sutherland.

“I am but a realist,” said Collins, with a sad shake of his head. “The first of many such realists, as you will soon see, once my masters show their true colours!” The door opened behind them, and Collins’ familiar obsequious demeanour returned in an instant. “Ah! Lady Catherine!” he said. “So delightful to see you once more. See, I have your prisoners!”

It was nearing twilight when H switched off the engine and let the dirigible drift down towards the roof of the Mission in Whitechapel. There was a crash, a thump and an ear-shredding scraping as H and his two colleagues in uniform fought to bring it to a standstill and stop it sliding off the roof by throwing grappling irons at any chimney that happened to be within range. Finally it came to a halt a few feet shy of the edge.

“Well, that went well, eh?” said Sutherland, clinging on to the side.

The look that Mrs Darcy gave him would have felled an ox. She hauled herself to her feet and assisted her ailing husband to his. H busied himself setting up some kind of contraption involving lots of rope and gearwheels. Then he threw one end of the rope over the side of the gondola, letting it drop down to the ground. Sutherland went to swing his leg over the side, but Wickham spoke up.

“Sir, let me go first. We don’t know what we may run into down there.”

“I thought you all said that nothing could go wrong,” said Mrs Darcy.

“Well … always best to be careful, all the same,” said Sutherland. But he didn’t sound terribly convinced and seemed to be entirely comfortable with the idea of Wickham leading the descent.

Wickham sat on the rail of the gondola and grabbed hold of the rope, testing that it was secure. Once he was happy that it would bear his weight, he began to climb down. When he reached street level, he drew his sword and looked around. Having satisfied himself that there was nothing untoward lurking in the gloom, he gave two sharp tugs on the rope to indicate the all-clear. A few seconds after that, he heard the unmistakeable sound of a miniature steam engine starting up, followed a minute or so later by the arrival of a wicker basket attached to the rope by a complex system of pulleys. In the basket was a somewhat bemused Mr Darcy. He looked paler than ever.

Next to arrive was Mrs Darcy, followed by Colonel Sutherland. The plan was for H to stay in the machine to have it ready for immediate take-off in the event of anything going disastrously wrong. Which of course wasn’t going to happen at all. There was never any chance of that.

Once all four of the party were assembled, Sutherland whispered to them to follow him.

“Sir,” said Wickham. “I believe the entrance is this way.” They all turned round and followed him instead.

“I knew that,” said Sutherland.

Creeping round to the front of the Mission, they located the front door. It was locked.

“Do we knock?” said Wickham.

“Of course not,” said Sutherland. “Damn blighters might hear us. No, we break it down instead.”

“Wouldn’t that … oh never mind,” said Mrs Darcy. She still sounded peeved.

“Any other suggestions?” said Sutherland. There was no reply, apart from a vague groan from Darcy.

“Is he all right?” said Wickham. “The success of this endeavour does rather depend on him.”

“Nonsense,” said Sutherland. “All the man has to do is keep upright for long enough to give his story to Collins.”

“But – ” said Mrs Darcy.

“Enough,” said Sutherland, choosing a place on the door to take aim with his shoulder. He took a couple of steps back, charged and then went flying straight through the doorway, past a bemused man with a slight stoop and greasy unkempt hair.

“Mr Darcy!” said the man. “And … Mrs Darcy?” he added, with evident surprise. “Your face looks familiar too, although I remember not your name,” he said, turning to Wickham. He held out a limp hand and bowed from the waist. “Mr Collins,” he said “At your service. Welcome to my humble Mission.”

The little dirigible pitched, rolled and yawed as it chugged its erratic way towards London. Wickham and Sutherland maintained a watch on either side of the prow, whilst H stood in the middle, turning the wheel this way and that. Darcy, however, was clearly less comfortable with this mode of transport; he lay supine on the deck of the gondola, tossing from side to side and groaning.

Elizabeth fared even worse, spending most of the time leaning over the side, losing more of her breakfast each time she heaved.

Great heavens, it was a long way down, she thought.

“Why couldn’t we have taken the carriage?” she wailed.

No-one answered her.

“Can you see him yet?” called H.

“Not yet,” said Sutherland.

“Who?” said Elizabeth.

“Hold on, I think I see something,” said Sutherland. “Pass me that spyglass, will you, Wickham?”

Wickham passed it to him. Sutherland held the glass up to his eye and squinted into the distance. “Yes! There he is,” he said, pointing.

“Who?” said Elizabeth again. She lifted herself up from the side of the dirigible and peered into the distance ahead of them. She couldn’t see a thing. Meanwhile, Sutherland had passed the spyglass to Wickham.

“Good Lord, so he is!” said Wickham.

“WHO?” said Elizabeth. This time, Sutherland took pity on her, and beckoned for her to join them in the prow. She gingerly made her way forwards until she could grip the bow of the gondola, and stood there for a moment, trying to steady herself again.

“Here,” said Sutherland, passing her the spyglass, “Take a look.”

Elizabeth put the glass up to her eye and looked towards where Sutherland had indicated. Great Aunt Betsy! What madness was this? There was another balloon in the sky ahead of them, except that this one was tethered to the ground by an impossibly long rope. In it was a man dressed in a smock. To one side of him there was an easel. The man appeared to be holding an artist’s palette in one hand and a brush in the other.

“See?” said Sutherland.

“Y – e – es,” said Elizabeth, nonplussed. “But who is he and what is he doing up here?”

“He’s an artist,” said Sutherland, as if that explained everything.

“Yes, I can see that. But what is he painting? The clouds?”

“No, he’s painting us!” said Wickham.

“Us?”

“Yes,” said Sutherland. “Us. Let me explain. One day, when all this ghastly business is over, it may fall to some great writer to tell the tale of how we defeated the alien menace that threatened the very existence of our magnificent country.”

“Great writer? Not that dreadful Austen woman, I hope?”

“I know her not. Who is she?”

“The one who writes those ghastly Gothic romances about the undead.”

“Well, for one thing, I hardly think this would be a job for a woman,” said Sutherland with a laugh. Elizabeth shot him a look but he ignored her. “And for another, I think we would be looking for someone with a little more … ah … class.”

“That still doesn’t explain the artist,” she said, although she had a horrible feeling that it probably did.

“Well, obviously such a book will require illustrations – ”

She stared at him.

“ – and we felt that a picture of H’s revolutionary mode of transport – ”

She continued to stare.

“ – would be particularly … particularly – ”

“Appealing?” said Wickham.

Elizabeth looked at the three men in charge of the flying machine and noticed that each of them had now adopted a heroic pose as they were approaching the balloon. Good grief, this was preposterous. “Are you therefore telling me, sir, that our sole reason for utilising this absurd mode of transport is to provide an airborne artist with a picture opportunity?”

“Well … not in so many words … but … I suppose – ” Sutherland’s voice reduced to a mumble as he finished with a tiny “Yes”. Elizabeth folded her arms and flounced back to where her husband was still moaning on the deck. As they passed the other balloon, she distinctly heard Wickham call out “Good show, Sir!”

The party reassembled itself over breakfast the next morning – at least all of the party except Mr Darcy.

“My husband is still a-bed,” said Elizabeth by way of explanation. Colonel Sutherland raised his eyebrow for the briefest of instants. “The poor man is quite limp after his ordeal,” she continued. “In fact, he is completely drained.” There was a strangled, choking sound from the Colonel as he struggled with a mouthful of Bath bun. The other two men tried very hard not to catch each other’s eye.

“So what’s the plan, Colonel?” said Wickham, after his superior’s discomfiture had resolved itself. “Do we have any more information about these creatures?”

“We think they come from Mars,” said H.

“Mars?” said Wickham. “Great heavens, what are the chances of anything coming from there? Must be – ”

“A million to one!” said the Colonel.

“But still they come,” said H. “Still they come. And if we fail to defeat them, ’twill be – ”

“Forever winter,” said the Colonel. There was a brief pause, before he continued. “So obviously we cannot hope to attack them on their home ground – at least not until H here has finished work on his space machine – ” (here, H looked slightly annoyed and shook his head) “ – so instead we must penetrate their base on Earth.”

“Rosings!” said Wickham.

“Indeed. However, we believe that a frontal assault on Rosings will be too risky now. They know that we know about them. In fact, they probably know that we know that they know that we know. Up until now they have refrained from using force against us, but we must assume that they possess weaponry far more advanced than anything we have. So we must employ subterfuge instead.”

“Subterfuge?”

“Yes. And this is where your husband comes in, Mrs Darcy.”

Mrs Darcy looked shocked. “Surely you aren’t suggesting that he should walk into Rosings and pretend to be an alien?”

“No, no, no, of course not. Far too risky. No, no, no. For all we know, your husband’s alien copy may be dead or mortally wounded, and we can be sure that Lady Catherine will be all too aware of this. However … if we move quickly, we may just be able to convince a certain third party that our Darcy is their Darcy, so to speak.”

“Mr Collins!” said Wickham.

“Precisely. And if we can feed him the right story to take back to Rosings, then we can use him to get us in there without any blood split.”

“A brilliant plan, sir! What can possibly go wrong?”

The Colonel smiled. “What indeed?” he said. “So the three of us will go with Mr Darcy to Whitechapel, having sequestered Mrs Darcy in a place of safety along the way.”

“Excuse me,” said Mrs Darcy. “But if my husband is being involved in a dangerous undercover plot, then I should be by his side. I shall come too.”

The Colonel shook his head. “No Mrs D – ” he said.

“Sir,” said Wickham. “Perhaps she – ”

“Wickham,” said the Colonel, rolling his eyes, “I’m sure that you will agree with me that this is no job for a woman. It is said that the heat of battle can fry the brains of the fairer sex. She may lose control of her bonnet, and – ”

A new voice now entered the argument. “Colonel, I beg to differ.” Everyone turned towards the doorway, where Darcy was leaning against the wall. “If my wife insists on coming, then she shall come. You may rail against it until you are quite puce with the trying, but ’tis of little use. She will have her way in the end.” It sounded like the voice of bitter experience.

There was a brief silence as the Colonel digested this. “Well then,” he said eventually. “There we have it. We shall all go to Whitechapel. H, fire up the dirigible! Let’s hit the sky!”