Mrs Darcy vs The Aliens

It was late morning in Glastonbury, and the streets were bustling with folk going about their daily business. Many of them wore the traditional local attire of a rough smock emblazoned with the five-leaved plant that made up the town’s insignia. The air was thick with traditional cries such as “Finest Acapulco Gold!”, “Tastiest hash cakes in town!” and “Get yer bongs ’ere!” The air was also thick with curious, exotic scents which made the three visitors feel quite giddy.

Elizabeth had oft pondered the meaning of these cries ever since her parents had brought her and her sisters here many years ago on a day trip from Bath. Why, for example, was this the only town in the entire kingdom that seemed to continue the trade in South American precious metals? She also remembered being disappointed that they wouldn’t buy one of those nice cakes for her, as her stomach had been rumbling at the time. And what exactly was a bong – some type of horological device, perhaps? It was one of those things that she felt it best not to enquire on, but she was still curious.

“You there,” said Sutherland, pointing to a gentleman who was standing in a space apart from the crowd. “Can you tell me where we can find Lord … what’s the fellah’s name?”

“Byron,” said Wickham.

“ – Lord Byron?” said Sutherland.

By way of reply, the gentleman cocked his head on one side in an exaggerated manner, grabbed hold of his earlobe with his index finger and thumb, and pulled his face into an unnatural rictus with both eyebrows raised. He held this pose for a few seconds, then raised one triumphant finger into the air, gave a broad smile and shook himself upright. He then leant forward, shielding his face with one hand on his forehead and then swung his whole body from side to side as if scanning the horizon.

Elizabeth sighed. “I think this may take some time” she said, indicating that the three of them should move along. “In future, it may prove to be more helpful to choose someone other than a mime to ask for directions.”

“A mime – ?” said Sutherland, perplexed.

“’Tis a type of theatrical performer who communicates through gestures, sir,” said Wickham, by way of explanation.

“Ah! Like charades!” said Sutherland, brightening. “I do enjoy a game of charades. Jolly good fun. Perhaps we can join in?” He made as if to go back, but Wickham restrained him.

“Perhaps some other time, sir. ’Twould perhaps be better to ask someone who can actually talk to us, I think.”

“What about those chaps over there, then?” said Sutherland, heading over to a group of men wearing elaborate costumes. One of them was holding a bladder on a stick.

“Er, maybe not – ” began Elizabeth, but it was too late. Sutherland was already in discussions with one who seemed to be the leader of the troupe.

“You sir!” he was saying. “Can you tell me where I can find Lord Byron?”

The man struck a pose, with his hand on his chin. His companions did likewise.

“He’s not another mime, is he?” whispered Wickham to Elizabeth.

“No,” she said. “Far worse than that. Street theatre.”

“Dear me. I had no idea.”

The lead actor had now come out of his pose, and was looking very pleased with himself.

“Why, sir,” he said to Sutherland. “’Tis obvious where you can find Lord Byron! You must go to the marketplace!”

“To the marketplace!” echoed his companions.

Sutherland looked uneasy. “Why’s that? Surely – ”

“Because in the marketplace,” he said with an air of increasing triumph, “You will find many a buyer on the cobbles therein!”

“I’m sorry?”

“Buyer on,” said the actor, nodding at Sutherland. “Byron.”

“I still don’t see – ”

“It’s a sort of pun,” said the actor, looking crestfallen. “You see? ‘Buyer on’ instead of ‘Byron’. Thought ’twas quite diverting myself. It isn’t easy, this improv business, you know.” His colleagues nodded in agreement. He took off his hat and held it out with a hopeful grin on his face.

“Philistines!” he shouted, as the three of them walked away, ignoring his pleas for money.

“What about her?” said Wickham, pointing to a young bespectacled woman holding a banner that said “Stop Rotten Boroughs Now!” She was handing out leaflets and had quite a crowd surrounding her.

“What do we want?” she was shouting.

“A Great Reform Act!” came the response.

“When do we want it?”

“1832!”

Colonel Sutherland grimaced. “Looks like another damned actor,” he said.

“No, wait,” said Elizabeth, her heart pounding. “I know that voice.” She went up to the woman and asked for a pamphlet. Then she looked her full in the face.

“Mary?” she said.

As her rental horse trotted along the road to Glastonbury, Elizabeth felt torn between delight in leaving Bath and sadness at leaving her poor husband behind. He had hardly said a word to her all night apart from a vague muttering every now and then, very little of which made much sense apart from a long and detailed description of the Eton version of the offside rule, which Elizabeth noted was inaccurate in a number of significant respects.

“Horse all right, Mrs Darcy?” said Sutherland, turning round.

“Perfectly fine,” she said.

“Jolly good. Glad I managed to get you a free upgrade to a leather saddle. Are you keeping an eye on those oats? Need to fill ’em up before we hand ’em back.”

Elizabeth nodded. Rental horses were a whole new world for her, and she had watched in fascination as Wickham and Sutherland had examined each beast in turn, marking off various minor scars on a picture given to them by the agent. There was a whole discussion about whether or not to take out insurance against one of them going lame during the journey or somehow having an injury owing to a collision with another horse.

If the truth were to be told, however, the old nag that she had ended up with had seen better days. It could barely stagger into a rising trot, let alone a canter, but Elizabeth didn’t mind. She was just glad that they weren’t in that awful dirigible. In this respect, it was most definitely a good thing that H was needed back in Bath to attend to Darcy.

Elizabeth turned around to see how Wickham was getting on. He was more than a little quiet this morning, and she surmised that this might have had something to do with having had a restless night. He was reticent about the details, but it seemed that he had been bothered by one of the ghosts who had taken a fancy to him. Elizabeth had refrained from enquiring further.

Every now and then, they would chance upon a group of travellers on foot. More often than not, these folk would be carrying musical instruments, and after a while, she asked one of them why this was.

“Why, we be musicians, ma’am,” said one, a sallow-faced young man carrying a mandolin, with his flaxen hair in curious ringlets.

“I can see that, sir, but where do you intend to play?”

“Why, ma’am, we be goin’ to play in a muddy field just outside o’ Glasto. They be waterin’ it special, ’cos of there bein’ so little rain o’ late.”

“And why would you wish to play there? For surely you will have no audience in such an unpromising location?”

“Ah, beggin’ your pardon, ma’am,” said his colleague, a lad with a wispy beard and a tin whistle. “But the folks what come ’ere loves the mud. They comes from all around, from posh ’omes an’ all – ”

“’Specially the posh ones – ” said the one with the ringlets. “You should see some o’ the women in their smart frocks – ”

“ – an’ they roll around in the mud whilst we play tunes for ’em. And then after three days, they goes ’ome and gets cleaned up.”

“Is that so?” said Elizabeth. “’Tis a strange world we live in, to be sure.”

The three of them trotted slowly on towards their destination, which appeared before them around mid morning. As they reached the outskirts of the town, they dismounted and had a brief conference.

“So what’s the plan, sir?” said Wickham.

“Simple,” said Sutherland. “We locate Mrs Collins, relay her husband’s final words to her and get her to translate their meaning to us.”

“There’s only one small problem,” said Elizabeth. “I have no idea where she is living. She gave no address.”

“Isn’t she staying in some place full of peculiar arty types?” said Sutherland. “Shouldn’t be hard to track down.”

“Colonel Sutherland, this is Glastonbury. Around here, we are the peculiar ones.”

By the time Elizabeth and Wickham made their way towards the Hotel Romero, it was getting dark. The inns along the way were packed with revellers and the gutters were already filling up with zombies, out of their heads on cheap gin.

“I won’t be sad to leave this place,” said Elizabeth. “I only hope that my dear husband will be safe here.”

“He is in good hands,” said Wickham. “H knows what he is doing, and the waters will be a tonic.”

“Wickham, have you actually tasted the stuff? There’s a reason why they use so much gin here, you know.”

“A gin always helps a tonic, so I’ve heard.”

They swerved to one side to avoid a zombie who lurched towards them clutching his mouth, before emptying its contents over the road behind them.

“Evidently,” said Elizabeth, quickening her pace. “Ah, here we are,” she said as they turned a corner and saw the hotel ahead of them. It was with some relief that they entered the lobby and found the front desk. After a brief enquiry as to the location of Darcy and H’s suite, during which it became clear that there was a significant misunderstanding as to the nature of the relationship between Darcy and H, they ascended the main staircase and knocked on the door.

The door was opened by Colonel Sutherland, who put his finger to his lips and ushered them in. “Your husband is asleep,” he said.

“Is he well?” said Elizabeth, anxiously.

“He is perfectly well,” said H, emerging from the bedroom with an enema hose in his hands. Elizabeth stared at it with some curiosity.

“I thought it was more conventional to take the waters orally?” she said.

“Not when the patient has been Probed,” said H.

“Ah. Of course.” Elizabeth flushed slightly, wishing she hadn’t drawn attention to the appliance.

“Gather you had some trouble with Miss Austen,” said H.

“Yes, that’s r – ” began Wickham, before breaking off. “Hang on – how do you know?”

H smiled a smile that suggested that he was far too pleased with himself. “Annie told me,” he said.

“Annie who?” said Wickham.

“Annie Chapman, of course,” said Sutherland. “Do try to keep up, old boy. H here taught himself to talk to ghosts this afternoon. Doesn’t even have to use his machine thingy any more. Dashed if I know how he does it.”

“Oh, it’s a simple matter of bifurcating the mucous vectors of a polynomial determinant and – ” said H.

“Yes, yes, yes,” said Sutherland. “Jolly clever. Jolly clever. Anyway, blooming good thing he did, because I rather get the feeling that you two were heading for an early exit, courtesy of your crazed author friend.”

“I … well … I don’t know what to say, Sir Humphry,” said Elizabeth. “You appear to have saved our lives.”

“Did I?” said H, with a faraway look on his face. “Well, then. Well then. I suppose I did. Although it was mostly Annie’s work, of course.”

“Of course,” said Elizabeth, looking around the room.

“She’s over there,” said H, nodding towards the fireplace.

“Ah,” said Elizabeth, turning round. “Er … thank you, Miss Chapman,” she said, feeling more than a little self-conscious to be addressing her remarks to thin air. There was a short pause.

“She says it was no trouble,” said H eventually. “And … what’s that? … ah yes, she says best to stay clear of them writer types in future … nutters the lot of them, apparently.”

“I fear she may be right,” said Wickham, with some feeling.

“Anyway, ’tis time to retire,” said Sutherland. “Come along, gentlemen! Plenty of space on the floor here. And after we break our fast tomorrow, we go to Glastonbury.”

“To Glastonbury!” said Wickham and Elizabeth in response.

Elizabeth was beginning to get extremely anxious about the time. It had taken over an hour for Wickham and her to tell their story.

“Miss Austen, I really do think – ” she said.

“SILENCE!” Elizabeth ceased talking and held her breath. The only sound in the room was of half a dozen quill pens scratching away. Then that stopped, too. “So, then,” said Miss Austen, turning to the writers, “Have we got EVERYTHING down?”

The row of little grey men nodded as one.

“Good,” said Miss Austen. “In which case – ” She broke off suddenly and began to sniff the air.

“Is anything – ?” began Elizabeth.

“SSSSH!” hissed Miss Austen, who was now pacing around the room, looking under desks and in cupboards. Finally, she went over to the window and flung it wide. There was a yelp and a cry followed by a dull thud. Elizabeth and Wickham both rushed over and looked out, to see a tall, seedy-looking gentleman with a stubbly beard groping around on the pavement for his spectacles and notebook. Miss Austen waved her fist at him.

“I’ll get you next time sir, you THIEF!” she screamed.

But the man was scurrying off into the crowd that was gathering underneath the window.

“Oh, BUZZ OFF the lot of you and LEAVE ME ALONE,” said Miss Austen.

Elizabeth glanced at Wickham, who was looking more than a little crestfallen.

“RIGHT THEN,” said Miss Austen. “First of all, I DON’T LIKE all this alien nonsense. It’s just SILLY.” There was a sound of several quill pens feverishly crossing out large passages of text.

“But – ” said Wickham.

“SHUT UP,” said Miss Austen. “I don’t LIKE you.”

Wickham was completely at a loss for words and all he could do was gape back at her.

“I’m not sure I like the tiresome haughty bloke EITHER. HE’S going to have to go TOO.”

“But surely that’s the whole point of the – ” said Elizabeth, wounded by this slant on her husband’s character.

“No. He’s dull and BORING. I don’t want BORING people in my books. If I’m going to write romances, I want them filled with NICE people. Not BORING old fuddy-duddies like this Arsy bloke – ”

“Darcy.”

“Whatever.” She paused. “In fact, I think I’m going off the WHOLE IDEA.”

“Well, in that case … if you would be so kind as to – ” said Wickham, standing up and heading for the door.

“SIT DOWN!” said Miss Austen.

“And why should I do that?” said Wickham.

“Because you’re NOT GOING ANYWHERE.”

“Actually, I rather think – ”

“Well, STOP THINKING, then. First of all because, as I said, I DON’T LIKE YOU. And secondly because I’m HOLDING A GUN.”

Elizabeth and Wickham stared at Miss Austen. It was true. She was holding a gun, and it was pointed at Wickham. She waved it in the direction of Elizabeth, and he took his cue and sat back down next to her.

“If you THINK for a MOMENT that I am going to let you two go and take your material ELSEWHERE – even if it is full of BORING and DISAGREEABLE people – you have got ANOTHER THINK COMING.”

“Why does everyone insist on waving guns at us?” said Elizabeth.

“It’s really not fair, you know,” said Wickham. “I’m your biggest – ”

“SHUT UP, you TEDIOUS man,” said Miss Austen. “I tell you something. If I ever DO write a book about you lot, I’m going to make you look REALLY REALLY BAD, Mr Dickham – ”

“Wickham.”

“I said SHUT UP.” She paused to wipe some spittle off her face. “I’m going to make you look REALLY BAD ’cos I HATE you. And because of that, I’ve just decided I’m going to SHOOT YOU FIRST!”

Miss Austen took aim. At the back of the room, the writers were now cowering under their desks with hands over their ears. Just then, however, a teapot struck her on the side of the head and she fell over onto the floor.

“About bloody time too,” said Wickham.

As soon as Elizabeth and Wickham were inside Miss Austen’s study, the writer closed the door, locked it and pocketed the key.

“Excuse me – ” said Elizabeth, waiting for Wickham to back her up. But he was simply staring at Miss Austen with his mouth open. “Wickham, this woman has locked us in,” she said to him. “Once again, we seem to be trapped. Only this time, there do not appear to be any poltergeists to hand to save us.”

“Did you say poltergeists?” said Miss Austen, narrowing her eyes. “What do you know about poltergeists? Are you familiar with the supernatural? Tell me about the supernatural! I want to know everything you know. Everything! ARE YOU TAKING THIS DOWN?” The last sentence was unexpectedly directed at a row of small grey men who were sitting at desks on the opposite side of the room. “POLTERGEISTS! GHOSTS AND GHOULIES! SPECTRES! WRAITHS! APPARITIONS!” she screamed. The little men nodded in unison and began to scribble away.

She leaned close to Elizabeth. “I hate zombies,” she said. A small amount of spittle was dribbling from her mouth. She’s mad, thought Elizabeth.

“Who are they?” she said, indicating the men at the desks.

“Oh, them,” said Austen. “They’re my staff. Know everything there is to know about zombies. But ABSOLUTELY NOTHING ELSE!” The man at the right-hand end of the row flinched slightly as she bellowed this at him. “I tried to get someone else to help. Someone who knew about OTHER things. INTERESTING things. But SOMEONE ELSE upset him, didn’t they? SOMEONE ELSE spun a pack of lies about ME to him – ” She broke off and picked up a whip that was propped up against the wall next to her.

“Please, Miss Austen. I beg you – ” began Wickham, snapping out of his reverie and looking distinctly alarmed. Miss Austen put down the whip and began to sob.

“I really hate zombies,” she said again, her shoulders heaving.

“I … I like the zombie books,” said Wickham. “Especially ‘Sensei and – ’”

“Well, you can tell THEM that,” said Miss Austen, pointing to the little grey men. “They wrote them.”

Whilst he had been talking, Wickham had taken out his copy of the book, ready for her to sign. He put it quickly away again.

“So let me get this straight,” said Elizabeth. “All your amazingly successful books have been written by a team of overtaxed little men and passed off as your own work?”

“Oh, they don’t mind,” said Miss Austen with a dismissive wave of her hand. The men all gave the same nervous smile.

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “R-i-i-i-ght. Well, it seems like a nice business you’ve got going here, anyway.”

“But I want to write about SOMETHING ELSE,” said Miss Austen in a petulant tone of voice.

“Such as … ghosts?” said Elizabeth, remembering the earlier part of their conversation.

“Ghosts? Why ghosts?”

“Well, you said – ”

“I said NOTHING about ghosts. Ghosts would be a SILLY subject for a book. Everyone knows that ghosts DON’T EXIST. I want to write NICE books. Books where people fall in LOVE and stuff.”

“You mean romances?” said Elizabeth, barely suppressing a smile.

“YES! Maybe with VAMPIRES too! That would be BRILLIANT, wouldn’t it?”

Wickham looked aghast. “Madam, I fear that would be the twilight of your career.”

“Oh, BOTHER. Perhaps you are right. So ordinary romance it is.” She looked from Elizabeth to Wickham and from Wickham back to Elizabeth, eyes wide. “Well, then. Has anything interesting ever happened to either of you? Anything ROMANTIC?” The row of little grey men picked up their quill pens as one, licked the nibs and leant forwards, poised ready to write.

Lady Catherine de Bourgh hesitated before answering the call. This was going to be an awkward conversation. Oh well, she thought, here goes. She pressed a button on the communications device in front of her. The screen flickered and her opposite number appeared. He didn’t look happy.

“Ek – ek – ek – ek – ek!” she said. (Greetings k’Ek! Good to hear from you again! How is the Red Planet?”)

“Ek – ek – ek – ek – ek,” came the response. (Yeah, whatever. Still sodding red. No change there.)

There was an awkward silence.

“Ek – ek – ekky?” she asked, eventually. (How is k’Ekkk?)

“Ek.” (He has sustained considerable damage to his third and fourth inner tentacle and his perianal thrust bladder has been perforated in several places. What kind of a weapon was that maniac using?)

“Ek – ek – ek – ek – ek – ekekekekekekek – ” (I know not. Some kind of gunpowder-powered device. But at least k’Ekkk still lives?)

“Ek.” (He lives, yes, but he’ll never play the flugelhorn again. Still, I imagine that you’ve caught the swine who did it?)

“Ek – ek – ek – ek – ek – ek – ekekekekekekekek – ekkity – ek.” (Ah …)

“Ek.” (I’ll take that as a ‘no’, then.)

“Ek – ek – ek – ek – ek.” (Well, yes and no. Mainly no. Collins and I had them cornered in the Mission.)

“Ek?” (What were they doing there? Oh, never mind. I’m losing the will to live here. What happened?)

“Ek – ek – ek – ek – ek – ekka – ekka – ek.” (Well, I started off by disposing of Collins.)

“Ek?” (An interestingly surreal opening gambit. Were you perhaps intending to confuse them to death?)

“Ek – ek – ek – ek – ek.” (He had outlived his usefulness. There was a chance that he might turn against us.)

“Ek.” (Still seems a bit harsh.)

“Ek – ekkity – ekk.” (Oh, I didn’t kill the stupid man. I just sent him off into the future. We might have need of him later on in the program.)

“Ek.” (True. So what of the others?)

“Ek – ek – ek – ek – ek.” (Well, they had reinforcements.)

“Ek.” (I’m having a bad feeling about this. What reinforcements?)

There was a pause.

“Ek. Ek. Ekekekekekekekekekekekekekekekekekek!” (Poltergeists.)

“Ek? EK?”  (You what?)

“Ekekekekekekkekkekkekkkkkkkkitty ek.” (I said: poltergeists.)

“Ek.” (Bollocks!)

“Ek – ekekek – ek – ” (No, really. Things started flying around the place. Ornaments. Teapots. All sorts of things.)

“Ek.” (And you’re expecting me to believe this was the work of poltergeists?)

“Ek – ek – ekekekekekek.” (The afterlife seems to operate according to different rules down here. Some of them seem to hang around for a while. It’s very annoying.)

“Ek.” (Er … right. So perhaps I can sum up what you’re trying to tell me in four words: you let them escape.)

“Ekekekekekekekekekekekekekekekekekekekekekekekekekekek!” (Basically, yes.)

“Ek?” (So where are they now?)

“Ekekekek – ek – ek – ek – ek.” (Our agents have reported sightings in Wiltshire.)

“Ek?” (Swindon?)

“Ek – ek – ek – ek – ek.” (Possibly. As long as they don’t go near Glastonbury.)

“Ek?” (Why not?)

“Ek – ek – ek – ek – ek.” (Don’t get me started. Plays havoc with our equipment, that place. And it’s full of weirdos.)

“Ek.” (Fair enough. So what’s the plan?)

“Ek – ek – ek – ek – ek.” (All our agents in the West of England are on full alert. As soon as there is any sign of the Darcy woman, they will pick her up and bring her in. Anyone travelling with her will be terminated without prejudice.)

“Ek.” (Well, let’s hope that your people have more success than you did ourself, k’Ekk. I’m sick of this place.)

“Ek – ek – ek …” (Here we go …)

“Ek?” (What?)

“Ekekekekekekekekekekekekekekekekekekekekekekek!” (Nothing.)

“Ek. Ekek.” (It’s all right for you. You don’t have to stay on this bloody awful boring planet. You’ve got fields and birds and stuff. Dogs. Cows. Living things that move around and make interesting noises. We’ve got a load of red rocks.)

“Ek – ek – ek – ek – ek.” (I know. Must be terrible.)

“Ekek.” (And the food’s rubbish.)

“Ek – ” (Anyway – )

It was time to bring this to an end. Lady Catherine pressed the button again and the screen went blank. She wrung her tentacles in frustration. This time there must be no mistakes.

The Jane Austen Emporium was doing a roaring trade. Elizabeth looked at the wares on offer and gave a deep sigh. There was a big display devoted to the Great Author’s works, of course, with particular prominence given to her latest offering, “The North Abbey Hanging”, which seemed to involve a brotherhood of zombie monks.

But there were also blood-spattered tea-cosies for sale, and little crocheted keepsakes in the shape of various internal organs. The whole place was quite unseemly in Elizabeth’s opinion, although Wickham was entranced. He had already picked out a neckerchief bearing the slogan “Hack away here if you want to survive” and was proceeding towards the counter, where a young lady wearing a gruesome mask was in charge.

“Excuse me,” she said, placing herself in front of Wickham, “But I wonder if you could possibly tell me if Miss Austen is in residence?”

“I’m hafraid that it would be himpossible for me to give you that kind of information,” said the young lady behind the counter, her voice muffled by the mask.

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. “In other words, she is in residence. Because if she were not, then you would have simply denied it.” She turned to Wickham. “Come on, let’s get this over and done with.”

Wickham paused, holding his purchase in one hand and trying to find his wallet with the other.

“Wickham, put that ridiculous neckerchief down and follow me.”

But the sales assistant had now interposed herself between them and the doorway. “Hay’m sorry, but hay can’t let you go up there,” she said.

“Ah. So she’s upstairs then, is she?” said Elizabeth.

At that moment, there was an altercation above them, and a young man hurtled down the stairs and out through the front door. He appeared to be in an extremely distressed state.

“Right, that’s it!” he wailed as he passed them. “I have had enough! I can’t take any more! That woman is … is … a – ”

“Hexcuse me,” said the sales assistant, tearing off her mask and rushing after him. “Don’t move,” she warned as she left.

“What was that all about?” said Wickham.

“Don’t know, but it’s given us an opportunity,” said Elizabeth. “Come on, let’s go.”

Making sure that no-one was following them, they took off up the staircase. There was all manner of shouting and the sound of heavy things being thrown around the place coming from one of the floors above them.

“Now look what you’ve gone and done!” said one of the voices. It was male, with a slightly hysterical edge to it.

“ME? WHAT HAVE I DONE?” came the response. This voice was female and also possibly the angriest voice that Elizabeth had ever heard. “YOU’RE THE ONE WHO HIRED ALL THESE IMBECILES!”

“I could go after him – ”

“I DON’T WANT THAT IDIOT BACK, YOU MORON! YOU’LL JUST HAVE TO DO HIS WORK YOURSELF!”

“But – ”

There was a sound like a whip being cracked, followed by a yelp.

“Wickham,” she whispered, “I hate to tell you this, but – ”

Wickham looked terrified. “I know,” he said. “You’re going to say that – ”

“Ssssssh,” said Elizabeth, shooting him a look. He stopped immediately. They both turned and peered upwards. A woman was watching them from the landing above with malevolent, piercing eyes.

Wickham started to back away.

“STAY RIGHT THERE!” said the woman. They both froze. She came down the stairs towards them, until she was two steps above them. “WELL?” she said.

“I … I … I’ve come for your autograph,” said Wickham, fishing in his pocket for the book.

The woman rolled her eyes and shook her head.

“I suppose you’d better come on up, then,” she said.

Following their encounter with the zombie parade, the party resumed its progress towards the Baths. But Wickham hadn’t moved.

“Are you all right, Wickham?” said Colonel Sutherland.

“Yes … yes … perfectly well, sir.  It’s just … just … look, I’ll catch you up. Yes, that’s it … I’ll catch you up.”

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. “Where are you going, Mr Wickham? If it’s somewhere interesting, I’m sure we could all spare the time – ”

“No, no, no. It’s nothing interesting,” said Wickham. “It’s … well … no, you definitely won’t be interested at all. In fact, you’ve already said you don’t like … I mean … Blast! I didn’t mean to say that!”

“It’s about the Austen woman, isn’t it, Wickham?”

“Well – ”

“Damn it, man, what is this all about?” said Sutherland.

“Let me explain,” said Elizabeth. “As we now know, Mr Wickham here is a … what is the modern parlance? … fan of the works of the well-known writer of cheap, tawdry zombie stories, Miss Jane Austen – ”

“They’re not that cheap, actually – ” said Wickham. Elizabeth ignored him.

“ – and it is patently obvious that he has just realised that since there is currently a festival running in this accursed abomination of a city in celebration of this dreadful woman, there is every likelihood that she herself is in town – ”

“How did you – ?”

“ – and he is now wondering how he can find her so that he can impose himself upon her. Am I right?”

“I – ” Wickham was lost for words.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’, then. Oh, Mr Wickham, I am so disappointed in you. You really are no better than that absurd pair that we had the misfortune to encounter not five minutes ago.”

“I say, steady on,” said Sutherland, rushing to Wickham’s defence. “At least he’s not … not – ” He struggled for a word “ – an actor!”

“’Tis true,” said Wickham.

“Oh, but he might as well be,” said Elizabeth. “I bet if you take a look in the inside pocket of his tunic – ” Wickham’s hand, which had unconsciously strayed to that very place, immediately shot out again “ – you will find a much-thumbed copy of ‘Zombie First Impressions’ or some such tosh – ”

“It’s ‘Sensei and the Insensibles’, actually,” said Wickham, reluctantly withdrawing the novel in question from his pocket. “The one with the ninjas,” he added.

“Oh, good grief!” said Elizabeth.

“It’s really good, you know. There’s this brilliant fight scene where two ninjas take on an entire army of zombies, armed with nothing but a single set of nunchucks between them. So they have to keep throwing the nunchucks at each advancing zombie in turn so that they decapitate them and fly back again so that they can catch them and – ”

“And in what way is this remotely believable?” said Elizabeth.

“Well, strictly speaking – ” said H.

“Oh, do keep out of this,” said Elizabeth. “Begging your pardon, Sir Humphry.” She turned back to Wickham, who was hugging his book like a favourite cuddly toy. Great heavens! The man was like some besotted girl. “You want to get her autograph, don’t you?” she said.

“Well, it would add to the value – ”

“Except you’d never sell it in a million years, would you?”

“No.”

Elizabeth sighed. “When she’s in town, she stays in rooms above the Jane Austen Emporium that we just passed. They give them to her rent-free.”

“Really?” said Wickham. “I would have thought she could afford – ”

“She could afford to buy most of the street. But if that woman senses any opportunity to save a bit of cash by taking advantage of someone else’s good nature, believe me, she’ll pounce on it.”

Wickham looked shocked. “You surprise me, Mrs Darcy – ”

“Believe me, you have no idea.” She turned to the other three. “You carry on with my husband to the Baths. I’ll go with Mr Wickham. He might need protection.”

There was no escape from the crowd of zombies that were converging on them. Wickham stood poised ready to act, his sword raised, ready to slice the heads off anyone who got too close to them. Elizabeth knew she had to act fast.

“Put your sword away, Wickham,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“I beg your pardon, Mrs Darcy?” said Wickham, wavering.

“Trust me. You won’t be needing it with this lot.” She turned to the two lead zombies. “And you are?”

The pair of them looked at each other, both apparently waiting for the other to do the talking.

“Well, I’m Billy,” said the one on the left, eventually.

“And I’m Jean,” said the other.

“A French name?” said Elizabeth. “A bit risky, I would have thought.”

“We-e-e-e-ell, it’s only ’is stage name,” said Billy. “’is real name is – ”

“Shush,” said Jean. “I’m in character. I do the Method. When I’m a zombie, I’m Jean. Very butch is a French zombie.”

“Oh, ’ave it your own way,” said Billy.

“Excuse me – ” said H.

“ – but what on earth – ” said Sutherland.

“ – is going on?” said Wickham, finally sheathing his sword.

“Zombie parade,” said Elizabeth, with more than a hint of contempt. “Every year, round about now, there’s a big festival in Bath to celebrate that woman – the one who writes those dreadful books. And all these idiots come and dress up as zombies and parade around the place. There’s even a zombie ball at the end, and some of them stay in costume all week. Awful.”

“Exc – er – use me!” said Billy. “The woman what you refer to – ”

“Miss Austen,” added Jean, with a sigh.

“Miss Austen, yes, is our greatest living author – ”

“Of zombie stories, maybe – ” said Elizabeth.

“Our greatest living author, full stop. Finito.”

“Rien ne vas plus,” said Jean, in an unconvincing accent.

“Pah!” said Elizabeth.

“In any case, I see at least one of you’s a fan,” said Jean.

“Well – ” said Wickham, uncertainly.

“No, not you,” said Jean, pointing at Darcy. “’im! I just love what you’re doing with the stagger and the face powder, love.”

“Sir, this man is ill!” said H. “He may look like one of the walking dead, but – ”

“Oh,” said Billy, sounding disappointed. “Shame. Well, time waits for no man. Must be off, or we’ll get left behind. Lovely to see you again, Mr Wickham. Ta-ra.”

“What?” said Wickham, with a double-take. “Do I know you?”

“’course you do, Mr W,” said Billy.

“Preferred you as a rough cottager, mind,” added Jean.

Wickham looked non-plussed for a moment, and then slowly turned a slight shade of red. “Ah,” he said.

Sutherland looked at Wickham and narrowed his eyes. “Do you know these two … fellows?” he said. “I didn’t realise … not that there’s anything wrong with that, obviously … but even so – ”

“Surely you remember, sir? You sent me to this pair of clowns to be disguised.”

Sutherland frowned. “Why would you want to be disguised?” he said.

“I needed to become a rough cottager – ”

Sutherland’s eyes widened. “That sounds remarkably unlikely, Wickham. Why would I ask you to do that?”

“Well, to be fair it was actually their suggestion – ”

“Well, there you are. If you go around with people who dress as zombies, then all sorts of peculiar things can happen. Best not to, in my opinion.”

“No, sir. Billy and Jean here weren’t dressed as zombies then – ”

“And I certainly wouldn’t have sent you to anyone with a French name,” said Sutherland. “Dashed queer chaps, the French.”

“No, no, no, sir. They weren’t called Billy and Jean then. They were called – ”

“Or anyone who went around changing their name. Wouldn’t know what was going on. Still,” said Sutherland, with a tolerant smile. “Takes all sorts of chap to make a world.”

Wickham tried to say something else, but no words came out apart from a vague bluster.

“’E ’ad a lovely beard, too,” said Billy.

“Oh, just beat it,” said Wickham.

“Charming,” said Jean. The pair staggered off to join the rest of the parade.

There was an awkward silence.

“Told you I didn’t like Bath,” said Darcy.

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 Emporium!”

“The what? Are you telling me that dreadful woman has her own souvenir shop 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 …