Mrs Darcy vs The Aliens

Elizabeth broke her fast alone the next day. Charlotte was still regrettably preoccupied, and the mysterious Mr Byron was nowhere to be seen. Mrs Garson had walked in just as he was about to demonstrate his bouzouki technique to her and he had immediately put it away, deciding that an early night would be beneficial to his muse. Mrs Garson had given Elizabeth a look that suggested she would do well to steer clear of this extraordinary gentleman, and later reflection suggested that she would probably be wise to heed this advice.

Fortunately a distraction arrived in the shape of a letter from Jane.

“My Dearest Lizzie,

I hope that this reaches you. I trust that all is well and that Charlotte remains in high spirits. Have you visited Lady Catherine yet? I do so look forward to hearing all your news, as does Little Lydia, although of course she does not read yet or even understand the finer nuances of everyday speech.

We have the Hursts staying with us at present, and it is good to see Louisa again, although Mr Hurst remains generally disagreeable. I have to say that their Damian is an unusual child. He seems to be forever making queer works of art out of anything he finds lying around. Only the other day he was asking cook for a sheep’s carcass – can you imagine that?

Charlie is tolerably well, although his business venture with Mr Bradford seems to be running into difficulties already. To be perfectly honest, I am beginning to wonder if it was such a good idea for him to get involved with the man in the first place, as he keeps coming back to poor Charlie for more and more money in order to fund his mining venture. It would appear that the gold seam near Ashbourne has not yielded quite the amount that they anticipated and more exploratory holes will need to be made. Charlie has of course provided the funds, although I do wonder if he is a little too trusting sometimes.

But dearest Lizzie, the most extraordinary thing has happened in the last week, because an African Princess has sent us a letter! Can you credit this? Apparently, she has been left an absolutely enormous fortune by her father, but it all seems to be tied up in groundnuts and the poor woman has medical bills to pay in the meantime. However, if Charlie can help her in the short term, she has offered to give him ten per cent of everything she owns! To be perfectly honest, I was unsure as to whether he should help the poor woman, but Charlie told me that it was our Christian duty to do so. Mr Hurst also pointed out that he could make enough out of his ten per cent to pay Mr Bradford. This would be useful, as his communications to Charlie are often brought to Netherfield by disagreeable men carrying big sticks.

Well, I must be going now. Damian and Lydia are playing at artists and models and I think I should perhaps make sure that they behaving themselves. I do hope you are well, and I look forward to hearing again from you soon.”

Elizabeth put the letter down and smiled. Lucky Charlie. So good-natured and generous, and yet always falling on his feet. She wondered if she should write to Jane immediately, but then decided that she should wait until they had dined at Rosings later in the week. Something told her that it was going to be an interesting occasion. As she stood up, she caught sight of a labourer walking past the window, heading up the drive towards the great house. There was something oddly familiar about him …

The dark shadow of Rosings loomed over the Collins’ humble dwelling like some monster of the night, blocking out the moon. Elizabeth shivered as she stepped out of the carriage.

“Evening, Mrs Darcy,” said Mrs Garson, emerging from the front door. “Is Mrs Collins unwell?” she said, peering into the carriage.

“She has a mild fever, that is all,” said Elizabeth.

“I understand,” said old Mrs Garson, tapping her nose. She picked up her skirts and climbed into the carriage, emerging a few moments later with Charlotte slung over her shoulder. “Used to do this when she were a wee baby,” she said. “And I used to end up with sick down me back even in them days.”

Elizabeth turned away. Poor thing. What was to be done with her?

“Mrs Darcy?” said Garson, with Charlotte still swinging alarmingly on her back. “I hope you don’t think I speaks out of turn, but has Mrs Collins ever said anything to you about any of her new friends?”

“New friends? I know nothing of any new friends, and she has certainly not spoken of any to me these past few days. I am sure that if she had any new friends, she would be only too delighted to have told me, and I would have been only too delighted to have heard of them. I do hate the thought of poor Charlotte on her own here with only Mr Collins for company.”

“Aye, well that’s as maybe,” said Garson. “And I’m not one to poke my nose where it don’t belong, but them arty types ain’t the kind of folk that a gentlewoman and wife of a holy man should be hobnobbing with, in my opinion.”

“Mrs Garson, please! I am sure that Mrs Collins exercises the utmost caution in all her dealings with the world, and if she has acquired some new friends of an artistic sensibility, well, I for one would welcome such a thing. Artists are gentle, sensitive people who can surely only enrich our ordinary everyday lives for the better?”

Garson shrugged and bustled off into the house with Charlotte’s head just missing the doorway as they went through it. Elizabeth followed, wondering what on earth the old woman could have been talking about. As she entered the house, she fancied that she could hear music. She followed the sound to the drawing room. She knocked once and received no reply. Realising that the door was ajar, she nudged it open slightly and then knocked again. There was still no reply, so she opened the door and went in.

The room was full of a sweet-smelling smoke, evidently coming from the cheroot in the mouth of the young man plucking at the strange exotic instrument. As soon as he saw Elizabeth, he stopped playing and stubbed out his cheroot. He stood up, took her hand and bowed. As his hand touched hers, a strange spark of electricity shot through her entire being.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he said, gesturing towards his instrument. “I was just plucking at my bouzouki.”

“Well, if your – ”

“ – bouzouki – ”

“ – needs to be plucked, I would be the last one to try and stop you,” said Elizabeth, with a touch of nervousness.

“But soft, who is this vision of loveliness in front of me?” said the young man, as if taking in Elizabeth’s appearance for the first time.

“Er … my name is Darcy,” she said, faltering a little, “Elizabeth Darcy. And who might you be, sir?”

“I will tell you,” he said. “But first you must promise not to believe a word you hear about me. Some call me mad,” he took her hand to his lips and kissed it, “some call me bad,” he kissed it again, “and yet others say that I am dangerous to know,” he kissed her hand a third time before releasing it. “But you may simply know me as Byron.”

Sir Humphry was right. Jennifer raced away like a thing possessed and they were in Rosings village well before nightfall. The first thing Wickham needed to do was obtain lodgings, and the obvious place to start was the inn on the green. He tied up Jennifer outside The Saucer and Tentacle and went in. The bar was packed with locals, all making a noisy racket. But as soon as Wickham entered, the place fell silent and all eyes were on him. He stepped up to the bar.

“Ah, my good man,” he said to the landlord, who was cleaning a tankard with a deliberate, thorough action. “A pint of …” Wickham raised an eyebrow as if to ask what pints there might be available. There was no answer forthcoming, so he continued, “ … a pint of … your very best bitter ale, good sir.”

The landlord pulled a face, expectorated noisily into the tankard that he had just finished polishing and then topped it up from one of the barrels behind the bar. He slammed it down on the counter and said, “That’ll be a groat and ’alf.” Wickham fished in his pocket and withdrew some coins. He took a sip and tried hard to keep the foul liquid down. All eyes were still on him, following his every movement. He realised that if he was to gain their trust he would have to go through with this to the bitter end, so he took a larger swig, then another and then one final gulp until the glass was empty. Struggling to maintain his composure, he gingerly placed the tankard back on the bar and slumped down onto a stool.

This was evidently the cue for normality to resume once more. Conversations picked up where they had left off, and the hubbub was restored to its previous rowdy level. The landlord reached over the bar and handed Wickham a bucket.

“You might be a-needin’ this,” he said.

Wickham tried to wave him away, but thought better of it as he felt his stomach begin to clench. Grabbing the bucket, he put it between his legs and heaved mightily into it. When he had finished, he handed the bucket back to the landlord. The landlord in turn inserted a funnel into the barrel that he had served Wickham’s pint from before pouring the contents of the bucket back into it.

“Sorry ’bout that,” he said. “Yer can’t be too careful with strangers these days. There be some odd folk about these parts.”

“Really?” said Wickham.

“Really,” said the landlord, filling up Wickham’s tankard from the other barrel. He handed it to Wickham, who eyed it with some suspicion.

“Go on, it’s safe.”

“Really?”

“Really. So you be looking for lodgings?” said the landlord as Wickham took his first nervous sip. Much to his relief and amazement, the ale was in fact remarkably pleasant.

“As it happens, I am,” he said. “I intend to seek work at the Big House.”

There was a crack of thunder outside, and the whole inn suddenly became silent again.

“At the Big House, you say?” said the landlord, narrowing his eyes. “Why’s you want to be goin’ there?”

“I … er … hear that they have some work available in the hop fields,” said Wickham, aware that everyone was once again staring at him. “I’ve always wanted to work with hops.”

“Interesting,” said the landlord. “Very interesting that a chap such as yourself with a mighty smart ’orse outside should be looking for ’op work. ’Specially when ’ops is out o’ season. But – ” the landlord relaxed a little “ – I guess it takes all sorts to make a world, don’t it lads?” There were murmurs of assent from the rest of the clientele.

“I … was evicted from my rough cottage only a few days ago,” began Wickham, before the landlord forestalled him.

“’S’alright. No need to explain any more. No more questions, young man. You just take care up at the Big House. There be odd doings there, I’ll be bound. And in the meantime, will you be wanting a room?”

“Well, yes I would,” said Wickham. “And another pint of your excellent …”

“Rector’s Prolapse,” said the landlord.

The Company’s stables were situated in a mews at the back of Sloane Square. Wickham glanced to left and right, and when he was sure that he was unobserved, slipped in through the side door. He could hear a lot of clattering and muffled explosions coming from elsewhere in the buildings, but there seemed to be no-one in the immediate vicinity. He went over to a bench and picked up what appeared to be an ornamental carriage clock. As he turned it over to adjust the time, a metal bolt shot out of the top of it, missing him by a fraction of an inch and embedding itself in the ceiling. The next item along was a ladies fan that emitted a noxious liquid when he squeezed the handle. He then picked up a chicken drumstick.

“Don’t touch that!” came an urgent voice. Wickham froze and replaced the drumstick. “It’s my luncheon,” said Sir Humphry Davy, emerging from the shadows. He looked Wickham up and down. “Rough cottager, eh?” he said.

“Indeed,” said Wickham. “I’ve come to pick Jennifer up, H.”

“Step this way then. We’ve made one or two improvements since you last went on a mission.”

Wickham groaned inwardly. He followed H through to the building next door, where his horse was being restrained by two young men wearing full body armour.

“Now pay attention, Wickham.” He unstrapped the right side of the saddle, revealing what appeared to be a musket, dismantled into half a dozen of its constituent parts.

“Lee van Enfield,” he said. “Reassembles in under fifteen seconds, can bring down a speeding fugitive at a hundred paces.” He beckoned to Wickham to follow him around to the other side. He let down the other side of the saddle, enumerating the contents, one by one.

“Set of matching hunting knives, plus tool for removing stones out of hooves. Full canteen of cutlery plus pair of goblets. Emergency flagon of claret and pound of salt beef. Carrier pigeon. Carrier for carrier pigeon. And this – ” he pulled out a small leather pouch, “– is most important.”

“Suicide tablets?”

“No!” said H, “Sugar lumps.” He took a couple out and offered them to Jennifer, who gobbled them up with apparent relish.

“Now watch this,” he said, motioning Wickham to move back slightly. He went over to Jennifer’s side and slapped her firmly on the rump. The horse reared up, lifted its tail and then expelled something from its fundament with considerable force. The object flew across the room and landed a few feet short of the far wall, where it sat on the ground, steaming malevolently.

“You might want to duck down now,” said H. Wickham looked around and realised that everyone else in the room had already done so. He was halfway towards the ground himself when the pellet exploded. It turned out that halfway to the ground wasn’t nearly far enough and he took the full force of the blast in his upper body.

“Well,” said H, covering his face with a silk handkerchief. “I think that completes the rough cottager look.” He handed Wickham a flask containing a sticky brown substance. “Fifty-fifty mixture of gunpowder and a powerful laxative,” he said. “Add it to her feed every night and you shouldn’t have any problems with footpads. Or indeed anyone who comes within ten feet of you.”

“Does she ride any differently?” said Wickham, once he had finished spitting out everything he had managed to catch in his mouth.

“She’s like the wind, Wickham. Like the wind.”

The ghost of Mary Ann Nicholls was more than a little confused as well. Somehow she had been left back in Regency times whilst her corpse was seventy years in the future. She had a feeling that this probably wasn’t a good situation to be in. No-one seemed to realise she was there at all, apart from a slight shiver when she happened to walk through them.

“Oi, do you mind moving on a bit?” said a voice behind her. “This is my pitch ’ere.”

Mary Ann Nicholls turned and saw a headless apparition standing behind her with an air of nonchalance. The voice came from the head that she carried under her arm.

“Thank Gawd for that,” she said. “Someone who can see me.”

“Yeah, I can see you all right. An’ you’re standing in my pitch. So bugger off. Might be a punter along any minute.”

“Oh, I see what you mean,” said Mary Ann. “Didn’t realise that there were … you know … ghost ’ores like. I ain’t been dead long, y’see.”

“Ah. In that case, I’ll let yer off.” She held out a hand. “Pleased to meet yer. I’m the ’eadless ’ore.”

Mary Ann took the hand and shook it. Unlike everything else she’d encountered so far today, it seemed solid.

“Yeah, I’m quite notorious round these parts,” said the headless whore, with a superior smile. “You should see what I gets up to with this.” She waved the head around in an unpleasant manner.

“Ah,” said Mary Ann, her mind racing. “Well, ’s nice to meet you, then, I’m sure. I’m Mary Ann Nicholls, by the way.”

“Ah, that’s who you are. Thought I’d seen you around ’ere before.”

“So ’ow comes you’re still … er … what’s the word … unquiet?”

“I was just about to ask yer the same question. But seeing as you’s asked me first I’ll tell yer. I got me ’ead cut off by a fallin’ gargoyle whilst walkin’ widdershins round a church. Turns out that means your spirit don’t get to lie down and rest with yer body until the end of the world as predicted by yer revelatin’ John.”

“Bleedin ’ell. That sounds terrible.”

“Yeah well, it’s a bugger to be sure. Still, at least I can keep me business goin’ in the meantime. You’d be surprised how many lonely old phantoms there are round these parts.”

“I see,” said Mary Ann. “I think I’m ’ere because my body’s been sent into the future.”

“Well, there’s a thing,” said the headless whore. “That’s summat you don’t come across very often.” She shook her head from side to side, and then tucked it back under her arm again. “Can’t you just sort of wait around to catch up with it then?” she said.

“’Spose so. Not sure what I’m going to do for all that time, though. ’Spect you‘ve got the ’orin’ covered.”

“True. But you could find a nice ’ouse to ’aunt. Or do good works. Like save people when they’re about to be killed. Give them a mysterious warning just afore they’re going to go on a journey’s that’s goin’ to end bad, like. So as they don’t reach their final destination. That kind of thing. Depends on whether you want to be a good ghost or a bad one.”

“What sort are you, ’eadless?”

“Ha. That depends on who’s you ask. The Wanderin’ Colonel what pops by every now and then says I’m a bad girl. But ’e also tells me I’m very good at it, too. So take yer pick.”

“I think I want to be a good ghost,” said Mary Ann, brightening. “Make up for me life of sin, like.”

“Good choice, me dear. World needs more good ghosts. An’ look. There’s yer chance to do some good now. ’Ere comes young Annie Chapman. Keep an eye on ’er. She’s a reckless young ’un.”

The woman was in a terrible state. He’d seen corpses in the dissecting room that were in a better condition than this one.

“What in God’s name happened to you?” said Bamber.

“Ripped apart I was … ripped …”

“I can see that, Miss … Miss … sorry, what was your name?”

“Mary … Ann … Nicholls … Mary … Ann …”

“Who did it, Mary Ann?”

A look of horror passed across the woman’s face. “It was a thing that burst out of me …”

“Like some sort of abcess?” he said.

“With tentacles,” said the woman, shaking her head.

He looked at her in pity. She was clearly delirious.

“Don’t say another word, Mary Ann,” he said, covering her with his cloak. “Just try to relax. I’ll look after you as best I can. My name’s Bamber: I’m a medical student.” Although he’d never encountered anything quite like this, he thought to himself. There was probably nothing he could do for her other than make her comfortable and wait for nature to take its course. It was like something from hell.

That was it.

From hell.

The woman started to babble again, talking about aliens with tentacles and how she’d tried to be an honest girl and hadn’t told anyone about the Prince Regent like he’d especially asked her not to.

“The Prince Regent?” said Bamber. “There is no Prince Regent, Mary Ann. Do you mean Prince Albert, the Duke of Clarence? What has the Duke done to you?”

“Prince Regent … ripped apart … Mary Ann Nicholls …”

Then she gave a violent cough and was silent. Bamber felt her pulse and realised that the woman was dead.

“You there!” came a voice from behind him. He froze. It was Gull. Of all the people that he should come across this night and in these circumstances, Sir William Gull, physician to the Royal Family and frequent lecturer at the College of Physicians, was probably the one that he would have picked last.

“Sir?” he said, turning round to face his interlocutor. As he did so, he dropped his copy of Gray’s ‘Anatomy in a Country Churchyard’. Gull picked it up and handed it back to him with a precise, deliberate movement.

“Who is this woman, laddie?” said Gull. “And what is a medical student like you doing in Whitechapel on a weekday evening when you should be hard at your studies?”

“Sir, I was making my way home to my lodgings – ”

“– a likely tale – ”

“– and I came across this poor girl. She had been viciously attacked – ripped apart, even. And before she passed away she seemed to be muttering about the Duke of Clarence being involved – ”

At this, the old doctor grabbed hold of Bamber and pulled him to his feet. “Leave this to me,” hissed Gull. “Go home and bury yourself in your textbooks like a proper student. And if you value your life, never speak a word of this matter to anyone. Not even on pain of death. Do you understand?”

“I … I do”, said Bamber, shaking.

“Good,” said Gull, releasing him. “Well? Go, boy. Go!”

Bamber backed away from Gull, then turned to go. He left Gull bending over the woman, as if trying to decide what he should do. As he rounded the next corner, he noticed a carriage parked at the side of the street. For a moment, he swore that there was someone watching him from the inside. But as he turned to look more closely, the curtain was swiftly drawn and he could no longer see anyone.

As he made his way back, he went through everything that had happened that night and the more he pondered it, the more he realised that however much he learnt about the world from his books, in the end, he didn’t know Jack.

(Being a service provided to late arrivals. Please do take your seats as quickly and quietly as possible, so as not to disturb the other readers. And remember, mobile telephonic devices should be switched OFF.)

Elizabeth receives a mysterious summons to meet Mr Wickham at the quarry, where there is much tentacle-slashing and unpleasantness … Mr Darcy requires an heir and Elizabeth offers to help, although Mr Darcy has to leave for London before they can proceed further … Mr Bingley enters an unwise business arrangement … Elizabeth has a confusing conversation with old Mr Firth … Wickham fails to charm Becoming Jane … Colonel Sutherland sends Wickham to Whitechapel, where he meets Annie Chapman and observes Mr Darcy going into Mr Collins’ Mission … In the Mission, Mary Ann Nicholls is Chosen by Mr Darcy, subsequently giving unnatural birth to an alien … The Dandy Highwayman and his tantalisingly unidentified accomplice kidnap a traveller, wipe his brain and probe him … Charlotte Collins, unwell and raving about tentacles, travels back to Rosings with Elizabeth … Wickham is himself on his way to Rosings after acquiring a beard … Lydia is still missing.

So there we are. It all makes perfect sense. Comments are open, should you wish to add your twopenn’orth. This is a respectable site, so no intemperate language or lewd behaviour will be tolerated. Anyone speaking French will obviously be shown the door immediately, as will anyone who asks for “Prussian”.

Now read on …

It was suppertime in the Mission for Fallen Women, although Mary Ann Nicholls had no idea what time it was, or even if it was day or night. The last twenty-four hours had been strange and troubling, and she had spent the time drifting in and out of consciousness whilst all manner of peculiar things were done to her. Or had she just been dreaming?

“’Ere,” said one of the others at the table, a large, dark-skinned girl who always wore a bandana around her head,  “What was ’e like, then?”

“Who?” said Mary Ann.

“That posh bloke,” said another girl with rippley hair. “You was with ’im for ages. Mind you, I wouldn’t ’ave kicked ’im out.” She gave a raucous laugh, and the girl in the bandana joined in with her.

So it had happened.

“I don’t know,” she said. “It was like a really bad dream. Like I was being smothered.” By something slimy, she thought. “Tell you what though,” she said out loud, “I’m starving.”

“Well, get stuck in then, girl,” said the one in the bandana, indicating the plate of stodge in front of her.

“Yeah,” said Mary Ann, picking up a spoon. But as soon as she took the first mouthful, she felt odd. Something inside her wasn’t quite right. She tried to swallow, but it seemed to be stuck in her throat. “Ouch,” she said, as a spasm of pain shot through her guts. Then she felt it move. She shuddered. Something inside her had definitely moved. Something with teeth and tentacles.

“What’s wrong?” said the rippley-haired girl.

“Ggggaahhhh,” said Mary Ann. “Cramps …”

Mary Ann grasped the table and began lurching around.

“Aaaagh, the pain,” she screamed. Then she looked down at the front of her dress, which was turning bright crimson. She continued to writhe in agony, held down by the other two girls. There was another intense spasm of pain as something pushed hard at her from the inside and the tip of a tentacle poked through her dress.

“Somebody get a nurse,” said bandana girl. “Quick!” But no-one left the room. Instead, a crowd was beginning to gather around Mary Ann’s twisting, bloody body. Another tentacle forced its way out and joined the other one in a crazed, wriggling duet.

“Oh my God …,” Mary Ann screamed as whatever it was finally burst out of her. Its grinning leathery face swivelled round to take one last look at her, then it waved its tentacles and slithered off towards the door. When the other girls saw what it was, they screamed as well, scattering in all directions. As Mary Ann began to slip into oblivion, she was faintly aware of some newcomers in the room, in the midst of all the pandemonium.

“We’ve had a rejection,” said Mrs Pike, leaning over her.

“Damn,” said a male voice: a cold male voice. “She seemed so promising.” Then his voice got louder. “All right, everybody out,” he said. “Everybody out. Nothing to see here.” He clapped his hands, and the room slowly emptied.

“She’s still alive,” said Mrs Pike, when everyone had gone.

“Not for long.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Dispose of her. Wipe the minds of all the witnesses. And catch that bloody thing before it escapes. Doubt if it’s house-trained.”

“Dispose of her? The poor girl – ”

“No-one must know of this. Use the transporter ray.”

“But that’s not – ”

“She’s as good as dead anyway. If it scrambles her a bit more, so be it.”

“Where shall I send her to?”

“Somewhere a long way away from here. Norwich. Casablanca. Seventy-odd years into the future. Take your pick. And then find me another surrogate. The program must continue.”

“Yes, Mr Darcy,” she said. “As you wish.”

The sign on the door said “Bona Disguises, Theatrical Novelties and Accoutrements. All Pride, No Prejudice.” Wickham knocked and went in.

“Oh, hello, my name’s Jolyon and this is my friend Sheridan,” came a voice from behind the counter.

“Ooh, ’ello!” called another voice from the back of the shop. “Don’t move, I’m just tarting up a bicorn for a Cuirassier – ”

“ – and that’s one bicorn that needs a good tarting up, I might add – ” said the one called Jolyon.

“Ooh, ’ark at ’er,” said Sheridan, emerging swathed in several yards of tuille. Wickham looked from one to the other, nonplussed for a moment.

“So what can we do you for?” said Jolyon, breaking the silence.

“I need a disguise,” said Wickham.

“You know, that’s what I thought as soon as you walked in,” said Jolyon. “That’s a man in need of a disguise, that is. You a military man?”

“Well – ”

“ – ’cos we likes a man in ’is regimentals, don’t we, Sherry?”

Sheridan nodded furiously at this.

“’e was in the regiment ’imself, was Sherry – ”

“ – I was – ”

“Queen’s own Polari, ’an all.  But they wouldn’t let you in the Hussars, would they?”

Sheridan shook his head.

“No. He would’ve looked lovely in a shako, too,” said Jolyon with a sad smile.

“I would – ”

“I tell you, he would. He would’ve looked a picture.”

“Excuse me,” said Wickham, “But can we get back to disguises?”

“Oh, pardon me for breathing,” said Jolyon. “So what type of disguise you looking for?”

“Well – ”

“ – because we do all sorts here.”

“We do,” said Sheridan. “We do all sorts. Takes all sorts, doesn’t it, Jolly?”

Jolyon rolled his eyes. “Ooh, he’s not wrong,” he said to Wickham. “He’s not wrong. So what do you want to look like? I can see you in a beard. Can you see a beard, Sherry?”

“Ooh, yes. Definitely needs a beard.”

“Mmm, yes. Definitely a beard. And what about the nose?”

“It’s very aquiline,” said Sheridan. “Roman.”

“Hmmm. I think we’ll have to soften that a teasy, don’t you think?”

“Deffo.”

“And ’e needs a scar,” said Jolyon.

Sheridan clapped his hands together at this. “Bona! A scar! Oh yes, a scar! Makes you look so butch, a scar does.”

“So it does, Sherry. So it does. Rugged. Like that Dragoon. What was ’is name?”

“Can’t remember,” said Sheridan, looking embarrassed. “Don’t know what you mean.”

“Go on,” said Jolyon. “Tell ’im ’is name.”

“Shan’t,” said Sheridan.

“Go on, tell ’im,” said Jolyon.

Sheridan mumbled something that Wickham couldn’t hear, but he’d had enough by now.

“Right,” he said. “Fine. I’ll have a beard, the nose and two scars. But I haven’t got all – ”

“Well, no need to fly off the handle, lovey. Beard, nose job and a pair of scars it is. Sherry’ll have you looking gorgeous, won’t you? But what about an outfit? Do you want to look like an’ ’igh an’ mighty lord or a rough cottager? Sherry does a very good rough cottager, he does.”

“I do, I do a wonderful rough cottager,” said Sheridan. “Ever so rough.”

“Yes, yes, whatever,” said Wickham. “Rough cottager will do fine.”

Jolyon and Sheridan exchanged a meaningful look, each raising a single eyebrow in perfect synchronisation.

Two hours later, Wickham emerged onto Old Compton Street, unrecognisable and slightly flushed. Right, he thought. Now to see what the old cow’s up to.