Mrs Darcy vs The Aliens

Tux’d messages became briefly very popular in civilian life during the early nineteenth century, but as with so many modern inventions, they were in fact military in origin, going back to the Peninsular War. During the brief siege of the town of Tuxedo, a messenger was sent out to request help from Wellington, who was stationed thirty miles away in Fernando, taking advantage of the local craftsmen to repair his drums.

The task of carrying the message fell to a local fishmonger named Rojo d’Arenques, who set off wearing his traditional outfit of black suit and white shirt. On the journey, his neck was grazed by a shot from a French sniper, whereupon he tore off a strip from his jacket and tied it around his neck to staunch the flow of blood. He barely survived until the end of his journey, but he succeeded in delivering his message to Wellington, who immediately changed his plans and came to the relief of Tuxedo. One of his aides, a Swedish mercenary, asked him what he was going to do about the drums, and Wellington gave his famous mis-heard reply of “You can leave the drums here in Fernando.”

In honour of Rojo d’Arenques, all messengers from that day forth were ordered to dress in the same “Tuxedo” style, with the black suit, white shirt and black neckerchief – subsequently formalised into the bow tie that would have been familiar to Elizabeth Darcy and her sister Kitty. Of course, towards the end of the nineteenth century, when the tux’d messenger service became obsolete with the arrival of the telegraph, their uniform became popular as a type of gentleman’s formal attire instead.

Elizabeth was annoyed. She shouldn’t be feeling like this on the day of the Midsummer Ball. It should be a jolly occasion, with lashings of good humour and merriment, but at the present moment, she felt neither good humoured nor the slightest bit merry. What was worse, she wasn’t even sure why it was that she felt like this.

In the old days when she’d felt out of sorts, she would simply have poured her heart out to Jane. But Jane was tied up with Charlie’s financial complications and wasn’t coming to the Ball this year. Mary was … well, she had lost touch with Mary lately – not that she had ever been much help in this type of circumstance anyway. Besides, Jane had hinted that all was not well with her either.

As for Kitty, the least said about her the better. This year’s invitation to the Ball had gone unanswered until the arrival of a bow-tied messenger running up the drive the previous afternoon. Elizabeth had groaned at the sight of him, wondering how much Kitty was spending on tux’d messages. She knew that all the young girls were obsessed with them, but they were hideously expensive, even when you paid for them in a monthly bundle. The message was almost unintelligible anyway:

“CANT DO BALL TOMOZ. GOIN 2 MRYTN DNCE W BF CAPT BRIERS HES WELL FIT LOL. SOZ”

Elizabeth read it three times before giving up. Frankly, the only one of them who ever managed to understand Kitty at all was Lydia – and who knew where she was now? Poor Lydia. Would she ever see her again?

Perhaps that was what was distracting her, deep down. For the first time in her life, she was truly alone in the world. She had no sisters to turn to, she had managed to offend her mother and even dear Charlotte was many miles away in Glastonbury, in the company of that dubious Byron fellow. Fitzy, of course, would have been no help to her whatsoever even if he had been behaving normally – and his behaviour at the moment was curious indeed. For one thing, he was presently refusing to take any meals in her company, preferring to stay in his room instead. And he would insist on continually raising the question of his heir in a most unbecoming manner.

Elizabeth looked out of the window and watched the willow trees by the lake swaying backwards and forwards in the breeze and the suddenly realised what it was that was disturbing her.

Tentacles!

Last night she had dreamed again of tentacles. Hundred of slimy tentacles swarming over her, caressing her skin. Oh, where were these frightful nightmares coming from? It had all seemed so real – as if some ghastly alien creature had been lying next to her. This was madness!

She turned away from the window and then she became aware of something that she had failed to notice before – something that chilled her very soul. There were trails of green slime on the bedclothes – trails that were as if they had been made by tentacles swishing back and forth. She almost screamed but managed to stop herself in time: there had to be a sensible explanation for this. Gothic fantasies of monsters in the night were for impressionable girls like Kitty and Lydia, not for her. Surely she was made of sterner stuff?

But try as she might to dismiss it, in her deepest being she knew that something was wrong. She felt different. Something had happened to her during the night – something unnatural. Something … alien. And the awful truth began to dawn on her that there was only one person who could possibly help her now.

“Oh, Wickham,” she said out loud. “Why on earth did I ever doubt you?”

Sir Humphry Davy’s ghost detection engine chugged away happily with occasional puffs of smoke and the odd chirpy whistle. The woman in front of them shimmered in and out of sound and vision as he and Wickham attempted to stabilise the signal, a process which appeared to involved flicking switches at random, remembering to duck in case anything happened to dislodge itself.

“… tentacles … Mr Collins … Mission … position … Mr Darcy – ”

“Hold on, H, did she say ‘Darcy’?” said Wickham.

“Sounded like it, old man,” said H. “Is he … Mrs Darcy’s – ?”

“That’s the one,” said Wickham, shaking his head. “But what’s he got to do with this ghost?”

“… lousy food … bedsores … chest bursting open – ”

“Look H, can you try and get the sound sorted out? She really isn’t making much sense.”

“One moment,” said H, passing the detector handset to Wickham and disappearing behind the engine. There was a sound like someone kicking the back of the machine hard, followed by a yelp. As he emerged again, Wickham noticed that H now had a pronounced limp.

“ … anyway, then ’e says to me – ”

“That’s it!” said Wickham.

“Good,” said H with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. He sat down and began to massage his foot.

“ … so I says to ’im, where’s you going to put that thing anyway? An’ ’e says – ”

“Excuse me, miss, but – ”

“Hoo – bloody – ray! So you can ’ear me, now, can you, Mr Wickham? Bleedin’ ’ell, you’re ’ard work. Thought you was ignoring me.”

“Great heavens, no, Miss … Miss – ?”

“Mary Ann Nicholls at your service, sir.” The ghost bowed slightly. “I found Annie’s card. Told me to come ’ere, it did.”

“Annie?” Wickham racked his brains. Then he felt in his pocket and unconsciously took out Annie Chapman’s card. “This Annie?” he said, with a sinking feeling.

“Yeah, that’s the one. ’Fraid she ain’t in good shape now ’erself. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if ’er spectre wasn’t followin’ on behind. You could ’ave a whole load of us to deal with soon.”

Wickham sighed. “So tell me what happened at the Mission, Mary Ann,” he said.

“Well, first I was afraid. I was petrified, I was. Then I thought to myself, I’ve got all my life to live, so whatever ’appens, I will survive.” She paused. “Only I didn’t.”

“Yes, but what actually happened?”

Mary Ann told him. Her story was punctuated by grunts of disbelief from both Wickham and H, who was now sitting up and paying attention. When she had finished her story, they both looked at each other.

“If this is true – ” said Wickham.

“ – we’ll have to rewrite half the laws of science!” said H, rubbing his hands together.

Wickham shook his head. “I was thinking in terms of more immediate concerns. What this means is that Mrs Darcy is in grave danger.”

H smacked his temple. “Ah, silly me. Of course you are right. You must go to Pemberley at once.”

“But I have been taken off that case, H. It would be a gross dereliction of duty.”

H winked. “Well, it wouldn’t be the first time, would it, old man?” He stood up and pressed the red button on the top of the ghost detection engine once more. There was a hiss of steam, then the regulator gently stopped spinning and all was quiet. He gathered up the hose to the ghost detection handset and packed it away. No-one noticed the ghost of Mary Ann Nicholls frantically waving at them as she disappeared from view.

“Come on, then, Mr W,” he said. “We need to find you some kit.”

Wickham blanched. “No rough cottaging this time, though.”

“As you wish.” He tapped the side of his nose. “Might have one or two new trinkets for you to play with.”

The two men left the room, speaking to each other in furtive whispers. As they did so, they were both completely oblivious to Mary Ann’s gesticulations towards the cage on the desk, as well as her cry of “Oi! You two! What about my baby?”

The man with no name entered the inn, surveyed the scene and then sat down at a table where three of the locals were playing cards.

“Deal me in,” he said, accidentally nudging the table so that the pint of beer belonging to the man opposite splashed a few drops into his lap. With a scowl, the man leaned over the table as if to grab the newcomer by the throat, but his hand was stayed by the man to the left of him.

“Now, now, Jed. Let’s not be unwelcoming,” he said, motioning to him to sit down again. Then, turning to the man with no name, he added, “So what be you called, then?”

“I … don’t have a name. I used to have one once … but – ”

“A man with no name, eh?” said the one called Jed. “That won’t end well. Last time we ’ad a man with no name around ’ere, ’e did nowt but stir up trouble between the Rogers and the Baxters. Right bloody mess, weren’t it, Ebeneezer? Bodies everywhere.” The last comment was directed at the man who had first spoken.

“I assure you I mean to cause no trouble. I merely seek to chance my luck with a game or two so that I can perhaps afford a night’s accommodation before going on my way again. I have been sleeping rough these last few nights and I am in urgent need of a bed.”

“An’ where might you be on yer way to, then?” said Ebeneezer.

“I’m … not sure. I have forgotten so much – ”

“Dear, oh dear,” said Ebeneezer, with the slightest suggestion of a glint in his eye. “So what you got to bet with, then?”

The man with no name took off his boots and placed them on the table.

“That’s bad luck,” said the one who hadn’t spoken yet.

“Shut it, Montmorency,” said Ebeneezer, examining the leather. “Nice boots, they are. Bonham-Carter weekend casuals, if I’m not mistaken. All right, then. Portugese six-card wazzock?”

“Hapsburg rules?”

“If you wish.”

This seemed to satisfy the trio, and they each put down a few coins on the table. Ebeneezer dealt them six cards each and the man with no name looked at his hand.

“One for his nob,” he said.

“Pass,” said Montmorency.

“Pass,” said Jed, shaking his head.

“Double whammy,” said Ebeneezer.

“Blocked flush.”

“Pass.”

“Pass.”

Ebeneezer paused, and then a smile began to play on his lips. He laid down the Jacks of Hearts, Clubs and Spades in turn. “Three skins,” he said.

There was an audible intake of breath from Jed and Montmorency and all eyes swivelled towards the man with no name. Then he laid down his entire hand, one card at a time and leant back in his chair, arms folded.

“Royal wazzock,” he said, with an air of triumph.

“Bollocks,” said Ebeneezer. He looked the man with no name firmly in the eye and then slowly pushed his coins towards him. The other two followed with great reluctance. The man with no name took his boots off the table, picked up the money and began to stand up.

“Wait one moment, Mister,” said Ebeneezer. “Don’t you think you oughta give us the chance to win it back off yer?”

The man with no name detected the underlying threat, shrugged and sat down again. This time he won when his whiffy trump beat Jed’s ace-up-the-jacksie, much to the latter’s annoyance. They played on for a few more hands, by which time he had won a whole fistful of cash and the others had all but run out. Choosing his moment, the man with no name grabbed his winnings, went to the bar and paid for a room for the night. Now feeling quite exhausted after his long journey, he staggered up the stairs to bed. He was asleep within seconds of his head hitting the pillow.

But in the early hours of the morning, he was suddenly wide awake, sweat pouring off his brow. A single word filled his head.

“Pemberley!” he said out loud.

Wickham looked at the contraption that H had brought into the office. It was a rectangular polished mahogany box, around four feet high, with ornate brass fittings. On the top was a large red button and on the side was a crank handle.

“Ready?” said Sir Humphry Davy.

“I suppose so,” said Wickham. “Are you sure this thing’s safe?”

“Safe as houses,” said H.

Yes, but your last house burnt down a few weeks ago, didn’t it, thought Wickham, although he kept this to himself.

“Here we go then,” said H, pressing the button on the top. At this, the top of the box divided into four sections and a panel containing several dials, a pair of regulators and a whole array of knobs and switches sprang out. He reached down and gave the crank handle a couple of turns and Wickham heard the unmistakeable sound of a steam engine starting up. The regulators began to spin furiously in opposite directions and the dials started to flicker backwards and forwards.

“So far, so good,” said H. He leaned over and turned one of the knobs a few degrees clockwise. A whistle blew, and a faint wisp of rose-coloured gas wafted from a vent at the back of the box. If Wickham had had to think of a name for the precise colour, he would have called it “steam pink”, but he didn’t have time to do this because the box had begun to shake from side to side in an alarming manner.

“H, are you sure – ”

Several of the dials now began to whizz round at a frantic speed, and then the right-hand regulator went “ping” and flew off, embedding itself in the ceiling. The rose-coloured steam had now turned into belching clouds of black smoke and there was a strong smell of burning in the room.

“H, I really think – ” said Wickham, before he was overcome by coughing.

One of the brass handles on the front of the box now shook itself loose and narrowly missed Wickham’s ear. An alarm bell began to ring somewhere and a slick of oil began to seep out of the bottom. The atmosphere was now positively toxic.

Then without any warning, everything went quiet and the air cleared. The machine was quietly humming to itself and the remaining regulator was whirring around happily. H smiled at Wickham. “Forgot to activate the dampers,” he said, pointing to one of the switches.

“Ah … good,” said Wickham, gasping for breath. He watched as H opened up a compartment on the front of the box and withdrew a long length of hose with a funnel on the end.

“H? What on earth is that?”

“Ghost detector. Uses the power of the steam engine to generate ether waves that amplify the presence of supernatural objects. Damn clever if I say so myself.”

“Fine. Fine. Well, go ahead, then,” said Wickham.

“I already am,” said Sir Humphry, waving the end of the hose in the direction of Maberley’s desk. “Wickham, would you mind awfully flicking the third switch on the left, please?”

Wickham looked at H in horror. “Are you sure?”

“Of course.” H paused, and then hit the side of his face with his hand. “Sorry, old man. The fourth one. Yes, definitely the fourth one. Third one would have blown us all to kingdom come.” He seemed to find this incredibly amusing.

Wickham leaned towards the machine, keeping as much distance as he could between it and himself and then flicked the switch. He leapt back as quickly as he could, but then felt a little foolish as nothing untoward happened after all. Then he turned and looked at where H was pointing his device. The image of a woman was forming in the air next to the desk: a young woman, dressed in shabby clothes but with an air of wounded pride and self-respect about herself.

“’Bout bloody time, too, Mr Wickham,” she said.

(Being an all-too-occasional 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 a series of unwise business arrangements … 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, following which her body is sent forward in time, leaving her confused ghost back in the present, where she finds Wickham’s card on Annie Chapman’s corpse, leading her to the Department, wherein she finds her alien child captive in a cage … Mr Darcy leaves the Mission to head back to Pemberley … The Dandy Highwayman and his tantalisingly unidentified accomplice kidnap a traveller, wipe his brain and probe him, keeping him locked in a dungeon at Rosings where he communicates with a fellow detainee before escaping without his clothes, a state of affairs which he soon rectifies at the expense of a local gamekeeper … Charlotte Collins, unwell and raving about tentacles, travels back to Rosings with Elizabeth, where they meet the extraordinary Lord Byron who introduces them to his cheroots and then accompanies them to supper with Lady Catherine de Bourgh … Wickham acquires a beard and makes his way to Rosings as well, disguised as a rough cottager with aloe vera issues, and rescues Elizabeth, Charlotte and Lord Byron from Lady Catherine and her alien guests … Elizabeth, dismissing all stories of aliens as fantasies brought about by Lord Byron’s substances, returns to Pemberley to make preparations for the Midsummer Ball whilst avoiding her husband who is behaving oddly … Charlotte is ensconced in a commune in Glastonbury … Wickham is relieved of alien duties and is put onto ghost-hunting instead … Lydia is still missing.

So there we are. It all makes perfect sense, does it not? 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 …

Elizabeth was busy all week preparing for the Pemberley Midsummer Ball. It had taken all her skills of persuasion to convince Fitzy that it might be a nice idea to hold any kind of event that involved dancing, but it was now a firm fixture on the social calendar. Fitzy himself had even gone to the extent of taking dancing lessons and was now well-known in local circles as an expert proponent of the flying volte-fetlock.

Hmmm. And what about Fitzy, thought Elizabeth. Since her return to Pemberley, her husband had been behaving in an unusual manner, at once cold and – well, a trifle over-familiar. He had raised the question of an heir on more than one occasion and Elizabeth’s suggestion that such a diversion might best be left until after the ball had met with a chilly response. Ah, there was so much about men that she still did not understand, even now.

The one really excellent piece of news was that she had heard from Charlotte. Lord Byron had been as good as his word and had removed her safely from Rosings and she was now living in a communal dwelling in Glastonbury along with several of his artistic friends. Here she was learning some valuable new skills, such as tie-dye bonnet-making, tofu-herding and playing the green tambourine.

And yet Elizabeth still felt out of sorts. She had thought much about poor Lydia this week. In her mind, she went back to that dreadful day when Wickham had arrived at Pemberley to inform her of what had happened. There had been an ugly scene as he had talked of lights in the sky over their cottage and of visitations by men with tentacles from another world … great heavens, why was the man so obsessed with tentacles? Fitzy had taken a horsewhip and threatened him with it, and yet he had still insisted on spinning this ridiculous yarn and in the end he had only ceased talking when her husband had chased him out of the house.

The only explanation for it was that Wickham had succumbed to some kind of madness, some wild fancy that had in all probability been induced by over-indulgence – heaven knows, she had observed what had happened to Charlotte. Then Elizabeth reflected that she had seen some curious things herself lately. That night at Macfadyen’s quarry, had not Wickham been fighting with such a tentacled man? Oh, but it had been dark, and such nights played tricks on the eyes, did they not?

But none of this brought her anywhere nearer knowing what had happened to Lydia, and at times like this she wondered if she would ever see her little sister again.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Come in,” she said, turning round. It was Dench.

“I’ve come to enquire about the buckets and sawdust, ma’am,” he said. The old butler raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The … ah … buckets and … ah … sawdust, ma’am. For the drinks area. When the gentlemen have had – ”

“Oh, I see,” said Elizabeth, hurriedly, realising the significance of his remark. “Well, let me see, there’s Lord Rutherford, Mr O’Sullivan, the Morley twins and Mr Chadha, to say nothing of – ”

“So shall we say a dozen buckets and a couple o’hundredweight of sawdust, then, ma’am?”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened for a moment, then she nodded. “If you say so, Dench. If you say so.”

“Very well, ma’am. Very well.” Dench bowed and reversed out of the room. Elizabeth shook her head and tried very hard to remove the image of Lord Rutherford dancing naked around the trees in the orchard at last year’s ball, soliciting passers-by to have a nibble at his russets.

Men. They could always be guaranteed to let you down.

Nine o’clock in the morning, and it was time for the ghost of Mary Ann Nicholls to visit her kid again. She’d spent the previous night doing a bit of light haunting and had quite enjoyed herself, now she was getting the hang of it. Evensong at St James’ had been particularly fun – she’d managed to get all the candles to go out every time the young vicar said the phrase “Holy Ghost”, and the poor lad had ended up running out the church screaming.

But now it was time for her maternal duties. The more she thought about it, she believed that children were the future. You should teach them well, she thought, and let them lead the way. She would have to show that tiny thing of hers all the beauty it possessed inside – because, frankly, the little bastard was no oil painting on the outside, what with all the tentacles and stuff.

As she approached the cage, it waved one of them at her in greeting and her heart melted.

“I will always love you,” she whispered.

Behind her, the door opened, and instinctively she turned and then backed away into the corner, crouching down next to a cabinet. It was pointless, she knew, although she had a feeling that Captain Maberley was somehow aware of her presence. He’d certainly developed a habit of twitching whenever she crept up close to him.

Maberley was accompanied by another man in uniform. Bit of a looker, she thought to herself. If she still had a body, she’d definitely hold it against him.

“So you think you’ve felt a … presence … in this office, then?” the newcomer was saying.

“Look, I know this sounds stupid, Wickham – ”

Wickham? Mary Ann’s heart skipped a beat. This was Wickham?

Ding tiddley dong.

She had to make her presence felt, but how? The only trick she’d picked up so far was the candle one, and it was broad daylight right now. Bugger.

“ – right there,” Maberley was saying.

“There?” said Wickham, pointing to the creature in the cage. Then he stopped, as if he’d only just registered that there was something unusual in the room. “Maberley, there’s something queer on your desk.”

“Yes … I know.”

“It’s got tentacles.”

“So do lots of things.”

“Why hasn’t anyone told me about this?”

“Possibly because you’re on ghosts now?”

“But I do tentacled aliens!” said Wickham. “I’ve always done aliens.”

“Not any more, according to the Colonel. Sorry, but Special Projects are handling this one.”

“Where did you get it from?”

“Can’t say. More than my position’s worth.”

Wickham advanced forward and grabbed the other man by the lapels. “Where?” he said.

“Steady on, old man,” said Maberley. “It’s only a baby anyway.”

Wickham released him and slumped down into a chair. “Sorry,” he said. “It hasn’t really sunk in until now. Ghosts, I ask you. Not exactly the frontiers of investigation, is it?” He shook his head. “Bloody ghosts!”

’Scuse me, said Mary Ann, standing up and waving. Halloooo! Over here!

But she was wasting her time. The man wasn’t the slightest bit aware of her. She might as well have been invisible. Actually, she was.

“All right, then,” said Wickham, standing up again. “Let’s get on with this, so I can finish it and get put back onto a proper job. So you have this … this … ‘sort of creepy feeling’ … around – ”

“ – here, yes.” Maberley made a vague gesture.

Wickham sighed. “Are you absolutely sure it’s not just because of this baby alien in a cage that you have sitting on your desk?”

“Let’s leave the alien out of it now – ”

Yeah, you do that, thought Mary Ann.

“In that case,” said Wickham, “I suppose we had better get the specialist team in to give the place a sweep. H claims he’s got some detector thingy that’s almost ready to try out. Just hope it doesn’t explode the first time we try using it like most of his stuff does.”

I’ll be watching you, mate, said Mary Ann. No-one was going to explode things around her baby whilst she was in charge.

Elizabeth had gone straight to bed, being too tired for any kind of social intercourse with her husband. The next day, however, she rose early, feeling thoroughly refreshed and with a strong sense that the rest of her life was about to begin. After breaking her fast alone, she went out into the garden to read some letters that had arrived in her absence.

The first of these was troubling.

“Dearest Lizzy,

This is your MOTHER here. I HOPE that you remember me – the one who BROUGHT you into this world? I only ask because it has been MANY LONG WEEKS since your FATHER and I last heard from you. We understand that you are a VERY important LADY now and that you have a BUSY life but we would like if POSSIBLE to see you once again before the GOOD LORD takes us to a BETTER place. As I am sure you can imagine, all this WORRY about Lydia has only served to make my PALPITATIONS worse, and I am convinced that Jane is HIDING something from me as well. Oh, it is all too MUCH, Lizzy! It is all TOO MUCH! I shall of course say nothing at all about Mary as the whole AFFAIR with her is far too DISTRESSING for me in my present DELICATE state.

Your father sends his love. His GOUT continues to trouble him.

Mother”

Elizabeth was stricken with a complex mixture of anger and shame, to say nothing of perplexity at the unexpected comment about her middle sister. To divert herself, she turned to the other letter, from Jane. However, this proved to be no less concerning.

“My Dearest Lizzy,

I write in some haste as Mr Bradford’s men with sticks are once again harassing poor Charlie and I must go to his aid. Sadly, we have had to let several of the staff go owing to what Charlie refers to as “transient cashflow problems” so there is no-one there apart from myself to protect him from these ruffians.

As you will have surmised from the foregoing, our affairs have taken a temporary turn for the worse. The African Princess that Charlie invested so much trust (and indeed money) in has vanished from the face of the earth and we have no way of knowing whether we will ever see our capital again.

However, I can tell you, my dear Lizzy, that we have had at least one piece of good fortune! A Russian financial expert who happened to be passing Netherfield the other day on a fishing trip offered to investigate what he called our “security arrangements” and he established that we were in imminent danger of having all of the family silver stolen, along with the deeds to the estate!

Luckily it turns out that this gentleman owns what he refers to as a “secure facility” in Novosibirsk, which he is prepared to let Charlie use for a very small emolument. He is to return tomorrow to arrange to take all of our valuable goods away, so that we may once more sleep easy in our beds. Once more I bless the serendipity that surrounds my Charlie and protects us all from disaster!

Dearest Lizzy, have you heard from Mary recently? I only ask because Mama is concerned for her wellbeing. She will not unfortunately say why she is so concerned, and if pressed she will protest that she is suffering from the vapours. And poor Father is no use whatsoever in this respect. I am sure that there is nothing to be worried about, but I would like to know for certain.”

Elizabeth put the letter down and frowned. It was good to know that the Bingleys’ financial affairs were at last going to be in good hands – and she made a mental note to suggest that Fitzy should also seek the services of this Russian gentleman – but what were all these rumours about Mary? As if she didn’t have enough on her hands with trying to find Lydia!

It was late in the evening when the coach reached its destination, and Elizabeth was exhausted, although the part of the journey covered by the replacement sedan chair service had at least been mercifully short. She had been forced to share with a travelling non-conformist entertainer who had insisted on demonstrating how he could keep a ferret down his trousers for as long as it took to recite the opening chapters of the book of Genesis.

“Ye can always tell when they’re goin’ ter bite yer,” he had explained, “’cos the little buggers give you a lick first.”

“Really?” Elizabeth had said, trying very hard not to visualise the precise details. “How fascinating.”

Fortunately, that part of the journey came to an end before he had time to perform his encore, which seemed to involve several doves, a blazing rabbit and most of the Revelation of St John the Divine. She was now alone in the village square, wondering how she was going to make her way back to Pemberley. She had almost resigned herself to walking the few miles that remained when a horse and cart trotted past.

“Ha-har, Mis’ Darcy!” said a familiar voice. Elizabeth’s heart sank. It was old Mr Firth. “You be wantin’ a ride, Mis’ Darcy?”

“Er … well, actually, it’s all right, I’m – ”

“’Cos it be a dark and grim night out there, Mis’ Darcy. There be farrow-manglers and nadge-cutters abroad.”

Oh dear, sighed Elizabeth. Still as barking as ever. Then again, perhaps the old fool had a point after all. The wind was beginning to get up and she wasn’t sure if she hadn’t felt the first few spots of rain. It wouldn’t be good to be caught out on a night like this.

“Are you sure, Mr Firth?” she called up to him.

“’Course. ’Op on.” He caught hold of her arm and hauled her up. As she drew close, she was enveloped in a heady scent of old ale, brassicas and cowpats. “Ha-har, Mis’ Darcy!” he said again, greeting her with a broken-toothed smile as she settled down in the seat next to him. “I bin seein’ things around these parts, that I ’ave, oh yes.”

“Really?” she said, immediately regretting the automatic instinct to respond.

“That I ’ave, Mis’ Darcy, that I ’ave. I seen ’im again. Ol’ snakey boy. ’E thinks I don’ see ’im but I do. Thrutch, scabbard and cordwainers, if you knows what I mean. Behind the old barn. ’Im and all the others. All of ’em, dancin’ around.” He broke off to chuckle inwardly at something. “All of ’em,” he repeated, “wearing nowt but a thong.”

Elizabeth raised her eyebrows, but resisted the temptation to comment further, and there was silence for a while as they trotted along the lane towards the big house. Then old Mr Firth gave a conspiratorial wink and leaned closer to her. “She’s evil, that one, y’know. Evil. She’m gonna take over the whole world, that’s what she thinks.”

“Who?” said Elizabeth.

“Ha-har, Mis Darcy. Ha-har,” was all he said by way of reply. “Ha-har!”

Elizabeth found the conversation unsettling, even if it was largely gibberish, but she did not get the opportunity to question Mr Firth any further because they had arrived at Pemberley. As soon as the horse and cart drew up outside the main doors, Dench and Hollander appeared and helped her down. She thanked old Mr Firth and offered him a glass of gin in the servants’ quarters, and then paused for a moment to take in the moonlit glory of Pemberley once more. It was as if she had been away for months, and it was good to be back home.

“Is everything all right?” she said to Dench.

Dench hesitated before replying. “Everything is … satisfactory, my lady. Entirely satisfactory.”

“Good – ”

“Satisfactory,” said Hollander. “Everything is satisfactory.”

“Well, then,” said Elizabeth, walking towards the house. But there was another figure in the doorway: a dark, brooding presence, familiar and yet unfamiliar at the same time.

“Good evening, my dear,” said Mr Darcy, stepping out from the shadows.