Mrs Darcy vs The Aliens

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.”