Mrs Darcy vs The Aliens

Elizabeth dismounted from Keira and tied her up. The quarry looked very different in daylight. For one thing, there were teams of men at work, hewing whatever it was that they hewed out of the rock and then hauling it up the slope. For another, all traces of whatever she and Wickham had seen last night had completely vanished. There was nothing. Elizabeth took her whip and thrashed about at the undergrowth, but there was not the slightest sign of anything untoward there – least of all a severed tentacle.

After a short while, she realised that she was being watched. Sitting on a log at the edge of the quarry was a man, puffing away at a pipe. Perhaps he might be able to help. She walked over towards him, and then with a sinking feeling she realised that it was old Mr Firth, the local mentalist. She stopped, gave a deep sigh and turned to walk away.

“Mis’ Darcy!”

Don’t waste your time, Lizzie, she thought to herself. Just don’t. Walk away now. Forget last night. Admit that you imagined everything.

“Mis’ Darcy! I seen you there!”

Oh, what was the harm in it? She turned back and continued towards old Mr Firth. When she got close to him, she caught a whiff of his revolting pipe. It smelt strongly of badger.

“Ha-har, Mis’ Darcy!” said old Mr Firth.

“Hello, Mr Firth …” said Mrs Darcy, but he ignored her and continued his speech.

“Reckon you’ll be’m after the confabulation ’ere yon nether watch … ’im a-lolloping like a good ’un, you’ll see … ’e were wearing them big breeches … I dun seen ’im … I dun seen ’im, y’know …”

Elizabeth gave another deep sigh. Conversations with old Mr Firth were very rarely fruitful.

“Mr Firth, I appreciate the good sense of much of what you say, and your speech as always demonstrates your supreme erudition, but I really would like to know if you’ve …”

“Blether, blether … rat-pack and fungible … todger, grommet and wallop … thrust upwards … yea, upwards …” (here he gestured with his right hand)

“Thrust?” said Elizabeth, hopeful.

Old Mr Firth nodded. “Like a herring,” he said. “Like a big round herring.”

“Oh.”

“And then ’e comes back in’a town, like … walks right up street … stark bollock naked …” The latter part of this was delivered in a conspiratorial whisper, and Elizabeth felt the old man’s pungent breath waft against her face as he leant in close. She recoiled away from him. She decided to adopt a firmer approach.

“Mr Firth, can you please tell me if you saw anything unusual hereabouts either last night or first thing this morning?”

The old man looked hard at her, and then shook his head.

“Nope,” he said. “But I were pissed as a fart last night,” he added.

Oh, this was hopeless, thought Elizabeth. Back to Plan A. Go back home, put feet up, catch up on sleep and ignore any more cryptic messages from bloody Wickham. Have lots of babies and live happily ever after with Fitzy.

She turned to go. As she did so, old Mr Firth suddenly leapt up off his log and grabbed her roughly by the shoulders.

“Hey!” she shouted, “Unhand me, you filthy man!”

But he held on, and in a strange, unearthly voice, old Mr Firth spoke to her again: “SHE IS RISEN! THE DARK WITCH IS COMING! SHE COMES TO CONQUER ALL!”

Elizabeth looked at him. “I’m sorry?” she said.

“Sorry what?” said old Mr Firth, releasing his grip. “Bugger me, I think I dun me back in.” Then he slumped back on his log and began puffing at his pipe again.