He put down his fork and looked at his forlorn brother. Despite being the younger of the two of them, and despite all that Ulysses had been through, Barty looked to be the more harassed and careworn by life. A curl of hair had come free and hung in front of his eyes. His shoulders looked bowed as if the weight of the world rested upon them. His skin had an unhealthy pallor to it and his red-rimmed eyes belied a lack of sleep. "When was the last time you ate a meal like that? Come to think of it, when did you last get a decent night's sleep?" he asked.
"What do you care?" Barty riled at his brother's condescending tone.
"Of course I care, you ungrateful wretch," Ulysses sighed. "Anyway, this dinner was supposed to be a reconciliation. Let's not fight anymore. I have enough enemies in this world without my brother being one of them. What's done is done, and there's been no real harm as a result either. Pax?"
Ulysses offered his hand across the table. Bartholomew maintained his grumpy demeanour for a few moments more before relenting.
"Pax," he agreed and the two brothers shook.
"Now let's settle up here or we're going to be late for curtain up."
Ulysses summoned a waiter. "Can I get you anything else, sir? Coffee? Liqueurs?"
"Just the bill," Ulysses said.
"Ah, about that too."
Ulysses gave his brother a withering look. "It's on me, as usual," Bartholomew visibly relaxed, "as is tonight's performance of Puccini. Now let's get out of here."
Dinner paid for, the Quicksilver brothers left the Savoy and made their way to the Covent Garden Opera House, there to join the expectant throng awaiting that night's performance of Madame Butterfly. The opera lasted a barely tolerable three hours, at the end of which the two brothers departed the auditorium, with a feeling akin to what it must be like to be released from a stay in prison.
"How did you find it?" Barty asked as the two of them made their way across the cobbled forecourt in front of the Opera House.
"About as good as the meal beforehand," Ulysses said cuttingly.
"That bad?" Bartholomew laughed. He appeared significantly more relaxed than he had during dinner. The two double whiskys during the interval had helped, of course.
"Perhaps not that bad. Although, to my mind, the character of a nubile, teenage Japanese geisha girl should not really be played by a middle-aged soprano with a figure like a circus wrestler, and the body hair to match."
His brother laughed heartily. "I know what you mean. And the dashing young lieutenant looked like he'd be out of breath dashing for an omnibus!"
"You're right there, Barty, old chap."
"Is one supposed to enjoy opera?"
"No, I don't think so. It's just one of those tiresome things one must be seen to do if one is to be received into polite society - rather like plucking one's eyebrows or visiting the dentist. I only partake myself because it is part of the social high life and it is good for one to be seen to be doing such things. I just wanted to go - having not been for so long - to confirm to myself how bad it is. And, of course, the ladies love it! Now then, back to mine for a nightcap? Nimrod should have the Phantom parked around here somewhere."
"Yes, why not?"
The subconscious warning came like a burst of lightning in his brain even as the shot rang out, echoing like a thunderclap from the close-packed buildings that lined the square. He had no conscious idea of where the threat lay, only that he must move.
Ulysses lurched sideways. There was the report of a second shot. Barty gasped as if he had been plunged into an ice cold bath. He slumped forwards, Ulysses caught him, stopping him from falling flat on his face on the cobbles.
"Barty? Barty!" he cried, easing his brother down onto the ground. He was barely aware of the cries of panic around him.
"I-I've been shot," Bartholomew gasped. "Bloody hell, I've been shot!"
Ulysses carried out a hasty assessment, fully aware of the fact that there was a sniper still scoping their position from somewhere on the rooftops nearby. His brother was shaking whilst blood oozed from the newly made hole in the shoulder of his jacket.
"Try to stay calm," Ulysses said, keeping his voice low so as not to heighten his brother's state of anxiety.
"Stay calm? I've been bloody shot!"
"Look, you're in shock." Ulysses whipped off his jacket and draped it over his brother's prone body.
"Of course I'm in shock. I keep trying to tell you, I've bloody well been shot!"
"If you don't shut up, I'll shoot you myself!"
Ulysses scanned the tops of the surrounding buildings, trying to glimpse anything that might reveal the position of the would-be assassin - the reflection of a streetlamp from a gun barrel, a shudder of movement as the gunman adjusted his position - anything at all.
The bullet had been meant for him, he was sure of it. Of course, when he considered the sort of company his brother kept and factored in the debts he doubtless owed, it was possible that the gunman had really been targeting him but Ulysses' sixth sense had warned him of the danger he had been about to face.
Two shots. Anyone attempting an assassination would like as not be using a rifle with two cartridges in the chamber. They would not risk reloading unless they were prepared to give their position away. Right now, the sniper would be putting a previously prepared getaway plan into operation.
There was the sound of someone running across the cobbles towards them. It was Nimrod.
"I heard the gunshots, sir. Are you alright?"
"I am but Barty's been hit. Will you take care of things here?"
"Of course, sir."
"I have a gunman to catch."
As Nimrod rested Bartholomew's head against his knees, Ulysses patted his brother gently on his shoulder. "No hard feelings, eh, Barty?" And with that he hared off across the plaza.
After hearing the second shot, and considering the angle of trajectory of the bullet that had hit Bartholomew, Ulysses judged that the gunman had been hunkered down on the rooftops of the buildings on the south side of the square.
He sprinted across the cobbles, barging past drunken fops and London's social elite making their way home. As he ran, senses straining for any clues as to where the gunman might have gone, Ulysses' mind was awhirl as he considered the identity of the would-be assassin. Who could it be, and how long had the marksman been trailing him? Was it Jago Kane, surfacing again to put paid to his old adversary once and for all? Ulysses had his doubts about that; it wasn't Kane's style. And although Ulysses had made a fair few enemies in his somewhat chequered career as a soldier of fortune and agent of the crown, he was pretty certain that whoever the gunman was, he was like as not working for the Darwinian Dawn. Whether he was an agent of the terrorist organisation or simply a hit man hired to off the dandy adventurer after he had set back their plans, Ulysses was sure of his connection with the enemy.
But in the end, as he ran down an adjoining street towards the Strand, he had to admit that his pursuit was futile. He didn't even know if he was pursuing anyone. He could have been haring off in completely the wrong direction. The cowardly gunman had both the city and the night on his side. The two working together to swallow him up and hide him in mundane normality.
Ulysses was aware that his footsteps sounded incongruously loud as they rang from the pavement, passers-by watching his mad dash with incredulous, slack-jawed curiosity. With a snarl of frustration he came to a stop in a pool of wan light cast by a crackling street light. His acute sixth sense was quiet again. The danger had passed, for the time being, but Ulysses knew that it would not be long before jeopardy and peril came calling again.
His blood boiled in his veins, becoming the bitter bile of rage in his stomach. His brother might be a useless, good-for-nothing compulsive gambler with an unlucky streak a mile long, but he was Ulysses' little brother nonetheless, and, as such, his responsibility.
Whoever the secret assassin had been, he had failed in his mission. Ulysses was still alive. And for as long as that was the
case there would inevitably be another attempt on his life. He would have to remain vigilant at all times, or pay the ultimate price.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Revelations
"Excuse me, sir, but will there be anything else?"
Ulysses Quicksilver looked up from the copy of The Times he was perusing. Nimrod was standing in the doorway to the mahogany-panelled study. Standing there so rigid and so formal. Back in his grey suit, with his sharp, aquiline features he bore all the characteristics of the grandfather clock that was tolling hauntingly in the atrium hallway behind him.
Ulysses glanced at the brandy glass on the desk in front of him, a slosh of the amber fire still in the bottom of it. He checked his pocket watch despite there being the ormolu clock ticking on the mantelpiece behind him.
"No, it's alright, thank you, Nimrod."
"If you don't mind, then sir, I think I shall retire for the night. It feels like it has been a particularly long day."
"I know what you mean, old chap. I know what you mean."
It was not only Ulysses who had been beset by illness following their escapades through the sewers. Although they had both now been given a clean bill of health they had been left fatigued by their bout of sickness. Nimrod was never one to make a fuss about his own state of health but Ulysses could see the weariness in his eyes, even though his posture was as upright and unbending as ever. Of course the faithful family retainer wasn't a young man anymore. In fact, the silver-haired butler had never been a young man in Ulysses' eyes, ever since he was a young boy growing up in the Mayfair townhouse.
"Oh, Nimrod," Ulysses said suddenly, causing his butler to turn. "Is Barty asleep?"
"Yes, sir. I had his old room made up."
"Yes, I think it better that he remain with us for the time being. Just until we sort this mess out. For his own safety, you understand."
"As you wish. Now, if you don't mind, sir?"
"No, not at all, Nimrod. You get off to bed."
Ulysses returned his attention to the broadsheet in front of him. The butler turned to leave again.
"Oh, I meant to ask," Ulysses said, looking up from his paper again. Nimrod paused once more, a nasal sigh escaping his flaring nostrils. "How's Simeon finding the boot room?"
"You mean the apeman, sir?"
"Yes, Nimrod, our guest. Has he stopped eating the shoe polish yet?"
"I've confiscated the last few tins so that I can maintain standards, sir, and keep the footwear in good order. But yes, the monkey has made himself quite at home in the boot room, sir."
"Now now, Nimrod, he's not a monkey. He's merely an ancestor of the human race. The boot room is opposite your room, is it not?"
"Precisely, sir. It would appear that the coach house was not to his liking, despite being a far superior habitat than the one we originally found him in."
"I think you've made a friend there, Nimrod."
"Hmm," Nimrod replied non-committally. "I thought one was supposed to be able to choose one's friends, sir. It's one's family that one has no say in."
"Well I suppose he is family, after a fashion. Think of him as a very distant relation," Ulysses said with a smile.
"Yes, very amusing, sir. Do you know how long our house guests will be staying, sir?"
"For the foreseeable future, I would say."
"Very well, sir," Nimrod conceded morosely. "Might I ask why you insist on calling the apeman Simeon, sir?"
"The name seemed to suit him, that's all. And besides, if he's going to be part of polite society he needs a name, doesn't he. It will help him appear more - what's the word I'm looking for? - civilised."
"I would suggest that he might appear more civilised, sir, if I could persuade him to wear some clothes. Mrs Prufrock has altered an old suit of her husband's especially. Now, if there's nothing else?" Nimrod said tartly.
"No, I don't think so. Sorry to have kept you. You should turn in for the night. I won't be up much longer myself. I just need to wind down after our rather exciting night at the opera."
"I understand, sir. Good night."
"Good night, Nimrod."
The manservant hesitated. He was quite clearly looking at the large portrait hanging above the mantelpiece and yet there was a far away look in his piercing sapphire eyes. Ulysses couldn't remember ever seeing Nimrod look so vulnerable and open.
"Something troubling you, Nimrod?"
"I was just thinking, sir. You look so like your father."
"Indeed, it has been said before."
Nimrod turned and left the study.
Ulysses returned to the papers arrayed before him on the desk. But he was distracted, considering Simeon's nature once again and, by extension, the nature of mankind in an evolutionary context. It was humbling indeed to be in such close proximity to one's ancestors.
Had Simeon always been as he was now, an example of one of the previously thought lost tribes of proto-humans that had been found to still exist in some of the most remote parts of the world? Or had he been the unfortunate subject of one of Galapagos' sinister experiments, considering what had befallen the evolutionary biologist himself? It appeared that there was no way of knowing and, if the latter was the case, it was highly unlikely that they would ever discover the real identity of the poor wretch who had somehow devolved into the creature that was now Ulysses' house guest. Professor Ignatius Galapagos had turned out to be a very different man to the dedicated scholar and devoted father Ulysses had at first taken him to be. Very different indeed.
The sound of Nimrod's leather heels on the polished floors of the house receded into its shadowy depths. Ulysses listened to the tap, tap, tapping of his servant's footfalls whilst the subconscious part of his mind turned over the myriad thoughts that rose from the fathomless depths like great leviathans, immeasurable, terrifying and dark.
Ulysses finished off the last drop of his cognac, closed his eyes and savoured the fumy tang on his tongue before swallowing. Dreamily he opened his eyes, his gaze falling on the pages of The Times spread out in front of him. Scattered across the desk, amidst the carefully selected articles, were various pieces of the last few days' post, some as yet unopened. They included a letter from the firm of Mephisto, Fanshaw and Screwtape, an invitation to join the maiden voyage of a new sub-ocean liner, and something from the Cats Protection League asking for his support.
Ulysses ran his eyes over the articles, his attention flitting from one set of column inches to another, as he absent-mindedly ran the blade of his letter-opener under the sealed tab of a crisp, white envelope.
One bold banner headline read, 'Wormwood Wins Terror Debate' and another, 'Anti-Terror Bill Passed'. So, mused Ulysses as he extracted the folded piece of headed paper from the envelope, Wormwood had got his way. The bill that he had championed and pushed through Parliament had been passed by both the Commons and the House of Lords. But, Ulysses wondered, did those who had voted in its favour realise fully the implications of the new law that effectively permitted one man to take charge of not only the government, but also the country and hence the Empire, should a state of emergency arise?
But of course the politicians must have realised. So in that case, what was in it for them? Ulysses was fully cognisant of the Machiavellian workings of the British Government and the nature of those who sought election to that exclusive gentleman's club. They must have good reason to believe that the intentions of the man into whose control that self-same bill would put the whole country were honourable. But then perhaps they didn't know Uriah Wormwood like Ulysses Quicksilver did. Or maybe they did, and their votes had simply been secured by other, uncomplicated means, such as threatening their lives, the lives of their loved ones or by threatening to air their dirty laundry for them in public.
Ulysses glanced at the letter now in his hands. It was another begging letter from the Chelsea branch of the Women's Institute - who were obviously aware of his existence again following his very public David and Goliath struggle with the rampaging
megasaur - asking him to speak about his adventures in the Himalayas at one of their forthcoming tea and cake get-togethers.
He turned a few pages of the paper in front of him, skimming them for anything of particular interest. With the Galapagos case tied up, he would have to start looking for another paying job soon. He doubted Wormwood would be in need of his services in quite the same way as he previously had.
The news items he gleaned from the papers gave him a curious snapshot of the capital of the Magna Britannian empire in the dying days of the twentieth century. Apparently some of the escaped dinosaurs from the Challenger Enclosure were still managing to evade capture. A petition had been sent to 10 Downing Street, and copied to Scotland Yard, asking what the new Prime Minister was going to do about the reptilians' anti-social behaviour. Ulysses wondered for a moment whether he should consider branching out into big game hunting, but then quickly dismissed the idea
There was also a piece about the luxury passenger liner The Neptune, which would be setting off on its inaugural cruise around the world from Southampton that summer - Ulysses glanced again at the invitation he had been sent, it was the same vessel - and another article regarding the health of the industrialist and amateur naturalist, Josiah Umbridge.
'Jubilee to go ahead as planned' a spokesman for Buckingham Palace had apparently told a reporter. The preparations for the extravaganza appeared to have been upped a notch or two, since Wormwood had come to the office of Prime Minister and following the Darwinian Dawn's terror attacks. Funnily enough, Ulysses thought, with a wry smile, there had been no further broadcasts or public announcements from the terrorist group or any further attacks on London since Ulysses had brought about the destruction of their bomb production plant. Apparently the jubilee celebration and day-long parades were to conclude with a gala dinner, to be held in the re-built Crystal Palace in Hyde Park.
Beneath the article detailing the arrangements for the celebrations, which marked another decade in Victoria's long reign of more than a century and a half, Ulysses' eyes alighted on a much less obvious, almost secondary consideration of an article title. In fact, it was not so much a headline as a question:
Pax Britannia: Unnatural History Page 17