Once again we are beholden to the current executors of the Knolly estate for letting us publish this, the second package of the great man's journals and memoirs.

I decided that I couldn't wait, and so hurriedly got up from my chair and ran the remaining length of the carriage to meet Bertie and his bearers. We arrived at the end of the carriage at about the same time, but Bertie already had his hand on the door knob leading to the single bedroom.

'Ahoy there, Knolly! I'm guessing this is one of the bedrooms?'

I nodded. 'Indeed it is.... But not yours, though.'

He looked behind him and motioned to the fellow carrying what were plainly Elspeth's bags.

'In there then, please.'

'Er... No..No! You can put those in the next cabin, please.'

I stepped to one side to let the chap pass by me, the other of Meeds fellows waited behind Bertie. It was rather cramped in the corridor now and the situation getting awkward.

'Right, then. So I'm not in here, and I'm not next door.' Bertie mused.

He looked up the corridor where Hobbes was peering back; he waved and Bertie waved back.

'All right then, Knolly, I give up. Where am I sleeping? In one of those chairs up there, I shouldn't wonder?' he said, pointing back towards Hobbes who waved again, more urgently this time.

'Umm.. No... Look, Bertie it's nothing against you, but I didn't think it proper to be next door to Charlie, so I had Meeds create a double room and a single one.'

'You didn't think it proper??!!! Ho, I like that! This is Elspeth talking here, I fancy!'

I was quite taken aback by such a riposte, but stood my ground and resolved to put him right on the facts. But now, Bertie was in full flow and his dander was well and truly up. The chap behind him was trying to look elsewhere. I opened the door to the single cabin and shoved Bertie in. Meeds had done a good job in here too, but I did not have time to take in the décor as Bertie rounded on me with an outburst that was as emotive as it was disjointed. Nevertheless, he got his point across!

'Oh...Oh! And you think that Charlie and me would, would ...Doh! ... Pah! The girl who is more kitten than human? You think that I might.... Well! ... Well?'

A pointy finger prodded me in the chest to accentuate each word. It quite hurt! I grabbed his hand at the end of the last 'well'.

'You are cross, I quite understand.'

He drew himself up once more at this as if to continue his tirade, but I got in first.

'Bertie, how long have I known you? Hmm?'

Bertie's mouth was still opening and closing like a fish out of water. For all his bluster he knew where my train of thought was leading and he knew I was right.

'Look, Knolly, I can't say that I don't find young Charlotte attractive in a certain way – especially when she was running around Hobbes' garden in her undergarments – but really, you do me an injustice. She's still a child!'

He paused to take in his surroundings.

'This room could have easily been made into two rooms,' he muttered. 'I don't need much space.'

'Bertie, you have not had a chance to see Charlotte since Elspeth took her under her wing. She has changed somewhat in the last couple of days – grown up, much more feminine than feline and I advise you now to make sure that you take your "Gender Benders" every night, starting tomorrow.'

'Really? She's become that ... dangerous?' He gulped.

'Oh yes,' I whispered.

The image of Charlotte, dressed in balaclava helmet, black spangly leotard, corset and boots appeared in my mind and this was quickly filed away in a box labelled "DANGER – BEWARE". Unfortunately, the image was quickly replaced by that of Elspeth skipping around in nought but her white leotard. I shook my head; John was right.

'Yes, tablets. And that goes for me too!'

There was a knock on the door and it opened.

'Have you two finished?" It was Hobbes.

'I was trying to get your attention earlier. I need Bertie to help me rig up the telegraph link.'

'I'm not climbing poles now, you know. It's getting rather dark for all that,' replied Bertie.

'You don't need to. I got the fellows you had carrying to do it, but we need to test as the engine has to be elsewhere shortly. Whilst it's still connected I want to test all links and power couplings.'

'Excellent,' I said, thinking that it was a welcome diversion from spangly clothing and undergarments and the like.

'Bertie, you can send a telegram to Elspeth for me.'

We adjourned back to the office area where I penned a note for Bertie in longhand, which he then transcribed into telegraphic shorthand, I asked as to why this was necessary, as there would be no cost in sending this message. He then proceed to point out in very simplistic terms that Elspeth would have to pay on receipt and that he was quite happy to send the message in full if I was happy to fund it. Suitably chastened, I left him to it and returned to my cabin to unpack the cold-weather gear Bertie had brought along for the both of us.

After just a moment's thought, I decided to leave Elspeth's garments alone; it would have been an exercise in futility. The years that Elspeth and I had been together had taught me a lesson. I knew that however I arranged her possessions in the available space – it would be wrong. Even if my packing were technically correct, it would be aesthetically wrong. And vice versa. With the bags repacked so that Bertie's gear was all together, I carried them out.

'Here you go then Bertie! All of your gear, ready to be stowed away next door.'

'What? I'm not even sleeping in the same carriage as everyone else?'

'I thought I'd made that clear?' I said, Bertie's gear still in mid-air.

'No! You distinctly said "not in the same room", nothing about a separate carriage. So where am I bunking? With your beloved automobile?!'

I laughed, hoping to lighten the sour mood.

'No, no, no. Of course not! You'll be in the gymnasium, of course. There's a hammock for you ...'

'Yes, indeed,' chimed in Hobbes, who hadn't quite caught up with what had been going on and the accompanying angst.

'And your own toilet and washing facilities too!' he added cheerily.

'What about tonight?' asked Bertie.

'Can't I use a real room tonight?'

'Oh, so you expect poor Hobbes to use the hammock, do you?'

I said in an attempt to make Bertie feel guilty about displacing an ageing, hirsute-browed gentleman from a comfortable bed.

The conversation came to halt as the carriages received a heavy jolt and a shout went up from someone; it could only have been Meeds worrying about his "girls".

'Shall we go and bid the "Ghost Train" farewell then, gentlemen?' I said.

Hobbes beamed and Bertie muttered under his breath as he put on his coat.

Outside, the temperature had dropped; twilight was now upon us and the city was winding down. The camouflaged engine pulled away from "The Train" in the same silent way as it had appeared, with aught but the merest squeak here and there. It was quite odd. Even more odd was the fact that outside, very little smoke and steam seemed to be puffing up into the sky.

'It gets filtered,' said Hobbes.

'Sorry?'

'The smoke. It all gets filtered and cleaned.'

'Oh?' I replied. 'And what might that be for?' I asked.

'To keep it hidden, of course! What other reason could there be?' he asked playfully.

'Or do you think it ought to be used for keeping the atmosphere clean, maybe?'

He chuckled at his own joke at my expense and waggled his eyebrows as he giggled. Cleaning the atmosphere indeed!

'Beer?' he asked (once he had stopped laughing at his own joke).

After a quick discussion with Meeds regarding what time he wanted us back, and what local hostelry could he suggest for a pie and a pint, we adjourned to the Camden Arms. Bertie was still in a foul mood and trudged along like a petulant child behind Hobbes and myself. I was led to believe that this hostelry was indeed famous for having been the site of the last fatal duel fought in Great Britain, between a two army officers. However, considering Bertie's mood I was thankful that noone was able to point it out at the time.

Thankfully, the directions that Meeds had given us were very precise, and so my pocket sextant only had to be used once or twice to check our bearings. As I said before, this part of London was like another country to me and so had to be treated with the utmost caution and respect. I mentioned this to Bertie, putting it to him as a trial run for our mission, and to that end we should henceforth adopt the guises given to us by Conan Doyle. Bertie just shrugged his shoulders and said nothing, but Hobbes bounced with excitement, asking if he could be someone else too? I looked around for some inspiration from shop hoardings and street names, for I was not going to let him use any of the names from our existing stock. Nothing inspired me, although I did notice an interesting playbill advertising "The Flaming Cage of Carnage" and "Musical Interlude with Angelina and her Winsome Whips", both of which would require further investigation, I felt.

I asked Hobbes if he had any ideas for a name, and he immediately said "John Smith". I was quite taken aback by this, rather expecting something more outlandish.

'Are you sure?' I enquired.

He replied that he often used it as a "nom de plume" in various scientific journals.

We turned a corner and there was our destination, illuminated in all its beckoning glory.

'Right then, here we go. Remember – I'm Mr Stapleton. Frederick to his – my – chums. You, Bertie, are Mr Barrymore.'

'Caractacus,' he said.

'What!?'

Caractacus,' he replied in his faux Yorkshire accent.

'Well I can't really be "John" if Hobbes is being "John Smith", can I? It will get confusing.'

I thought about giving Bertie a look, but he seemed to be out of his mood, and so I let it go.

'Right then, "Caractacus Barrymore" it is. And you Hobbes are plain John Smith.'

'Um ..' replied Hobbes.

'Yes? What is it?' I replied with a sigh.

'Can I change John?' He asked.

'No. That's your name, so lump it. Now ... shall we go in? I'm rather peckish.'

The Camden Arms was packed to the gunwales. People – men, women and some I wasn't at all sure of – were perched wherever they could, but being taller than average, I spied a table being vacated.

'This way, chaps..'

I called and we jostled our way through the crowd, past the bar and to the table where we hastily sat down.

'Busy place,' said Hobbes.

'Indeed it is Mr Smith.' I said, dropping into character.

'I hope it is a sign that the food and drink are palatable. Now, you stay here and Caractacus and I will tend to food and drink.' I said with a wink.

Bertie/Caractacus and I fought our way through the crowd to the bar, muttering apologies to the clientele and such as we went. Placing coins on the bar, we quickly caught the eye of a pot-man and ordered three pints of Porter with rum chasers. Bertie/Caractacus suddenly jumped; I turned to him and saw a very large fellow lifting him off the ground by his coat collar.

'You spilled my pint!' The lifting fellow rumbled.

'Urk!!'

Replied Bertie/Caractacus.

'I don't think that he did, my good man.' I said as I tapped the lifting fellow on the arm.

The man-mountain glared at me.

'What's it to you?' He said.

'This blokey here comes in with his long coat and it swiped me pot onto the floor!'

'Urk!!'

Replied Bertie/Caractacus once again – but presumably, in this instance, not agreeing with our new acquaintance.

'Do you think you could put my friend down?' I asked.

'He's getting rather distressed.'

'Urk!!'

Replied Bertie/Caractacus once again – but presumably, in this instance, in accord with my statement.

'Now then, my good man. You have no proof that it was my colleague's coat that knocked your pint over, do you?' I asked.

He let Bertie/Caractacus drop to the floor.

'Proof? Proof?' He spat.

'Look! 'Ere's my empty glass! That's proof enough for me, mister!' said the dropping fellow.

Well, I am most dreadfully sorry that you feel this way. We're new here, but where we come from, that attitude just doesn't cut the mustard!'

Added Bertie/Caractacus in a wonderful accent which must have been aided by near-strangulation.

The ale house seemed to go very quiet, save for the squeaking of a cloth drying a glass. Oh yes... It was one of those moments.

'So!' growled the lifter-dropper fellow.

'Foreign, eh? Well ... this is how we treat foreigners in the Camden!'

He pinned Bertie/Caractacus to the bar and drew back his fist to strike. I patted my pockets in desperate search for a weapon – anything would do (save my almost-full beer mug). It was at this point that I noticed a familiar odour and, looking around the bar, it seemed a lot less crowded than before. And then came a voice...

'Stop that right now... before Nanny gets cross!'

The Great Knolly Archive

The Shepherd and
huzzah4knolly

30.04.09 Front Page

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