Groggily, I tried to focus on my surroundings to try and ascertain my precise location. It seemed to be a dark and rather dank cellar of some sort, which did not help me to pinpoint my whereabouts at all. London was full of such cellars – indeed, I was fairly certain that any new building had to have a dark and rather dank cellar installed, just on the off-chance that the inhabitants required a suitably atmospheric setting for any kidnappings, sacrifices, or for any sinister serial killers to lurk in whilst waiting for scantily-clad maidens to venture down to investigate a noise in the night.

By Britannica’s bustubles, my head hurt, I thought.

I tried to raise a hand to my injured noggin, but quickly discovered that my hands were in fact tied behind me. Fan-bloody-tastic, I thought. I sank back in the chair to which I was strapped, and surmised my situation: I was injured, tied to a chair, in a dark and rather dank cellar. How might this day get any worse, I pondered.

“I see you’re awake at last,” came the all-too familiar tones of that smug conjurer, Cornelius Quaint. Instantly my heart sank into my boots, and tried to hang itself with my boot-laces.

“It would appear so,” I replied, twisting my neck slightly to see the bounder bound to a chair behind me. “Either that, or the after-life is failing to live up to my expectations in quite a spectacular fashion.”

“I’m here too,” cried Botter, from somewhere else in the darkness.

“Me too, bosses!” echoed Butter.

“Well, what a delightful party we shall all have, I am sure,” I groaned.

“Now come on, Ouranos…let us not despair yet!” Quaint said brightly, but not brightly enough to penetrate the gloom of the cellar, or indeed the dark mood I now found myself in.

“Oh, you can be quiet,” I snapped. “‘Tis all your fault that we find ourselves in this particular pickle!”

“My fault? How do you work that out, Likely?” Quaint snapped. “You were doing your thing – whatever that may be – whilst I was doing mine. How could I possibly be at fault for your incompetence?”

“My incompetence? Ha! It was no doubt your bumbling about which alerted the guards to our presence, and which resulted in my capture. Had I been working alone, I dare say I’d have wrapped this whole sorry affair up by now!”

“No doubt you’re used to ‘working alone’, Likely! I mean, self-congratulation doesn’t seem to be one of your failing points!” Quaint reflexed. “Why don’t you shelve your obvious distemper to one side and focus on how we’re going to get out of this fix? After all, is this Silas Surprise chap not one of your foes? I don’t know about you, but when one of my rogues gallery is trying to off me, I usually respond with extreme prejudice!”

“All I can say is that your rogue’s gallery must be terribly inept to have not yet succeeded in offing an oafish buffoon like yourself!” I responded. “Naturally, I find myself facing a far superior breed of villain, sir! Mr. Silas Surprise is a ruthless, cunning and merciless devil – not at all like the namby-pamby nit-wits who you find yourself up against, sir!”

As if being cued by an unseen, giant-sized celestial director, the adversary in question entered through a door at the end of the room, grinning that devilish grin of his as he strode up to us.

“Ah, gentlemen!” Silas Surprise beamed, sweeping his cape aside for added theatricality. “So glad you could be here to witness my grandest illusion yet! Naturally, I have secured you the very best seats in the house, ha-ha!”

“Namby-pamby?” roared Quaint. “How OLD are you, Ouranos? Who says ‘namby-pamby’ anymore? And whilst we’re on the subject of my rogues gallery, do you know the kind of foes that I usually face? They’re mass-murderers! Monsters, all! The type of folk that would make your skin crawl, let me tell you! Not show-boating petty criminals who stoke pedestrian plots to off the Queen, let me assure you! You wouldn’t last two seconds against the likes of the Hades Consortium.”

“I hope you are sitting comfortably, gentlemen,” Silas continued, unperturbed by Quaint’s barbed critique of his plan. “For soon, you shall be rather more UNcomfortable, I’m afraid to say! Hahahaha!”

“I shall grant you, Mr. Quaint, that this particular scheme is really rather obvious, and terribly uninspired. But this rather poor effort is not demonstrative of the more terrifying and downright horrific ploys I usually encounter! You know not of real danger until you have found yourself locked in battle with a small army of murderous prostitutes, let me tell you!”

“T-terribly uninspired?” spluttered Silas. “Now listen here…”

“Murderous prostitutes?” laughed Quaint. “Is that before or after you’ve sampled their wares, Likely?”

“I mean, this took the best part of a year and a half to plan, you know…” Silas continued.

“Oh, laugh away, sir! But I can only imagine that you have enough trouble dealing with women in the day-to-day, let alone when they are firing pistols in your direction! You would doubtlessly soil yourself, and seek comfort in the arms of your little Eskimo chum, there.”

“Inuit,” piped Butter, reminding the room that he was still there.

“You seek to question my success with women, Likley?” asked Quaint. “Need I remind you that we’re sitting on death’s doorstep here?” Quaint gestured to Silas Surprise. “I’m right, aren’t I? You seek to do us harm?”

“Absolutely,” chimed Surprise.

“That’s what I thought,” Quaint said. “And you’re content to question my triumphs with the opposite sex, Likely? What are you thinking? There’s more at stake here, you know!”

“Ha! Your pathetic attempt to change the subject is as good as an admission of your abject failure with women, Quaint! Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Surprise?” I said, craning my neck round to see the evil trickster.

“Well, it is hard to gauge, having only just met the fellow, but it does seem like it has proven rather a thorny issue for….wait a moment! What on EARTH am I doing?” Silas snapped. “I am not here to get embroiled in your infernal squabbling! I am here to bid you all goodbye, for soon you shall be BLOWN to pieces, along with this very palace, and everyone in it! Ha!”

There was a momentary pause.

“But I’m right though, aren’t I?” I asked.

“Gah!”

Quaint frowned. “Sorry, but did you just say ‘blown to pieces’? So that stage I investigated earlier WAS rigged to explode after all! And did you also just say ‘this very palace’? So we’re underneath Buckingham Palace, I take it?”

Silas Surprise grinned. “Well, this makes a nice change. Someone who likes to keep up with current events.”

“I try to keep abreast of things,” Quaint said. “Don’t bother, Likely!”

“Don’t bother what?” I asked the conjurer, appalled.

“You were about to make a smutty comment about my keeping abreast.”

“I was?”

“You deny it?”

I clamped my lips shut, forming them into a tight grin.

Quaint scowled. “I thought so.” He looked around our situation, assaying the predicament that we found ourselves in. I was way ahead of the grey-haired clod, of course, but I wasn’t about to let on to Cornelius cocking Quaint. “So…I take it that considering our confinement, you seek to destroy the palace and us with it, Surprise?”

“Impressive, sir,” said Silas Surprise. “Whomever you are.”

“Cornelius Quaint, circus leader and conjurer extraordinaire.”

“A conjurer eh? Much like myself.”

“I’m nothing like you…which is why I take such umbrage with a fraudster, sir!”

“You’re both equally fraudulent, if you ask me,” I muttered, less than impressed with the fact that I now found myself in the company of two wretched tricksters.

“No-one did ask you, you pompous, puffed-up poppinjay!” Quaint rejoined.

“Con Artist!”

“Fop!”

“Charlatan!”

“Scoundrel!”

“SILENCE!” bellowed Silas. “I think I have had quite enough of this childlike bickering! Beside which, I am due on stage about now, ready for my spectaular show! Stick around, gentleman – I do believe that the grand finale will quite literally raise the roof! Hahahaha!” the conjurer chuckled, sweeping off back through the door.

“Well, this is just dandy, is it not?” I sighed. “I never thought I’d go out like this, tied up next to an old man.”

“Oh, do be quiet,” said Quaint. “I’m trying to think…”

“Um, my lord, if I might just suggest something…” Botter interjected.

“No, no you may not, Botter. I’d rather not have your inane drivel being the last words I e’er hear ‘pon this earth,” I retorted.

“Uh, boss? We can help!” Buttter added.

“Really, Butter?” asked Quaint. “And how do you propose to do that, I wonder?”

“Well…we could untie you, first of all!” Butter said. Quaint and I looked up, to see both Botter and Butter standing beside us, completely free of their ropes.

“How in the name of Beelzebub’s ball-sack did you do that?” I exclaimed.

“We…we sort of just worked together and untied each other’s ropes,” Botter explained.

“We make for good team, yes?” Butter added, triumphantly.

“Well, don’t stand around grinning at us like a couple of disfigured bookends – untie us!” I ordered. “We have a conjurer to catch!”

*****

MEANWHILE, outside the palace, Silas Surprise had commenced his show, entertaining the assembled crowd with a variety of simple tricks and illusions. The audience clapped and gasped as Silas worked through his act, quite unaware that they were mere moments away from seeing the magician blow up Buckingham Palace and all inside.

“And now,” Silas beamed, striding up to a large, tall cabinet. “I shall attempt to conjure up a woman from THIN AIR, right before your very eyes!” The crowd mumbled and muttered in disbelief. “Behold this ordinary, wooden cabinet,” Silas continued, patting the side of the box. “You shall notice that it is completely normal, completely solid and – most importantly, completely empty!” Silas exclaimed, throwing open the cabinet’s door. “But now, using all the powers at my disposal, I shall make a woman appear inside it!” He closed the door again, and moved to the front of the stage. He stood silently, looking out onto the crowd, and then thrust his arms up into the air, and then slowly pulled his arms down in front of his chest, fists tightly clenched, as if dragging an invisible force down from the sky.

“Oh, dark forces, hear me now!” Silas cried, closing his eyes tightly. “Bring forth a woman from the ether, and place her inside this box, pass her through wood and touch not the locks!” His eyes sprang open and he spun around, thrusting his arms out at the cabinet. “KAZZAM!” he yelled, for added effect.

The crowd fell silent as Silas walked up to the cabinet. He paced up and down outside of it, milking every drop of suspense from the spectacle, before stopping in front of the door. He placed a hand on the handle and faced the audience once more.

“Ladies and gentle-men, I present to you….A MIRACLE!” he cried, flinging open the door. The crowd gasped, paused, and then fell into uproarious laughter. Silas’ expression changed to one of sheer bemusement, and he turned around to look inside the box himself.

“What on earth?” shrieked Silas. His female assistant was in the cabinet, as doubtlessly planned, but she was locked in a passionate embrace with yours truly, which Silas clearly had not planned at all. “LIKELY? What are you doing inside my assistant’s box?”

“I haven’t got that far yet, sir,” I grinned, causing the delightful assistant to chuckle excitedly.

“Get out! Get out of there!” screamed Silas, stepping backwards in horror. “You’re ruining the show!”

“I rather think the show was ruined by your parade of petty parlour tricks,” said a stern voice behind Silas. Silas spun round, to find himself face-to-face with Cornelius Quaint.

“You!” Silas observed, quite correctly. “How did you both get free?”

“Magic,” Quaint winked.

“Pah! Magic? I doubt a mere circus conjurer knows the true meaning of the word!” spat Silas.

“Really?” Quiant said, raising an eyebrow. “Then pray tell, how is it that I have your wallet here?” he grinned, waving the magician’s money-purse in front of his bemused face. The audience guffawed and applauded.

“Gah! How did you?…” Silas spluttered, snatching back his wallet. “All that demonstrates is your pick-pocketing skills, I’m afraid. There is no magic there….but what is this…here?” Silas continued, reaching behind Quaint’s ear and drawing out a shiny shilling to more applause. “Oh-ho!”

“That might impress children at a birthday party, but that sort of trickery does not impress me, Mr. Surprise,” Quaint sniffed. “But I appreciate your effort nonetheless. Here, let me reward your attempt!” smiled Quaint, producing a small bouquet of flowers from seemingly nowhere and presenting them to the cad.

“Pathetic!” growled Silas, taking the flowers and then with a snap of his fingers, he set them alight. Quaint responded by throwing a silk handkerchief over the blazing bouquet, and whipping it away to reveal an unharmed dove sitting in Silas’ hands. Silas gritted his teeth, and then with a final flick of the wrist, seemingly transformed the bird into a pistol, which he pointed in Quaint’s direction, to further wild applause from the crowd, quite unaware that they were paying witness to what could have been a possible murder.

“Right! Enough of these shenanigans!” barked Silas, waving the gun about menacingly. “I think it’s time I moved my grand finale up the bill, wouldn’t you agree, gentlemen?” he smirked, as he strode over to a small table on the stage, draped with a black cloth. Silas whipped the cloth away to reveal a detonator, which he caressed lovingly. “Ladies and gentlemen, I now give you my greatest, most elaborate illusion yet! Prepare to watch in AWE as I make Buckingham Palace DISAPPEAR!”

“Don’t do it, Silas,” warned Quaint.

“The show must go on,” grinned Silas, and with that, he pushed down on the plunger.

And then, there was a huge explosion.

But it was not Buckingham Palace that found itself going up in flames. Instead, we all watched as Silas’ very own caravan blew to smithereens nearby, flaming wreckage tumbling out of the sky like fiery confetti.

“What…what the-?” stammered Silas as he watched his trailer’s charred remains settle on the ground.

“Surprise, Surprise!” I beamed, having managed to tear myself away from the ravishing assistant to come and taunt my old foe.

“What…what have you done, you bastard?” growled Silas.

“Now now, you know as well as anyone that a showman never reveals his secrets,” I winked.

“You…you shall pay for this, Likely!” snarled Silas, raising his pistol up at me. But, before he could pull the trigger, Quaint appeared behind him and swiftly pinned the cove’s arms to his side using a string of multi-coloured handkerchiefs, much to the delight of a nearby police-officer.

“I may not be much of a magician, Mr. Surprise,” I said slowly, as the villain struggled to break free of Quaint’s strong grip. “But I have one trick you may like!” And with that, I lashed out with a strong uppercut to the fiend’s jaw, knocking him out cold. “Ta-daaa!” I sang. “I magically transformed you from a conscious man, to an unconscious man. Remarkable, I know…..no? Not going to say anything? How terribly rude.”

Cornelius Quaint released his hold on the comatose conjurer, leaving Silas Surprise to duly slump to the ground, to a rousing round of applause form the assembled spectators. Quaint and I exchanged a quick smile, and then moved to the centre of the stage where we bowed gracefully to our appreciative audience.

*****

“YOU HAVEN’T seen the last of me!” bellowed a reawakened Silas Surprise, as he was roughly bundled into the back of an awaiting police wagon. “Do you really think metal bars can hold the greatest conjurer the world has ever seen? I’ll be back, Likely….I’ll be baaaaack!” he screamed, as the wagon’s doors were shut behind him.

“Well, that will be something to look forward to,” remarked Quaint, as we watched the carriage rattle off down the road. “You had better be careful, I may not be around to save you next time, Ouranos.”

I smiled. “As loath as I am to admit it, I have to say we did work rather well, there.” I mused.

“I suppose we did make for quite a good pairing…in the end,” Quaint nodded.

“Mmmm,” I paused. “But let us try and never meet again, eh?”

“My thoughts exactly,” grinned Quaint. “Come, Butter – it is time we got back to the circus!”

“Okay, boss,” said Quaint’s Eskimo associate. “Though we do good, yes?”

“We did indeed, yes. I was worried for a moment that you wouldn’t get the explosives into position in time…but you came through, my Inuit friend, as you always do!” he grinned, slapping his friend heartily on the back.

“I trust my work was to your satisfaction, milord?” asked Botter hopefully.

“I’d have preferred you to have been in the explosion, but you can’t win them all, you wretched arse-pipe,” I replied.

“Very good milord,” Botter nodded.

“Well, good-day to you, gentlemen,” Quaint said, proffering his hand for me to shake. I regarded the hand with caution, and then decided to shake it.

“And toodle-pip to you two, as well. I wish you and your fellow circus freaks the very best!”

“And I hope you do not suffer too badly from the terrible syphilis you shall no doubt contract at some point,” Quaint chuckled, before withdrawing his hand. As he did so, I noticed that the crafty conjurer had left a playing card in my own hand.

“What’s this?” I asked, turning the card over.

“It’s for you. I have a fortune-teller at the circus – Madame Destine. She told to me a rather puzzling prediction a few days ago, before any of this business began…I was utterly confounded by it, but now I think it makes sense…and I do believe it was meant for you, Ouranos. Perhaps you can make sense of it, eh?”

I read the words scrawled on the card. “‘The probable lord is more than likely‘.” I lowered the card. “What in the name of sodomy does that mean?”

“No idea,” said Quaint. “But Destine’s predictions always end up making perfect sense at some point. At any rate, we must be going. Good day, Likely, Good day, Mr Botter.”

I grunted farewell in response, still distracted by the mysterious words on the playing card, as the duo disappeared off into the busy London streets.

“What do you think all that means then, milord?” asked Botter.

“I swear I have not got the effing foggiest,” I shrugged. “But ne’er mind all that mumbo-jumbo, anyway!” I brightened, shoving the card into a pocket. “Now, where’s that assistant gone? I wished to show her a vanishing trick of my very own…”

- Lord Likely.

His lordship and Mr. Fanton would like to thank Mr. Craske for joining them in chronicling this most astonishing of adventures. It has truly been a most thrilling and delightful experience! Huzzah for Mr. Craske, we say!

Darren Craske is the author of the Cornelius Quaint Chronicles amongst other things, and lives in Hampshire with his wife and two children. His first published work was ‘The Equivoque Principle’ now followed by its sequel, ‘The Eleventh Plague’. His website can be found at www.darrencraske.com and he is on twitter as@DarrenCraske.

‘The Eleventh Plague’ (book 2 of the Cornelius Quaint Chronicles) – is released in paperback by The Friday Project, an imprint of HarperCollins on March 4th 2010 and can be bought (amongst other fine retailers) here, and  ‘The Equivoque Principle’ (book 1 of the Cornelius Quaint Chronicles) can be bought here.

As well as a little sneaky peeky at ‘The Eleventh Plague’ – ‘The Equivoque Principle’ is being offered as a FREE downloadfor a limited time via this link and also on Kindle via this link.

11:36am, 29th of January, 1891.

I CAME to moments later, a hand furiously tugging at the sleeve of my coat. I blearily looked round to see Felicity Boondoggles eagerly trying to rouse me from my explosion-induced stupor.

“Quick, Likely!” she hissed. “We’ve got to keep moving!”

“How is it,” I enquired groggily. “How is it that you appear to be fine, my dear, while I feel rather like…well, rather like I’ve just been in a ruddy big explosion?”

“Maybe I’m just made of stronger stuff, your lordship!” Felicity winked. “That, and the fact I was wearing a reinforced corset,” she added, tapping her midriff proudly. “Now come along, we have a Queen to save!”

“Where are we?” I muttered, slowly getting to my feet.

“We are inside Buckingham Palace, your lordship,” Felicity said. “That explosion hurled us clear over the gates, and through one of the front windows. ‘Tis one way of navigating past the guards,” she chuckled.

“Your hat, milord,” said my man-servant, Botter, proffering forth my terrific topper.

“Oh, I see you are quite alright as well, more the pity,” I remarked. “Don’t tell me that you were wearing a reinforced corset as well, eh?” I laughed.

Botter lowered his eyes. “Your hat, milord,” he repeated.

I gave Botter a curious glance, snatched my hat from his grubby mitts, and then we all raced down the hall to try and locate Her Majesty before that twisted terrorist Samuel Ben-London could place his bomb-laden crown ‘pon her august head.

We zig-zagged through resplendent hallway after resplendent hallway, each adorned with the finest furnishings and decorations, with row after row of portraits of round, ruddy-faced kings and queens peering down at us from their elevated position ‘pon the walls, almost as if they were willing us on in our mission to save the Queen, the country and the entire EMPIRE.  I ran on ever harder, ever more determined. I was DAMNED if I was going to let a collection of paintings down, confound it.

We wound our way up an ornate, winding staircase, whereupon we met a footman heading down the stairs.

“Where’s Vicky?” I demanded, grabbing the footman by the arms.

“Whom?” asked the footman.

“Vicky..Victoria…gah! Queen Victoria…you know, sits ‘pon the throne, rules over us all…”

“Ah! Her Majesty is in the Crowning Room,” intoned the footman.

“They have an entire room for putting on the crown?” whispered Felicity.

“Either that, or Her Majesty is giving birth again,” I replied. “Either way, we need to get there as soon as ruddy possible! Sir!” I continued, turning back to the footman. “Where is the Crowning Room? We have URGENT business with Her Majesty!”

“Well, ’tis just at the end of the hall, here,” indicated the footman. “B-but who are you? I cannot just let anyone burst in on Her Majesty, you know!”

“I’m not just anyone!” I snapped, flourishing a small business-card from my pocket. “I am Lord Likely – Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action!”

“This says, ‘For A Thoroughly Good Rogering, Please Visit Madam Underlay‘…” replied the footman.

“Bugger…wrong card,” I noted. “Look, you’re the footman, yes?”

“Yes?”

“Well hop it, then!” I snapped, and with the poor devil reeling from my verbal dexterity, we dashed off to the Crowning Room, pausing momentarily to allow myself to admire my handsome reflection in a nearby mirror, to make sure that I was looking my very best while heroically saving Her Majesty from armed lunatics. Satisfied that I was looking as incredibly debonair as ever, I consulted my pocket-watch.

It was 11:52am. We could ill-afford to dilly-dally any further….

“HOLD EVERYTHING!” I yelled, as Felicity, Botter and I finally burst into the Crowning Room.

“How very forward of you,” replied Her Majesty, coolly and calmly, as befitting one who has seen and heard it all. “Might I suggest that you at least have the common decency to buy me a drink, first?”

Egad, I thought as I beheld the bewitching form of the Queen stood before me, in all her regal splendour. While she was undoubtedly in her twilight years now, she was still a fine, full figure of a woman, and was still rather attractive, probably due in no small part to the fact that she currently ruled over of a quarter of the globe. Power is after all an aphrodisiac, and with that sort of power at one’s command I was surprised that Her Majesty wasn’t constantly chock-full of cock, to be frank.

“Your majesty,” I said, regaining my composure long enough to form words. “You are in great danger!”

“The only danger I can foresee is that my morning is in danger of being irreparably ruined by this intrusion…what is the meaning of this, sir?” the Queen replied.

“Your highness, Miss Boondoggles and I have very good reason to believe that there are sinister forces at work who wish to end your life…” I looked around at the two maids who were helping Her Majesty dress for the day, one of whom was clutching a velvet pillow, upon which lay what could only be the booby-trapped crown we had been seeking.  ”With THAT very crown!”

“Ha-ha-ha! Ridiculous!” chuckled the maid carrying the aforementioned article. “This man is clearly a lunatic, your majesty! Shall I call the guards to remove him?”

Her Majesty eyed me cautiously. “My dear,” she said to the maid. “I have not survived numerous assassination attempts on my life without being cautious and considerate,” she continued. “Let me hear this gentleman out.”

“Thank you , your highness,” I beamed, bowing. “If I may?” I asked, motioning to the deadly diadem. The Queen nodded, and I strode into the room and carefully plucked the crown from it’s velveteen plinth. “Hmmm…yes, I see…hmmmm…yes, of course…” I said as I slowly turned the crown over and over in my hands. And then, before anyone could stop me, I spun round and punched the maid right in the jaw.

“What in the name of me do you think you are doing to that poor maid?” exclaimed the Queen, clearly shocked.

“Allow me to explain, your majesty,” I said as I roughly dragged the maiden to her feet. “This is no maid – but a MALE!” I proclaimed, whipping the curly blonde wig from the maid’s head, to reveal the considerably less coiffured locks of Samuel Ben-London, the terrorist leader of the Anti-Hat League.

“Curse you, Likely!” he spat. “How on earth did you know?”

“Well, firstly the style of maid’s uniform in which you are dressed is out of date by a good four or five years, sir. Secondly, the crown is heavier by quite a few pounds, suggesting to me that something has been added onto it – an explosive device, no doubt. And finally,” I continued, pointing straight at Ben-London’s upper-lip. “Your moustache was rather a keen giveaway, I’m afraid.”

“Damn you! Damn you to Hades! But not to worry!” cackled Ben-London, swiping the crown from my hands. “I still have this! I can set it to go off RIGHT NOW, destroying the Empire’s most powerful hat FOREVER! And once that is gone, a NEW world order shall rise, with THE PEOPLE in control!”

“But people are damned fools,” I reasoned. “You clearly have not thought this through.”

“Gah! Enough of this! Mr. Wallops, get them!” he shouted to the other maid, who turned out to be the big, brutish cad I had come up against at Sir Rhubarb Muddick’s gala ball earlier. As he advanced toward me, Felicity suddenly stepped in front of him, hitched her dress up and delivered a rather stunning round-house kick to the oaf’s head. The blaggard stumbled backward, crashing into a full-length mirror as he did so. Slightly dazed, Wallops staggered back to his feet, but before he could fully regain his composure Felicity was upon him, fists raining down upon his head like a most violent rainstorm.

“Don’t just bloody stand there, Likely!” she called out to me as she drubbed the bounder senseless. “Go and save the Queen!”

I turned to see Ben-London edging slowly backwards to a set of double-doors leading onto a balcony, forcing Her Majesty to follow him by pressing the loaded crown to her temple as if it were a pistol.

“Now, now, yer lordship,” sneered the bastard bomb-maker. “Don’t try any funny business, right? Else Her Royal Highness shall become Her Royal Sky-Highness!”

“You unhand that monarch immediately, you fiend!” I bellowed.

“Hahahaha!” guffawed Ben-London. “You can’t stop me now!”

“Maybe he cannot, but I am jolly well certain I can!” interjected the Queen, thrusting her elbow so hard into the rogue’s ribs that she not only succeeded in knocking the wind out of him, but also sent him careening through the double-doors and onto the balcony outside.

“Oh! Well played, your majesty,” I smiled, applauding politely.

“Yuh…(cough)…you sh-shall regret that, yer..(cough)…majesty…” wheezed Ben-London, as he picked himself up and shook the shards of glass from his person. “Yer…yer all going to be blown to bloody bits, now!” He said, triumphantyl holding the crown above him. But, as he did so, a pigeon suddenly flew at him from nowhere, flapping wildly about him, its wings beating the wretch about his face.

“Grrrarrrgh!” Ben-London cried, as he tried to shake the pigeon off him. “Get off me, you blasted bird!”

I saw my chance, and I quickly leapt forward and wrestled the bugger to the ground, wrenching the crown from his grasp. As Ben-London flailed uselessly at me, trying to get the accursed head-wear back, I quickly turned a small dial on the base of the crown, and then in a flash, rammed the crown firmly on the bastard’s bonce.

“Congratulations on your coronation, dear boy!” I beamed, and then I tipped the felon over the side of the balcony. Ben-London cursed loudly as he fell, and then suddenly he exploded like a fire-work, except with less pretty colours and more flying entrails.

“Poor sod. I fear he rather let it all go to his head,” I quipped wryly, as Felicity and Her Majesty joined me on the balcony to watch the show.

“We are quite amused,” said the Queen.

As we observed the ongoing explosion, the heroic pigeon fluttered gently down onto my shoulder, whereupon I noticed it had a small note attached to its leg. I carefully opened the note and read:

At: Samuel Ben-London: This is the police! Give yourself up, you are surrounded! From: Inspector Spunkleford.

I peered over the edge again, to see Spunkleford and some officers down below. He waved, and I waved back, never before having been so pleased to see him and his frankly ludicrous Twittering Messaging Service.

“I must thank you for your sterling service to not only myself, but the whole Empire,” said the Queen, turning to face me. “Naturally, You shall be honoured, and medals shall be awarded for your heroic deeds.”

“Victoria Cross?” I asked.

“No, I am very pleased,” Her Majesty replied, a small smile creeping across those stern lips of hers. I smiled in return, and she departed, ferried away by a score of worried assistants and servants.

“Well, it has been…interesting working alongside you, your lordship,” said Felicity. “But I must go. Heaven knows I shall have a mountain of paperwork to complete now.”

“Must you go so soon?” I enquired, laying a hand softly on Felicity’s shoulder. “I did bring this along, after all,” I continued, drawing from my pocket the lady’s self-pleasuring device which I had taken from the offices of CTUN earlier. “It seems a shame not to make use of it…”

Felicity raised an eyebrow, and grinned. “I suppose so…”

And so, after a day of explosions and bombings, the banging continued long into the night…

- Lord Likely.

* His lordship would like to thank each and every one of you who supported this attempt at a twenty-four hour adventure. While his useless scribe, Mr. Fanton, only managed twenty-one hours in a row, we hope you still enjoyed this rip-roaring tale nonetheless! Many thanks to you ALL! HUZZAH!

If you have enjoyed One Score and Four, or indeed any of his lordship’s wonderments, please feel free to donate to allow us to buy a few beers so that we may drink ourselves delirious in celebration! Many thanks, chums.

11:00am, 29th of January, 1891.

AND SO, with myself armed and dangerously handsome, Miss Felicity Boondoggles, my man-servant Botter and I left the headquarters of the CTUN, and scrambled onto the bustling streets of the capital, eager to get to Buckingham Palace to save the Queen from having her noble noggin blown apart by a booby-trapped crown.

“I just hope we are not too late,” Felicity said as she tried to flag down one of the many hansom cabs trundling past, by lifting her dress ever-so slightly to allow the red-blooded cabbies a tantalising glimpse of her shapely ankle.

“I very much doubt it, m’dear.” I opined, trying in vain not to become terribly aroused by the slither of naked flesh on display. “We in the ruling elite rarely rise before ten-thirty, and are never usually dressed before lunch-time. I think we’ve got until midday, at least.”

“Less than an hour,” Felicity mused, consulting a small, wrist-mounted clock on her arm. “Time is of the essence.”

I nodded in an agreement, and left Felicity to continue her seductive efforts in securing us transport to the palace. As I waited, I noticed a smartly-dressed gentleman sporting a fine topper walking my way. As is the way of polite gentlefolk in the city, he smiled amiably as he acknowledged me, and went to tip his hat, as I went to tip mine.

And then, before I knew quite what was happening, I was thrown to the floor by Felicity, just as the man fully tipped his hat and his entire head EXPLODED before my very eyes.

“What in the name of mater-pumping millinery is going on?” I spluttered, as I plucked an eyeball from my breast-pocket.

“It’s as we’d feared,” Felicity replied grimly. “The Anti-Hat League have managed to get some of their bomb-laden hats into the public domain. Who knows how many there are out here now?”

A distant explosion and the sound of screams quickly confirmed that it was most definitely more than one, at least.

“How dashed unsporting,” I said. “By the way, do not think I did not notice how quick you were to get me on my back, my dear!” I beamed, as Felicity lifted herself off of my splendid form.

“Don’t get used to it,” she curtly replied.

“My lord, I’ve found us a cab!” Botter interjected.

“How…how did YOU manage where dear Felicity failed, you cretin?” I exclaimed. Botter shrugged and turned to present the cab behind him as evidence. The cab-driver peered out from his position at the reigns, and gave Botter a coy little wave. “Oh!” I exclaimed again, as the light dawned upon me. “Well, there is no accounting for taste, I suppose. Come on, TO THE PALACE!”

*****

MOMENTS LATER we were inside said cab, speeding down the cobbled streets as if propelled by rocket-powered engine. As we sped through the city, I watched through the window with dismay as innocent gents found their day irreversibly inconvenienced by their heads suddenly becoming separated from their bodies after they’d doffed their hats to passers-by.

“Damn that Ben-London!” I spat, cursing the wretched ring-leader of the Anti-Hat League. “He has turned our nation’s great civility against us! Why, at this rate people shall refuse to sport any head-wear in the future, and we shall become nothing more than a country of hatless barbarians. Damn him again! Damn him all the way to Lowestoft!”

“That is why we must not let him win,” Felicity said sternly. “We cannot let him make Great Britain less great through his terrible acts of terror! We MUST stand firm!”

There was a brief pause. “Well, I am certainly sitting firm,” I grinned. “How about a quick spot of ‘how’s-your-father’ before we seek audience with Her Majesty, eh?”

Felicity rolled her beautiful eyes. “Do try and focus,” she sighed. “Besides which, look – we are here!”

I peered out of the carriage’s window to see we had indeed arrived at the palace, the great building looking as mightily impressive as ever, the Union Jack flying proudly atop it. Such a sight did little to quell my rather tumescent state; if anything, it only compounded it.

“Right, let us save the entire ruddy Empire, then!” I barked, disembarking from the cab and helping Felicity down. “Thank you cabby,” I nodded to the driver. “You may take your fee out of my man-servant’s sphinctoral passage if you so desire!”

“Much obliged, sir!” the cab-driver beamed, reaching for the brim of his hat…

“NO!” I cried, and everything seemed to slow to a crawl as I stepped forward to prevent the inevitable hat-tip. But it was too late – the hat was well and truly doffed. The last thing I recall was the look of surprise in the cabby’s eyes as they flew from their sockets due to the force of the ensuing explosion, and then everything went black.

- Lord Likely.

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8:ooam, 29th of January, 1891.

“UNBEKNOWNST TO you, Likely, I was at that gala ball at Sir Muddick’s abode. I was working undercover with the CTUN, and we had tracked down the Anti-Hat League to that very destination,” explained Felicity Boondoggles, pacing up and down the room.

“Yes!” I exclaimed, my memory seeping back into my head like a runny egg-yolk dribbling over the rest of the egg. “The Anti-Hat League…the bomb There was a bomb in a HAT! Cocking arsery, we’d better get back there, woman!”

“Sit down, Likely,” Felicity urged me, in such a way that I found myself powerless to resist. “Good. Now, after the League had threatened to blow up the house and everyone in it, it seemed you decided to start drinking…”

“Oh yes,” I recalled. “I had been rather parched, my dear – ”

“Then, it seemed you wouldn’t STOP drinking.”

“Oh.”

“Before we knew it, you were completely out of your MIND, staggering about the place, your trousers around your ankles, making a complete…well, ARSE of yourself.”

“I…I was REALLY parched,” I proffered feebly in my defence.

“So, there you were, staggering about like a bloody fool, the League members shouting and screaming at you, the party guests terrified out of their minds…and before we could stop you, you succeeded in knocking the hats off of BOTH of the gentlemen…”

“Ah. So…so are we dead? Is this heavens? It’s terribly disappointing…” I mused.

“From earlier surveillance at Mr. Cockduster’s millinery shop, we already knew which of the two gentleman had been given the booby-trapped hat – Mr. Swallows,” Felicity continued, ignoring me completely. “And somehow – SOMEHOW – by sheer, dumb luck, you decided there and then to urinate on Mr. Swallow’s discarded topper. And somehow – and I do not even know how this is AT ALL possible – in doing so you managed to diffuse the bomb. You are one lucky bastard, Lord Likely.”

“Ah! So all’s well that end’s well, eh?” I beamed. “Well, where’s my reward? I take gold or paper money, but none of that tin nonsense…”

“Hmph.” Snorted Felicity. “You shan’t be receiving a PENNY, your lordship. Thanks to your larks, the Anti-Hat League managed to slip away in the confusion. They’re still out there, Likely…and they will STRIKE AGAIN!”

An awkward silence fell between us suddenly, like a piano wrapped in wool dropped onto the world’s largest cushion. All I could hear was a clock gently ticking somewhere in the room.

“Tits,” I said.

- Lord Likely.

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1:00am, 29th of January, 1891.

“NOBODY MOVE a muscle, or we start shootin’,” barked the pistol-wielding waiter, motioning toward some of the other waiters, the sour-faced butler and the ever-present force that was Mr. Wallops, who all suddenly seemed to be armed. “Now, everybody down on th’ ground, NOW!”

There was a large thud.

“Not YOU, Mr. Wallops!”

“Sorry,” grunted Mr. Wallops, picking himself up off the ground.

“Who…who ARE you yobs?” demanded Sir Rhubarb Muddick, quite incredulous with rage, as any right-thinking gent would be upon finding out that the hired help were in fact armed mercenaries.

“We are the ANTI-HAT LEAGUE!” the waiter cried, causing his accomplices to wave their guns about excitedly.

“YOU!” I cried. “Your the bounders who offed that poor fellow and then wrote that note to Scotland Yard…you FIENDS!”

“Fiends, are we?” smirked the waiter. “I say we are just honest folk trying to free ourselves from the tyranny of HATS!”

“Tyranny of HATS?” I spat. “Are completely bollocking insane? What are you blathering about?”

“SILENCE!” barked the waiter, enforcing his point with the butt of his pistol, which ruddy hurt, let me tell you. “For too long the hat has become a symbol of the upper classes dominion of the poor! We, the people, have to wear PATHETIC and UNIMPRESSIVELY small hats, like the flat cap, or the bowler…while the RICHER you are, the BETTER the hat – and the better protected your head. Well, enough is enough!”

“Well, maybe if you spent less time and money organising some silly little gang, maybe you could actually afford a decent hat, hmmm? I’m sure if you all chipped in you might be able to buy a well-sized topper between you all. Perhaps you could share it, work out some sort of rota for wearing the hat, I don’t know, I’m jus -”

“SILENCE! AGAIN!” snapped the waiter, cracking me about the head with his pistol once more. “We shall not be put upon any more! And neither will our hats! Today we send a very strong message to society, by BLOWING YOU ALL TO BITS!”

There was a shocked gasp from the assembled guests.

“I thought you said that if we did not move we wouldn’t get hurt!” Muddick reminded our captor.

“He’s got a point!” piped up a voice form the crowd.

“Well, yes, we did say that,” the waiter faltered. “But…but HE moved! Him, over there! He scratched his chin.”

“I bloody didn’t,” whined a man at the back of the room.

“Oh, Charles,” snapped his wife. “You just can’t stop fidgeting, can you? Now look where it’s got us! We’re going to be blown up!”

“I didn’t scratch my bloody chin, woman…I mean, this is typical, you always side against me, no matter – ”

“Oh, I do not Charles! Don’t be so childish! Taking sides, indeed! I mean – ”

“SILENCE!” screamed the waiter, firing his gun into the air. “Good, that’s better. Now, as you’ll notice, all the gentle-men here have taken their hats off…”

“Well, of course we have,” I countered. “We are inside, after all. Heavens, we are not monsters.”

“All of you except THOSE TWO!” the waiter shrieked, pointing at two men standing by the door.

“That’s because we just got here,” one of the men said forlornly. “No-one has offered to take them from us yet.”

“That’s because one of your hats conceals a BOMB, gentlemen! Ha-ha! A bomb designed to go off the MOMENT the hat leaves the head! Now, we’re going to play a little party game, seein’ as how we are at a party an’ all….if you can guess which man is sporting the bomb hat, you get to live.”

The guests mumbled excitedly among themselves.

“At least, you’ll get to live a little longer. By a few seconds, anyway. Because then…” the waiter chuckled evilly. “Then we’ll force the other man to take his hat off anyway!”

The party-goers fell into an uproar, the two men looked justifiably panicked, while I calmly tried to figure out my next move.

“So which is it to be, ladies and gentle-men?” the waiter cackled. “Mr. Spitts here, or Mr. Swallows? Ha-ha!”

- Lord Likely.

*SO: which chap has the bomb hat? Vote SPITTS or SWALLOWS, friends! Leave a comment below, or on Twitter (using the #1score4 tag), and/or Facebook – quick, time is of the essence!