Pax Britannia: Unnatural History Read online

  PAX BRITANNIA

  UNNATURAL HISTORY

  They were now right in the thick of the stampede as the city streets funnelled the animals into the bottleneck of Regent Street, towards Oxford Circus. Despite the alien nature of their surroundings, some of the dinosaurs were reverting to their natural instinctive behaviour. Apatasaurs charged past startled shoppers, crushing the unwary beneath their elephantine feet, running in fear of the pursuing carnivores.

  Still some way ahead of Nimrod and Genevieve, the Megasaurus Rex turned into a packed Piccadilly Circus. A startled omnibus driver spun his steering wheel to avoid the prehistoric obstacle. The bus lurched violently to one side and into the path of a steam-belching hansom cab. The two vehicles collided with a dreadful inevitability, the bus toppling onto its side. The Megasaur put a huge clawed foot on top of the stricken omnibus, as though claiming its kill, and snapped the driver from his cab.

  An Abaddon BooksTM Publication

  www.abaddonbooks.com

  [email protected]

  First published in 2007 by Abaddon BooksTM, Rebellion Intellectual Property Limited, Riverside House, Osney Mead, Oxford, OX2 0ES, United Kingdom, UK.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Editor: Jonathan Oliver

  Cover: Mark Harrison

  Design: Simon Parr

  Series Advisor: Andy Boot

  Editorial Assistant (eBooks): Jennifer-Anne Hill

  Marketing and PR: Keith Richardson

  Creative Director and CEO: Jason Kingsley

  Chief Technical Officer: Chris Kingsley

  Pax BritanniaTM created by Jonathan Green and Andy Boot

  Copyright © 2007 Rebellion. All rights reserved.

  Pax BritanniaTM, Abaddon Books and the Abaddon Books logo are trademarks owned or used exclusively by Rebellion Intellectual Properties Limited. The trademarks have been registered or protection sought in all member states of the European Union and other countries around the world. All right reserved.

  ISBN (.epub format): 978-1-84997-003-7

  ISBN (.mobi format): 978-1-84997-025-9

  A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  PAX BRITANNIA

  UNNATURAL HISTORY

  Jonathan Green

  For Mattie -

  for being late

  PROLOGUE

  The jangling of the doorbell rang through the echoing space of the entrance hall. It rang through rooms of shrouded furniture and echoed from marble and alabaster columns. It rebounded from ancient family heirlooms and antique vases. It did nothing to disturb the eternal sleep of the ancestors who were depicted in the portraits adorning the dark, papered walls. Eventually the sound was lost along the tiled passageway leading to the kitchen and the servants' quarters, no longer an echo but merely the memory of one.

  Peace returned again to the London town house, the only sound in the otherwise silent rooms the regular mechanical ticking of the grandfather clock standing in the hollow of the stairwell. It was unshrouded, the motto 'Tempus Fugit' clearly visible on its peeling face. The gentle ticking marking time in a house where time no longer had any meaning.

  A tapping joined the steady count of the clock; that of leather soles on glazed white tiles. The house's guardian strode purposefully, and yet unhurriedly, towards the front door. He passed along the corridor from his retreat beyond the kitchen, back straight, head upright, the aquiline features of his face cold and unsmiling as he stared straight ahead of him with piercing sapphire eyes.

  The portraits watched him with their impassive canvas eyes as he passed. Electric light bathed everything in its yellow luminescence.

  He walked past a huge gilt-framed mirror that dominated one wall but did not even glance at his reflection to check the starched collar, the knot of his cravat or the set of his grey hair, swept back from a widow's peak.

  The bell rang again as he put his hand to the doorknob and pulled the front door of the London town house open. The shorter, stouter man waiting impatiently on the step physically jerked back, startled by the suddenness of the manservant's appearance.

  The stout man looked up at the servant looming over him and into the flinty eyes glaring down from beneath darkly shadowed brows. Breaking eye contact, uncomfortable beneath the piercing stare, he looked the butler up and down, taking in the rest of his intimidating figure. The butler was a man of indiscernible age although he could not be younger than forty-five and could even be into his sixties. His expression of aloof disdain and his chiselled features gave him an aristocratic air. However, the butler's nose had clearly been broken on more than one occasion. It gave him the look of an aging prize-fighter carried off with the bearing of a gentleman's loyal retainer.

  "Ah, Nimrod."

  "Mr Screwtape, sir," the manservant replied. His accent was as polished and refined as his collar was starched crisp and white. "You are expected. Please come in."

  There was nothing in Nimrod's tone and his impassive expression that suggested the lawyer was welcome. In fact the invitation made Screwtape feel as if he were trespassing.

  "Mr Quicksilver awaits you in the study."

  The butler stepped to one side and then shut the door on the chill of the night outside. Screwtape removed his bowler hat with one hand - a briefcase held in the other - revealing his feeble attempts to brush his thinning, obviously dyed black hair over the balding dome of his head. Small piggy eyes, set amidst flabby features, peered out from the lenses of a pair of pince-nez spectacles beneath which nestled a short, bushy moustache.

  "May I take your coat, sir?"

  "N-No, it's all right. I'll keep it with me." Nimrod was making him feel nervous.

  "Very well, sir." Nimrod's tone was almost wearisome. "If you would care to follow me."

  The butler led the lawyer through rooms of dust sheet shrouded furniture and glowering ancestral portraits, through a musty-smelling formal library and to a single oak-panelled door. There he stopped and gave the door a gentle knock.

  "Come in," came an aristocratic voice from beyond. The butler opened the door, allowing the visitor to enter before him.

  Screwtape found himself in a spacious study. The walls were lined with cases of books and, where the paisley-print wallpaper still showed, there were walnut-framed aquatints and spectrum-tinted photographs of exotic locations from around the globe. There were also curious artefacts no doubt collected from those self-same destinations. Amongst them Screwtape could see a Masai warrior's spear and antelope-hide shield, a Burmese demon-mask and, most disturbing of all, a dark, stained human skull stuck with flints and the plumage of a bird of paradise. The lawyer had no idea where that particular item had come from, nor did he want to.

  Several pieces of furniture were well accommodated within the study also. A large mahogany desk stood before him, behind it a rich leather chair. There was also another chair and a chaise longue. In one corner an effort had been made at horticulture where a potted aspidistra stood on a turned ebony plant-stand.

  The room was finished in mahogany and wine-dark velvet. Behind the desk heavy drapes concealed tall windows and above the black iron mantle of a fireplace was the imposing portrait of a grey haired and moustachioed man. The subject of the painting was dressed in a tweed jacket, mustard-yellow waistcoat and hunting britches
, looking every part the English country gent out enjoying an afternoon's grousing. He even had a rifle in his right hand; only the scene behind him was that of the African savannah and one booted foot rested on the carcass of a savage lion.

  Screwtape looked from the heroic portrait to the young man standing beneath it. The family resemblance was remarkable.

  Covering much of the scuffed green leather of the desk were clippings from The Times. A number of articles were of particular interest to the young man, which he was re-reading whilst he swirled the contents of a cut crystal glass in his right hand. As the lawyer peered through his pince-nez at the papers he saw from the larger print of the headlines that they appeared to concern the same matter. One headline read, 'Millionaire Playboy Missing over Himalayas', another, 'Hot Air Balloon Adventure Ends in Tragedy'. The most recent report carried the banner, 'Quicksilver Missing, Presumed Dead'. The date on this newspaper read 3rd April 1996.

  The ornate ormolu clock on the mantelpiece chimed ten. Seconds later the echoing chime of the grandfather clock sounded elsewhere in the house. There was something clandestine about the timing of this meeting and, along with Nimrod's lingering presence, it made Screwtape feel uncomfortable. Why meet at such an hour to seal the deal if there were not something nefarious about this venture? The hours of darkness were when the criminal fraternity went about their unlawful business. Not that such things would have normally bothered the lawyer. Every day it was his job to work with the law, around the law, to bend the rules, counteract conventions, confuse and bewilder with clauses, quoting obscure sub-articles. The firm of Mephisto, Fanshaw and Screwtape had been in the employ of the Quicksilver family for the last five generations, since the time of the Crimean War. They had a long-shared history and heritage.

  "Screwtape, do have a seat won't you?" the young man said, gesturing to the padded leather chair.

  The lawyer regarded the armchair uncomfortably, playing the rim of his bowler hat through his restless hands as he did so.

  "No, it's all right. I'd prefer to stand."

  The younger man cast his eyes towards the chair for the first time since the lawyer had entered the study. A distant, wistful look misted his eyes. "Yes, I know what you mean."

  The empty seat seemed to exude an unsettling dominance.

  "A drink then?" Quicksilver said, raising his glass as if in a toast.

  "Yes, very well then," the lawyer said with some relief. A stiff drink was just what he needed. "Whisky."

  "It'll have to be cognac I'm afraid. My brother's drinks cabinet appears to be a little poorly stocked of late." He cast a withering glance at the manservant, who still stood in the open doorway of the study, and handed Screwtape a brandy glass. Placing his hat and briefcase carefully on the desk, Screwtape took the proffered drink.

  "The future," Quicksilver suddenly announced, chinking glasses.

  The young man downed the contents of his glass in one gulp. Screwtape merely sipped at his. The warm fumes of the cognac filled his mouth and coursed down his throat to soothe his knotted stomach. "Indeed," he muttered.

  "So, the papers?"

  "Y-yes, of course," the lawyer said dragging his eyes away from the empty chair with some effort. "I have them here."

  After some fumbling with catches, the lawyer eventually managed to extract the precious documents from his case. He passed them across the desk and Quicksilver grasped them eagerly. But Screwtape did not let go.

  "Once these papers are signed," he said, his voice suddenly calm and laden with the gravitas of the moment, "your elder brother Ulysses will be declared legally dead. All this will be yours," he took in the study, and by inference the rest of the house with one sweeping gesture of his hand. "You will inherit everything as your brother's sole heir. You do understand that, don't you?"

  "Yes. Of course I understand," Quicksilver said tugging at the papers. Screwtape at last relaxed his grip. "Much as it saddens me to do this," the young man said, without any hint of genuine emotion, "my brother has been missing for over a year. There has been no word from him since he set out on that fateful adventure. The wreckage of his balloon has been found on the lower slopes of Mount Manaslu. At those altitudes, even if he survived the crash, a man could not last more than a night in those sub-zero temperatures. I am sorry to say that those icy slopes must now be his final resting place."

  Silence hung in the air between the two men, heavy with a dozen uncomforting thoughts.

  The doorbell clanged again, its jangling shattering the tense atmosphere. Both the lawyer and heir looked to the open door of the study and the shadows of the furniture-haunted library beyond.

  "Who can be calling at this time of night?" Screwtape said, half to himself.

  "Who indeed?" Quicksilver wondered, casting a suspicious eye in the lawyer's direction.

  "If you will excuse me, sirs, I shall endeavour to find out," the butler said, the rich baritone of his voice unencumbered by the inflection of any emotion.

  "Gladly," Quicksilver said, ushering him on his way with a wave of his empty glass, his eyes now fixed on the paperwork.

  The lawyer's gaze returned to the pictures and curious paraphernalia that adorned the walls, the personal effects of a man they were about to condemn to the grave. Screwtape was drawn to a number of framed photographs. The same man could be seen in many of them; the only one who appeared more than once in any of the captured images, in fact. Moments of history preserved for posterity.

  Here he stood with a half-naked tribe of pygmies from equatorial Africa, there he was shaking hands with a turbaned maharajah and in another he was dressed in the attire of an American frontiersman, standing arm-in-arm with an exuberantly over-dressed peacock of a woman at a poker table on board a Mississippi paddle steamer. This was not the same great white hunter depicted in the portrait over the fireplace - it was a younger man - but he bore more than a passing resemblance to the lawyer's client.

  "He certainly travelled the world, your brother," the lawyer commented.

  "Yes," the other replied, "and look where it got him."

  Quicksilver continued to scan the tightly typed pages of sub-clauses and legal jargon that, in no uncertain terms, stated that on declaration of the death of Ulysses Lucian Quicksilver everything in the family estate would pass to him.

  "These artefacts," the lawyer said, taking in the curios, "they must be worth something to a collector."

  "Mementos, bric-a-brac, nothing more. I'll bequeath them to the Pitt Rivers Museum in Oxford. Why not? It's the house that's the only real asset my brother has left me."

  "And what will you do with the proceeds of the sale?"

  "Move to one of the lunar cities. I have grown tired of London and I feel that London has grown rather tired of me. There is nothing to keep me here now."

  "I hear that Tranquillity is nice," Screwtape offered, "or Luna Prime. That is supposed to have a pleasant atmosphere."

  "Look, Screwtape, I think we have exchanged enough niceties so let's just get on with the matter in hand, shall we?"

  A minute later and Quicksilver had completed his assessment of the documentation. "So, I sign here and here," he indicated with a finger, "and the deed is done?"

  "Yes, sir. Done indeed," the lawyer said wearily.

  "You do not approve?"

  "You mean of what you do, Mr Quicksilver?"

  "Oh you have played your part fully and with a complete understanding of the consequences, Screwtape. Don't tell me you've developed a conscience. That's hardly healthy for a man in your profession."

  "Your brother was well respected. So is your family name and has been for many years. I would not wish it to become otherwise."

  "Oh, neither do I, Screwtape. Neither do I. You speak of it as if it were not my family name."

  "I-I mean no disrespect, Mr Quicksilver, I assure you."

  "And I assure you that my precious family's name and that of my brother will be remembered for many years to come. I promise you that once we are don
e here, the first thing I shall do in the morning is commission a headstone to be raised in the family tomb at Highgate Cemetery and arrange for a memorial service to be held in his honour at St Paul's Cathedral."

  "St Paul's, eh? Very grand. And what have I done to deserve such a display of public mourning?" asked a voice as rich as claret and as cutting as a rapier's blade.

  Quicksilver looked up from the mess of newspaper clippings and legal documentation, the colour draining from his cheeks as he stared in stunned horror at the figure standing at the threshold of the study. Screwtape turned to face the new arrival, his mouth agape. The sound of glass smashing on the polished oak floorboards of the study shattered the silence as the solicitor's cognac slipped from his sweaty fingers.

  "U-Ulysses?" The young man was supporting himself with one hand against the desk. He looked like he was going to be sick. "Ulysses... Thank God, you're safe and well! M-my prayers have been answered."

  "I didn't realise that you and the Good Lord were on such amicable terms, Barty."

  The man now standing in the doorway had the appearance of a taller and more strongly built version of the young man propping himself up against the large, mahogany desk. From his well-defined jaw-line to his thick head of hair, greying at the temples, and the sparkling glint in his deep brown eyes he was also the more handsome of the two. He looked every part the debonair gent, wearing a brown velvet frock coat, a paisley-patterned waistcoat with an emphasis on autumnal colours and moleskin trousers of the latest cut. A silk mustard-yellow cravat was set with a diamond pin at his neck and he was leaning jauntily on a black cane, set with a bloodstone at its hilt.

  The manservant stood at his shoulder, his lined face still a cold mask of indifference, but now with a rumour of a smile about his eyes.

  "This would seem to be rather a late hour for a meeting with the family solicitor, brother," Ulysses Quicksilver remarked.

  "Ulysses, I still can't believe it's you," Bartholomew Quicksilver spluttered, colour returning to his cheeks in a flush of red-faced embarrassment.