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.

* Follow his lordship on Twitter and/or Facebook to keep up-to-date with the latest developments in his lordship’s latest EPIC adventure!

10:30am, 29th of January, 1891.

IT WAS clear from the Anti-Hat League’s latest threat that their forthcoming ‘crowning achievement’ was going to be an audacious attempt on the most powerful hat in the Empire – the crown of Her Majesty, Queen Victoria…an attempt I would thwart if it was the last thing I ever did.

Miss Felicity Boondoggles and I wound our way through the headquarters of the Criminal Underworld Neutralisation Team (or CTUN for short, to prevent people passing out in shock at the actual acronym), until we turned a corner into another dull corridor, at which point Felicity suddenly stopped short, and quickly pulled me into a nearby room.

It was pitch-black in the room, and I felt Felicity’s hand leave my arm. “Wait here,” she said. “I’ll go and turn the lighting on.”

There was a momentary silence, save for the gentle click-click sound of a gas-lamp being lit, and then the room was bathed in a warm glow.

“Right, ”tis time we made sure you were properly equipped…oh!” Felicity said, tailing off as she turned to face me, only to find me standing in the doorway with my trousers and underpants around my ankles, my Lord Palmerston hanging freely betwixt my legs.

“As you can clearly see, my dear, I am very well equipped indeed!” I smiled, raising an eyebrow.

“Gracious! Cover yourself up, sir! What on earth do you think you are doing?” she gasped.

“Well, when you dragged me in here I naturally assumed it was to ravish me senseless, m’dear!” I protested.

“No! NO! I wanted to collect some items from here – the CTUN control room!” she said with a flourish, affording me the first proper look at my surroundings. The room was full of large, imposing machines, replete with a multitude of buttons and levers, their cogs churning, pistons pumping, and steam issuing forth from pipes hither and thither. ‘Twas rather akin to stumbling into a clockwork orgy, or something.

“Egad! What in the name of mechanized arse is all this?” I spluttered.

“This is our central computation device. We keep files on all of the Empire’s most-wanted felons in here.” Felicity explained, tapping the side of one of the contraptions with almost maternal pride.

“Oh, really?” I sighed, my distinct lack of interest permeating my voice like a cannon-ball tearing through a giant, wet tissue. “Do please show me!”

“Fine! I shall!” snapped Felicity, pulling a lever beside her. The machine creaked into action; wheels turned, gears crunched, sparks fizzed, a horn blew, steam gushed forth and then…a little drawer slid open before me, filled with brown-coloured files. Felicity smiled, rifled through them and then drew one out triumphantly. “See? Rather impressive, yes?”

“It strikes me as nothing more than a rather elaborate filing cabinet,” I observed haughtily.

Felicity shot me an angry glare, and opened the file in her hands. “Here, look,” she said, thrusting a photographic print into my hands. “This is the ring-leader of the Anti-Hat League – Samuel Ben-London. I think if we can put him out of action, the entire group will swiftly tumble behind him.”

I gave the picture a cursory glance, and noted that the fellow in question was the same thin-moustached miscreant who had been masquerading as a waiter at Muddick’s gala ball. I had despised him then, but now I knew he was the mastermind behind a despicable plot to explode the monarch’s crown, I LOATHED him and wanted his HEAD on a very, very sharp SPIKE. ABLAZE.

“Right, let us dilly-dally no more!” I resolved, straightening my tie, and adjusting my trousers. “We must put a stop to this terrible plan IMMEDIATELY! Now, where did you put my possessions, m’dear? I cannot help but note that I am lighter to the tune of one pistol, one cane, my top-hat and my hip-flask of whisky. Oh, and my man-servant, Botter.”

“All your belongings have been stored away safely since we bought you here, your lordship.” Felicity stated, turning another lever. Machinery jolted into action once more, and then a cupboard door swung open next to me, with my personal effects located within.

“Ah, good,” I nodded. “And Botter?”

“‘Tis as I said, all your belongings have been stored safely away,” Felicity replied, flicking a switch. Another cupboard door fell open, to reveal Botter stashed inside, like a rather unsightly item of luggage.

“Good mornin, your lordship!” he smiled, as he struggled out of the cupboard.

“Well, marvellous, I have everything I need, so -” I began.

“Not quite,” Felicity interrupted, spinning a dial on another wretched contraption. Another drawer noisily slid out a recess within a wall, laden with various items and objects. “You shall need some extra fire-power, your lordship.”

“This,” I said, picking up an umbrella from the drawer. “This is an umbrella, my dear.”

“Not quite,” said Felicity, grabbing the brolly from my hands. She held it out at arm’s length, pressed a button on the handle, and a jet of fire blazed out from the umbrella’s tip.

“Heavens!” I exclaimed. “This shall prove extremely useful for flambéing. I dare say I could toast a beggar in SECONDS with this thing!”

“Then there is this,” Felicity continued, taking a fob-watch from the drawer. “While it looks like an ordinary fob-watch, it actually is not…” Felicity turned the dial on the watch, causing some rather sharp spikes to pop out around the outside of the base. Then, holding onto the chain, Felicity spun the watch out across the room, until it embedded itself in a wall.

“Impressive,” I noted. “And let me hazard a guess,” I said, picking up what appeared to be a large dildo from within the drawer. “I suppose this contains some sort of compact cannon within it, which can blast holes through walls, hmm?”

“No,” Felicity answered, taking the dildo from my hands. “It brings me to a screaming orgasm whene’er I thrust it deeply and repeatedly within my aching mimsy. Now, choose your weapon, your lordship, and let us go and save Her Majesty!”

I watched Felicity leave, my mouth positively AGOG.

– Lord Likely.

* VOTE NOW! Which weapon should Likely take with him on his mission to save the Queen? The flame-throwing brolly, the razor-spiked fob-watch, or the…um…dildo? Leave a comment below, or vote on Twitter (using the #1score4 tag) or on Facebook! Be fast, dear readers – TIME is RUNNING OUT!

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10:00am, 29th of January, 1891.

DESPITE HIS complete and utter twattery, Ms. Felicity Boondoggles and I decided to let Inspector Spunkleford in nonetheless.

“My word, what is this place?” enquired Spunkleford as he entered the rather sparse room we had been holed up in.

“This is the Criminal Underworld Neutralisation Team headquarters,” Felicity replied.

“The criminal what now?” Spunkleford blustered. “I’ve never heard of it! Surely I should know of any other departments in the Yard?”

“We operate outside of Scotland Yard, inspector,” Felicity said coolly.

“I can see that,” Spunkleford nodded. “Scotland Yard is across the street, there.”

“Hmmm…well enough of this illuminating chit-chat,” I interjected, before the inspector had further opportunity to make his inherent buffonery more apparent. “What brings you here, inspector?”

“Well, the -”

“And if you say ‘the cab’, I shall twot you.”

“Oh. Well, as you know, Likely, I took some officers down to Mr. Cockduster’s Millinery earlier. We managed to catch some of those Anti-Hat League bounders in the act of rigging some of the hats with their damned explosive devices. Jolly successful operation, all in all. Anyhow, we took these cads back to the station, and managed to get some information out of one of them via some intense interrogation!”

“You thrashed them with sticks?” I suggested.

“Precisely. Worked a treat! One of them gave us a hint as to what the League are planning next…just bear with me a moment, I jotted it down somewhere…” said Spunkleford, opening up his coat to reveal several pigeons, a few of which fluttered out from within his pockets and flew around the room. “Ah, yes, here we go,” Spunkleford exclaimed, pulling a pigeon from an interior pocket and scrutinizing it carefully. “I’m sure I left the message around here somewhere! Ah-ha!” he cried triumphantly, pulling a rolled-up piece of paper from the poor pigeon’s posterior.

“Oh, charming,” I grimaced as Spunkleford passed me the roll. “I see you stored it in your pigeon-hole.”

Spunkleford nodded blankly, while I gingerly unfurled the paper and read the message contained within:

Re-Tweet, Mr. Terrorist Fellow: ‘You think you’ve stopped us copper, but we ain’t even started. You all wait ’til you see our crownin’ achievement!’

“‘Re-tweet‘, Spunkleford?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “Honestly, you have lost your cocking marbles.”

“Shut up both of you and give me that!” snapped Felicity, grabbing the paper from my hand and scanning the two lines of text again. “Hmmm…are you thinking what I’m thinking, Likely?”

“I hope so. And if so, the answer is ‘yes’ and ‘on all fours’.”

“No! The message from the Anti-Hat League, you lecherous fop! ‘Crowning achievement‘, it says…”

“Egad! You mean – ?” I began.

“I think so,” Felicity concluded.

“Buggeration! Then we have not a moment to lose!” I declared, as Felicity and I dashed out of the door with due haste.

“I’m not sure I understand what the devil is going on, Mr. Speckles,” said Spunkleford, stroking his pigeon’s feathers gently.

– Lord Likely.

* Be back here in the WEEK, for the FINAL two chapters of ‘One Score and Four’, chums!

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9:00am, 29th of January, 1891.

AFTER SITTING about the place for what seemed like a good day and a half (although I’m certain it was only about fifteen minutes) Ms. Felicity Boondoggles and I were roused from our inaction by a tapping sound at the window.

“Get down!” hissed Felicity, drawing a pistol from somewhere between her fabulous cleavage. “It could be trouble!”

I duly ducked down behind a table while Felicity approached the window and then, in one admirably swift and smooth movement, drew back the curtains and aimed her weapon at the unseen menace outside. She faltered, peered through the glass, then sighed and replaced her pistol in its sumptuous holster.

“False alarm,” she said. “‘Tis just a pigeon.”

“A pigeon?” I exclaimed, leaping out from behind the table. “Pray, let me see!”

“If you must,” Felicity replied, stepping away from the window. “I must say, I never thought of you as a bird-watcher.”

“Au contraire, m’dear!” I smiled, as I walked up to the window. “I am a very keen watcher of birds indeed!”

Alas, my witty quip seemed to fall on deaf ears, and Felicity failed to react in any way.

“Of course, I am using the word ‘birds’ in the colloquial manner so beloved by the working classes, to denote the female gender – so when I say I am a keen watcher of birds I -“

Still nothing. Not a flicker.

“Never mind. Let me see this pigeon,” I said, opening the window. “Ah, yes!” I exclaimed as the bird flew into the room, swooping around briefly before perching on my arm .”‘Tis one of Inspector Spunkleford’s pigeons. The inspector has taken to using pigeons as a means of gathering intelligence. Alas, I fear it will take a great many pigeons to gather quite enough intelligence for that poor, deluded fool!” I examined the bird closer. ” Hmmm…it should have a message attached to it somewhere – ah, yes! Here we go!”

I pulled out a tiny roll of paper from a small tube affixed to the pigeon’s leg, and carefully unfurled it to read the message written upon it:

AT LORD LIKELY: LOOK DOWN

I re-read the message, then rolled my eyes in despair. The inspector didn’t…did he?

I poked my head out of the window and looked down to see Spunkleford stood by the door, waving madly. “Hello, old boy!” he cried. “May I come in?”

“Spunkleford, you witless poltroon, what ARE you doing??” I returned. “You do realise there is a rather conveniently-placed knocker on the door, don’t you?”

“Of course I do!” Spunkleford retorted with an indignant huff. “I am not completely stupid, Likely.” He paused. “The only problem was, the pigeon couldn’t lift it.”

– Lord Likely.

ATTENTION: I wish to apologise for the sudden, abrupt gap in my otherwise COCKING EXCELLENT 24-hour adventure. Sadly, my USELESS ARSE-PIPE of a scribe, Mr. Fanton, Esquire, fell ASLEEP whilst transcribing these THRILLING chapters for your enjoyment. He has since claimed that “trying to write twenty-four chapters in twenty-four hours, without any breaks or any sleep, was a  foolhardy endeavour which was doomed from the start,” Needless to say, I have thrashed him soundly with his own wretched intestines for such insolence. Normal service is now resumed.

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8:43am, 29th of January, 1891.

AND SO, with Miss Felicity Boondoggles not wanting to talk to me, and in lieu of anything better to occupy my time, I simply sat back down on the couch, and did BUGGER ALL FOR AN HOUR.

– 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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7:00am, 29th of January, 1891.

I AWOKE in a place that was, I am fairly certain, completely different to the place I had been in mere moments ago. Furthermore, I was quite sure that I had been in a conscious state the last time I had checked, so what in the name of cockery was I doing waking up now? When had I gone to sleep?

“WHAT THE TOSS IS GOING ON?” I bellowed to the ceiling. “WHERE AM I?”

“Oh, you’re awake,” came a woman’s voice from behind me.

“Apparently so,” I replied. “But I don’t recall having gone to bed, and there’s the problem.”

“Mmm,” the voice replied, quite disinterestedly, I felt.

“Look, who are you and where the hel -” I raised myself off of the couch upon which I’d been lying, and turned to face the lady in question. “- lo, my dear!” I finished.

Oh! How my heart skipped a beat, while my proud Lord Palmerston stood solidly to attention.

The lady was a completely ravishing creature,  dressed in a rather luxuriant, crimson-coloured ball-gown, which seemed to be completely at odds with the rather austere and sterile surroundings we were currently in.

“Hello,” the lady replied, pushing a curl of red hair back behind her ear, while busying herself with reading a stack of papers in her hand.

“So,” I said, getting myself unsteadily to my feet. “What is a fine creature like you doing in a hole like this?” I raised an eyebrow. “Of course, that is what the ladies usually say to me, but in this instance I’ll – ”

“What the fuck were you thinking, Likely?” snapped the lady, slamming her batch of papers onto a nearby desk. “You nearly blew the entire operation for us, you lousy SHIT!”

I stepped back, quite literally taken aback by this sudden, extremely unladylike outburst from such a distinctly ladylike form.

“I…I beg your pardon?” I stuttered.

“Boondoggles,” the woman said abruptly.

“I…I’m sorry to hear that, m’dear. Maybe you should get some talcum and – ”

“That’s my name, you idiot,” the lady sighed. “Felicity Boondoggles. I work for the Criminal Underworld Neutralisation Team.”

“Criminal Underworld Neutralisation Team? You mean CUN – ”

“No!” Felicity cried, putting up a hand to stop me. “Our official acronym is CTUN. We can’t use our actual acronym any more. When we used to have our initials in large letters on the wall outside, we were nearly charged with ‘dwelling inside an obscene publication.’ So…it had to be changed, for decency’s sake.”

“Oh. Pity. I rather liked the old name, rather rolled off the tongue…”

“Look, Likely. I’ve got no time for your small talk,” Felicity barked at me. “Let me just explain to you how you got here, what happened to the last few hours of your day, and how you almost COMPLETELY ballsed this all up…”

– Lord Likely.

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2:00am, 29th of January, 1891.

WHILE PANDEMONIUM reigned around me, I took the opportunity to have a sneaky drink from an open bottle of wine that happened to be on a table beside me. I thirstily knocked back its contents, which, happily, turned out to be most of a bottle’s worth.

It was bloody LOVELY, and just what I ruddy needed. Ah, alcohol, I thought as I felt its warmth fill my body. Let us never be apart again.

Now, back to the problem at hand…whose hat had the bomb ‘neath it? Mr. Spitts, or Mr. Swallows?

THINK, Likely…THINK…just need to come up with a plan, then shpring into action. Spring. Spring into action, I thought, correcting myself.

Hic.

– 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!

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!