Yellow Fever
The wreckage was so gnarled and traumatic, it was hard to believe anyone could survive, but Archimedes forced himself to look, swallowing his vomit with a heavy heart.
“London is rife with slums,” he said as they passed a discount apothecary. “In America, we confine such people to New Jersey. Do you not have disposable real estate in Great Britain?”
“We do, sir,” said Mr Murphy, “but the Scots cause such a fuss about it.”
“You should put them in their place.”
“We try, sir. We try.”
A bump in the road knocked Archimedes’ head against Finley’s bowl, but the fish was fast asleep, muttering profanities in dreamland. Archimedes placed the bowl on the adjacent seat and settled himself once more.
“Do you know who might have killed the Duchess?” he asked Murphy. “Did she have any enemies?”
“Enemies?” mused Murphy. “Well, creditors, yes. And they’re as good as enemies, aren’t they?”
“Only to the inept!” said Archimedes, and they shared a laugh. There was something about the misfortune of others that brightened even the darkest day.
“But seriously, sir,” said Murphy, wiping tears from his eyes, “the Duchess was following closely in her uncle’s footsteps. Her foolish business venture was utterly aflame, costing her whole family a fortune.”
“Goodness,” said Archimedes. “What was the venture?”
“I can’t recall,” said Murphy. “It made her the laughingstock of London. Quite the tragedy.”
“Ah,” said Archimedes. “That might explain why she slapped me earlier. She thought I was partaking in the mockery.”
“She was an ill-tempered woman,” grumbled Murphy.
“What was her uncle’s view?”
“He was rightly furious,” said Murphy. “She was wasting away his fortune. It was quite uncivilized towards the end, I hear.”
“Odd,” said Archimedes, “because I—”
Just then, the carriage lurched and spun to the side, coming to a sudden stop. Archimedes put himself back on his feet as Murphy began to berate the driver.
But then they saw it: surrounding the carriage was a gang of black-clad figures, their faces wrapped up but for a slit of skin and narrow, angry eyes. The figures unsheathed long swords, approaching carefully.
“Goodness!” gasped Archimedes. “Ninjas? In London? Really, sir, you must convince your government to control their immigration practices!”
It is a common misconception that all Orientals are ninjas. In fact, ninjas make up only 50% of that population, with the remainder being geishas.
The closest ninja motioned for Archimedes to leave the carriage, while another circled around back and looked prepared to help the issue with his sword. Archimedes disembarked, a stern look on his face.
“Do not be alarmed,” he said over his shoulder to Mr Murphy. “I have some experience dealing with Orientals.”
“Act quickly, sir,” said Murphy as he was dragged from the carriage by another savage.
“Herro!” shouted Archimedes. “Lerease us now-wo or-ru there will-loo be too-lubble!”
The ninjas paused.
“Wata-shee wah superior dessoo!”
The ninjas shrugged to each other.
“Lor’ luvva flipper! What’s ‘e sayin’?” said the closest one, crossing his arms.
“Blimey!” said another. “I ‘ave no idea, yeah? Iss no’ proper English, issit?”
The rest nodded in agreement.
“Oh dear,” said Archimedes. “Turkish ninjas?”
“Oi!” snapped the close one. “‘oo ya callin’ a pasta salad there, mate?”
Archimedes blinked, took a step back.
“Goodness!” he gasped. “You’re… you’re speaking some kind of ancient English dialect!”
“It’s cockney, sir,” said Murphy. “Lower-class Londoners.”
“Ah!” squealed Archimedes, hopping behind the older man. “Is it contagious?”
“Lawd above!” said the second ninja. “We ‘ave ter cumquat squattle y’now, yeah? Couldja stand a bi’ closer, maybe?”
“Tell them if they don’t leave us be, I’ll have my fish decapitate the lot of them!” said Archimedes, grabbing for Finley.
“I’m sorry, sir,” said Murphy. “I haven’t the foggiest how to communicate with them.”
“What’re they speel onnabout?”
“Dutchman zero, mate. Know what I mean?”
“Lawd above. Lawd above.”
Archimedes shook the fishbowl, trying to wake Finley, but the fish rolled over in his sleep, muttering: “Why yes, Ms Bernhardt, I would like to see what’s under there…”
The ninjas stalked closer, but then Archimedes had an idea. He checked under the carriage, and sure enough, there was a small man clinging to the bottom.
“I wish to re-subscribe, sir,” he said, and the man jumped off, unfolded a pair of stilts, and leapt high into the air.
“I AM BEING ATTACKED BY COCKNEY NINJAS!” shouted the man in a thick Irish accent.
“Well done, my little friend!” laughed Archimedes.
“PRESENTED BY BOYLE’S HAEMORRHOID CREAM!” continued the dwarf, “WHEN THE ITCHIN’ IS JUST BITC—”
“Oi!” said the close ninja. “Whass that little geaser doin’ up there?”
“Issa little Paddy, innit?”
“Lawd above!”
“He ‘as a gian’ cone, yeah? Looks like fun, it does! Know what I mean?”
“Let’s get ‘im, yeah? Steal ‘is cone an’ kick around a football! Slim Jim Beerback, yeah? Know what I mean?”
“Aces, mate! Aces!”
The ninjas piled onto the tiny Irishman, pounding his head with their fists and trying to pry the megaphone from his hand.
“BEING SAVAGELY ATTACKED!” he shouted. “PUNCHED IN THE GUT! PUNCHED IN THE GUT! PUNCHED IN THE OHHHHHH!”
Archimedes and Murphy wasted no time. They hopped back into the carriage and it took off in a flash, racing towards the newspaper building.
“Will we still make it in time?” Archimedes asked.
“Good sir,” said Murphy. “After an evening like this, the news will wait for us! Huzzah!”