Chapter 1.
The South Pacific and Polynesian Fauna Appreciation Society

 

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          Lord Wrinklebottom looked out across the water meadows below Wrinklebottom Hall. He paused for a moment to drink in the view. Willows, shrouded in early morning mist, formed ghostly shapes lining the banks of the River Wrinkle. Geese quarrelled noisily over some morsel on the riverbank. The sun pushed thin fingers of light through the mist and sparkled on the surface of the river. Another sparkling English west-country spring morning.

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          “Delightful,” he sighed, and pulling the brim of his immaculate black top-hat down slightly against the sun, made his way across the southern terrace. His beautifully crafted black boots crunched most satisfyingly as he strode across the neatly gravelled terrace towards an ornately carved wooden table set with fine china and silverware in preparation for breakfast.

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          “The usual, m’lord?” enquired his valet Balderthump as he assisted Lord Wrinklebottom seat himself at the table.

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          “Yes indeed, Balderthump, but let's make it three of those Patagonian whatsits this morning. Two wasn't really enough yesterday.”

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          “Upper Patagonian Flightless Duck eggs, m’lord,” corrected Balderthump politely. “They will be about twenty minutes. In the meantime, your yoghurt is ready.” 

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          With hands gloved in finest white silk, Balderthump placed a silver bowl of camel’s milk yoghurt, Dalmatian honey and Himalayan goji berries on the table in front of Lord Wrinklebottom. 

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          “And of course, today's paper.” He laid a meticulously ironed copy of the West-Country Times on the table to Lord Wrinklebottom’s left. “Tea will be here shortly, m’lord.” He bowed slightly and withdrew a polite distance.

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          Lord Wrinklebottom grunted his approval, picked up the newspaper and peered at the front page through his round, gold-rimmed spectacles. There being no immediate further instructions, Balderthump disappeared back into the vast honey-coloured stone manor house that was Wrinklebottom Hall, and returned moments later, carrying a silver tray on which stood an intricately decorated and very tall silver teapot.

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          “Xu-Win Xiao Pekinese White tea this morning, m’lord,” announced Balderthump in a slightly apologetic tone. “Unfortunately, we're out of the Upper Gonder Abyssinian Pekoe, but His Eminence, Sir Geoffrey Blinkenhoe sent this out from China for you recently and I must say I find it to be a delightful brew.”

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          “Thank you, Balderthump, I shall try it on your recommendation,” murmured Lord Wrinklebottom as he continued, engrossed in the newspaper.

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          Balderthump disappeared again into the medieval vastness of Wrinklebottom Hall and by the time he had returned some ten minutes later, laden with an even larger silver tray, Lord Wrinklebottom had reached the fourth page of the newspaper. 

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          “Worcestershire Bacon, m’lord,” announced Balderthump, “accompanied by three Upper Patagonian Flightless Duck eggs on the village baker's finest stoneground wholemeal bread, toasted over coals of scented African rosewood.”

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          “Excellent, Balderthump.” Lord Wrinklebottom continued to read the newspaper. “I see Queen Victoria has taken another ride on the railways.”

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          “Indeed, m’lord. She seems to be doing so more regularly these days, and apparently finds it quite an agreeable mode of transport. Shall I top up your tea, m’lord?”

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          “Yes, thank you Balderthump,” replied Lord Wrinklebottom rather absent-mindedly. He turned another page. Balderthump refilled Lord Wrinklebottom’s teacup from the tall silver teapot.

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          “Galloping geckos, Balderthump!” spluttered Lord Wrinklebottom as he took a sip from the newly filled teacup. “Have you seen this business with Blagenthorpe?” He tapped the middle of the page he was reading.

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          “No m’lord, I have not. What has Sir Melkil been up to recently?”

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          “Listen to this,” said Lord Wrinklebottom reading from the newspaper, with (I’m afraid to say) more than a little of the Patagonian Flightless Duck egg in his mouth:

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Uproar at the Royal Society 

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London, Wednesday.

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There was uproar on Tuesday evening at the bi-monthly meeting of The South Pacific and Polynesian Fauna Appreciation Society held in the Somerset House rooms of the Royal Society. For most of the evening, the proceedings were carried in a gentlemanly manner. However when Sir Melkil Blagenthorpe took the podium to provide a report from his recent exploratory expedition to the South Island of New Zealand, the proceedings degenerated. Sir Melkil made some most extraordinary claims, which elicited jeers from some members of the audience and infuriated others. The aggravation centred on Sir Melkil’s claim to have sighted and positively identified a living giant moa on his recent expedition, a bird up until this point believed to be extinct and only known from the enormous bones found occasionally in caves on the island. Sir Melkil refused to be intimidated by the uproar and maintained the veracity of his claim. When challenged to produce evidence, he explained that his specimens had all been lost in a boating incident while trying to return to the coast down one of the island's treacherous rivers. Rather than calming the riotous assembly, his response further stoked the fires of dissent. Sir Melkil was observed making a judicious exit by a side door, his evening suit stained by projectiles thrown from the floor.

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          “So what do you think of that, Balderthump?” asked Lord Wrinklebottom.

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          “It certainly seems Sir Melkil stirred up the proverbial hornet's nest, m’lord.”

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          “Indeed,” mused Lord Wrinklebottom, “but what do you think about his story?”

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          “Hard to say, m’lord,” replied Balderthump diplomatically. “The South Island of New Zealand is wild and unexplored country, or so I am told. I understand a permanent British settlement has only been established for a few years. Anything could be possible, and Sir Melkil is not normally given to hyperbole.”

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          “No indeed, my thoughts exactly. If Blagenthorpe says he saw a giant moa, then see a giant moa he did! We cannot allow old Blagenthorpe to be humiliated like this! He has an honourable name and reputation at stake! Can we, as old friends stand by and see his name cast into the dirt! No! I’ve a mind to go out there myself to find that elusive bird and clear his name.”

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          “Most commendable, m’lord,” agreed Balderthump, “but is m’lord forgetting he has committed to chairing the annual meeting and dinner of the Wrinkle Bottom Butterfly Preservation League on Tuesday week?”

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          “The Butterfly Preservation League? Oh, yes, of course. Well, in that case old Blagenthorpe will need to look after himself for the moment. More tea, if you please Balderthump!”

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          “Of course, m’lord.”

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