Chapter 1.
Sir Bertie
Sir Bertie Gotbladder looked up from his large walnut desk as the door opened. Lord Wrinklebottom was shown into the panelled room. The spring flowers of London's Green Park created blurred patchworks of colour in the leaded glass windows behind his desk.
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“Wrinklebottom! So good to see you again! So glad you could come! Do have a seat man.” He waved at a plush green leather wing-back chair opposite the desk.
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Lord Wrinklebottom passed his hat and coat to Sir Bertie's assistant and made towards the plush chair.
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“Drink?” asked Sir Bertie, waving again at a decanter of scotch sitting on a nearby table.
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“A little early for me thanks, Bertie,” replied Lord Wrinklebottom as he seated himself in the comfortable chair and surveyed his surrounds, “but don’t let me stop you, old boy.”
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“Well, if you don’t mind, perhaps a small taste.” Sir Bertie poured himself a shot and sat back at his desk.
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“You seem to be doing well, old man,” observed Lord Wrinklebottom.
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“Not too bad for an ageing adventurer,” laughed Sir Bertie. “But things are not always as they seem. Only here on a short assignment you know. The desk belongs to Lord Brandercluck who is in Paris on business at the moment and the offices are borrowed from Her Majesty.
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“Her Majesty?” echoed Lord Wrinklebottom. “Well, indeed! Some patron you have Bertie!”
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“Oh, it's nothing, Wrinklebottom, just a friend of a friend and all that, what?”
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“Indeed, indeed. The British and Foreign Anti-Slavery Society has friends in high places.”
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“The slave trade is indeed a matter of some current interest and considerable gravity, Wrinklebottom, as you know.”
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“Indeed it is, Bertie. Dastardly practice. Should have been stamped out long ago.”
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“Yes, yes indeed, Wrinklebottom. It is not for want of trying on our part. But there's so much money being made. You can imagine that those profiting are somewhat less than supportive. And some of those profiting are men in very powerful positions. You will have noticed some positive steps forward in recent months though one hopes?”
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“You mean sending half Her Majesty's Navy down to west Africa?”
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“That. And other things perhaps less obvious.”
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“Such as?”
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“Well, that brings me to the point of your visit in fact, old boy.”
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“Really? Do tell Bertie, do tell.”
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Sir Bertie took another sip of his whisky and paused to gather his thoughts before continuing. “Amongst other things Her Majesty's government has been doing to try and stem the flow of slaves into the New World, there has been a move towards targeting some of the bigger players in the industry. The 'king-pins' you might say.”
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“Sounds admirable, Bertie. I assume you haven't brought me in here to arrest me as ‘king-pin’ of a slavery racket!?”
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“Of course not,” laughed Sir Bertie. “But you do have some skills and experience which we could use, old boy.”
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“Such as?” queried Lord Wrinklebottom.
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“Well, as you mentioned, a considerable part of Her Majesty's Navy has been despatched to patrol the waters around the equator, with instructions to disrupt the slave trade in any way legally possible. But their efforts are restricted more or less to the tropics at present, a source of some frustration to all who are seeking to disrupt and stamp out this dastardly business.”
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“Quite frustrating, I'm sure.”
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“Indeed, old boy, indeed. It seems some of the king-pins are escaping this blockade by moving their trade to the north and beyond the tropics.”
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“Seems an obvious thing to do,” remarked Lord Wrinklebottom taking off his round spectacles and polishing the lenses vigorously with his kerchief.
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“Quite. Quite. As a result, many slaves are now being marched northwards across the vast expanses of the Sahara desert and into places such as the Kingdom of Morocco, where slavery is still legal, and being sold on from there.”
“Morocco eh?” mused Lord Wrinklebottom. “An interesting place I recall.”
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“Very interesting indeed, and a rather delicate and tricky place to operate from Her Majesty's point of view. The old Sultan and Her Majesty don't always see eye to eye.”
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“I can imagine,” replied Lord Wrinklebottom dryly. “So where do I fit into all this old chap?” He polished his spectacles once more, (though they were perfectly clean).
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“Well see here, old chap,” explained Sir Bertie, getting up from behind his desk and walking across to a large map on the wall. “Here is the Kingdom of Morocco. Here, and down here, is where many of the slaves are sourced from. Kidnapped from their homes and villages and forced onto ships bound for the Americas. Or in the scenario of interest to us at the moment, marched across the desolate Sahara to the eastern edges of the Atlas Mountains and from there, via some unknown route, across the mountains and into Marrakech, where they are sold. Most end up being marched onwards to Casablanca from where they are shipped to the Americas.”
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“Terrible business, Bertie, terrible, but I don't see what I can do about it?”
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“Well, there is one thing, Wrinklebottom.” Bertie paused.
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“Do tell old chap.”
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Sir Bertie returned to his desk and finished off his whisky in one gulp. “Her Majesty has agreed to a number of, shall we say ‘less orthodox’ attempts to further restrict the trade in slaves from Africa. One of these being a number of somewhat clandestine operations to er, degrade the capability of one or two of the king-pins of the trade.”
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“Oh, I see,” said Lord Wrinklebottom thoughtfully. “A most enterprising and somewhat adventurous undertaking for Her Majesty.”
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“Indeed. And a matter of the utmost secrecy, as you can well imagine.”
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“Of course, of course, old boy. Mum's the word.”
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“Her Majesty has asked The British and Foreign Anti-Slavery Society to provide what information we may have on suspected king-pins of the trade, along with any supporting evidence that may be useful in a clandestine operation.”
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“Do go on, old boy. It sounds fascinating.”
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“Indeed it is Wrinklebottom, and that is where you come in.”
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“Me?” queried Lord Wrinklebottom a little taken back. “But I'm afraid I don't know any slavery king-pins, old boy. Of course, I'd be only too happy to hand them over if I did, but I'm all out of nefarious slave-trading acquaintances at the moment.” He paused thoughtfully, wondering briefly if the question was indeed a slur on his otherwise impeccable reputation.
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“No one is suggesting for a moment, Wrinklebottom, that you have any involvement in slave trading,” laughed Sir Bertie, “but I recall that some years ago, you were in Morocco on another private matter, and no doubt you obtained some useful understanding of the Kingdom and experience dealing with the people.”
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Lord Wrinklebottom paused and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Yes, yes, there was the small matter of the Headless Goat. But that is quite a while ago now, old boy. I'm not so sure my experience would be all that useful these days.”
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“The Kingdom is a very traditional place, Wrinklebottom. Things don't change fast there. I'm sure your experience will be most useful.”
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“Oh Bertie, you know I'd like to help. It's a dastardly business and I'd be as glad as anyone to see it wiped off the planet, but I'm getting on a little you know, not the brazen and adventurous youngster I used to be.”
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“Codswallop Wrinklebottom, you're fit as a fiddle and itching for adventure. This is just your cup of tea.”
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“Hmmm, tea. Now that's a good idea. Any chance of a cup, Bertie old boy?”
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“Of course, of course, most remiss of me.” Sir Bertie rang the silver bell on his desk and within moments a most efficient looking young lady came and was given instructions for tea, which arrived a few minutes later.
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“You certainly know how to make a good cup of tea, Bertie, I'll give you that,” said Lord Wrinklebottom as he placed his cup and saucer down on the table beside him after taking a long sip.
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“They do wonderful mint tea in the Kingdom you know, Wrinklebottom,” reminded Sir Bertie. “There's nothing quite like the taste of fresh mint tea. Somehow it's never the same when I try to make it back here in Old Blighty.”
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“True, true,” sighed Lord Wrinklebottom, sinking back in the deep leather chair.
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“This is a truly weighty matter, Wrinklebottom. A chance to play a part in momentous events. Change the course of world history.”
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“Yes, a truly worthy cause, Bertie. Truly worthy. But it's just not something I can contemplate right now, old man. There are a number of pressing matters back at the Hall, some affairs of state to be seen to and some family matters with a long-lost nephew. I'm sorry old chap, but it's simply not possible. I'll have to decline your kind offer of adventure and derring-do.”
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“I'm truly sorry to hear that, old man. Truly sorry. Of course, I respect your decision, but do let me know if you change your mind. People like you are difficult to find.”
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“Of course I will, old boy, of course.”
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