BOTCHER and I carried the chest up to Fleet Street, the publishing hub of the city, home to numerous publishers and, I'm told, a particularly fastidious barber.

We entered the plush reception of one such publishing house, Quilliam & Son, a much venerated company who had been stationed at the heart of London's literary scene since 1700. It had published numerous prestigious titles in its history, sweeping historical epics, autobiographies of the great and good, genre-defining novels that changed the very face of fiction. Naturally, I thought that my diaries would fit in perfectly with their catalogue, and it was with this confidence that I strode up to the round desk situated in the tall, airy room lined with copies of their much celebrated books. 

"Good afternoon, how may I help you?" enquired the lady behind the desk, peering over the top of her spectacles at me.

"Good morning, m'dear," I said, switching on the old charm. "I am here to sell the rights to my diaries to your most august enterprise!"

"I see," said she. "And do you have an appointment?"

I chuckled heartily. "M'dear, I am Lord Likely! Aristocrat and peer of the realm! I do not make appointments! Appointments are made for me!"

"That is all well and good, but Mr. Quilliam is a rather busy man," the lady faltered. 

"I am sure he shall find time for me. If you could just toddle along and bring my presence to his attention, I am sure that he would be delighted to hear what I have to offer."

The lady sighed and motioned towards some chairs nearby. "If you could please take a seat, I shall see if he is available," she said. I nodded my gratitude and took a seat.

"Honestly, the nerve of the woman, eh?" I said to Botcher as we sat waiting for her return. "'Do you have an appointment' indeed! Honestly, you give one iota of power to these people and they think that they are Gods!"

"It's a real outrage," said Botcher, unconvincingly. 

"It is! We didn't build an Empire by booking appointments, Botcher. We just strode on in and got what we wanted. Never forget that!"

"Certainly something to think about," Botcher sighed, lighting a cigarette.

Finally, the lady made her way back over to us. "I am deeply sorry, but Mr. Quilliam has a packed schedule today, and simply cannot take any further meetings," she said, apologetically.

"Balderdash!" I exclaimed, leaping to my feet. "If he cannot see me, then I shall see HIM!" And with that I strode off, the lady's useless protestations fading into the distance as I mounted the stairwell. 

Botcher and I eventually found ourselves stood in front of a large, imposing oak door. I straightened my tie and turned to my manservant.

"Now watch and learn, Botcher. Watch and learn!"

I kicked the door open and bellowed inside. "ATTENTION! I have something thick and enticing to show you!"

"Er, I'm sure it's very impressive but I'm not sure that this is really the time.." came a weak voice from a nearby cubicle.

"I think this is a bathroom, boss," said Botcher, appearing by my side.

"Yes, I can see that now," I nodded, surveying the rather opulent bathroom facilities that we found ourselves in. 

"I'm definitely learning something," Botcher added.

"Oh, be quiet!" I snapped, turning on my heels and striding off down the hall. I stopped outside a large set of double doors marked 'Mr. Quilliam', and satisfied that this was the correct room, I once again kicked the doors open.

"ATTENTION!" I began, only to be immediately shushed by a wizened old man, stooped over with age and walking very slowly towards me with the aid of a cane. He looked like he was only held together by the copious liver spots dotted over his flesh.

"Hush, hush!" he whispered. 

"Ah! Mr. Quilliam, I presume?" I smiled, extending a hand.

"Well, yes... and yet, no," the old man said. Marvellous, I thought to myself. The old duffer has lost his marbles.

"I AM HERE TO SEE MR. QUILLIAM, ARE YOU HE?" I shouted, figuring this might better penetrate the man's fogged faculties.

"There's no need to shout, young man!" the fellow snapped. "I heard you the first time perfectly well. I am A Mr. Quilliam, but not THE Mr. Quilliam, you see." 

I sighed. "Do you have someone who looks after you, sir?" I said slowly.

The man tutted.

"Honestly, you're a very brusque whippersnapper," he said. "I am, to be quite clear, Mr. Quilliam's son!"

I gasped. If this doddering old fool was the son, just how decrepit would Quilliam senior be?

"So where is Quilliam the elder?" I asked. But before the old fellow could muster a reply, there was a loud thudding sound from a neighbouring room. A door opened between the rooms, and then in stomped a sight so utterly fantastical that I was left wondering if I was not still wildly inebriated.

It was Mr. Quilliam the senior, but far from simply being another old man, he was encased in a large suit of chrome and cogs and conduits, with a set of pipes on the back which released great clouds of steam with every step he took. Only his elderly head was shorn of any of this armour, a wrinkled old face with a bushy, white walrus moustache, and a top hat perched comically atop his dome. 

"Good day," Quilliam said, gears grinding and steam hissing as he moved his big, robotic arm up to his head to doff his hat. "Mr. Quilliam at your service. You must be Lord Likely, no?"

"Fucking hell," I said.

- Lord Likely.