The Alternative Take on "Around the World in Eighty Days"

September 30th 1872

An extract from Hansard, the report of the Parliamentary Day

The Speaker: Order, order! The House will come to order. I now call upon the Chancellor of the Exchequer to deliver his statement.

The Chancellor of the Exchequer: Mr. Speaker, it is with considerable gravity that I rise before this honourable House to address a matter of significant public concern, one that has been circulating widely since the events of yesterday afternoon became known. Indeed, I can now confirm that the rumours which have stirred much consternation in the capital are, regrettably, true. The Bank of England has experienced a substantial and unprecedented loss, the details of which I shall now present to the House.

The incident to which I refer took place three days ago within the Bank’s premises, involving the inexplicable disappearance of a package of banknotes valued at fifty-five thousand pounds. This considerable sum was stolen directly from the principal cashier’s table. At the time of the theft, the cashier was occupied with the rather inconsequential task of recording the receipt of a payment amounting to merely three shillings and sixpence—a trivial matter which, unfortunately, diverted his attention. In that brief moment, the package of banknotes was taken, and despite the presence of other staff within the room, it vanished without detection.

The honourable members may well be aware of the unique operations of the Bank of England. It is an institution that places a profound and, some might argue, excessive trust in the honesty and goodwill of the public. The safeguarding of its treasures—gold, silver, and notes—is conducted in a manner which many would consider lax. There are no guards, no gratings, no barriers to protect these assets from theft or mishandling. Indeed, such is the Bank’s confidence that it allows the public to handle its reserves with little supervision.

To illustrate this point, I will recount an observation made by a visitor to the Bank. This gentleman noted that while in one of the Bank's rooms, he handled a gold ingot of some seven or eight pounds in weight. He passed it to another visitor, and it continued down the line, being passed from hand to hand, until it was carried off into a dark corridor. It took a full half-hour before the ingot was returned to its place, during which time the cashier, engrossed in his duties, had not even raised his head. Such instances, while often harmless, highlight the extraordinary level of trust inherent in the Bank’s operations.

However, Mr. Speaker, in this particular case, the consequences were far from harmless. As the clock struck five in the “drawing office” of the Bank on the day in question, the package of notes remained missing. With no explanation as to their whereabouts, the matter was duly recorded under the dismal heading of “profit and loss,” as per the Bank’s customary practice when such incidents occur.

Mr. Speaker, this situation has understandably raised significant concerns about the security measures—or lack thereof—at the nation’s premier financial institution. While the Bank of England has long upheld its practices, this event has brought to light the inherent vulnerabilities in relying on the honour of individuals without more stringent safeguards in place. The loss of fifty-five thousand pounds is a heavy blow, and I trust that this House will join me in calling for a thorough investigation into the matter. I also anticipate that this unfortunate event will precipitate discussions regarding potential reforms to ensure that the resources of the Bank are better protected in future.

I now leave it to the House to deliberate on the gravity of this situation and to consider the necessary steps to prevent such incidents from recurring.

The Speaker: I now call upon the Shadow Chancellor.

The Shadow Chancellor: Mr. Speaker, I wish to begin by thanking the Chancellor for providing me with prior sight of his statement, as is customary. However, I fear that the gratitude ends there, for while the Chancellor may have delivered his statement with poise, the content of that statement is nothing short of an indictment of his Government’s staggering incompetence.

Let us make no mistake, Mr. Speaker, the Chancellor’s account of this £55,000 theft from the Bank of England reads more like a comedy of errors than a serious financial affair. Yet there is nothing humorous about the facts before us. Fifty-five thousand pounds—a sum that could fund entire districts in need, relieve the poor, or build schools—has disappeared under the Chancellor's watch. And the only explanation offered is that it was whisked away while the Bank’s cashier was busy recording a trivial three shillings and sixpence! The public, rightly so, will be shaking their heads in disbelief.

Mr. Speaker, I find it appalling that the Chancellor stands before us today and expects this House to accept such a lamentable tale with little more than a shrug and the hope that ‘lessons will be learned.’ His own words betray the failure of the Government's oversight. He admits, with an air of nonchalance, that the Bank of England operates under conditions where ‘gold, silver, and banknotes are freely exposed, at the mercy of the first comer.’ Is this not an indictment of their lax governance? The Bank of England, the very institution tasked with guarding the nation's wealth, is little more than an open vault, waiting for any opportunistic rogue to help themselves!

Let me be clear, Mr. Speaker, the events of the past three days have revealed gross negligence, not just within the Bank, but also in the broader governance that permits such reckless practices to persist. The Chancellor has attempted to soften the blow by suggesting that such incidents are rare, that the Bank, as he put it, 'reposes a touching confidence in the honesty of the public.' Touching? Perhaps. Foolish? Absolutely.

Mr. Speaker, this country does not run on touching confidence. It runs on trust, accountability, and security—principles that this Government appears to have forgotten. How can the people of Britain trust that their savings, their livelihoods, their futures are secure when the institution holding the wealth of the nation is allowed to operate in such a slipshod manner?

But, Mr. Speaker, there is a deeper issue here. The Chancellor may wish us to view this affair as a singular incident, a mere blip on the radar of an otherwise stable financial system. But it is not singular. It is emblematic of a broader culture of complacency that pervades this Government. Whether it be the handling of national finances, the regulation of the Bank of England, or the protection of public money, this Government has shown time and again that it is asleep at the wheel.

And what of the Chancellor’s so-called reforms, Mr. Speaker? After such a scandal, one might expect the Chancellor to have stood at that despatch box and announced an immediate overhaul of security measures, new protocols, firmer regulations. Yet what did we hear? Nothing. Not a single concrete proposal, not a whisper of decisive action. The Chancellor, it seems, is content to let the matter rest with the passage of time, hoping that the public will forget this travesty. I assure him that they will not.

Mr. Speaker, the nation deserves better than a Chancellor who comes before this House with little more than apologies and platitudes. We need a government that is willing to act swiftly and decisively in the face of such grave failures. We need leaders who will not allow fifty-five thousand pounds of public money to vanish without a full reckoning. And most importantly, we need safeguards that ensure this never happens again.

So, Mr. Speaker, while the Chancellor may offer us his apologies today, let him be reminded that the British public expect more than apologies—they expect accountability, they expect action, and they expect their government to secure the nation’s finances with the vigilance and integrity that has been so conspicuously lacking.

The Speaker: I now call upon the Honourable Member from Dublin, St. Robert's Bay

Leader of the Irish Home Rule Members: Mr. Speaker, I rise today with a deep sense of duty, for while we debate this scandalous loss of £55,000 from the coffers of the Bank of England, I am reminded that such an enormous sum of money is, for many in my native Ireland, a lifetime’s work—indeed, far more than they will ever see in their hard and humble labours. It is a sum that could lift whole families from the clutches of poverty, feed entire communities, and ease the burdens of those who have long suffered under mismanagement, neglect, and oppression.

Mr. Speaker, while the members of this House may gasp at the audacity of the theft itself, let us not forget that such vast sums are not abstract to those who toil in the fields of Ireland, Scotland, or Wales. They represent real lives—lives of struggle, of sacrifice, and of hardship. And yet, here we are, discussing the loss of this wealth as though it were a fleeting misfortune, a regrettable but ultimately tolerable oversight. The truth, Mr. Speaker, is that this episode demonstrates the gulf that exists between this Parliament and the needs of the people we claim to represent.

Now, Mr. Speaker, I have heard it said, time and again in this chamber, that the unity of these Isles is sacrosanct, that Westminster knows best, and that our destiny as one United Kingdom is our strength. But I ask, where is the strength in a system that allows £55,000 to disappear under such careless circumstances, while across Ireland and Scotland and Wales, people live in destitution? Where is the unity in a government that places the wealth of London above the well-being of its own citizens in the outlying nations?

I say to this House: Perhaps this calamity is the very example we need to wake us from our complacency. Perhaps it is time to consider that those of us who believe in Home Rule for Ireland, Scotland, and Wales have a point, and that our calls for autonomy are not simply matters of pride or patriotism, but matters of practical governance. For if this Parliament cannot safeguard its own finances, if it cannot keep watch over its own treasury, how can we trust it to govern distant lands with the care and attention that they so desperately need?

Mr. Speaker, the case for Home Rule has never been more apparent than it is today. The affairs of Ireland, Scotland, and Wales cannot continue to be managed by a Parliament so distanced from the realities of life in these nations. We have seen in this instance how oversight has failed here in London, under the very noses of those who sit in power. How much more, then, must oversight fail when it comes to the concerns of Dublin, of Edinburgh, of Cardiff?

It is time for this House to acknowledge that the peoples of these lands deserve the right to manage their own affairs, to protect their own wealth, and to chart their own course forward. This £55,000 may have been lost to negligence, but let us not lose the opportunity it presents to rectify the negligence that has long been suffered by those who live beyond the shadow of Westminster.

Let us take this as a reason to move swiftly towards Home Rule—towards a system where the nations of Ireland, Scotland, and Wales can govern themselves, free from the failures that we have witnessed today. I call upon this House to recognise that autonomy is not a threat to the United Kingdom but a strengthening of its parts. And I urge my honourable colleagues to seize this moment, for the sake of justice, fairness, and the future of these Isles.

October 1st, 1872

Diary of Inspector Fix, Scotland Yard

It has been three days since the audacious robbery at the Bank of England, and the matter has become the subject of much discourse across London. The missing £55,000 looms like a dark cloud over the city, but something about this whole affair doesn't sit right with me. It is not the kind of mystery that solves itself with a quick glance or a cursory investigation; no, this is something altogether more intricate. Like Le Chevalier C. Auguste Dupin, whose methods I admire, I, too, have been making silent observations and forming inferences that others seem to have overlooked. The official report published by the Bank of England reeks of complacency.

The bank, that supposed fortress of English finance, practically invites crime with its astonishing trust in the honor of the public. Gold, silver, banknotes—everything lies open for the taking, free from the protective barriers that any reasonable institution would erect. It is an invitation, a temptation too easy for an opportunist to resist. Such was the case last Friday. Jenkins, the unfortunate teller, was found unconscious and taken to St. Bart's Hospital with a head injury that rendered him insensible. And yet, the details surrounding his injury remain conspicuously vague. The official account would have us believe that this was mere misfortune, unconnected to the disappearance of the notes. I am not so sure.

The robbery, it seems to me, was not a simple case of some cunning thief picking up the notes unnoticed. No, it was far more deliberate. £55,000 does not simply vanish. Consider this: Jenkins was struck down at the very moment the package of notes was being inspected, the cashier distracted by the registering of a trifling sum—three shillings and sixpence. The robber must have been observing the scene closely, waiting for the exact moment when Jenkins's back was turned. And then, THWACK—Jenkins was struck on the head. The assailant, I suspect, simply reached over, took the package, and walked out, blending into the oblivious crowd.

What strikes me as most curious is that there were no reports of struggle, no cries of alarm. The blow to Jenkins was precise, intended not to kill but to incapacitate. There is a method here, a calculated strike, not the reckless violence of a common criminal. I must speak to Jenkins once he recovers, for he holds the key to understanding this. Did he see the man, perhaps? Did the thief ask him some innocent question, distract him with idle chatter before delivering that fatal blow to his consciousness? This is not the work of some desperate opportunist. It is the hand of someone who knows the Bank, knows its routines and its vulnerabilities.

And then there is the missing £55,000—an odd sum to steal. Why not take more, or less, or why not gold? It suggests that the thief knew exactly what he was after. The notes were removed for inspection, and our criminal was likely present when this occurred. Perhaps he was biding his time, waiting for the exact moment when all eyes were elsewhere. There was no need for a grand scheme; the Bank's laxity provided the opportunity. The only challenge was knowing when to act, and our thief knew. He saw the package, watched Jenkins, and made his move.

What troubles me most is that this robbery, in its simplicity, feels too perfect. The robber knew the exact moment to strike, the precise amount of force to use against Jenkins, and how to slip away unnoticed with the money in hand. I cannot shake the feeling that this is not the work of a single man but part of something larger, something that we have yet to uncover.

As the hours pass, I feel the weight of the case bearing down upon me. I must think like Dupin, and I must remain patient. The pieces are all before me, scattered like leaves in the wind, and yet I feel the threads of the mystery tightening around the thief. I will visit the Bank again tomorrow, revisit the scene, and perhaps the shadows will begin to recede. There is more to this case, I am certain of it. The £55,000 will not remain hidden for long, and when the time comes, I will be ready.

But for now, I must wait—and watch.

October 2nd 1872 (10.00am)

This morning began with the sort of peculiarities only this agency seems destined to experience. Upon arriving at the office, I found two letters on my desk, each more exasperating than the last.

The first letter came from none other than Jean Passepartout, presently employed by Lord Longferry. In it, he politely, though with palpable frustration, requested to resign. It seems he has grown weary of dragging Lord Longferry home from yet another tavern, the man's indulgences proving too much for even the most steadfast of servants. Passepartout wrote with an admirable restraint, but his sentiment was clear: the man is a menace when drunk, and Passepartout can no longer stand it. Who could blame him? Lord Longferry’s habits have been the source of much consternation, not only for his poor liver but for those in his employ.

The second letter came from the infamous Mr. Phileas Fogg, a gentleman whose precise demands have tested the agency more times than I can count. In his typical curt fashion, Mr. Fogg informed me that he has dismissed Forster, his servant, for what he deemed an unforgivable error—bringing him shaving water at a tepid 84°F when, as Mr. Fogg so rigorously insists, it must be exactly 86°F. It appears that Forster, a man of otherwise commendable service, failed to maintain the exacting standards that Fogg demands in all things, no matter how minute.

Given this, I found myself once again at my wit’s end. Our agency has long wrestled with finding suitable servants for Mr. Fogg—few can match his fastidiousness for long. Yet, with Passepartout’s resignation from Lord Longferry, a solution presented itself. Perhaps Passepartout, with his resilience, might withstand the peculiarities of Mr. Fogg. I have dispatched him for an 11.00am appointment this very morning.

I can only hope that Passepartout is up to the task. Mr. Fogg’s insistence on precision leaves no room for error, and I fear Passepartout’s resourcefulness will be sorely tested in such an environment. Still, if there is one man capable of such a challenge, it may very well be him.

Time will tell if this match proves fortuitous—or if, by the end of the week, I shall have yet another letter of resignation on my desk.

R.W. Fletcher, Proprietor of Fletcher & Co. Manservant Agency

October 2nd 1872 (7.45pm)

Today marks the start of something truly remarkable, something that has left me both astonished and somewhat sentimental. I have always been a man of dignity, a pillar of the Reform Club, and yet, in my advancing years, I find myself caught up in the wildest of enterprises—all because of Phileas Fogg.

It began innocuously enough, as most great adventures do, with idle conversation over a game of whist. The subject of the day—the audacious robbery at the Bank of England—led to a discussion about the world, its vastness (or lack thereof), and the wonders of modern travel. I, in a moment of nostalgia for my younger days, remarked on how different things were when I was but a lad. The world seemed larger then, and journeys that now take mere days stretched into months, even years. I said, half in jest, that if I were a younger man, I would take up the challenge the Daily Telegraph had outlined, circumnavigating the globe in eighty days.

Of course, Stuart, ever the cynic, couldn’t resist. "Well, go on, then!" he mocked. I felt the eyes of the room turn toward me, their expectation a burden on my shoulders. I hesitated, embarrassed that my bravado had sparked such attention. But before I could respond, Phileas, who had been uncharacteristically quiet during the debate, placed his hand on my shoulder—a steady, reassuring gesture. He leaned in close and whispered, "You stay right there, my friend."

There was something in his voice, something that made me feel as though I had been spared an ordeal by my own grandson. Phileas Fogg, of course, is no relation to me, and yet, in that moment, he treated me as though I were a dear relative—a grandfather, perhaps, who had overstepped his bounds in claiming more vigor than he actually possessed. And then, with an air of quiet authority, Fogg did something I never would have anticipated—he accepted the challenge on my behalf. Nay, on his own behalf! Before I knew what was happening, the talk turned from jest to wager, and the matter was settled with signatures and a cheque for twenty thousand pounds.

I could scarcely believe it when the memorandum was drawn up. Fogg wagered that he could circle the globe in just eighty days—nineteen hundred and twenty hours! Such an undertaking! The thought of it seemed absurd, and yet there was Phileas, as calm as ever, speaking of his calculations, of jumping from train to steamer with the precision of clockwork, as if the entire world was but a part of his own routine. Even now, hours later, I still find it difficult to comprehend. It was as if he were simply planning another one of his monotonous days, moving through life with that unflappable serenity of his.

As the terms of the wager were finalized, I couldn’t help but feel a curious warmth in my chest. Fogg’s gesture today—quiet, steady, almost familial—has made me reflect on the man himself. He is so stoic, so methodical, and yet I suspect there is a deep well of affection within him that few ever see. In his own peculiar way, I believe he sees me as a figure of some importance, perhaps even as a father or, more fancifully, a grandfather. There is a tenderness there, beneath all that meticulous reserve. I have known many men in my time, but none quite like Phileas Fogg. He is a puzzle, a man of rare composure and determination, and yet there is kindness in him too, one that I had not recognized before.

He has set off now, as I write this. I watched him leave the Club, calm as ever, with that blasted wager hanging over his head like a sword. A part of me wanted to tell him to stop, to retract his words and stay here in the safety of Pall Mall, but I knew better. Fogg would never allow himself to withdraw from such a challenge, not once he had set his mind to it. And, I must admit, there is a thrill in the air tonight, an electricity I haven’t felt in years. Could it be that Fogg will do it? Could he really circle the globe in eighty days?

I shall follow his journey closely, of course, as will all of London. For now, though, I sit in my chair by the fire, comforted by the knowledge that I do not have to embark on such an ordeal myself. The Reform Club remains my world, small and contained, and Phileas—well, Phileas will conquer the rest of it, I am sure. Perhaps when he returns, triumphant and victorious, I shall welcome him back as one would a beloved grandson who has gone off to war and come home a hero.

Until then, I shall keep my place here, watching, waiting, and wishing him Godspeed.

Lord Albermarle, Chairman of the Reform Club

October 3rd 1872 (7.15am Paris time)

My journey around the world progresses splendidly thus far. As planned, I departed from Charing Cross at precisely 8:45pm, in perfect accordance with my meticulous schedule. The ferry was caught at Dover just after midnight, and we arrived in Calais a little past two in the morning, by Paris time. As I reclined in my compartment, preparing to secure a few hours of much-needed rest, an unexpected incident unfolded.

It began when the conductor approached with an unusual request. A lady, who introduced herself as the Countess d'Hiver—14th to hold that title—had sought a change of compartment, citing concerns for her safety. A woman of apparent nobility, traveling to Brindisi to tend to an ill relative, she presented herself with remarkable grace and composure. Wishing her relative a swift recovery, I offered her the security of my presence and instructed Passepartout to lower the lights for the night.

Yet, instead of lowering the lights, the Countess herself switched them completely off. At that moment, a series of inexplicable events transpired. Passepartout gasped audibly; a cry of unmistakable pain, decidedly masculine in nature, pierced the darkness. Amid the confusion, I distinctly heard the words "Bloody Idiot!" shouted in English—though to whom they were directed remains unclear.

Before I could respond or inquire further, the Countess fled the compartment with surprising haste, leaving Passepartout on the floor, clutching the bag containing my funds as if his life depended on it. Upon restoring light to the room, I found him in a most unusual state, though physically unharmed.

There is much to reflect on regarding this strange occurrence. Though no tangible harm has been done, I cannot help but ponder the Countess's motives and the origin of the mysterious howl. Regardless, I must maintain focus on my journey—there are yet many miles ahead of us.

Phileas Fogg

October 4th 1872, onboard Ship, En Route from Brindisi to Suez

This afternoon, we were docked in Brindisi, still in pursuit of our quarry, Mr. Phileas Fogg. I, with that hapless constable Bullman in tow, had kept a close eye on Fogg, whom I am ever more convinced is the very scoundrel responsible for the theft of £55,000 from the Bank of England.

Our surveillance, however, was interrupted by an unexpected scene. As we followed Mr. Fogg through the narrow, bustling streets of Brindisi, three hulking Italian sailors—men who looked as though they could break a man in two—suddenly surrounded him. I assumed at first they were some unfortunate victims of Mr. Fogg's cold, aloof arrogance. Bullman, ever the simpleton, could only mutter something about how "gentlemanly" Mr. Fogg appeared.

But what transpired next could only be described as alarming. Mr. Fogg, without the slightest hesitation or trace of fear, engaged these ruffians with nothing more than his cane—yes, the same cane which I suspect struck poor Jenkins, the teller at the Bank of England. In a swift, almost effortless manner, Fogg dispatched the three sailors with blows so precise and efficient that it was clear this was no ordinary gentleman. No, this was the calculated work of a man accustomed to violence. There was no rhyme or reason to the altercation. No provocation on his part, no grievance aired between them, only a methodical dismantling of his adversaries.

Bullman, the fool, could not stop extolling the virtues of this "impressive show of skill," claiming it to be "an act that would make any gentleman proud." I, however, was not so easily swayed. This was no act of pride but rather a demonstration of the very abilities that I believe enabled him to carry out the robbery in London. The dexterity, the control, and the uncanny skill—these are not the traits of a simple world traveler but of a man who has dark dealings hidden beneath his polished exterior.

Mr. Fogg is not just a man of the world. He is a man of precision and purpose—perhaps the very man who knocked poor Jenkins unconscious and absconded with the funds of the Bank of England.

I must keep watch. Whatever happens, I cannot allow him to slip through my fingers. Even if Bullman continues to marvel at his "noble spirit," I know better. The man we pursue is no mere gentleman—he is a dangerous criminal.

Inspector Fix

Today, an unfortunate but necessary incident transpired while we were passing through the streets of Brindisi. I consider the use of force to be a deplorable option, but I maintain that it is sometimes justified by its outcome, particularly when one's person is accosted by individuals of ill-repute.

As Passepartout and I strolled toward the docks, three rather robust sailors, evidently lacking in both decorum and manners, sought to impede our progress. They muttered something in rough Italian, and when I inquired after the meaning, Passepartout turned an uncharacteristic shade of red before translating. "Monsieur, they are swearing at you," he stammered, clearly embarrassed by their vulgarity.

I took a deep breath. A gentleman does not succumb to provocation, yet I found myself bound by an unspoken duty to uphold civility, even in foreign lands. I firmly scolded these sailors for their poor behavior, reminding them of the impropriety of using foul language in public. Alas, they responded by advancing upon me, their brutish intentions clear.

I had no choice but to defend myself. Fortunately, I had long ago acquired certain skills during an encounter with a martial arts practitioner who had once visited the Reform Club. His instruction had left a lasting impression, and today, it served me well.

With the very cane I carry on my travels, I swiftly employed the techniques I had been taught. A series of deft movements neutralized the threat they posed, leaving the three sailors sprawled on the ground, groaning from the impacts they had received. The entire episode lasted but a few moments.

As they lay there, defeated and utterly disoriented, I took the opportunity to reprimand them once more. "And get your mothers to teach you some manners," I said, adjusting my hat, "I mean, really!"

Passepartout seemed both amused and impressed, though I suspect he is too modest to say so. I regret that the situation escalated as it did, but I cannot tolerate incivility. I only hope that the lesson imparted will deter those ruffians from behaving so boorishly in the future.

Phileas Fogg

The Offical Record of Scotland Yard (October 4th 1872)

At precisely 2:27 p.m. this afternoon, I received a telegraph from Inspector Fix, who is presently pursuing a suspect abroad. In his message, Inspector Fix formally requested that a warrant for the immediate arrest of one Mr. Phileas Fogg be transmitted to the authorities in Suez with all possible haste.

Inspector Fix has provided, as justification for this warrant, an incident that took place in Brindisi, Italy, during which he personally witnessed Mr. Fogg commit an unprovoked and, by all appearances, senseless attack on three Italian sailors. According to Inspector Fix's account, Mr. Fogg, using a cane, single-handedly assaulted these sailors without any discernible motive or provocation, inflicting grievous bodily harm upon them.

Fix further contends that this violent outburst is consistent with the character of an individual capable of carrying out the robbery of £55,000 from the Bank of England, a crime for which Mr. Fogg is already a primary suspect.

This matter shall be given the utmost priority, and the necessary steps will be taken to ensure that the warrant reaches the authorities in Suez posthaste.

Commissioner Sir Charles Rowan, Scotland Yard