The Derring-Do Club and the Empire of the Dead (17 page)

“Does he wear a uniform?”

“The finest.”

“Oh good.”

“But that will weaken us, spread the inheritances to others,” the Graf said.

“You fool!” The dowager struggled to turn on him, with her stick in her right hand, she waved away assistance with the other. “The solution is simply: this Princess marries our King, binding that throne to us as required, but she bears only girls, freeing us to marry you, Gustav, and Pieter in a wider circle.”

“No!” Pieter protested: “She’s so young.”

“It matters not.”

The dowager left, her stick clicking across the stone. The others waited and then processed out, leaving only Charlotte and Earnestine. The dead Queen, utterly abandoned by her family, stared up accusingly, her eyes seemed to follow Charlotte as she moved to Earnestine.

“She killed herself,” Charlotte said. “I poured the drinks and the tonic… she called it a tonic.”

Earnestine ignored her and went over to the Queen’s body. Charlotte steeled herself as she watched her sister bend over and close the Queen’s eyes before finding a shawl to put over her face.

“I wonder why she killed herself,” Earnestine mused.

“She said that some fates are worse than death.”

“Are you happy now?”

“It wasn’t my fault.”

“It’s never your fault, is it, Lottie?”

“I’m going to be a Queen.”

“Congratulations on your promotion, Your Majesty.”

Earnestine was such a cow, a horrible, unkind, cow, who didn’t appreciate Charlotte no matter what she did: Princess, soon to be a Queen, but Charlotte was still treated like a little girl. Earnestine hated her because Charlotte knew how to have fun and Earnestine was just a spoil sport.

“You’re only jealous because I’ve been proposed to by two Princes… and now a King, and you’re an old maid.”

“Charlotte, it’s not a competition,” Earnestine replied sternly. “The Crown Prince can’t have proposed if he’s not met you.”

“Just because you haven’t had a proposal.”

“As a matter of fact, I have… a fine gentleman… and it’s none of your business.”

“What did you say?”

“It didn’t happen.”

“He wasn’t good enough for you, I suppose.”

“Have you met their King?”

“No,” Charlotte sniffed, “but I’m sure he’s nice and much better than your stupid ‘fine gentleman’.”

They sat for a long time pointedly staring away from each other. A chill settled; the room wasn’t heated, the sisters were not speaking and there was a body in the room. Charlotte decided she was going to be regal, practice made perfect after all and she must get used to being superior to everyone, although mostly she did this to irritate Earnestine. Or maybe Earnestine was now waiting to be spoken to before speaking. Well, as far as Charlotte was concerned, she could wait in silence forever.

“You should be happy for me,” Charlotte said.

“You must accept the consequences of your actions,” Earnestine replied. “The woman here talked about a fate worse than death.”

“I’m sure that’s just to keep people in line and it doesn’t apply to royalty.”

“Some people need to be kept in line.”

“Will you be my maid of honour?”

“No.”

“I’ll send for Georgina then,” said Charlotte.

“I don’t think that would be wise,” Earnestine said. “There’s something going on here and I intend to find out what.”

“That sounds like an adventure.”

“Don’t be impertinent.”

“You can’t talk to me like that anymore, I’m royalty.”

“Not yet.”

The door opened, held ajar to allow the dowager Gräfin to enter.

“My dear,” she said “we must prepare you to meet your future husband.”

Charlotte stood, smoothed her dress in front of her and dutifully went over. The old crone gripped her shoulder using her as a support. Charlotte winced, but kept quiet and allowed herself to be drawn out into the corridor.

Earnestine counted to ten and then followed.

The Gräfin held up an imperious finger: “Not you!”

Earnestine stopped and bowed to both the dowager Gräfin and Charlotte.

“Family only,” said the Gräfin, putting her arm around Charlotte and leading her away.

Chapter IX

Miss Deering-Dolittle

For the first time since she had arrived at the castle, Earnestine was alone. She had seen the war room of the Great Plan, Pieter’s task, and so there must be an equivalent room for the Graf Gustav Zala’s machinations for his Great War. All the family would be off to see Charlotte’s future husband, the Crown Prince, and so there was an opportunity to seize.

She pushed her head up, chin out, shoulders back, and strode into the corridor. There were soldiers on guard, who started to snap to attention until they realised her lowly status.

“I’m on an errand for the Prince,” she announced.

“Ich spreche kein Englisch.”

“I’m on an… OUT OF MY WAY!”

As the two confused soldiers snapped to attention, Earnestine strode imperiously past them and down the corridor. Prince Pieter’s rooms were behind her, so ahead must be the answers she sought. Around the corner, there was a window that afforded a view of the north side of the castle. Below, perched on a plateau, were factories. She knew what they were because she had seen paintings of such buildings at the National Gallery on Trafalgar Square. The chimneys belched smoke and men, like tiny ants, scurried about. Leaning against the cold glass, she could hear clanging: blacksmiths perhaps, or machines.

Right, she thought, obtain some evidence, escape and inform the nearest consulate of the situation. The Ambassador would then have words with the Austro–Hungarian authorities – they wouldn’t want him to have to inform Her Britannic Majesty, would they? – and all this would go away. Charlotte would be sent home, Earnestine would have a proper talk with her, and then she’d have words with Georgina for letting the silly girl get into such mischief.

Below the castle, there were carts and a railway station of sorts: transport.

At the end of this corridor, a spiral staircase led down, but it was full of soldiers, the spikes of their helmets stabbing up and down foolishly as they traipsed up and down the stairs. Those going up were laden with canisters. These were a variety of shapes and sizes: some with fins, others with nozzles, and identified by a stencilled letters and numbers in one of four colours: yellow, blue, red or black. It was as if there were two long lines of ants, one carrying their eggs upwards and the other returning for duty. Up and down, round and round, busier and busier, and blocking Earnestine’s way.

Going down the stairs, passing every soldier by yelling ‘out of my way’ was bound to attract attention and she needed to slip away without being noticed. She’d need time before anyone realised she was missing to make good her escape.

But how?

Just as she was beginning to despair, two men dropped a canister. It clattered to the floor and burst, showering everyone with its contents. Clearly the canisters, or at least the one dropped, were pressurised.

The men panicked, swore and fled, only to be beaten back by another, a sergeant of some kind. Earnestine couldn’t follow the rapid shouting, but she understood the meaning well enough: the sergeant, or whatever he was, was berating the useless men for carelessness and endangering everyone. Earnestine got the distinct impression from the terror, and the evident relief that followed, that they had been lucky – very lucky.

The sergeant finished his reprimand and sent the men away. This was their mess and they would have to clear it up.

The landing was empty, briefly. Earnestine seized her chance and crossed, but curiosity got the better of her. The canister was labelled in blue, ‘TZ–146’, with a nozzle attachment and the substance that leaked from its cracked casing was a yellowish grey powder made up of granules.

She made it across the landing before the next group of soldiers ambled down the spiral staircase.

There was a small window that afforded a view into the valley below. She could see where they were unloading the canisters from crates. They were taking them up and presumably placing them in one of those new–fangled airships. All this activity must be for some purpose. Graf Zala was planning a military campaign.

To the north there was Germany ruled by the Queen’s grandson, Kaiser Wilhelm II. Going round clockwise, there was Russia ruled by the Tsar Nicholas II, who was married to the Queen’s grand–daughter. These two countries were effectively family and so no threat to the British Empire. Romania, Serbia and the Ottoman Empire, and Montenegro had a border to the south. She remembered the map in her father’s study, and that left Italy and Switzerland to the West. Of course with airships, Zala might be considering an attack further afield, jumping over territories as if he was playing draughts: Sweden, Norway, Denmark, Greece or France perhaps? Could a Zeppelin cross the English Channel?

The Austro–Hungarians had already occupied Bosnia and Herzegovina, so Archduke Karl Ludwig was a war monger. Graf Zala could be trying to curry favour with a military success and so raise the position of his minor Royal House. To make their Crown Prince into a real King would require other machinations to replace the Archduke: these foreigners seemed to get into a terrible muddle with their titles.

She was missing something with her political analysis.

It didn’t matter, she realised, whatever he was up to, it was bound to be destabilising and the British Empire wouldn’t stand for it. Therefore, the sooner Westminster and Whitehall were told, the better.

She took out an envelope from her shoulder bag and when the next gap in the line appeared, she nipped back to the canister and scooped a sample of the spilt contents: evidence.

Now all she had to do was get away.

Realising that the factories were going to be teeming with people, she glanced around for an alternative. To one side, east, there was a zigzag path leading down to a small building. Squinting, she could see canons on either side. It hardly seemed a defensive position, but perhaps there was a way down from there into the valley below. It was worth a try.

But how?

She’d be very exposed walking back and forth under the castle walls.

Of course, half–inch a coat and borrow one of those spiked helmets: at a distance, in a coat and pickelhaube, no–one would be able to tell her apart from a genuine soldier. She’d tuck her red hair under the steel helmet and brazen it out.

As she scanned around, she saw the floor marked with boot prints: if soldiers came in, muddy from the rough tracks, then they would go… ah ha, along this corridor. There was a small room, a hallway to the outside, packed with equipment: coats hung from hooks, there were strange masks with huge bug eyes and snow shoes stacked to one side.

There was plenty of choice, except that there were no boots. Clearly the men kept their personal equipment with them, so her Oxford folly boots were going to take a hammering going down the mountainside.

She was about to get dressed, when she heard voices: Pieter and… Gustav, she thought. She wasn’t as familiar with Pieter’s brother. Really it was none of her business and she ought to take the opportunity to make good her escape, but a little peek wasn’t–

No, she’d get away! Sensible Earnestine, well done:
I must not explore.

The voices came from further down the corridor and there was a wooden door set in an alcove. It was old with a large key hole and there wasn’t anyone inside. The catch made an appallingly loud click as it opened and the hinges squeaked.

It was dark: if only she hadn’t lost her flashlight.

She saw an oil lamp and matches set to one side. As she adjusted the flame, she was able to see the room clearly.

A large tapestry hung against one wall, a magnificent example of needlework depicting a battle, horses and cavalry rallying against the odds. Earnestine thought about all those poor women slaving away day after day to produce this monstrosity.

Opposite was a collection of weapons and armour attached to the wall for display. The family crest was painted on a shield and appeared as a banner in the tapestry.

Underneath was a desk full of papers: something, anything, but it was German and full of figures. They were… yes, manifests, stock ledgers and so on, all neatly tabulated in neither German nor English, but the international and impenetrable language of abbreviation: ‘147 TZ’, ‘98 MU’, ‘304 IB’. Clearly they had an awful lot of whatever they were manufacturing and loading onto the Zeppelin.

She didn’t think this was their actual war room, but there might be a clue, so Earnestine set about examining each document. Entranced by the puzzle of it, she failed to hear footsteps behind her.

There was a cough: “Fräulein.”

She stood bolt upright, hands held in front of her.

It was Prince Pieter.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Paperwork… I’m your Secretary, or have you forgotten?”

“This area is off limits.”

“Really, there’s no sign.”

“There is a sign.”

Earnestine looked at the door, perhaps she could make a run for it. The corridor to the storeroom was only a short distance, but it was impossible.

“Oh,” she said. “Is that what those German words mean?”

“Verboten.”

“Now you pronounce it, it does seem obvious.”

“Perhaps you should return to our rooms.”

“Our rooms?”

“Ja, that would be best.”

That would be best: indeed it would, and having had this reconnoitre it would be straightforward enough to make her escape later tonight. Hopefully Pieter was a heavy sleeper and she would be able to slip out.

“What are all those canisters?” she asked. Always the Family Curse: curiosity led to exploring, exploring led to adventures, adventures led to further adventures until one disappeared up a river.

“You have seen them?”

“Hard to miss.”

Pieter flinched: “That is unfortunate,” he said.

“What is this all about?”

“There is war always, even during this age of Pax Britannica, so perhaps a war to end all wars would be a good thing. One ruler, one government, one people: if rigorously applied it would bring about peace in our time and for all time.”