The Derring-Do Club and the Year of the Chrononauts (14 page)

“Science holds that the same laws apply everywhere and–”

“Hmm, there are daguerreotype pictures of spirits and ghosts, and that isn’t explained by your Newman, Sir or otherwise.”

“Newton.”

“I have communicated, regularly, with the spirit world and the spirit of this Newton hasn’t come to argue his case that spirits don’t exist.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Well, that’s because you are closed–minded.”

Georgina felt her mouth open, but no words came out. She simply couldn’t argue with this woman, who flatly ignored rational discourse and instead relied on pure statement. Also, Georgina still wasn’t sure what this woman was doing here. She’d assumed that the house would be occupied by Merryweathers, relations of her husband, but there didn’t seem to be any at all. Fellowes, Mrs Jago and the rest of the staff made sense, but Mrs Falcone, Colonel Fitzwilliam and Miss Millicent did not. Unless, she supposed, Miss Millicent was a Merryweather.

She resolved to visit every room and did so, disturbing the cook and Fellowes, who was polishing the silver again, and discovered that the guests were in the East Wing, whereas the master bedroom was in the West Wing.

Outside, there was a small formal garden at the back, blasted by the seemingly endless gale, and then the land rose into undulating hills from which burst outcrops of sharp granite. The elements had carved these into blocks as if the landscape was littered with fallen megaliths.

“Tors.”

Georgina jumped.

It was Colonel Fitzwilliam, who had appeared from nowhere, it seemed, and now stood far too close. He tucked his thumbs into his garish yellow waistcoat.

“I beg your pardon,” Georgina said, taking a few steps away for propriety’s sake.

The Colonel took a step even closer.

“You were thinking about the hills. The rocks, like cairns, are called ‘tors’. Some say the devil made them.”

They did look like satanic markers. Now she looked, Georgina could see that some of the stones formed the outlines of buildings long ago destroyed.

“Witches’ houses,” the Colonel added.

“There are perfectly natural explanations for these geological features,” she said.

“I’m sure there are, my dear, but all rather complicated for an old duffer like myself.”

“Well, thank you for the information. I think I shall take a stroll up to one and examine it more closely.”

“Mac was here,” said the Colonel.

“Mac?”

“Lieutenant McKendry, last year. He stayed for a few months, walked all round. He had such awful trouble pronouncing Magdalene, he kept saying ‘Mag–da–lene’. He was probably investigating the lights.”

“Lights?”

“In the sky. At night.”

“Shooting stars?”

“Rum shooting stars that hover and change direction.”

“Oh.”

“Be careful,” the Colonel added. “Peat bogs can easily suck the unwary into the ground.”

“I shall be careful.”

The walk was bracing and the wind howled stronger still once she was away from the shelter of the Chase. She thought about going back for a shawl, but she knew she was being watched and she didn’t want to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing a weakness. The slope uphill was mostly gentle, the ground sprung underfoot and, where it was steep, it was like a giant green staircase. Once she reached the rocks of the Tor, she had to use her hands to pull herself up the tricky sections, but soon enough she was standing atop the summit.

The view was spectacular in a bleak fashion.

Magdalene Chase was below, the driveway leading out to the main road, a narrow affair between stunted hedges that wound along a contour. There was a village, its church tower dominating a small clutch of cottages and beyond… nothing.

Behind her, in the near distance, were other Tors, each higher than the last and very like cairns marking a route, tempting her to go ever further from civilisation.

The derelict houses came from another era, an ancient one. She had read, and seen exhibits in museums, of prehistoric times when barely human cavemen had eked out a savage existence. Mankind progressed, inventing all the time, so logically earlier times were more primitive and any Golden Ages, like that of Atlantis or Troy, were entirely mythical. Further back still would be Darwin’s hypothesized (oh, very well, she knew that
On the Origin of Species
only implied it) ape–like ancestors of mankind. These pre–humans must have lived here despite the lack of trees.

There had been Dark Ages when knowledge had been lost, dips between the hills of enlightenment, but the direction was always upwards. The people who lived here, who built these rude houses, must have been as barbarous as those modern day natives in the jungles of the far flung colonies of the Empire.

If one stopped looking back, she wondered, and turned one’s mental gaze in the opposite direction, what marvels would the future offer?

Or would the likes of Mrs Falcone and her fellow spiritualists suck mankind down into the bog of another Dark Age of Superstition?

She shuddered and made her way back down, conscious that there were eyes behind the dark windows of the Chase watching her, both the living and perhaps a multitude of dead ancestors, by marriage, going all the way back to the primitive.

Miss Charlotte

Charlotte had not liked the Patent Pending Office as it looked stuffy, full of papers, documents and other tedious matters of uninterest.

Earnestine took a flat iron out of her bag and put it on a stack of papers. There were other items on other piles: a brick, a statue of a knight–

“Don’t touch that!”

“I was only looking.”

“Look, but don’t touch.”

“Can I ahoy–hoy someone up?”

“I beg your pardon.”

“On the thingamajig?”

“No, and you don’t know anyone who has a telephonic apparatus anyway.”

“Can I–”

“No.”

“What about–”

“No. Nor that… Here, I know what you need.”

Charlotte’s heart sank when she saw Earnestine reach for a book. She was going to force her to read some stuffy text, but instead it was a disguised switch and the book shelf swung open.

“A secret door… an actual secret door. Oh, Ness.”

“If you’d close it behind you, please,” said Earnestine.

Charlotte, still failing to contain her excitement, did so. The whole shelf rotated back into position on carefully balanced brass hinges, and stopped with a satisfying click.

“This way.”

Charlotte followed into a huge store house full of delights.

“Ness, is this–”

“Don’t touch anything.”

“But Ness.”

“For any reason.”

“Ness.”

“Ever. And don’t whine.”

Earnestine was like some evil witch, who showed children sweets and then chopped off their hands.

“Look at this!”

Charlotte saw a wooden scarecrow arrangement with metal rods and an odd heart in the middle of the wooden central column. Earnestine handed Charlotte a sword, a foil with a red protective end.

“This is Ridley’s Automatic Fencing Exerciser,” said Earnestine.

“It’s a fighting machine!” Charlotte said, her eyes gleaming with excitement.

“You wind it here.”

Earnestine indicated the holes where a crank could be fitted. Charlotte set to work, and it was work, jolly hard work, particularly the one at the front. When she paused, Earnestine tutted.

“You must learn application,” Earnestine commanded.

Charlotte looked at the previously exciting sword with its silly red bobble. It was only a short Pariser.

“Do I have to wind the machine every time?” she asked.

Earnestine was now some way down the corridor going back to the office: “Yes!”

“Do I–”

“Yes!”

“And–”

“Yes.”

Fine, Charlotte thought.

The stupid machine required three stupid mechanisms to be wound up, the front and the side and the back and the stupid card things and the stupid gauntlet and finally she could fight the stupid thing.

It slashed right and left. Charlotte parried, tried to get past to stab at the heart, but it countered. Slash, slash, parry, slash… she backed off, got her breath back and went in again… finally stabbing the heart when the front and side springs were spent.

It stopped.

It was only five past two… a whole two hours was simply impossible. Earnestine was mad. No–one, absolutely no–one, except Earnestine, who had a black heart, could concentrate on one thing for
two hours!

It took forever to rewind the springs, utterly stupid, round and crankingly round again and it was still only seven minutes past, but at least the fighting was fun.

She hadn’t changed the pack of cards, so she was able to anticipate the machine’s movements somewhat, but they changed when she struck the sword. It was clever and disarmed her. She was holding the hilt too tightly, she realised. She should be using… what was it? The French grip. Grip, grip, grips, gripped, gripping, grippamus… yuk.

Her third attempt met with no success either.

“Stupid.”

She tried again.

Slashing with great abandon, while screaming at the top of her voice, didn’t work either.

If only there was some way to pause the machine, rather than having to start again from the beginning, and a display to show if she was gaining points.

She flung her foil down and stomped off.

However, there was nothing else to do in this boring place.

In the end, she found the pamphlets and read them, which was like doing homework. One of them covered the machine itself and outlined the winding, the maintenance and then listed the four techniques: direct thrust, indirect thrust, cut over and counter disengage. These were all explained in another pamphlet in great detail, but in French. With disgust, Charlotte recognised the present tense.

The packs of cards had French words on them too, which were duelling schools of thought, she guessed. There were daggers on them, one, two or three crosses, referring to a level of difficulty. She didn’t want to be someone who fought against the beginner’s ‘one dagger’ level, but no–one was looking.

Direct thrust was simply stabbing the heart. Indirect was probably knocking the machine’s sword aside and then going for the heart. Cut over was… ah, a little wiggle. It was skill rather than brute force that won every time, when she did win. And she began to win more often.

Her shoulder muscles ached from the winding. It was a torture device, because it alternated the heavy work with the delicate twizzling of the foil. These actions had as much in common with each other as chopping wood had with embroidery.

Now another trick, she realised, was to bounce in and out using the back foot as the guide. And counter disengage was what you did when it did an indirect thrust. So, now, she thought–

“Time’s up!”

Earnestine had just re–entered the room.

“But Ness, I’m just–”

“You’ll have to complete your practise tomorrow.”

“But Ness–”

“Tomorrow.”

“But–”

“No buts.”

“I never get any fun.”

It was so utterly unfair, Charlotte knew, that she was only allowed two hours. How was she going to learn anything that way? Charlotte made a face. Earnestine was such a spoil sport.

Chapter VIII

Miss Deering-Dolittle

Earnestine had been outside. She knew it was a risk, and every passer–by filled her with a dread and every pair of eyes seemed to be staring at her. Charlotte seemed to have taken to the duelling machine and if only she could transfer that dedication to more useful activities like French, Greek and Latin. They couldn’t stay hiding in the office forever and the logic that Temporal Peelers had been there, so they wouldn’t search there again, seemed flawed, even when she was feeling optimistic.

It was Friday, three days later, and the hue–and–cry might have settled, so it was time to make a move.

She knew that her nervousness was making her suspicious and therefore made matters worse, but she couldn’t stay in the Patent Pending Office indefinitely and she had to find out what was going on. She’d bought a few newspapers, the Times and Telegraph, and a Bradshaw for the train times. Georgina had gone to this Magdalene Chase near Tenning Halt with her trunk, so it had to be some distance, and then Earnestine realised that this logic didn’t work. Even if she was only moving next door in Zebediah Row, she’d have packed her trunk. Even so, a travelling trunk suggested a distance, so either a long coach journey or a train. Georgina had modern ideas, so it was the train. Also, Tenning Halt was very suggestive of a station.

She found the place, eventually, in the Bradshaw: Tenning Halt was on Dartmoor!

The actual Magdalene Chase could be some distance from the station too. Georgina’s use of the word ‘near’ showed an imprecision that was unlike her, so it seemed advisable – flicking through the pages, she saw that the London terminus in question was Paddington Station – to set off early, so that they could cover the unknown number of miles at the far end during daylight.

She cooked a light meal of bacon and eggs with kippers for breakfast.

“We have to find Uncle Jeremiah,” Earnestine announced as she poured a second cup of tea from the pot.

“He’s gone to see Georgina,” Charlotte said.

“That does seem sound and one doesn’t speak when one is chewing.”

Charlotte made a face, which Earnestine chose to ignore.

“He can tell us what this is all about and then we can work out how to stop these Temporal Peelers.”

“Why?” said Charlotte. “So we can allow the destruction of the world?”

“Oh… I hadn’t thought of that.”

Charlotte swallowed: “Uncle Jeremiah has something they want.”

“Does he?”

“He’s disappeared with it.”

“He’s gone to the future?”

“No, he packed and went out, weeks ago,” said Charlotte and she recounted her experience at Uncle Jeremiah’s rooms.

“So the notification of Captain Merryweather’s funeral was unopened?”

“Yes.”