The Derring-Do Club and the Year of the Chrononauts (17 page)

There were shouts, and the clatter of horses and carriages on the driveway.

“A better world, we all want that, surely?” Uncle Jeremiah was pleading, almost going cap in hand to each of them in turn. “A new age: an enlightened age, where reason and merit and common sense hold sway, a best of times. The Law of Time was to free the masses from poverty and overcrowding, gift women with suffrage and education, protect the countryside from the blot of dark, satanic mills and grant the colonies a say in their administration. England would become a Utopia, where a man could walk down the street and be appreciated for his ideas and not for his background.”

“He’s rambling,” said the Colonel.

“It’s the means that I don’t agree with: the means, not the end. It’s the end I want.”

A loud percussive hammering signalled that the intruders had reached the main door.

“So I ran away… oh dear, she’s so cruel when she’s not happy.”

Miss Charlotte

Charlotte had finished checking the windows and doors downstairs. Everyone had gathered in the hallway, stepping back involuntarily with each heavy crunch on the oak.

“All secure,” she said and she saluted the Colonel.

He blinked in surprise and saluted in return.

“We led them here,” Earnestine said, berating herself. “I’m to blame.”

Charlotte realised that at every place they’d stopped, the tea shop, the station – oh, the station, where they’d done nothing to disguise themselves and it was such an obvious place to watch – and the streets in–between had been full of men in top hats. All they had to do was remove their white glasses and they look like any upper class Gentleman. Swap the hat for a bowler and they could mix with anyone of the middle ranks too. Their uniform was the same uniform that everyone in the Empire wore: black. Only their strange glasses made them look alien and those would fit in a pocket.

But this was no time for recriminations.

“Fellowes,” said Georgina, but she meant the butler and not all of them as soldiers. “Are there any weapons?”

“We have a gun room, Ma’am.”

“Excellent,” said Charlotte, positively rubbing her hands together with glee.

“But no guns, Miss.”

“A shotgun, surely?”

“In the outhouse.”

Fellowes pointed out of the window: it was pitch black outside and the outhouse was unlit, but the steep angle of his arm betrayed its distance. It was the other side of the courtyard at least and the Top Hats were at the walls already. It was bare hands. Charlotte realised that she had adopted a fencing position despite having nothing at the end of her sword arm.

“Escape tunnel,” Georgina cried suddenly. “Fellowes?”

“Ma’am?”

“The escape tunnel that takes the hiding priest from the priest hole to the outside. The building’s of the right age, early Elizabethan at least.”

“The Merryweathers, and the Fitzwilliams before them, were good staunch Protestants.”

“I finally belong to a reputable family and it’s just at the wrong time.”

“The Captain had some golf clubs, Ma’am.”

Georgina led the party up the stairs and along the landing to the master bedroom. Sure enough, tucked at the back of the wardrobe was a filthy set of clubs. When she’d pulled it out and bumped it down on the floor, a ring of dried dirt cascaded down onto the carpet. Georgina handed out clubs. Earnestine armed herself with the knobkerrie from her Adventure Kit. Charlotte swapped hers, a wood for a five iron, but it was still an axe or club rather than a sword.

The banging on the front door stopped.

“They’ve given up, Ma’am,” said Fellowes.

“I doubt it. Calm before and all that,” said the Colonel. He raised his putter. “One for all?”

“The Derring–Do Club against the world,” said Charlotte.

“The Derring–Do Club?”

“It’s an adventuring club,” said Charlotte. “And you’ve just joined what might be our last stand.”

“It is not an adventuring club,” Earnestine insisted.

“You might as well face facts, Ness,” Georgina said. “It’s always an adventure.”

“Gina, we have to at least make an effort.”

They made their way back to the top of the stairs and peered down. Lights moved, apparently haphazardly, behind the frosted panes to either side of the solid oak door. The iron fittings arranged to reinforce and strengthen made the entrance look impenetrable.

There was a cry outside, something fizzed loudly and then the edges of the door were highlighted by a bright white light. It focused on the lock, shining in a beam through the keyhole, until sparks burst through the door. The piercing brightness that was so intense everyone had to look away. On the far wall of the landing, their shadows jerked and pranced as if they were trying to run away.

“If we can keep our heads,” Earnestine shouted.

The metal of the lock melted away, the liquid shrapnel scouring the stone flooring as it splashed and flared.

The door opened, its heavy lock falling away.

A man in a frock coat and a welder’s mask stood up from his kneeling position and backed away.

Now, looking at the empty doorway, it did feel like the calm before the storm.

“Earnestine,” said Uncle Jeremiah. “Saint George.”

“For England, yes,” Earnestine replied, gripping her golf club.

“No, Saint George.”

Two lines of Temporal Peelers entered holding weapons that even Charlotte herself didn’t recognize, although she spotted a few of those galvanic pistols she’d seen earlier. The troops went left and right, but instead of storming the staircase they formed an honour guard.

“St George!” Uncle Jeremiah insisted.

“And the Dragon,” Charlotte said, not understanding.

“Booth–”

A woman entered, her heels clicking on the floor as she sidestepped the glowing debris from the door lock.

“I am here,” she announced.

She tilted her head, haughty and superior, upwards to spy them all clustered at the top of the stairs. She wore a burgundy dress, tight fitting at the waist and splayed out in a fashionable manner, and she carried a matching velvet bag over her arm. Perched upon her head was a pillbox hat with a tiny, black veil pushed up to reveal her chiselled features.

She smiled – a thin, tight smile of satisfaction.

“I am Mrs Frasier.”

Chapter X

Miss Deering-Dolittle

Whereas the idea of a desperate last stand against a squad of Temporal Peelers armed with strange weapons had seemed viable, a heroic Rorke’s Drift, no–one wanted to fight this woman. Their defiance simply wilted away. The Temporal Peelers confiscated their weapons and the Colonel even handed them the golf bag in which to store them. Earnestine relinquished her knobkerrie without even realising it was being taken. They had handcuffs for Uncle Jeremiah.

“There’s no need for those,” Georgina said.

They ignored her and pulled the poor old man down the staircase to face Mrs Frasier.

“Jeremiah Deering?”

“I told them nothing, Mrs Frasier, nothing.”

“But they must have asked.”

“I told them nothing.”

“Do you have it?”

Uncle Jeremiah looked furtive: “Yes.”

“Give it to me – now!”

The defeated man fished into the inside pocket of his jacket, but he couldn’t extract anything due to the handcuffs. Mrs Frasier herself reached into his coat, a strangely intimate gesture, and plucked it out. It was a book, yellow with an Egyptian sphinx on the cover and–

Earnestine just couldn’t make out any letters before Mrs Frasier tucked it away in her velvet bag.

“We wouldn’t want this falling into the wrong hands, would we?”

Uncle Jeremiah looked away.

“I have a warrant for your arrest, signed, stamped and… post–dated.”

“I haven’t done anything.”

“You haven’t done anything
yet!
” she corrected. “Nor will you, now. Take him away!”

The Peelers removed their prisoner, frog marching him out into the night. Carriage doors slammed, a horse whinnied, and then their vehicle clattered away. They all listened well beyond the final crunch of gravel.

Mrs Frasier clapped her hands: “Let’s have dinner, I’m famished.”

The Derring–Do Club sidled down the stairs with its tail between its legs. Mrs Fraser examined them from a distance and then made a closer review as if inspecting the decidedly motley, military unit.

“In view of the circumstances, let’s all be rebels and not dress for dinner.”

They trooped past the ticking clock to the dining room.

Mrs Frasier called out: “Earnestine.”

Earnestine paused and then turned back.

“That’s close enough,” said Mrs Frasier.

Earnestine halted, feeling much like a little girl called before a headmistress. There were only the two of them in the hall, the cold Dartmoor atmosphere drifting in through the broken door. Earnestine knew she could flee, run out into the darkness, but what would have been the point? She knew she could not escape this woman. Indeed, such was the power of the woman’s gaze that it held Earnestine’s attention completely.

As far as Earnestine could tell, Mrs Frasier wasn’t just
not unhappy
, she was taking a positive delight in everything she said. A gold tooth flashed when she smiled.

“You are the honest one.”

Earnestine answered back: “We’re all honest.”

“Did –
ha
– Uncle Jeremiah tell you anything?”

“No.”

“Come now, the truth will out.”

“He said he was responsible, that he created the Temporal Apparatus and the plan for a new world order.”

“And the details, the theory?”

“We were interrupted.”

Mrs Frasier glanced at the damage to the hallway: “Ah, yes.”

“How long has Uncle Jeremiah been mixed up in all this?”

“Not until a few years yet.”

“Then how?”

“He created it all and then popped back to let himself in on it, as it were.”

“But surely one can’t meet oneself… can one?”

“Most assuredly one can.”

Mrs Frasier picked her way across the hallway, kicking the damaged lock with the toe of her Oxford boot. Earnestine did not like her overbearing attitude and standoffish manner.

“Have we met?”

“Yes… a long time ago and just now.”

“You come from the future?”

“Yes, your future, my past.”

“Your present.”

“Yes, but here and now it’s my past.”

Earnestine said nothing and waited for Mrs Frasier to continue.

“The present is your personal here and now; your personal past is what you remember, so, Ness, your future is my past.”

“Please don’t call me ‘Ness’.”

“You think you don’t like me, you think of me as your enemy, but you will come to think of me as… your elder sister.”

“I don’t have an elder sister.”

“Always the responsible one, Ness. The weight always rests on the shoulders of people like you… and me. One must accept it, embrace it.”

“Miss Deering–Dolittle, if you please.”

“So keen to be taken seriously.”

“What’s wrong with wanting to be taken seriously?”

“Do you trust yourself?”

“Of course.”

“But make allowance for their doubting too.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“This way,” said Mrs Frasier, showing the way to the dining room.

But make allowance for their doubting…
oh!
The lines came unbidden: …
doubting too: If you can wait and not be tired of waiting.
‘If–’, Kipling.

“It’s all part of growing up,” said Mrs Frasier, “you’ll learn that, when the time comes.”

The clock chimed.

Mrs Arthur Merryweather

For her first evening meal since coming to power in Magdalene Chase, Georgina felt deeply ashamed of the fare on offer. There was practically nothing on the table: simply a cold ham, some beef, pheasant that hadn’t been hung long enough, only quickly steamed vegetables of carrots, parsnips, runner beans, peas and new potatoes, some pickles and preserves in ill–matching condiment sets, a truly pathetic fish course, and all with only the cooking wine from the kitchen rather than any choice vintage from the cellar. There wasn’t even icing on the cake.

The Cook had conscripted the Boy to help, but clearly that had been a desperate measure. Mrs Jago would take some replacing, Georgina admitted to herself.

Mrs Frasier had chosen the seating plan: she sat at the head of the table, Earnestine at the foot and then the Colonel to her right with Georgina herself relegated down one with Charlotte opposite. The place to Mrs Frasier’s left hand was set, but vacant throughout.

When they’d entered, Mrs Frasier and Earnestine had been discussing poetry of all things; something privately circulated, but not published yet. The conversation, thankfully, settled down to other matters.

“More pickle, I see, Gina,” the woman said, tucking into her meat.

Georgina looked down: there was far too much pickle on her plate. She ate it anyway – she didn’t want to give the woman the satisfaction – and had some more afterwards as well.

“Music I adore,” Mrs Frasier said. “In the future, it’s all automatic by recording. I want to listen to the Berlin Philharmonic, I just ring for it to come out of the cupboard.”

“Wax cylinders?” Georgina asked.

“Vinyl Chloride.”

“It sounds thrilling,” Charlotte said.

“Thank you, Lottie – no wine though – and what else? Automatic carriages, which your driver operates, but it has no horse.”

“Automobile,” Georgina said.

“Ah, you have them already. Despite being able to dip in and out as it were, my knowledge of history is appalling, quite appalling.”

“Does everyone travel by Zeppelin?” Charlotte asked eagerly. “We’ve been in a Zeppelin.”

“The sky is full of them and we have personal Zeppelins too.”

“Amazing.”

The main course was finished. Fellowes, flanked by two Temporal Peelers, cleared away the dishes.

“Fellowes,” Georgina asked as he passed her. “Can we do cheese and biscuits?”