The Secret Five and the Stunt Nun Legacy (31 page)

Meanwhile, Daniel and Betty were busy looking around them, but taking care not to look too busy. ‘There’s lots of candles in here,’ whispered Betty to Daniel. ‘Do you
really
think the danger of a fire is over?’

‘Of course,’ reassured Daniel, secretly hoping to help set up another literary foreshadowing and therefore cement his place as a major character should a trilogy be on the cards.

Just then, Betty started. ‘Oh, no! I’ve started!’ she said. ‘And all because that awful grumpy Magistrate is standing over there! Look!’

And Betty was right! The awful grumpy Magistrate was indeed standing over there! And he was talking to the Parson and the Policeman! Standing near them were a stern-looking gentlemen, who was smoking a big cigar, and an old lady, who wasn’t. The stern-looking gentleman’s dapper appearance, his expensive cigar, and his shiny silver watch chain suggested that he was of immensely good breeding, but the finger up his nose suggested that he was not.

‘Yo!’ said Daniel for no reason whatsoever.

But before the children had time to arrange an extraordinary meeting to decide what to do next, Mrs Wells scuttled into the room with a tray full of soup bowls. ‘Sorry for the scuttling,’ she said. ‘It was totally out of my control. Now, sit yourselves down in strict alphabetical order, then I will introduce the children to the stern-looking gentlemen with a cigar and the old lady who is without a cigar. After that, I will take my leave and attend to the main course before all the pig’s blood boils away to nothing. Your Uncle Quagmire may or may not join us as soon as he has finished his verbal intercourse with Alice the mysterious maid, recovered from his cocaine-fuelled frenzy, and then completed his long-overdue ablutions.’

‘Yo, minty!’ said Daniel. ‘I’z could slide off and cut sling load summink fierce meself! Random! Innit!’

Betty turned to look at Daniel, who was now murmuring and staring at the ceiling. Not only did she not understand exactly where Uncle Quagmire was and what he was doing, and was confused by the mention of yet another Victorian character, Alice, but she realised that Daniel was now extremely nervous at seeing all these people. She feared the worst! ‘I fear the worst,’ she whispered to Bertie.

‘Cosmic cataclysm?’ whispered Bertie excitedly. ‘Mass social disorder? A world of abominable desolation where the sun has lost its energy? An incessant array of talentless boy bands?’

Betty scowled. ‘No,’ she snapped back rather too snappily. ‘It’s more serious. Daniel’s slipping into a street-talk coma again. I must have a quiet word with him about it, or slap him seriously hard.’

‘Attention everyone,’ called Mrs Wells before Betty could indulge in some serious slapping or quiet wording. ‘I now realise – and, after all, someone has to – that you cannot sort yourselves into alphabetical order and sit down until I name these new characters. Children, there are quite a lot of characters in this scene, so pay much attention, if you will be so kind. You already know the grumpy Magistrate, the Policeman and the Parson.’ She pointed at the stern-looking gentleman. ‘This new male character, this stern-looking gentleman, a man of forbidding aspect to be sure, is Mr Ramekin. He is an off-duty Victorian Child Brain Doctor, reasonable rates assured, indifferent bedside manner guaranteed at all times, and quite a dish if you ask me. But, between you and me, empirical sciences, especially this newfangled science of inner conscious experience, confuse me greatly and get right up my typical Victorian nose, so they do.’

Mr Ramekin frowned a learned yet silly frown at Mrs Wells, then nodded grimly at the children. He continued to pick his nose quite energetically. ‘I like to call myself a
Psychologist.
I’ve no idea what psychology is, yet, but I understand that the Germans are very keen to export it and I just want to be ahead of my time.’
He examined the end of his finger for the results of his intensive nostril drilling and licked his lips in anticipation.

‘Oh no!’ whispered Betty. ‘A child psychologist! Daniel, I should sneak out now if I were you.’

‘And this old woman,’ called Mrs Wells, pointing to the old woman who was dressed in a typically Victorian long black dress and a shawl, ‘who, may I confirm, is dressed in a typically Victorian long black dress and a shawl, is Mrs Wells. She’s not related, just a friend of the family. She’s old and always keen to partake of a free meal.’

‘Ah!’ cackled the older Mrs Wells, her wrinkly old face wrinkling at them all. ‘That’s no lie, ’tis sure that I do, / through bell-swarmèd bird-charmèd branches of yew.’

Betty and Daniel were quite astounded!

‘Yo, Sis,’ said Daniel, waving a hand about like a demented rapper. ‘Dis am nuts and a half, f’sho! A versemonger, innit? Minty! Cool!’

Bertie leaned towards Betty, his pen in his hand. ‘I don’t think I’ll make notes about Daniel, if you don’t mind,’ he said. ‘And shouldn’t it be
elder
Mrs Wells?’

Betty shrugged both her shoulders but, in truth, she was intrigued by the appearance of another Mrs Wells. ‘Excuse me everyone,’ she said, raising her hand in an intriguing manner. ‘Can I say that we now have
two
Mrs Wells. It’s bad enough with Betty and Bertie, now it’s even more confusing for everyone. And why does
that
Mrs Wells,’ – she pointed at Mrs Wells’ old and unrelated friend of the family – ‘talk like that? And why does she sound a bit like Old Hag? Hmmm?’

Everyone started to murmur to each other about the poor standard of characterisation, except Whatshisname of course, who was still trying to outstare the stuffed poodle and desperately attempting to recall his early training, in particular the chapter of
Canine Behaviour for Dummies
that gave helpful hints on Dominance Over Inanimate Objects.

‘Cease all this murmuring!’ boomed the Magistrate quite suddenly. ‘It is very similar to being back in petty sessions, except I do not have the benefit of being able to despatch you all to the gallows for Unlicenced Murmuring. God knows, if it were not for the appearance fee I would not be here. Now, far from being eager to agree with such an unseemly Urchin, I declare that I would also like to know why
that
Mrs Wells talks in that silly way.’ He pointed his best Magistrate’s finger at the older Mrs Wells.

‘Yea verily,’ said the Parson, ‘and so would I.’

‘Ah,’ cackled Older Mrs Wells, pointing her own finger at the Magistrate. ‘For ’tis men that fall lightly upon their words, / that mock their breath ’til ’ere the . . . ’ere the . . . erm, birds?’

‘Cool beans!’ sniggered Daniel. ‘Jus’ snag tha’ wicked versifying, Vickies!’

‘Please!’ said Mrs Wells the Younger. ‘Older Mrs Wells is on a short holiday here with us, so your forbearance is requested. She is Poet-in-Residence at the local workhouse, the Ian McMillan of our time, that I do know for sure.’

‘Wait a Victorian moment!’ Constable Landscape said. He stepped forward and brandished his Policeman’s truncheon at Older Mrs Wells. ‘I now recognise you as the Local Workhouse Poet-in-Residence! Haven’t I arrested you several times for Aggravated Behaviour?’

‘Ah!’ said Older Mrs Wells, quite bravely wrinkling her face at the Policeman. She then spoke in one of those intensely irritating poets’ voices that is supposed to convey angst and torment but usually sounds as though they have some sort of uncontrollable bowel-tightening condition only brought on by stanzas of limping iambics and Terza Rima. ‘My innocence is broad, like a wingèd blade, / ’til the breath of time has passed its best, / ’til the fickle quenching spirit of maid, / Hath shadowed my eternal beating . . . er, beating . . . er . . .’

She raised her eyebrows and looked around for inspiration.

‘Hmmm, how about
breast
?’ suggested the Parson.

‘Breast?’ queried Betty. ‘Just one?’

‘For now,’ confirmed the Parson. ‘It rhymes with best, you see.’

Constable Landscape stepped forward again and seemed quite keen to establish his Policeman’s authority. ‘I have quite a lot of Policeman’s authority building up,’ he said, ‘and would ask you to stop all this talk of, um, those things, if you please. Now, Mrs Wells?’

‘Yes,’ said both Mrs Wells together.

‘See!’ said Betty. ‘I told you that it would be too confusing.’

‘Hush, Urchin,’ boomed the Magistrate. ‘Let the well-meaning but incompetent constable have his say. Then we can all eat, or go and enjoy a damn good hanging.’

Constable Landscape stepped forward yet again, but then had to step backwards as he had stepped forward so many times in the narrative that he was now almost out of the room. He stopped stepping backwards and reached out to grab Older Mrs Wells by one of her free arms. He cleared his Policeman’s throat and spoke. ‘Older Mrs Wells, I hereby arrest you for Aggravated Arson.’

‘Arson?’ gasped everyone except the Policeman, Older Mrs Wells, Whatshisname and the stuffed black poodle.

‘Wooooof?’ breathed Whatshisname, still staring intently at the black poodle and not wanting to be left out of any mass gasping.

‘Yes, Arson, of the Aggravated kind!’ said Constable Landscape. ‘You have a record of criminal tendencies to set fire to things without sufficient warning and without a Proper Licence and, while we are at it, to greatly overuse alliteration and internal rhymes in your poetic works. I want to make these Victorian streets safe for Victorians to walk down – or up – at night, and for readers of Victorian poetry to feel unintimidated by a surfeit of aural effects.’

‘Gah! Cool!’ said Daniel, still overawed by the mass of characters crammed into one scene. ‘Scoot de mean bitch off t’clink, baconman!’

The Psychologist looked at Daniel with an interested yet semi-professional expression.

‘Aha!’ cackled Older Mrs Wells as she wrenched herself free from the Policeman’s grip. She looked across the room at Betty. ‘Any chance of me doing a dramatic monologue at this stage?’ she asked.

‘Why ask me?’ asked Betty.

‘Because you probably have the ear of the author, that’s why!’ snapped Older Mrs Wells.

Betty thought for a moment, then said, wisely, ‘No. No monologue. Dramatic or otherwise. Sorry.’

Older Mrs Wells shrugged her shoulders in a poetic manner.

‘Very interesting,’ said the Psychologist, studying Betty with his Psychologist’s eyes and relieved to be allocated some dialogue at last. ‘By the way,’ he added, glancing at Whatshisname, ‘I do amateur taxidermy on the side. The poodle is my work. Good, do you not think? A matching pair would certainly be quite something. I could leave the pink collar on, as dispensation. I could also reposition some of her surplus fat, or make a puppy or two out of it. A family group, if you will.’

‘Woof woof woof!!!’ said Whatshisname, his eyes still fixed on the poodle.

Mrs Wells the Younger had placed a bowl of soup at each of the place settings and a big bone on the floor for Whatshisname. She was eager to have everyone seated around the Squire’s large ornate dining table.

‘I’m eager,’ she said with a sigh, ‘and it’s about time too, to have everyone seated around the Squire’s large ornate dining table. In strict alphabetical order, if you please.’

‘I think,’ the Magistrate said, ‘we should let Older Mrs Wells join us and eat, before being arrested and tried and hung by the neck until quite dead. Let her enjoy this splendid celebration banquet, which every good epic historical novel should have, then you can do what you like with her, Constable Landscape.’

There was a murmur of agreement amongst the gathered characters. The next few minutes were spent sorting out where everyone was seated. Bertie and Betty were sure that, alphabetically, they were sitting next to each other until Older Mrs Wells told them her first name was Bessie. Further confusion was caused by the fact that the Magistrate and the Psychologist, quite remarkably, had exactly the same names – Dugdale Algernon Quintin Neckrash.

Someone then suggested that everyone should sit in alphabetical order according to their occupation. This, however, caused problems with Betty, Daniel and Bertie, as they were all Children (although Daniel and Betty were sub-categorised as Urchins), so they had to go back to the original idea. After some discussion, the problem was solved by the Psychologist sitting on the Magistrate’s lap.

During all this time, Whatshisname had completed the task of establishing dominance over the stuffed black poodle. He looked on, totally enthralled by this aspect of human behaviour, as everyone sorted themselves out alphabetically. Quietly and quite secretly, he thanked his lucky stars for the numerical advantage of the Official Canine Alphabet, which consisted of only eleven letters: s, i, t, a, y, f, e, tch, w, oo, f. For the life of him he could not think of any reason for needing any more than that.

Eventually, after all the exhausting pondering, he trotted over to the table and flopped down at Betty’s feet, where he decided to doze for a few sticks while everyone noisily sipped their pig’s blood and watercress soup.

‘Tell everyone about your time travel,’ Bertie suggested to Betty and Daniel.

‘Yo,’ said Daniel. ‘Iz fully sick! It’s absofrickinlutely gah! Innit!’

‘Is he of right mind?’ asked Mr Ramekin the Psychologist from his position on the Magistrate’s lap. He studied Daniel over his Victorian spectacles, which he had suddenly acquired through a literary loophole. ‘Or is he from some far flung country?’ He put
down his soup spoon and leaned forwards towards Daniel. ‘D o y o u u n d e r s t a n d me , Ch i ld ?’ he said slowly.

‘He is
quite
English and perfectly normal – almost – thank you Mr Ramekin, sir,’ said Betty, in defence of her brother. ‘It’s just that when he gets very nervous he sometimes talks like that. It’s all these people, you’re scaring him. Usually we just slap him and he recovers.’

‘Of course. I remember now. Slapping is a good idea,’ said the Magistrate, pushing the Psychologist aside. He rubbed his hands together eagerly, which was quite a dangerous thing to do given the incendiary risks. ‘Allow me.’

‘Gentlemen!’ admonished Mrs Wells the Younger as she came back into the room bearing a large silver dish on which rested a dead pig’s head with a banana in its mouth. ‘I would ask you all to respect the Squire’s house, and to respect these two poor time travellers who have travelled wide and far in order to save their modern world. Or so they say.’