The Derring-Do Club and the Year of the Chrononauts

by David Wake

  Volume Two

  and the

  Year of the Chrononauts

  by

  David Wake

  Amazon Kindle Edition

  Watledge Books

  Copyright © 2014 David Wake

  All rights reserved

  The moral right of David Wake to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publishers. This book may not be lent, hired out, resold or otherwise disposed of by any way of trade in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, without the prior consent of the publishers.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art by Smuzz: www.smuzz.org.uk

  For

  Loncon 3, WorldCon

  This adventure of the Deering–Dolittle sisters takes place after the dread business with the Austro–Hungarian ‘Empire of the Dead’.

  Chapter I

  Miss Deering-Dolittle

  Thirty four years, eleven months and fifteen days before the End of the World, the men from the future first materialised with plans to change everything, and thus started a chain of events that led inexorably to the death of one of the Derring–Do Club.

  The coming of the new century, the Twentieth, promised a new age of hope and opportunity for everyone, except for the three Deering–Dolittle sisters of the Derring–Do Club. Or so it seemed to Miss Earnestine Deering–Dolittle, and, Oh! how she wished Charlotte’s silly name for them hadn’t stuck. It wasn’t their family name! That was spelt ‘Deering’ for a start. For someone who received letters with the ‘a’ of her Christian name missing, it was particularly galling. The spelling ‘Derring’ suggested adventures, which would not do at all.

  “Come on,” she shouted. “Time’s running out!”

  Before she left, Mother had given Earnestine strict instructions on the matter: keep them safe, no exploring, no trouble, no adventures.

  Not that the eventuality was likely, because they were still incarcerated in Zebediah Row, Kensington, utterly unable to mount a rescue expedition to find their lost Uncle, Father and Mother. The members of that ill–fated expedition stared out from the daguerreotypes framed on the wall of the drawing room, each face full of pride and determination, amidst their baggage, bearers and boats. The rest of the Deering–Dolittle family ranged across the wall in mismatched frames, but there was only one picture of the three sisters together: Earnestine, twelve then, already looking stern and important; Georgina seated and already beautiful at ten, and Charlotte, then six, wriggling despite the lollipop bribe.

  A year after that picture was taken, Earnestine had become the de facto head of the family – look after your sisters, Mother had said as the trunks were loaded onto the ship – and Earnestine had grown up instantly: and yet, she had the responsibility, but none of the rights that came with proper age.

  If you were older, they said, if you were married, if… if, if… always ‘if–’.

  Earnestine, the eldest, was not ‘of age’ and it would be aeons and aeons before her twenty–first birthday in five months’ time. In the meantime, Uncle Jeremiah, along with trustees and lawyers, kept them all trapped. It chafed.

  “Tighter,” she told the maid, as she had her red hair pulled up into a bun, tucked by clips, and yanked upwards. She wanted to stand tall in her fine formal, dark red dress and her best Oxford Street boots.

  “Tighter!”

  “Miss, I’m doing my best.”

  “Your best is not good enough.”

  The maid was such a freckled, clumsy yokel.

  “Don’t snivel,” Earnestine reminded her yet again.

  “Sorry, Miss.”

  Finally satisfied, she felt she gave the correct appearance of a woman in control of her destiny: if only people would take her seriously. And they must, she thought, if she was going to make a life for herself. After all, there was no chance she would find a husband.

  Georgina, the middle sister, looked wan after their recent experiences. She’d lost her husband and it had taken its toll on that beautiful round face of hers, framed in dark curls and hidden behind her mourning veil. She was still attractive, of course, and she was young – eighteen was still young – so despite her misfortune she might yet find a suitable match. Earnestine hoped the planned evening would jolly her up. Georgina liked the theatre; she always made the most entertaining of voices, when they’d played with the cardboard actors on the wooden stage of their fine, model theatre. Uncle Jeremiah had made it for them.

  Bother it, she thought, he should be here by now.

  Also, coming were three eligible bachelors, so perhaps… well, for Georgina’s sake, one could certainly hope.

  Charlotte was the youngest at fifteen, pretty with long blonde tresses and a tendency to… where was the girl!?

  “Charlotte!”

  “Coming, Ness.”

  …tendency to be silly, flouncing around in – oh dear.

  “Not that jacket.”

  “But–”

  “A dress, not a military uniform.”

  “It’s a dress jacket.”

  “Don’t be impertinent.”

  “I was not.”

  “You are a young lady; you should act like a young lady.”

  Charlotte, youngest etcetera, with long blonde hair that… fell loose around her shoulders.

  “Ribbon!”

  “Will there be a band?”

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  “I’m sure there’ll be plenty of variety,” said Georgina.

  Charlotte wanted to be some sort of female soldier, when really she was an exasperating tomboy flibbertigibbet.

  The doorbell jangled and the maid skittered along the hall to answer it.

  Major Dan had arranged an evening at the theatre for the Derring–Do Club as a belated thank–you and Lieutenant McKendry had sent a note: ‘A night out at the theater to put some color back in Georgina’s cheeks.’ He was another person who had no idea how to spell. The sisters had met the Major’s three ‘mountaineers’, Caruthers, Merryweather and McKendry, in Switzerland and had thus become embroiled in the adventure… no, not adventure, the events of that dreadful Austro–Hungarian business.

  Through the bay window, Earnestine could see the waiting carriages looming in front of the house.

  The maid bobbed in holding two cards.

  “Captain Caruthers, Miss, and Lie… ut…”

  “Lieutenant, pronounced with an ‘f’.”

  “To be sure, Miss. Lieutenant McKendry, Miss.”

  Earnestine stepped into the hall to greet them.

  Captain Caruthers stood waiting. The light from the stained glass window around the front door caught his strong features. He was tall with thick brown hair and a matching chevron moustache.

  “Major Dan sends his apologies,” he said.

  “That’s a shame,” said Earnestine. She saw McKendry waiting outside, easily recognizable because of his thin black handlebar and chin puff, and made a quick calculation: three sisters and only two men wasn’t going to work at all.

  “We’ve two four–wheelers ready to whisk us all to the West End,” Caruthers pointed
out.

  “Spiffing!” Charlotte shouted as she raced, ribbon–less, down the stairs.

  “Come on girls!” Captain Caruthers called out, holding the door open. “Like the jacket, Lottie.”

  “Thank you,” said Charlotte, ducking beneath his arm in an overly familiar manner.

  Georgina gave a little bow and Captain Caruthers stepped aside.

  Earnestine waited.

  “Come on,” said Captain Caruthers, “or you won’t get any ice cream.”

  “But I’m…”

  Caruthers sauntered off down the garden path.

  …not a child.

  They had ordered two landaus for seven, so it was three per carriage now.

  “Oh, Ness,” said Captain Caruthers, “your Uncle Jeremiah sent a telegram: he’s meeting us at the theatre.”

  “But…” Earnestine tightened her lips. Their Uncle was supposed to serve as their chaperone (even though he couldn’t be in both carriages), but now, three women and two men meant she’d be packed in with her sisters’ crinolines for the whole journey.

  However, it turned out to be worse!

  Lieutenant McKendry had already set off with Georgina and Charlotte in the first carriage, which was fine for a short journey, because Georgina had been married and could act as chaperone for Charlotte, but that left one carriage for Captain Caruthers and herself.

  “Facing or back?” Caruthers asked.

  It was intolerable.

  During the journey, Earnestine had no idea where to look, because the man was sitting directly opposite her. Occasionally, he made to open conversation, or fidgeted with some envelope, taking it out and returning it to his pocket, but the silence just dragged on, particularly when the traffic ground to a halt in Piccadilly.

  The four miles seemed more like four hundred.

  Captain Caruthers looked over his shoulder: “Seems to be some hold up.”

  She could see that, she was facing forward.

  When they finally arrived in the West End, Uncle Jeremiah was not there to greet them.

  Earnestine glanced up and down the street, but there was nothing in the fog, except indistinct shapes looming like phantoms. Any of these ghostly forms could materialise as their Uncle, but they all steadfastly refused to do so.

  There was nothing for it, so they all went into the plush entrance hall.

  “We’ll leave instructions at the Box Office,” Earnestine suggested, “that way–”

  “There he is!” Charlotte raced forward.

  Uncle Jeremiah was on the wide stairs that led to the Circle talking to a lady in a burgundy dress. He’d heard Charlotte’s unladylike yelling, so he made his goodbyes, and came down to join them.

  “Tell us a story, tell us a story,” Charlotte demanded.

  “Lottie, little Lottie, stand still so your Uncle can see you,” said Uncle Jeremiah, nodding either with approval or because he couldn’t decide whether to look through, or over, his half–moon glasses. His sideburns were wild and hairy, his whiskers fine and his white hair was all askew. He was the same old Uncle Jeremiah, who had weaved tales of adventure for them as they grew up. Earnestine, despite her anger at his tardiness, smiled.

  “Uncle,” she said, “who was that lady to whom you were talking?”

  “Captain Caruthers, isn’t it?”

  Captain Caruthers jolted to attention: “Sir?”

  “We met at the… didn’t we?”

  “Yes, Doctor Deering, at the… yes.”

  So many conversations these days were frames without a picture. The unmentionable event was the funeral of Georgina’s husband, the late Captain Merryweather, whose presence still haunted them with so many pauses.

  “This way,” Lieutenant McKendry suggested, and he led them up the stairs and along a curving corridor. Much to Earnestine’s chagrin, she realised that Major Dan had booked a box. Georgina and Charlotte loved the idea, but to Earnestine’s mind it was ostentatious. If they were going to see a show, they should see a show; and not face the rest of the audience as if they were the performers themselves.

  “Sit here, my dear,” said Uncle Jeremiah guiding Earnestine to the front seat.

  “Adults at the back,” Earnestine said.

  “Yes, dear, and children at the front.”

  “But–”

  “And here are your sweetmeats.”

  So Earnestine was sat at the front, with her packet of tiny pastries, with her face feeling as red as her dress.

  She could hear Uncle Jeremiah, Captain Caruthers and Lieutenant McKendry discussing weighty matters: politics, the troubles in Africa, the recent disappearances and even the cricket with an emphasis on playing by the rules; whereas she had to–

  “Do you think there will be elephants?”

  “Lottie,” Earnestine replied, “how would they get an elephant in here?”

  “They might.”

  “Shhh…”

  Where was she? Oh yes, playing by the rules; whereas she had to–

  “Ow!”

  “Sorry, Ness.”

  “Don’t fidget, Lottie.”

  Whereas she had to… take her mind off her worries. She’d write it out a hundred times: I must take my mind… No, she wasn’t a child, so there was no need to write lines any more.

  Earnestine looked around the auditorium taking it all in. The curtains were red velvet, plush, and the walls were decorated with curls and patterns picked out in gold leaf. The stalls had the more middle classes, but the Circle and particularly the Boxes held collections of very finely dressed individuals. She could clearly see those in the opposite boxes. Lord and Lady Farthing, some foreign dignitaries with red sashes and, in the third box, a single, elegant woman dressed in a burgundy outfit with a black net veil pushed up to allow her to peer through a pair of powerful opera glasses.

  Instinctively, Earnestine glanced over her shoulder: the men were earnestly discussing Grace and Darling, and then she realised they were still going on about whether Australia would win the Ashes. When she looked back, she saw the woman still staring in her direction as if she were studying something. Without doubt, the woman was watching one of them in their box.

  But who?

  There was only Caruthers, McKendry, Uncle Jeremiah, Georgina, Charlotte or… surely not.

  The galvanic lights dimmed and the curtain twitched. An ‘ooh’ of anticipation gathered in the stalls below and those in the Circle leaned forward.

  Instead of feeling excitement, the darkness let Earnestine’s recent worries intrude. Simply put, she was too young.

  At twenty, she certainly didn’t feel like a little girl, but then she had never felt like a little girl. Recently, they’d been thrust into the desperate world of international affairs, vis–à–vis preventing an Austro–Hungarian faction from conquering the British Empire.

  This, surely, was an experience that counted over and above the actual number of her birthdays. She had hoped that this service would be rewarded with the funds to mount an expedition to trace their Father and Mother’s last known whereabouts.

  It didn’t and hadn’t.

  Unfortunately, a twenty year old young lady was not considered responsible enough by the Foreign Office, the Royal Society, the British Archaeological Society or any of the other numerous clubs devoted to exploration. Leave it to the men, they explained patiently: which was all very well, she had no problem with that at all, except that the men never did anything.

  She was forming the opinion, quite strongly, that all they did all day in those clubs of theirs was sit around talking. Goodness only knew what they spent all that time discussing.

  “No, no,” said Caruthers, “Darling captained in ‘99, and he’s a left–hander.”

  “He has a beard though,” Uncle Jeremiah replied, “and Grace is right handed.”

  “Yes, that’s all very well,” countered Caruthers, “but Grace retired in the series and Archie MacLaren took over.”

  “Of the English team.”

 
; “Yes, my point, and it was the Aussie, who had the moustache.”

  The other issue, for Earnestine, was money.

  The house in Zebediah Row was covered by an annuity put in place by Father and Uncle Edgar before they went exploring, but there was no arrangement for pocket money and they were down to their last shillings. The theatre sold cones of cockles, for example, but, unless one of the men offered, they couldn’t even share one between the three of them. (There was the emergency money in the Adventuring Kit, but no! They were not going on another adventure. Mother had been quite explicit: no exploring, no trouble, no adventures… so that had to stay there… just in case.)

  So, in summary, Earnestine was not happy.

  The solution, of course, was for one of them to marry. A man, even some callow youth aged sixteen, could control finances, organise expeditions and would be allowed to sit at the back with the adults.

  Georgina had married: possibly well, for Merryweather had been a Captain, but now she was a widow. She was the middle sister, so Earnestine had been overstepped and was therefore destined to be a spinster. Without doubt, then, the family’s future rested firmly upon Charlotte’s shoulders. Earnestine turned to consider Charlotte, who was beautiful in a showy way with her long blonde hair and who was currently pulling faces at some soldiers down in the stalls.

  “Charlotte!”

  Charlotte turned a sweet smile in Earnestine’s direction: “Ness?”

  “Sit back.”

  “But I won’t be able–”

  “Sit! Back!”

  Earnestine felt the nape of her neck burning. Charlotte was no doubt sticking her tongue out at Earnestine, but Earnestine refused to turn around and give the silly thing the satisfaction of seeing how cross she had made her elder and better. Captain Caruthers and Lieutenant McKendry wouldn’t be shocked, they knew Charlotte too well, but it meant that there’d be no bliss in her direction from either man.

  Perhaps Major Dan was worth considering? He had, after all, a Major’s stipend and hadn’t actually met Charlotte.

  The auditorium darkened and the galvanic lights came up on the stage. A hush and then applause rippled through the audience as the plump Master of Ceremonies, a jolly dandy in a dress suit, bounded from the wings.