by David Wake
Their unpacking was lacklustre too. Luggage was simply put down rather than everyone’s belongings being returned to their rightful place. The picture of them all by the theatre, which Georgina had removed, remained in her bag and so the blank space on the drawing room wall remained.
Outside, a fog descended.
“Will you be going to work?” Georgina asked.
“I suppose I must,” Earnestine said. “Mister Boothroyd was arrested, but the work still needs to be done.”
“Booth?” Charlotte said.
“Boothroyd,” Earnestine corrected. “And to you, it’s Mister Boothroyd.”
“It was the last thing Uncle Jeremiah said to us: ‘booth’ and before that ‘Saint George’. It’s a clue.”
“Not now, Charlotte.”
“It’s inventions, isn’t it?” Georgina asked Earnestine.
“That’s right, although perhaps it’ll just become a museum for tourists from the future.”
That got Charlotte’s attention: “Will there be ice cream?”
“Charlotte!”
They had a simple meal of bread and cheese with ham from a tin, and then Charlotte was sent to bed.
“This is all jolly unfair!” she shouted from the stairs before she ‘climbed the wooden hill’ completely. They were both being so moody. No–one had even mentioned when she was going to get her personal Zeppelin.
Tomorrow, she thought, would be another day.
Chapter XI
Miss Deering-Dolittle
When Earnestine rose and came downstairs early the morning after next, a Monday, there was a card and a gentleman waiting in the drawing room: it was Captain Caruthers, DSO & bar, MC.
She knocked and entered.
He was standing in uniform looking out of the window, clearly ready for action.
“Captain Caruthers?”
“Ah, Miss Deering–Dolittle, we’re wanted.”
“Jolly good.”
Earnestine let Cook know she was going to be out, grabbed her bag and then joined the impatient Captain on the path to the road. There was a hansom waiting.
As they jostled out into the traffic, Earnestine had to ask: “Can you tell me what this is about?”
“Ah, thing is… I don’t know.”
“I see.”
“Major Dan sent a telegram. Urgent. Hush–hush. All that.”
“I see.”
Earnestine decided to wait patiently. She could do that, she knew: keep her head while all about her were losing theirs. They turned onto the main road and picked up speed, before–
“Where are we going?” she asked.
Caruthers gave her a smile and patted her hand.
This seemed rather familiar and Earnestine remembered a similar journey with this man when they’d been to the theatre.
When they arrived at their destination, Earnestine didn’t recognize the area. It was somewhere near Whitehall, she guessed, and the buildings were tall, stone and Romanesque, like temples, and the one they entered was austere, august and reeked of power and money.
Caruthers took her through the main hall and up a flight of wide, well carpeted stairs. As they passed through, various Gentlemen saw her and harrumphed, flapped their papers and made a point of turning their heads away. This was a realm of men: women were clearly not welcome, so the person they had come to see surprised her.
“Mrs Frasier!”
Earnestine felt her lips tighten: this was the woman who had so rudely invaded her sister’s house and who had, without a moment’s thought, taken their Uncle from them. Here she was, almost larger than life, in the very heart of London.
“Ah, Earnestine, come in,” Mrs Frasier smiled warmly, her gold tooth evident, a replaced canine.
It was a smoking room and, like the rest of the building, it was grand, high ceilinged with enormous oil paintings of serious looking and important historical figures hanging everywhere, each looking down on the meeting with disapproval. The expectations of the past loomed over them. The smoke from Mrs Frasier’s cigar spiralled up to the ornate fresco ceiling.
There were others here, important looking men in well–made black frock coats. Earnestine glanced at the tables and sideboard, but she couldn’t see any top hats or white glasses. Perhaps they had been given to the Porter and stored in a cloakroom.
She stood prim and proper.
“I should introduce these people,” said Mrs Frasier. “But I have forgotten your names… again.”
The gathering smiled at her admission.
“Suffice to say this is a Judge, a Bishop, a Peer of the Realm, General, Admiral, rich man… poor man…. the others are all Lords.”
There was a cough.
“Oh, I beg your pardon… or Members of the Commons.”
The Peer, a young man, came forward: “Miss Deering–Dolittle, we are very pleased you are here. I am Lord Farthing; here is General Saunders, Sir Neptune Atkinson, Admiral Tempington, the Right Reverend Samuel Lilliworth…”
He went on.
Earnestine tried to take them in, but there were too many and they were introduced too quickly.
“Anything to be of service,” said Earnestine, “although I do not understand why I am here.”
“Of service,” said Lord Farthing, his jovial repetition directed to the others. “Now where were we?”
“It’s a question of trust,” said the Judge.
“We cannot trust you,” said Mrs Frasier, “that is the point. This era, as every schoolboy in my time knows, was full of conspiracy: German spies, Russian agents and those followers of Marx and Engels. But there are conspirators in the Entente Cordiale and the Triple Alliance, American industrialists, expansionists on all sides and warmongers, those who want this terrible conflict to engulf the entire globe, for the purposes of profit. They must be stopped.”
“Then I see an impasse,” said the Judge.
“There is a way.”
Everyone was all ears.
“We have decided,” continued Mrs Frasier, magnanimously, “to allow a representative of this time to visit the future, so they can see for themselves the extraordinary progress and the vital nature of our work here in the past. Once they are reassured, we will return them safely. Their word would be your guarantee.”
“That seems to have potential.”
“But it must be someone we can all trust, someone above suspicion, and, as a compromise, someone whom you know is not a temporal agent.”
There were many opinions from the assembled company:–
A Judge: “Perhaps someone from the judiciary.”
The Cabinet Minister: “A Member of Parliament.”
The General: “The military, wot?”
Earnestine put her hands together as she tried to follow the conversation. Opinions had clearly gone round and round in circles for some time.
“I’m afraid we have had to arrest a Member of Parliament. The Chronological Committee will never accept someone from such a historically tainted organisation.”
“Then who?” Caruthers asked.
“A member of a club,” Mrs Frasier suggested
Again, there were many opinions.
“The Reform.”
“I think not. The Cuckoo?”
“The Diogenes, surely?”
Mrs Frasier steepled her hands, imitating Earnestine’s thoughtful posture. She waited until an expectant hush had settled onto everyone assembled.
“I thought the Derring–Do Club,” Mrs Frasier said.
Earnestine’s hands fluttered as she became the focus of attention.
“A young lady!?” General Saunders exclaimed.
“And what is wrong with the fairer sex?” said Mrs Frasier. “She is eminently qualified: born of your time and not of the Committee’s, too young and innocent to have been swayed by the Conspiracy and yet someone who has proved herself a staunch supporter and able warrior for the Empire.”
There were shakes of the head and nods, glances for support and per
suasion, until finally the ‘aye’s had it.
“A capital choice,” said Lord Farthing.
Captain Caruthers caught Earnestine’s eye, but when she took a step towards him, he signalled her away and slipped out of a side door.
The various dignitaries came to shake her hand: Lord Farthing, General Saunders, Sir Neptune Atkinson, the Judge, a man smelling of formaldehyde, and finally, with an embrace, Mrs Frasier.
“We have a saying in the future,” said Mrs Frasier, playing to the throng. “No time like the present.”
They all agreed with that polite chortle given to a clever phrase.
Mrs Frasier indicated Earnestine, and then the door and together they left the room.
Earnestine wasn’t aware she’d said ‘yes’. Perhaps, she thought, she could rescue Uncle Jeremiah and Mister Boothroyd.
Captain Caruthers caught up with them in the corridor.
“May I just have a quick word,” he said.
“By all means,” said Mrs Frasier. She moved on, pretending to examine the paintings and the elegant chairs that lined the panelled walls. The one she chose showed St George, the English flag behind him fluttering in the breeze and a wounded dragon sprawled at his feet.
“I just want to wish you the best of British,” Caruthers said. He shuffled in order to put Earnestine between Mrs Frasier and himself. He fiddled with his jacket and then plonked a heavy object into Earnestine’s bag. It was about the size and shape of a house brick and made of metal.
“What is it?” she whispered.
“Latest thing,” Caruthers replied quietly. “It’s a miniature camera.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Just click the button on the top and wind the dial anti–clockwise.”
“Anti–clockwise.”
“Against the clock, yes.”
“I know what it means,” Earnestine said, so sharply that Captain Caruthers felt it necessary to look to Mrs Frasier to exchange a smile. “I was just startled that it was so small, but what’s it for?”
“Evidence. For Queen and Country.”
“Saint George.”
“That’s the spirit.”
“No, tell Georgina… no, tell Charlotte, she was right: find Saint George.”
“I have to see Major Dan.”
“Then please send a telegram: Charlotte was right, find Saint George.”
“Will do. Good luck.”
He stepped away and Earnestine, feeling somewhat further put upon, joined Mrs Frasier.
Outside there was a carriage waiting. Mrs Frasier held the door open.
“Where are we going?” Earnestine asked.
“Not where… when,” Mrs Frasier announced. “The future, Earnestine, the future.”
The carriage took them to the place south of the river, under the wrought iron archway and into the yard.
This time, Earnestine went up the steps and in via the front door, rather than sneaking around the side of the building. She noticed the substantial but discreet security: hired heavies outside and Temporal Peelers within.
They went along a bright and shiny corridor that reeked of new paint. At the end was a raised platform with a strange mat consisting of lines of copper wire woven into the material. The platform was edged with thick brass rails.
Earnestine stepped up nervously.
One of the Temporal Peelers grabbed her arm and pulled her across so that she was properly positioned in the formation. There was a window along the corridor (she half–expected to see someone staring in as she had done) and she could see the sky. She wondered if this was the last time she’d see her era.
They moved a protective glass screen across, partly obscuring the technician, who stood at a lectern covered in dials and controls. He pulled a lever and made adjustments before he took a rod or baton from his pocket and screwed it into the centre. The light caught a jewel fitted in the end as it turned.
“Fourteen fifty nine,” he said.
That was the continental system, Earnestine realised, and she managed to glance at her fob watch as she subtracted twelve: nearly three, post meridiem. Everyone else, including Mrs Frasier, checked their watches with a flourish of clicking covers.
The technician slammed a lever home: “Fifteen hundred.”
The lights began to flicker and the smell of galvanic charge filled the air. She felt the hairs on her head start to stand on end and her skin prickled.
“Close your eyes,” said the Peeler, tapping his white glasses.
She saw the corridor begin to fade and distort, disappearing from sight as it changed. Even if she hadn’t been instructed to do so, the bright light forced her to close her eyes
A note rose in tone ringing in her ears and then–
And then–
The world fell away.
Mrs Arthur Merryweather
Georgina made herself another pickle sandwich. Cook wasn’t around, presumably shopping, and the maids were busy with the laundry. Earnestine was away with Captain Caruthers, and without a chaperone – shocking really – but then good old Earnestine: it really was about time. She hoped Colonel Fitzwilliam was fixing her front door back at Magdalene Chase.
All this business with the Chronological – she checked the paper – Committee was quite perplexing, but it was good to have something to worry over. She was concerned about Uncle Jeremiah – arrested. Surely it would turn out to be a mistake. Hopefully, the Surrey branch of the Deering–Dolittle family had a Jeremiah or Jeremy or a Jemima even, and the resulting scandal would go some way to redressing the balance between the Surreys and the Kents. It all took her mind off her grief over Arthur and–
She shouldn’t have thought that.
She choked on the pickle, tears streaming down her face.
This was terrible, just awful – and she coughed a bit of bread across the kitchen table. She swallowed, drank some water and cleaned up, wiping mess away. Thank goodness Earnestine hadn’t seen her carrying on like that.
Distraction, that’s what she needed.
There was a telegram on the table in the hall.
Georgina found Charlotte reading the Strand magazine in her bedroom.
“Where did you get that?” she asked.
“Earnestine let me.”
“You have a telegram.”
“For me?”
Charlotte swivelled off her bed and took the proffered message.
“It’s from Captain Caruthers,” Charlotte said.
“Why is he sending you a message?”
“Maybe he wants to propose.”
“Charlotte!”
“Oh, it’s from Earnestine: CHARLOTTE STOP… isn’t it funny the way they write these.”
“Charlotte!!”
“CHARLOTTE STOP NESS SAYS… Ness, it’s to save money on letters.”
“Charlotte!!!”
“CHARLOTTE STOP NESS SAYS YOU… Why didn’t he shorten Charlotte?”
“Lottie!”
“Sorry… CHARLOTTE STOP NESS SAYS YOU WERE RIGHT STOP FIND ST GEORGE STOP CARUTHERS STOP.”
“Saint George?”
Charlotte flourished the telegram: “Ness says I was right.”
“Oh, do concentrate.”
“I was right.”
“You were right, jolly good,” Georgina conceded. “Now, what were you right about?”
“Uncle Jeremiah said ‘Saint George’ and ‘Booth’.”
“Saint George and the Dragon, where he was staying, yes… and?”
“No, I said ‘and the Dragon’, he just said ‘Saint George’. Find Saint George, Earnestine says, and if ‘Booth’ is ‘Boothroyd’, it’ll be at the Patent Pending Office.”
“Well that’s the end of that, because it’s secret and we’re not allowed.”
“I’ve been there and I know where the key is hidden. Ness doesn’t think I saw, but I did. Come on, it’ll be an adventure.”
“No.”
“But–”
“Don’t whine.”
“But–”
“Oh very well,” said Georgina. “We’ll go directly, but we don’t tell Earnestine that we thought it was an adventure. Agreed?”
The hansom took Georgina and Charlotte to Queensbury Road. They found the actual door with some difficulty even though Charlotte had been there before. Charlotte insisted that Georgina turn around while she found the key.
Inside, it was a dark passageway and then the… storage warehouse for paperwork. It certainly wasn’t the study or library that Earnestine had described. Atop the piles of papers were large weights: vases, pieces of rock, a brick, iron objects and tat.
“There’s no Saint George here,” Georgina said.
“Don’t whine.”
“Don’t be cheeky.”
But Charlotte ignored her and rushed about bent double looking at the floor: “Waste paper basket… no, fireplace… here…”
“We’ve no time to play consulting detectives.”
“Ah ha!” Charlotte had found a slip of paper. “Telegram: B STOP AT G AND D NEAR TENNING HALT STOP WELLS.”
“That could be anything.”
“Boothroyd, I’m at the George and Dragon near Tenning Halt signed ‘Wells’. Who’s Wells?”
“Uncle Jeremiah used that name to check–in.”
“That settles it then.”
“I’ll admit it is suggestive.”
“It must be.”
“So?”
“It means that Uncle Jeremiah told Mister Boothroyd where he was, and Mister Boothroyd told him about Saint George.”
“Really?”
“Most likely, so indubitably one of the papers refers to some invention that’s codenamed Saint George.”
“Oh, Charlotte, there are thousands of pieces of paper here.”
“We look, but don’t touch anything.”
“How can I look at the paper if I can’t touch it?”
They looked and didn’t touch.
There was a line across the room, diagonally, that divided a region of chaos from an area of organisation. In the latter, the documents were piled neatly with paperweights to keep them from floating away. It struck Georgina suddenly that this was like a chessboard; the paperweights were pieces being moved from square to square as each pile gave up some of its confusion to other stacks.
