The Derring-Do Club and the Year of the Chrononauts

by David Wake

  In sudden desperation, Georgina scrabbled under the mattress and fished out the picture from her bag. There was Caruthers, Earnestine the younger, McKendry, herself, Uncle Jeremiah and, of course, Charlotte.

  If they ever managed to return to their own time, then they too would pass away from old age.

  Mrs Falcone had conversed with the dead, so she claimed.

  In this time, Georgina herself was no more.

  If God allowed her the three score years and ten, then she would have died… twelve years ago. Was she already with her sweet Arthur now? Could she find a Ouija board and communicate with her own ghost? Join hands and say:

  “Am I there?”

  Georgina gasped, held her hand to her face.

  It was ridiculous.

  Saying it out loud made it more so: you can’t meet your own ghost.

  She returned the daguerreotype to its hiding place.

  Except, she thought, Earnestine had met herself.

  Miss Charlotte

  Charlotte decided to escape.

  She’d started out on this adventure – and she didn’t care what Earnestine thought – searching for Uncle Jeremiah and she intended – ow, wretched brooch pin – to finish what she’d started. She’d played hide–and–seek with Uncle Jeremiah many times, always winning, but, with its rush to Dartmoor and the added interference of Earnestine the Even Elder, this round was proving the most challenging.

  Charlotte smiled to herself: she’d outwitted that Earnestine. Older and wiser indeed. ‘I missed you so’, ha! Gulled good and proper, and the woman hadn’t even realised.

  But still, an older Earnestine!

  What could be worse?

  Now Charlotte had not two, but three older sisters. They’d all gang up on her, she knew it. Three against one was not odds she fancied.

  It wasn’t fair.

  It would be ‘Lottie, do this’, ‘Lottie, sit up straight’, ‘Lottie, elbows’, ‘Lottie, homework’, ‘Lottie, French tenses are important’, ‘be quiet, Lottie’, ‘careful, you’ll break it’, ‘oh, look what you’ve done now’, ‘that brooch was expensive and you’ve just bent it’, ‘you’ll never amount to anything if you have that attitude’, ‘language’, ‘do as you are told’, ‘don’t whine’ and ‘Oh, Charlotte, honestly!’

  Ah ha, locked door opens, mystery investigation begins.

  Chapter XVI

  Mrs Frasier

  “Lord Farthing.”

  The young Peer looked away to stare out of the window at the far horizon, and Mrs Frasier smiled. It always amused her to have a man under her spell. The dominant sex indeed, when they were often putty in her hands. It amazed her that in all the centuries since the creation of Eve, the sons of Adam had not been overthrown. Yet, she reminded herself.

  “Everything proceeds, Mrs Frasier. The laws are phrased ready to go before the House.”

  “Good.”

  Lord Farthing tidied some papers on his desk.

  “No clerk?” Mrs Frasier asked.

  “Not today,” he said quickly. “You are prepared if things go badly?”

  “I am,” said Mrs Frasier, and she lit another thin cigar. “Are you prepared if they go well?”

  Lord Farthing coughed and nodded.

  “We shall treat those two imposters just the same,” Mrs Frasier said.

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Triumph and Disaster; it’s from a poem I had on my bedroom wall back in Zebediah Row.”

  “Oh,” he said, with studied casualness. “I hear that you are hiring workmen.”

  “A few, yes.”

  “I would have thought that the working class of your time had far more skills than our backward types.”

  “We lack certain abilities in the future,” said Mrs Frasier. “The war left us bereft of a whole generation of men.”

  “Men that we will now save.”

  “Yes.”

  “But won’t that change the future and render your existence impossible?”

  “Time is mutable,” said Mrs Frasier. “To change things is the Chronological Committee’s intention.”

  “But to destroy yourself?”

  “The Ultimate Sanction will remove all trace, wipe us from the face of history as it were.”

  “Is it really necessary?”

  “So that you have a fresh start, a clean slate as it were,” said Mrs Frasier and she waved her cigar at him playfully like a schoolmarm telling off a pupil, “so be careful not to waste it and repeat the mistakes of the future.”

  “But to throw away that power? For whoever controls the Temporal Peelers, controls everything.”

  “A power I would hand over gladly to make a better world.”

  “You are a remarkable woman.”

  Mrs Frasier inhaled and let the smoke flow from her lungs to drift through the office: “Thank you, but I shall live on in my younger self.”

  “Isn’t she your Achilles heel?”

  “She is safely tucked away in the future.”

  “Safe? Surely the changes we make tomorrow will render that future null and void?”

  “I returned… pardon me. She will return in plenty of time and grow up in the Utopian future we strive to deliver.”

  “She is like your child.”

  Mrs Frasier chuckled: “Although I am not her mother, she is my child.”

  “Women have such a wondrous gift, the gift of bringing life into the world. Why would you want the vote?”

  “It’s the future.”

  “So you say.”

  “You’ve seen the evidence with your own eyes.”

  “Her Majesty will sign it into law, of course,” Lord Farthing said.

  “The woman will do as you men command,” Mrs Frasier said and, when she saw his expression, she added: “I’m teasing you, forgive me.”

  “I never know with your sort.”

  “My sort?”

  “Strong women,” said Lord Farthing. “Remember Doctor Mordant.”

  “Elizabeth, yes. I met her at the Fabians.”

  “She was the same. What happened to her?”

  “She went to do some research in Austro–Hungary, I believe. Dead now.”

  Mrs Frasier steadied herself with a draw on her cigar, and moved to the window to stare out across the Thames. They were high up in the Palace of Westminster and Big Ben chimed loudly. Reflected in the window, she saw the burning ember of her cigar. It reminded her of something – ah yes, remember, remember…

  “Guido Fawkes,” she said, “once put barrels of gunpowder beneath this very building in an attempt to change politics.”

  “And now we overthrow the established order with a proper legal framework,” said Lord Farthing. “Who is on trial next?”

  “The Right Honourable James Foxley.”

  “Earl Foxley.”

  “Earl?”

  “Yes, his brother was killed in an unfortunate duelling accident.”

  “Really?”

  “You killed him.”

  “Ah yes, I remember,” said Mrs Frasier. “I was teasing. I still have the pertinent skill, you understand.”

  Mrs Frasier flicked her arm up and pretended to parry and thrust.

  “Of course you do,” Lord Farthing agreed. “And I have the cut and thrust of debate to win, and we will.”

  “I know.”

  “Tomorrow, it will all be decided, one way or another.”

  “It will be our way,” Mrs Frasier stated.

  “Yes, it’ll be a day to remember, but our opponents will regroup and form an opposition. They may prove difficult.”

  “First they will have a meeting to scheme and contrive. Men like meetings.” Mrs Frasier returned to the view of Parliament: “Remember… remember…”

  Lord Farthing poured himself a brandy and offered a second glass to Mrs Frasier. She nodded, so he poured a generous measure, and brought it over.

  “Mrs Frasier,” he said.

  “Please, call me Earnestine… Nes
s.”

  “A toast, Ness.”

  Mrs Frasier raised her glass: “To tomorrow.”

  “And tomorrow’s tomorrow.”

  “Yes, I know of no reason why the day after tomorrow should ever be forgot.”

  Miss Deering-Dolittle

  The lock in the door rattled.

  Earnestine stood: she hadn’t been asleep and had no idea what time it was or what time it was supposed to be. Did it matter?

  The same thoughts circled within her mind: she was merely a prototype, just a–

  A man came in suddenly, his hands up and he lurched towards her as he went for her throat. Earnestine threw her arms up instinctively, blocking his grip, but his momentum caused them both to stumble back. She caught the edge of the bed as she went down, crashed against the chair, and heard the water basin bounce and clatter over the hard floor and her water jug shatter.

  “You bitch!”

  His right eye stared into her face with an angry hatred, but his left eye looked sideways.

  Earnestine couldn’t cry out, such was the man’s stranglehold. Her own hands were fully occupied in fighting his inexorable grip and her legs trapped by her chemise. Her vision blurred, the galvanic light burnt her sight, but it was the only direction she could look.

  He banged her head back on the floor: “We will.”

  Again: “Not have.”

  She was blacking out, her struggling fingers felt like they belonged to someone else.

  “A dynasty of Frasiers.”

  The man jerked, a spasm running through his entire body, then he wrestled around in twitches.

  Earnestine gagged as the air came back into her lungs.

  Despite her arms being partially pinned, she hit back with small, savage blows, striking again and again, nails gouging, but the man ignored her.

  Instead, he twisted, then bucked, yelped and then toppled awkwardly.

  Above, standing heroically, was Charlotte: her left hand raised high above her head and her right directed forward and down in a classic fencing posture. Her sword was black, evil, with a curved handle.

  “Lott – ah…”

  Charlotte beamed: “I killed him just like in a duel. Just like you.”

  “It’s not…” Earnestine coughed, clearing her bruised throat, “…a competition.”

  “Still, that’s one each and–”

  “Be quiet, Lottie.”

  Charlotte pulled her sword out of the man and brought it up to the En Garde position.

  Earnestine pushed the dead man off her, wriggling out awkwardly: “And it wasn’t a duel, because you stabbed him in the back with my umbrella.”

  “He was trying to kill you.”

  “He was succeeding.”

  There was a scuffle at the door and the frame was filled with the bulk of Scrutiniser Jones.

  “What’s this?” he demanded.

  “I was attacked,” Earnestine announced.

  “By?”

  “I don’t know,” she shouted, straining her voice. She pointed. “Him.”

  “I killed him,” said Charlotte with a big grin.

  Earnestine finally pulled herself up and clambered onto the bed.

  Scrutiniser Jones surveyed the scene, his thick head rotating about, then he bent down to check the dead man’s pulse before glancing up at Earnestine, concerned.

  “A glass of water, if you’d be so kind,” she said.

  “Your jug is broken.”

  “Can you… kind Sir.”

  The big man hesitated, but then stood, pushed past Charlotte and went out.

  Charlotte started to give advice: “Ness, just lean back and–”

  But quick as a flash, Earnestine was going through the man’s belongings. He wore a thick workman’s coat with pockets on either side, but, as Earnestine discovered, only one inside. The total contents were an oily rag, some shillings with Queen Victoria on them, a small penknife, a bottle opener… hardly the stuff of a proper kit.

  “From the past,” Earnestine said.

  “Not a workman,” Charlotte replied. “His hands.”

  “I am aware of his hands.”

  “They’re clean and uncalloused.”

  Earnestine checked. Sure enough, his big, murderous hands were quite soft and fine. His face was familiar.

  “I’ve seen him before,” said Earnestine.

  “Where?”

  “Not where, when?” Earnestine tapped her forehead, it vexed her.

  “Can you remember anything?”

  “He doesn’t look right with his eyes looking upwards.” Earnestine reached out to close his eyelids and saw that his eyes didn’t match. “I was with Captain Caruthers.”

  Scrutiniser Jones returned with a metal mug, spritely enough to take Earnestine by surprise.

  She pulled back, guiltily.

  The big man knew: “What did you find, Miss?”

  “I’m afraid he has no identification.”

  “Your water, Miss.”

  Earnestine took the proffered mug and sipped, her first taste turning into a gulp as the cool water soothed the inside of her neck.

  Scrutiniser Jones turned to Charlotte.

  “What are you doing out of your room?” he asked.

  “Oh, am I supposed to be in there?” Charlotte replied in her sweetest voice. Earnestine winced when she remembered all those times she’d heard that particular tone of innocence.

  Scrutiniser Jones fished out his keys, loud and clattering.

  “I’d rather not be locked in,” Charlotte said.

  “It’s for your own protection.”

  “Protection,” said Earnestine, rubbing her neck obviously, “that’s jolly thoughtful of you. What would I have done just now, if it hadn’t been for the locked door?”

  Scrutiniser Jones didn’t reply. What could he have said?

  “Could I have another room please?” Earnestine asked.

  “This is the one allocated.”

  “It has a corpse in it.”

  “That is… unfortunate.”

  “Excellent, that’s settled then,” said Earnestine. “Something with a view perhaps.”

  The three of them moved into the corridor, went past one closed door.

  “Charlotte,” said Earnestine. “You’ve broken your brooch.”

  “I used it–”

  “You must take more care of your belongings. That brooch was expensive,” Earnestine chided, and she snatched back her umbrella. “And don’t take things that don’t belong to you.”

  “But–”

  “Don’t whine.”

  Scrutiniser Jones let Charlotte back to her room and locked it. He checked the handle twice.

  Earnestine was given the next room along.

  She went in, propped her umbrella up in the corner and then thought better of that. She took it up, intending to put it by the bed just in case, but she saw a mark of blood left on the floor by the point.

  She was frightened by this.

  The evidence, far more than her sore neck, made it suddenly real and frightening, but she couldn’t admit that to herself, so she felt angry instead.

  “Oh, Charlotte, honestly.”

  Mrs Arthur Merryweather

  The next day, Georgina was surprised by all the extra security. There were six Temporal Peelers in their long frock coats, top hats and sinister white glasses. She recognised the bulk of Scrutiniser Jones and the lofty stature of Chief Examiner Lombard.

  “You’re going to court,” said Chief Examiner Lombard.

  “I’ve not done anything,” Georgina protested.

  “Public Gallery, Miss,” he replied. “Justice must be seen to be done.”

  Charlotte appeared from the next door along.

  “Yes, of course, and it’s ‘Ma’am’. I’m widowed.”

  “As you wish, Ma’am.”

  “Where are we going?” Charlotte asked.

  “Public Gallery of the court, Miss.”

  “That sounds exciting,” sai
d Charlotte.

  “Mrs Frasier wanted you to know what we do here,” the Chief Examiner replied. “This visit is to be part of your education.”

  “Oh no,” Charlotte whined.

  “Why all the guards?” Georgina asked.

  Chief Examiner answered her: “Mrs Frasier… sorry, Miss Deering–Dolittle was attacked.”

  Georgina jerked her head round to look at the first door on the corridor. It was closed; there was no sign of Earnestine.

  “Oh, please no.”

  “It’s fine, Gina,” said Charlotte.

  “Don’t be silly, Charlotte. Earnestine’s been attacked.”

  “I know.”

  “You know?”

  “Yes, I saved her.”

  The Chief Examiner had reached the fourth door and unlocked it to reveal Earnestine.

  “Ness!”

  “Gina?”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “But–”

  “Stiff upper lip, Gina.”

  Georgina saw the bruising around Earnestine’s neck and the tightness with which she held her umbrella. Georgina felt a flutter in her chest, a cross between worry and panic.

  “Why do you fight people?” she demanded.

  “He attacked me,” Earnestine replied.

  “Yes, but why do they keep attacking you?”

  The two sisters glared at each other.

  “Shall we go?” said Chief Examiner Lombard.

  Earnestine nodded sharply.

  They fell into an easier formation, Charlotte skipping to fall into step with the surrounding Peelers. Their swords clattered and their boots stamped in time.

  When they reached the Rotunda, an excited man in overalls stepped in front of them, causing Earnestine to flinch noticeably.

  “Hello, hello,” he said.

  “Please make way,” said Chief Examiner Lombard.

  “I just want to… that is…”

  “Oh, Albert, yes, of course.”

  The Peelers stepped away, leaving the Deering–Dolittle sisters exposed.