The Derring-Do Club and the Year of the Chrononauts

by David Wake

  This was surely against the rules.

  A bellow cut through her thoughts. Checker Rogers ran up to them, breathless.

  “Jackson…” he stopped short when he saw Georgina. “I beg your pardon Mrs Merryweather. Scrutiniser Jones, we’re to arm ourselves and, worse, Miss Deering–Dolittle is for the rope.”

  “Rope!?”

  “Begging you pardon again, Mrs Merryweather, but there’s been a court case. Miss Deering–Dolittle stood on trial.”

  “She’s not on the lists,” Scrutiniser Jones said.

  “That may be as may be, but she was tried nonetheless and guilty it is.”

  “Guilty! I must see her at once,” Georgina demanded.

  “She’s in the library,” said Checker Rogers.

  “Take me there, directly.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Best to do so,” said Scrutiniser Jones. “I’ll find Lombard and see what’s what.”

  “If you are sure, Jackson.”

  “You jump along, Gideon.”

  “Yes, Gov.”

  Checker Rogers led the way to the small library, eagerly and somewhat forgetful about opening the doors, and Georgina saw Earnestine sitting calmly sitting at the large oak table and dwarfed by the tome laden shelves.

  “Ness?”

  Earnestine explained what she’d done, enumerating the steps on her fingers and reaching ‘guilty’ long before her thumb.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Earnestine went through it again.

  “I…” Georgina began, but words did fail her.

  “It was an idea.”

  “Ness, of all the stupid things, honestly.”

  Georgina paced up and down in the small library, back and forth as she repeated “of all”, “stupid” and “honestly” in various combinations.

  “If I am guilty, then Mrs Frasier is guilty and…”

  “You are Mrs Frasier. She won’t be happy.”

  “I dare say.”

  “What’s your plan?” Georgina demanded as she stopped pacing for the first time. “Break out of prison, run down the corridor, steal a time vessel and run off to Elizabethan times or the Jurassic or… whatever they call the Year of our Lord, nineteen thousand.”

  “I will present my case.”

  Georgina was aghast: “You’ve pleaded guilty. That’s an end to it. All that’s left is for the Judge to put on his black cap, pronounce the verdict, you eat a hearty breakfast and then there’s the scaffold and the rope.”

  “I get to make a statement.”

  “How can you be so calm?”

  “I’m–”

  “What about me? I’ve lost Arthur, then Charlotte and now you.”

  “Charlotte’s just in detention.”

  “She’s been erased from history!”

  “History detention?”

  “No, they went back in time and changed… something and now she was never born. Being erased is worse than being killed. At least with being killed there’s a funeral, tea and cucumber sandwiches.”

  Georgina broke off, fumbled desperately in her bag for Arthur’s pocket watch to feel its comforting cold brass in her hand. She touched the frame of the daguerreotype.

  “Not me,” said Earnestine.

  “Not you… yet.”

  Georgina grabbed the picture and thrust it under Earnestine’s face.

  “This was taken on that evening after the theatre,” Earnestine said, “but–”

  Georgina pointed: “Charlotte!!”

  “She’s… gone.”

  “She’s been erased from history,” Georgina said and then, deliberately and slowly, “they went back and changed events so that she was never born.”

  “But–”

  “That’s what they do.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  Earnestine touched the image lightly, thinking, and then gave the frame back to Georgina.

  “We could use the machine ourselves,” Earnestine said. “It’s just down the corridor. And anyone who has control of time can control anything. Think: we could change history so that Napoleon was never born. Or persuade people not to take part in the Boston Tea Party. The British Empire wouldn’t just be a quarter of the globe, but half of it. Pax Britannica would bring peace to so many more people.”

  “It’s too much power.”

  “Think of the good we could do.”

  “It’s evil.”

  “Only because of the way it’s been used.”

  “It’s meddling in history.”

  “We could change everything back, restore Charlotte,” said Earnestine. “We could teach the Surrey Deering–Dolittles a lesson.”

  “We could stop Graf Zala before he started and…” Georgina swallowed, her mouth dry and her palms sweating, the watch slippery in her hand, “…save Arthur.”

  “Would it be right?” Earnestine said. “Perhaps there is a natural course to events that shouldn’t be interfered with: God’s plan.”

  “God’s plan! To have those monsters kill Arthur!?” Georgina grabbed her sister’s arms, her face pleading: “To save Arthur, my husband… we must, we have no choice.”

  If Earnestine had a reply, she didn’t get the chance; there was a sharp rattle of the door as the handle was turned.

  “Come in,” said Earnestine, her voice faltering.

  The door opened and Scrutiniser Jones filled the opening.

  “Yes?” Earnestine asked.

  Scrutiniser Jones coughed: “The adjournment is over. You are to come with me.”

  “I’m ready,” said Earnestine.

  “Honestly, of all… words fail me,” Georgina said to Earnestine.

  The Scrutiniser led the way and Earnestine followed.

  Georgina stayed where she was, wondering when the picture would lose another figure. She shivered: in the morning the Derring–Do Club would consist of one member and then it wouldn’t be a club at all.

  Georgina picked up Earnestine’s umbrella.

  But maybe, just maybe, it was her turn to disappear.

  Chapter XX

  Mrs Frasier

  What was the silly child doing?

  There was so much to do and now this.

  Mrs Frasier heard that familiar voice in the courtroom through the air vent into the Judge’s chamber. She’d pleaded guilty – stupidly – and she’d refused counsel, which made things tricky, and now she wanted to make a statement.

  What did she know?

  What could she say?

  She said: “I call to the stand, myself.”

  The Judge ruled: “You may make your statement from there, Miss.”

  “I call myself, Your Honour, from my future: Mrs Frasier.”

  There was a commotion in the Public Gallery. The Judge banged his gavel until there was silence.

  “This is most irregular, I say, irregular.”

  “The accused, upon pleading guilty, is entitled to make a statement,” said Earnestine, “and so I call the accused to the stand.”

  “Mrs Frasier is not accused.”

  “I am accused, therefore Mrs Earnestine Frasier, née Deering–Dolittle, is accused.”

  Clever, clever girl, Mrs Frasier thought looking at the air vent, and most unexpected.

  The Judge spoke: “You are separate entities.”

  “Marriage does not wipe the slate clean.”

  The Judge fumbled with his papers and then looked at the Clerk of the Court: “This is most irregular. Do we have a ruling on this?”

  “No, Your Honour,” said the Clerk.

  “This is most unusual, I say. Most unusual.”

  “Yes, Your Honour.”

  “Mrs Frasier isn’t going to be happy.”

  “No, Your Honour.”

  “Very well. Call Mrs Frasier.”

  The cry went up, repeated along the corridors as a polite hue and cry. Mrs Frasier picked up her skirts and quickly ran to the corridor. It would not do for her to enter from the Judge’s chambers: the
executive and the judiciary must be seen to be separate, and she’d been most lax about that lately.

  She let a Peeler find her.

  “Mrs Frasier, Ma’am,” he said. “You are wanted in court.”

  “I know,” she said.

  She let him lead her around the room to the main door and, when she came in, the tumultuous kerfuffle in the court quietened. Observers didn’t know why and so craned their necks around and over their neighbours, until all eyes were focused on her entrance.

  Mrs Frasier had arrived.

  She moved regally to the centre of the room almost chilling the air as she passed. Finally, her footsteps rang out in the eerie silence as she ascended the witness box.

  The Clerk of the Court suddenly realised he was on, so he shuffled forward.

  “If it please your… Mrs Frasier – the oath.”

  His hands shook as he handed up the card and Bible.

  “I shall use the Dictionary,” she said.

  “Ah… I don’t think, that is–”

  “It’s on your desk, red leather.”

  The Clerk turned to his desk and was shocked to discover the object nestled amongst his reference books. When he pulled it out, he dropped the Bible onto the floor, bent to collect it and then clearly thought better of delaying Mrs Frasier any further.

  She swiped the book off him.

  “I promise to tell the truth.”

  “Er… the whole truth and nothing but the truth?”

  “That is the truth.”

  “The whole truth.”

  “The truth is everything, all things, the whole, and nothing other: the truth.”

  “Yes, of course, thank you for the lesson,” said the Clerk, and he looked to the Judge for support and clarification.

  “That is quite acceptable, Mrs Frasier; indeed more than acceptable, I’d say,” said the Judge. “And may I add the court’s sincere apologies for disturbing you from your important and vital work.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It is just…” The Judge held his arms wide in apology. “Due process and all that.”

  “Of course,” Mrs Frasier agreed. “Justice must be seen to be done.”

  She smiled now at Earnestine, and the girl’s face betrayed that she had thought this far in the game, but no further. The young lady shuffled her papers. There was nothing on them, Mrs Frasier knew, and clearly the girl had no idea what she was going to say. Mrs Frasier decided to use her most beneficent of smiles, while she waited for her cue.

  “Mrs Frasier,” Earnestine began.

  “Miss Deering–Dolittle.”

  “You are guilty of conspiracy to thwart the course of justice.”

  “I am not.”

  “You have already pleaded guilty.”

  “I am not guilty,” said Mrs Frasier, “therefore, you cannot possible be guilty.”

  “But now laws are applied retroactively.”

  “Only if one breaks them.”

  “Who are we to believe?” Earnestine asked the court sweeping her attention to the Jury.

  “You are not of age, child, and thus you are too young to plead, one way or the other,” said Mrs Frasier, “whereas I am an adult. You are a child.”

  “I am not!” Earnestine shouted.

  The Judge leant forward: “Mrs Frasier’s word is such that it cannot be called into question.”

  Earnestine leaned slightly, having raised her foot, but she didn’t stamp it down. “But I’m… 95.”

  There was a guffaw from the Public Gallery at the ludicrousness of Earnestine’s assertion. The young lady went red, which made her appear far more youthful than her twenty biological years.

  “Please, Your Honour, forgive her,” said Mrs Frasier. “I was impetuous in my youth.”

  “If Mrs Frasier’s word cannot be questioned, then my word cannot be questioned,” Earnestine said.

  “My dear,” said the Judge, “we take Mrs Frasier’s word, the elder of our Earnestines as it were.”

  “It is foolish of us to argue,” said Mrs Frasier. “Again.”

  “Obviously we did. Are. We can’t both win this argument.”

  Mrs Frasier considered Earnestine carefully, weighing up the options: “You are saying that one of us is Triumph and the other Disaster.”

  “Yes,” said Earnestine. “If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken.”

  Ah, she’s got it, Mrs Frasier realised: “Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools.”

  The Judge interrupted: “I beg your pardon, Mrs Frasier.”

  “We’re quoting Kipling, Your Honour.”

  “Our sister, Charlotte,” Earnestine said, “has been removed from history.”

  “I know,” said Mrs Frasier.

  Earnestine pounced on this: “How can you suddenly know?”

  “When our sister Georgina mentioned it, I decided to read the report.”

  “Oh, but it was by you? This is murder, Your Honour.”

  “Habeas Corpus!” said Mrs Frasier. “Show me the body!”

  “But my sister… our sister! Do you have no pity?”

  “Sacrifices have to be made,” said Mrs Frasier. Why wouldn’t the silly girl understand?

  “You–”

  “I could do nothing, and even if I could, weighed against the survival of the human species, what is the life of one man? Or child? Not just this generation or yours, but for all generations to come from now until time eternal.”

  Mrs Frasier pinched the bridge of her imperial nose. She was getting a headache, strong, powerful and full of those flashing lights that somehow whirled inside her cranium. She smoothed down her dress, pulled herself together and faced the young Earnestine for another round, but the child had no more fight in her. She was like a drowning kitten, helpless and forlorn.

  “We must stand together,” Mrs Frasier said, “now more than ever. The point of changing events is to bring about a better outcome.”

  “Here, here,” came a shout from the Public Gallery.

  Mrs Frasier smiled: “Earnestine, it’s for your own good.”

  “That would be your own good.”

  “Yes! And for the good of all.”

  “God Bless Mrs Frasier,” came another shout from above. “God Bless Mrs Frasier.”

  The saying was taken up, repeated, and culminated in applause.

  Mrs Frasier held up her hand and a hush descended.

  “I was charged with perverting the course of justice,” she looked around the assembly and it was as if she were addressing each person individually. “I pleaded ‘guilty’, when I was not of age to do so, but now, today, when perverse justice is being swept aside by true justice, I can at last honestly change my plea to ‘not guilty’.”

  “Very good, very good,” said the Judge. “Clerk, upon appeal, I say, upon appeal.”

  “As I give myself a second chance, so we give the world a second chance.”

  Miss Deering-Dolittle

  Earnestine jumped up, shouting to make herself heard above the clapping: “But, but–”

  “No, my dear,” said the Judge, and he pointed towards Mrs Frasier. “You have spoken.”

  The Jury huddled together.

  Earnestine felt like a told–off child. All her arguments were nothing, and generated nothing more than a ‘there, there’ and a pat on the head. She thought that Mrs Frasier, remembering exactly how this had made her feel, would have been more sympathetic. It was so unfair.

  “Members of the Jury,” said the Judge, “have you reached a verdict?”

  “We have, Your Honour.”

  “Is it unanimous?”

  “It is, Your Honour.”

  “And what is that verdict?”

  “Not guilty.”

  There was applause again from the Public Gallery.

  “Mrs Frasier is not guilty,” said the Judge. “Clerk, note it down, I say, note it down.”

  The Clerk picked up his pen and then noticed that he’d already inscribed the lette
r ‘N’ by Earnestine Deering–Dolittle’s name.

  Mrs Frasier smiled: she was happy.

  Mrs Arthur Merryweather

  Whatever Earnestine was doing in the courtroom, Georgina thought, she was generating an excellent distraction. Everyone had left the prison area sometime back, either to cram into the Public Gallery or to hover nearby. This might be her chance.

  She gripped the umbrella. If she met anyone, she’d just say she was returning Earnestine’s property. She replayed a phrase or two over in her mind like a voice on a wax cylinder, and it sounded just as unconvincing.

  When she reached the Rotunda, Mrs Frasier appeared from the courtroom, flanked by Peelers with a downtrodden Earnestine in her wake. They marched through, turning left into the Prison area.

  “Move along now,” Chief Examiner Lombard announced.

  With mumbles and complaints, the crowd moved away, filtering along to the accommodation area with its canteen and smoking room.

  Georgina let the crowd push her to one side, closer and closer to the entrance to the Temporal Engineering section.

  Chief Lombard checked the area, his height enabling his gaunt face to loom over people’s heads. He checked right and left, saw Georgina, looked back to the court room.

  Georgina seized the moment, hunched low and sidled behind a loitering workman and slipped down the corridor towards the engineering area.

  Did he see her?

  She mustn’t look back.

  He would see her, surely.

  She glanced.

  Saw his face.

  Even so, she nipped around a corner, pressed herself against the wall, and waited, panting with dread.

  He’d seen her, definitely seen her.

  Any moment.

  He couldn’t have missed her.

  She heard something: a foot fall, the clink of sword against buckle, breathing?

  And then she’d be hauled off to the court, tried, found guilty and then she’d meet the same fate as poor Charlotte. She wondered what the Latin inscription on her brass plaque would be.

  She heard a ruckus behind her.

  Don’t look.

  She twisted her hands around the umbrella handle.

  Don’t look.

  She looked – the Rotunda was empty.

  She wasted no more time and moved further along. Soon she reached the Chronological Conveyor itself. There was the dais, surrounded by a brass railing, and there was the technician’s post. It was deserted. Her luck was holding out.