by David Wake
There! Propped up against the coat stand.
As she retrieved it, the door burst open.
For a moment, a brief glance, Georgina saw the top hat wearing Temporal Peelers piling into the room. She fled, through the secret door and across the warehouse – good grief, she was out of breath easily these days – and out into the yard.
“Ness!!!”
“I’ll be fine,” Earnestine repeated checking the sky. “We’re not indoors and I’m not wearing a hat.”
“Found it,” said Charlotte. “Blue touch paper.”
Georgina doubled over, panting: “Peelers… peelers… right behind me.”
“Hold them off. I’ll tell Mrs Frasier to call off her dogs,” and then Earnestine commanded: “Light it!”
Charlotte opened her box of matches: “All gone!”
“There were three left,” Georgina insisted.
“I used them on the gunpowder.”
“Then that settles it,” Georgina commanded, “take that dangerous thing off Ness.”
“Wait!” said Earnestine, and she fished in her clothing and produced another box of matches. “Mrs Frasier gave them to me.”
Georgina was adamant: “Ness, no!”
Charlotte struck a match and touched the burning Vesuvian to the blue paper. It shone orange, reluctantly at first, and then it took light and burnt away into a brass pipe. It seemed to have gone out and then it fizzed, showering sparks downwards.
“It’s lit!”
“In that case,” said Earnestine, “I suggest you start running.”
“What? In case you blow yourself to smithereens!?” Georgina gasped.
“Yes,” said Earnestine, “or, if it works, it shoots flame out of the end.”
“In that case–”
“Oh lummy,” said Charlotte, and she grabbed Georgina and they started to run.
Their shadows suddenly hardened and leapt out in front of them as a dreadful noise rent the air: a mix of thunder, steam engine and screaming.
Miss Charlotte
The warehouse room was full of Temporal Peelers, tall in their frock coats and top hats, swords by their sides, with their strange white eyes staring impassively. They talked in clipped voices.
“She took a Haversham.”
“Are there any others?”
Charlotte’s involuntary glance gave it away.
“Here.”
Scrutiniser Jones took charge: “You four – after her!”
“Why not–”
“Because I’m far too heavy – quickly.”
The four Peelers quickly grabbed the metal canisters from the crate and strapped them on as a fifth, thankful to have avoided selection, went from man to man tightening straps.
“Outside,” Scrutiniser Jones ordered.
Georgina took a step forward: “Arthur!”
One of them paused: “You’re not my mother.”
“I know,” said Georgina, concerned, “but be careful.”
He gazed at her, then nodded, before he and the other men moved into the yard.
“Here,” said Scrutiniser Jones and he flung a box of matches through the air. The man caught it and fumbled the matches loose.
Charlotte wondered whether they could make a run for it, but Scrutiniser Jones was such a brick wall of a man.
Outside, there was some brief scuttling as the Peeler went from man to man lighting their Havershams and then–
Woosh!
A column of flame appeared as the first man went aloft.
Another!
And another!
And finally–
The explosion threw them all to the ground. A sound like tinkling bells followed and–
“Down!”
The glass from the roof, blown out by the blast, cascaded down, shattering into bright, sharp fragments on the solid floor.
When Georgina and Scrutiniser Jones picked themselves off the floor, Charlotte had a Duelling Machine cutlass pointed at the man’s throat.
“You don’t know how to use that,” said Scrutiniser Jones.
“Oh, I’ve had lessons.”
“Who from?”
Charlotte pointed to one side: “From that machine.”
The Temporal Peeler hesitated, weighing up his chances, when Georgina stepped in and took his revolver from its holster.
“You don’t know how to use that either,” he said.
“Oh, I took lessons too,” said Georgina as she levelled the gun and cocked back the hammer.
“Who from?”
Georgina nodded towards her sister: “From her.”
Chapter XXVII
Mrs Frasier
It was finished. Mrs Frasier stubbed out her thin cigar. It seemed to symbolise the situation.
She’d heard nothing.
Time had run out.
Miss Deering-Dolittle
Earnestine’s hair, which had been in a tight bun, now streamed out behind her as the powerful rocket motor whooshed incessantly. A trail of smoke, rocket fuel and burnt skirt, spiralled and zigged all the way down to the wide and expanding ground, but all Earnestine could see through her goggles was the sky thundering towards her.
She no longer had her umbrella. It had been torn from her grip by the sudden acceleration, but then she’d needed both hands to hold the control levers.
She was no longer screaming. The air pressure forced into her lungs made sound impossible. She wouldn’t have been heard, the noise from the machine was incredible.
Touching the controls, just the merest hint… and she careened sideways, down, up, buildings zipped underneath. She turned upwards, ascending, trying to ascertain the lie of the land. She saw the Thames lurch this way and that, its gentle curves distorted by the vibration that shook Earnestine like a rattle.
Where was Big Ben?
How did one land again?
She’d read the manual, but–
Arrghhh, concentrate – it jigged sickeningly.
There!
She saw the curve of the river, blinking, and then she realised that it was like looking down on a map folded out on the kitchen table. There was the Isle of Dogs and so… there would be Queensbury Road.
She saw a flare, a suddenly bright light, followed by another and another. Three dots… no, one had exploded in a bright conflagration. The others hurtled upwards disturbing and brushing aside her own smoke trail. Another was aloft. The tiny shapes became odd doll–like objects and then–
The man fired a weapon at her, the report and zip sounding almost together.
Earnestine banked to one side and her pursuers did the same, erratically. She twisted the control lever and her Haversham flamed, roaring with noise and energy. She dipped down as two pursuers came up on either side. One aimed a gun and fired, the bullet zinged past.
Earnestine glanced the other way: no such luck.
All three were still with her.
She dived, rushing downwards until the Thames filled her view. She levelled, flew along the river and the Haversham’s exhaust split and fizzed the water in her wake.
Behind her, two Peelers were following and another gaining height above and–
Woah!
Boats – everywhere.
She darted left and right, had to slow down between two tall sails and a Peeler came in behind her, closer, closer. Looking down Earnestine could see her dangling feet and the Peeler almost within arm’s reach–
But the fire from her rocket engine caught him. As he put his hand up to protect his eyes, his control rod hoicked aside and his Haversham careened off. He hit the river, but instead of splashing underneath like a diver, the surface of the water seemed to go hard like ice. The man and Haversham broke into pieces and then exploded. Fire spewed out and the river itself ignited in a sudden conflagration. Shrapnel whizzed away, punching holes in canvas sails and clinker built ship hulls.
Gun shots!
Above, to her right… a bridge. Tower Bridge! The new construction that was so huge
and made of steel, granite and Portland stone.
There wasn’t time to turn and fly up and over, they’d bottled her into this dead end.
Earnestine panicked: threading a needle, she flew beneath the road. Her motors roared and echoed briefly as she zipped through.
She pulled back and arced up, over, juddering, turning in the air in a wide, vertical circle before it brought her plunging downwards, then further until she was approaching the bridge again.
Her pursuers’ trails clearly showed their course around the bridge and she was behind them now.
As she completed the loop, going between the upper and lower spans this time, she was chasing them, rather than they chasing her… but she had no weapon, no revolver with which to take pot–shots. Indeed, she should be going away from them, not towards them.
And where was the other one!?
Up, down, left, right, buildings, towers, a panorama of solid shapes and she went up, clearing the danger.
And the Peeler appeared from nowhere, right behind her.
She twisted, turned, but he did the same, somehow cutting the corner of her turns and gaining, closer, ever closer, and the man was strong enough to guide the machine with one hand. With the other, his fingers like hooks, he reached out, his hand gripping her skirt, tearing it. Earnestine turned the controls to speed away and the spouting jets from her backpack swathed her pursuer in fire. He screamed, his hands coming up to protect his eyes causing him to lose control, but then–
The sudden explosion and wall of heat punched Earnestine forward.
Fragments hurtled away making bright arcs across the sky, smoke trails that led inexorably towards the ground to burst into tiny fires so far below.
Phut… phut…
For a moment Earnestine was falling, her stomach lurching within her, and then the engine hammered back into life. Taking a firm grip of the left hand control, she grabbed the fuel gauge. The movement caused the air flow to change around her, flapping her skirts sideways and causing her to lurch down appallingly. The needle jerked about, sometimes just in the red and sometimes… empty.
Downwards: the buildings looked small on the distant ground.
There, suddenly, she saw the Houses of Parliament, its spires sharp like a stockade, and just beyond was the glass tower.
If she could just fly a little further, if… if…
Phut… phut… put!
Earnestine felt suddenly deaf such was the silence and there was a peace as she completed a gentle arc up, hovered for a moment at the apex of the curve before she began to plummet.
Mrs Arthur Merryweather
It was a strange game to shuffle to get Scrutiniser Jones back along the secret passage, but they managed it. Charlotte now had the gun and Georgina was thankful for that. The younger sister had also armed herself with a sword strapped around her waist.
“Don’t step in front of me,” Charlotte warned.
“I’m going to ring Captain Caruthers, tell him we’ve bagged a Temporal Peeler and warn him about Lord Farthing.”
Georgina found the telephone and fiddled with the unfamiliar nozzle and weight. The latter looked, for all the world, like the pull on an indoor convenience.
“Ear,” said Charlotte, and then, “mouth, turn the handle and ask for the Operator.”
Georgina did so and eerily a word floated out of the device: “Operator.” She shuddered; the disembodied voice reminded her of voices from beyond the grave.
“You say ‘hello’,” Charlotte suggested.
“Hello,” said Georgina.
An ethereal voice repeated what she’d said, before a louder voice said: “What number please?”
“I need to get a message to Major Dan.”
There was more warbling at the end of the contraption: “What number please?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ask for his department,” Charlotte said.
“What is his department?” Georgina asked.
Scrutiniser Jones shifted his impressive bulk from one leg to another: this would be his chance and they all knew it.
“Ask for his Club.”
“Major Dan’s Club?” Georgina replied, but she was interrupted by the distant voice.
“Putting you through now.”
“Thank you,” Georgina said as she moved the receiver from one ear to the other in an attempt to reduce the whooshing sounds of the seaside.
There was a distant cough.
“Hello,” she said. “Hello, hello… it’s a foolish word.”
“Here, let me try,” said Charlotte.
Miss Charlotte
Charlotte took the telephone off Georgina.
She said, loudly and clearly: “We need soldiers to attack the Chronological Committee and you need to arrest Lord Farthing!”
She listened.
“Well?” Georgina asked.
“I think he’s deaf.”
“Rather stupid to have a deaf man operating the telephonic apparatus.”
There was a distant cough.
“Oh,” said Charlotte, “it’s the Club. He can’t talk to women.”
They both looked at Scrutiniser Jones.
Charlotte held her revolver out threatening: “Say ‘we need soldiers to attack the Chronological Committee and you need to arrest Lord Farthing’.”
“I will not,” said Scrutiniser Jones.
Charlotte gave the communication device back to Georgina and stepped up to the big man.
“Do as I…”
But Charlotte heard a deep rasping noise behind her, and then a man’s voice said: “Send Dan and Caruthers to raid the Chronological Committee at once, wot?”
Charlotte turned round, amazed.
“Inspector Jones, Scotland Yard,” – it was Georgina with her best play–acting voice – “At once, do you hear? And arrest Lord Farthing. Yes, Farthing – at once!”
She hung up.
“Gina! That was–”
Scrutiniser Jones bolted for the door.
Charlotte fired after him.
Chapter XXVIII
Mrs Frasier
Mrs Frasier was supervising the unloading of the gunpowder from the carts. The future alleyway looked strange, a future of gleaming glass and strange signs, but ruined by all the present day horses and carts with all their dirt and industry.
A sound, a ‘phut’ or a scream, made her look up.
The Zeppelin model suddenly jerked, folding in on itself, as a trail of smoke ran straight into it. At first, she thought they had been shelled, but, as it fragmented, a figure emerged and struggled to hold onto the ropes as the canvas ripped. The being changed, like a squat chrysalis turning into a butterfly, except that this was more like a flapping airship gasbag becoming a falling, wounded bird; screeching and squawking in pain.
Earnestine, complete with goggles, landed in the alleyway, the metamorphosis complete for she now appeared as a fiery, avenging angel. Smoke swirled around her, whipped up in eddies all the way to heaven it seemed. The destroyed artifice collapsed behind her bringing down the flats and artificial walls, stripping the illusion away to reveal the old brick walls beneath.
Mrs Frasier’s hands came together automatically and she clapped: “What an entrance!”
“She’s on fire!” Chief Examiner Lombard shouted.
“Yes, magnificent!”
“The gunpowder!”
Everyone scattered.
Earnestine unclipped her backpack, wrenched it off and then leapt forward. Her dress was indeed smouldering.
The girl cried out: “Ah… ah… ah…”
The men rushed about, some putting barrels on the carts to keep them safe, others taking them off, and others looking for another exit. Mrs Frasier herself blocked the doorway back to the underground complex and she was more frightening than three cart loads of gunpowder.
Lombard acted with competence and deposited a bucket of cold water over the struggling girl, turning the scene from an amazing spectacle into a dam
p farce.
“Enough!” Mrs Frasier shouted, clapping her hands now for attention. “Back to work! Bring her.”
She turned and marched away.
Chief Examiner Lombard grabbed Earnestine by the scruff of her neck and hefted her up like a naughty child.
Miss Deering-Dolittle
Earnestine looked somewhat dishevelled, her skirts burnt and ripped, and she was bent double, but she was alive after flying into the sky. She tried pulling her dress into some shape in an attempt to restore her dignity. Her hair was a mess, scorched and soaked.
“You have to flee,” Earnestine said.
“Why?”
“Mrs Frasier, you are about to be attacked.”
“Cowards run.”
“A wise man lives to fight another day.”
“We can still win.”
“How?”
“By writing the history,” Mrs Frasier said. “There are rumours that this is fake, but no proof. We’ve won it in the courts and in parliament, it’s law. If we remove all trace of the illusion, then it will stand.”
“That’s mad.”
“We just need a little more time,” said Mrs Frasier.
“You haven’t got any more time.”
“Are you with us? Once it’s all gone, then neither friends nor foes can hurt me.”
“If all men count with you,” said Earnestine.
Mrs Frasier grinned, she clearly liked this sparring: “None too much.”
Earnestine put out her hand, and Mrs Frasier took off her sword and handed it to her.
“Unus pro omnibus, omnes pro uno,” said Earnestine, taking it.
Mrs Frasier laughed: “Un pour tous, tous pour un.”
“You know it.”
“I played Milady de Winter once,” said Mrs Frasier. “Villains are always the best parts.”
“It could be our Club motto.”
“We’ll make Dumas proud.”
“Or Kipling: Mulvaney, Ortheris and Learoyd.”
“Yes, Earnestine, you almost make me believe we can pull this back from the brink.”
“We can try,” said Earnestine as she held out her hand: “Welcome to the Derring–Do Club.”
Mrs Frasier’s grip was as strong as Earnestine’s own.
