The Derring-Do Club and the Empire of the Dead

by David Wake

  Earnestine counted to ten and then followed.

  The Gräfin held up an imperious finger: “Not you!”

  Earnestine stopped and bowed to both the dowager Gräfin and Charlotte.

  “Family only,” said the Gräfin, putting her arm around Charlotte and leading her away.

  Chapter IX

  Miss Deering-Dolittle

  For the first time since she had arrived at the castle, Earnestine was alone. She had seen the war room of the Great Plan, Pieter’s task, and so there must be an equivalent room for the Graf Gustav Zala’s machinations for his Great War. All the family would be off to see Charlotte’s future husband, the Crown Prince, and so there was an opportunity to seize.

  She pushed her head up, chin out, shoulders back, and strode into the corridor. There were soldiers on guard, who started to snap to attention until they realised her lowly status.

  “I’m on an errand for the Prince,” she announced.

  “Ich spreche kein Englisch.”

  “I’m on an… OUT OF MY WAY!”

  As the two confused soldiers snapped to attention, Earnestine strode imperiously past them and down the corridor. Prince Pieter’s rooms were behind her, so ahead must be the answers she sought. Around the corner, there was a window that afforded a view of the north side of the castle. Below, perched on a plateau, were factories. She knew what they were because she had seen paintings of such buildings at the National Gallery on Trafalgar Square. The chimneys belched smoke and men, like tiny ants, scurried about. Leaning against the cold glass, she could hear clanging: blacksmiths perhaps, or machines.

  Right, she thought, obtain some evidence, escape and inform the nearest consulate of the situation. The Ambassador would then have words with the Austro–Hungarian authorities – they wouldn’t want him to have to inform Her Britannic Majesty, would they? – and all this would go away. Charlotte would be sent home, Earnestine would have a proper talk with her, and then she’d have words with Georgina for letting the silly girl get into such mischief.

  Below the castle, there were carts and a railway station of sorts: transport.

  At the end of this corridor, a spiral staircase led down, but it was full of soldiers, the spikes of their helmets stabbing up and down foolishly as they traipsed up and down the stairs. Those going up were laden with canisters. These were a variety of shapes and sizes: some with fins, others with nozzles, and identified by a stencilled letters and numbers in one of four colours: yellow, blue, red or black. It was as if there were two long lines of ants, one carrying their eggs upwards and the other returning for duty. Up and down, round and round, busier and busier, and blocking Earnestine’s way.

  Going down the stairs, passing every soldier by yelling ‘out of my way’ was bound to attract attention and she needed to slip away without being noticed. She’d need time before anyone realised she was missing to make good her escape.

  But how?

  Just as she was beginning to despair, two men dropped a canister. It clattered to the floor and burst, showering everyone with its contents. Clearly the canisters, or at least the one dropped, were pressurised.

  The men panicked, swore and fled, only to be beaten back by another, a sergeant of some kind. Earnestine couldn’t follow the rapid shouting, but she understood the meaning well enough: the sergeant, or whatever he was, was berating the useless men for carelessness and endangering everyone. Earnestine got the distinct impression from the terror, and the evident relief that followed, that they had been lucky – very lucky.

  The sergeant finished his reprimand and sent the men away. This was their mess and they would have to clear it up.

  The landing was empty, briefly. Earnestine seized her chance and crossed, but curiosity got the better of her. The canister was labelled in blue, ‘TZ–146’, with a nozzle attachment and the substance that leaked from its cracked casing was a yellowish grey powder made up of granules.

  She made it across the landing before the next group of soldiers ambled down the spiral staircase.

  There was a small window that afforded a view into the valley below. She could see where they were unloading the canisters from crates. They were taking them up and presumably placing them in one of those new–fangled airships. All this activity must be for some purpose. Graf Zala was planning a military campaign.

  To the north there was Germany ruled by the Queen’s grandson, Kaiser Wilhelm II. Going round clockwise, there was Russia ruled by the Tsar Nicholas II, who was married to the Queen’s grand–daughter. These two countries were effectively family and so no threat to the British Empire. Romania, Serbia and the Ottoman Empire, and Montenegro had a border to the south. She remembered the map in her father’s study, and that left Italy and Switzerland to the West. Of course with airships, Zala might be considering an attack further afield, jumping over territories as if he was playing draughts: Sweden, Norway, Denmark, Greece or France perhaps? Could a Zeppelin cross the English Channel?

  The Austro–Hungarians had already occupied Bosnia and Herzegovina, so Archduke Karl Ludwig was a war monger. Graf Zala could be trying to curry favour with a military success and so raise the position of his minor Royal House. To make their Crown Prince into a real King would require other machinations to replace the Archduke: these foreigners seemed to get into a terrible muddle with their titles.

  She was missing something with her political analysis.

  It didn’t matter, she realised, whatever he was up to, it was bound to be destabilising and the British Empire wouldn’t stand for it. Therefore, the sooner Westminster and Whitehall were told, the better.

  She took out an envelope from her shoulder bag and when the next gap in the line appeared, she nipped back to the canister and scooped a sample of the spilt contents: evidence.

  Now all she had to do was get away.

  Realising that the factories were going to be teeming with people, she glanced around for an alternative. To one side, east, there was a zigzag path leading down to a small building. Squinting, she could see canons on either side. It hardly seemed a defensive position, but perhaps there was a way down from there into the valley below. It was worth a try.

  But how?

  She’d be very exposed walking back and forth under the castle walls.

  Of course, half–inch a coat and borrow one of those spiked helmets: at a distance, in a coat and pickelhaube, no–one would be able to tell her apart from a genuine soldier. She’d tuck her red hair under the steel helmet and brazen it out.

  As she scanned around, she saw the floor marked with boot prints: if soldiers came in, muddy from the rough tracks, then they would go… ah ha, along this corridor. There was a small room, a hallway to the outside, packed with equipment: coats hung from hooks, there were strange masks with huge bug eyes and snow shoes stacked to one side.

  There was plenty of choice, except that there were no boots. Clearly the men kept their personal equipment with them, so her Oxford folly boots were going to take a hammering going down the mountainside.

  She was about to get dressed, when she heard voices: Pieter and… Gustav, she thought. She wasn’t as familiar with Pieter’s brother. Really it was none of her business and she ought to take the opportunity to make good her escape, but a little peek wasn’t–

  No, she’d get away! Sensible Earnestine, well done: I must not explore.

  The voices came from further down the corridor and there was a wooden door set in an alcove. It was old with a large key hole and there wasn’t anyone inside. The catch made an appallingly loud click as it opened and the hinges squeaked.

  It was dark: if only she hadn’t lost her flashlight.

  She saw an oil lamp and matches set to one side. As she adjusted the flame, she was able to see the room clearly.

  A large tapestry hung against one wall, a magnificent example of needlework depicting a battle, horses and cavalry rallying against the odds. Earnestine thought about all those poor women slaving away day after day to produce this mo
nstrosity.

  Opposite was a collection of weapons and armour attached to the wall for display. The family crest was painted on a shield and appeared as a banner in the tapestry.

  Underneath was a desk full of papers: something, anything, but it was German and full of figures. They were… yes, manifests, stock ledgers and so on, all neatly tabulated in neither German nor English, but the international and impenetrable language of abbreviation: ‘147 TZ’, ‘98 MU’, ‘304 IB’. Clearly they had an awful lot of whatever they were manufacturing and loading onto the Zeppelin.

  She didn’t think this was their actual war room, but there might be a clue, so Earnestine set about examining each document. Entranced by the puzzle of it, she failed to hear footsteps behind her.

  There was a cough: “Fräulein.”

  She stood bolt upright, hands held in front of her.

  It was Prince Pieter.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Paperwork… I’m your Secretary, or have you forgotten?”

  “This area is off limits.”

  “Really, there’s no sign.”

  “There is a sign.”

  Earnestine looked at the door, perhaps she could make a run for it. The corridor to the storeroom was only a short distance, but it was impossible.

  “Oh,” she said. “Is that what those German words mean?”

  “Verboten.”

  “Now you pronounce it, it does seem obvious.”

  “Perhaps you should return to our rooms.”

  “Our rooms?”

  “Ja, that would be best.”

  That would be best: indeed it would, and having had this reconnoitre it would be straightforward enough to make her escape later tonight. Hopefully Pieter was a heavy sleeper and she would be able to slip out.

  “What are all those canisters?” she asked. Always the Family Curse: curiosity led to exploring, exploring led to adventures, adventures led to further adventures until one disappeared up a river.

  “You have seen them?”

  “Hard to miss.”

  Pieter flinched: “That is unfortunate,” he said.

  “What is this all about?”

  “There is war always, even during this age of Pax Britannica, so perhaps a war to end all wars would be a good thing. One ruler, one government, one people: if rigorously applied it would bring about peace in our time and for all time.”

  Pieter did not look or sound convinced himself.

  “How?”

  Heavy boots stomped towards the room: “Pieter!!!”

  “Gustav!”

  Pieter pushed Earnestine back and stood between her and the doorway. In the jiffy she had, Earnestine hid behind the tapestry.

  “Graf,” Pieter said.

  “Mein Bruder.”

  Earnestine held her breath and desperately wracked her brains for the identity of this man. ‘Bruder’, of course, he must be the Graf, Pieter’s elder brother. She’d seen him briefly before, of course: this was the man with the military plans, the one with a fondness for airships and Charlotte. What a silly girl, you only had to hear two words from him in a foreign language to know he was a bad sort.

  “Is father ready?”

  “Doctor Death is attending to him now and then he’s to meet the Princess.”

  “These mechanisms, these scientific devices, are wasted keeping one man in the semblance of life,” said Pieter using English, and Earnestine realised that he was partly speaking for her benefit. “Nature should be allowed to take its course.”

  “You wish me to be Crown Prince already.”

  “Nein, I mean, Ja; of course, it is your right.”

  “But that would mean an end to the Great Plan.”

  “I don’t see how marrying that young girl to father… it’s wrong.”

  “No–one cares if a royal is mad, diseased or simple, just that he is alive.”

  “Alive?” Pieter choked back a cry.

  “I have an alternative, if only Mordant would give us the secret,” the Graf replied. “Think of this knowledge applied like a cotton mill, life brought about on an industrial scale. My ambition is not to wait a few generations to marry into the right circles, but to take what we want with warfare. It will be a conflict on a scale never before imagined. We will become like the Spartans of old, a society dedicated to warfare, but whereas those ancient Greeks were foot soldiers, we will be the officer class – a race born to lead from high above in the heavens and our troops will be the very fiends brought back from hell.”

  “The British Empire must not allow–”

  “The British Empire is effete. Its people play with a straight bat, isn’t that the expression? The British won’t know what hit them.”

  Pieter had used the word ‘must’, Earnestine realised: it was an order, a mission and it coincided with her own. Except, the tapestry was dusty and she was going to sneeze. Could she risk moving her hand to nose or would that cause the covering to ripple?

  “Your toys are nearly ready then?”

  “Ja… why are you telling me something I already know… and in English.”

  With a flourish, Earnestine was revealed. The tapestry tumbled to the ground. Earnestine tried to remain aloof as if she was supposed to be there, but the dust made her splutter and wave her hands.

  “What’s this?” the Graf said, approaching.

  “Leave her alone!”

  The Graf laughed: “You shouldn’t get too fond of your playthings. Is she good?”

  “I am not!” Earnestine objected, and then she felt foolish.

  “Why brother, you have not broken her in.”

  Pieter flushed with shame or anger – Earnestine wasn’t sure.

  “Do you want me to do it for you?” the Graf joked.

  “Nein, lassen Sie sie allein, sie ist meine!”

  The Graf guffawed: “Perhaps, brother, we should fight a duel.”

  “Pistols at dawn?”

  “Sabres, here, now.”

  The Count made a magnanimous gesture to indicate the walls of the ante–chamber. The ornamentation, signs of history, consisted of shields, emblems and weapons, so that what had been mere decoration changed in Earnestine’s mind to become the sharp instruments of combat that they had been before they were put on display.

  “These are old.”

  “As is the night, brother, choose – or accept my authority.”

  Prince Pieter scanned the swords, grambouchaums and pikes, picked out a pair of crossed sabres and fetched one down.

  “Pieter!” Earnestine cried out and immediately felt cowed by Graf Zala’s angry gaze. “Your Royal Highness, Pieter, I believe that duelling is forbidden within your regiment.”

  That was a guess, but she had heard that dictate before. There had been a story in The Times about two officers disgraced by duelling over a bet.

  “Are you going to hide behind your dollymop’s skirts,” the Graf taunted as he selected his weapon, a similar rapier to Pieter’s own.

  “Excuse me!” Earnestine was not going to stand for that and she gave him her Prefect’s stare.

  Zala’s eyes held Earnestine’s and then he very deliberately licked his lips.

  Pieter leapt forward, slashing wildly to be parried by Zala.

  “Good, good,” the Graf joked, “I see she has given you spirit.”

  They circled: Prince Pieter nervous and backing off. Clearly the elder brother was the superior swordsman, bigger in frame with a longer reach, and he had a relaxed, arrogant stance.

  “I will give you a scar, brother, something to brag about in the officers’ mess,” Zala taunted, “and when you are in the infirmary being treated, I shall take another weapon and see to your dolly–mop’s scar.”

  Pieter struck quickly, a stab, a parry and a cut: Earnestine was furious too although she wasn’t entirely sure she knew the Graf’s meaning.

  “Stoppen Sie sofort!” It was the Vögte bursting in.

  The clanging swords silenced, their echoes
still reverberating through the stone chamber.

  “Vögte, Vögte, mein Freund,” the Graf said.

  “Zweikampf ist verboten!” said the Vögte, his thin frame somehow filling the doorway.

  “Pardon me,” said Earnestine.

  “Duelling is verboten,” the Vögte said.

  “Don’t order me,” the Graf replied, towering over the servile man, but the Vögte held his ground.

  “We are practising,” the Graf continued. “I am teaching my brother as any good brother would. See, the… Secretary, was it? I am showing her how much of a man Prince Pieter is.”

  “Your father awaits you,” the Vögte announced.

  The Graf laughed as he left: “Lock her in your room.”

  “Ja,” the Vögte answered.

  “I’ll do it,” said Pieter.

  The Vögte stared at him.

  “You are holding up the ceremony,” said Pieter. “You don’t want the Gräfin to know that, do you?”

  The Vögte bowed and then hurried after the Graf leaving Pieter and Earnestine alone.

  “So I’m your prisoner again?” Earnestine said.

  The Prince went over to the desk taking a small key from his pocket. He unlocked a drawer and removed a folded sheet of paper.

  “You were looking for this,” he said. He slipped it into an envelope and held it out for Earnestine to take. She took it with her left hand, unthinkingly, and realised that he had offered it with his left: it meant acceptance, but surely only of the letter and not some proposition.

  Earnestine went to open it, but Pieter stopped her.

  “It is in German and you don’t have the time,” he said, “although perhaps you do for a kiss.”

  “Oh, very well,” Earnestine said, as she slipped the envelope into her shoulder bag and offered her hand. These foreign Gentlemen had such strange customs, but when in Rome do–

  The man pulled her towards him and planted his lips on hers: Earnestine struggled and then it was over.

  “Now I have something to remember you by,” said Pieter. “Here is something in return – think of me.”