The Derring-Do Club and the Empire of the Dead

by David Wake

  “They have more air though,” McKendry said.

  “Yes, we’ll probably suffocate,” said Merryweather happily. His face consisted of one huge smile with his other features forced aside by his obvious joy as he regarded Georgina.

  The penny finally dropped: “It’s a Nautilus,” Georgina said.

  “Bruce–Partington finally got the thing working,” said Caruthers, “so we thought we’d come and rescue you.”

  “Although we’ll regret it now,” McKendry added, “as we’re now all breathing the same limited air supply.”

  “Can’t we get more?” Georgina asked.

  “We can’t risk being bombed by their air power. Now rest, save your strength, do as little as possible,” said Caruthers and then he raised his voice: “And that goes for the rest of us.”

  Georgina sat on the cold damp metal floor as did the crew, squeezing between the pipes and machinery.

  “The less we do, the less air we use up,” said Merryweather with a gentle squeeze of her hand.

  Georgina nodded, shuffled over and lent against him. After a hesitation, he put his arm round her and she closed her eyes.

  “That it, sleep,” he said. “Best thing.”

  The noises of the deep, the throb of the engines and the whirr of the propeller were soon Georgina’s whole world. The air became stale and as the minutes stretched, a sharp pain developed in her forehead.

  Georgina jerked awake; she couldn’t get her eyes to open at first. Her head throbbed, worse than ever.

  The Nautilus started to rock from side to side, tubes and apparatus began to swing as pendulums. The bow of the vessel rose and it seemed to Georgina that the metal walkway had apparently been built up a mountain. A Naval Rating stumbled at the ladder and fell, Caruthers took his place climbing the stairs. Metal noises clanged above, noises like far, far away voices; a reminder of the world she’d left, of happier times, when she had been alive, for surely this was Hell, and she was one of the dead, tormented by the heat and the dripping foul stench of acid.

  A light shone ahead, drawing her closer, but she couldn’t move; and then the hatch seemed to shine as tendrils of clarity fell like ink in water, spreading and diffusing. Dirt seemed to rise, sucked up through the hatch, as the hot rank atmosphere of the Nautilus was drawn up and colder air was sucked down to replace it. As the air exchanged, it seemed that a dark lens was removed as the lights better penetrated the fumes.

  A cold shock coursed through Georgina as the first of this ventilation reached her. She’d expected something wonderful, cool, like lemonade on a hot summer day, but it stung, full of brine and the rank odour of fish: it was glorious. On her hands and knees, Georgina went forward going up the flow of air like a salmon travelling upstream.

  “Get her above!”

  Hands and arms came around her body, and she was hoisted aloft. They pushed and pulled her up the metal pipe to the deck. There the last squalls of the storm lashed her, drenched her clothes and froze her skin. Standing on a stone quay, a crowd had gathered: men in their Sunday best, women in the latest fashion and children dressed as sailors with ice creams. They all stared and Georgina raised her leaden arm to wave.

  She was alive.

  Miss Charlotte

  A crowd had gathered by the edge of the field as the airship glided in to moor. They waved madly, a flickering of movement like a breaking wave. When Charlotte descended, struggling to get her old-fashioned crinoline pushed between the rails of the staircase-on-wheels, she smelt roasting chestnuts. It was like a fair had come into town, except that the airship was the only exhibit in the field and the rest of the stalls were assembled beyond the fence by the road.

  They were north of London, somewhere – Charlotte didn’t know, but she had recognised the shape of the Thames from maps, the loop by Greenwich and the West India Docks on the Isle of Dogs as they had floated over. The dark shadow of the Zeppelin had rippled over the streets like a shark moving under water.

  Functionaries bowed as she stepped down onto British soil.

  “Your carriage awaits, mein Graf, and Your Royal Highness.”

  The horses and the carriage were black. Once she was aboard, a lone woman in a closed carriage with a single man, the Graf drew the window blinds denying her a chance to see her home city. It would have seemed alien, she knew, after being so long away, but it was behind her eyes that the changes had occurred.

  “We will ride in an open carriage to our coronation, Liebchen,” the Graf said.

  “Ja.”

  It was a short walk from the carriage across the pavement to the Embassy and then she was back on Austro–Hungarian soil. As she crossed, there was an explosion as a man operated a daguerreotype camera, the magnesium burning brightly on the flash lamp held aloft. For a brief moment it was a broadside of light, then she was inside and back in the gloom.

  An officer clicked his heels and bowed: “Graf!”

  “Our cargo?” Graf Zala replied.

  “English, mein Graf?”

  “Lieb– Her Royal Highness knows no German.”

  “Of course, Excellency,” he bowed again, this time to Charlotte, and when he turned back to the Graf, he said. “The last delivery is expected directly.”

  The hallway was large, imposing, with an eagle motif in the hangings. It was marble, built to impress and subjugate. It seemed to Charlotte to tower over her. The weight pressed down, and, as she looked around, she saw the servants standing in a line by the wall cowed, each hoping not to be noticed. She had power, an ability to overawe others, not because of who she was, or anything that she had done, but by right of birth – in her case borrowed. Her eyes came to rest upon a maid at the end, a girl no older than herself. She wished she could exchange places and trade this life to regain her former existence. She understood why that frightened girl had agreed to swap clothes in the Zeppelin so long ago.

  Charlotte didn’t want to be Princess Whoever anymore, she wanted to be little Lottie Deering–Dolittle again.

  Chapter XVI

  Miss Deering-Dolittle

  “Did yew ‘ear sommat?”?

  “No… an’ neither did yew.”

  “There, I swear.”

  “Swear all yew like mate–”

  “Sommat’s alive.”

  “No.”

  “‘Ear it?”

  “Tha’ not payin’ us enuff.”

  Another thud sounded and the lid came off the coffin. From the mouldering innards a hand thrust up, clawing the air and then a face appeared. There was a sudden inhalation of breath, followed by a choking rasp and a flailing of limbs as the creature pulled itself from the grave.

  “Oh Lord… run fer it.”

  Earnestine fell over the edge of the crate, slithering in the muck as she tried to stand, but all she could do was crawl away. She coughed, great black globs of vile mucus. She was… where? The floor was hard, stone, and her fingernails dragged and scratched against it as she struggled away from the mortuary. She found a door and used the handle to pull herself upright.

  Beyond was a yard, horses to one side, people in the distance.

  A woman screamed, loud and piercing, a full shriek that ended when she ran out of air and fainted.

  Earnestine ran a few steps, realised that she wasn’t going to escape and so doubled back into the warehouse again. It was the West India Docks, London, but she needed to get away from this warehouse, controlled as it was by the Austro–Hungarians. Perhaps the wide open gates in front of her would lead somewhere.

  She stumbled to one side.

  Kroll and some other men came in, silhouettes against the sunlight beyond.

  The Oberst would help her – surely?

  But Earnestine instinctively drew back and she threw herself into a pile of muck and turned her head away.

  It was a dock–hand who spoke first: “Tha’ was sommat.”

  “Nonsense. Your imagination.” Kroll’s voice.

  “I swear.”

  “Gin?”
/>
  “Never! Taken the pledge I ‘ave.”

  “Be away.”

  “‘Ere!”

  “It’s broken from the inside, and look a trail going towards…”

  The door creaked open and the men stepped through. Kroll shouted some orders, loud enough to penetrate the wooden wall. After a moment or two, the door opened again.

  “So one was still alive.” Kroll again.

  “Can’t get far, surely?” Another voice: someone Earnestine didn’t know.

  “P’raps.”

  “Crawled into the sewer to die, no doubt.”

  “We take no chances. Get these crates into the tunnels as quickly as possible.”

  “I shall see to it at once, Oberst, there won’t be anything for the Peelers to find, if they do come looking.”

  “Excellent.”

  A click of the heels, boots marching away, and then the door to the yard creaked again.

  Earnestine risked a peek. They hadn’t seen her. She was as misshapen and filthy as the muck pile she had fallen onto. She took her chance and ran for the light. It dazzled, brighter than she imagined heaven would be like, and everything was bleached of its colour and form. Gulls cried out in the air and there were distant voices like angels.

  She fell off the jetty and landed on the shoreline amongst the pebbles.

  Her eyes becoming accustomed, she set off along the bank, clattering as she went. Her one glance back was enough to see a huge warehouse with a ship unloading and the general activity. The crates were going down into the sewers.

  Presently, she came across some old women bent double as they picked at the detritus for cockles, whelks and periwinkles.

  Earnestine saw the water then, the lovely Thames rippling and shining as it reflected the sunlight. She threw herself down into it, felt the shiver of cold run through her body and she let the water wash away the residue of death. When she emerged, she felt cleaner and alive.

  “Awright dearie! Yew don’t wan’ ter do that. Water’s dirty. Full o’ muck. Yew catch yaar death.”

  Earnestine felt bemused.

  “Sewer come aht there.”

  The women pointed to a great outflow tunnel that led to the Thames. It was huge, like a railway tunnel that led into the bowels of the Earth.

  “Unless, duck, sailors wan’ their dolly mops ter be mermaids smellin’ like da sea.” She cackled and the other harridans joined in.

  “I beg your pardon?” Earnestine demanded.

  “Ooh, airs an’ graces.”

  Earnestine stomped up the shore ignoring them and found the stone steps that led up to the road. There she was, suddenly, back in the London she knew. She’d get a cab. Looking down at her clothes, which consisted of the military uniform she’d stolen a lifetime ago, she realised that she was drenched and still as black as pitch.

  She was still trying to decide what to do, when a man dressed in rough clothes with a leather apron on came up to her.

  “Mornin’ Darlin’.”

  “Good morning.”

  “What your name then?”

  “If you must know, Earnestine.”

  “I understand the importance of being Earnest.”

  “Very witty, I’m sure.”

  “How much lad?”

  Earnestine blinked: “How much… lad?”

  “You’re a woman.”

  “Of course… what did you think I was!?”

  “Well, I don’t mind, it’s all the same to me.”

  “What’s all the same?”

  Earnestine walked away and then realised that she was going east and Kensington was possibly ten miles the other way.

  “Do you know anything about the sewers?” she asked a labourer as she passed him.

  “Marvels of the age,” he said. “If not we’d have cholera and the stinks. Remember the Great Stink of ‘58?”

  “Of course not, I wasn’t born then.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “I doubt you were either.”

  She looked at the entrance again and wondered: “Where does it go?”

  “Go? All over London of course, underground. They say there are a hundred miles of tunnels and that be the truth of it.”

  Earnestine nodded, taking it in.

  “I’d have thought you’d have come from the sewers.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “You pong and that’s the truth, but Fred don’t mind that.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You pong–”

  “I heard.”

  Earnestine walked along the embankment at first, but then decided to head north to avoid going past the rest of the docks. As she went, she moved into better parts of the city and the glances and pointing increased as she went.

  It was shaming.

  Miss Georgina

  It was a fine crisp morning along the promenade as Captain Merryweather and Miss Deering-Dolittle took the air. Georgina walked by the iron railings and looked out at a sea that seemed to belong to another realm from the raging depths that had assailed her the previous day. Arthur walked by her side with a discreet distance between them, but even so it seemed unseemly, naughty, to be out alone with a man. Last night she had stayed in a seaside boarding house. It was, of course, the only course of action they could take. After the voyage, the culmination of such a chase across Europe, they had needed to rest and no trains were running to London at that time.

  Telegrams had been sent. There was nothing to do, nothing that could be done, and so everything had taken on a holiday flavour. As she’d entered the dining room in the new clothes that had been sent out for, the men had stood and fussed over her: standing, holding a chair out and so forth. She hadn’t wanted breakfast, but once the food had arrived she had tucked in with aplomb. Tea, Darjeeling, had been served with devilled kidneys, followed by smoked kippers and ham. The courses then became confused, with Caruthers having his poached eggs before his rolls and butter, and everyone else vice versa. Georgina hadn’t had the services of a maid when dressing, and she was grateful for this, because she hadn’t been able to tighten her corset properly.

  As they walked on, seagulls yawked overhead and the pier came into view. It was such a bright day; she’d have to buy a parasol.

  “Georgina?”

  “Yes?”

  “I was w– wondering… life is short, we must seize our opportunities when they present themselves, so I was thinking, if it is all right with yourself, if you would agree to my asking you a question.”

  “Yes.”

  Captain Merryweather’s face lit up: “Why thank you, Georgina.”

  “Yes?”

  “Yes?”

  “You wanted to ask me a question.”

  Captain Merryweather’s face fell: “Ah, thing is… I wondered, that is to say, w– w– would you consent to be my… if we could…”

  “Yes?”

  “Get married.”

  She’d done it.

  And she’d bagged a Captain. He hadn’t even asked about a dowry (although to be fair she’d not checked whether he could support her in her accustomed lifestyle). All that talk in the dormitory after lights out, all that giggling practice with paper folded to act as a fan: in front of face with right hand, come here; swinging lightly, take me home…

  What’s more, she was going to enjoy it: “You aren’t on one knee,” she said.

  “Sorry, excuse me, of course,” said Captain Merryweather. However, he did not go down on one knee. “I should, of course, ask your father.”

  “Well, he’s exploring… up a river.”

  “Oh, I see, then perhaps your m– m– mother?”

  “She’s also exploring… up a river.”

  The penny dropped for Merryweather: “Oh, you’re the Kent Deering–Dolittle family.”

  “Yes.”

  “I just assumed you were from the Surrey Deering–Dolittle family.”

  “No, I’m afraid not. Is that a problem?”

  “Well… er
… no, of course not.”

  “I don’t know anything about your family.”

  “Ah, Merryweathers, right. We hail from Dartmoor, where the family seat is. Father, Major Philip Merryweather, was killed at Amoeful, and mother, Agnes… well, it w– w– was an awful shock.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “It was twenty five years ago, I was young. There was a governess, and Mrs Jago, of course, and good old Fitz.”

  “You must have admired your father to follow in his footsteps.”

  “Into the army? Yes. He was a great man. When I have a son I’m going to name him Philip Merryweather after my father.”

  “That seems most estimable.”

  “So, I do rather need to ask the acting head of your family.”

  “That would be Earnestine…” Georgina swallowed: her life was being filled up by this Captain as it was being emptied by the realisation that her sister was gone. “I am the acting head of the family now.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Earnestine had waited, Earnestine had put her sisters first and, upon reflection, that had been a mistake. It was Georgina’s turn now and she too would put the Deering–Dolittles first.

  “In that case, I will have to ask myself for permission.”

  Arthur face was filled with such elation.

  “I haven’t decided to give myself permission: you may ask me?” Georgina nodded towards the ground: once, twice…

  “Ah, of course.”

  Finally Captain Merryweather went down on one knee: “Will you, Georgina, marry me?”

  “Hmm, let me consider…”

  Arthur looked so crushed and–

  “Yes, yes, I will,” she said. She did not have the heart to tease him anymore.

  “In London, there’s a chapel connected to the Club. Caruthers and Mac can be witnesses, so I thought–”

  “Now!!?”

  His suggestion was shocking, utterly notorious: engagements were supposed to be for six months to three years, and not a single afternoon. No–one got married instantly, not even if they were in the pudding club.