The Secret Five and the Stunt Nun Legacy

by John Lawrence

‘Now you’re beginning,’ observed Daniel, frowning.

  Betty turned to face Daniel and his frown. ‘Er . . . say all that again,’ she said, her own brow wrinkling into what could only be described as a rather big matching frown.

  Daniel’s expression quickly went from slightly intelligent to very confused. He really felt like sucking the end of the curly bit of his spectacles, but didn’t. ‘I think I said,’ he said, ‘that if we were in this room in this house in the twenty-first century, it means . . . erm . . . that . . . erm, it didn’t burn down after all?’

  Betty stared at Daniel. She then stared at the door. ‘So . . .’ she began hesitantly.

  Whatshisname looked up at her, wide-eyed, waiting for the elusive moment when some sort of realisation would emerge.

  ‘So . . .’ she began again.

  Daniel shrugged. He had lost it now. ‘Don’t ask me,’ he said. ‘I’ve no idea what I meant.’

  Whatshisname slumped down onto the floor. He decided to wait while they thought it through. Epiphanies were hard to come by these days, so he might as well make himself comfortable for a few sticks.

  ‘So . . .’ Daniel began.

  ‘Yes, so . . .’ Betty said.

  They stood there for quite a while, until Daniel’s frown disappeared behind his ears. ‘Yes!’ he said. ‘If this room and this house are still the same room and house, then . . . then . . .’

  ‘Yes?’ urged Betty.

  Whatshisname yawned and passed a thimbleful of noxious hell-gas.

  ‘Then,’ said Daniel, ‘the house didn’t burn down!’

  Whatshisname sighed and looked up at them.

  Betty looked at Daniel, and her own big frown also disappeared behind her own ears. ‘Then we can go home? And does this mean that Sampson isn’t threatening the world now?’

  Daniel had lost it again. ‘I don’t know,’ he moaned. ‘Why can’t we be given some degree of intelligence? Is it too much to ask?’

  Whatshisname sighed yet again and settled his head down.

  ‘I think this door is the very same door!’ said Betty, studying the very same door. ‘So that means . . . that means that there was no fire!’

  Daniel’s face lit up, which was quite a good trick but not advisable under the circumstances. ‘So the Squire didn’t emigrate!’ he said. ‘So Bartle and Clarissa didn’t do the conception thing! And Sampson doesn’t exist! We can go home then! We’ve done it! We’ve saved the world!’

  Betty nodded her head fairly slowly. ‘I think so.’

  ‘And what is more important is that I thought of it first!’ Daniel said. ‘It’s all quite exciting and will look absolutely brilliant on my CV, should I ever want to join our competitors.’

  ‘Saving the world wasn’t much of an effort, it must be said,’ said Betty. ‘We didn’t exactly have to outwit a gang of ruffians after getting tied up and left to rot in a dirty barn until rescued by our faithful dog, did we?’

  ‘Woof woof woof?’ Whatshisname said.

  ‘But we can go home now?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘I suppose so,’ Betty said, frowning ever so slightly. ‘But only after the celebration meal. It would be quite rude to miss that, wouldn’t it, as all historical epics need one. And we do have to sort out some Brussels sprouts and a portal and the digital clock. And we had better see if Bertie is all right. I feel awful about not giving him a hand with his quest for a joyful adolescence.’

  Daniel opened his mouth to say something when the Butler’s Bedroom door opened a little, and there was Bertie’s peering face!

  ‘I thought it was you,’ his peering face said. ‘I could sense all the frowning and I could smell the heady aroma of creosote and pineapple.’ He looked sheepishly at Betty. ‘Can I apologise for my forwardness in a moment of sheer madness down in the scullery. It was merely the crystallisation of all my unbearable mounting puberty. And I was touched by your countenance, the sheer unadulterated beauty of your lips half-open and almost misty in their pallid quivering, and your eyes full of futurity, and of course your ample bosoms which compel an unendurable excitement . . .’

  ‘Er, hello!’ interrupted Daniel. ‘Could we talk about something else, please? What is the matter with everyone? What have the standards and principles of The Secret Five come to?’

  ‘Sorry, Daniel,’ said Bertie, opening the door wide. ‘I am being quite feeble. Come on in. But did you like my turn of phrase? Not bad for a Victorian middle-class child, eh? Do you think I would make an author? That is what I would like to be, I think. Perhaps I should apply for the position of the Founding Father of Science Fiction. It would be much more exciting than silly old drapery.’

  Daniel, understandably, was unsure of what exactly an author did, apart from forcing people to do things they didn’t want to do, and silly old drapery sounded a little odd for a boy’s hobby, but he nodded his head in agreement as it was much easier than shaking it.

  ‘I think we are supposed to take you to the Dining Room for the banquet,’ said Betty as they stepped into the bedroom. ‘But we have just made a discovery that means . . .’ She stopped, unsure if she should share their discovery.

  Bertie frowned quite a good frown, a result of several recent hours of practice, but not quite up to Secret Five standard, as his whole face all the way down to his chin seemed to get puckered. Betty and Daniel decided that they would never frown again if that’s what it looked like, and as a result they thought that they could hear distant cheering.

  ‘You can tell me,’ Bertie said. ‘I’m a member, remember? You share your exciting discovery with me and I’ll share mine with you. Oh, by the way, forgive the rather strange lighting in here, and excuse the blatant foreshadowing, but the Squire is experimenting with these new Paraffin Lamps.’

  ‘Gosh!’ exclaimed Daniel. ‘They look quite dangerous.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Betty, sighing.

  Meanwhile, Whatshisname, without a by-your-leave, had sneaked into the Butler’s Bedroom. He sniffed around the room. It was slightly unnerving for him to pick up his own scent four hundred million sticks in the future, and then he began to ponder deeply on whether it was a sign that was meant to point him in the direction of the true meaning of canine life, or whether it was just a sign that he needed a jolly good bath. Either way, he knew deep down that this moment was merely a blip in the course of the cosmos. He’d wondered lately about such things – creation, dualism, reincarnation, distemper. Indeed, he suspected that he was a re-embodiment of the respected thinker Zenan of Athens, as he embraced the same ancient philosophy that apathy is the way to happiness, and that mental and transcendental tranquillity is only achieved through the joyful celebration of utter mediocrity. Utter mediocrity, if worked at, is the ultimate accomplishment, he knew that, of course. He had also pondered hard on the theories of the creation of the universe, going right back to The Big Woof, which always brought him back to the same big question – why on Earth did he have these never-ending bouts of flatulence? There it goes again! Oops! He tried his very best to look blameless as he sank down onto the carpet and closed his eyes.

  Bertie, meanwhile, was becoming enthralled at the children’s story of time travel. He asked them all sorts of questions about the twentieth century, most of which they couldn’t answer. ‘So, have men landed on the moon?’ he asked, wrinkling his nose and glancing at Whatshisname as the transcendental fragrance wafted over him.

  ‘We think so,’ said Betty uncertainly. ‘It’s not something we are supposed to know, really, but we think they did.’

  ‘I think they landed in some kind of contraption,’ said Daniel. ‘I sneaked a look at a picture of it in a magazine. It looked jolly well like a sort of round and metal thing. I think.’

  ‘And is there social chaos?’ Bertie asked as he scribbled something in his note book.

  Betty and Daniel looked at each other and shrugged. ‘We don’t really know,’ said Daniel.

  ‘I did hear someone on the radio,’ said Betty helpfully, ‘talking ab
out social chaos, so maybe there is and we don’t know it.’

  ‘I do not know what ray-dio means, or even how to spell it, obviously, but I will assume that there is plenty of social chaos,’ said Bertie quite firmly. He scribbled something else in his Victorian notebook.

  Just then, thank goodness, they were interrupted by Mrs Wells calling to them. ‘Weird time-travelling children and their ugly fat dog,’ she called. ‘The guests have arrived. Come along and eat before infant mortality strikes. Your watercress and pig’s trotter soup will be congealing.’

  ‘We had all better go to the Dining Room,’ said Bertie. ‘I fear that her guests might become rather agitated if we are late. If my estimates are correct, we will need to pass through a chapter break to reach there. This is so exciting! My first chapter break! I must make a note of how it goes!’

  Chapter Thirty One

  In which Whatshisname meets a new friend; we meet another Mrs Wells, no relation; yes, it is very confusing; we learn about the Canine Alphabet; invasive medical procedures are mentioned; is this chapter far too long? probably, so pour that glass of wine before you start; Betty accidentally slaughters several other characters.

  To be honest, young Bertie Wells was quite disappointed with the chapter break experience. He expected something more of a literary epiphany, of which a chapter break fell far short. He knew he could do better, and no doubt would.

  Daniel and Betty followed Bertie into the Dining Room. ‘Gosh!’ exclaimed Betty excitedly. ‘I can see why it has capital letters now!’ Daniel was also quite excited but couldn’t be bothered to exclaim. He looked at the large round mahogany table, the impressive marble fireplace and the stuffed black poodle sitting upright on the hearth. He watched as Whatshisname trotted gingerly over to the poodle and sniffed around it.

  The poodle had an indescribable taint of death about it, which reminded Whatshisname of Victor Hugo’s intensely fresh writing in which he suggested that nous sommes tous condamnés à mort avec des sursis indéfinis, although, to be fair, Whatshisname did initially mistake the indescribable taint for lavender mothballs. He sat down and looked the poodle straight in the eyes. In an effort to establish himself as the dominant member of the pack, he drew himself to his full width and said, ‘Woof woof woof!’ rather firmly. The black poodle didn’t move a muscle, a sign that either Whatshisname’s dominance had been quickly and overwhelmingly established, or the poodle’s muscles had been unceremoniously ripped from its body and replaced with Victorian cotton wool soaked in black treacle.

  Meanwhile, Daniel and Betty were busy looking around them, but taking care not to look too busy. ‘There’s lots of candles in here,’ whispered Betty to Daniel. ‘Do you really think the danger of a fire is over?’

  ‘Of course,’ reassured Daniel, secretly hoping to help set up another literary foreshadowing and therefore cement his place as a major character should a trilogy be on the cards.

  Just then, Betty started. ‘Oh, no! I’ve started!’ she said. ‘And all because that awful grumpy Magistrate is standing over there! Look!’

  And Betty was right! The awful grumpy Magistrate was indeed standing over there! And he was talking to the Parson and the Policeman! Standing near them were a stern-looking gentlemen, who was smoking a big cigar, and an old lady, who wasn’t. The stern-looking gentleman’s dapper appearance, his expensive cigar, and his shiny silver watch chain suggested that he was of immensely good breeding, but the finger up his nose suggested that he was not.

  ‘Yo!’ said Daniel for no reason whatsoever.

  But before the children had time to arrange an extraordinary meeting to decide what to do next, Mrs Wells scuttled into the room with a tray full of soup bowls. ‘Sorry for the scuttling,’ she said. ‘It was totally out of my control. Now, sit yourselves down in strict alphabetical order, then I will introduce the children to the stern-looking gentlemen with a cigar and the old lady who is without a cigar. After that, I will take my leave and attend to the main course before all the pig’s blood boils away to nothing. Your Uncle Quagmire may or may not join us as soon as he has finished his verbal intercourse with Alice the mysterious maid, recovered from his cocaine-fuelled frenzy, and then completed his long-overdue ablutions.’

  ‘Yo, minty!’ said Daniel. ‘I’z could slide off and cut sling load summink fierce meself! Random! Innit!’

  Betty turned to look at Daniel, who was now murmuring and staring at the ceiling. Not only did she not understand exactly where Uncle Quagmire was and what he was doing, and was confused by the mention of yet another Victorian character, Alice, but she realised that Daniel was now extremely nervous at seeing all these people. She feared the worst! ‘I fear the worst,’ she whispered to Bertie.

  ‘Cosmic cataclysm?’ whispered Bertie excitedly. ‘Mass social disorder? A world of abominable desolation where the sun has lost its energy? An incessant array of talentless boy bands?’

  Betty scowled. ‘No,’ she snapped back rather too snappily. ‘It’s more serious. Daniel’s slipping into a street-talk coma again. I must have a quiet word with him about it, or slap him seriously hard.’

  ‘Attention everyone,’ called Mrs Wells before Betty could indulge in some serious slapping or quiet wording. ‘I now realise – and, after all, someone has to – that you cannot sort yourselves into alphabetical order and sit down until I name these new characters. Children, there are quite a lot of characters in this scene, so pay much attention, if you will be so kind. You already know the grumpy Magistrate, the Policeman and the Parson.’ She pointed at the stern-looking gentleman. ‘This new male character, this stern-looking gentleman, a man of forbidding aspect to be sure, is Mr Ramekin. He is an off-duty Victorian Child Brain Doctor, reasonable rates assured, indifferent bedside manner guaranteed at all times, and quite a dish if you ask me. But, between you and me, empirical sciences, especially this newfangled science of inner conscious experience, confuse me greatly and get right up my typical Victorian nose, so they do.’

  Mr Ramekin frowned a learned yet silly frown at Mrs Wells, then nodded grimly at the children. He continued to pick his nose quite energetically. ‘I like to call myself a Psychologist. I’ve no idea what psychology is, yet, but I understand that the Germans are very keen to export it and I just want to be ahead of my time.’ He examined the end of his finger for the results of his intensive nostril drilling and licked his lips in anticipation.

  ‘Oh no!’ whispered Betty. ‘A child psychologist! Daniel, I should sneak out now if I were you.’

  ‘And this old woman,’ called Mrs Wells, pointing to the old woman who was dressed in a typically Victorian long black dress and a shawl, ‘who, may I confirm, is dressed in a typically Victorian long black dress and a shawl, is Mrs Wells. She’s not related, just a friend of the family. She’s old and always keen to partake of a free meal.’

  ‘Ah!’ cackled the older Mrs Wells, her wrinkly old face wrinkling at them all. ‘That’s no lie, ’tis sure that I do, / through bell-swarmèd bird-charmèd branches of yew.’

  Betty and Daniel were quite astounded!

  ‘Yo, Sis,’ said Daniel, waving a hand about like a demented rapper. ‘Dis am nuts and a half, f’sho! A versemonger, innit? Minty! Cool!’

  Bertie leaned towards Betty, his pen in his hand. ‘I don’t think I’ll make notes about Daniel, if you don’t mind,’ he said. ‘And shouldn’t it be elder Mrs Wells?’

  Betty shrugged both her shoulders but, in truth, she was intrigued by the appearance of another Mrs Wells. ‘Excuse me everyone,’ she said, raising her hand in an intriguing manner. ‘Can I say that we now have two Mrs Wells. It’s bad enough with Betty and Bertie, now it’s even more confusing for everyone. And why does that Mrs Wells,’ – she pointed at Mrs Wells’ old and unrelated friend of the family – ‘talk like that? And why does she sound a bit like Old Hag? Hmmm?’

  Everyone started to murmur to each other about the poor standard of characterisation, except Whatshisname of course, who was still trying to outstare
the stuffed poodle and desperately attempting to recall his early training, in particular the chapter of Canine Behaviour for Dummies that gave helpful hints on Dominance Over Inanimate Objects.

  ‘Cease all this murmuring!’ boomed the Magistrate quite suddenly. ‘It is very similar to being back in petty sessions, except I do not have the benefit of being able to despatch you all to the gallows for Unlicenced Murmuring. God knows, if it were not for the appearance fee I would not be here. Now, far from being eager to agree with such an unseemly Urchin, I declare that I would also like to know why that Mrs Wells talks in that silly way.’ He pointed his best Magistrate’s finger at the older Mrs Wells.

  ‘Yea verily,’ said the Parson, ‘and so would I.’

  ‘Ah,’ cackled Older Mrs Wells, pointing her own finger at the Magistrate. ‘For ’tis men that fall lightly upon their words, / that mock their breath ’til ’ere the . . . ’ere the . . . erm, birds?’

  ‘Cool beans!’ sniggered Daniel. ‘Jus’ snag tha’ wicked versifying, Vickies!’

  ‘Please!’ said Mrs Wells the Younger. ‘Older Mrs Wells is on a short holiday here with us, so your forbearance is requested. She is Poet-in-Residence at the local workhouse, the Ian McMillan of our time, that I do know for sure.’

  ‘Wait a Victorian moment!’ Constable Landscape said. He stepped forward and brandished his Policeman’s truncheon at Older Mrs Wells. ‘I now recognise you as the Local Workhouse Poet-in-Residence! Haven’t I arrested you several times for Aggravated Behaviour?’

  ‘Ah!’ said Older Mrs Wells, quite bravely wrinkling her face at the Policeman. She then spoke in one of those intensely irritating poets’ voices that is supposed to convey angst and torment but usually sounds as though they have some sort of uncontrollable bowel-tightening condition only brought on by stanzas of limping iambics and Terza Rima. ‘My innocence is broad, like a wingèd blade, / ’til the breath of time has passed its best, / ’til the fickle quenching spirit of maid, / Hath shadowed my eternal beating . . . er, beating . . . er . . .’