The Secret Five and the Stunt Nun Legacy

by John Lawrence

  She raised her eyebrows and looked around for inspiration.

  ‘Hmmm, how about breast?’ suggested the Parson.

  ‘Breast?’ queried Betty. ‘Just one?’

  ‘For now,’ confirmed the Parson. ‘It rhymes with best, you see.’

  Constable Landscape stepped forward again and seemed quite keen to establish his Policeman’s authority. ‘I have quite a lot of Policeman’s authority building up,’ he said, ‘and would ask you to stop all this talk of, um, those things, if you please. Now, Mrs Wells?’

  ‘Yes,’ said both Mrs Wells together.

  ‘See!’ said Betty. ‘I told you that it would be too confusing.’

  ‘Hush, Urchin,’ boomed the Magistrate. ‘Let the well-meaning but incompetent constable have his say. Then we can all eat, or go and enjoy a damn good hanging.’

  Constable Landscape stepped forward yet again, but then had to step backwards as he had stepped forward so many times in the narrative that he was now almost out of the room. He stopped stepping backwards and reached out to grab Older Mrs Wells by one of her free arms. He cleared his Policeman’s throat and spoke. ‘Older Mrs Wells, I hereby arrest you for Aggravated Arson.’

  ‘Arson?’ gasped everyone except the Policeman, Older Mrs Wells, Whatshisname and the stuffed black poodle.

  ‘Wooooof?’ breathed Whatshisname, still staring intently at the black poodle and not wanting to be left out of any mass gasping.

  ‘Yes, Arson, of the Aggravated kind!’ said Constable Landscape. ‘You have a record of criminal tendencies to set fire to things without sufficient warning and without a Proper Licence and, while we are at it, to greatly overuse alliteration and internal rhymes in your poetic works. I want to make these Victorian streets safe for Victorians to walk down – or up – at night, and for readers of Victorian poetry to feel unintimidated by a surfeit of aural effects.’

  ‘Gah! Cool!’ said Daniel, still overawed by the mass of characters crammed into one scene. ‘Scoot de mean bitch off t’clink, baconman!’

  The Psychologist looked at Daniel with an interested yet semi-professional expression.

  ‘Aha!’ cackled Older Mrs Wells as she wrenched herself free from the Policeman’s grip. She looked across the room at Betty. ‘Any chance of me doing a dramatic monologue at this stage?’ she asked.

  ‘Why ask me?’ asked Betty.

  ‘Because you probably have the ear of the author, that’s why!’ snapped Older Mrs Wells.

  Betty thought for a moment, then said, wisely, ‘No. No monologue. Dramatic or otherwise. Sorry.’

  Older Mrs Wells shrugged her shoulders in a poetic manner.

  ‘Very interesting,’ said the Psychologist, studying Betty with his Psychologist’s eyes and relieved to be allocated some dialogue at last. ‘By the way,’ he added, glancing at Whatshisname, ‘I do amateur taxidermy on the side. The poodle is my work. Good, do you not think? A matching pair would certainly be quite something. I could leave the pink collar on, as dispensation. I could also reposition some of her surplus fat, or make a puppy or two out of it. A family group, if you will.’

  ‘Woof woof woof!!!’ said Whatshisname, his eyes still fixed on the poodle.

  Mrs Wells the Younger had placed a bowl of soup at each of the place settings and a big bone on the floor for Whatshisname. She was eager to have everyone seated around the Squire’s large ornate dining table.

  ‘I’m eager,’ she said with a sigh, ‘and it’s about time too, to have everyone seated around the Squire’s large ornate dining table. In strict alphabetical order, if you please.’

  ‘I think,’ the Magistrate said, ‘we should let Older Mrs Wells join us and eat, before being arrested and tried and hung by the neck until quite dead. Let her enjoy this splendid celebration banquet, which every good epic historical novel should have, then you can do what you like with her, Constable Landscape.’

  There was a murmur of agreement amongst the gathered characters. The next few minutes were spent sorting out where everyone was seated. Bertie and Betty were sure that, alphabetically, they were sitting next to each other until Older Mrs Wells told them her first name was Bessie. Further confusion was caused by the fact that the Magistrate and the Psychologist, quite remarkably, had exactly the same names – Dugdale Algernon Quintin Neckrash.

  Someone then suggested that everyone should sit in alphabetical order according to their occupation. This, however, caused problems with Betty, Daniel and Bertie, as they were all Children (although Daniel and Betty were sub-categorised as Urchins), so they had to go back to the original idea. After some discussion, the problem was solved by the Psychologist sitting on the Magistrate’s lap.

  During all this time, Whatshisname had completed the task of establishing dominance over the stuffed black poodle. He looked on, totally enthralled by this aspect of human behaviour, as everyone sorted themselves out alphabetically. Quietly and quite secretly, he thanked his lucky stars for the numerical advantage of the Official Canine Alphabet, which consisted of only eleven letters: s, i, t, a, y, f, e, tch, w, oo, f. For the life of him he could not think of any reason for needing any more than that.

  Eventually, after all the exhausting pondering, he trotted over to the table and flopped down at Betty’s feet, where he decided to doze for a few sticks while everyone noisily sipped their pig’s blood and watercress soup.

  ‘Tell everyone about your time travel,’ Bertie suggested to Betty and Daniel.

  ‘Yo,’ said Daniel. ‘Iz fully sick! It’s absofrickinlutely gah! Innit!’

  ‘Is he of right mind?’ asked Mr Ramekin the Psychologist from his position on the Magistrate’s lap. He studied Daniel over his Victorian spectacles, which he had suddenly acquired through a literary loophole. ‘Or is he from some far flung country?’ He put down his soup spoon and leaned forwards towards Daniel. ‘D o y o u u n d e r s t a n d me , Ch i ld ?’ he said slowly.

  ‘He is quite English and perfectly normal – almost – thank you Mr Ramekin, sir,’ said Betty, in defence of her brother. ‘It’s just that when he gets very nervous he sometimes talks like that. It’s all these people, you’re scaring him. Usually we just slap him and he recovers.’

  ‘Of course. I remember now. Slapping is a good idea,’ said the Magistrate, pushing the Psychologist aside. He rubbed his hands together eagerly, which was quite a dangerous thing to do given the incendiary risks. ‘Allow me.’

  ‘Gentlemen!’ admonished Mrs Wells the Younger as she came back into the room bearing a large silver dish on which rested a dead pig’s head with a banana in its mouth. ‘I would ask you all to respect the Squire’s house, and to respect these two poor time travellers who have travelled wide and far in order to save their modern world. Or so they say.’

  ‘Yo, woo-man,’ said Daniel. ‘I’z well amped, chocca wid dubble-yoo-emm-dee, no sheet, innit.’

  Encouraged by all the creative talk, Older Mrs Wells stood up and started waving a hand in an intensely arty fashion. ‘Yea, tho’ they melt our molten hearts, / Apart from thy holy soul do I depart, / And crush the crumbling cradle . . .’

  ‘ Please can I arrest her now? She could accidentally fall down the stairs?’ pleaded Constable Landscape.

  The Parson said grace, which consisted of thanking the Lord for giving them their daily bread, while slipping in a quick plea for added strength to withstand the temptations of the flesh and the revolutionary What The Butler Saw machine in the vestry. As they all tucked into their quite lovely meal, accompanied by several bottles of pre-blessed red wine which the Parson had borrowed from the church, the Psychologist seemed very keen to ask the children about time travel. ‘Do you have any proof that you are indeed Time Travellers?’ he enquired.

  ‘Bah! I’ve already asked them for proof,’ scowled the Magistrate. ‘All I got was talk of Eminems.’

  ‘Whatever!’ said Daniel and he gulped a mouthful of wine from his glass. ‘Eminem is sick and a half! He chills like a villain, man!’

  Older Mrs W
ells leaned forward and, with a flourish of her hands, said, ‘Ah, villains are quickly undone, / they shine like blades anon, / but wear a smudge of brown, / that ends beneath their crown.’

  The Psychologist was becoming quite agitated. ‘Those two,’ he said, pointing at Daniel and Older Mrs Wells, ‘I would dearly like to perform some invasive medical experiments on them. But first, young lady Urchin, I have to ask, could I join The Secret Five? I could be your Resident Medical Man, on call, day and night, limb amputation my speciality, even when not needed, although on reflection I did fail that part of the entrance exam.’

  Betty shook her head. ‘In truth,’ she said, ‘I don’t think we need a medical man. Do we, Daniel?’

  ‘Yo! On de boss, Captain Obvious!’ Daniel said to Betty, slopping some more red wine into his glass. ‘Dis am crunk! Innit!’

  Betty scowled at him. ‘Sorry, Daniel,’ she said.

  Daniel looked bewildered and a teeny bit drunk. ‘Hey, sis,’ he said, waving his glass of wine at her. ‘Why de polo pony, innit?’

  Betty smiled and slapped him rather hard. Daniel put his wine down and rubbed his face.

  ‘Is it my turn now?’ asked the Magistrate, eagerly rolling up his sleeve.

  ‘Gosh!’ said Daniel, his eyes crossing as he tried to focus. ‘Where am I?’

  ‘You are indeed with friends,’ said the Psychologist rather too fervently for a man with his Victorian hairstyle. ‘And, boy Urchin, if I may have a talk with you later about the possibility of certain invasive procedures . . .’

  ***

  Under the table, Whatshisname lifted his head and sniffed the air. Woof woof woof? he thought. He got up, picked up his bone for safekeeping, padded over to the door and poked all of his nose out into the corridor. He could definitely smell smoke! He glanced back into the room. No-one else seemed to have noticed, not even the black poodle, which was probably good news as it meant that he could impress it even more. Black poodles like nothing better than a heroic spaniel.

  But what was he to do? He’d once sneaked a look at a film called Lassie Saves the Day Yet Again while the children were watching it one lazy Saturday afternoon between adventures. What would Lassie have done, he thought very quietly and only to himself. He weighed up his options. He could: (s) run about frantically barking; (i) whine a bit; (t) clamp his jaws around Betty’s wrist and drag her into the corridor; (a) save himself and run for his life. He was about to opt for a commonsense combination of (s) and (a) when he quite suddenly decided that he definitely needed to impress the black poodle. New option (y) sprang to his canine mind and back out again. Glancing back at the black poodle to make sure its eyes were still wide open and able to see the launch of his daring new plan, he raced out of the door and tore off down the corridor, the bone in his mouth and his nose twitching madly as it followed the smell of smoke.

  All of a heroic sudden he stopped outside the Butler’s Bedroom. The door was strangely ajar, and he could see strange smoke billowing about dangerously inside the room! Now that he was out of sight of the black poodle, options (s) and (a) once again became his definite favourite. But Whatshisname was quite inquisitive for a dog of his size, and decided to poke his head around the door for a quick peek (two words, incidentally, that conjured up hazy memories of a hastily-grabbed opportunity behind a tree in a park many many sticks ago).

  He saw that the bedspread was on fire, and the flames were in danger of reaching the curtains! He dropped the bone in shock! Not only was he in shock, but it was a perfect place for a chapter break!

  And yet, a chapter break didn’t materialise. So, with little heed for his own safety, Whatshisname raced out of the Butler’s Bedroom and headed for the exit, pausing to cock his leg up an aspidistra in the corner in readiness for a very long-overdue canine wee, made even more urgent by the excitement of the promise of a chapter break. But a thought suddenly struck him as he did so, and the plucky dog lowered his leg and turned on his pads. He headed straight back into the Butler’s Bedroom for, in his haste, he had forgotten his bone! Bones (and, for that matter, peanut butter) were extremely hard to come by in this story, he had found, and the last thing he wanted was for that bone to be wasted in a disastrous fire.

  Carefully, and quite cautiously, he padded into the bedroom again. The bedspread was still smoking! He went to grab the bone but then some primeval instinct, or the fact that he was now very very desperate for a wee, made him cock his leg up again and wee for a very long time all over the bedspread! Heaven!

  There was a hissing and spitting as the flames were extinguished. He looked on, leg cocked, as the flames disappeared! How strange!

  Thanks to Whatshisname, the danger of a disastrous Victorian fire was over! He had saved the world!

  Or had he?

  Chapter Thirty Two

  In which Whatshisname is disappointed, again, but takes advantage of a wine-spill to drown his canine sorrows; Daniel becomes uncommonly persuasive then kills the kangaroo as it makes a guest appearance; there is a mildly interesting discussion about dado rails, of all things.

  Whatshisname trotted enthusiastically back to the Dining Room, his precious bone in his semi-precious mouth. In the doorway he paused to await the applause and, perhaps, the offer of a whole year’s supply of peanut butter on the house. But, to his dismay, everyone was still talking and eating. They hadn’t even noticed him return! He glanced at the stuffed black poodle on the hearth. Nothing! Not even a wink.

  He heard Betty call his name. Full of hope, yet devoid of significant amounts of faith and charity, he trotted over to her. ‘Where have you been?’ she scolded. ‘Sit in a servile manner at my feet! Naughty boy for going off like that!’

  Whatshisname slumped down at her feet. That was positively the first and last time he would put his life in danger! Honestly! Humans! Natural selection had a lot to answer for. He’d teach them. He closed his eyes and, in the space of a few seconds, proved that flatulence can time-travel.

  ‘So,’ the Policeman said in a rather stern Policeman’s voice, ‘I could hardly believe my own Policeman’s ears when you said that there would be a disastrous fire while we are banqueting here. I am hence, and possibly henceforth, keeping an eye on that Mrs Wells, should she leave the table on the pretext of, erm, excusing herself, and forthwith undertaking a serious bout of Arson under our very Victorian noses.’

  ‘Weeeellll,’ said Betty uncertainly, and wasting several letters e and l in the process, ‘we do have reason to believe that the fire might not actually happen, but we don’t know why it won’t happen. It’s just that we were actually in this house in the twenty-first century and so Daniel and I had an informal meeting and came to the conclusion that it couldn’t have burned to the ground. Isn’t that right, Daniel?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Daniel, in a totally inadequate effort to show everyone that he was English and Normal, which is a pretty rare condition. He took another quick swig of wine.

  ‘Well, I know I am a mere Child, but I think that these two are true heroes,’ offered Bertie. ‘Obviously, were it not for Betty and Daniel’s presence, the disastrous fire would surely have taken place.’

  ‘Woof woof woof?’ said Whatshisname quietly but hopefully.

  Just then there was an unexpected commotion from outside the room. There was a meaningful pause as people waited to see who would speak first about the unexpected commotion.

  ‘And what is all that unexpected commotion that I hear, yea verily?’ the Parson eventually said. ‘This is really testing our Victorian forbearance, patience, kindness and generosity to the limit. And yet, given the desperately simple plot structure, I am deeply surprised that there are any commotions at all.’

  Everyone watched carefully as the cause of the commotion, Mrs Wells the Younger, came back into the Dining Room. She was followed closely by a tall handsome man of about thirty-two-and-a-half years of age, dressed very smartly in some clothes of his own choosing. They were chatting, which hardly counted as a commotion, but times were h
ard.

  ‘Why, Squire de Lylow!’ bellowed the Magistrate, throwing the Psychologist off his lap and rushing over to shake the tall handsome man’s hand.

  The tall handsome man looked around the table. His eyes, which looked quite tired after all the travelling, rested on Betty. ‘Good Lord!’ he said.

  ‘Indeed,’ said the Parson.

  ‘Never mind those,’ urged Mrs Wells the Younger. ‘These two dear children are the time travellers I just told you about, the moment you returned from London, only a few minutes ago. I also begged your forgiveness for the audacity of arranging a banquet, which I have explained to you, about which you were in agreement entirely.’ She smiled, happy that she had so succinctly completed her expositional task.

  ‘Gosh!’ said Betty, staring at the man. ‘You must be Squire de Lylow. You’re really handsome and charming, you know, for a Squire.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said the Squire, nodding his handsome charming head in agreement. ‘But enough, for now, of my rugged good looks and my innate charm, for Mrs Wells the Younger here informs me that you have single-handedly prevented a disastrous fire at my House.’

  ‘Ah! ’ere comes the Sire,’ said the Older Mrs Wells as grandiloquently as she could through a mouthful of roasted pig’s giblets, ‘/ through bright boroughs / and stippled attire, / with brow a’furrowed . . .’

  The Policeman brandished his truncheon again at Older Mrs Wells. ‘Stop all that unsolicited poetry!’ he said sternly. She wrinkled her old brow, and stopped it. Appreciative poetry audiences were hard to come by, even in Victorian times.

  The handsome Squire came over to the table as Daniel was busy filling his wine glass. ‘This celebration banquet is surely well deserved,’ he said to the children. ‘Not that I believe in all this time travel nonsense, but Mrs Wells, my trusty Upper Housemaid, is one to be greatly humoured at all times, I find, due to her tendency to blackmail me over certain indiscretions which, of course, are unfounded yet are, interestingly, of a carnal nature. I mean, I hardly knew the ladies in question.’