The Derring-Do Club and the Year of the Chrononauts

by David Wake

  “One can move it from there though?”

  “Of course, my dear, but no peeking.”

  “We could denote other piles with various weights like this… flat iron. Why is there a flat iron here?”

  “It holds the–”

  But the kitchen door had already slammed shut.

  “Sorry,” said Earnestine, but she left the door closed and put the flat iron down upon – ah ha – domestic items, perfect. “And the papers we don’t need?”

  “We could burn them in the fireplace.”

  Earnestine stopped, looked around at each wall in turn: “Fireplace?”

  “So long ago, my dear, I can’t remember.”

  After dithering, Earnestine looked at the ceiling. There were no papers stacked downwards, Newton’s Law of Gravity saw to that, and so the outline of the room was visible. Sure enough, on the East wall, there was a chimney breast and below, hidden between ‘Chemistry’ and ‘Metric’, she uncovered a fireplace complete with scuttle, poker, brush, tongs, bellows and stand. The fire dog was already rammed with paper ready to burn.

  “We could toast muffins,” Boothroyd suggested.

  “Have you identified anything that can be burnt?”

  “I’m not keen on this.”

  “But Mister Boothroyd, if we don’t–” and then Earnestine bit her tongue as she realised why this place was in such a dreadful state: the man was unable to throw anything away.

  So she rolled up her mental shirt sleeves, put on her psychological apron and set to work on that problem too.

  Mrs Arthur Merryweather

  Georgina was hurtling towards her future and the scene that whizzed past her window was one of utter devastation, a sprawling landscape of brown bogs, jutting rocks and skeletal trees bent over by the incessant wind. Dotted here and there were the remains of stone structures, archaeological sites that harked back to a more primitive and ancient time, perhaps the very era when those fossil skeletons of monsters in the Museum of Natural History were clothed in flesh and roamed the moors looking for prey.

  Georgina shuddered.

  The train joggled from side to side as it went over some points.

  She picked up her copy of the Times as a distraction, but the stories of some future calamity held no interest given that she was plunging back to some semi–prehistoric realm.

  She’d chosen this fate simply by embarking on a train at Paddington Station, but it wasn’t what she wanted.

  She wanted Arthur, her husband, and not some ancient pile in the middle of nowhere, but poor Arthur was lost to her, and, dressed in her widow’s weeds, she was rushing further and further from civilisation. It was hateful, but she would bear it.

  In her travelling bag, she had her documentation: a letter from the Merryweather solicitors, Tumble, Judd & Babcock, and her marriage certificate. She hadn’t been interested in the slightest by the description of the property. There was a stipend to claim too. All this was hers, but only if she came to Magdalene Chase in person.

  She cared not a jot, she kept telling herself, but the solicitor, Mister Judd, must have known something of the Deering–Dolittle family curse for he had included an item that simply could not be resisted, something that had to be unfolded and pored over, something that needed to be examined in great detail. In short, he had enclosed a map.

  So she had resolved many times to put it aside, while she consulted her reference books, traced the railway lines and made careful plans. She’d not shown it to her sisters, because this was hers and hers alone. She often felt she’d lost everything when Arthur was taken from her, so every item of his was all the more precious.

  Arthur’s big pocket–watch said half–past four, not long now, but it would be dark when she reached Magdalene Chase. She consulted her Bradshaw’s Monthly Railway Guide as if somehow the information would have magically changed to let her arrive at Tenning Halt earlier.

  It had not.

  So much for that sixpence, she thought. She closed the yellow covers and put it back into her travelling bag.

  Another reason she hadn’t told Earnestine or Charlotte, of course, was to save them from any adventure. Earnestine had her new position in a government department and a chance to further the cause of suffrage by example, and Charlotte was enrolled, after much difficulty because of her references, in a new school and she, above everything else, had to learn.

  The landscape around the train darkened and looked even more desolate and uninviting. Zebediah Row was firmly in the past.

  “Tickets please.”

  Georgina dutifully dug out her ticket for the Inspector. The train clattered and swayed at that moment causing the uniformed man to pitch somewhat.

  “Tenning Halt,” he said, clipping the card and handing it back. “Next stop, Miss.”

  “Oh…” Georgina started to stand.

  “Not for a while yet. Stations hereabouts are much further apart than in London.”

  “How did you know I was from London?”

  “Your ticket Miss.”

  “Of course, thank you.”

  He moved on: “Tickets please, tickets please…”

  The Inspector came back ten minutes before the time Bradshaw had predicted for their arrival.

  “There’s no–one to help you, Miss?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “On your own then?”

  “I am.”

  “You be careful at Tenning Halt.”

  “I will, thank you.”

  When the train came to a stop, the Inspector deftly manhandled her trunk out onto the platform. He had clearly been trained; Georgina, considering her difficulties with the wretched thing, found this ability quite extraordinary.

  “Someone meeting you, Miss?”

  “I sent a letter.”

  He looked left and right: “There won’t be a porter here now, Miss.”

  “I shall be fine.”

  “Don’t be tempted to make the journey on your own,” he said. “The moors can be treacherous.”

  “I’ll stay here until I’m collected,” she assured him with a smile.

  He nodded and lifted his finger to his hat: “And keep away from Magdalene Chase.”

  The comment baffled her for a moment, and then she realised it was pronounced ‘maudlin’ like the college in Oxford or Cambridge.

  “Oh, Magdalene Chase,” she said. “Why?”

  “It’s infested with pixies, Miss.”

  And with that, he disappeared back into the bright, warm interior of the train carriage.

  Georgina glanced around, nervous of the shadows.

  The station sign was damaged, half of it ripped away in some storm: all that was left was ‘g Halt’. The clock above Platform 1 had stopped, frozen at 11:05 with no hint of whether it had been a morning or a night–time disaster.

  The train door was only a few feet in front of her, tempting. She could go on to Exeter, Plymouth or Penzance, and then turn back to London and Kensington. She reached out with her gloved hand to the shining brass handle, but she was made of sterner stuff and resisted.

  Finally, the train hissed like an angry serpent and jerked away into the night.

  Georgina stood by her trunk, alone.

  Miss Charlotte

  Charlotte went along some filthy streets and across an area of rough ground. Men leered at her and women cackled from the doorway of a public house. There was a fight going on at one corner, three men attacking a fourth. It was rough and messy, and utterly unlike the heroic deeds of soldiers. The sooner she joined the French Foreign Legion and got out of this hell hole, the better, she thought.

  It was dark when she reached the East India Docks. She thought it was probably better to go tomorrow and she thought of returning home, but no! She had run away and that was simply that. She simply had to stay the night somewhere.

  As she passed a dark doorway, a sailor spat downwards and then spoke: “Evenin’ darlin’”

  “Evening, Sir.”

&nb
sp; “You give me a good time.”

  “Good time… yes… sorry, but I don’t have a watch. I mean, I beg your pardon?”

  The sailor made a coarse gesture, holding the front of his trousers.

  “I think not, thank you, good day.”

  Charlotte scuttled away and the sailor attempted to follow, but he was far too worse for wear, and stumbled over in that way that Uncle Edgar used to do when his face had turned all red.

  She reached a house called ‘El Dorado’ which advertised proper beds. This would have to do.

  She pulled the doorbell cord.

  An elderly woman opened the door.

  “Welcome, welcome,” she said over Charlotte’s head and then she lowered her sights: “What have we here?”

  “Please Ma’am, I’m after a room.”

  “We’re not that sort of establishment.”

  “But it’s late and…”

  “What about yer own pander?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Gentleman… Man anyway. Did he hit you? You don’t look hurt.”

  Charlotte suddenly had a brainwave and showed the woman her right hand. The vivid red lines were still visible even in the weak gaslight.

  “Fair enough. You obey the rules of the house?”

  Rules – honestly – they were everywhere: “Of course, Ma’am.”

  “I’m Madam Waggstaff: this is my gaff, my rules. It’s a crown to you a night, if you entertain, enough for gin, and you’ll like it. We charge the men three crowns. How old are you?”

  Charlotte had money, so she thought she could afford a crown at least and she was glad for once that she wasn’t a man, although she didn’t understand why they were charged more.

  “Fifteen,” she said.

  “Fifteen!”

  “No, I mean sixteen. Or eighteen?”

  “That’s old.”

  “Twelve.”

  “Is that your final offer? Then twelve it is. At least you’ve got the right attitude,” she said, and she opened the door wide. “In you come.”

  Charlotte bobbed under her outstretched arm and went inside.

  “We’ll take your bag here,” Madam Waggstaff said, and she slipped it off Charlotte’s shoulder.

  “Oh, but–”

  “No buts. The others are in the drawing room.”

  The drawing room was decorated in dark, red colours, dimly lit, and furnished with a chaise longue against each wall. There were four other girls present, who sat around looking sullen and dejected. They glanced up at the new arrival with some loathing.

  “Hello, I’m Charlotte.”

  “Charlie girl, sit here.”

  “Charlotte,” Charlotte insisted as she sat on the edge of a chaise. It was precarious and uncomfortable.

  Now that her eyes had become accustomed to the gloom, she saw that the others were all quite brazenly attired. They were clearly of a lower class. Even so, this was something she’d have to get used to in her new life as a soldier.

  “I say,” Charlotte said in the way of an opener, “quite a queer sort of a place.”

  One girl tried to focus on Charlotte: “Here,” she said. “Have some gin.”

  “Jolly good of you,” said Charlotte. She took the proffered glass, turning it to drink from the clean side.

  “Bottoms up,” said the girl.

  Charlotte took a swig: it tasted of juniper berries and–

  “Ahh!” she spat the burning liquid across the room. “It’s cough medicine.”

  The girls all squawked with joy, coming to life for the first time since Charlotte’s arrival.

  “Quiet!” It was Madam Waggstaff. “We have a Gentleman Caller.”

  The girls sat upright, leaning forward and suddenly attentive, as Madam Waggstaff ushered in a portly gentleman with wide whiskers.

  “Oh, Madam Waggstaff,” he chortled. “You wicked woman. Wicked, wicked, I see you have a new lovely.”

  “Yes, this is… Desiree.”

  Charlotte stood and offered her hand: “Charlotte.”

  “Oh, and so forward and eager, I like that.”

  There was a general groan from behind Charlotte, but Charlotte was used to other girls in class being stupid.

  “Number three,” said Madam Waggstaff.

  “Oh, perfect,” said the Gentleman.

  Charlotte wondered what to do until Madam Waggstaff waved her to a door. This led along a passage with other doors on either side, but none of them had numbers. Charlotte had actually been to the Savoy when her sister, Georgina, had married Captain Merryweather, and that had been an altogether different arrangement.

  “This one, my lovely,” said the Gentleman.

  “Thank you,” said Charlotte, remembering her Ps and Qs. “Well, that will–”

  The man came in too!

  “A little entertainment if you will.”

  “Ah, of course,” said Charlotte. She understood: clearly Madam Waggstaff’s clients were expected to keep one another amused in the evenings. She looked around for the pianoforte, but there was only a bed in the room. This was probably a lucky escape for the Gentleman as Charlotte hadn’t practised her scales, or her violin, in simply ages.

  The man sat on the bed loosening his cravat as he ogled at Charlotte expectantly.

  “I can recite the Henry Vth speech before Agincourt or Queen Elizabeth’s before the Armada,” Charlotte suggested.

  “You can take off your clothes.”

  “Of course, I… I beg your pardon?”

  “No need to be shy with me, my lovely.”

  He reached across and grabbed hold of her.

  Charlotte fought back, but he was a big man and pulled her down upon the covers. The bed creaked and complained, jiggling up and down upon its springs. He was on top of her, fumbling for her undoings. Charlotte jabbed with her elbow, slipped out from under him and fell into an uncomfortable heap on the floor.

  “Come now!” the man said, getting high–pitched, “Madam Waggstaff will beat you if you aren’t nice to me.”

  Charlotte’s hand brushed against a sturdy handle. She grabbed it, lifted it and swung with all her strength. There was a mighty clang when the heavy metal object connected with the man’s pudgy face. He went down. The weapon was full of liquid, which went everywhere, cascading down onto the fallen body.

  “Euurghh,” said Charlotte. She dropped the pot. “Yuk! Yuk!”

  The door burst open: “What’s going on?” Madam Waggstaff demanded.

  “He attacked me!”

  “He did?”

  “Yes,” said Charlotte, “he tried to take my clothes off.”

  Madam Waggstaff’s mouth dropped open. The few teeth she had were rotten and she reeked of Juniper cordial.

  “You ungrateful girl, you’ve killed him!”

  The man groaned on the floor to give lie to that statement.

  “He attacked me!” Charlotte repeated.

  “Of course he attacked you,” Madam Waggstaff wailed.

  “He came into the room! He attacked me. So I hit him. With the chamber pot.”

  “We’ve only your word against his, and our Mister Foxley here is a proper Gentleman, Right Honourable and everything. Wait until Mister Waggstaff hears about this, you wicked girl.”

  “I’m not doing lines.”

  “Don’t you know what to do with a Gentleman Caller?”

  “Of course, I do,” said Charlotte, indignantly, because she did know. “You offer whiskey or brandy, instead of sherry.”

  “You’ve not been with a man! Oh, heavens protect us. You stupid girl, I could have got twenty five pounds for you, more at auction.”

  “What are you talking about?” Charlotte was shouting now, partly in panic, but mostly because nobody here seemed to understand what she was saying.

  “Where do you think you are?”

  “I’m in a bed and breakfast,” she answered.

  There was a sudden terrible splintering of wood, followed by screams.

&nbs
p; “What now!” Madam Waggstaff demanded.

  The commotion outside spilled along the corridor. A girl, dressed only in her undergarments, rushed past the open door.

  “Odette, Odette!” Madam Waggstaff stormed into the corridor and then immediately backed away.

  A figure appeared, silhouetted in the doorway: he was tall, dressed in a black frock coat and wearing a tall top hat. He was gaunt, clean shaven and wearing the most peculiar glasses imaginable. They were white and made him look blind, but he could clearly see through the slits that created a lattice or grid across the blank lenses.

  Charlotte retreated too.

  He stepped into the room, followed by another identically dressed man. They could have been twins.

  Another appeared: triplets?

  “We keep a clean house,” Madam Waggstaff was saying. “We paid the Sergeant at the station his money, always regular.”

  The lead man replied in a deep voice: “We’re not the local constabulary.”

  “Who are you then?”

  “I am Chief Examiner Lombard of the Chronological Division, and this is Checker Rogers.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were Temporal Peelers. Is it readies you’ll be wanting?”

  “No, woman, we’re not interested in your bordello,” said the Chief Examiner. “Leave us to our business.”

  Checker Rogers stooped over the prostrate gentleman and felt for a pulse.

  “Alive?” asked the first, Lombard.

  “Yes,” said the second, Rogers, as he sniffed his own fingers suspiciously.

  “Then arrest him.”

  Checker Rogers dragged the body towards the passageway until the third man helped him. Metal clattered as they did so and Charlotte noticed their cavalry swords hanging from belts fixed around their frock coats.

  “You can’t take him,” Madam Waggstaff complained. “He’s a Member of Parliament.”

  “He’s covered in piss,” the third man complained.

  “Excuse me, Sir,” Charlotte said.

  Chief Examiner Lombard loomed over her; the top of his hat nearly scraping the ceiling.

  “What?”

  “Thank you for coming to my aid.”

  “We didn’t come to help some strumpet.”

  “Well, even so, I’m grateful… strumpet? No, I’m not a strumpet.”