The Derring-Do Club and the Year of the Chrononauts

by David Wake

  “Ladies?”

  “Table for two, please,” said Earnestine, trying to avoid panting.

  The waitress picked up two menus and directed them towards the window.

  “Can we have one at the back?” Charlotte asked.

  The waitress looked at them quizzically.

  “My friend gets the chills very easily.”

  “It is warm.”

  “Please. She’s old.”

  The waitress frowned, but nonetheless took them to a different table towards the back. They settled and ordered tea with scones.

  “I’m younger than the waitress,” Earnestine said.

  “It worked.”

  Earnestine lips narrowed.

  “Letter?”

  Earnestine got out the letter and opened–

  The tea shop bell rang and a man entered. He took off his top hat and placed it on the coat stand before taking a seat by the window. He gazed out into the street watching the traffic and only looked into the shop when the waitress went over to take his order.

  Earnestine relaxed and opened the envelope. She had her finger on the letter when the waitress returned with a steaming pot, cups and saucers.

  When the waitress had gone, she took out the letter and began reading. It started thus: ‘To My Dearest Sis–’

  The waitress brought an elegant jug of milk. Earnestine smiled at her forcefully, returning to the letter when she’d gone.

  ‘Sisters, Ness–’.

  Their scones arrived, and looked very tasty and came with butter on a small dish, whipped cream in a bowl and strawberry jam in a jar.

  ‘Dearest Sisters, Ness and Lot–’

  “Will that be all, Miss?”

  “Yes,” said Earnestine through clenched teeth. “That will be all, thank you.”

  Earnestine waited until the waitress has returned to her counter. ‘Dearest Sisters, Ness and Lottie.’

  “Shall I be Mother?” Charlotte asked.

  “Please.”

  Earnestine read.

  Charlotte had poured both teas, added milk and scoffed half a scone with lashings of jam and cream by the time Earnestine had read and re–read the letter three times.

  “Ness?” said Charlotte, entirely failing to keep the impatience out of her voice.

  “She’s gone to Magdalene Chase.”

  “Where?”

  “It’s… near Tenning Halt.”

  “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “Neither have I.”

  “Let’s see,” Charlotte demanded. She scanned down the letter. “Why is it spelt funny?”

  “It’s how you spell ‘Magdalene’.”

  “But it would be ‘em’, ‘ay’, ‘you’, ‘dee…’ ‘el’, ‘eye’, ‘en’.”

  “Why ever would it be spelt like that?”

  “It’s more logical.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Because… if you’d pay more attention to your lessons, you’d know.”

  “But why has she gone to Magdalene Chase?”

  “It’s her ancestral home.”

  “Her ancestral home is 12b Zebediah Row.”

  “Her ancestral home on the Merryweather side.”

  “Merry… oh!”

  “I think we should visit our sister,” Earnestine announced. “Apparently it’s in the middle of nowhere, so it would be a perfect place to hide.”

  “Uncle Jeremiah will be there and might be able to explain.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Are you suggesting we wander down to the station with all the Temporal Peelers after us?” Charlotte asked.

  Earnestine thought for a moment: “We’ll lie low for a while.”

  Outside the street was still full of men in top hats, but there were bowlers, flat caps and many, many ladies’ bonnets.

  “Which nowhere is it in the middle of?” Charlotte asked.

  Earnestine lips tightened: “Gina didn’t say.”

  They made their way back to the banks on the crossroads and checked the street names, and it was easy to walk along keeping pace with the traffic as they looked for a hansom. Luck was not with them and in the end Earnestine and Charlotte had to walk all the way to Queensbury Road.

  Mrs Arthur Merryweather

  The view from the bedroom was bleak and when the clouds blotted out the weak sun, Georgina could see her reflection in the window. She would have stood here with Arthur and he would have put his arm around her. She’d have been able to glance – just there – and see him, just as now she saw a ghostly figure standing at her shoulder made from the clouds beyond

  A shaft of sunlight escaped and played about the moors much like the galvanic spotlight had at the theatre. She could walk there in the place that she’d been warned against (but then she’d been warned against this house too) and the moors would claim her. The others wouldn’t miss her, although no doubt Mrs Falcone would contact her to ask about eagles and wigwams.

  Downstairs in the drawing room, Mrs Falcone was in full swing with Miss Millicent alternating between fluttering and downtrodden.

  “My grandmother was an actress,” she announced. “Can you believe it? No better than she ought to have been, I declare. She duped the great Maestro Falcone, didn’t she Millicent – don’t hunch – and – you take after her, you know – and bore him nine children and only five of those died, but luckily we take after the Falcone side… with exceptions.”

  “Mama, I…”

  “Quite.”

  “Sorry, Mama.”

  “I have the acting blood in me, you see. Proper acting, not that cheap stuff of women who should know better, but perhaps a Shakespeare or a Marlowe or a recitation of poetry. I was known for my recitation. Perhaps this is why I am such a sensitive.”

  Georgina almost sniggered aloud: “Sensitive?”

  “Indeed,” Mrs Falcone’s tongue was sharp. “I feel things beyond the reach of ordinary people and that is why I can commune with the departed. They reach out, you know, looking for a suitable vessel.”

  Georgina didn’t know how to answer this. It seemed tantamount to black magic, but the idea of communicating with her late husband drew her in. If only…

  “You are an unbeliever,” Mrs Falcone announced. “I sense these things.”

  “We live in a rational world,” Georgina replied calmly. “Everything works according to God’s laws, the immutable workings of the Universe as discovered by Sir Isaac Newton. The natural world functions like a clockwork mechanism or an engine.”

  “That may be true in London, I dare say,” Mrs Falcone replied, “but there are more things in heaven and hell than in that new–fangled philosophy.”

  “Science holds that the same laws apply everywhere and–”

  “Hmm, there are daguerreotype pictures of spirits and ghosts, and that isn’t explained by your Newman, Sir or otherwise.”

  “Newton.”

  “I have communicated, regularly, with the spirit world and the spirit of this Newton hasn’t come to argue his case that spirits don’t exist.”

  “That makes no sense.”

  “Well, that’s because you are closed–minded.”

  Georgina felt her mouth open, but no words came out. She simply couldn’t argue with this woman, who flatly ignored rational discourse and instead relied on pure statement. Also, Georgina still wasn’t sure what this woman was doing here. She’d assumed that the house would be occupied by Merryweathers, relations of her husband, but there didn’t seem to be any at all. Fellowes, Mrs Jago and the rest of the staff made sense, but Mrs Falcone, Colonel Fitzwilliam and Miss Millicent did not. Unless, she supposed, Miss Millicent was a Merryweather.

  She resolved to visit every room and did so, disturbing the cook and Fellowes, who was polishing the silver again, and discovered that the guests were in the East Wing, whereas the master bedroom was in the West Wing.

  Outside, there was a small formal garden at the back, blasted by the seemingly endless ga
le, and then the land rose into undulating hills from which burst outcrops of sharp granite. The elements had carved these into blocks as if the landscape was littered with fallen megaliths.

  “Tors.”

  Georgina jumped.

  It was Colonel Fitzwilliam, who had appeared from nowhere, it seemed, and now stood far too close. He tucked his thumbs into his garish yellow waistcoat.

  “I beg your pardon,” Georgina said, taking a few steps away for propriety’s sake.

  The Colonel took a step even closer.

  “You were thinking about the hills. The rocks, like cairns, are called ‘tors’. Some say the devil made them.”

  They did look like satanic markers. Now she looked, Georgina could see that some of the stones formed the outlines of buildings long ago destroyed.

  “Witches’ houses,” the Colonel added.

  “There are perfectly natural explanations for these geological features,” she said.

  “I’m sure there are, my dear, but all rather complicated for an old duffer like myself.”

  “Well, thank you for the information. I think I shall take a stroll up to one and examine it more closely.”

  “Mac was here,” said the Colonel.

  “Mac?”

  “Lieutenant McKendry, last year. He stayed for a few months, walked all round. He had such awful trouble pronouncing Magdalene, he kept saying ‘Mag–da–lene’. He was probably investigating the lights.”

  “Lights?”

  “In the sky. At night.”

  “Shooting stars?”

  “Rum shooting stars that hover and change direction.”

  “Oh.”

  “Be careful,” the Colonel added. “Peat bogs can easily suck the unwary into the ground.”

  “I shall be careful.”

  The walk was bracing and the wind howled stronger still once she was away from the shelter of the Chase. She thought about going back for a shawl, but she knew she was being watched and she didn’t want to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing a weakness. The slope uphill was mostly gentle, the ground sprung underfoot and, where it was steep, it was like a giant green staircase. Once she reached the rocks of the Tor, she had to use her hands to pull herself up the tricky sections, but soon enough she was standing atop the summit.

  The view was spectacular in a bleak fashion.

  Magdalene Chase was below, the driveway leading out to the main road, a narrow affair between stunted hedges that wound along a contour. There was a village, its church tower dominating a small clutch of cottages and beyond… nothing.

  Behind her, in the near distance, were other Tors, each higher than the last and very like cairns marking a route, tempting her to go ever further from civilisation.

  The derelict houses came from another era, an ancient one. She had read, and seen exhibits in museums, of prehistoric times when barely human cavemen had eked out a savage existence. Mankind progressed, inventing all the time, so logically earlier times were more primitive and any Golden Ages, like that of Atlantis or Troy, were entirely mythical. Further back still would be Darwin’s hypothesized (oh, very well, she knew that On the Origin of Species only implied it) ape–like ancestors of mankind. These pre–humans must have lived here despite the lack of trees.

  There had been Dark Ages when knowledge had been lost, dips between the hills of enlightenment, but the direction was always upwards. The people who lived here, who built these rude houses, must have been as barbarous as those modern day natives in the jungles of the far flung colonies of the Empire.

  If one stopped looking back, she wondered, and turned one’s mental gaze in the opposite direction, what marvels would the future offer?

  Or would the likes of Mrs Falcone and her fellow spiritualists suck mankind down into the bog of another Dark Age of Superstition?

  She shuddered and made her way back down, conscious that there were eyes behind the dark windows of the Chase watching her, both the living and perhaps a multitude of dead ancestors, by marriage, going all the way back to the primitive.

  Miss Charlotte

  Charlotte had not liked the Patent Pending Office as it looked stuffy, full of papers, documents and other tedious matters of uninterest.

  Earnestine took a flat iron out of her bag and put it on a stack of papers. There were other items on other piles: a brick, a statue of a knight–

  “Don’t touch that!”

  “I was only looking.”

  “Look, but don’t touch.”

  “Can I ahoy–hoy someone up?”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “On the thingamajig?”

  “No, and you don’t know anyone who has a telephonic apparatus anyway.”

  “Can I–”

  “No.”

  “What about–”

  “No. Nor that… Here, I know what you need.”

  Charlotte’s heart sank when she saw Earnestine reach for a book. She was going to force her to read some stuffy text, but instead it was a disguised switch and the book shelf swung open.

  “A secret door… an actual secret door. Oh, Ness.”

  “If you’d close it behind you, please,” said Earnestine.

  Charlotte, still failing to contain her excitement, did so. The whole shelf rotated back into position on carefully balanced brass hinges, and stopped with a satisfying click.

  “This way.”

  Charlotte followed into a huge store house full of delights.

  “Ness, is this–”

  “Don’t touch anything.”

  “But Ness.”

  “For any reason.”

  “Ness.”

  “Ever. And don’t whine.”

  Earnestine was like some evil witch, who showed children sweets and then chopped off their hands.

  “Look at this!”

  Charlotte saw a wooden scarecrow arrangement with metal rods and an odd heart in the middle of the wooden central column. Earnestine handed Charlotte a sword, a foil with a red protective end.

  “This is Ridley’s Automatic Fencing Exerciser,” said Earnestine.

  “It’s a fighting machine!” Charlotte said, her eyes gleaming with excitement.

  “You wind it here.”

  Earnestine indicated the holes where a crank could be fitted. Charlotte set to work, and it was work, jolly hard work, particularly the one at the front. When she paused, Earnestine tutted.

  “You must learn application,” Earnestine commanded.

  Charlotte looked at the previously exciting sword with its silly red bobble. It was only a short Pariser.

  “Do I have to wind the machine every time?” she asked.

  Earnestine was now some way down the corridor going back to the office: “Yes!”

  “Do I–”

  “Yes!”

  “And–”

  “Yes.”

  Fine, Charlotte thought.

  The stupid machine required three stupid mechanisms to be wound up, the front and the side and the back and the stupid card things and the stupid gauntlet and finally she could fight the stupid thing.

  It slashed right and left. Charlotte parried, tried to get past to stab at the heart, but it countered. Slash, slash, parry, slash… she backed off, got her breath back and went in again… finally stabbing the heart when the front and side springs were spent.

  It stopped.

  It was only five past two… a whole two hours was simply impossible. Earnestine was mad. No–one, absolutely no–one, except Earnestine, who had a black heart, could concentrate on one thing for two hours!

  It took forever to rewind the springs, utterly stupid, round and crankingly round again and it was still only seven minutes past, but at least the fighting was fun.

  She hadn’t changed the pack of cards, so she was able to anticipate the machine’s movements somewhat, but they changed when she struck the sword. It was clever and disarmed her. She was holding the hilt too tightly, she realised. She should be using… what was it? The French grip.
Grip, grip, grips, gripped, gripping, grippamus… yuk.

  Her third attempt met with no success either.

  “Stupid.”

  She tried again.

  Slashing with great abandon, while screaming at the top of her voice, didn’t work either.

  If only there was some way to pause the machine, rather than having to start again from the beginning, and a display to show if she was gaining points.

  She flung her foil down and stomped off.

  However, there was nothing else to do in this boring place.

  In the end, she found the pamphlets and read them, which was like doing homework. One of them covered the machine itself and outlined the winding, the maintenance and then listed the four techniques: direct thrust, indirect thrust, cut over and counter disengage. These were all explained in another pamphlet in great detail, but in French. With disgust, Charlotte recognised the present tense.

  The packs of cards had French words on them too, which were duelling schools of thought, she guessed. There were daggers on them, one, two or three crosses, referring to a level of difficulty. She didn’t want to be someone who fought against the beginner’s ‘one dagger’ level, but no–one was looking.

  Direct thrust was simply stabbing the heart. Indirect was probably knocking the machine’s sword aside and then going for the heart. Cut over was… ah, a little wiggle. It was skill rather than brute force that won every time, when she did win. And she began to win more often.

  Her shoulder muscles ached from the winding. It was a torture device, because it alternated the heavy work with the delicate twizzling of the foil. These actions had as much in common with each other as chopping wood had with embroidery.

  Now another trick, she realised, was to bounce in and out using the back foot as the guide. And counter disengage was what you did when it did an indirect thrust. So, now, she thought–

  “Time’s up!”

  Earnestine had just re–entered the room.

  “But Ness, I’m just–”

  “You’ll have to complete your practise tomorrow.”

  “But Ness–”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “But–”

  “No buts.”

  “I never get any fun.”

  It was so utterly unfair, Charlotte knew, that she was only allowed two hours. How was she going to learn anything that way? Charlotte made a face. Earnestine was such a spoil sport.