The Derring-Do Club and the Year of the Chrononauts

by David Wake

  “Mrs Frasier,” said this Albert as he stuck out his hand towards Earnestine eagerly. “We are so grateful for what you are doing. My family, my family… the recent arrests, I learn that because of the great endeavour, they are back, returned to us. We are so grateful. The world is grateful.”

  “I’m not Mrs Frasier.”

  “Not yet,” he smiled. “I know, I know, of course, still Miss Deering–Dolittle. Marcus is going to be a lucky man. And these must be your sisters – the Derring–Do Club. I’ve read about you in the History Books, of course, so brave, so sad, so mysterious, and to meet you in person. I’m honoured, honoured.”

  He shook Georgina’s hand and then Charlotte’s.

  “So brave, so sad,” he said. “We’re so grateful.”

  “Move along now,” said Scrutiniser Jones, but good–heartedly.

  The man went on his way, smiling, talking to passers–by and pointing back.

  “We’re famous,” Charlotte beamed.

  Earnestine tightened her lips.

  Miss Charlotte

  The Rotunda had four corridors, each labelled: Judiciary, Temporal Engineering, Accommodation and Prison. They moved straight on, entering a wood panelled corridor. Charlotte craned her neck round to look into the Prison area as they went past, but she didn’t see much with the tall Peelers in the way.

  It had been jolly bad luck that she happened to be passing Earnestine’s door during her escape and so seen that man attack Earnestine. Well, maybe not bad luck, but her rescue of Uncle Jeremiah had had to be put aside.

  Uncle Jeremiah was down there somewhere in the Prison section, she thought, and if she could just–

  “Charlotte, stand up straight,” Earnestine snapped.

  “I am.”

  It was foolish to have all these extra guards, when they could just as easily have given her a sword and then she could protect them all.

  Hadn’t she proved herself saving their precious, and ungrateful, Mrs Frasier the Younger?

  Or a revolver, that would be better.

  They arrived in a waiting area with long wooden seats like pews. They sat. Charlotte fidgeted.

  “Can I go for a walk?” she asked Earnestine.

  “No.”

  “Just to stretch my legs.”

  “No.”

  “I won’t be long.”

  “Charlotte, honestly.”

  “Lottie,” said Georgina, “be a good girl now.”

  Charlotte made a face.

  They never took her seriously, even though – she sniggered – she had discovered what all this was about. But she wasn’t going to tell them, the bossy older sisters; at least not until she’d figured out what it meant.

  Chapter XVII

  Mrs Frasier

  A new day, Mrs Frasier thought, a great day. Now she had returned to the future, she decided she’d see the next trial in person. It would be a distraction, something to take her mind off Lord Farthing and the debate.

  She checked her watches, touched the lettering within the golden cover: ‘For Our Future, J. J. D.’ in a fine italic script. She felt confident. A penny for your thoughts: a shilling perhaps, but this mighty one was a gold sovereign of an idea.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Come in.”

  Chief Examiner Lombard came in, stiffly, and closed the door behind him. He took a pace inside and stopped well short of Mrs Frasier’s desk.

  “Ma’am.”

  “Lombard, why are you standing to attention?”

  “I’ve some news.”

  “News?”

  “Bad news, Ma’am.”

  “Divvy it out.”

  “You won’t be happy.”

  Mrs Frasier waved her hand to prompt him to continue.

  “Last night, one of the new workmen attacked one of the Deering–Dolittle–”

  “What!?”

  “She’s fine.”

  “Which one?”

  “Miss Deering–Dolittle, Earnestine.”

  Mrs Frasier felt a cold chill: “Me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who did this?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “Don’t know? How is that possible?”

  “He was one of the latest batch brought in, but I asked and none of the other workmen knew him. He was counterfeit, didn’t know one end of a pipe from the other.”

  “Then beat him until he tells you.”

  “He’s dead, Ma’am.”

  Mrs Frasier practically screeched into Chief Examiner Lombard’s face: “What the hell was he doing here?”

  “He was a workman, Ma’am.”

  “Why couldn’t one of ours do it?”

  “It’s the old pumps, Ma’am; we brought a team here to fix them. None of us know how those old things work. And the water is seeping in.”

  “Could we not have left it until after… oh hell.”

  It was petrifying.

  A man from the past here, without so much as a scribbled note anywhere, wandering about with murderous intent. He could have gone anywhere. He could have done anything.

  And why?

  “Where?” she demanded.

  “In her room.”

  The man had found Miss Deering–Dolittle’s room and attacked her.

  “It’s just one of those things, Ma’am.”

  “Lombard, what sort of gulpy do you take me for? He was some bloody bludger, no less than a political assassin.”

  “He only attacked one of the girls and she’s fine, there was no harm done.”

  Mrs Frasier saw the picture of Boudicca on her wall. That woman had waged war against men, Romen, because her daughters were attacked, and now her successor had been assaulted. The painting showed the Iceni Warrior Queen going into battle and that was how Mrs Frasier felt too.

  “He went for me!”

  “Ma’am.”

  “Find out who he was – everything.”

  “He was one of the plumbers who–”

  “No he wasn’t. He was an assassin, a spy, a bloody nose. Lombard, don’t be such a glocky cove. This goes deep. Find the trail, follow it to its source and report back.”

  Lombard stiffened.

  “Get on with it!”

  Chief Examiner Lombard was a tall man, cadaverous and frightening in his appearance, but he saluted and turned to the door.

  “Elijah!”

  “Ma’am.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “It’s just… we’re so close.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Please forgive me.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive, Ma’am.”

  “You are too kind, but I was wrong.”

  “We’ll find out who he was, directly,” said Lombard, his gaunt face set and determined. “We’ll get to the bottom of it.”

  Mrs Frasier nodded with a tight lipped smile.

  “I know you’ll do your best.”

  “We’re your Peelers, Ma’am, we wouldn’t do anything less.”

  “Thank you.”

  After he’d gone, Mrs Frasier gripped her desk with both hands and breathed, trying to force herself to be calm. Anger never did her any favours, she knew. She dropped her cigar case twice before she managed to retrieve one. She couldn’t get the damn thing into the cutter and nearly took the end of her finger off. Finally, she had it lit and the first inhalation calmed her, even before the smoke reached her lungs. Thank goodness for Double Claro.

  When she felt in control again, she checked her watch. Always and always checking her watch, ‘For the Future’, willing the seconds to pass, the long dreamed for day to be over: if you can keep your head.

  Her hand was still shaking.

  No good panicking about it: if you can force your heart and nerve and sinew to serve. Work, that’s what she needed: ‘Hold on!’

  She clipped her gold fob watch shut and stubbed out her cigar, leaving half the greenish length in the ash tray.

 
; Down the corridor towards the court rooms, she found Judge Smythe in his rooms.

  “Oh! Mrs Frasier, you gave me such a turn.”

  The man, his head bald and his whiskers busy and ginger, looked guilty before he went back to hanging up his formal robes in a wardrobe.

  “Judge, who is in the dock next? Foxley, isn’t it?”

  “Foxley… I say, yes: guilty. Do you think hard labour will be too harsh?”

  “For that man?”

  “I suppose, I suppose, sherry?”

  His trembling hand poured two glasses to the rim without spilling a drop.

  “Although he is technically innocent at the moment,” said Mrs Frasier.

  “Of course, of course, Mrs Frasier, justice must be seen.”

  The man dithered, hesitating as to which way around his oak desk he ought to walk to his chair. There were papers on the desk tucked away in fine covers and tied shut with thin ribbons of various colours.

  Mrs Frasier sat and sipped her sherry. It was a fine vintage. She smiled, wondering what was on the bottle: 1897, which made it a few years old or nearly eighty. It depended on how it arrived, she supposed.

  “It’s Earl Foxley,” said Mrs Frasier, correcting the Judge. “His brother died, so naturally the title falls to him.”

  “When did his brother die?”

  “Seventy five years ago.”

  “Oh yes, of course, of course.”

  “I mean he did. I just found out when I was there. In a duel.”

  The Judge was surprised and amused: “A duel?”

  Mrs Frasier made a stabbing motion as if she were skewering an invisible man: “It was very quick.”

  “Swords? Was it over some woman?”

  Mrs Frasier gave him a tight smile: “By a woman.”

  There was a tap at the door.

  “Come!”

  An assistant came in: “Bert, it’s– Mrs Frasier! I beg your pardon, Ma’am.”

  Mrs Frasier signalled him to continue.

  “Mrs Frasier… Your Honour, the court has gathered.”

  “Oh, very well,” the Judge put down his sherry glass. “I say, help me with this, won’t you?”

  The assistant stepped forward to help him take his robes down again and fuss with them.

  “Put on a good show,” said Mrs Frasier. “The Derring–Do Club is in.”

  Miss Deering-Dolittle

  Scrutiniser Jones and five other Peelers, their hands on the hilts of their swords, led the sisters through the complex and into the Judiciary section. Earnestine had not been there before.

  The new eldest sister, Mrs Frasier, had been there before, of course. Probably many times, but she would remember this time, if this sightseeing meant anything, as it had been her first visit. Now! When she had been Miss Deering–Dolittle.

  Earnestine felt she was set on rails: do this, do that, it’s fate, because she had already done this and done that. All she was doing was storing up memories for her older self. And, if Mrs Frasier had forgotten, then what was the point of doing it in the first place?

  They reached the entrance to the Public Gallery and Scrutiniser Jones held the door open.

  With nothing else she could do, Earnestine, as if she were controlled by a train timetable, followed the signal and went along the track indicated.

  Mrs Arthur Merryweather

  There were about twenty people in the Public Gallery overlooking the main court room. Earnestine asked a woman if she would make room to let the three of them sit together. The lady was only too delighted to move along once she realised who had made the request.

  It was like a theatre and they were high up in the circle. Down below, the room was divided into distinct sections. To one side was a kind of box filled in two rows by a motley collection of individuals: the jury, both men and surprisingly women, while in the main area there were a variety of stages: one for the Judge, another for the accused, and a long bench facing the judge for the Prosecution and Defence council. The two opposing lawyers, bewigged, were already in position busy with their papers.

  “That’s the ‘Gentleman Caller’,” said Charlotte pointing.

  The man in the dock was seated between two Temporal Peelers. He looked haggard, head down and his arms flopped in front, even his wide whiskers drooped.

  The Clerk came in and a hush descended.

  After a few moments, the Clerk stood: “All stand.”

  Everyone was on their feet, although the accused needed to be helped up.

  The Judge, resplendent in formal red and black robes, entered. He took his seat under a coat of arms that resembled a giant clock set to eleven. He sat, and then stood again as Mrs Frasier, dressed in a fine burgundy dress and matching bonnet, came in from the Judge’s rooms. She took a place to the right of the Judge, who then sat, and then everyone else sat too.

  The Clerk got back on his feet.

  “Your Honour, my Lords… Mrs Frasier, I beg your pardon. Mrs Frasier, Your Honour, my Lords, Members of the Jury, Ladies and Gentlemen, we continue the trial of the Right Honourable James Foxley, Earl and Member of Parliament.”

  The accused brought his head up: “Earl?”

  The Clerk looked to Mrs Frasier, who smiled sweetly.

  “If I may continue? The Earl, because in his Temporal Thread his older brother has recently become deceased, although for us he died seventy five years ago–”

  “John? Dead?”

  The Judge intervened: “Silence! He died in a duel, but that is not the matter at hand and we will not be side–tracked. Clerk, pray continue.”

  Even though Earnestine had her head down, Georgina noticed that her elder sister’s face had blushed. Good, because she should feel guilty killing a man, whatever mitigating reasons she may have in her defence.

  “James Albert Foxley is accused of diverse crimes of mass murder, conspiracy to war and so forth. He was arrested on… let me see, Temporal Edict, 301, issued by the Chronological Committee, July Twelfth, in the Year of our Lord, nineteen forty five and subsequently arrested in the year nineteen hundred. Confirmation of Historical Adjustment, pleaded ‘not guilty’, etcetera, etcetera. Adjourned yesterday. We now move to the Summing Up.”

  The Clerk sat.

  The Prosecution lawyer stood.

  It was like some strange variation of musical chairs.

  The man put his thumbs into the lapels of his robes, turned to address the jury and glanced to the Public Gallery.

  “Mrs Frasier – an honour that you could join us – and Your Honour, Members of the Jury, we have all lived through such terrible times, an age of destruction created by the Conspiracy. If it wasn’t for the sterling work of Mrs Frasier and the Chronological Committee, we would still be… well, I dread to think. Mrs Frasier’s work – our work – is concerned with rectifying these awful crimes, one crime at a time, and one of those criminals is this Earl Foxley. Look at him, guilt written all over his face, and his defence has been nothing but whining complaints and insults. Do we know who he is? Do we? Of course we do, but he’s no Member of Parliament here. Here, and now, he’s a murderer, a warmonger, a Conspirator!”

  Angry shouts erupted from all around Earnestine, Georgina and Charlotte.

  “There is but one verdict: guilty, guilty, GUILTY!”

  The Prosecutor looked to the Public Gallery, bowed slightly and then sat down. There was a ripple of applause.

  The Judge looked to the other bench and the Defence lawyer stood. He adjusted his wig before addressing the main bench.

  “Mrs Frasier, Your Honour, Members of the Jury – what can we offer, but our sincere apologies, my client is full of remorse for his actions–”

  Foxley jumped to his feet: “NO!”

  The Judge banged his gavel: “Silence!”

  “My Lord, Your Honour,” Foxley said, “I wish to sum up myself.”

  “You wish to dismiss your council?”

  “Yes, Your Honour.”

  “Oh… very well. Clerk, make a note, I sa
y.”

  Foxley straightened his jacket, his hands up at his lapels like a lawyer: “My Lord, no evidence has been produced against me.”

  “Your Honour,” the Prosecution interrupted. “We’ve been through this time and time again. Of course, there is no evidence. History has been changed, that is the point of the Chronological Corrections. This man was arrested to wipe that slate clean, and so the marks of his guilt have gone. However, if he had been allowed to continue, then he would have committed these atrocities. For this, the accused is on trial.”

  “Outrageous!” Foxley shouted.

  The Prosecutor leaned forward, his hands gripping the desk in front of him and all the invective he could muster was directed at the accused: “Were you, or would you have become, a member of the Conspiracy?”

  “I don’t know anything about–”

  “Were you, or would you have become, a member of the Conspiracy?”

  “I don’t know–”

  “Were you, or would you have become, a member of the Conspiracy?”

  “I don’t–”

  “Silence!” The Judge turned: “It has already been well established by legal precedent that an arrest by the Temporal Peelers is authorised by the Chronological Committee and is thus legally admissible in court. No other evidence is needed, and indeed the very lack of evidence proves that the Temporal Peelers arrested the right man. Has this not been explained to you?”

  “But that means that I have no defence.”

  The Prosecutor was ecstatic: “Finally, he admits his guilt!”

  Foxley shouted over him: “I refuse to recognize this court.”

  “Silence!” the Judge banged his gavel. “Mister Foxley, it matters little whether you recognize this court or not. The court recognizes you.”

  “This is a travesty. Mrs Frasier is a dictator.”

  The court was in immediate uproar. Objects were hurled at the accused from the Public Gallery. Those by the sisters waved their fists and shouted, jostling them as the fury welled up.

  “Silence! Silence!” the Judge commanded. “Mrs Frasier is above your slander! She indulges mass murderers and monsters like yourself out of the kindness of her heart and her fine sense of fair play, in order to restore justice and the liberties that your Conspiracy so wantonly sought to destroy. Silence! We will have silence!”