by David Wake
She went over to the control lectern.
The surface was covered in a bewildering array of brass dials that could be turned for a date and time. The main slider wouldn’t budge, it needed unlocking somehow. In the centre was a hole with a screw thread cut into it. She remembered that something had caught the light when the technician had operated it. Something like… but she didn’t know.
However, she was at the machine, so surely she had command of time.
She looked beside the control lectern and found a sword hanging there, but no extra temporal devices. She added Earnestine’s umbrella to a spare hook, so that her hands were free.
One person, at the right moment, could alter history. She could erase the Chronological Committee, rescue Charlotte, save Arthur… anything. All she needed to know was the moment in time when the smallest of actions would tip the balance.
Arthur first, she decided, and then he’d know what was for the best.
There were dials to turn, so she did so, slowly at first and then with greater rapidity. They were linked together so that the 18th March 1975 was a Tuesday… Wednesday for the 19th and…
“Bother!”
She was going the wrong way.
She turned them in the other direction moving the dates back from the future… no, from the current present, and then into this era’s past.
She must go back to the moment before Arthur was killed.
But when?
Exactly.
If she changed history, stopped him from leaving Magdalene Chase, then they’d never meet. He’d think her some mad woman if she just turned up: ‘Oh, Arthur dear, we’re going to fall in love, but you mustn’t go to Austro–Hungary.’ All those moments abutted perfectly, one event following the other, and to change one link would surely cause everything to fall apart.
They could burst in at the last, critical moment – she was sure she would be able to find her way – and then she could save him. She would save the brave Captain Merryweather, but then that would mean that she would see herself.
No, that wouldn’t do at all.
Major Dan!
No–one had known where he had been on that fateful day. She could go back the day before and find him, explain and then they could be waiting to save Arthur.
But then what would she do as Arthur saved his bride, her earlier self, while being blissfully unaware of his ex–widow. Perhaps she could go and live on an island knowing he was safe and that would be enough. Would she be jealous of her younger self? If she never saw him again, how would she know he was safe?
Perhaps Charlotte first?
She’d been removed from history, so it must be easier to change those events back again. The proper moment would be just before whenever it was that the Temporal Peelers removed her.
Or was it the instant before they set off back from their time to the past?
She had access to the machine, she could control the destinies of men and nations, but she lacked the knowledge to use it properly.
She stopped turning and let the whirring dials come to rest: Friday 25th August 1922. It was as useless a date as any other she could think of.
Perhaps she could escape? Jump to the 1920s, change her name and stay there. But she would not be able to reset the machine once she was in the Chrononauts’ past, so they’d know exactly when, and presumably where, she materialised. They could simply go back to Thursday 24th August 1922 and wait for her to appear.
Or just an hour beforehand with this other panel and its clocks and wotnot.
A critical minute would be all that was needed.
She could go back to when this infernal contraption was invented and smash it up before it was ever used. Everything would then return to normal. All the erased people would be restored to life and daguerreotype.
And how would she operate the controls when she didn’t know how and she had to stand on the dais at the same time?
Should her first action be to come back to this very moment and operate the controls for herself?
But she wasn’t here to save herself.
She glanced at the dais: she didn’t appear.
And what would happen to this version of herself afterwards?
But the Chronological Conveyor wasn’t invented in the past, it was invented in the future. A railway line only works if it has two stations, so how did the future create a destination conveyor in the past?
“Tricky deciding, isn’t it?”
Georgina turned, recognizing Earnestine’s voice.
“All of time, every age, every moment, every historic event… but how to choose,” said Mrs Frasier.
Georgina fumbled around the control lectern, grabbed Earnestine’s umbrella hanging and then saw a sword. She dropped the umbrella and snatched down the weapon, drew it and faced the woman.
“That’s not a very polite way to greet your sister.”
“I’ll use this if I must.”
Mrs Frasier’s lips tightened in that familiar ‘oh–so’ superior way: “Really?”
“Yes,” Georgina said firmly, “so you just come and operate this while I stand on the dais.”
Mrs Frasier folded her arms.
“I’m warning you,” Georgina said, and she took a step forward, the sharp tip pointing waveringly at Mrs Frasier’s throat. “I don’t have all day.”
Quick as lightning, Mrs Frasier swiped the sword to one side and then, stepping close, she struck Georgina’s wrist hard.
The sword clattered away.
Mrs Frasier used the back of her other hand to slap Georgina across the face. The young lady fell, more out of shock than the actual impact.
“Oh, dear,” said Mrs Frasier, “another interfering Derring–Do.”
Georgina put her hand to her mouth, tasting blood.
“Jones! Get the sword.”
Scrutiniser Jones appeared: Georgina hadn’t even realised he was there. With a scraping noise, the man, agile for his bulk, picked up the fallen weapon. It looked like a hat pin in his huge hands.
“What were you thinking?” Mrs Frasier said.
“I was going to undo whatever you did to Charlotte.”
“This Charlotte again!”
“Yes, so… please.”
“Just Charlotte?”
Georgina knew what she meant. This older Earnestine could see straight through her just as the younger Earnestine knew when she was bluffing in Bridge.
“I wanted to save my husband.”
Scrutiniser Jones gave the sword to Mrs Frasier. She slashed it back and forth testing its weight. Clearly she knew what she was doing, whereas Georgina hadn’t had a clue. Sword fighting looked easy when she’d seen it in the theatre, Shakespeare and so forth, but the reality was so much harder. Mrs Frasier slipped the blade back into its scabbard, but Georgina was under no illusions that this made her any safer.
“Are you going to kill me?” she asked.
“What do you think?”
“I’m not afraid.”
“It’s not the lack of fear that counts; it’s the controlling of one’s fear.”
“Charlotte, me… you can’t remove everyone.”
“Oh, I think I can,” said Mrs Frasier, “there are only thirty million people in the country, a hundred million in the Empire and, say, four times that in the whole world.”
“You’re mad,” said Georgina. “Your own sisters! You’ve already erased Charlotte, if you unmake me that would leave only Ness.”
“And then there were two,” said Mrs Frasier.
“One!”
“Ness and myself.”
“That’s one.”
“Counted twice.”
“She doesn’t agree with you.”
“She doesn’t agree with me yet.”
“What if she never does?”
“Oh, I have a plan,” Mrs Frasier said, pointing the sheathed sword straight towards her, “I think, Georgina, it’s time you met Arthur Merryweather.”
Chapter XXI
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Mrs Frasier
It was as if nothing had happened. Indeed nothing had happened, and it was all proceeding splendidly again.
Earnestine was in a cell like a naughty child to learn her lesson, Jones was taking Georgina to wait in the library and little Lottie, according to her report, wouldn’t be bothering anyone. The pieces were in position at last, she thought.
Mrs Frasier drew her sword. It felt familiar in her hand, the ridges of the handle and the central bulge meaning that her grip was firm. She touched the edge with her finger, felt the sharp point, and tested the balance – far, far better than she was used to – and an excellent weapon. All she had to ensure was that she followed through.
The blade fitted the scabbard well and the baldric went over her shoulder easily. The blade didn’t hang properly at first as the hilt couldn’t decide whether to lean over or behind the hard edge of her corset, but eventually, sliding the strap backwards and moving it outside her bosom, it found a natural lay. She made her way through the future to her office comforted by the slap and flick that the weapon made as she marched.
She had an appointment.
She checked her gold pocket watch just as a double knock resounded loudly on the door.
Mrs Frasier tidied her papers before calling out: “Come in.”
The door opened and Chief Examiner Lombard came in with another young Temporal Peeler, a young man with the start of a fine horseshoe moustache.
“Ma’am, this is Checker–”
“Ah! Come in, come in,” said Mrs Frasier, standing and coming around her desk with her hand extended. “It has been such a long time.”
The man shuffled, embarrassed, and shook his leader’s hand.
“You’ve been briefed?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
Mrs Frasier smiled like a proud aunt: “If you are sure you can face her.”
“I can, I want to.”
“That’s my brave boy.”
“Ma’am,” said Lombard. “It’ll be time soon for Miss Deering–Dolittle.”
“Oh, yes, of course, I remember. She’s in her cell, isn’t she?”
“Yes, Ma’am… only a matter of time.”
“You wait for years and then it all happens at once.”
“Yes, Ma’am. The little bird will fly soon.”
“There’s a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, ‘tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come: the readiness is all.”
“Hamlet,” said the young Checker.
“Act five,” the Chief Examiner said. “Well chosen, Ma’am, a date with destiny for all of us.”
“Are we ready?” said Mrs Frasier as she looked from one man to the other: they both nodded. “Then we should put our best foot forward.”
Miss Deering-Dolittle
The cell door and the jam weren’t aligned properly.
A fringe of light cast around one edge of the doorway, not enough to penetrate the cell, but a hint that the Scrutiniser hadn’t closed the door properly. Chief Lombard had arrived suddenly. Earnestine hadn’t caught the hurried conversation as they’d bundled her into the cell quickly and then trooped off. It was an appalling lapse.
On her toes, Earnestine stepped over and listened.
There was silence.
A cry, distant… maybe.
There was no handle on the inside of the door and she couldn’t get her fingers around the edge. It was heavy, cast iron. She tried high up and low down, even trying to find a gap under the door. It was no use. In frustration she thumped it and the tiny gap vanished with a heart rending clang. Call herself an Adventuress: she couldn’t even escape from an unlocked cell.
NO, it wasn’t an adventure!
She thumped the door again, punishing her hand because of her own foolishness. She was such a baby sometimes and–
The gap was back.
She put her fingers to the solid iron and pushed. When she let go, the door sprang back – just not enough.
She tried with both hands, and then again pushing opposite the massive hinges.
Oh, so close now, just… she broke a nail, but, by sixteenths of an inch, she eased the door open until she could squeeze the ends of her fingers into the gap and pull.
Outside, the corridor was empty.
Georgina had said that she and Charlotte had found out that Uncle Jeremiah was in Cell 19. Earnestine glanced at the doors to get her bearings and then she scooted down to the far end.
“Uncle! Uncle!” she hissed.
She peered through the tiny hole in the door and saw the magnified and distorted cell interior.
It was empty.
Just as she was about to leave, she saw the hatch and nestling at the bottom was a sparkling object. She picked it out and saw a thing of beauty, a rod with a jewel attached to the end. She tucked it into her belt.
Back she went, carefully, slipping into the shadows of the cell doorways, until she could peek around the corner.
The desk was empty.
The Warder was nowhere to be seen.
Despite her best attempts, she had been found ‘not guilty’ and yet they’d locked her up. Or rather not. She been taken to a cell and Mrs Frasier had been called away by Chief Examiner Lombard. This odd kerfuffle was why the cell door had not been locked. It had seemed to Earnestine strangely choreographed, moves on a chessboard being played out to some unknown end.
It felt like a trap.
Or was that destiny breathing down her neck?
But she’d been locked up, or could have been, so how could it be a trap?
They were all acting out some pre–arranged sequence, but then that was history. Wasn’t it?
She made it to the stone stairs and went up, step by step, craning her neck to see if anyone was above her. She couldn’t go any higher as the stairwell was blocked off. So, she had to get out on this level, where the Rotunda was effectively a crossroads linking the prison cells, the dormitories, the court rooms and ahead was Temporal Engineering with the Chronological Conveyor.
She heard some people approaching, so she slipped through a door held it open a crack, so it wouldn’t slam and so she could see who was passing.
It was Mrs Frasier striding along with Chief Examiner Lombard and a much younger Temporal Peeler.
“It is the essence of time travel,” Mrs Frasier said loudly, “that means one is always a step ahead.”
They’d gone.
She’d give it a couple of minutes just to be on the safe side.
Earnestine was in a cloakroom full of Temporal Peeler equipment and uniforms. She considered a disguise, but she’d not seen a female Peeler. Even so, she strapped on a sword and stole a pair of the peculiar white glasses. Amazingly she could see through them and the sword felt comforting, reminding her of the Duelling Machine back at the Patent Pending Office. She checked the blade, Sheffield steel, and it slipped easily back into its scabbard.
Peering through the gap again, she satisfied herself that the coast was clear and stepped out.
Mrs Arthur Merryweather
“You wanted your Arthur back… here he is.”
Georgina stood, pushing the chair back with her legs, and placed her hands in front of her. She was in the small library with all its heavy books, taken there by Mrs Frasier and Scrutiniser Jones, and told to wait. Scrutiniser Jones had stayed to keep an eye on her and his big bulk had blocked any chance of another escape attempt.
The man with Mrs Frasier was a youngster, barely a man, and yet she saw, vaguely, a hint in his features of the man she had fallen in love with.
“Who is this?” she asked.
“Arthur Merryweather.”
Georgina shook her head: “He isn’t my Arthur.”
“Oh, but he is,” Mrs Frasier said, and she turned to the young man, who stared at Georgina open mouthed. “Arthur, this is Georgina, Mrs Arthur Merryweather, your mother.”
“My… mother,” he said, shocked. He
seemed to go pale in front of Georgina’s eyes.
“He was named after his father.”
He shook his head adamantly: “You aren’t my mother: my mother abandoned me, left me.”
Georgina swallowed, trying to think of something to say. Her legs felt hollow.
“You abandoned me!” said Arthur.
“I–”
“I was all alone at Magdalene Chase, left in that windswept desolation. If mother… if Mrs Fitzwilliam had not been there for me? She was more of a mother to me than you ever were.”
“Mrs Fitzwilliam? Who is Mrs Fitzwilliam?”
Mrs Frasier chuckled: “You knew her… know her as Mrs Falcone. She married the Colonel and brought up young Arthur as if he were her own.”
“Falcone – no!”
“Yes, mother,” said the young man. “You left me. All those years in that dark, dark place… a Bleak House. You left me there and Mrs Fitzwilliam was the only one who really cared for me.”
Mrs Frasier coughed.
“And Auntie Ness, of course,” he added.
“But why would I do such a thing?” Georgina asked.
“It was the great curse of the Deering–Dolittles, you went up the river,” said Mrs Frasier.
“No! I would not!”
“You are not my mother,” Arthur said. “I want nothing to do with you.”
The lad turned on his heel and with long strides left the room. He didn’t look back, he didn’t even close the door behind him and the dark rectangle in the wall emphasised the empty space.
“I would never take a child on an expedition,” Georgina wailed.
“Ever the Greek scholar, young Arthur, such a fine nephew,” said Mrs Frasier, not unkindly. “He doesn’t mean the family river, he means the Styx.”
Georgina gaped at the woman uncomprehendingly.
“What?”
“You died in childbirth.”
“I’m not pregnant… I would not… Arthur was the only one for me.”
“He is Merry’s, he is your son, you are with child now.”
Georgina was emphatic: “No.”
But she knew it was true, she knew the morning sickness for what it was and she had run from it, run to Dartmoor and Magdalene Chase, and all the time she’d been running towards this other Arthur. This apparition of her future hadn’t been a ghost come to haunt her, but a living man made of flesh and blood, her flesh and blood, her Arthur’s flesh and blood.