The Derring-Do Club and the Year of the Chrononauts

Volume Two

and the

Year of the Chrononauts

by

David Wake

Amazon Kindle Edition

Watledge Books

Copyright © 2014 David Wake

All rights reserved

The moral right of David Wake to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publishers. This book may not be lent, hired out, resold or otherwise disposed of by any way of trade in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, without the prior consent of the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover art by Smuzz:
www.smuzz.org.uk

For

Loncon 3, WorldCon

This adventure of the Deering–Dolittle sisters takes place after the dread business with the Austro–Hungarian
‘Empire of the Dead’.

Chapter I

Miss Deering-Dolittle

Thirty four years, eleven months and fifteen days before the End of the World, the men from the future first materialised with plans to change everything, and thus started a chain of events that led inexorably to the death of one of the Derring–Do Club.

The coming of the new century, the Twentieth, promised a new age of hope and opportunity for everyone, except for the three Deering–Dolittle sisters of the Derring–Do Club. Or so it seemed to Miss Earnestine Deering–Dolittle, and, Oh! how she wished Charlotte’s silly name for them hadn’t stuck. It wasn’t their family name! That was spelt ‘Deering’ for a start. For someone who received letters with the ‘a’ of her Christian name missing, it was particularly galling. The spelling ‘Derring’ suggested adventures, which would not do at all.

“Come on,” she shouted. “Time’s running out!”

Before she left, Mother had given Earnestine strict instructions on the matter:
keep them safe,
no exploring, no trouble, no adventures.

Not that the eventuality was likely, because they were still incarcerated in Zebediah Row, Kensington, utterly unable to mount a rescue expedition to find their lost Uncle, Father and Mother. The members of that ill–fated expedition stared out from the daguerreotypes framed on the wall of the drawing room, each face full of pride and determination, amidst their baggage, bearers and boats. The rest of the Deering–Dolittle family ranged across the wall in mismatched frames, but there was only one picture of the three sisters together: Earnestine, twelve then, already looking stern and important; Georgina seated and already beautiful at ten, and Charlotte, then six, wriggling despite the lollipop bribe.

A year after that picture was taken, Earnestine had become the de facto head of the family –
look after your sisters
, Mother had said as the trunks were loaded onto the ship – and Earnestine had grown up instantly: and yet, she had the responsibility, but none of the rights that came with proper age.

If you were older, they said, if you were married, if… if,
if
… always ‘if–’.

Earnestine, the eldest, was not ‘of age’ and it would be aeons and aeons before her twenty–first birthday in five months’ time. In the meantime, Uncle Jeremiah, along with trustees and lawyers, kept them all trapped. It chafed.

“Tighter,” she told the maid, as she had her red hair pulled up into a bun, tucked by clips, and yanked upwards. She wanted to stand tall in her fine formal, dark red dress and her best Oxford Street boots.

“Tighter!”

“Miss, I’m doing my best.”

“Your best is not good enough.”

The maid was such a freckled, clumsy yokel.

“Don’t snivel,” Earnestine reminded her yet again.

“Sorry, Miss.”

Finally satisfied, she felt she gave the correct appearance of a woman in control of her destiny: if only people would take her seriously. And they must, she thought, if she was going to make a life for herself. After all, there was no chance she would find a husband.

Georgina, the middle sister, looked wan after their recent experiences. She’d lost her husband and it had taken its toll on that beautiful round face of hers, framed in dark curls and hidden behind her mourning veil. She was still attractive, of course, and she was young – eighteen was still young – so despite her misfortune she might yet find a suitable match. Earnestine hoped the planned evening would jolly her up. Georgina liked the theatre; she always made the most entertaining of voices, when they’d played with the cardboard actors on the wooden stage of their fine, model theatre. Uncle Jeremiah had made it for them.

Bother it, she thought, he should be here by now.

Also, coming were three eligible bachelors, so perhaps… well, for Georgina’s sake, one could certainly hope.

Charlotte was the youngest at fifteen, pretty with long blonde tresses and a tendency to… where was the girl!?

“Charlotte!”

“Coming, Ness.”

…tendency to be silly, flouncing around in – oh dear.

“Not that jacket.”

“But–”

“A dress, not a military uniform.”

“It’s a dress jacket.”

“Don’t be impertinent.”

“I was not.”

“You are a young lady; you should act like a young lady.”

Charlotte, youngest
etcetera
, with long blonde hair that… fell loose around her shoulders.

“Ribbon!”

“Will there be a band?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“I’m sure there’ll be plenty of variety,” said Georgina.

Charlotte wanted to be some sort of female soldier, when really she was an exasperating tomboy flibbertigibbet.

The doorbell jangled and the maid skittered along the hall to answer it.

Major Dan had arranged an evening at the theatre for the
Derring–Do Club
as a belated thank–you and Lieutenant McKendry had sent a note: ‘A night out at the theater to put some color back in Georgina’s cheeks.’ He was another person who had no idea how to spell. The sisters had met the Major’s three ‘mountaineers’, Caruthers, Merryweather and McKendry, in Switzerland and had thus become embroiled in the adventure… no, not adventure, the
events
of that dreadful Austro–Hungarian business.

Through the bay window, Earnestine could see the waiting carriages looming in front of the house.

The maid bobbed in holding two cards.

“Captain Caruthers, Miss, and Lie… ut…”

“Lieutenant, pronounced with an ‘f’.”

“To be sure, Miss. Lieutenant McKendry, Miss.”

Earnestine stepped into the hall to greet them.

Captain Caruthers stood waiting. The light from the stained glass window around the front door caught his strong features. He was tall with thick brown hair and a matching chevron moustache.

“Major Dan sends his apologies,” he said.

“That’s a shame,” said Earnestine. She saw McKendry waiting outside, easily recognizable because of his thin black handlebar and chin puff, and made a quick calculation: three sisters and only two men wasn’t going to work at all.

“We’ve two four–wheelers ready to whisk us all to the West End,” Caruthers pointed out.

“Spiffing!” Charlotte shouted as she raced, ribbon–less, down the stairs.

“Come on girls!” Captain Caruthers called out, holding the door open. “Like the jacket, Lottie.”

“Thank you,” said Charlotte, ducking beneath his arm in an overly familiar manner.

Georgina gave a little bow and Captain Caruthers stepped aside.

Earnestine waited.

“Come on,” said Captain Caruthers, “or you won’t get any ice cream.”

“But I’m…”

Caruthers sauntered off down the garden path.

…not a child.

They had ordered two landaus for seven, so it was three per carriage now.

“Oh, Ness,” said Captain Caruthers, “your Uncle Jeremiah sent a telegram: he’s meeting us at the theatre.”

“But…” Earnestine tightened her lips. Their Uncle was supposed to serve as their chaperone (even though he couldn’t be in both carriages), but now, three women and two men meant she’d be packed in with her sisters’ crinolines for the whole journey.

However, it turned out to be worse!

Lieutenant McKendry had already set off with Georgina and Charlotte in the first carriage, which was fine for a short journey, because Georgina had been married and could act as chaperone for Charlotte, but that left one carriage for Captain Caruthers and herself.

“Facing or back?” Caruthers asked.

It was intolerable.

During the journey, Earnestine had no idea where to look, because the man was sitting directly opposite her. Occasionally, he made to open conversation, or fidgeted with some envelope, taking it out and returning it to his pocket, but the silence just dragged on, particularly when the traffic ground to a halt in Piccadilly.

The four miles seemed more like four hundred.

Captain Caruthers looked over his shoulder: “Seems to be some hold up.”

She could see that, she was facing forward.

When they finally arrived in the West End, Uncle Jeremiah was not there to greet them.

Earnestine glanced up and down the street, but there was nothing in the fog, except indistinct shapes looming like phantoms. Any of these ghostly forms could materialise as their Uncle, but they all steadfastly refused to do so.

There was nothing for it, so they all went into the plush entrance hall.

“We’ll leave instructions at the Box Office,” Earnestine suggested, “that way–”

“There he is!” Charlotte raced forward.

Uncle Jeremiah was on the wide stairs that led to the Circle talking to a lady in a burgundy dress. He’d heard Charlotte’s unladylike yelling, so he made his goodbyes, and came down to join them.

“Tell us a story, tell us a story,” Charlotte demanded.

“Lottie, little Lottie, stand still so your Uncle can see you,” said Uncle Jeremiah, nodding either with approval or because he couldn’t decide whether to look through, or over, his half–moon glasses. His sideburns were wild and hairy, his whiskers fine and his white hair was all askew. He was the same old Uncle Jeremiah, who had weaved tales of adventure for them as they grew up. Earnestine, despite her anger at his tardiness, smiled.

“Uncle,” she said, “who was that lady to whom you were talking?”

“Captain Caruthers, isn’t it?”

Captain Caruthers jolted to attention: “Sir?”

“We met at the… didn’t we?”

“Yes, Doctor Deering, at the… yes.”

So many conversations these days were frames without a picture. The unmentionable event was the funeral of Georgina’s husband, the late Captain Merryweather, whose presence still haunted them with so many pauses.