The Derring-Do Club and the Year of the Chrononauts (10 page)

Listening at the door, she could only make out the ticking of the mechanism beside her.

There was nothing for it and she was a member of the Derring–Do Club after all.

She grasped the door knob and swung it open in a single gesture.

The room was occupied and everyone turned to face her.

Loudly, the chimes sounded nine times, forcing everyone to wait, counting in their heads to a number which they were all probably well aware.

It gave Georgina a chance to study the one man and three women.

The man was old and fat with a handlebar moustache, red features and a military bearing, with an appalling yellow waistcoat beneath open, double breasted jacket. The women were as different from each other as it seemed possible to be, in the sense that the eldest was staid and cautiously dressed in a tweed outfit that was protected by an apron; the second was flamboyant, dressed in red and wearing a long lace veil that failed to hide her blood red lips and beet juice rouged cheeks; and, finally, trying to hide in a large armchair was a nervous specimen, much younger and dressed in white. Georgina was reminded of three witches: the crone, the mother and the virgin.

The last chime faded away.

“Ah ha! Our guest,” said the military man. He waddled over, took his thumbs out of his waistcoat pockets and put out his hand. Georgina took hold and the man simply held her hand in an unctuous manner with a sweaty, cold palm. “I’m Colonel Fitzwilliam, at your service.”

“Colonel,” Georgina said as she tried to slip out of his grasp.

“Allow me to introduce everyone,” he continued. “This is the indispensable Mrs Jago, who keeps everything in order.”

“Mrs Jago,” said Georgina, smiling to the stern old woman in the apron. This was the woman, who had piled so much reluctance into letting her in last night. This morning Mrs Jago ladled out a stony silence.

The Colonel continued: “And Miss Millicent.”

The young woman bobbed, looked embarrassed and mumbled something into her handkerchief.

“And finally, we are honoured to have staying with us, the great Mrs Falcone!”

The Colonel let go of Georgina’s hand to open his arms wide to welcome the strange Mrs Falcone. He beamed at the flamboyant woman as Georgina wiped her hand on her dress.

Mrs Falcone accepted the Colonel’s attention with mock humility and then turned to Georgina: “And you?”

“Oh, I’m Georgina Deering–Dolittle; I mean, that is to say Mrs Arth–”

“Because we are so very pleased that you are paying us a short visit.”

“Thank you.”

“When are you leaving, Miss?”

“Well that depends,” Georgina replied, “and it’s Mrs. You see, I am Mrs Arthur–”

“Really?”

“Merryweather!”

“Quite a claim.”

Georgina wasn’t sure what to say, so she looked about for breakfast. There were plates, but the food seemed to be absent.

“I wondered…” Georgina said, pointing at the empty sideboard.

“Breakfast finishes at nine promptly,” said Mrs Jago, the housekeeper.

“But the dishes must have been cleared away before nine, because I arrived at exactly nine.”

“No–one else wanted any more, Miss.”

Georgina wasn’t used to staff standing firm in quite such an obnoxious manner: “It’s Ma’am. I’m Mrs Arth–”

“You have no right to be here, Miss.”

“I have every right according to–”

Mrs Falcone butted in: “There are other claims. The Colonel’s for example.”

The Colonel smiled deprecatingly.

“Every right according to Messrs Tumble, Judd & Babcock.”

“Tumble’s an idiot,” said Mrs Jago, “everyone knows that, and Babcock drinks.”

“And, pray, what is your position here, exactly?”

“I am Jago, the housekeeper, Miss.”

“And I am the mistress of the house, so I would appreciate it, if you would be civil!”

“I am perfectly civil. I am known for my civility. Everyone knows that, Miss.”

“The correct form of address is ‘Ma’am’.”

“Whatever you say,
Miss.
”

“Ma’am… ‘em’, ‘ay’, ‘…arm’ – ‘ma’am’, I am Mrs Arthur Merryweather and Magdalene Chase is–”

“You are not!”

“I am!”

Mrs Falcone stepped between then in a conciliatory fashion: “We shall see what Arthur has to say about this.”

“Who’s Arthur?”

Mrs Jago saw her chance: “He’s the man you are claiming to be married to.”

“I’m not claiming, I am.”

“Allegedly.”

“No, not allegedly, legally.”

“That remains to be seen. Legality is not everything, Miss.”

“Ma’am!” Georgina caught herself before she stamped her foot and therefore wavered on one leg for a moment. “I married Arthur Philip Merryweather.”

“When we ask him,” Mrs Jago insisted, “maybe he’ll say you did and maybe he’ll say you didn’t.”

“How can you ask him?”

Mrs Falcone beamed: “We’ll be holding a séance.”

“A what?”

“That’ll sort you out, Miss,” said Mrs Jago. “Breakfast is over.”

Mrs Jago swept out and the others followed, leaving Georgina fuming like a pent–up steam engine.

Miss Charlotte

Charlotte hadn’t got to bed until the early hours and she had never been an early riser, so it was lunchtime when she emerged, nervously, from the room. She didn’t want to run into any of the other occupants: guests, landlady or even the strumpets; however, this couldn’t be avoided as they were all clumped together between her and the door. They were asleep or so befuddled that their eyes did not appear to focus on her at all as she picked her way through the gin soaked lounge and found her canvas bag in the cupboard off the hall.

“That’s not yours.” It was Odette.

“Yes, it is.”

“All belongings become the property of Madam Waggstaff.”

“Mine doesn’t.”

“It’s for their own safe–keeping.”

Charlotte searched for a good expression: “No!”

“It’s the rules of the bordello.”

“Bordello?”

“Yes, what this is.”

“Oh, well, they don’t apply to me.”

“They do.”

“They do not, I’m not a strumpet!”

Charlotte escaped into a bright crisp new day with her bag over her shoulder.

It was back west towards Uncle Jeremiah’s then, she thought.

If she kept up a good pace, she might make it in time for a late lunch and perhaps a story, Uncle Jeremiah told such good stories, and then she remembered that he wasn’t there.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Charlotte was off the ground, dangling from a strong arm as Mr Waggstaff yanked her off the pavement. She flailed about, but the man was used to how woman fight. He held her up in such a way that she slipped down inside her dress, her arms constricted.

“Get off me!” she yelled. “Help, help.”

At that moment, two policemen came round the corner.

“Police!” And when they didn’t react, she remembered Uncle Jeremiah’s advice: “Fire! Fire!! FIRE!!!”

The police came running at once as did a few passers–by. Mr Waggstaff was somewhat perturbed by all the attention, but he kept Charlotte aloft.

“Where’s the fire?” said the sergeant, the stripes on his arm identifying his rank.

“This man is accosting me,” said Charlotte.

The Sergeant and Mr Waggstaff considered each other: “It’s not our concern to help dollymops,” said the Sergeant.

Charlotte was indignant: “I’m not a dollymop!”

“She’s one of mine, Constable Philips, and I’ll see she doesn’t cause any more trouble.”

The police started to move away: “Right you are, Frank.”

“Wait,” said Charlotte. “He waters his gin, his house has rats and strumpets, none of them have clothes, and last night the Temporal Pee–
eek!”

Charlotte hit the ground and bounced.

Mr Waggstaff was surrounded by an angry looking crowd: “We didn’t. We had none of them. This one, she’s got something wrong with her head. She’s nothing to do with me.”

Mr Waggstaff backed off and, when he felt he had enough of a head start, he scarpered. No–one chased him and the crowd went on their way leaving Charlotte at the feet of the two policemen.

“Were there Peelers?” Sergeant Philips asked.

“Yes.”

“And you’re not his dollymop?”

“No.”

“What are you then?”

“I’m… a detective.”

“A detective is it? You’re a little short for the Metropolitan Police.”

“I’m a consulting detective.”

“Like Mister Sherlock Holmes in that Strand Magazine?”

“Yes, that’s exactly it.”

“Where’s your deerstalker then?”

“It’s at home, I’m in disguise.”

“As a mopsey?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean!”

“What’s the case then?”

“Missing person… possible kidnap,” Charlotte tapped the side of her nose knowingly.

“Foreign spies at the bottom of it, no doubt.”

Charlotte hadn’t even considered this possibility: “No doubt.”

“What’s your next move then?”

“Clues. It’s wrong…” – she racked her brain for the phrase: she’d read it not two weeks ago – “…to form theories without the facts.”

“You’re a positive Mrs Gladden, aren’t you?”

Charlotte nodded, keen to inhabit her new role.

“Be off with you then, Miss.”

It seemed obvious now: her task was to find Uncle Jeremiah and the first place to start would be his rooms. If nothing else, she was sure she could find his biscuit tin.

Charlotte was excited by her new life even before she reached Uncle Jeremiah’s street. There was a red pillar box on the corner and black iron railings along the front of the long, smart terrace. Her Uncle had rooms on the first floor of number 34.

Confidence, she thought, and with a swing in her step she sauntered up the stone steps just as a posh gentleman in a top hat was leaving. She skipped past him, through the red door and the tiled porch. It was dark in the hallway. With luck, she wouldn’t even be seen by the landlady, but she saw a movement down by the kitchen.

“Just seeing Uncle Jeremiah,” she sang out. “He’s expecting me.”

She took the stairs two at a time and reached Uncle Jeremiah’s landing.

The door was locked.

She stood on tiptoe, and could barely reach the top of the door frame. She jumped, once… twice – there were footsteps coming up the stairs behind her – and… she’d got it. She put the key in the door and opened it. She took a smart step backwards, so that when the landlady looked up, she saw Charlotte standing in front of a door that was opened.

“Uncle!” she said brightly and loudly. “What’s that? Oh yes, Uncle, I’d love some macaroons. What a lovely idea, Uncle.”

She went in and closed the door behind her.

Her breathing was like an express train.

She heard a voice mutter outside: “Kids of today… I don’t know…” and then all that blah–blah–blah, which adults always indulge in, was taken downstairs.

Where to start?

If she was honest, she hadn’t expected to get this far.

In the Strand Magazine, Sherlock Holmes always went on about not disturbing the evidence, so she decided not to touch anything. Instead, she scanned carefully left to right. Oh, there was his biscuit tin. Charlotte helped herself to two macaroons and then took exactly the same strides backwards to end up by the door again.

She’d left a trail of crumbs across the carpet.

The macaroons were jolly nice and she was so hungry.

She began her observations again: little table, then the door to his bedroom, which was ajar, then his writing desk, shelves with books, fireplace with ash but no fire, fireplace set, his big old lumpy chair, the glass cabinet with all the atlases, window with curtains open and nets drawn, round table with unopened post, sideboard with his clocks and finally a coat stand. His coat, stick and hat were missing, but his long grey scarf was there.

She took two steps into the room and reached the central sofa. From here, she could see Tosca the Tiger lying in front of the hearth, his angry glare dulled as there was no roaring fire.

There was no Uncle Jeremiah here, no toasted muffins and no thrilling tales of faraway places. And there was no mess. The room was tidy.

She went into his bedroom, nervous, and saw his bed made up.

His big travelling trunk was still at the foot of the iron bedstead.

In the wardrobe there were clothes missing. Charlotte didn’t know whether he had any suitcases. He must have, she thought, as he’d travelled all over the world and she couldn’t see any; therefore, my dear Watson, he had packed and left. That also might explain the tidiness.

Back in the drawing room, she went over to his writing desk.

The blotter had mirror writing on it; not real Leonardo Da Vinci mirror writing, but the writing left from upside–down blottings. She found a shaving mirror amongst his things and examined the messages in the reflection, turning the blotter to read them all.

‘…sincerely, Dr Jeremiah Deering.’

‘…the fifteenth…’

‘…chronostatic charge cannot be deployed to adjust actuality…’

‘…cancel the Times forthwith…’

‘…per’s Ghost and trap…’

She pushed it back into place clumsily: there was nothing here at all.

If she stuck her lips out, she could make herself look like a duck, and even open her mouth wide and show her teeth, so she looked like that stuffed gorilla in the Natural History Museum. She put the shaving mirror down.

There was a book missing from the shelf near the end. After the gap, there was
The Wonderful Visit
,
The Island of Doctor Moreau
,
The Wheels of Chance
,
The Invisible Man
and
The War of the Worlds
. There didn’t seem to be any authors for ‘X’, ‘Y’ and ‘Z’, they were forgotten letters.

Letters! The post!

She jumped out of his revolving study chair and raced over to the post.

Oh, but they were sealed.

Three letters: penny blacks, yellow envelope, white envelope, white envelope: all with ‘Doctor J. Deering, Esq.’ and one with ‘FRS’ after his name. The postmarks were Kensington, Battersea and smudged. Oh, Kensington! That was the card from Georgina that she’d sent to inform him of Captain Merryweather’s funeral, which meant that he hadn’t opened his post for weeks.