The Derring-Do Club and the Year of the Chrononauts (29 page)

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 say.”

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!”

The Clerk of the Court quietened matters, fluttering his hands up and down to direct people to settle, but the damage had been done.

“Look at all this,” said the Judge, referring to the litter and mess thrown from the Public Gallery. “Your kind brings nothing but chaos and destruction. You are finished. Scrutiniser Jones, keep him quiet, I say, keep him quiet.”

Scrutiniser Jones, sturdy in his uniform and impassive behind his white glasses stepped forward. Foxley was subdued.

“Now, members of the Jury,” the Judge said. “You have heard the evidence, you have heard the accused himself attempt to overturn law and order, please consider your verdicts… no, I insist, please retire and discuss your verdict even if you feel you have made up your minds already. Give to this man that courtesy and consideration that he and his kind so malevolently denied millions of others.”

The Foreman stood, nodded, and the jury, the twelve good men (and women) and true, filed out.

“I’m not guilty,” Foxley shouted. “Not guilty.”

A man next to Georgina shouted abuse.

Charlotte sniggered: “He used the ‘B’ word,”

“Charlotte, language!” Earnestine warned.

The Clerk busied himself with his papers and the lawyers, both Prosecution and the redundant Defence, put their documents away. The Judge simply stayed in his position impassively. No–one had to wait long; Georgina was just looking at Arthur’s watch when the Foreman led the Jury back to their places.

Once they were settled, the Judge addressed them: “Members of the Jury, have you reached a verdict?”

“We have, Your Honour.”

“Is this verdict unanimous?”

“It is, Your Honour.”

“And what is that verdict?”

There was no pause between the Judge’s question and the Foreman’s answer. It was immediate and certain, but the heightened tension in the court room was such that it seemed to take an age to arrive.

“Guilty.”

The Public Gallery erupted with shouts: “Yes”, “send him on his way”, “the rope”, “hang him”, but this hushed when the Judge placed a small square of black cloth upon his head. Foxley seemed to fold in upon himself like a figure in a pop–up book when its part was finished and the covers were closed shut.

“There can be only one punishment for your crime: death! You will be taken…”

The Judge paused.

Mrs Frasier had attracted his attention with a slight raise of her index finger. She leant over to whisper to him.

“Ma’am,” said the Judge, “you are too… wonderful.”

The Judge coughed and addressed the court again.

“Mrs Frasier of the Chronological Committee – the very person you accused of being a Dictator – has kindly consented to give you the chance to redeem yourself. It recognizes that you are like a serpent in an egg, unformed in your evil. So, even though you are legally guilty, the Committee will generously allow you to seek redemption and make amends.”

“Anything,” said Foxley, a man clutching at straws.

“So, will you diligently work for the Committee to make reparation?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Very well, you accept any labours given to you?”

“Yes.”

“No matter what may come to light in the fullness of time?”

“Yes.”

“Done… make him sign, I say, make him sign and take him away.”

Scrutiniser Jones took Foxley by his collar and led him away. There were jeers, but already people were collecting their belongings and making for the door.

“I’m glad he was found guilty,” said Charlotte. “Horrible man.”

“Uncle Jeremiah can’t go through this,” Georgina said in a low voice.

“He might have done already,” Earnestine replied.

“Excuse me?” Georgina said to the woman next to her.

The woman appeared very nervous: “Miss?”

“Ma’am. Has Unc– Doctor Deering been tried yet?”

“Doctor Deering?”

“Yes, his case. Has it happened?”

“No.”

“And Mister Boothroyd?” Earnestine asked.

“Oh, yes…” said the woman. “Guilty I’m afraid, but given reparations.”

“Thank you.”

The woman darted away and Earnestine, Georgina and Charlotte joined the exodus, conscious of the glances in their direction. They were known by everyone.

Once they were clear of the crowd, Earnestine pulled Georgina to one side. Charlotte followed. The eldest sister tilted her head to one side, a tiny jerk, and they followed her. She led them to a small room full of book shelves.

“This is the library where I saw all the histories. I thought it might be a good place to prepare a proper legal case,” Earnestine explained. She went over the Law section full of bright new volumes. “We need books.”

“Will this be those presidents?” asked Charlotte, already swinging her arms about in boredom.

“Precedents,” Earnestine said.

“We need case law from this age too,” said Georgina.

Earnestine had already put three heavy volumes down on the table.

“This is impossible,” said Charlotte.

“No, it isn’t, Charlotte,” said Earnestine. “We can’t compete on case law; we aren’t lawyers, so we will have to base our argument on legal principles: Habeas Corpus and so forth.”

“Do they still apply?” Georgina asked.

“No civilised nation would discard Habeas Corpus.”

“What’s Habeas Corpus?” Charlotte asked.

“It’s a writ that brings a prisoner before the judge.”

Charlotte made a face: “Paperwork, yuk.”

“Important paperwork: if a legal process is not followed, then it is invalid.”

“There’s Magnus Carter,” Charlotte suggested.

“Magna Charta.”

“And Deus Ex Machina.”

“That’s Aristotle.”

“And–”

“Charlotte, be quiet! You don’t know your French tenses, so how are you going to know your Latin legal terms? All that time you complained that Latin was useless; well, now you see how vital it is. It’s not possible to run a proper law–abiding country without it.”

The books were piled high on the table in irregular groups. They were leather bound volumes, red, black and blue, and looked like piles of bricks ready for an ornate wall to be built.

“The answer is in here,” Earnestine said, leaning forward and putting her fists down on the table.