The Derring-Do Club and the Year of the Chrononauts (33 page)

There was a sharp intake of breath. This hadn’t been in anyone’s script.

Earnestine walked calmly, but quickly to avoid Checker Rogers’ move to intercept her, and she climbed the wooden steps to the dock. High above the lawyers, and on show in this box, she could see the whole panorama of the legal process spread out before her. She stood erect and took hold of the brass railing around the raised wooden stage to steady herself.

The Public Gallery was writhing with punching fist gestures and angry faces.

The Clerk pounded his gavel: “Silence, silence!”

The Judge adjusted his wig.

“Please state your name for the records,” the Clerk demanded.

“I am Miss Earnestine Deering–Dolittle.”

“This woman is known to us,” said the Judge. “She is our own Mrs Frasier. Take her down from the dock. Take her down, I say.”

“Your Honour, I wish to plead.”

“But you are innocent. This is known. This is a matter for the history books only.”

“Nonetheless, I am here and proper process demands that I enter a plea. It is important that justice is seen to be done. In my time terrible events were planned and so, in effect, everyone from my time must stand partially accountable.”

“But there is no crime against your name.”

“There is a crime listed upon the arraignment,” Earnestine replied.

“Clerk?” the Judge prompted.

The Clerk fussed with his papers: “Your Honour, it was conspiracy to thwart the course of justice.”

How apt, Earnestine thought: “Then I will plead against that.”

“Oh, very well,” said the Judge. “Clerk, do note this down. Note it down, I say.”

The Clerk returned to his desk and dipped his pen in his inkwell.

“And you, Prosecutor,” the Judge demanded with a stabbing finger motion, “will present no evidence.”

“I have no evidence to present, Your Honour,” said the lawyer in question, jerked to his feet when his title was mentioned.

The Judge turned to Earnestine: “How do you plead… not guilty? Note it down, Clerk, note it down, I say.”

The Clerk started to write in his records with a bold ‘N’ and then Earnestine spoke, clearly and loudly:

“Guilty.”

Mrs Arthur Merryweather

Georgina wore black, of course: she was still in mourning for her late husband. Scrutiniser Jones stood to one side, quiet as a mouse despite his rhino–like build. He had knocked on her door, apologised, and wondered if it would help her to pay her respects.

The wall was tucked away down a side corridor from Judiciary and it looked like the bricks were made of brass. They were plaques, row upon row, column by column, filling the space from the left until they stopped, abruptly, a third of the way along. They contained names, unsorted, hopelessly out of sequence with names, dates and sometimes an epitaph.

She found Charlotte complete with dates that made no sense and ‘
Victis Honor
’ as if she needed encouragement.

“Honour to the vanq… vanquished.”

Scrutiniser Jones had a clean handkerchief for her.

“She wouldn’t have felt anything, if that’s what you are wondering.”

“Gone, but not forgotten.”

“That’s it, Mrs Merryweather.”

But it wasn’t that at all. It was ‘never been and… made up’ or some such expression. How long was one supposed to mourn a sister who never was, who never came into being 15 years earlier… or, adding another 75 for the temporal motion, a hundred. It was a century and Georgina was reminded of cricket again.

This was surely against the rules.

A bellow cut through her thoughts. Checker Rogers ran up to them, breathless.

“Jackson…” he stopped short when he saw Georgina. “I beg your pardon Mrs Merryweather. Scrutiniser Jones, we’re to arm ourselves and, worse, Miss Deering–Dolittle is for the rope.”

“Rope!?”

“Begging you pardon again, Mrs Merryweather, but there’s been a court case. Miss Deering–Dolittle stood on trial.”

“She’s not on the lists,” Scrutiniser Jones said.

“That may be as may be, but she was tried nonetheless and guilty it is.”

“Guilty! I must see her at once,” Georgina demanded.

“She’s in the library,” said Checker Rogers.

“Take me there, directly.”

“Ma’am?”

“Best to do so,” said Scrutiniser Jones. “I’ll find Lombard and see what’s what.”

“If you are sure, Jackson.”

“You jump along, Gideon.”

“Yes, Gov.”

Checker Rogers led the way to the small library, eagerly and somewhat forgetful about opening the doors, and Georgina saw Earnestine sitting calmly sitting at the large oak table and dwarfed by the tome laden shelves.

“Ness?”

Earnestine explained what she’d done, enumerating the steps on her fingers and reaching ‘guilty’ long before her thumb.

“I beg your pardon?”

Earnestine went through it again.

“I…” Georgina began, but words did fail her.

“It was an idea.”

“Ness, of all the stupid things, honestly.”

Georgina paced up and down in the small library, back and forth as she repeated “of all”, “stupid” and “honestly” in various combinations.

“If I am guilty, then Mrs Frasier is guilty and…”

“You are Mrs Frasier. She won’t be happy.”

“I dare say.”

“What’s your plan?” Georgina demanded as she stopped pacing for the first time. “Break out of prison, run down the corridor, steal a time vessel and run off to Elizabethan times or the Jurassic or… whatever they call the Year of our Lord, nineteen thousand.”

“I will present my case.”

Georgina was aghast: “You’ve pleaded guilty. That’s an end to it. All that’s left is for the Judge to put on his black cap, pronounce the verdict, you eat a hearty breakfast and then there’s the scaffold and the rope.”

“I get to make a statement.”

“How can you be so calm?”

“I’m–”

“What about me? I’ve lost Arthur, then Charlotte and now you.”

“Charlotte’s just in detention.”

“She’s been erased from history!”

“History detention?”

“No, they went back in time and changed… something and now she was never born. Being erased is worse than being killed. At least with being killed there’s a funeral, tea and cucumber sandwiches.”

Georgina broke off, fumbled desperately in her bag for Arthur’s pocket watch to feel its comforting cold brass in her hand. She touched the frame of the daguerreotype.

“Not me,” said Earnestine.

“Not you… yet.”

Georgina grabbed the picture and thrust it under Earnestine’s face.

“This was taken on that evening after the theatre,” Earnestine said, “but–”

Georgina pointed: “Charlotte!!”

“She’s… gone.”

“She’s been erased from history,” Georgina said and then, deliberately and slowly, “they went back and changed events so that she was never born.”

“But–”

“That’s what they do.”

“We’ll see about that.”

Earnestine touched the image lightly, thinking, and then gave the frame back to Georgina.

“We could use the machine ourselves,” Earnestine said. “It’s just down the corridor. And anyone who has control of time can control anything. Think: we could change history so that Napoleon was never born. Or persuade people not to take part in the Boston Tea Party. The British Empire wouldn’t just be a quarter of the globe, but half of it. Pax Britannica would bring peace to so many more people.”

“It’s too much power.”

“Think of the good we could do.”

“It’s evil.”

“Only because of the way it’s been used.”

“It’s meddling in history.”

“We could change everything back, restore Charlotte,” said Earnestine. “We could teach the Surrey Deering–Dolittles a lesson.”

“We could stop Graf Zala before he started and…” Georgina swallowed, her mouth dry and her palms sweating, the watch slippery in her hand, “…save Arthur.”

“Would it be right?” Earnestine said. “Perhaps there is a natural course to events that shouldn’t be interfered with: God’s plan.”

“God’s plan! To have those monsters kill Arthur!?” Georgina grabbed her sister’s arms, her face pleading: “To save Arthur, my husband… we must, we have no choice.”

If Earnestine had a reply, she didn’t get the chance; there was a sharp rattle of the door as the handle was turned.

“Come in,” said Earnestine, her voice faltering.

The door opened and Scrutiniser Jones filled the opening.

“Yes?” Earnestine asked.

Scrutiniser Jones coughed: “The adjournment is over. You are to come with me.”

“I’m ready,” said Earnestine.

“Honestly, of all… words fail me,” Georgina said to Earnestine.

The Scrutiniser led the way and Earnestine followed.

Georgina stayed where she was, wondering when the picture would lose another figure. She shivered: in the morning the Derring–Do Club would consist of one member and then it wouldn’t be a club at all.

Georgina picked up Earnestine’s umbrella.

But maybe, just maybe, it was her turn to disappear.

Chapter XX

Mrs Frasier

What was the silly child doing?

There was so much to do and now this.

Mrs Frasier heard that familiar voice in the courtroom through the air vent into the Judge’s chamber. She’d pleaded guilty – stupidly – and she’d refused counsel, which made things tricky, and now she wanted to make a statement.

What did she know?

What could she say?

She said: “I call to the stand, myself.”

The Judge ruled: “You may make your statement from there, Miss.”

“I call myself, Your Honour, from my future: Mrs Frasier.”

There was a commotion in the Public Gallery. The Judge banged his gavel until there was silence.

“This is most irregular, I say, irregular.”

“The accused, upon pleading guilty, is entitled to make a statement,” said Earnestine, “and so I call the accused to the stand.”

“Mrs Frasier is not accused.”

“I am accused, therefore Mrs Earnestine Frasier, née Deering–Dolittle, is accused.”

Clever, clever girl, Mrs Frasier thought looking at the air vent, and most unexpected.

The Judge spoke: “You are separate entities.”

“Marriage does not wipe the slate clean.”

The Judge fumbled with his papers and then looked at the Clerk of the Court: “This is most irregular. Do we have a ruling on this?”

“No, Your Honour,” said the Clerk.

“This is most unusual, I say. Most unusual.”

“Yes, Your Honour.”

“Mrs Frasier isn’t going to be happy.”

“No, Your Honour.”

“Very well. Call Mrs Frasier.”

The cry went up, repeated along the corridors as a polite hue and cry. Mrs Frasier picked up her skirts and quickly ran to the corridor. It would not do for her to enter from the Judge’s chambers: the executive and the judiciary must be seen to be separate, and she’d been most lax about that lately.

She let a Peeler find her.

“Mrs Frasier, Ma’am,” he said. “You are wanted in court.”

“I know,” she said.

She let him lead her around the room to the main door and, when she came in, the tumultuous kerfuffle in the court quietened. Observers didn’t know why and so craned their necks around and over their neighbours, until all eyes were focused on her entrance.

Mrs Frasier had arrived.

She moved regally to the centre of the room almost chilling the air as she passed. Finally, her footsteps rang out in the eerie silence as she ascended the witness box.

The Clerk of the Court suddenly realised he was on, so he shuffled forward.

“If it please your… Mrs Frasier – the oath.”

His hands shook as he handed up the card and Bible.

“I shall use the Dictionary,” she said.

“Ah… I don’t think, that is–”

“It’s on your desk, red leather.”

The Clerk turned to his desk and was shocked to discover the object nestled amongst his reference books. When he pulled it out, he dropped the Bible onto the floor, bent to collect it and then clearly thought better of delaying Mrs Frasier any further.

She swiped the book off him.

“I promise to tell the truth.”

“Er… the whole truth and nothing but the truth?”

“That is the truth.”

“The whole truth.”

“The truth is everything, all things, the whole, and nothing other: the truth.”

“Yes, of course, thank you for the lesson,” said the Clerk, and he looked to the Judge for support and clarification.

“That is quite acceptable, Mrs Frasier; indeed more than acceptable, I’d say,” said the Judge. “And may I add the court’s sincere apologies for disturbing you from your important and vital work.”

“Thank you.”

“It is just…” The Judge held his arms wide in apology. “Due process and all that.”

“Of course,” Mrs Frasier agreed. “Justice must be seen to be done.”

She smiled now at Earnestine, and the girl’s face betrayed that she had thought this far in the game, but no further. The young lady shuffled her papers. There was nothing on them, Mrs Frasier knew, and clearly the girl had no idea what she was going to say. Mrs Frasier decided to use her most beneficent of smiles, while she waited for her cue.

“Mrs Frasier,” Earnestine began.

“Miss Deering–Dolittle.”

“You are guilty of conspiracy to thwart the course of justice.”

“I am not.”

“You have already pleaded guilty.”

“I am not guilty,” said Mrs Frasier, “therefore,
you
cannot possible be guilty.”

“But now laws are applied retroactively.”

“Only if one breaks them.”

“Who are we to believe?” Earnestine asked the court sweeping her attention to the Jury.

“You are not of age, child, and thus you are too young to plead, one way or the other,” said Mrs Frasier, “whereas I am an adult. You are a child.”

“I am not!” Earnestine shouted.

The Judge leant forward: “Mrs Frasier’s word is such that it cannot be called into question.”

Earnestine leaned slightly, having raised her foot, but she didn’t stamp it down. “But I’m… 95.”