The Derring-Do Club and the Year of the Chrononauts (4 page)

She took the route through the park. Children used sticks to knock hoops along and others at the small lake launched toy boats. Ladies strolled in pairs and the occasional gentleman tipped his hat as he passed. It was lovely, green and pleasant, and surely England at its best.

Queensbury Road was a small crescent and hardly the place for such an illustrious establishment as the Patent Pending Office. Captain Caruthers had informed her that the place was impossible to miss, but it turned out to be easily possible. She had to go up and down, up and down again, until, eventually, Earnestine spotted a blue door with a small brass plaque announcing the ‘Patent Pending Office’.

She rang the bell, stepped back and linked her hands together in front of her.

Presently the door opened and a bewhiskered old man, his dark hair streaked with grey, appeared, blinking in the sunlight.

“I don’t drink,” he said sharply.

“You don’t?”

“No! So I don’t need a lecture and I don’t need any literature – good day.”

“Good day.”

The door closed.

Earnestine rang the bell again.

The door opened once more.

“Yes… I said I don’t drink.”

“I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”

“You’re not from the temperance movement?”

“No.”

“Sally Army?”

“Assuredly not.”

“Thank goodness, but, whatever you are selling, I already have plenty.”

“I have a letter.”

“It’s not more of the Chronological Jurisprudence nonsense is it?”

“I have no idea what that is, I’m sure,” Earnestine said.

“The Law of Time.”

“I’m here promptly, if a little early. It’s five before nine,” Earnestine replied. “My letter is from Major Dan.”

The man blinked, wrinkled his nose and then he glanced up and down the street with his beady eyes.

“Major Dan, eh?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“You’d better come in.”

“Thank you, most kind.”

The passageway beyond was musty and dark, the gas turned very low and it shimmered as the flame stuttered for breath. The old man waved his hand along the corridor and Earnestine made her way to the far end. A heavy door opened into an office, study or library that was utterly packed with papers. There were shelves of them, piles on chairs, stacks on the floor like rectangular stalagmites and in pride of place, a huge conglomeration of documents that might have been supported internally by a stout desk. The only exception was a section of the far wall that had a single, neat row of books and seemed Spartan in comparison.

“My,” said Earnestine.

“Yes, yes, welcome… I’d better see this letter.”

Earnestine took the envelope from her bag and proffered it to the gentleman.

He examined it – tutting – and when he’d finished reading the contents, he slipped the letter back into the envelope before looking around… this way and that… frowning… until he decided to place the item precariously on top of the nearest stack. At the deepest foundations of this tower was a wooden tray that bore the legend ‘sundries’. The tower next to that was called ‘miscellaneous’ and the next one along had collapsed.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting a tour.”

“That would be an excellent second step.”

“Second step?”

“We haven’t been introduced.”

The man looked around again, up and down this time, before shrugging.

“There’s no–one here to introduce us,” he said. “And I know who you are.”

“You do?”

“Major Dan was quite efficacious.”

“Good.”

Earnestine waited patiently as she had been taught, because patience was a virtue, she knew, and–

“Sir,” she said. “You are?”

“Boothroyd.”

Earnestine offered her hand. Boothroyd looked at it, then glanced around as if he were wondering where to put it. Earnestine took it back just in case.

“I’m looking forward to assisting in the patent application process,” Earnestine began. “I think that the work here is important to the Empire as our industry is dependent upon cultivating innovation and invention. Perhaps you could tell me how many patents you award?”

“Patents we award?”

“Per calendar month or whatever is most appropriate.”

“We don’t award patents here.”

“You don’t?”

“Not a one.” Boothroyd smoothed his white hair, parted upon one side, before continuing: “You’re confusing us with the Patents Office.”

“I am?”

“Yes, the Patents Office deals with Patent applications, awards and wotnot. We’re the Patents
Pending
Office.”

“I see,” Earnestine said, meaning she didn’t.

“Tea?”

“Lovely.”

There was a small kitchen area to one side, hidden of course, and Boothroyd brewed some Earl Grey. There were papers here too and none of the cups and saucers matched, but at least they were fine china. He served the tea, swilling the pot before pouring, and added milk for them both. Earnestine almost had to bite her lip to stop herself from correcting him and instead she meekly carried the two cups back into the office.

“I’d better explain,” said Boothroyd.

Boothroyd, after looking around, took a stack of papers off a chair and indicated that Earnestine should sit. She did so. He then perched precariously on an edge of the hidden desk to sip his tea.

Earnestine did the same, enjoying the reviving taste.

“Well, my dear,” he said. “The Patents Office takes applications, checks that they are original, or at least not patented, and then awards a patent number.”

“I see.”

“We do none of that. Does that make it clear?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Well, let me try again, certain patents don’t progress through the Patent system on account of a lack of continuing application on behalf of the applicant. You see?”

Sadly Earnestine shook her head.

“To put it another way, the applicant doesn’t complete their application, so the application comes here and…”

He waved to the stacks of paperwork.

“…it can become jolly useful in certain quarters to certain parties like Major Dan and his other Gentleman Adventurers for.. that is to say, for… erm…”

“For mountaineering?”

“Exactly. And so forth.”

“What I don’t understand, Mister Boothroyd, is why the applicant doesn’t complete their application.”

“It’s usually because they blow themselves up.”

“I see.”

“And the War Office is jolly interested in new ways of blowing things up, hence this office. And Major Dan for his little… expeditions. So we sort through it all and select those items that might be of interest.”

Earnestine let Boothroyd see that she was looking around the office, before she replied: “Sort?”

“Ah, excellent, precisely our little problem,” said Boothroyd beaming. “Dan said you were quick off the mark.”

“There doesn’t seem to be a system.”

“Oh, well, I’m afraid, my dear, that’s not the issue.”

“It isn’t?”

“No.”

“What is the issue?”

“We have far too many systems.”

Boothroyd stood and held his arm up to encompass the North wall: “This is A to L.”

Earnestine shifted so that she could see as far as ‘L’.

“Little,” said Boothroyd, “Littleton, Littleworth.”

“And beyond Littleworth?”

Boothroyd moved around clockwise to the next wall.

“And this is ‘Alchemy’ to ‘Chemistry’ and anything in the metric system or Sanskrit.”

“I see.”

Boothroyd turned south: “Here’s everything to do with metals, engineering, steam engines, uses screws, except for brass, of course, which is in the second kitchen cupboard.”

Boothroyd stopped, uncertainly, as if he were dizzy from the three–quarter turn.

“Mister Boothroyd?”

“Where was I?”

“Brass.”

“The centre of the room is, of course, ‘miscellaneous’, ‘unsorted’, ‘sundry’, and anything in code or on yellow paper.”

The old man’s face suddenly lit up and he threw his arms wide as if welcoming an old friend or favourite nephew.

“Ah, here’s our pride and joy, designed by my predecessor, the Bunton Lodgement Cabinet, Mark II – see, see.”

Earnestine obliged, putting down her cup and saucer and stepping up in response to his beckoning. It was a strange contraption, part teak writing desk and part steam engine.

“These drawers go back and then round, twenty four in total – Bunton had no regard for ‘C’ and ‘X’, he thought them ostentatious – on both sides, see… marvellous, utterly marvellous.”

“May I see it work?” Earnestine asked.

“Of course, of course… as soon as we find the key.”

They both looked round, somehow already knowing each other’s thoughts on the matter.

“Finally, there’s this!” Boothroyd stood with his finger on a novel in the only clean set of shelves.

“I noticed there were no papers on these shelves.”

“Of course not, my dear, they’d fall off.”

And with that, Boothroyd pulled the leather bound volume sharply. There was a click and the whole section opened inwards to reveal a deep recess.

“My!”

“Yes, my dear, the treasure house.”

Mrs Arthur Merryweather

Georgina had waited until Earnestine had left the house, carefully checking Arthur’s pocket watch until exactly five minutes had passed, and then, reasonably confident that her sister wasn’t going to return, she’d hefted her trunk out from under her bed and packed. She’d felt rushed, but by the time she’d manhandled the heavy item downstairs, there was still plenty of time; although each crash of weight on the step had increased her apprehension that Charlotte, Cook or one of the maids, would appear. She couldn’t bear to face them in person considering what she had planned.

Was she really going to go through with it?

But she was packed, wasn’t she?

The decision had been made when she’d ordered the cab or earlier, when she’d said ‘yes’ to become Mrs Arthur Merryweather.

In the hallway, she peered through the red and blue stained glass of the front door to see if the hansom was waiting. She’d inserted far too much safety margin into her schedule. Writing and packing clearly didn’t take as long as–

“Letter!”

She ran upstairs and found the envelope on her writing desk. She re–read it, even though she’d double and triple–checked it last night when she’d finally resolved to do this. She sealed it – finally – and went downstairs.

Fifteen minutes.

She put Arthur’s watch back in her bag and checked outside again, the red pane for up the road and the blue pane for down.

She became aware of the hallway, its embossed Lincrusta wall covering and the teak table by the coat stand. There was Earnestine’s umbrella, almost a family heirloom considering its provenance. She wondered about the rest of the house and when she would be back again, or if… ever.

She didn’t want Cook to spot her and ask some awkward questions, so she slipped into the quiet of the drawing room and closed the door behind her. The heavy curtains had been drawn back by one of the maids and, although the lace remained, there was a reasonable view of the street. With the drapery tied back, it made the outside world appear like a stage beneath a proscenium arch: a play awaiting her entrance.

She took a long, lingering look around the room and drank in the ambiance as one might savour the fine whisky or the brandy that graced the sideboard. The pianoforte was silent, the photographs on the wall were still and the dust wasn’t even allowed in here to settle. Even so, without any specks in the air, something had lodged in her eye.

She should have said something.

She owed it to Earnestine and to Charlotte, and to the Derring–Do Club.

She felt sick.

Breakfast, even though it was kippers today, had held no appeal for Georgina. Her stomach had been very delicate recently, but that was undoubtedly due to the growing trepidation.

The clock ticked.

The hansom was due any minute now – ten minutes – and London cabbies were never late.

Tick–tock, tick–tock.

Hanging on the wall was a new addition, the daguerreotype taken of them all together at the theatre. From left to right, there was Lieutenant McKendry, Captain Caruthers, Earnestine, Uncle Jeremiah, then herself and finally on the right hand side Charlotte. Charlotte appeared indistinct, caught by the slow exposure in the act of fidgeting. Silly Charlotte! She looked like – Georgina shivered – a ghost. She’d seen photographs of real ghosts, spectre–like figures that were seen in shapes and shadows. Most were probably like this one, an effect of the photographic process, but, despite knowing the mechanics, this example disturbed her.

Death seemed everywhere: the world through her veil was dark, her widow’s weeds were black and the sinister troubled her thoughts.

There were other pictures, all neatly framed: Mother and Father; Uncle Jeremiah, who had stayed behind; Uncle Edgar, who had not, and even one taken at the expedition’s first camp, that last sighting before they had gone up the river and disappeared. There he was, smudged slightly because this was where they always pointed: Father, standing proudly surrounded by native guides and missionaries with his hunting rifle slung over one shoulder.

The clock ticked.

There was no time.

Five minutes.

It wasn’t long enough.

She should have snuck down last night to be all maudlin.

She put the letter in its cream envelope behind the mantelpiece clock – the obvious place. She’d addressed it simply to ‘Miss Deering–Dolittle’, but inside she’d written ‘To My Dearest Sisters, Ness and Lottie’.

She was a Deering–Dolittle, not the soft Surrey branch, but the mad brigade from Kent, and the club code demanded she put her best foot forward on any adventure.

So, without further ado, and leaving the letter tucked behind the tick–tocking timepiece, she was going forth on the long expedition into what she hoped was a fabulous new world, full of surprise and wonder, but she knew she was headed towards an ‘X’ on the map that was in the middle, the absolute middle, if not the furthest possible edge, of nowhere.