The Derring-Do Club and the Empire of the Dead Read online

But not until after a snooze, she thought, because it had been such an exciting day.

  Chapter III

  Miss Deering-Dolittle

  Earnestine felt warm, cosy and safe. A heart beat strong and steady nearby, its deep resonance comforting, and her body gently rocked by waves of breathing: in, out, in, out...

  And then she became sharply aware of her dreadful situation. She was snuggled up with a man, her face against his chest and his arms actually around her. She jerked up and scuttled away leaving a trail in the dust across the floorboards.

  “It’s all right, Fräulein, they’ve gone.”

  Gone! But they were still here: Kroll, Metzger and that wretched Pieter, particularly Pieter, whose comforting embrace was now safely well over on the other side of the loft space.

  “Oh!” she realised what he meant, what he thought she was afraid of, and then she realised that she was afraid. That shivering last night had been terror, pure and simple, and clearly something to get under control. Five hundred lines: I must not be afraid, in Greek; that ought to do it.

  Pieter glanced at the loft hatch: “We hope.”

  “Where’s the March Hare?” Earnestine asked.

  “Schneider is guarding below,” said Kroll.

  Pieter corrected him: “We don’t know.”

  The loft was dark, but light shone in sharp pencil beams from a variety of holes in the roof. The floorboards were sound and there were crates arranged neatly. The inn used this space for storage.

  Earnestine idly cut a vertical line into the floorboard with her nail, two peaks next and then a ‘V’ for a ‘U’. She stopped herself: no time to do lines. I must not do lines.

  “What were those things?” she asked. “Ghouls?”

  The men exchanged glances, clearly not wanting to explain. Eventually Kroll told her.

  “Die Untoten.”

  “Untoten?”

  “Not alive.”

  “Undead,” said Pieter.

  “This is the age of enlightenment,” Earnestine said. “Steam trains, clockwork machines, science… not a time of superstition and demons.”

  Pieter nodded: “Precisely.”

  “We have to go,” said Kroll.

  No–one replied: they all just looked at the closed hatch.

  “The Oberst is right,” said Pieter. “Those creatures can’t reason like we can, but their masters will work it out sooner or later.”

  He reached for the handle, but Metzger beat him to it.

  “I’ll go,” Metzger said. He opened the hatch and ducked his head through the floor to look around. “Clear.”

  They took the ladder, fed it down through the opening and then Metzger disappeared.

  “We’ll stay together,” said Pieter.

  “Metzger can scout ahead,” said Kroll.

  “We stay together,” Pieter insisted.

  Earnestine was last to leave their sanctuary.

  The inn was different now, ominous. There were signs of battle, broken chairs, discarded weapons, splatters of dark stains that could be spilt claret, but Earnestine knew that they weren’t. Downstairs in the lounge it was the same, although the barricades had been pushed aside.

  “No bodies,” Metzger said.

  “The stables were round the back,” Kroll said.

  The rear room, another area for people to drink, was covered in broken glass. Some doors with windows in the French style leading to a terrace were smashed. It would have been lovely in summer. This was why the untoten had breached the defences here; the opening had been too wide to barricade.

  The chill air outside was clean, invigorating and fresh. Earnestine closed her eyes and let it fill her lungs for a few deep breaths before she followed the others to the stable.

  “Mein Gott!” Metzger exclaimed. “The horses…”

  The nearest horse appeared to be asleep, lying snugly on the hay with steam rising from its flank, but the steam buzzed and hovered like…

  The air outside was still as clean, invigorating and fresh as before but Earnestine felt herself choking. She closed her eyes, desperate to deny what she’d seen as she tried to keep herself from retching. Even so, her mind’s eye was fixated on an image of horses torn apart.

  The others had a quiet discussion in German, all hushed urgency and pointing. Pieter broke away to come over to Earnestine as the other two went back to the inn.

  “Fräulein, we have–”

  “They ate the horses!”

  “Come now.”

  “They ate the horses!!”

  “They killed the villagers and Schneider. I’ve known Schneider from when I was a boy. All these deaths, but you, the Great British, don’t care. After all, we’re only foreigners. But a horse gets served up on a plate with garlic and your whole nation goes insane – questions in Parliament, letters to the Times – you make me sick.”

  Kroll and Metzger returned with supplies and the three men set off down the road into some woods.

  The penny slowly dropped. That – words failed her – had just insulted the British. Of all the utterly dastardly foreign tricks. She’d have given him a piece of her mind if he hadn’t just walked away.

  Earnestine was alone in the courtyard.

  She wanted to go home: to read by the fire in their house in Kensington with Mama and Papa poring over their map collection, Georgina doing needlework and silly Charlotte re–enacting Rorke’s Drift with her dolls. They’d have a pot of Earl Grey and sandwiches with the crusts cut off, and later hot Cadbury’s cocoa essence while Uncle Jeremiah read them a story.

  That was it: she would give him a piece of her mind right now and put him straight by explaining that, untoten or no untoten, he could not simply kidnap a British subject without so much as a ‘by your leave’.

  She caught up with them: “Excuse me!?”

  They carried on walking.

  “Stop! At once!”

  “We need to keep moving,” Pieter said.

  He had actually contradicted her. He seemed to understand English and yet, with all the perversity possible, he refused to agree with her. Despite his sparkling blue eyes, this was intolerable, and she had to tell him so, at length; and if this didn’t elicit the correct response, she would repeat her points, enumerated, loud and clear with such careful pronunciation that even a boot boy would be able to follow them.

  “Perhaps you have forgotten that you kidnapped me, and I…”

  Instead of stopping, the men continued to walk away from her, gesticulating to each other and pointing down the snow covered valley. Earnestine didn’t know where they were going, and indeed she did not care.

  She stamped her foot.

  The Gardener’s Hand deigned to look at her: “You are marvellous,” he said.

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “When you are angry.”

  “I am not angry! I am British, I am never angry.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Look,” she said, adopting her patient tone – again. “I am a British Subject. You,” she pointed so that he wouldn’t confuse himself with someone else, “must take me to the British Embassy.”

  “I cannot take you to an embassy.”

  “Or Consulate. A Consulate would be quite acceptable in the circumstances.”

  “Neither. I cannot take you to a Consulate either.”

  “That’s almost a double negative. Look, I can see you’re not following me.”

  One of his compatriots shouted from ahead: “Ach, she is English, there is no arguing with them.”

  It was infuriating. The others knew English well enough when it suited them.

  “English, yes. So an English Embassy or Consulate would be acceptable. English and British, it’s the same thing,” she said, biting her lip because she knew that it absolutely wasn’t. No, it was no use, they’d never learn if someone didn’t try to educate them. “In fact, it’s not the same thing, England is part of Britain, but again, in the circumstances, I’m prepared to overlook such… Excus
e me!”

  She was suddenly in the air, hoist like the crossbar of a letter ‘T’ across the shoulder of one of them. It was Kroll, who was big and broad, and carried her like she was a rag doll. She couldn’t see properly, her corsetry making twisting or bending impossible, but she felt keenly the indignity of having her bustle thrust into the air.

  “Put me down! Down! Now! This instant.”

  The path through the woods bounced around beneath her, swinging from side to side. They were somewhere in the valley now going along a dirt road. There were coach tracks frozen in the hard mud like dirty glacial crevasses.

  “Put her down,” said the Gardener’s Hand.

  “Sire–”

  “Now.”

  The man did so.

  Earnestine brushed at the creases in her dress and fumed, so angry with herself that her face felt red. It was bad enough to be kidnapped, but this embarrassment was too much to bear.

  “I can stand it no longer,” said Pieter and he pointed. “England is that way.”

  He marched off and the others fell into step.

  “It jolly well isn’t,” said Earnestine to their retreating backs. She gesticulated to the sky and the woods. “The sun is there, the moss is on that side of the tree, any fool can see that’s south east, you’re going north, England is–”

  “What did you say?” the Gardener’s Hand demanded.

  Earnestine took a deep breath, finally: “I am a British Subject and you need to take me to–”

  “About the direction?”

  “Yes, direction. To a British Consulate.”

  “About moss and the sun?”

  “Pardon?”

  “You said we’re going north.”

  “Yes, moss grows on the north side of a tree in the Northern Hemisphere and the sun, particularly at this time of year, is also to the south. At this time of the morning, it’s to the south–east, so…”

  “Mein Gott, we’re going the wrong way.”

  He signalled to the others and they began marching back the way they had come.

  “Very well, it’s clear to me that you don’t know where the British Consulate is, so I’m willing to compromise and agree that you can take me back to Eden College for Young Ladies.”

  “We cannot go back.”

  “The College has a telephone apparatus and the authorities need to be informed about the untoten uprising.”

  “I cannot go back.”

  “Look, I’m sure if you apologise and throw yourself on Miss Hardcastle’s mercy, she will overlook…”

  This was nonsense, and Earnestine knew it. Miss Hardcastle, mercy – they didn’t really go together. Hopefully the old Gardener himself would give this underling a good thrashing. Earnestine knew that she would relent; she didn’t really want him to be beaten, but she did want to relish the idea for a while longer.

  They’d left her – again.

  “Excuse me?”

  She could escape, but to where? They were going south–west, so she could go north, but was that a sensible direction?

  “Excuse me.”

  She set off south–west after them, nearly tripping over a rut in the frozen earth in her haste to catch up.

  At the end of the road, and Earnestine missed its arrival because she was desperately trying to avoid turning her ankle, there was a coach and horses waiting. Other riders hung around tending to their mounts. Their saddles and equipment were – Charlotte would know – cavalry, fusiliers, mounted military of some sort. They all snapped to attention when the Gardener’s Hand and his friends rounded the bend.

  Pieter went up to one of the men, a functionary, and they began arguing in German. Or Austrian. Or Hungarian. Or some other harsh tongue.

  She snapped: “English!”

  “Sorry,” said the Functionary in English, “I meant no disrespect.”

  The Gardener’s Hand was smirking! This outrage was never ending.

  The soldiers came towards her, saviours all of them until they raised their rifles.

  “Excuse me, but… this is intolerable.”

  “Achtung!”

  Earnestine’s attention snapped from the officer to the clutch of Germans. Pieter, or whatever his name was, looked resigned.

  “Mein Prince,” said the officer.

  “Otto.”

  “Schweinehund, ich…”

  “English,” said Pieter, “we have a lady present.”

  “Ach, Mein Royal Highness, you have led us a merry chase, but now, alas, it is time to fulfil your responsibilities. Ja?”

  “Ja.”

  Pieter led the way and his colleagues fell in behind, despondently. One of the soldiers shoved Earnestine roughly with the butt of his rifle causing her to stumble forward.

  “Otto!” Pieter’s anger was all too obvious.

  “Ach, shall we have your parole, Ja?”

  “Ja.”

  “You have your duty,” said Otto as he reached for the coach door. “I have my orders.”

  Absolutely, thought Earnestine. He must take her back to the school, apologise for the outrageous behaviour he displayed to one of the young ladies of the College, vis–à–vis herself, and jolly well sort out the lawn borders. Hopefully, Miss Hardcastle would take the unctuous youth down a peg or two.

  The man had opened the door: “Your Royal Highness.”

  There, that would put him in his place and make the oik think twice about–

  “Excuse me!” Earnestine demanded. “Could someone please explain what you are talking about?”

  The functionary tried: “His Royal Highness is being taken back to his family castle and you are coming too. In!”

  “I don’t take orders from… whoever it is you are.”

  “In or I’ll have Franz carry you in.”

  This was intolerable, but she didn’t want to be carried again like some baggage.

  “Very well, but under protest.”

  “Noted.”

  “Aren’t you going to write it down then?”

  “Nein, get in.”

  Refusing the functionary’s hand, Earnestine climbed in and flomped down in the rear facing seat. Sitting directly in front of her was the Gardener’s Hand, looking very handsome and refined.

  “Your Royal Highness?” she asked.

  He bowed and clicked his heels together despite being seated.

  “It was a question.”

  “I am Prince Pieter.”

  So, Earnestine thought, a rough uncouth workman and liar to boot.

  “And gardening is an essential skill for royalty in these parts?”

  “It is an education.”

  “Because I was wondering when you were going to rescue the school’s roses.”

  “I have already rescued an English Rose.”

  “You really aren’t a gardener, are you? If you were, then you’d know that that Miss Hardcastle’s roses are Rosa Moyesii, a variety that originates in the Orient.”

  The carriage jerked forward throwing Earnestine towards the so–called Prince. She put her hands up to stop herself and for a moment they embraced. Earnestine fumbled him away and sat back. After another less violent movement, the carriage began to move along the road, throwing them side–to–side as it crunched over the frozen tracks. Not before time, the wheels found the ‘rails’ left by previous standard sized axles and they proceeded much like a tram.

  “I was being hidden at the school in order to escape certain forces intent on persuading me to certain actions,” Pieter explained. “You understand?”

  “I hadn’t asked.”

  “And the gardening because I was bored. I prefer action.”

  “I hadn’t asked.”

  Earnestine let the awkward silence fill the plush interior, pleased to see the three men, the Gardener’s Hand and his valets, sit more upright and rigid. She was angry: after all, she’d been kidnapped and manhandled and taken on an adventure, so she was going to ignore them and instead stare out of the window at the passing tre
es. Even if her eyes kept wanting to gaze into his face, she was made of stern stuff and wouldn’t even glance, not once, and it was easy, despite his sparkling blue eyes, for she’d noticed his wry smile mocking her.

  “Did you want to ask something?” he said.

  “No.”

  “Only you keep looking at me.”

  “I do not. I simply wanted to know why we’re not going to the school.”

  “We’re going to Ravensbruck.”

  “And what, pray, is at Ravensbruck?”

  “Fresh horses.”

  “That is not really an answer.”

  “From there we will go to the Eagle’s Claw.”

  Earnestine was appalled: “Is that a public house?”

  “Hardly,” the man smiled, so pleasingly. “It is my family home, a castle.”

  “Really? Will we have tea and scones while you introduce me to your Mama and Papa?”

  “My mother is dead and my father, the Crown Prince, is… indisposed,” said Pieter. “As for the rest of my family, you don’t want to meet the dowager Gräfin.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “You and she are too much alike.”

  Miss Georgina

  Her first sensations were of varying heat: her head was warm, her body hot and her toes numb, but in between, around her ankles, she was cold. Her internal organs and the very marrow of her bones felt painfully icy. Her ears burned: she heard voices, clear, concise, the clipped retorts of military speech.

  “What was she doing out there?”

  “She’s not a peasant girl, that’s for sure.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Her hands, smooth and delicate.”

  “Merryweather!”

  “They are… and she’s c– c– conscious.”

  Georgina kept jolly still.

  “You’re wrong, she’s still out.”

  “Her b– breathing has changed.”

  Georgina became aware she wasn’t breathing. She was holding her breath as she tried to work out what breathing was supposed to be like when one was asleep. She gasped when her hands were suddenly enveloped by another, a strong warm palm.

  “M– M– Mademoiselle?”

  Georgina shifted round, her eyes still tight shut.

  “Do you speak English?” he said.

  She blinked and then saw the most handsome brown eyes staring back at her, and then, unbidden, she heard her own thoughts articulated aloud.