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

  “You have beautiful eyes,” he said with his deep voice, his male voice, his voice about her, caressing her, “Mademoiselle.”

  “Monsieur,” Georgina managed.

  “I don’t know why you are telling her that,” said another voice further away. Georgina would have looked, but she couldn’t tear herself away.

  He had a nice, caring smile under his neat horseshoe moustache: “Parlez–vous français?”

  “Merryweather, no point asking her that.”

  “Why not?” said the handsome man… Merryweather.

  “Because you can’t speak the lingo,” the other man said. “Once she’s said ‘oui’, your conversation is over. We’ll be in the other room.”

  Merryweather looked in the direction of the kerfuffling and chair scraping. He waited until a door shut before turning his attention back to the still rapt Georgina.

  “I know you can’t understand me,” he said. “But you are simply the most beautiful girl I’ve ever clapped eyes on. I can’t usually talk to women, typical really, but knowing that you don’t understand a word means that I can somehow… you are beautiful, I’ve said that, with a lovely countenance.”

  He smiled, dimples appeared in his cheeks, and he brushed a blond lock of hair away from his forehead.

  “I feel like I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

  “Are you proposing?” Georgina asked politely.

  Merryweather leapt to his feet, yanking his hand away from hers as if she was a hot pan and in his haste he tumbled backwards onto the floor.

  The door burst open and two other men came in: “Merry?”

  “I… I… I…”

  “Ah, she’s come round,” said the shorter, before looking across in Georgina’s direction.

  “Eng… English,” Merryweather said.

  “English?”

  “Yes, I am,” Georgina said.

  “It… it…”

  “That’s right Merry, up you get,” said the taller man as he hauled Merryweather to his feet.

  “I’ll… I’ll…”

  “Fetch the brandy, excellent.”

  Merryweather shuffled off in the wrong direction at first and then found the door to another room.

  The tall man thrust his hand forward: “Caruthers, chap here is McKendry.”

  “Mac,” said the shorter man.

  Georgina shook both the proffered hands, each a firm, solid grip.

  “And you’ve met Merry, Captain Arthur Merryweather,” Caruthers continued. “You had a close call. Miss?”

  “Georgina, Georgina Deering–Dolittle.”

  “Pleased to meet you Miss Deering–Dolittle. Surrey’s a lovely county.”

  “I’m not one of the Surrey Deering–Dolittles.”

  “Oh… Ah!” said Caruthers, and he smoothed his chevron moustache to hide his embarrassment. “Kent is nice too.”

  “What’s the matter with… Arthur?” Georgina asked, pointing at the door through which Merryweather had exited.

  “Merry, can’t talk when there’s a Memsahib present.”

  “I see.”

  “Mac?”

  McKendry brought over a white metal mug held in his mittens: “Miss? It’s an old Southern recipe. Use the cloth, it’ll be hot.”

  Georgina accepted the proffered cloth and then took hold of the mug.

  Merryweather reappeared with a bottle of brandy.

  “Ah, yes…” he said and poured a generous measure into the cup with a shaking grip.

  At first Georgina felt nothing until her fingers warmed up enough for their nerves to start working. They tingled, a sensation not unlike looking into Merryweather’s eyes. She breathed on the surface and the rising steam seemed to thaw her face.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Don’t thank me yet,” said McKendry. “It’s an evil brew, but it’ll get some strength into you.”

  Georgina took a sip, scalding her mouth and throat, but it was a welcome feeling.

  “Which part of the Home Counties is this from?”

  “Not Southern England, Miss. It’s an old Mississippi recipe with just a nip of brandy to get the circulation going,” McKendry explained, pulling lightly on the black chin puff beard beneath his handlebar moustache.

  “So how come you were out in the cold?” Caruthers asked.

  “Oh!”

  Merryweather took the cup from her, although whether he was catching it or whether he’d sensed the imminent risk of it tumbling to the floor, she didn’t know.

  She stared wild–eyed at Caruthers, Merryweather and McKendry as if to assign a specific responsibility to each in turn.

  “Men! Guns… Creatures.”

  She was on her feet, or rather her legs gave way beneath her and she had to grab hold of Merryweather.

  “We must go back,” Georgina said. “My sisters… the school.”

  “There’s a school nearby?” Caruthers asked.

  “Yes, a prison of a place, but still… we were attacked.”

  “What h– happened?” Merryweather asked.

  “Some foreigners attacked it, soldiers with peasant creatures. I did say.”

  The three men sat at the table, Caruthers pulling his chair back so that he could see Georgina. They looked serious, but none of them moved towards the door.

  “Now!” Georgina insisted.

  The men exchanged a glance and Caruthers gave the slightest of head shakes.

  “You can’t just sit there,” Georgina insisted, “you have to–”

  “Miss!” Caruthers leant forward holding up his hands placating. “It’s night and there’s a blizzard.”

  “It’s not a blizzard,” Georgina interrupted.

  “I grant you it isn’t, technically, merely snow, but enough to make us walk round in circles, particularly as we don’t know where we’re going. We wait until first light and see if the conditions have improved.”

  “What do you mean first light?”

  “It’s n– n– night,” said Merryweather. “You’ve been asleep a n– night and a day.”

  “No, I can’t have been. We have to go. Now.”

  Gently, Merryweather put his hand on her shoulder, only to be snubbed when Georgina wrenched herself away.

  “Well, if you won’t, then I will,” said Georgina, standing with the full intention of shaming these cowards into action. Caruthers just sat back and folded his arms, the others followed suit.

  “We admire your spunk,” he said, “we really do, but you need to warm up and get some of Mac’s soup down you. No–one’s going anywhere until we know what we’re getting into.”

  The others nodded and exchanged glances.

  “This is only a holiday, after all,” said McKendry.

  Georgina drew breath to scream at them, but Merryweather put a kindly hand back on her shoulder.

  “T– t– tell us.”

  Miss Charlotte

  There was a sharp knock at the door, three taps, precisely spaced.

  Charlotte jerked awake not knowing where she was: a cabin, an airship.

  “Come in,” she said.

  No, wait, she wasn’t sure who she was supposed to be, but she knew she was supposed to be Bavarian. Or was it Belgian?

  The door was unlocked and a tall man dressed smartly in military uniform clicked his heels and bowed in the doorway. He had a fine black moustache and pointed beard, strong and full, and he looked jolly important.

  “Your Royal Highness, you speak English?”

  “I do,” said Charlotte. Wasn’t a Belgian accent sort of French? “Oui.”

  “Your English is very good,” he said.

  Charlotte reddened: “Thank vous.”

  “Excellent, I am Graf Zala at your service.”

  Charlotte liked that: “My service,” she repeated, trying to sound formal: her personal reaction to the man, this imposing man, was one of admiration. He did know how to wear a military uniform. However, she wasn’t sure how Princess Wotnot would
behave in the circumstances.

  “Ja. I hope the delay was not overly troublesome.”

  “Not at all, Herr Graf.”

  “Is everything to your satisfaction?”

  “Why was the door locked?”

  “For your safety during landing and take–off.”

  “Oh yes.”

  “We made a short stop, but now we are properly en route I wondered if you would care to join us on the bridge?”

  “Ooh, gosh, yes please.”

  It was best to play along, she thought, and she might learn something of use and also the bridge sounded jolly exciting.

  “I also thought you may consider changing into a more suitable outfit for flying.”

  This just got better and better, she thought.

  He clicked his heels and bowed before indicating to his left. An attendant in a white uniform quickly entered and deposited a neat stack of clothing on the bed. The subordinate kept his head down throughout and made no eye contact at all. Charlotte found herself revelling in the sense of importance that came from her new status.

  “When you are ready, simply follow the gangway thus,” said the Graf and he indicated towards the bow of the vessel. He bowed again and closed the door. It was not relocked.

  Charlotte wondered if she should take advantage of this liberty, but obviously there was no way off the Zeppelin at this altitude, and so she turned to examine the clothes. They made up a uniform, somewhat imaginative in its design. Whereas, the army and the navy had long traditions to maintain, the new flying service displayed both innovation and practicality in their outfits. This one was made of a thick material, plain without any of the frippery sometimes associated with the military. Charlotte liked all the braid and brass, but somehow this seemed more appropriate particularly when weight was an issue. It was buff and–

  Trousers!

  And boots!

  Charlotte fumbled with the buttons in her rush to change and even decided to divest herself of her corset.

  This was heaven; she was literally flying through heaven.

  The trousers felt strange and it took her a few moments to get the flares to stick out properly. Her boots were loose. She admired herself in the mirror, pulling the buttoned up tunic down a few times to make it straight. Her stupid chest stuck out in a most non–regulation manner, but even so she liked the final effect. She tried a variety of stances, one hand behind her back, both, arms folded, attention.

  This was the future: soon the British would have a Flying Corps and Her Majesty’s Aerial Ships would patrol the skies. With the Suffragette movement, perhaps… yes, Charlotte imagined herself as the Captain of such a ship. HMAS Dreadnought, an ironclad airsteamer, protecting the Empire in far–flung places under the direction of the First Sky Lord. Hands behind back, feet apart, head up – definitely.

  The corridor was uphill, the Zeppelin was climbing, but there were thick ropes on either side to act as handrails.

  With the tiniest of coughs, Charlotte ventured onto the flight deck. Graf Zala turned and nodded appreciatively as he took in her buff–coloured uniform, its front button smartly to one side, the trousers flared at her thighs and her calf length boots black and polished, one solidly on the wooden deck and the other hitched up on its toe.

  “Smart,” he said.

  Charlotte reddened slightly.

  “Come, come,” Zala said waving her in. “This is where we control the Zeppelin.”

  Charlotte trod firmly into the room and took in the polished brass fittings and controls. It was modelled on a ship, a naval tradition transformed for the modern age, streamlined and new. Charlotte was drawn to the huge wheel, a wooden set of spokes that dominated the centre of the flight deck.

  The Graf sent the Ensign away with an imperious gesture and held the wheel in his gloved hand.

  “Here,” Zala said, “take the wheel.”

  Charlotte stepped up: “May I?”

  “Of course.”

  Charlotte’s fingers wrapped around the wooden handles as Zala stepped behind her, wrapping his body around her. His hands over hers were still very much in control.

  “Take the strain,” he said.

  Charlotte’s knuckles stood proud as the Graf let go. For such a solid man, his hands hovered like butterflies over hers until he was satisfied. He stepped back leaving Charlotte in control of the 128 metre leviathan and she could feel the massive length of the machine at her fingertips.

  “Turn to starboard,” said the Graf.

  Charlotte glanced at the compass joggling in position as the vast vehicle succumbed to the whims of the air currents.

  “Turn to starboard,” the Graf repeated. “Right hand down.”

  Charlotte pulled; it stuck and then gave with a lurch. The central handle leant and a moment later the horizon pitched.

  The Graf was delighted: “That’s it!”

  Somewhere far back the rudder flexed and changed the airflow, the big lazy propellers whined in protest and long cables zinged. The airship turned.

  Charlotte laughed aloud.

  “Too much,” said the Graf.

  As the airship turned sharply back to port, a nervous ensign took a few steps to steady himself. Charlotte threw her head back, her blonde hair flying away from its moorings, as she began to master the beast.

  “You are a natural,” said the Graf.

  “Sir.”

  “Now trim–”

  “Yes,” Charlotte already held the lever. She pulled it causing the cabin to tilt upwards. “How high can we go?”

  The Graf laughed, deep and hearty: “All the way to the stars.”

  Chapter IV

  Miss Deering-Dolittle

  The coach brattled over the medieval bridge into Ravensbruck, and when they finally came to a halt, Otto directed Prince Pieter, Kroll, Metzger and Earnestine towards a large timber-framed building. Soldiers were already commandeering the inn, rudely hustling guests into the street, who had no choice but to join the clutch of braver villagers gathering to watch from a distance.

  Earnestine decided to give the functionary an explanation of where he was going wrong: “Otto, is it? When the British Consulate finds out how you have treated a subject of Her Majesty the Queen, you–”

  The man pushed her forward and she stumbled on the uneven road surface.

  Pieter stepped towards them, but he was stopped by Kroll’s heavy hand on his shoulder.

  “Perhaps,” Earnestine said, “you could persuade these people to take me back to the school.”

  “That wouldn’t be wise,” said Prince Pieter.

  “No,” said Kroll, “they’ll have killed everyone at the school.”

  “Kroll!”

  “Yes, don’t interrupt,” Earnestine agreed. “I don’t think you… excuse me?”

  “The untoten that attacked us came from the school,” Kroll explained. “Then they came after us. They will have killed everyone at the school.”

  “Everyone?”

  “We don’t know that,” said Pieter.

  “But my sisters?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Earnestine’s rising anger was extinguished by a cold feeling of dread. Her ears buzzed, but she ignored it: stiff upper lip.

  “No, that can’t be right,” Earnestine chided. “Mother gave me strict instructions to look after them: no exploring, no trouble, no adventures. So, you see, Mister Kroll, you must be mistaken…”

  The buzzing noise increased. A shadow fell across Earnestine’s face. It seemed unreal. She couldn’t take it in. He was lying. He didn’t understand English. That must be it.

  “We must go back for them,” she insisted, trying to make herself clear over the increasing noise.

  “Nein!” Kroll was adamant.

  “Now!” Earnestine screeched and grabbed for his jacket, all reason lost.

  A shout: “Zeppelin!”

  “What?” Earnestine looked about and then, seeing the pointing hands, she looked up. The beautiful blue sky, com
plete with scudding white clouds, was blemished by an immense black shape as an airship thudded overhead. Shielding her eyes from the bright sun, Earnestine could make out the gondola section below the rigid frame.

  “Zala?” Pieter said.

  “Zeppelin,” Earnestine replied, correcting him.

  “Nummer Drei,” said Kroll. “Ja, Graf Zala.”

  “Strange that he was here,” Pieter said.

  Metzger glanced at Earnestine: “He was bringing your… verlobte.”

  “Strange route then,” Pieter said.

  The dark shape moved up the valley, turning until it presented its cruciform fins and delicate looking propellers.

  When it was a speck, the soldiers seemed to come back to life. They jostled Earnestine and the others up the steps and into the inn.

  “Careful,” Prince Pieter said.

  “Mein–”

  “English.”

  “We are under orders.”

  “Only to escort.”

  “Ja.”

  Inside the inn’s hallway, it was dark, almost black before Earnestine’s eyes adjusted from gazing into the bright clear sky. Out of the gloom, an old man with grey hair and a drooping moustache limped from a back room complaining.

  “Achtung!” Two soldiers unslung their rifles and pointed them at the man. There was shouting, two sides locked in an escalating conflict until Prince Pieter stepped between them.

  “I believe we should sign in,” he announced. “Do you have your visitor’s book to hand?”

  The landlord blustered until Pieter repeated what he’d said in German. The book was produced and the Prince made a show of finding the right page and signing with a flourish. He passed the pen over to Kroll, who snorted and signed too. Metzger was next. He handed the pen back to Pieter.

  “And I’ll sign for the Fräulein,” he said, scribbling.

  Earnestine interrupted: “Excuse me.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m quite capable of signing for myself.”

  With a smile, the Prince passed the pen. Earnestine went to the leather bound volume of lines and writing. Pieter had signed his name neatly and added ‘Prince’ in the second column. Kroll was ‘Oberst’ and Metzger was ‘Advisor’. Although Pieter had left the name in the next row blank, he had written ‘Maid’ in the second column.