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

  “There are other dormitories off the same corridor,” Georgina said.

  They nodded in agreement.

  Back at Georgina’s dormitory corridor, she indicated various options. The men selected a dormitory closer to the landing tacitly deciding to put themselves between the sleeping young lady and anything that might come up the stairs.

  “There might be… you know,” McKendry was saying as he and Caruthers went to inspect their bunks.

  “I’m sure a medal winner like yourself can cope with ladies undergarments,” Caruthers boomed from inside.

  Georgina found their difficulties amusing. She smiled for the first time in an age, but that suddenly seemed wrong. She shouldn’t ever be happy again, because… but best not to think about that. She found herself standing with Merryweather just inside her room, which was somewhat improper, but these were extraordinary circumstances and the door was open.

  “D– d– do you have everything you need?” asked Merryweather.

  “It is my usual room.”

  “Yes, of course… sorry.”

  “Do you have a medal?”

  “I have a couple.”

  “What for?”

  “India.”

  “You must show it to Charlotte when we find her.”

  “Yes.”

  “She likes that sort of thing.”

  Georgina was conscious of how small her room was. It had appeared spacious for the three roommates, but now this man seemed a giant in a doll’s house. His presence was awkward and embarrassing. She quite liked being with this man, but… oh dear.

  “You can’t be in here with me alone,” she said.

  “N– n– no?”

  “It isn’t seemly.”

  “No, no, of course n– n– not. Sorry. So sorry, sorry, I apologise, of course.”

  Merryweather hesitated on the threshold clearly torn between competing aspects of proper gentlemanly conduct.

  “You’ll have to go.”

  “Of course.”

  Georgina, for her part, knew the other side of the coin. She wanted him to stay, to protect her, but it was impossible. Alone with a man in her bedroom at night was simply unthinkable, extraordinary circumstances or no extraordinary circumstances. He must go: she wanted him to stay. Perhaps there were good reasons for him to do so. For a start, there were the villains who had murdered everyone in the school. It simply wasn’t safe for any of them. The idea of staying the night here was a risk, she knew that, so she probably did need a guardian close by. However, that wasn’t entirely the truth. She wanted Merryweather to remain to protect her and she wanted Merryweather to remain because he was Merryweather. The thought shocked her.

  “I’ll say goodnight then, M– M– Miss Georgina.”

  “Very well, Mister Merryweather.”

  “Goodnight then.”

  “Goodnight.”

  “I’ll be going.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll just be down the corridor, if…”

  “Of course.”

  “Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight.”

  The door closed.

  She was alone in the room, he was outside.

  Lucky escape there, she thought, as she took off her boots, removed her outer garments and slipped into her bunk in her chemise to hunker down under her blankets. She kept her hand on Earnestine’s flashlight hidden under her pillow.

  It was quiet, the silence was like a dough rising to fill the bread tin, heavy and full of meaning. She was conscious of her own breathing and then of distant male voices, Merryweather, Caruthers and McKendry, moving about in the next room and then that too ceased. She’d get some sleep, that would be best, she thought, and at least tonight Tilly wouldn’t disturb everyone with her homesickness.

  Suddenly, Georgina felt like crying, but she wouldn’t.

  She’d sleep.

  If only she could sleep, but that comfort eluded her.

  “Georgina?”

  “Tilly! Is that you?”

  “Why did you leave us?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Amazo, amazo, amazo…”

  “Please, don’t.”

  “Amazon, I’m–a–spot, am–as–gone–”

  Hands suddenly tore the blankets off, cold, gnarled hands with long clawed fingers, grasping, pulling, tearing. Tilly and Julietta, with ruined, smiling faces and metal boxes sparking with unnatural energies, bore down on her, their eyes yellow and watery, and red mouths, rotting teeth, biting, gnawing, ripping her skin from her face until–

  Until she was sitting up on the bed, alone, shivering in a cold sweat and very aware that it was the middle of the night. As her rapid breathing slowed, the quiet descended again. Her feet were cold, she could see her toes in the pale moonlight.

  Nobody came to her rescue.

  She hadn’t cried out. She hadn’t been a baby. She didn’t want Merryweather to think of her as a baby.

  She got back under the covers, shivering. She thought about getting up and finding some milk, but the idea of wandering through the dark passages of the college did not appeal. She resolved not to sleep a wink, because she knew any sleep would be full of horrors.

  Miss Charlotte

  The Vögte brought a tray of food: rye bread, bratwurst and salami, sliced ham, cuts of chicken breast, strips of duck and zungenwurst, with German mustard, pickle and horseradish along with a half bottle of wine. Wine! And it wasn’t even Christmas.

  Charlotte tucked in and found herself giggling at her good fortune even before the wine was finished. The heavy silver knife slipped easily between the old door jamb to jigger the lock. Tee hee, a little look round, Charlotte thought.

  It was night, but Charlotte didn’t feel at all tired. She had slept soundly all afternoon, the excitement of piloting an airship had quite worn her out, but now, refreshed by sleep, food and wine, she was ready for anything.

  The stone corridor was quiet and dark, but there was enough moonlight coming through the windows for her to find her way if she was careful. At the window, she looked out through the diamond leading, and saw the valley below, beautiful and serene in the blue light. Vertically down a group of soldiers were berating a young woman: someone was in trouble, Charlotte sniggered: although, it would be best to be careful that they didn’t catch her.

  Where to go, she wondered. There were the factories below, which sounded unpleasant and dirty, or there was the laboratory, which also sounded boring. It was bound to have a blackboard and complicated nonsense that had to be learned by rote; however, it was forbidden, which made it exciting.

  She made her way along the corridor to another spiral staircase that signified that she’d reached the far tower. Up she went, round and round, until she reached a landing. There were rooms off in various directions, but one had a thick door. Underneath light flickered like Earnestine’s magic flashlight. Charlotte went over and bent down to peer through the keyhole. There were marvels frustratingly beyond the tiny frame.

  Someone coughed behind her.

  He was a tall young man, elegant, and dressed in a formal grey lounge suit, almost Beau Brummell in its cut and style.

  “Good evening or is it good morning,” he smirked. “Or are you going to be some bore who doesn’t understand the language of Shakespeare, Byron and Shelley.”

  He turned his head slightly showing off his good side. He was handsome, attractive, clean shaven except for some fine sideburns that framed his beautiful features. He affected a silk handkerchief in his top pocket and a flower, purple with sharp edged leaves, from some alpine thistle. His face, when he gazed back at Charlotte, was open, honest and full of life. His bright eyes sparked in the candlelight.

  Charlotte was having none of it: “Perhaps good night,” she said.

  “You do speak English? How wonderfully marvellous.”

  “Yes, I was educated in… Oxford,” Charlotte replied.

  “You won’t believe how tedious it has been without anyone to conve
rse with. Mater only speaks Latin.”

  “Latin?” Charlotte had a sinking feeling that she had not escaped school after all.

  “The names of chemicals and other paraphernalia.”

  “Chemistry?” The curriculum was building up.

  “Alchemy, medicine, galvanism,” he continued.

  Charlotte felt her shoulders slump: next he’d be offering to teach her golf or cricket or some other activity that could only be explained by the man putting his arms around the girl. It might be shooting, but he didn’t look the shooting type.

  “I prefer poetry myself,” he said.

  Even the humanities: yuck.

  “I’m Leslie,” he held out a hand, long and elegant, “Leslie Mordant.”

  Charlotte hesitated, quite unsure what the correct answer was in the circumstances: “Yes.”

  “I know all about you,” he smiled. “Your Royal Highness. The castle has been in quite an uproar waiting for your arrival. People running hither and thither, so tedious. The research has been held back, quite interrupted, and Mater says it’s intolerable.”

  “I’m sure she would.”

  “And now you are here.”

  “Research?”

  “Oh, all very boring, I assure you. I sometimes have to watch the bottles and chemicals and wotnot boiling or percolating or whatever. It’s such a tedium, honestly.”

  “I imagine, I’m not keen on cooking.”

  He chortled: “I’m sure not.”

  “What exactly is going on?”

  “Oh, it’s Doctor Mordant this and Doctor Mordant that and Doctor Mordant the other.”

  “You’re never a Doctor!”

  “And why not?” he teased. “No, I’m much too young and my talent lies in the finer things of life.”

  “Your father then?”

  “Ha–ha, it is going to be such fun to have someone to talk to at last. This beastly castle has been a positive dungeon.”

  “It probably has a dungeon,” Charlotte added.

  “Ahem, yes, full of pretenders no doubt.”

  “Pretenders?”

  “The Prisoner of Zenda,” he said as if it was obvious. He must have seen her expression. “Anthony Hope, published recently.”

  “I’ve not read it.”

  He leaned forward, “Come with me, I can read you some verse of my own.”

  “Lovely,” Charlotte lied.

  Leslie led the way along the landing. At one point they came out across some battlements where they were assaulted by the chill air. Leslie returned fire with “oh the moon, oh moon, oh moon” before they were once again protected from poetry by the thick walls. Finally, they reached the far end and Leslie opened a door to reveal a small bedroom strewn with silk scarves and frilly shirts. Books lay about where they had been discarded, some open, and all with bookmarks jutting from their pages. It really was going to be nothing but poetry.

  “Come in,” Leslie gestured.

  “Ah, I can’t,” Charlotte said. “You see… that’s a bedroom, a man’s bedroom, and I’m not chaperoned.”

  Leslie looked crestfallen.

  “The laboratory looks interesting and I’m sure that you could show me in there as it’s not a bedroom.”

  “My mother might be there.”

  “She could chaperone.”

  “Can I bring my Shelley?”

  “Of course.”

  Back they went – “oh moon, oh moon” – and Leslie let them into the laboratory. It was a large room, possibly a converted dining room that was full of scientific equipment laid out on tables. The smells of acid and caustic properties were vile and stung Charlotte’s nose, so she couldn’t resist having a closer look.

  “Shall I pick a poem?” Leslie mused. “Something romantic.”

  “Lovely,” Charlotte murmured. This wasn’t Chemistry and Biology, she realised, as in the mixing of potassium permanganate to turn water purple or to add yeast to flour to make bread; this, with its burners, smells, sudden sparks and frogs dissected on the table, was far more revolting and therefore considerably more thrilling.

  The real question was what needed to be played with first. She reached out for an electrode…

  “Don’t touch that!”

  Charlotte leapt back as if she had received a shock: “I was only looking.”

  The owner of the commanding voice was a woman, stern and foreboding with long red hair pinned back so that the shape of her skull was revealed: “And who might you be?!”

  She had a long black dress, stylish, with a bustle, but draped across her front was a long white apron with vivid stains pockmarking the cotton. Tools and equipment poked out of the many pockets and she wore a necklace of steel and rubber.

  “Mater,” said Leslie. “May I present Her Royal Highness, Princess…” He waved his silk handkerchief in her general direction and his announcement trailed off as if he’d become bored of the whole business and Charlotte realised that he didn’t know her name either.

  “I don’t have time for this,” Leslie’s mother said. “I was given assurances that I was not to be disturbed and now you bring me this…”

  The necklace was a stethoscope: “You’re a Doctor,” Charlotte said.

  Doctor Mordant gave Charlotte a long stare through the lenses of her glasses. Her eyes seemed to expand as the thick glass magnified Charlotte for closer scrutiny.

  “Indeed, I am Doctor Mordant.” There was a Scottish burr to her voice, an educated accent, Edinburgh. “Is there a problem?”

  “Of course not,” Charlotte replied. “Why can’t a woman be a doctor or a lawyer or whatever she pleases?”

  Or an officer in the cavalry, thought Charlotte, with braid and buttons and men of many ranks ready to take orders. While Charlotte was playing with this dream, Doctor Mordant considered the girl afresh, but with that expression that adults reserve for when they suspect they are being gulled.

  “Your son tells me you are doing experiments,” Charlotte said.

  “Indeed.”

  Charlotte realised that this woman would not suffer fools gladly and nor would she be impressed by flattery. She was dedicated to her work.

  “Important experiments, I hope.”

  “The most important.”

  “Oh, Mater, I found her,” Leslie whined.

  “Be quiet,” Doctor Mordant snapped. “They are the most important experiments, young lady, of medical science and all the work of a woman.”

  Leslie snorted: “Based on that Genevese scientist–”

  “I said be quiet!”

  “As all medical science is based upon the work of Hypocrites,” said Charlotte.

  Doctor Mordant corrected her: “Hippocrates.”

  “Hippocrates…”

  “Although perhaps you were right first time: the medical establishment are all hypocrites.”

  “And they forget that the importance of nursing, good health, clean practices and hygienic principles, were all the work of a woman, Florence Nightingale,” said Charlotte; not to mention the gorgeous uniforms of the light brigade, she thought.

  Doctor Mordant beamed, the skin of her face, pulled back by her hair, was unused to such an expression and her teeth were bared, but nonetheless Charlotte knew she had passed a test.

  “Do you want to see?” Doctor Mordant asked.

  Charlotte considered the vile smelling chemicals and the ugly stains across the Doctor’s apron, and all the inevitable Greek and Latin that went with the complexities of Chemistry as well as the repulsive practices with dissection, but she knew the correct answer: “Oh yes, please.”

  Doctor Mordant waved away one entire bench, dismissing it as irrelevant, and led the way further into the laboratory.

  “I’m going to read Shelley,” Leslie called out.

  Both Charlotte and Doctor Mordant spoke together: “Hmm…”

  They passed a table connected to the ceiling by chains and pulleys. These led high up to a skylight through which the moon disappeared behind the c
louds. Its light had long been surpassed by the lightning trapped in glass bulbs that were fixed to the walls in place of gas sconces. Doctor Mordant reached a bench filled with beakers, glass tubes and chemicals bubbling over gas.

  “This is the important ingredient, the galvanic energy is mere fireworks, the spark if you like… you know about galvanism?”

  “Oh yes, light bulbs and frog’s legs jumping. My sister has a flashlight.”

  “Indeed, you know much.”

  “My parents were progressive, I had a governess and various private educations.”

  “Of course, even so the male of the household would have had all the advantages.”

  “Alas, only sisters.”

  “You are fortunate.”

  “You’ve not met my sisters.”

  “Sisters… I thought your family tree was–”

  “The secret chemicals? They sound ever so interesting.”

  Doctor Mordant grimaced her smile again and turned to the bench. Lucky escape, Charlotte thought, clearly the Princess’s family was well known by all but herself.

  On the bench a multitude of pipes, flasks and condensation chambers bubbled and spat, powered by a gas burner set at a low rate. There were gauges of brass, thermometers and an open book like a ledger full of figures.

  “Patching bodies is straightforward anatomy and considerably easier than surgery on the living. There’s no blood being pumped around the arteries and veins. Once you’ve dismantled enough bodies, it’s clear how they work. Which is precisely why those pompous cretins in Edinburgh are so precious about their dissection classes, they didn’t want their secrets to be known. It’s all handshakes and code words, boy’s games. As if there weren’t enough cadavers to go around. Edinburgh’s Kirkyards are full of them, the poor drop like flies simply because the grand men of medicine refuse to listen to the ideas of a mere woman like Nightingale.”

  “She saved so many brave men in the Crimea,” Charlotte added.

  “Indeed. And this is where we shall save so many more men and women.”

  “Will we?”

  Charlotte felt quite caught up in the woman’s severe excitement, her enthusiasm and commitment infecting her like tuberculosis as if she had not washed her hands.