The Derring-Do Club and the Year of the Chrononauts by David Wake

door knob and swung it open in a single gesture.
    The room was occupied and everyone turned to face her.
    Loudly, the chimes sounded nine times, forcing everyone to wait, counting in their heads to a number which they were all probably well aware.
    It gave Georgina a chance to study the one man and three women.
    The man was old and fat with a handlebar moustache, red features and a military bearing, with an appalling yellow waistcoat beneath open, double breasted jacket. The women were as different from each other as it seemed possible to be, in the sense that the eldest was staid and cautiously dressed in a tweed outfit that was protected by an apron; the second was flamboyant, dressed in red and wearing a long lace veil that failed to hide her blood red lips and beet juice rouged cheeks; and, finally, trying to hide in a large armchair was a nervous specimen, much younger and dressed in white. Georgina was reminded of three witches: the crone, the mother and the virgin.
    The last chime faded away.
    “Ah ha! Our guest,” said the military man. He waddled over, took his thumbs out of his waistcoat pockets and put out his hand. Georgina took hold and the man simply held her hand in an unctuous manner with a sweaty, cold palm. “I’m Colonel Fitzwilliam, at your service.”
    “Colonel,” Georgina said as she tried to slip out of his grasp.
    “Allow me to introduce everyone,” he continued. “This is the indispensable Mrs Jago, who keeps everything in order.”
    “Mrs Jago,” said Georgina, smiling to the stern old woman in the apron. This was the woman, who had piled so much reluctance into letting her in last night. This morning Mrs Jago ladled out a stony silence.
    The Colonel continued: “And Miss Millicent.”
    The young woman bobbed, looked embarrassed and mumbled something into her handkerchief.
    “And finally, we are honoured to have staying with us, the great Mrs Falcone!”
    The Colonel let go of Georgina’s hand to open his arms wide to welcome the strange Mrs Falcone. He beamed at the flamboyant woman as Georgina wiped her hand on her dress.
    Mrs Falcone accepted the Colonel’s attention with mock humility and then turned to Georgina: “And you?”
    “Oh, I’m Georgina Deering–Dolittle; I mean, that is to say Mrs Arth–”
    “Because we are so very pleased that you are paying us a short visit.”
    “Thank you.”
    “When are you leaving, Miss?”
    “Well that depends,” Georgina replied, “and it’s Mrs. You see, I am Mrs Arthur–”
    “Really?”
    “Merryweather!”
    “Quite a claim.”
    Georgina wasn’t sure what to say, so she looked about for breakfast. There were plates, but the food seemed to be absent.
    “I wondered…” Georgina said, pointing at the empty sideboard.
    “Breakfast finishes at nine promptly,” said Mrs Jago, the housekeeper.
    “But the dishes must have been cleared away before nine, because I arrived at exactly nine.”
    “No–one else wanted any more, Miss.”
    Georgina wasn’t used to staff standing firm in quite such an obnoxious manner: “It’s Ma’am. I’m Mrs Arth–”
    “You have no right to be here, Miss.”
    “I have every right according to–”
    Mrs Falcone butted in: “There are other claims. The Colonel’s for example.”
    The Colonel smiled deprecatingly.
    “Every right according to Messrs Tumble, Judd & Babcock.”
    “Tumble’s an idiot,” said Mrs Jago, “everyone knows that, and Babcock drinks.”
    “And, pray, what is your position here, exactly?”
    “I am Jago, the housekeeper, Miss.”
    “And I am the mistress of the house, so I would appreciate it, if you would be civil!”
    “I am perfectly civil. I am known for my civility. Everyone knows that, Miss.”
    “The correct form of address is ‘Ma’am’.”
    “Whatever you say, Miss. ”
    “Ma’am… ‘em’, ‘ay’, ‘…arm’ – ‘ma’am’, I am Mrs Arthur Merryweather and Magdalene Chase is–”
    “You are not!”
    “I am!”
    Mrs Falcone stepped