The Derring-Do Club and the Empire of the Dead (16 page)

“I don’t mind making two trips.”

“Yes, but I can carry a rucksack.”

“I d– don’t–”

“That’s settled then.”

She added climbing boots and a tweed mountain dress to the shopping list.

Her rucksack was considerably lighter than Merryweather’s and he hired a trap to take them part of the way.

“We should leave the supplies here,” Merryweather suggested.

“Nonsense, Merry,” Georgina replied, “a little further.”

They moved along the path at the base of the cliff, working towards the ascent route that Merryweather had chosen, until at times they could spy the castle itself, high and foreboding, ahead.

“This will suit the others well,” Merryweather said.

“Perhaps a little further.”

They had a light lunch in a small bothy. Georgina fussed, making house as if this was their country cottage and not a shelter for climbers.

“I can hide the supplies here,” said Merryweather.

“What an excellent thought,” Georgina agreed, “and the rest further up the path.”

“B– b– but…”

It was bracing during the afternoon.

“M– Miss,” Merryweather said, “this really is far enough. We must be underneath the castle by now.”

The castle was indeed above them and she had taken advantage of his sweet nature for too long.

“We’ll find a suitable marker,” she said.

Merryweather looked utterly relieved.

They glanced around, and moved further along the path looking for some distinctive spot to hide the equipment. The mountain, close to, had an unfinished quality as if constructed by misshapen slabs of stone that didn’t fit, such were the cracks and crevices. The path had deposits of droppings from goats, although why any creature would try to live here was beyond Georgina. Everything was grim and grey, except for some dark blue heap ahead and some quite beautiful flowers that somehow eked out an existence in this godforsaken place; they were quite gorgeous, tiny and coloured in purples, reds, yellows and vivid white.

She bent to pick a tiny flower, plucking it from its two neighbours.

“Merry,” she said, “look at this, isn’t it beau–”

“Stay back!”

Georgina felt a chill of fear: “What is it?”

“Keep back, please my dear.”

Merryweather bent down over something dark blue, something that looked like material, something that, when she took a few steps closer, looked amusingly like a giant rag doll as the blue was a coat and underneath was a girl’s dress and–

Merryweather stood in front of her holding her back. She fruitlessly stuck his chest with her fists and tried to sidestep around him. He held her until her energy waned.

“Is it?” she asked.

“She’s… it’s not a pretty sight.”

“Her coat will have a name badge sewn into it… at the back.”

“Wait here. Will you wait here?”

“Yes.”

Merryweather was a long time as he carefully, ever so gently, examined the body, shifting the coat, bending closer to read. When he came back, he looked ashen. Georgina knew. She’d known as soon as she’d seen the dark blue coat, just as she’d known ever since she’d sat in her sister’s bedroom… but she waited for Merryweather to confirm the inevitable.

“Yes,” he said simply. “It says C. Deering–Dolittle.”

“Charl… oh god, Lottie, our little Lottie.”

The wind stung her eyes.

After a long time, Merryweather went back to ‘make her comfortable’. He piled loose rocks on top and Georgina went to help him once he’d covered her ruined face. When she went to collect a suitable rock, she saw that she had crushed the pretty mountain flower in her hand. She cried then, feeling that it was such a shame that something so fragile had been destroyed, because she simply couldn’t bring herself to cope with the bigger trauma.

When they’d finished, they stood quietly side–by–side, neither speaking. The pile of rocks was so very obviously a grave.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Georgina said, and thought that ‘Merry’ was not the word to use, so instead, she added: “Arthur.”

“Even so, I’m sorry. We’ll go back.”

“No… there’s still Earnestine to account for.”

She glanced around at all the jumbled rocks and boulders with so many nooks and crannies that could all hide a body.

Merryweather then put his hand on her shoulder: “You’re very brave,” he said, but Georgina didn’t feel brave; she just felt empty. Presently, on feet that were numb, they carried on along the path and left the pretty flowers behind.

Miss Charlotte

“The flowers are dead.”?

The poor woman looked ill, her eyes sunken and her skin pale. Charlotte, in her role as a Princess, had so far been introduced to one future in–law, the dowager Gräfin, now she had been taken to the Queen. The King was not available.

Charlotte curtseyed: “Your Majesty.”

The woman did not reply and Charlotte felt uncomfortable: perhaps she should say something, but there was a rule about only speaking when spoken to, or something. The woman had dark eyes, deep red lips and her hair, despite being streaked with silver, still retained rich black tones.

“You’re the Queen,” she blurted.

“I am not a real Queen,” the woman replied, haltingly. Charlotte wondered if she should admit that she wasn’t a real Princess, but the woman continued: “I am a Contessa.”

“Your husband is the King.”

“He is a Crown Prince, if that; they call him a King, but that is ambition.”

“I’m a Princess.”

“You are to marry Gustav or Pieter?”

“Pieter, Prince Pieter.”

“You are lucky, he takes after my predecessor’s side of the family.”

“I’ve not met him yet.”

The Queen looked out of the window: “We have no choice.”

“Exciting though.”

“So I thought, but here everything is death,” the Queen said, and she pointed at the flowers to emphasise her point: the vase was full of wilting and brown stems. “I long now to see vineyards and wheat fields. Across the river. Here everything is death.”

Charlotte could see only mountains, but she realised that this smaller window faced south and beyond there were probably vineyards, wheat fields and rivers. She remembered from school that the major imports and exports of Austro–Hungary were very tedious and boring.

“Will you sit and have a drink with me?”

“If you wish,” said Charlotte, sitting opposite.

“Thank you.”

“What’s this?” Charlotte reached forward to pick up the woman’s glass. She intended to sniff the mixture, expecting it to be some vile concoction, but the woman slapped her hand knocking the glass across the room.

It smashed into sharp fragments against a sideboard.

“No! It is a concoction of my Doctor’s for my…” The Queen fanned her face with her hand to indicate an illness.

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I. Please, fetch the sangria… no, there is only schnapps.”

Charlotte nodded and searched the room finding a low teak cabinet full of bottles, each vying to be more ostentatious than the others with eagles, crests and coats of arms. Finally, she found one that appeared to say schnapps and picked two small glasses.

“May I have a larger glass?” the Contessa asked.

Charlotte nodded and returned with two larger glasses. The Queen had struggled with the bottle.

“Please, pour in the smaller glasses.”

Charlotte did so.

“A generous measure,” the Queen said. “My cup overflows.”

Charlotte picked one and sniffed, it smelt oily and pungent. The Queen was pointing at a bag and Charlotte took the hint. There was another bottle there, the sort that pharmacists used. Charlotte poured this into the Queen’s larger glass under the woman’s hovering direction. She herself topped it up with her schnapps.

Charlotte went to put the tonic back in the woman’s bag.

“Keep it,” the Contessa said. “I have no more need of it.”

“Isn’t it your tonic?”

“It is yours now, drink it when you need it. Only then.”

“Does it taste nice?”

“I imagine it tastes bitter.”

“I… thank you.”

“The dowager wanted another son in the family portfolio.”

Charlotte didn’t know what to say, so she mumbled: “That’s nice.”

The Queen raised her glass: “Salud!”

“Your health.”

The Queen laughed and choked, holding her hand up to ward off Charlotte’s help, and then she drank, a long careful draught draining her glass completely. Charlotte knocked hers back, becoming utterly startled as the liquid burnt the inside of her mouth and set fire to her throat. She tried to say something but only managed a half strangled squeak. It seemed incredible that people would drink schnapps for pleasure.

The Queen slumped, utterly finished: her glass fell from her hand.

Charlotte rushed around the table to her side catching her before she pitched off the back of the divan. The woman face was ashen, her lips blue even beneath the thick red lipstick, and her breathing was laboured.

“Oh! I’ll get help.”

“No, please, hide the bottle.”

Charlotte saw the tonic on the table and understood: it was poison.

“You… killed yourself?”

“There are fates worse than death.”

“I’ll get help.”

“No, let me rot.”

Charlotte eased her down into a lying position, and then ran to the door. Outside there were a few maids chatting.

“Get help!” she shouted.

The women pretended not to understand.

“Help! The Queen has taken ill. Now!”

The women beetled away.

Back in the room, the Queen was much worse, her life ebbing away. Charlotte held her hand, an icy collection of bones now.

“Don’t…”

“Quiet now, Contessa, save your strength.”

The Queen grabbed at Charlotte’s hair, feebly pulling her closer. Charlotte smelt the schnapps on her breath and something else.

“Don’t let… Mordant, keep… Doctor Death from… me.”

The door opened behind her, but Charlotte couldn’t pull her head away to look.

“I see vineyards and wheat…”

The Queen’s eyes stopped moving and any sparkle was merely the reflection of the candles. Her gaze had ended at the south window with its view of harsh rock walls.

Charlotte was pulled roughly away and the Vögte leant over the Queen, his hand going to her throat to feel for a pulse.

“She is dead,” he said.

“There are fates worse…” Charlotte whispered to herself.

“What was that?” the Vögte demanded.

“Something she said.”

Charlotte couldn’t drag her attention away from the tonic bottle that was still on the table. It appeared so harmless next to the tall majestic German schnapps, and yet so deadly. As others arrived, Charlotte was pushed aside and ended up by the window.

The Graf was shouting: “Where’s Mordant!”

Prince Pieter was there and so was his Secretary, Earnestine, who stayed by the door. She looked angry, her face betraying her assumption that this was all Charlotte’s fault, which this time it absolutely was not.

Finally, Doctor Mordant arrived and shouldered her way to the front. She examined the body and then almost psychically went to the bottle of tonic. She sniffed it.

“Dead,” she said finally.

Pieter’s voice cracked: “Mother! Do something!”

“Get her to my laboratory, there’s time and I’ve galvanic charge.”

A few soldiers came forward to cradle the corpse in their arms.

“No,” Pieter cried out, trying to stop them: “Not that.”

“Brother, she has her duty.”

“She’s not your mother.”

“She’s not yours either. Our real mother knew her duty.”

Held back by Graf Gustav, Pieter could do nothing to stop the stretcher bearers gathering up the dead woman.

“Let her rest in peace,” Pieter pleaded.

“Halt!” The Dowager stood by the threshold, stick in hand. “Leave her. She is dead. We can turn this to our advantage.”

“Now is not the time for the Great Plan,” Pieter said.

“Now is exactly the time.”

The Dowager glanced around and Earnestine found a chair for her. She sat; even lowered she dominated the room with her presence.

“With the Contessa dead, the King is free to marry again,” the crone said. “This leaves a piece to gain a connection with the House of Holstein–Gottorp–Romanov.”

“My father cannot travel to Moscow,” Pieter protested.

“Not him, you Pieter.”

“But…”

“Nicholas has three daughters: Olga, Tatiana and Maria, if you–”

Pieter went over to the dowager: “They are babies.”

“Olga is five, you can be betrothed and wait a few years, six or seven at the most.”

Pieter open his mouth to object again, but the dowager gripped his jacket and pushed her face against his, so close that he tried to squirm away from her breath.

“Patience, Pieter, patience – this is the long game, the Great Game, and I have waited so long, so very long, and given up so much: children of my own, who would have weakened our line and spread our influence too thin. No, you, my godson, will join our house with that of the Great Russian Empire. The world, Pieter, the world will be ours.”

Pieter swallowed and gestured towards Charlotte: “What of her House? We need that connection too.”

“Not as much, and we can still keep her in the family.”

“How?”

“She can marry your father.”

Pieter jerked back, a full stride, enough to rip his uniform from the old woman’s grip. The gold aiguillettes came loose and hung down forlorn, dangling like untied cords.

He looked at Charlotte for the first time.

“She’s too… innocent.”

“She is Royalty, she will have to adapt.”

“It’s too cruel.”

“Nothing is too cruel.”

The old woman moved towards Charlotte like some harbinger, her bony hands folding in front of her like the wings of a bat.

“My dear,” she said, “you are not to marry this Prince, but the Crown Prince, the King himself.”

“Is he important?” Charlotte asked.

“The most important man in this whole country.”

“Is he handsome?”

“He was once described as the most athletic and vital man in the whole of Christendom.”