by Jodi Taylor
I ran back into the Library.
Dr Dowson was bending over something on the floor. He straightened up, clutching . . . clutching a drumstick.
He tapped it gently on a table, gazed at it, bemused, and then, suddenly, enlightenment dawned. Uttering a shriek of rage, he rummaged furiously in the remains of a cupboard, pulled out a portable megaphone – why would anyone have a megaphone in a library? How loudly do you need to shout ‘shush’? – and switched it on, ignoring the ear-bleeding screech of feedback. Kicking his way out through the remains of the windows like a professional, he emerged outside. I followed him. Things weren’t much better out here. Fragments of what I took to be the professor’s reinforced leather lay everywhere and the cricket screens were just a mixture of memory and matchwood.
I was looking around to see if anyone was hurt when Dr Bairstow’s voice in my ear requested the pleasure of my company at my earliest convenience. Just for once, however, he wasn’t my immediate priority.
Professor Rapson and his team were standing by the now inactive rapid chicken-firing gun, staring around, apparently stunned. Here at St Mary’s, the collective noun for R&D is a bickering. They were bickering now.
‘Not my fault.’
‘What happened?’
‘I don’t know. How should I know?’
‘I don’t understand what went wrong.’
And all the other well-known R&D phrases and sayings. No one appeared to be hurt out here, either. Although not for much longer because Dr Dowson was a man on a mission.
Sands and Atherton had followed me outside. As Dr Dowson set off, seeking what he might devour, Sands had the presence of mind to grab one arm, Atherton the other. They stood no chance. Dr Dowson was off. Towing two historians as if they were paper streamers, he confronted the professor, still standing, bemused, like Dido among the ruins of Carthage.
From a distance of considerably less than eight feet away, he raised the megaphone. His words reverberated around three counties and caused the professor to stagger backwards in shock.
‘ANDREW, YOU OLD FOOL. YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO DEFROST THE BLOODY CHICKENS FIRST.’
In my ear, Dr Bairstow said, ‘Ah. Mystery solved. As you were, Dr Maxwell.’
9
It took some time to put that little mishap behind us. The cricket club were, not unnaturally, slightly displeased and I believe sizeable sums of money had to change hands.
Placating a thoroughly distressed Dr Dowson took considerably longer, but after visits by what seemed like every glazier, joiner and plasterer in the county and beyond, the dust, literally, settled. He requested – and was granted – a considerable increase in that year’s book budget and cheered up immediately. I do sometimes wonder if, unknown to the rest of us, he and the professor aren’t working quietly together to achieve their own ends. God help us all if they are. Work on the reinforced leather helmets was discontinued by order of Dr Bairstow and everyone’s life expectancy increased accordingly.
About a week later I was leaning on the banisters looking down into the Great Hall, watching the History Department playing nicely with itself, when I became aware of Peterson standing next to me.
I said, ‘Good afternoon,’ and waited for his breezy, ‘What ho.’
It never came. He said nothing – nothing at all – but put his hand on my forearm. Not a casual gesture. His hand closed around my wrist. My spidey-senses tingled.
‘What’s going on?’
He didn’t look at me. To all intents and purposes, we were just two senior officers indulging in the traditional senior officer pastime of watching the lesser ranks do all the work.
‘Max – don’t move. Don’t say a word. Stay still and listen. We have a problem.’
Something in his voice kept me still and listening.
Markham appeared on my other side. He too stood very close, resting his forearms casually on the banisters, staring down into the Great Hall, and spoke without looking at me. ‘Max – you need to stay calm.’
Apprehension seized me. I said again, ‘What’s going on?’
Peterson tightened his grip on my forearm. ‘The Time Police are here.’
I wheeled on Markham. ‘Why aren’t you shooting them? Dr Bairstow gave instructions . . . I was there . . .’
‘They’re here officially. They have all the correct paperwork. And they’ve sent Ellis so they obviously don’t want trouble.’
I went cold all over. I thought everything had been going too well. Of course the Time Police were never going to let Matthew go that easily. They’d given everything time to settle down, for us to drop our guard, and then hit us with this surprise attack.
I tried to pull my arm away but Peterson wasn’t letting go. I said fiercely, ‘Let me go. I have to find Matthew.’
‘He’s in R&D,’ said Markham quietly. ‘With Lingoss on one side of him and Evans on the other. Professor Penrose is there as well. He’s being kept busy and doesn’t even know the Time Police are here.’
I was slightly reassured. Lingoss is one of the most resourceful people I know. Anyone who dyes her hair blue to make a point to her teacher isn’t going to be easily thrown off her stride. And Evans is built like a tank. Matthew was probably safer with them than with me. Although that didn’t mean I shouldn’t get myself into R&D as quickly as possible.
‘I should go to him,’ I said.
Not looking at me, Markham said, ‘It’s not Matthew they want.’
What? I stopped to think. Why wouldn’t they want Matthew? And then I had it. It was me who had defied the Time Police. It was me they wanted.
‘It’s me, isn’t it? They want me?’
‘No – not you.’
I was baffled. ‘So – who then?’
The pressure on my arm increased. ‘It’s Leon. They’ve come for Leon.’
For a moment I couldn’t take it in. Leon? Why would they want Leon? Of all of us – why on earth would they want Leon? Yes, it had been Leon who removed Matthew, but in that case, why not Dr Bairstow, who actually gave the order, as well?
I tried to twist my arm free. ‘What’s going on? Let me go.’
‘Hush, Max,’ said Peterson. ‘Say nothing. Don’t make things any worse.’
I was still pulling angrily at my arm but he wasn’t letting go. ‘How could they be any worse?’
Markham shook his head. ‘Don’t know yet. Stay here, now.’
Dr Bairstow emerged from his office, paused on the gallery and stared around for a moment. His gaze passed over me with no change of expression but he knew I was there. Standing alongside him was Captain Ellis of the Time Police. I’d last seen him when he dumped Dr Bairstow and me back at St Mary’s while Leon quietly stole Matthew out from under their noses. It would be fair to say there had been some bad feeling between us.
I was all set to pick up where Ellis and I had left off when Markham said quietly, ‘Stand still, Max. Don’t give the bastards any cause,’ and went to join them. They spoke for a moment and then the three of them passed us in silence. In equal silence we watched them make their way downstairs into the Hall.
Peterson was still pinning my arm to the banister. ‘Say nothing, Max. Just watch.’
I was quietly frantic. ‘Watch what?’
‘I don’t know. Listen. They’re coming now.’
Work had ground to a halt in the Hall. Well, it doesn’t take much. In the silence we could hear marching feet drawing closer. Heads lifted. People looked around, trying to identify the source of the sound, not knowing what was going on. Just like me. I had no idea what was going on, either.
The marching footsteps were almost upon us.
Four men – no, five men – appeared. Four Time Police officers and Leon. He was handcuffed with one officer on each side of him, their hands on his shoulders, with another two bringing up the rear, weapons drawn. I c
ouldn’t believe it.
They halted in the middle of the Hall. More silence fell. The moment dragged on and on.
I remember that Leon never looked at me once. Not once. I wasn’t sure he even knew I was there. All his attention was on Dr Bairstow who stood silently nearby. No one moved. Even the kitchen noises had ceased. Staff from Wardrobe and R&D stood in their doorways, silently watching. Everyone was watching and waiting.
Captain Ellis moved to stand in front of Leon and cleared his throat. Whatever it was – this was serious. Ellis’s voice echoed around the Hall.
‘Leon Farrell. You are charged with gross misconduct while holding the office of Chief Technical Officer within the organisation known as the Institute of Historical Research at St Mary’s Priory, in that, further to the murder of Monique de Maupassant, and contrary to specific legislation prohibiting the same, that with intent to escape the consequences of a crime – namely the murder of Monique de Maupassant – you concealed yourself in a time other than your own.’
His words dropped into a dark hole of incomprehension. Everyone was staring at Leon, who was whiter than I’d ever seen him. He kept his eyes on Dr Bairstow.
Both Markham and Peterson had counselled me to say nothing but I couldn’t have spoken anyway. My mouth was dry. My heart was hurting me. I can’t remember if I was breathing. It was as if the ground had opened beneath my feet. The bedrock of my life had crumbled away and I was tumbling into the dark. Leon was not a murderer. He couldn’t be.
I knew he’d been married before. To Monique de Maupassant. And she’d left him. Abruptly and without warning. He’d come home from work one day to find her gone. He never spoke of it. They’d had two children – both boys, Alex and Stevie – and both had died tragically in an epidemic a long time ago in the future. Leon had told me this just after I first came to St Mary’s. What had he said? I wracked my brains for the words he had used.
He’d admitted he’d gone looking for her – something that probably, in the white-hot grief of losing his sons, hadn’t been a good idea. He’d told me he’d nearly torn France apart in his search for Monique but fortunately never found her. He’d said that given the combination of alcohol and the boiling rage inside him, that had been just as well. Other than that, he never talked about it and I’d never asked any questions. Never probed any further. I’d taken everything he said as the truth. And now they were telling me that Monique had been murdered and that Leon had done it and then hidden in this time to escape the consequences. That he was a criminal. A murderer.
Suddenly, a whole lot of things looked different. Leon and Dr Bairstow are from the future. Leon had joined St Mary’s after the death of his family. He’d volunteered to jump back in time to help found St Mary’s. He’d admitted he had nothing left to live for in his own time. That this was a new start for him. A new life. A chance to begin again. The thought shouldered itself to the front of my brain. Had it also been an ideal hiding place?
Leon has a temper. He has it under control these days, but when he was younger . . . his emotions raw from the loss of his sons – who turned out not to be his sons because, not to put too fine a point on it, our Monique had been a bit of a tramp – and the death of his adored mother . . . and he’d been drinking . . . massively . . . He admitted he’d gone looking for Monique. He’d told me he never found her. But suppose . . . just suppose . . . he had . . .
And then I shook my head. That was rubbish. Utter rubbish. This was Leon. Damaged? Yes, a little bit. Hot-tempered? Yes, a little bit. A murderer? No. Never. Not in a million years. I was ashamed of myself for even thinking it.
Down in the Hall, a shocked silence had fallen. People were looking at each other. I don’t think anyone knew what to do and then Dr Bairstow said, ‘Your warrant, Captain, if you please.’
Ellis had obviously expected this because he’d brought a file with him. He held it out to Dr Bairstow, who stared at it for a moment and then indicated he should pass it to Markham.
Every eye in the place was on him but he took the file, walked a few paces apart, propped his bum against a table, opened it up and began to read. He took his time. He wouldn’t be rushed. He started at the beginning and he read every page. Occasionally he flicked back to refer to something on previous pages. It took him a while. It was a fat file and he was thorough. There were photographs and reports and diagrams, all of which, one by one, he carefully scanned. He made everyone wait, reading the whole thing from beginning to end, before closing it up and nodding to Dr Bairstow.
‘Everything appears to be in order, sir.’
‘Thank you, Mr Markham. Very well, Captain. Carry on.’ Dr Bairstow stepped back.
I couldn’t believe it. He was letting them take Leon away. Why would he do that? And so was Markham. This was Leon. What was the matter with these people?
I tried to gather myself to get away from Peterson but he had hold of my wrist, pinning it to the banisters, and he wasn’t letting go. A weak arm he might have, but he wasn’t having any difficulty holding me in place. I wriggled and tried to pull away again.
‘Quiet,’ he said, his mouth to my ear.
Down in the Hall they were marching Leon towards the front doors. He still hadn’t looked up at me. They were taking him away. They’d take him back to TPHQ and they’d execute him because the penalty for hiding in time is death. Obviously, they’d have to wait until he was found guilty of Monique’s murder although they didn’t seem to be in any doubt about that. I wondered what was in that file. The evidence must be overwhelming for Dr Bairstow and Markham to let them take Leon away without a fight. I didn’t know whether murder was still a capital crime in the future, but that wasn’t important. Under Time Police jurisdiction, hiding in time to escape the consequences of an illegal act certainly was.
Leon was nearly at the doors. I tried to dig Peterson’s fingers off my wrist. I wasn’t gentle. It would have hurt him.
‘Wait,’ he whispered. ‘Let’s see what happens.’
I turned on him, silently conveying scorching rage, impatience, panic, fear and any other emotion you care to name. He ignored all of it, whispering in my ear, ‘I want to see what happens to that file Captain Ellis appears to have so carefully forgotten all about.’
I went rigid. He had, hadn’t he. Markham had casually laid it down on the table and was watching Ellis issue instructions to his men. It lay now, one file among many, next to Markham, who’d folded his arms and wasn’t even looking at it. No one appeared to be taking any notice of it at all, even though to me it was glowing like a beacon on a dark night. How could anyone not notice that big black folder? I looked away quickly before anyone saw me staring at it.
The Time Police were at the doors to the vestibule. In a moment Leon would be gone. Possibly forever and no one was doing anything.
I looked back. Markham hadn’t moved but the file had disappeared. No one’s ever worked out how he does that.
‘Now,’ said Peterson, finally releasing me – we had a long talk about the bruises afterwards – ‘make it look good.’
I didn’t have to try. ‘No! Leon! You can’t do this. Wait!’
Not one of them looked back. Not even Leon. Ellis held open the doors. They marched him through. Ellis let the door close and Leon was gone.
Back in the Hall, complete silence reigned. No one even moved. No one looked at anyone else. We stood like statues. As if we were all under a spell. Then Markham nodded to Cox and Gallacio, two members of the Security Section, who silently followed the Time Police and their prisoner out of the door. To check they were safely off the premises, I suspected.
I raced down the stairs, still shouting, and Markham fielded me neatly as I went past. He’s much stronger than he looks. I went from flat out to dead stop in a second. I swear I actually felt my spleen bounce.
Dr Bairstow held up his hand. No one moved. Including me. My mind was in turmoil. What wa
s going on? In less than fifteen minutes the Time Police had breezed in, arrested Leon and taken him away to an uncertain future. And we’d done nothing. Nothing at all.
The doors opened again and Cox entered, located Markham and said, ‘Just the one pod, sir, and they’ve gone.’
Dr Bairstow began to limp towards the stairs. ‘Mr Markham, Dr Peterson, Dr Maxwell, my office, please.’
Markham had reacquired the file. I honestly didn’t see where he got it from. One minute the only thing he was clutching was me and the next minute it was safely tucked under his arm.
Once in his office, Dr Bairstow wasted no time. ‘Well, Mr Markham?’
Markham had already seated himself at Dr Bairstow’s briefing table, and was slowly working his way through the file again, laying the sheets out neatly across the table.
‘If I could have a moment, please, sir.’ And again, he took his time, scanning every piece of paper and laying them on the table in front of him. Every image, every report, every photograph.
We waited in silence.
Eventually, he looked up. ‘It’s genuine and it’s legitimate, sir. As I thought, we have no grounds to challenge the arrest. The Time Police have acted within the limits of their authority.’
Dr Bairstow nodded. ‘I never doubted it. They would take extra care over a matter this sensitive. To be successfully challenged by St Mary’s would do their authority no good at all.’
Markham was reassembling the file. ‘Sir, according to their paperwork, it is not the murder of Monique de Maupassant for which Leon has been arrested. The charge is that of attempting to escape justice by concealing himself in time. Always a big no-no, as they frequently tell us.’
‘Wait,’ said Peterson. ‘Are you saying that the murder is . . . unimportant?’
Still tidying the file, Markham nodded. ‘From their point of view – yes.’
I was trying to lash my brain into some sort of activity again. ‘So,’ I said slowly, ‘if he’s found innocent of the murder, then they can’t hold him. He hasn’t broken Time Police law.’