Plan for the Worst

by Jodi Taylor

  I shot down the corridor to Peterson’s office.

  ‘Quick, lend me a mug.’

  He has the reactions of a somnolent sloth. It was pitiful. ‘What?’

  ‘Give me a mug. Now.’

  He tossed one over. Empty, fortunately. I caught it and trotted back to my own office and made myself a quick cup of tea.

  I was feet up on the desk, reading a file when she came back. Her eyes lit up with triumph when she saw me drinking. She thought I’d caved and washed the mug. Then her eyes flitted to the cup of cold comfort still in pole position on the briefing table.

  She glared.

  I raised an eyebrow. The very epitome of cool smugness. Or possibly smug coolness. And then the phone rang and I remembered I’d forgotten to speak to Mrs Partridge about foisting Miss Lee on to someone else. Bollocks.

  It was Peterson – always ten minutes behind the rest of the world, bless him. ‘What are you doing with my mug?’

  ‘Oh, thank you, Mrs Partridge. That’s very accommodating of you.’

  ‘What?’ he said, baffled.

  ‘When can she start?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Oh no, she’s really looking forward to it.’

  ‘Looking forward to what? Have you been inhaling something in R&D again? You remember what happened last time.’

  ‘Yes, if you could let me know as soon as possible. I know she’s eager to take up her new position . . . Yes . . . Yes, of course, Mrs Partridge. Thank you very much.’

  I put the phone down on a squawking Peterson and picked up my tea again.

  Silence settled in the office and then she said, ‘I don’t know who you were talking to just now but I can see Mrs Partridge in the car park talking to Dr Bairstow and another woman.’

  I sighed. Bloody bollocking hell.

  An hour later, the phone rang again. This time it really was Mrs Partridge. I panicked utterly. Had she heard I’d been taking her name in vain? I said cautiously, ‘Hello?’

  ‘Dr Bairstow would like to see you again, Dr Maxwell.’ She put the phone down.

  I walked very slowly around the gallery, analysing the words and tone of voice. Had she sounded hostile? Threatening? Judgemental? Well, yes – she always sounded judgemental.

  I entered her office with no little trepidation. In fact, I think I once faced down a T-rex with less trepid.

  She waved me through. I gathered my courage. ‘Mrs Partridge, I don’t know if Miss Lee has been to see you, but I’ve been wondering if she wouldn’t be happier in another section. I know Mr Markham is requesting additional clerical assistance of some kind and I thought . . .’

  ‘Yes, she has,’ said Mrs Partridge, flipping through her scratchpad. ‘In fact, during her personal appraisal last week, I asked if she would be prepared to consider a change of scenery and she quite vehemently assured me that she very much enjoyed being a part of the History Department.’ She looked up at me and frowned. ‘Is there something I should know about? Has something occurred to change her mind?’

  ‘No,’ I said, backing away. Outgunned. Outmanoeuvred. Outwitted. Stitched up by the entire Admin Department.

  ‘You can go in now.’

  I escaped into Dr Bairstow’s office where things didn’t get any better.

  ‘Ah, Dr Maxwell,’ he said, as if I hadn’t seen him only an hour ago. ‘The Tower of London, 1483. The princes.’

  The correct response should have been a crisp, ‘Yes, sir,’ followed by my speedy exit, so I stood like an idiot and gawped at him.

  ‘The princes, sir?’

  ‘Mrs Brown has expressed an interest. Their last public appearance, I think. In June or July, perhaps.’

  My heart was thumping so fast I could hardly answer him and a cold feeling was gathering around my feet. ‘Who exactly will be taking part in this jump?’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, very casually. ‘A small party, I think. A very small party. We don’t want to cause any fuss.’

  I persevered. ‘How small a party, sir?’

  He ventured further into the unfamiliar realm of casual. ‘Oh . . . just two people, I think.’

  I gritted my teeth and prepared to jeopardise what is laughingly known as my career.

  ‘I cannot permit that, sir.’

  The temperature plummeted faster than the pound every time the government announces their plans for a strong and stable economic future. Frost gathered on the furniture.

  I stood my ground. ‘If, as I understand it, Lady . . . Mrs Brown is a member of the . . . let’s call it the Civil Service, sir, then the possible risks are too great to even contemplate . . .’

  ‘Dr Maxwell, I once swept up three members of the Civil Service and dropped them into the middle of Waterloo.’

  ‘To be accurate, sir, you were not actually representing St Mary’s at the time. St Mary’s didn’t exist. I admit, as a sales pitch, it was spectacular, but . . .’

  ‘Are you arguing with me, Dr Maxwell?’

  ‘Of course not, sir. I’m simply pointing out why I’m right.’

  Icicles formed on the ceiling. What a shit morning this was turning out to be. I stepped in with my master plan. Always ensure that after highlighting the problem you hit your boss with the solution. Works every time.

  ‘If I might suggest, sir – the addition of Mr Markham to the party would go a great deal towards setting my mind at rest.’

  ‘I am not sure that would have the same effect on mine.’

  But he was coming around. I could see it. Of course Security had to be involved. We would have a guest. A member of the government and one of our employers to boot. I know Dr Bairstow does have the occasional frivolous moment – he really had once dropped three important Civil Servants right in the middle of Waterloo. I’d met them there and trust me, they were having a great time – but that wasn’t the point. There was no way I was allowing him to canter off all on his own. I was right and he was wrong. And he knew it. And he knew I knew he knew I knew it.

  ‘And sir, I must insist on accompanying you.’ As if anyone was going off to see the Princes in the Tower without me. Never going to happen, people. ‘That way I can take charge of the pod and deal with all the other minor issues. Mr Markham can handle the security, which will leave you and Mrs Brown free to enjoy yourselves.’

  I tried to remember if, in the 15th century, the Tower had a moat for Markham to fall into – I was pretty sure it did, although given 15th-century sanitation it would probably be easier and more accurate to refer to it as an open sewer – but it did have wild animals, so there would be every opportunity for him to have ‘eaten by drunken elephant’ or ‘savaged by irritated bear’ on his death certificate. A challenge he would certainly do his best to rise to.

  Dr Bairstow was silent for a few seconds while I waited, Titanic-like, for the next iceberg – then he drew breath and said, ‘An excellent stratagem, Dr Maxwell. See to it, please.’

  15

  I called into the Library on the way back to my office, had a quick word with Dr Dowson and we called up everything on London, 1483. The climate – both political and meteorological – street maps, costume, everything I could think of. I needed to be completely on top of this one. It would be bad enough having the Boss with me, but having a senior government official as well was worse, and that that senior official was Celia North’s mother was terrifying. This assignment would be by the book. Absolutely perfect. Flawless in design and execution.

  Speaking of execution . . . I called up Markham.

  ‘Can we have a word?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said easily. I noticed the Bristol accent was back. ‘Which word would you like?’

  ‘Panic is a good one,’ I said. ‘Followed by disaster, catastrophe and the end of the world.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ he said, maddeningly unalarmed. ‘Has so
meone in the History Department broken a fingernail again? Where are you?’

  I thought suddenly of my office with that single, sinister mug of cold tea and had a brilliant idea.

  ‘I’m in the Library,’ I said. ‘I’ve got the Crete stuff all over my office so I thought I’d work in here.’ And then, feeling that perhaps this wasn’t a big enough incentive, ‘And it’s closer to the kitchen.’

  ‘On my way,’ he said.

  The needs of the Security Section are very basic.

  I bagged one of the tables by the recently repaired windows and Dr Dowson started to bring the stuff over.

  ‘So, what’s all this about?’ said Markham, sliding into place opposite me. And, for some reason, he’d brought Peterson.

  ‘Why have you brought him?’ I said, scowling at Peterson.

  ‘I am the Deputy Director of this organisation,’ he said haughtily. ‘I can go wherever I please. And when I come across the missing link here knuckling his way around the building without his handler, I follow him accordingly. What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I’m putting together a jump.’

  ‘Great. I’ll come too.’

  ‘No, you won’t, actually,’ I said. ‘It’s for Dr Bairstow and protocol says you can’t both go.’

  ‘Damn.’ He sulked.

  ‘So where are we off to?’ enquired Markham.

  ‘London, 1483,’ I said, and left it at that because Markham’s historical knowledge is suspiciously extensive. Peterson has never yet managed to catch him out, muttering, ‘Sinister’ every time Markham manages to know as much as we do. I waited, confident he was probably better informed about the Princes in the Tower than both of us put together.

  After a long pause, he said, ‘Yes? What about London, 1483?’

  ‘You know,’ I said, surprised that he didn’t. ‘The Princes in the Tower?’

  ‘What princes?’

  Peterson regarded him with some disbelief. ‘You’re pulling my plonker, aren’t you?’

  ‘Wouldn’t touch your plonker with oven gloves, mate. What happened to these princes, then?’

  ‘That’s what we’re going to find out,’ I said.

  ‘No,’ cried Peterson, in anguish. ‘Not without me.’

  ‘Of course you can come,’ I said soothingly. ‘Just pop upstairs and tell Dr Bairstow he can’t go because you want to. We’ll wait quietly here and see what happens, shall we?’

  Peterson unleashed some ghastly medieval curse that caused birds to drop from the sky and stomped off, hands in pockets, enveloped in a major sulk.

  Markham was frowning at the table. ‘Actually, I don’t think I can go, either. In fact, I’m sure I can’t.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘I’m not sure I can spare myself. Scott and Gregg are off to 19th-century China with Van Owen and Sykes, and Keller and Cox are going to Olympia with Sands, Atherton and Roberts. And Clerk and Prentiss are off to Ghent with Gallacio. I have to keep at least a skeleton staff here to maintain building security. Standing orders.’

  I thought for a bit. ‘I’ll push the Ghent jump back three days. We’ll be there and back in plenty of time.’

  He thought about that for a long while, frowning and drumming his fingers on the table, and finally nodded. ‘OK – as long as I can leave a minimum crew here at St Mary’s, I’m your man.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  I fired up the data table, all ready to begin building my data stack. ‘I know you were pulling Peterson’s plonker,’ I said, ‘oven gloves or no oven gloves. Tell me all about the Princes in the Tower.’

  ‘What all of it?’ he said. ‘Legends, rumours, half-truths, propaganda?’

  ‘Just the facts, ma’am.’

  ‘OK, then.’ He sat back, staring out of the window. ‘The Yorkists won the Wars of the Roses. Temporarily. Edward IV is king. Handsome – just like me. Popular – just like me. A big hit with the ladies – coincidentally, just like me. Has loads of kids but only two are important for our purposes – the two eldest boys – Edward and . . . Richard. Everything’s fine – happy family, peaceful country at long last – and then the king dies in . . . don’t tell me . . . 1483.’

  ‘April 1483,’ I said, although I’d had to look up the exact date.

  ‘Young Edward is carted off to the Tower – nothing unusual there – all kings traditionally spent the period before their coron­ation in the Tower – where he’s joined by his younger brother, Richard. Except the coronation never takes place. The boys are seen less and less frequently until, by the summer, they’ve disappeared completely, never to be seen again. Uncle Richard proclaims himself king and goes on to get the old heave-ho two years later at Bosworth. Remember that?’

  ‘Vividly,’ I said. And it was a vivid memory. Richard’s desperate face as he fought his way closer and closer to Henry Tudor – memorably described by North as a man who would drink his own bathwater.

  Markham continued. ‘Henry Tudor – a Lancastrian – seizes the throne, marries the Yorkist Princess Elizabeth and that’s the end of the Plantagenets, the Wars of the Roses, the Middle Ages – pretty much everything, really – and the beginning of the Tudors.’ He shifted in his chair. ‘Do I gather we’re off to suss things out?’

  ‘It’s just a quick jump. Straight in and straight back out again. Quite straightforward.’

  Do I never learn?

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘That’s the where and when and why. Now on to the who?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Who’s going?’

  ‘You. Me. Dr Bairstow and . . . one other.’ I stopped, not quite sure how to proceed.

  ‘And this person doesn’t have a name?’

  ‘Au contraire,’ I said. ‘This person has many names.’

  He cocked an eye at me. ‘It’s not Lady Blackbourne, is it? Or Mrs North, to use her domestic name.’

  I don’t know why I bother. ‘Er . . . yes.’

  He sat back, his face suddenly in shadow. ‘Well, this is going to be interesting. Just the four of us, then?’

  I nodded. ‘A small, discreet party.’

  ‘Quick and quiet.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  He shook his head, staring out of the window but saying nothing. It crossed my mind he looked very pale.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. Everything’s absolutely fine.’

  I spent the day on practicalities. I needed to organise costumes so I fired off a message to the Boss asking him to obtain Mrs Brown’s measurements. I had no idea how he would manage that and I offered no suggestions.

  For once, the landing site would be easy. I pulled up Tower schematics for the 15th century. The Bloody Tower – or the Garden Tower as it was called then – was easy to locate. Loads of people lived and worked in the Tower itself and a row of six tiny cottages, their backs to a high wall, ran in a line between the Wakefield Tower and the White Tower. I planned to plonk our pod discreetly on the end. We’d have the White Tower at our backs and command a view over the garden where the boys were last seen playing. We couldn’t be better placed. We might not even have to leave the pod. It was perfect.

  I don’t know where I get all this optimism from.

  I nipped off to have a word with Mrs Enderby. We agreed it would be a good idea to move up-market a little. Minor nobility, perhaps. Respectable enough not to be clapped in prison but not powerful enough to arouse suspicion. Or so I hoped.

  This was going well. I was moving smoothly through my to-do list. Personnel sorted. Landing site sorted. Costumes started. Next was choosing the pod. Consulting the rota, I decided on Number Four and wandered down to Hawking to have a word with Leon.

  I was picking my way carefully across the hangar, not tripping over odd bits of equipment or any of the umbilicals snaking across the floo
r, when I bumped into Adrian, doing something to the door of Number Five.

  ‘Try it now,’ he shouted to someone unseen.

  The door jerked once, stopped, jerked again, and stopped again.

  ‘Hang on. Hang on,’ he shouted. He rummaged carefully through a toolkit, eventually selecting a lump hammer. He hefted it carefully, seemed to consider for a moment, and then replaced it with a larger one. Peering closely at the door, he selected his spot and fetched it an almighty whack. The door jerked once and then opened smoothly. Problem solved. As any techie will always tell you: if in doubt – give it a clout. As true today as it’s always been.

  Leon looked up, saw me and waved. He and Dieter were inspecting something that looked as if a hairdryer had attempted to hump two spark plugs and failed, and was probably the most important piece of equipment in the entire pod. They both wore the traditional techie expressions of gloom and despondency. It was noticeable their expressions did not lighten as I approached.

  ‘Any chance of Number Four?’ I said to Leon, who was poking away at the part, but, as he explained later, poking it in a technical manner as opposed to just poking it any old how as, for example, an historian would do. Always supposing an historian would be allowed near it in the first place, given that it was a hideously expensive piece of kit and easily worth at least half a dozen of the aforementioned historians.

  He frowned and pulled out his scratchpad. ‘I don’t have anything on the schedule.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Last-minute jump.’

  ‘Does Dr Bairstow know?’

  ‘It’s his jump. London 1483.’

  ‘Oh. OK. Yes, I can have it ready by tomorrow. Is that all right?’

  ‘I don’t think we’ll be ready to go before next week anyway.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Me. Markham. The Boss and the Boss’s plus-one.’ And waited for the inevitable question.