by Jodi Taylor
‘An excellent idea, Dr Peterson, but we should beware of opening whole new cans of worms. It is very possible the government would consider those items to belong to them, rather than the country in which the artefacts are discovered. There could be controversy. There might even be unpleasantness.’
‘With respect, sir, that would not be St Mary’s problem. We simply locate the items. What happens to them afterwards would not be our concern. In the same way a doctor gives her patient a new heart but does not necessarily impose any moral or social obligations on that patient to render themselves worthy of a new heart.’
‘The logic of your argument is not lost on me, Dr Peterson. And, in the short term, such a course of action would, I think, keep those in charge of the country happy. For a while. People rarely object to additional fame and fortune. Their demands would increase, I’m sure, and to the detriment of our normal duties, but we should be able to buy ourselves a little time. Perhaps you and Dr Maxwell could put your heads together over the next few weeks.’
We nodded. He picked up another file. ‘In the meantime, I have appointed Mr Evans as our temporary Head of Security. I shall make the announcement tomorrow. Should anyone ask, Mr Markham and his family are on parental leave and we expect they’ll send us a postcard in due course. I don’t see that we can do much more to protect ourselves. Not until a tangible threat materialises.’
And materialise it did. The very next day.
The following morning, I was down in the Great Hall with the rest of my department, all of us still wading through the Crete stuff. Notes, recordings, sketches, holos, everything. Our bull-leaping holo was particularly spectacular. We’d watched it several times – once for the actual bull-leaping – once to focus on the spectators, their dress, social status, ethnicity and so on – and once to concentrate on the king, the priestess, and their court in the royal box. The Minoans had been a matriarchal society, with women taking precedence over men, and this had led to some discussion. Why there? Was it because Crete was an island? Was it because they were a trading nation and in permanent contact with other cultures? In which case, why hadn’t these cultures adopted Minoan beliefs? The discussion became brisk. That’s St Mary’s speak for no one had actually come to blows yet. When the discussion became classified as vigorous, I would probably have to step in.
It was a perfectly normal day – Peterson was out of the way in his office, doing whatever it is Deputy Directors do all day long. I’ve never been able to work it out and I suspect he doesn’t know, either. Our liaison officer, Kalinda Black, was in her office, hopefully massively exaggerating our achievements to our overlords at Thirsk and securing our funding for the next twelve months. Dr Dowson was assisting the History Department in sorting through our written material. I’d no idea where Professor Rapson was but he was probably with Miss Lingoss so I wasn’t too concerned. Nothing was on fire. No sinister green gas was seeping through the building melting everything in its path. Bashford was actually present and conscious. Everything was lovely – St Mary’s was functioning exactly as it should do and there was toad-in-the-hole for lunch. You see – we can do it when we try.
I knew a visitor had arrived but I was concentrating on my last recording – the giant tsunami heading towards Crete to bring death and destruction on a massive scale – and, as usual when major events occurred at St Mary’s, I was looking in completely the wrong direction.
I was recalled from scenes of the island’s utter devastation by Dr Bairstow’s voice in my ear requesting the pleasure of my company. My conscience was clear – both on my own account and that of my department because we hadn’t been back from Crete long enough to get into any real trouble – so I bounded confidently up the stairs to his office. Mrs Partridge waved me through.
Dr Bairstow had a guest. A square, stocky woman with crinkly brown hair and a professionally blank expression. I thought she looked like an athlete. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on her – it was all muscle. I suddenly became very conscious there wasn’t an ounce of muscle on me – it was all fat.
‘Dr Maxwell, may I introduce Captain Hyssop, seconded from the army to be our temporary Head of Security and . . .’
Her head snapped up. ‘With respect, sir, not temporary. I am your new Head of Security. As my papers show.’
I’m an historian and I know an argument when I’ve just walked into the middle of one. This was one for Dr Bairstow to deal with.
‘I’m sure they do, Captain, but St Mary’s already has a Head of Security.’
‘Who is absent, sir.’
‘Who is on perfectly legitimate parental leave. From which he will return. To resume his position. As Head of Security.’
If it hadn’t been so serious it would have been funny. I suspected I was in a room with two people accustomed to getting their way in all things. I watched with interest to see who would prevail. Mrs Partridge had also found an excuse to be present and was shuffling files on Dr Bairstow’s briefing table.
I had no idea how the powers that be knew St Mary’s was temporarily without its official Head of Security. I suspected that, for all our appearance of autonomy, Dr Bairstow was required to send regular reports to someone or other. Probably via Thirsk. I should imagine there’s not much goes on here that someone isn’t aware of – and it’s not as if we’re the most discreet organisation in the world. Just talk to Mrs Huntley-Palmer about the incident at the village fête. And it’s not as if they were even our goats.
The implications were beginning to sink in. This was serious. Head of Security is a key post. Presumably this Hyssop person hadn’t been just passing and decided to wander in on the off-chance of a job. She was an official but unknown quantity. I could well understand Dr Bairstow’s . . . disquiet. He selects his own people. Always has done. His face, as usual, gave nothing away, but the signs were there if you knew what to look for and I was an expert. He was seriously not happy.
I decided to weigh in.
‘I’m sorry, sir. I’m confused. Isn’t Mr Evans our acting Head of Security? Do we actually need another Head of Security? Because then we will have three. Heads of Security, I mean. Where will we put them all? Will there be a rota?’
Hyssop frowned at me. ‘Why would you need a rota?’
Great – a Head of Security without a sense of humour. This should be interesting.
‘Actually,’ I said, ‘now I come to think of it – it’s four.’
‘What is?’
‘Four Heads of Security. I forgot Major Guthrie down in the village.’ I looked at Dr Bairstow. ‘Is this one of those situations where we’re about to find ourselves with more Heads of Security than actual people to be Head of Security over, sir?’
Fortunately, no one was taking any notice of me.
Dr Bairstow said evenly, ‘Captain, your papers say you are here as a replacement for Mr Markham. Therefore, when Mr Markham returns you will no longer be his replacement. You are, therefore, temporary.’
‘If Mr Markham does not return then I will no longer be temporary.’
‘Obviously, Captain, you are privy to information I do not possess. Are you so certain Markham will not return?’ He peered over his spectacles at her. ‘Do you, perhaps, know something we do not?’
She hesitated for a moment and then said, ‘It is felt there is a possibility Mr Markham will become engrossed in his new responsibilities and not wish to return to St Mary’s.’
Dr Bairstow smiled his spider smile. The one inviting the unwary fly into his parlour. ‘I rather suspect wishful thinking on someone’s part. However, time ticks on and we have an issue to resolve. Let us decide to regard the word “temporary” as temporary and agree that you are here temporarily as Mr Markham’s temporary replacement. We can resume this discussion on his return.’
She hesitated again, trying to work out what he’d just said, but it was a face-saving solution for everyone.
Otherwise we could be here all day.
She turned to me. ‘I still don’t know who you are.’
Well, that was fine by me. Maxwell Top Tip for the Day – never voluntarily reveal your identity to authority.
Dr Bairstow remained silent so in the end I said brightly, ‘Maxwell.’
There was a pause. I looked at Dr Bairstow who nodded slightly.
‘Head of the History Department.’
She didn’t offer to shake hands. ‘Miss Maxwell.’
‘Miss Hyssop.’
‘It’s “captain”,’ she said, frostily.
‘It’s “doctor”,’ I said, and we were off to a flying start.
I don’t normally insist on my academic title too much but she would have read files on all of us. She’d know who I was. There will always be people who have trouble acknowledging professional women’s qualifications – it’s just surprising that this one was also a professional woman. Still, I suppose I should be grateful she wasn’t calling me Mrs Farrell. Although, to be clear, there’s nothing wrong with being Mrs Farrell.
I know Heads of Security aren’t usually famed for their people skills but this surely had to be some sort of record. This Hyssop person had been here twenty minutes and was already ruffling feathers. And Mrs Partridge hadn’t brought in any tea so presumably she’d managed to annoy her as well. And – without tooting our trumpets too loudly – Dr Bairstow, Mrs Partridge and I were about the most normal and certainly the nicest people at St Mary’s, so God knows what Hyssop was going to make of the rest of us.
We were all regarding each other frostily – and who knew how it would have ended – when Evans knocked at the open door. ‘You wanted me, sir?’
‘Come in, please, Mr Evans.’
I didn’t want to be around while Dr Bairstow told him he’d lost his temporary promotion, although as far as I was concerned, Evans would be my go-to guy for Security issues and I was pretty sure everyone else would feel the same way.
I was about to murmur something polite and leave them to it when Dr Bairstow asked me if I’d introduce Hyssop to the History Department, announcing that since the two of us would be working closely together in future . . .
I shot him a look which he promptly ignored and said, ‘Certainly, sir. This way, please, Captain Hyssop.’
I led her around the gallery. Now, I walk quickly. I have to because I’m a bit like a bicycle – if I don’t maintain forward momentum then I fall over. And if you’re going from A to B then there’s no point in dawdling, is there? Some people ask me to slow down a bit and I do because I don’t always realise I’m doing it. Hyssop simply lengthened her stride and kept pace.
We strode in silence until, halfway down the stairs, she suddenly said, ‘Dr Bairstow neglected to inform you that I also have responsibility for Health and Safety within this building.’
I don’t see why I shouldn’t have a little fun occasionally. ‘Congratulations,’ I said. ‘Although I’m sure you won’t find that to be a particularly onerous part of your duties. I think you’ll find we’re more than compliant in most areas.’
No thunderbolt materialised. The god of historians must have been at lunch. By this time, we were downstairs and astonishingly, the History Department was still where I’d left them.
‘This is the History Department,’ I said, indicating all the blue-jumpsuited people working away with quiet enthusiasm. I very nearly didn’t recognise them. ‘We’re working on the material gathered from our last assignment in Minoan Crete. Each historian had a particular area of responsibility – Agriculture, Commerce, Religion and so forth. We had to leave in rather a hurry because of the volcanic eruption, so the first job now is to make sure no one has mistakenly picked up anyone else’s stuff. Once that’s sorted we . . .’
At that moment, Sands picked up a box, looked at the label and said to Roberts, ‘I think this is one of yours.’
‘Oh God,’ said Roberts, sighing. ‘Not another one.’
‘’Fraid so.’
Roberts took the box. ‘Why is my pile so much bigger than yours?’
‘Well,’ said Sands, obviously hardly able to believe his luck. ‘That’s because I work for Cunard.’
‘You lucky dog,’ said Roberts, stacking the box with all the others. ‘Do you get a staff discount on your holiday cruises?’
‘No, I mean—’
‘Because that would be great.’
‘No, when I say—’
‘Can you get me mate’s rates?’
‘What? No.’
‘Miserable bugger.’
‘No—’
‘I’d do it for you.’
‘I’m trying to tell you—’
‘Can’t believe you’d treat a mate like that. Sort your own boxes.’
‘No, wait, come back . . .’
Hyssop turned to me. ‘What was that all about?’
‘Mm?’ I said, apparently engrossed in Roberts’ report on crocus-growing and refusing to be involved.
‘What exactly are they all doing?’ said Hyssop, staring around at people rummaging away, making piles, arguing . . .
‘I told you – sorting out their material prior to writing up their findings.’
‘Who gathers this material?’
‘We do.’
She frowned. ‘Who’s we?’
‘The History Department.’
‘Under the supervision of the Security Section?’
‘No.’
There was a bit of a pause while she waited for me to qualify that statement while I tried not to imagine the History Department flapping its collective ears around us.
Eventually, she said, ‘So the Security Section . . . ?’
‘Accompanies the History Department at all times, advising on Security and risk issues.’
She was persistent. ‘So they have control of . . .’
‘No, they don’t, but if Mr Evans shouts, “For God’s sake, run,” then trust me – we run.’
‘Would it not be simpler and more cost-effective if it was the Security Section who gathered the material for the History Department to analyse back at the safety of St Mary’s?’
There were so many things wrong with that statement I hardly knew where to start. Firstly, that St Mary’s could ever be designated as safe. Secondly, the impossibility of the History Department remaining quietly at home under any circumstances. And thirdly, fragile, ancient civilisations had enough on their plates dodging whatever disaster we’d turned up to document and record without having to cope with the Security Section and their bloody great boots crushing everything in their path.
What I said, however, was, ‘When the Security Section can successfully demonstrate their knowledge of the differences between Linear A and Linear B, identify the language spoken at Troy, pick out William Marshall in the thick of the Battle of Lincoln, position themselves to avoid being trampled as the English are routed at Bannockburn . . . Oh, wait – they don’t need to do any of that, do they, because we have something called a History Department.’
We stared at each other for a moment – as you do – and then she asked to see R&D. I wasn’t sure either of them was yet ready to encounter the other but I could see she was the stubborn type who, if you told her not to do something would immediately go off and do it – twice, possibly – so I smiled and said, ‘This way,’ and took her back up the stairs to R&D.
Which didn’t look too bad, fortunately. The last time I’d been in here they’d had Bashford dangling from the ceiling, sewn up in a cow’s stomach for reasons which, I now realised, had never been satisfactorily explained. Or even explained at all.
I introduced her to everyone, and she was polite enough. I began to relax a little. And then we got to the Poisons Cabinet – which was securely locked as regulations demanded. Slightly less regulationary – the ke
y was in the lock. Because, explained dear old Mr Swanson, he was a trifle short-sighted these days and it made locating the key somewhat easier. He beamed at what he thought was Hyssop but was actually the iron maiden I had insisted be returned to Thirsk before we had a serious incident and which seemed to have found its way back to R&D like a massive, spiked homing pigeon.
Hyssop stared at him for a moment and then waved her hand in front of his face. His amiable smile never faltered.
I sighed.
‘Can he see at all?’ she demanded as we made our way back along the gallery.
‘Of course he can,’ I said indignantly. ‘You couldn’t put a blind man in charge of the Poisons Cabinet, could you? That would be ridiculous.’
‘Kitchen next, I think,’ she said, striding out and making me trot to keep up with her.
‘Lovely,’ I said, passing a fire axe on the wall and not using it in any way.
I had no fears for Mrs Mack, who listened intently to Hyssop’s suggested new healthy-eating regime while firmly gripping the Oven Glove of Calamity and nodding solemnly every few sentences in a way that would have filled any normal person with the gravest misgivings, but which appeared to sail completely over Hyssop’s head. She was obviously accustomed to being obeyed without question. I, on the other hand, am accustomed to imaginative historians explaining they hadn’t quite understood my instructions, so sorry, and was pretty sure Mrs Mack wasn’t listening to a word Hyssop was saying. With luck it would be months before Hyssop realised we were still on our normal diet of fat, sugar, cholesterol, starch and empty calories, and that none of us had seen anything green and leafy go by for some considerable time.
Fortunately – because I really didn’t think I could handle much more – she requested the whereabouts of Deputy Director Peterson’s office, so I dropped her there and trotted off to see Leon, who was preparing Tea Bag 2 for remote-site reconnaissance. Given that you rarely see a techie outside Hawking – they don’t do well outside their natural environment – I was surprised to find he was already aware of the recent Hyssop-inspired blight.