by Jodi Taylor
I found a shady spot by the wall and made myself comfortable. William Hendred was here somewhere. That would have to be enough for me. I sat under a horse chestnut tree with my quiet memories.
I was roused by Tim’s voice. He looked cheerful enough, so obviously all his paperwork had passed muster and he’d been considered fit to join the ranks of the soon to be matrimonialised.
We waved goodbye to the Rev Kev who seemed disappointed I had remained unignited.
‘That’s it,’ said Peterson, striding off down the hill at a great pace while I trotted alongside. ‘Date fixed. Service fixed. Everything fine.’
‘Shouldn’t Lingoss have been here?’ I puffed. ‘Are you actually qualified to make these decisions by yourself?’
‘Of course I am,’ he said, indignantly. ‘As Deputy Director I make life-and-death decisions on an hourly basis.’
‘So, no.’
‘No. Felix handed me a list of written instructions, together with the appropriate paperwork and declarations, and I simply passed them to the vicar, who said yes that all seemed satisfactory, expressed a wish to meet her before the actual deed, and the next minute I was on the other side of the door. Do you think he could be related to Dr Bairstow, perhaps?’
‘Or just keen to get you off the premises.’
‘Doubt it,’ he said. ‘I’m delightful. And thanks for your support.’
‘I didn’t do anything.’
‘You didn’t burn down the church. I suspect that would have snookered my chances forever.’
We were passing the Falconburg Arms. ‘You may signify your gratitude by buying me a drink.’
‘Good idea.’
‘And lunch.’
‘What?’
‘Thanks to me and my absence, the day went smoothly. You owe me.’
‘Oh, by the way,’ he said, ushering me towards the invitingly open door. ‘I forgot to tell you. Dr Bairstow wants you to take Hyssop on a jump.’
‘What? Where? When?’
‘Somewhere non-lethal were his only instructions. I look forward to seeing you struggle with that one. Afternoon, Ian. Are we too late for lunch?’
The non-lethal part of the assignment turned out to be a bugger since this meant no battlefields, famous assassinations, plagues, epidemics, major geological or meteorological events and nothing religious. Which didn’t leave a lot. I scoured History books, data stacks, consulted our list of past jumps and just couldn’t seem to find anything quite right. And yes, anyone who thinks that my inability to find something suitable was directly related to my not wanting to take Hyssop on a jump is probably slightly correct.
In and around all this, Leon and Matthew readied for departure.
For a boy who had barely owned the rags he’d once stood up in, Matthew had managed to accumulate a fair amount of kit and most of it was stacked outside TB2.
Clothes, some books – not as many as I would like because he still preferred electronic reading, but any reading was good, I supposed – together with his proudly possessed toolkit – just like his dad’s but smaller – his version of the Time Map – on which he wanted to work, he said – and a couple of boxes of unnamed but absolutely vital possessions he couldn’t live without.
Leon’s slightly smaller pile of baggage lay alongside – all ready to be loaded. Now they’d packed their gear there was an awful lot of empty space in our rooms. People were vanishing before my eyes. Guthrie, Grey, North, Markham, and now Adrian, Mikey, and Matthew as well. And Professor Penrose. And Leon. It occurred to me that whenever I looked forward to a little family-together time something always intervened.
Leon looked at me.
I managed a smile.
‘We talked about this,’ he said. ‘It won’t be for long.’
I nodded. ‘I know. It’s just . . . there have been a lot of goodbyes recently.’
‘Yes, but there will be plenty of hellos again. Before you know it.’
‘Where are Mikey and Adrian?’
‘Already loaded and raring to go.’
Matthew shot into Hawking – tousled, triumphant and unbelievably dirty for someone who’d only shot back to his room to look for his second scratchpad.
‘I’ve changed my mind,’ I said. ‘Both of you get out of here now and never come back.’
They grinned at me and my heart turned over.
Professor Penrose arrived. By contrast he was carrying just a small backpack.
‘Is your stuff already loaded, professor?’
‘No, no, this is it. Are you ready, Matthew?’
Matthew nodded importantly and pulled out a familiar remote control. Without exception, everyone in Hawking stepped back. One or two people leaped into the nearest pod and slapped the door shut behind them.
‘Excellent,’ said the professor, eyes gleaming behind his spectacles. ‘Load it up, Matthew.’
Matthew stabbed a button and Markham’s PA appeared from a dark corner of the hangar. This was a very carefully designated gender-neutral mechanical device on caterpillar tracks with a dodgy guidance system and a streak of malicious cruelty. Ask Markham about his scalded willy. Just don’t let him show you.
As a quick aside, it was Bashford who had filled out the Accident Book after R2-Tea2’s spectacular debut. Spelling has always constituted a bit of a hurdle for him and Markham’s appendage had figured throughout as ‘Mr Markham’s scolded willy’. According to Hunter, not as inaccurate a phrase as you might think.
Professor Penrose, Matthew and the robot rumbled up the ramp together and into the pod. There was a small crash as Matthew drove it into the toilet door. Leon tried not to wince.
‘Ready when you are,’ said Dieter, emerging from TB2.
Leon turned to me. ‘It’s time.’
I nodded. ‘Take care.’
‘You too.’
He took my hand in his warm one, kissed it and then my cheek, and turned away. Matthew presented himself for a hug. How did he become so sticky?
The ramp closed behind them. I stepped back behind the safety line.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Dieter, beside me. ‘They’ll look after him.’
‘Look after who? Matthew?’
‘Leon.’
TB2 blinked out of existence.
I went back to work.
I pondered the Hyssop assignment some more, pacing around my office and muttering to myself, until Rosie Lee complained I was giving her a headache. I wanted to explain it was the duty of every supervisor to get up their underlings’ noses as far and as frequently as possible, but in the interests of world peace and inspiration, took myself off downstairs to the History Department instead. Where, obviously, some sort of trauma had just occurred because Mr Bashford was stretched out on the floor, unconscious. (I’ve had that put on a hot key.)
Bashford is the Planet Jupiter of St Mary’s. In the same way that Jupiter’s gravity attracts comets and asteroids and keeps the Earth safe, Bashford somehow manages to hoover up every mishap, accident or injury so the rest of us can continue to live very nearly incident-free lives. For which we’re all very grateful.
I took a quick look around. No sign of our new Health and Safety officer anywhere – which I gather is about par for the course when it comes to accidents and H&S officers. Mrs Partridge had charge of the Accident Book – sorry, books plural, because we get through about four a year. I was pretty sure Hyssop would soon be demanding to be Custodian of the Sacred Accident Books and I made a mental note to be present when she tried to wrest them from Mrs Partridge.
Returning to the History Department . . . curiosity overrode my better judgement – the very definition of an historian. Stepping over Bashford, I enquired what had happened here. Since he was sprawled at the foot of the stairs, I think I thought he’d just taken a bit of a tumble.
Mr Sands looked
up from the prone body at his feet. ‘A rather unfortunate accident, Max.’
‘I can see that. What happened?’
‘Well, in my latest murder it’s vital to show the murderer is left-handed.’
Before anyone runs away with the idea that David Sands is a serial assassin, he writes books. Good ones. Check them out at the library. They need the custom and he needs the Public Lending Rights.
Sands was continuing. ‘Anyway, we were discussing with which hand the victim would defend himself if threatened with a weapon. Sykes said survival instincts would kick in and people would use whichever hand was nearest and Bashford said no, people would automatically use their dominant hand. There was animated discussion.’
This was St Mary’s speak for a near bloodbath.
‘In the end, to keep the peace, we decided on a practical experiment. People put forward their considered hypotheses –’ St Mary’s speak for placing their bets – ‘and I picked up the hardback edition of Leick’s Mesopotamia and chucked it at Bashford. To see which hand he would instinctively use without having had the time to think about it.’
I sighed. ‘Well, obviously that’s where you went wrong. Bashford has no survival instincts. He once waved at Boudicca.’
We both stared down at Bashford, still unconscious at our feet.
Sands nodded. ‘Well, yes, with hindsight, he wasn’t perhaps the ideal choice but he was so keen to prove his theory, Max.’
I sighed again. Yes, he would have been. We stared at Bashford some more.
‘Well?’ I said, actually quite interested to hear the results of this one. ‘Bashford’s left-handed so which hand did he use? Left or right?’
Sands shuffled his feet. ‘Neither, actually. He stood there like the proverbial pillar of salt and Gwendolyn Leick smacked him cleanly between the eyes and knocked him out cold.’
We all peered again at Bashford who had been arranged neatly in the recovery position by his caring colleagues. At the bottom of the stairs . . . Hmm . . . I’d had an idea.
I roused myself. ‘Anyone called Sick Bay?’
‘On their way, Max. I think Dr Stone wants to talk to you about having a medical presence permanently on hand in the History Department.’
‘Hmm . . .’ I said, not listening. ‘Well, carry on, everyone.’ I wandered off.
Because I’d just had a Brilliant Idea.
I spent a couple of hours in the Library researching, selected my team, checked that Wardrobe could accommodate us at such short notice and danced off to see Dr Bairstow.
Who wasn’t in his office – an event so unusual as to be worthy of comment. He takes very great care not to see anything he shouldn’t and we make very sure he doesn’t see anything he shouldn’t. Mostly this is achieved by him remaining quietly on one side of his office door and us remaining on the other. It’s a system that works well. Not today, however.
Mrs Partridge was at her desk, banging things around with less than her usual controlled grace.
I said, ‘. . . Um . . .’
‘He’s with Mr Strong,’ she said, closing a drawer with slightly more force than necessary.
‘. . . Um . . .’
‘It would appear that Mr Strong has not responded well to being instructed to level the Sunken Garden.’
‘Oh.’ No, he wouldn’t. Along with the South Lawn, the Sunken Garden was his pride and joy.
‘He responded even less well when requested to fell the old mulberry avenue because the trees obscure the sightlines should St Mary’s ever find itself under attack.’
Crash went another drawer.
I don’t think any of us need three guesses as to where those particular suggestions emanated. Bloody Hyssop. God, that woman was hard work.
‘Dr Bairstow is with Mr Strong now.’ She paused.
I waited breathlessly for the conclusion to her tale which, ideally, would be along the lines of and they’re burying her under the compost heap even as we speak.
The door opened behind me and Dr Bairstow appeared. I snuck a look at his hands. Disappointingly clean. No smell of compost, either.
‘Well, Dr Maxwell?’
‘The assignment for Hyssop, sir.’
‘Come in.’
He seated himself and I passed over the file.
‘Amy Robsart, sir.’
He sat back. ‘Go on.’
‘Well, I wanted a jump that St Mary’s could get something from – not just a quick sightseeing trip for Hyssop – and when I saw . . .’
I stopped. Bashford had been scooped up and removed to Sick Bay where he now lay, palely recovering and with the reverse classification imprinted between his eyes.
‘. . . and I saw the stairs, sir, and suddenly thought of Amy Robsart. A low-risk assignment but with the chance of solving a centuries-old mystery.’
He twirled my data stack.
‘Quite a small jump.’
‘Yes, sir. Me, Hyssop, Sands and Evans.’
‘Evans?’
‘Well, Hyssop’s a bit of an unknown quantity.’ Which was me being polite. You see, I can do it. ‘What we do is not for everyone and I don’t want to be in the position of her not finding that out until it’s too late. Hence the inclusion of two big blokes in case we have any quelling to do. Either of contemporaries or, of course, Hyssop herself.’
He nodded. ‘Will you brief her separately?’
There’s always an historical briefing before each jump, to which Security politely listen, but I know they hold their own later. I also know that, in the interests of inter-departmental harmony, historians are usually excluded from that because, basically, the Security Section sits down and goes through the entire jump, moment by moment, step by step, anticipating what can go wrong, who will screw up what, who’s not likely to make it back in one piece and who’s not likely to make it back at all. Presumably Evans would brief Hyssop. I wondered how much she would listen. Would she turn out to be one of those bosses who implements new methods immediately for no better reason than stamping themselves on their new department? Quite a lot of babies get thrown out with the bathwater that way.
‘I had thought about a separate briefing for her, sir, but on second thoughts, if she’s to become one of us, I don’t want to emphasise her differentness.’
‘Rather worryingly, I take your meaning, despite your eccentric use of the English language. Very well, see to it, Dr Maxwell.’
We held the briefing in my office. Rosie Lee bustled about looking important while Evans actually made the tea, which was good of him, and it was only after the meeting had finished that I realised he’d helped himself to all the best biscuits.
‘OK, everyone,’ I said, when we were all settled. ‘Everyone’s met Captain Hyssop, I believe, and Captain, you know everyone here.’
Everyone nodded. I always try and begin with all parties agreeing on something. It’s usually straight downhill from there. And this occasion was no exception.
‘Now then,’ Hyssop said, pulling up her chair. ‘I’ve read through your preliminary notes and the mission will proceed along these lines: Evans and I will lead the . . .’
I’m not famed for my social skills and when I don’t like someone, the struggle is real. If it had been Sands or Sykes I’d have grinned and told them to wind their necks in. They would have grinned back and wound their necks in and that would have been that. This was slightly more difficult. Some degree of tact was called for.
‘Let me stop you there,’ I said. ‘This is St Mary’s. We are the Institute of Historical Research. We are historians. We do the research. We lead the assignments. We call the shots. Our Security Section keeps us safe – for which we are all very grateful. In an emergency you will be expected to take the appropriate action to save everyone’s lives, but under normal circumstances, assignments are under the control of the most senior hi
storian present. In this instance that would be me. I think it’s always important to be clear about these things, don’t you?’
She flushed scarlet but I didn’t see what else I could have done. I couldn’t wait until the end of the meeting and then take her aside for a quiet word. It would have been too late by then. And, frankly, she’d called me out in front of everyone – she could hardly complain if I’d done the same.
Hyssop obviously thought the Security Section should rule the roost. For what reasons remained unclear. I suspected a great deal of insecurity on her part. Markham had none of those problems – always content to remain in the background and only emerging when needed. And Major Guthrie before him. Hyssop obviously felt she had something to prove – which was understandable – but this thrusting herself into the forefront of every situation was not the way to do it.
To cover the awkward silence, I pressed on.
‘To begin, then. England, 1560. Elizabeth Tudor has reigned for two years. She has favourites – all men – and her favourite is Robert Dudley, Master of the Queen’s Horse, who is married to Amy Robsart. We don’t know a lot about Amy – born 7th June 1532 and died 8th September 1560 at the age of twenty-eight. The daughter of Sir John Robsart of Syderstone Hall, she was married to Robert Dudley three days before her eighteenth birthday. Their marriage lasted ten years but it was a sad sort of life. Amy didn’t follow Dudley to court. She never had any children. She never even had her own household. She rarely saw her husband. A kind of non-life, really.
‘Anyway, back to the queen and Dudley, neither of whom is behaving particularly discreetly and as far as Elizabeth is capable of it, she probably loves him. Word on the street is that if he wasn’t already married then everyone would be looking at England’s next king.’
I paused in case Hyssop wanted to ask why Dudley didn’t just divorce his wife, but she didn’t. She’d brought several files with her and I suspected she’d been reading around the subject, so good for her.
I continued. ‘Elizabeth was notoriously unkind to other women so Dudley and Amy live apart. By this time, Amy is unwell. It’s thought she had breast cancer.’