by Jodi Taylor
An
Argumentation
of
Historians
Jodi Taylor
Book 9 of
The Chronicles of St Mary’s Series
Published by Accent Press Ltd 2017
www.accentpress.co.uk
Copyright © Jodi Taylor 2017
The right of Jodi Taylor to be identified as the author of
this work has been asserted by the author in accordance
with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
The story contained within this book is a work of fiction.
Names and characters are the product of the author’s
imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living
or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be
reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in
any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic,
magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or
otherwise, without the written permission of
Accent Press Ltd.
eISBN 9781635969368
Printed and bound in Great Britain by
Clays Ltd, St Ives plc
Author’s note
When we put together The Long and Short of It, I thought I’d write an introduction to each story, telling how and why it came about, what was the thinking behind it and the circumstances under which it was written.
I personally thought this brief glimpse into my thought processes would frighten the living daylights out of normal, intelligent, charming people – i.e. my readers – but not so. The intros proved to be nearly as popular as the stories themselves, and that’s not hurtful at all, is it?
Anyway, I was struggling away at the typeface when the command came down from the cloud-cloaked Accent Press penthouse.
‘The intros went quite well. It might be a good idea to do one for the next book. Only a suggestion, of course.’
As an author, I know on which side my bread’s buttered. As an Accent Press author, I know on which side the electrodes are lubricated, and made haste to comply.
‘Oh, and for God’s sake make the book a bit more cheerful this time,’ was the supplementary command, relayed by a sweating minion. ‘Your last effort traumatised so many readers we had to set up a counselling group.’
While on this subject, I’ve been asked to say that for anyone still suffering the after-effects of that fine book And the Rest Is History, a few places still remain on the Accent Press sponsored ‘Oh For God’s Sake Get Over It and Stop Being Such a Baby’ Support Group. Sessions are held every Wednesday and are open to all. To enrol, please bring either the deeds of your house or your first-born – whichever can be most easily translated into cash.
So, here it is, the next Chronicle. An Argumentation of Historians – and yes, it is, I think, a little more light-hearted. There are no fewer disasters, but everyone is very cheerful about them because, of course, I’m not lulling you all into a false sense of security at all, am I?
Anyway, to bang on with the intro: there are certain time-travel scenarios I never wanted to get involved with. For instance, the one where the heroine goes back in time and is swept off her feet by a handsome contemporary who, inexplicably, falls in love with a woman with no land, no fortune, no skills and no important male relations either to protect her or give her status. Never mind that she looks strange, speaks even more strangely, is entirely ignorant of the world around her and seems not to have any idea of her proper place in it. Despite all that their love would cross time itself – she would abandon everything for his sake – and they would live happily ever after.
No heroine of mine – I said – would ever fall in love with a contemporary and, inexplicably, abandon hot baths, chocolate, antibiotics, dentists, central heating, universal suffrage, contraception, tea, toad-in-the-hole, bras, soap that doesn’t strip your skin away, Lycra, books, and the safe removal of a volatile appendix, to live in a cold, damp, draughty castle with no plumbing – indeed no comforts of any kind – no matter how handsome and romantic the hero.
And then I thought: well, what if the hero wasn’t romantic at all? In any way. And neither was the heroine. What if they could barely communicate? What if their mindsets were worlds apart? What if he found her behaviour inexplicable? What if, despite all her best efforts to fit in, she lurched from one crisis to the next, astounding and frightening those around her? How long would she last?
Everyone has their own place in time. They may not like it. It might not be pleasant. But it’s their place and it fits them perfectly and to leave it is always to court catastrophe.
THE CHRONICLES OF ST MARY’S
Just One Damned Thing After Another
A Symphony of Echoes
A second Chance
A Trail Through Time
No Time Like the Past
What Could Possibly Go Wrong?
Lies, Damned Lies, And History
And the Rest is History
THE CHRONICLES OF ST MARY’S SHORT STORIES
When a Child IS Born
Roman Holiday
Christmas Present
Ships, Stings, And Wedding Rings
The Great St Mary’s Day Out
My Name is Markham
The Very First Damned Thing
The Long and Short of IT – A St Mary’s Collection
ALSO BY JODI TAYLOR
The Nothing Girl
Little Donkey
The Something Girl
A Bachelor Establishment (as Isabella Barclay)
Dramatis Thingummy
Talk about a cast of thousands. Have you seen how many characters there are in this book? What was I thinking? My next book will have only three characters in it, two of whom will die at the end of the first chapter.
The Institute of Historical Research at St Mary’s
Dr Edward Bairstow Director of St Mary’s.But for how much longer?
Mrs. Partridge PA to Director. Muse of History.
Dr Peterson Shiny new Deputy Director.
Lisa Dottle Thirsk’s representative at St Mary’s. Suffering a massive crush on Peterson.
Malcolm Halcombe The leprosy’s cleared up. Shame.
Kalinda Black St Mary’s representative atThirsk. Does not do sympathy.
History Department
Max Head of the History Department.
Mr Bashford Dazed historian.
Miss Sykes Psychotic historian.
Mr Clerk Calm historian.
Miss Prentiss Even calmer historian
Mr Atherton Nice historian.
Miss North Stroppy historian.
Angus Historian of the genus Gallus gallus domesticus.
Technical Section
Leon Farrell Chief Technical Officer.
Mr Dieter Another Technical Officer.
Mr Lindstrom Quiet and shy. Poor boy.
Medical Section
Dr Stone Still inexplicably getting his own way.
Nurse Hunter Is she or isn’t she?
Nurse Fortunata Lying her socks off to the Time Police.
Security Section
Mr Markham Head of Security.
Mr Evans Security guard.
Mr Cox Another one.
Mr Keller And another one.
Mr Gallacio And another.
Research and Development
Professor Rapson The GREAT Professor Rapson as he prefers to be known.
Doctor Dowson His partner in crime.
Miss Lingoss You might want to keep your eye on her.
Mr Swanson Making a welcome return from Book One.
Mrs E
nderby Head of Wardrobe. Unexpectedly devious.
Mrs Shaw Dr Peterson’s assistant. Brings him biscuits.
Rosie Lee Max’s assistant. Brings her grief.
Mrs Mack Kitchen Supremo.
Mrs Midgely The housekeeper. Possessed of a piercing scream. Very protective of her towels.
Hammy A tragic story. Sensitive readers should skip that bit.
Time Police
Captain Ellis The nice one.
The Pursuit Team Bunch of sick perverts.
The Clean Up Squad They do what they say on the tin.
Retired
Ian Guthrie Still giving good advice.
From the future
Mikey and Adrian Still on the run … but not for much longer.
Clive Ronan Still being naughty.
His associates Should know better.
Lorris Expendable.
Rigby Also expendable.
Note to self: this is exhausting. Write shorter books.
Historical figures
Greenwich 1536
Fat Harry Henry VIII – about to come a bit of a cropper.
A big fat horse for a big fat king.
Assorted jugglers, acrobats, musicians, knights, and townspeople.
A would-be time-traveller with a spectacular girlfriend.
Persepolis 330BC
Alexander the Great Nothing more to say, really.
Ptolemy Future King of Egypt. Very open to manual persuasion.
Thaïs A little minx. A dexterous little minx.
Palace guards, slaves, officials, the usual.
Residents of St Mary’s 1399
William Hendred Marshal of St Mary’s
Walter of Shrewsbury Steward of St Mary’s
Sir Hugh Armstrong Lord of St Mary’s manor and all pertaining thereto.
Margery Daw Washerwoman and a fine figure of … something.
Little Alice Her assistant.
Roger and Edgar Kitchen boys.
Wymer and Cuthbert Stable boys. Chasing anything in a skirt and terrified that one day they’ll succeed.
Dick and the other one Scullions.
Fat Piers The original foul-mouthed chef.
Ranulf Village priest.
Rowena His ‘housekeeper’.
Joan of Rouen Never remembers to have a dock leaf handy.
Owen Guard and alibi.
Tam the Welshman William’s second in command.
Onion Man Professional runt.
From the village
Pikey Peter Poor boy.
Eadgytha His mum.
William the Carpenter and his family.
Margaret Brewer Runs the pub.
Big Alice Her assistant.
From medieval Rushford
Guy, Lord Rushford A villain.
Jerald His brother. Just fractionally unstable …
The infamous yellow horse.
Robert Sutton. Or Sugden. Or Sutton. No one knows.
His servant.
Female stall holder Drives a hard bargain.
From 19th-century Rushford
Street urchin Thieving little git.
Portly gentleman with a stick.
Sundry irate citizens.
Tombstone teeth man.
His associates.
A conifer tree that doesn’t deserve what is about to happen to it.
Prologue
It’s not all about battles and death and violence, you know. Yes, battles and death and violence do tend to be epoch-changing events but, sometimes, just occasionally, some seemingly unimportant event has massive consequences. Ramifications which spread down the centuries affecting everyone and everything. Very often people aren’t aware at the time and it’s only with the benefit of History and hindsight that the importance of the event is revealed.
Take, for example the year 1536.
In particular, take the 24th January 1536, Greenwich Palace. A holiday. A nice day out for the kids. Take a picnic. Enjoy the show. Thrill to the spectacle of a Tudor jousting tournament. Catch a glimpse of the king and his court. Nobody would die today. But thousands of people would die as a result of today. Because 24th January 1536 was the day when everything changed.
I’d like to say we were all back together again, but that was no longer true. We would never all be back together again. Helen Foster was dead and I missed her every day.
Ian Guthrie had been so badly injured he would never return to the Security Section. He and Elspeth Grey were leaving to start a new life just as soon as he was well enough. They had a plan, he said, and no, he certainly wasn’t going to jeopardise its chances of success by telling an historian.
Markham had recovered well. Well enough to enjoy all the sympathy and admiration, anyway. His tale of saving lives, being blown up and surviving a dramatic crash landing in Constantinople grew more detailed and more dramatic with every telling.
Hawking Hangar was repaired. The roof was back on and, thanks to the heroic efforts of the Technical Section, we had a few working pods. Enough to get us back in business, anyway. It takes a lot to keep St Mary’s down.
For his own safety, Matthew, our son, was living in the future under the guardianship of the Time Police. The supposedly temporary arrangement was stretching on and on and I should be doing something about it but, at the moment, I had my hands full with Leon. By mutual agreement, Matthew would stay with the Time Police until we’d managed to apprehend Clive Ronan. I still wasn’t sure how I felt about that and Leon wasn’t happy at all, but since St Mary’s had been out of commission for more than six months, we’d had to leave capturing Ronan to the Time Police. I couldn’t understand how he was continually eluding them, but he was. Useless bloody lumps. But the good news was that Matthew was due for a visit in a few weeks and we’d take it from there.
And Leon. Yes … Leon.
He’d been with the Time Police, undergoing a series of operations and was finally back at St Mary’s, having been detained at their pleasure. For medical reasons, he always hastens to add, not legal ones. He tells people he’s a lot more law-abiding than his wife and I suppose some people who don’t know him very well might believe that.
He’d been away a long time, though, and there were certain adjustments to be made. On both sides. I think my spectacles came as a bit of a surprise to him – even though they do make me look both intelligent and sexy. He made haste to agree.
‘And,’ I informed him as he undressed for bed, ‘absolutely brilliant for identifying who you’re in bed with.’
About to pull his T-shirt over his head, he paused and looked around.
‘Who else has been in here?’
‘Well, that’s the point I’m trying to make, isn’t it? Could have been anyone. We’ll never know.’
‘I had no idea so many people were trying to get you into bed.’
‘Neither did I, but, thanks to the miracle of modern optics, those days are done.’
‘I’m not sure I find that quite as reassuring as you intended.’
‘Who said I intended to be reassuring?’
Joking aside, his recovery had been slow. Rather like his current top speed, as I remarked one day. We had just returned from breakfast and I was about to make him comfortable on the sofa, prior to shooting off to the 1536 briefing.
‘I’ll see you at dinner,’ he said, parking his walking stick against the coffee table.
‘Shouldn’t you be setting off now?’
He sighed. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Well, at the speed you move these days, if you don’t set off now it’ll be tomorrow by the time you get there.’
I was instructed to go and join all the other idiots in the History Department.
I settled him with a coffee and handed him his newspaper already folded open at the familiar headline – “ENGLAND SLUMP TO MASSIVE DEFEAT” – a headline that could refer to any England performance since 1966. Just to cheer him up I pointed out how difficult it is to find an article describing our footb
all team’s performance which doesn’t begin “ENGLAND SLUMP TO MASSIVE DEFEAT”.
He humphed, so I hastily refolded the paper to the science pages and handed it to him. Not a good move. There was talk of the Mars Project being delayed again.
‘They’ll get there,’ I said, as he pointed this out.
He humphed again. ‘I’ll believe that when I see it.’
‘I’m wondering if I should stop you drinking coffee. It’s making you very grumpy.’
‘Haven’t you gone to work yet?’
‘On my way,’ I said, whisking myself out of the door. ‘Play nicely with yourself.’
‘I think you mean “by yourself”.’
‘I know what I mean.’
At some point in the day he would make his way down to Hawking, lower himself painfully onto a chair, and preside over whatever it is techies find to do in there all day long. We would meet again for dinner. Often, Peterson or Dieter would join us and we would all chatter bravely, but none of this disguised his slow recovery. He was bored and frustrated.
We all work for the Institute of Historical Research at St Mary’s Priory, situated just outside of Rushford. Our main function is to investigate major historical events in contemporary time, although not recently. Our attempts to apprehend the renegade Clive Ronan had gone disastrously wrong and his revenge had been swift. An hour later, Helen Foster was dead and he’d kidnapped our baby son, Matthew. Leon had got him back eventually, but that hadn’t been the end of it. Ronan had set off an enormous explosion that had nearly destroyed Hawking, wrecked most of our pods and caused some very serious injuries. You wouldn’t think one person could do so much damage but I think we had all been guilty of underestimating him. It’s when he’s cornered that he’s at his most dangerous. Anyway, the combined efforts of St Mary’s and the Time Police to capture Ronan had proved unsuccessful. He was still out there somewhere.
And we were all here. Peterson, slowly recovering from Helen’s death, was our shiny new Deputy Director; Markham had been made Head of Security; and I was back on the active list after injuring myself in Constantinople. As Peterson said, we were all very staid and respectable now, as befitted our advancing years. Our days of rocketing around the timeline enjoying ourselves and evading death by the skin of our teeth were over and done with. Our lives were about rules, regulations, paperwork and standing back to let the next generation have their turn.