An Argumentation of Historians

by Jodi Taylor

  He frowned. ‘Guilt?’

  I took a moment to think. ‘No, I don’t think so.’ I cast around for the appropriate word. ‘More like … shame, sir.

  Leon looked up from his scratchpad. ‘There’s nothing wrong with the pod. Dieter has already been over everything and I’ve checked his findings. Number Four is functioning perfectly. It landed exactly where and when it was supposed to. All the readings were spot on. Whatever happened, you can’t blame the pod for it.’

  Dr Bairstow thought for a moment. ‘Very well. Dr Peterson, put together a repeat assignment. The three of you together. Doctors Peterson and Maxwell will report from an historian perspective and Chief Farrell will monitor pod performance. Because if it’s not the historians then, somehow, it’s the jump or the pod.’

  He picked up a file and limped to his filing cabinet.

  ‘I want this jump reproduced as accurately as you can. Not the same date, obviously, but as close as pod protocols will allow you to get. And make sure the internal cameras are on this time. Report directly to me on your return. I want this nipped in the bud. The last thing we need are unfounded rumours flying around the building. That will be all. Dr Maxwell, a moment please.’

  The door closed behind them and he turned to me. The silence was a little unnerving.

  ‘Sir? Is there a problem?’

  ‘I don’t know, Max. Is there?’

  ‘I have many problems, sir. Could you be more specific?’

  ‘How are you?’

  I opened my mouth to say, ‘Absolutely fine,’ and closed it again, because I wasn’t and he knew it.

  ‘I’m not at my best, sir. This world is still … a little unfamiliar to me. I’m improving every day, but if you want to send someone else may I recommend Miss North.’

  ‘And Leon?’

  ‘Oh, he’s recovering well, sir. He doesn’t always need his stick now.’

  ‘And Dr Peterson?’

  ‘Also well, sir.’

  None of that was what he meant and we both knew it.

  ‘Sir, we’ll get it all sorted out.’

  I wasn’t referring to this new assignment and we both knew it.

  ‘I would be grateful for some reassurance that my unit is not crumbling around my ears.’

  ‘And you shall have it, sir.’

  He nodded. ‘I hope so. Why are you still here, Dr Maxwell?’

  ‘I’m waiting for you to instruct me to see to it, sir.’

  He smiled. ‘See to it, Dr Maxwell.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Number Four’s inaugural assignment had been a small one. Nothing too strenuous for what was, literally, its first date. Rushford, 1815 – the post-Waterloo celebrations. Napoleon was no longer at large; the Iron Duke was a national hero; relief and jubilation were sweeping across a country no longer at war. We would be on home ground and I would be interested to see Rushford again, four-hundred and fifteen years after my last visit. We’d jump there – monitor all the readings very carefully, take a quick tour around town and come back out again, reproducing the conditions of the first jump as closely as possible. Then I’d push off to interview Prentiss and Clerk again, and Leon and his team of techies would evaluate the pod and its performance. Easy-peasy.

  We were dressed well. I wore a silk gown of pale blue with a matching bonnet. The same one I’d worn to George IV’s coronation, when Markham pimped me out to a clergyman. Cream gloves and matching half boots of kid completed my get-up. And my pepper spray, of course, tucked away in my pretty girlie reticule.

  Peterson and I walked down to Hawking together. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him whether this was what he and Leon had been discussing earlier, thus cunningly ascertaining how things stood between them, but that would mean bringing up other topics of conversation as well – such as what exactly I’d been doing behind his armchair – something for which I had yet to think of an acceptable and believable explanation that didn’t involve massive toe-curling on my part and hilarity on his, so I left it.

  Leon looked very handsome in a navy coat and biscuit-coloured breeches, while Peterson struck a slightly dandified note in a high crowned hat, green coat and cream waistcoat. He also carried a cane. All the better to whack them with, presumably.

  It was Peterson’s mission, so he seated himself in the central seat and wriggled his bum a little.

  ‘Problem?’ said Leon, in what I hoped was normal defence of one of his beloved pods.

  ‘Not in the slightest. Hold tight everyone. Computer, initiate jump.’

  ‘Jump initiated.’

  The world went white.

  The date was late July. Most of us had been to Waterloo and Dr Bairstow had insisted we leave a clear month between then and this jump.

  We landed down by the river. The dock area was downstream from the town itself, because upstream from Rushford, the river widened abruptly and became unnavigable. The port was considerably busier than in modern times. Tall-masted ships lined the quays, surrounded by swarms of shouting men either loading or unloading their cargoes. The warehouses were hives of activity with bales and barrels being carried in through one door and out through another. Horse-drawn wagons waited in line to be loaded and, everywhere, rope makers, chandlers, sailmakers, carpenters and sailors all surged about, shouting, gesturing and generally getting on with the business of the day.

  Peterson turned from the screen to Leon, already tapping away at his scratchpad and frowning at the results. ‘Anything?’

  ‘Mm? No. Nothing. As I anticipated.’

  ‘Well, according to their mission programme, they were to make their way up into town to suss out what was happening there. We’ll leave you to it.’

  ‘Mm,’ said Leon, barely looking up. And they say we historians are obsessed.

  ‘Five-minute progress reports,’ persevered Peterson.

  ‘Mm.’

  We left him to it.

  The smell of tar was overwhelming. Even the people reeked of it.

  ‘Jolly Jack Tars,’ muttered Peterson.

  I nodded and did as other women were doing, and rummaged in my reticule for a handkerchief to hold over my nose.

  We left the docks and emerged into the town. It was lovely to see the medieval bridge back in place. I wondered exactly when it had been built. After my departure, obviously, and now the town had spilled over the river and up the hill on the other side. The market was now held up near St Stephens.

  Many medieval buildings were still here – I recognised the Guildhall, almost completely unchanged – but now they were interspersed with Jacobean and Elizabethan buildings too. There were some imposing stone houses lining the streets. Rushford was obviously booming. Because of the docks, I guessed. In modern times, the docks had dwindled, the warehouses had been converted into smart flats, trendy coffee shops had spawned where the chandlers and rope makers once worked, and right in the middle of all of it, the council had commissioned a block of modern apartments, all plate glass and blue plastic so everyone could see that Rushford was happy to throw away its heritage in favour of modern tat. Peterson always muttered under his breath and averted his eyes – as did most people who had to pass near it.

  The streets were still filthy though. That hadn’t changed at all. The dirt was knee high in places. For a penny, small boys would sweep a crossing for their betters. Not having a penny, Peterson and I took our chances, dodging the very much increased volume of wheeled traffic which came at us from all directions. You really needed your wits about you here.

  There were even more inns than before. I put that down to the mail coaches. The Cider Tree, where William Hendred had stabled his horse the day we went to Rushford, was still here, although it was now greatly enlarged, and the frontage was different, with a huge archway through which the mail coaches swept in and out, blowing their horns for a change of horses. I smiled to myself and moved on.

  The crowds were thickest here and we were jostled from all sides. Peterson linked his arm with mine to
avoid us being swept apart. There were people shouting, drivers roaring at pedestrians to get out of the way, street cries, and the rumble of wheels on rough paving. We could hardly hear ourselves speak.

  It all happened very suddenly – but then, unexpected things usually do.

  We had paused to listen to a street preacher – all wild eyes and waving arms – when a ragged street urchin, barefoot and terrified, burst out of the crowd, followed by a bellow of startled rage. He swerved, collided with a portly gentleman with a red face and a fancy waistcoat who shouted with alarm and swung at him. His cane caught the boy around the head. The boy staggered and dropped something before disappearing back into the crowd.

  Whatever it was fell almost at my feet and, like an idiot, I let go of Peterson’s arm and picked it up.

  It was a gentleman’s pocket book. The urchin had attempted to steal it, been caught in the act and had fled the scene, getting rid of the evidence as he went. This was not something in which I should get involved. I dropped it and kicked it away. Too late.

  Someone seized my arm, shouting, ‘Got her. Over here.’

  Cries rose up around me. Apparently, I was a thieving doxy and transportation was too good for me.

  I was surrounded in no time at all. I strained for a sight of Peterson who had been swept away in the turmoil, but my view was blocked by angry citizens at every turn.

  Someone pushed me. I fell against someone else who pushed me the other way. My bonnet was knocked over my eyes and then I couldn’t see at all.

  At some point I dropped my reticule, but it left my hands free and I began to struggle. I kicked out and caught someone’s shins. There was a muttered oath and someone hit me across the face.

  For a brief moment, I heard Peterson’s voice in my ear. ‘Max, stay …’ and then another blow knocked out my earpiece. I didn’t hear it fall but it seemed safe to assume it had been trampled by the crowd. I was protesting my innocence. Loudly and at length. From far away, I thought I could hear Peterson shouting at me, telling me to stay put. He was on his way.

  Too late.

  I was hustled away. I couldn’t see where. I couldn’t see anything. I remember slipping and sliding on the cobbles and then being hustled down a flight of steps. A door slammed ominously behind me, shutting out the sounds of the angry crowd.

  I would have fallen down an unseen stair, but they held me tightly. I could tell I was inside a building, but the smell was dreadful. The sharp smell of urine and unwashed bodies stung my eyes and nose. It was underlaid with something else that turned my stomach. I remembered, when I was at school, reading a report on the reforms of Elizabeth Fry, which described the women’s wing of Newgate Prison as hell on earth. This wasn’t Newgate, thank God, but it still wasn’t a good place to be.

  My bonnet was dragged off my head, bringing my hair down with it. I looked down at my dress, splattered with the filth of the streets and torn where I’d caught my foot in the hem. It was going to be very difficult to convince the authorities I was a respectable wife and mother.

  A man in a shabby dark coat stood at a high wooden desk, inscribing something in a book. His tongue protruded as he laboriously constructed his letters. His teeth looked like splayed tombstones on a dark night.

  I said, ‘I think there has been some mistake,’ and the man on my right, a fat old bugger with a straining waistcoat said, ‘Yer don’t speak.’

  Turning to the man at the desk he said, ‘Thieving jade – caught in the act.’

  The man dipped his pen in a cup of brown, muddy ink and began to write, slowly and with great precision.

  ‘What was stolen?’

  ‘Gennelman’s pocket book.’

  ‘Does she still have it?’

  That, of course, was their cue to run their very grubby hands all over me. They knew I didn’t have it but any excuse …

  ‘Passed it on to an accomplice. Saw her do it.’

  ‘Wosser name?’

  They shrugged. ‘Take yer pick.’

  I said quickly, ‘My name is Mrs Farrell. My husband is Leon Farrell Esquire, of St Mary’s Priory.’

  When they’d stopped laughing, they took great pleasure in informing me St Mary’s was let to Captain Jessop and his family, currently sojourning in Bath for the summer. Then they realised that if I was part of a gang they’d just told me the house was empty and clipped my ear, presumably to induce deafness. And indeed, on top of the blows I’d already received, my head was beginning to ring. I’d been out of Sick Bay less than a week and look at the state of me already.

  Tombstone teeth – obviously the thinker of the outfit – was regarding me dubiously. ‘Are ye sure? Seems a well-dressed mort to me.’

  ‘Likely stole those as well.’

  ‘Anything else on her?’

  Back they came with the hands. Time to put a stop to this. I drew myself up and summoned every ounce of hauteur that I could muster.

  ‘You, sirs, will kindly desist. When my husband hears of this outrage it is you who will be answering to the magistrates – not I.’

  The hands paused. ‘Cor, listen to her,’ said someone. ‘Good as a play.’

  But I noticed the hands did not recommence. I told myself a seed of doubt had been sown. And Leon and Peterson were out there somewhere. They’d get me out.

  I was hustled down some more steps. Someone ahead jangled their keys and there was the sound of a wooden door scraping across a stone floor.

  I was pushed forwards, slipped in something slimy, and fell onto my knees in a pile of wet straw.

  Behind me, a man laughed and said, ‘Not so hoity-toity now are you, my fine lady?’ and the door slammed shut behind me.

  Darkness and silence enveloped me.

  I waved my hand around but couldn’t see anything. There was no window and no light. I crouched and felt around, which wasn’t pleasant. You’ll never guess what I put my hand in. I wiped it as best as could on my skirts. Mrs Enderby was not going to be pleased with me.

  My outstretched arm found a wet wall. Brick, I guessed. I took a tentative step forward, and then another.

  There’s no direct evidence for a sixth sense, but we have it just the same. I don’t know what made me stop and stand still, but I did. I stood stock still for a long time, uselessly turning my head from side to side trying to discover what wasn’t right, why I’d stopped …

  A blast of cold air lifted the short hairs around my face. Cold, foetid air …

  Surely not …

  I felt around with my feet. Very, very carefully.

  Even though I was expecting it I very nearly overbalanced, and that wouldn’t have done me any good at all. Because there was nothing there. Just a nothingness from which an evil smell arose.

  The floor gaped before me. I stood on the brink of a pit. God knows how deep it was and I certainly wasn’t going to check. I didn’t think it was that deep. At least I hoped it wasn’t that deep because I suspected this was a bit of a joke. Payback for me doing the posh bint thing. That was why they hadn’t left me with a light. I would grope my way around, fall down the hole, flounder around in whatever lay at the bottom – going through the motions, as Markham would say – and present myself at the next sessions dripping with God knows what and earning an automatic one-way ticket to Australia. I wouldn’t be surprised if this wasn’t a cell at all. This might be somewhere they shoved the stroppy prisoners to teach them a lesson. Was this why I was here alone when 19th-century prisons were famous for their overcrowding?

  I shuffled very carefully to one side, found the wall again, kicked aside what I hoped was wet straw and lowered myself slowly to the floor. I made myself as small as possible, drawing up my knees in much the same position I’d been in behind Peterson’s armchair only a few hours ago. Another place. Another time.

  I suppose it was some form of primitive sensory deprivation. I sat in the silent darkness and lost all sense of time and space. I had no idea how long I’d been there. It could have been anything from twenty mi
nutes to several hours. I tried to count my breaths to give me an idea of passing minutes and kept losing count.

  I told myself it didn’t matter. As soon as it was dark – if not before – Leon and Peterson would be here. They’d get me out and we could return to our investigations.

  Despite the damp stone, it was very warm in here. Every time I moved, I felt my clothes sticking to me. My forehead prickled with sweat. I kept wiping it away, forgetting to keep my dirty hands away from my face, but it was so hot … I leaned my head back against the cool, wet wall but it didn’t help. I was going down with something. The symptoms had come on too quickly for gaol fever, although that would be something to put on my CV – and would certainly stop Peterson in his tracks every time he started on about his twinge of bubonic plague.

  Time passed. My head began to throb. And then I felt sick. Whether because of the headache, I don’t know. I stared into the darkness and tried to tell myself this would soon be over. Leon and Peterson would come.

  They didn’t. And then the doubts crept in. Suppose they couldn’t find me. Suppose Peterson hadn’t followed me back to this gaol. Suppose he and Leon only took a cursory look around, decided I was somewhere else, and went off and left me here. I’d been locked up for hours and hours. Surely they should have been here by now. Either bribing the gaolers, or if that didn’t work then intimidating them, or if that didn’t work then blowing the place sky-high, and pulling me out from under the rubble.

  And then I had an even worse thought. Had Peterson been arrested too? Were we both incarcerated in this place and Leon didn’t have a clue where we were? Would I ever see them again? I stared into the dark. Would I ever see anything again? A tiny voice said, ‘We’re St Mary’s and we never leave our people behind,’ but I’d been left behind in 1399. I’d only been back at St Mary’s for a week and now I’d been left behind again.

  Unbelievably, I think I might have dozed off. I’m not sure. Just for a few seconds, anyway. I only know I woke with a jerk.

  I hadn’t even thought of it until it actually happened. I’d been sitting here for hours and in all that time there hadn’t been a single sound so I’d assumed I was alone.