No Time Like the Past (13 page)

‘Eddie!’ I said, half laughing, half horrified.

He didn’t miss a thing, did Eddie. ‘Ah, I see. The boat not going quite that excellently, then?

‘Of course it is,’ I said defiantly, ignoring not only Leon, but Dieter and Lindstrom as well.

Peterson did his best. ‘Professor, you can’t bet a person … I’m pretty sure that’s illegal …’

I waved this away. ‘We’re not going to lose, so I say now, in front of witnesses, the loser gets the services of the other for a period of seven days.’

‘Capital,’ he said, rubbing his hands together.

Heads swivelled towards Leon who was looking unflatteringly unperturbed.

‘Are you … I mean … are you …?’ stammered Dieter.

‘Am I what?’ he said, calmly finishing his coffee and getting up.

‘Professor Penrose … and Max?’

‘Well, as I see it, a no-lose situation for me. If we win, we benefit from the unrivalled expertise of Professor Penrose for seven days and if we lose then Max is shunted off to Thirsk for them to benefit from her unrivalled expertise for the same period of time. It seems a fair trade to me, although my heart does go out to them.’

He returned their stares blandly and said, ‘Why, what did you think they were wagering?’

He waited a while, but nobody seemed inclined to say anything. ‘And, at last, I’ll get to watch
Match of the Day
in peace. Knock yourself out, Professor.’

I waited until everyone was busy discussing boat building and then shot off in something of a panic. Straight to Professor Rapson.

‘Ah, Max,’ he said, straightening up from his cluttered workbench. ‘How delightful. Um – did we have an appointment? Should I be somewhere else?’

‘No, Professor, it’s OK. I just need a quick update and some reassurance. How’s the ship going?’

‘Boat, Max. It’s a boat.’

‘Boat, then. How’s it going?’

‘It’s all going very well.’

‘You do know Thirsk have got Professor Penrose on their side?’

‘A bit of a double-edged weapon, Max. He’s more than capable of sitting down to design and build a record-beating craft of some kind, doodle for ten minutes on the back of an envelope, and solve the problem of cold fusion instead. He’s very easily distracted you know and – oh look, there it is. I’ve been looking everywhere for this and – what was I saying?’

‘If we lose, I’ve sold myself to Thirsk for seven days.’

‘Goodness gracious, but there’s no cause for alarm. We’re not going to lose.’

I looked around at the boat-free chaos of his workshop. There were no visible signs of construction. ‘Have you started yet? Where is it? Why haven’t you started yet?’

He regarded me pityingly. ‘We’re building it outside, Max. If we build it in here then we won’t be able to get it down the stairs.’

‘I knew that,’ I said, quickly. ‘I’m just concerned about the opposition. They’ve modelled their boat on a pirate ship, you know. It’s called
The Black Carbuncle
.’

‘Most amusing. Ours, however, is based on the design of those master mariners, the Vikings, and will prove to be immensely superior. Faster, more manoeuvrable, and with a few hidden surprises built in.’

‘We’re weaponised?’

‘Well, yes, of course, Max. Why wouldn’t we be?’

‘Please tell me you haven’t invented a Death Ray.’

‘Not yet,’ he said, regretfully. ‘There are still a few small flaws to iron out. Guidance. Range. Tendency to explode. However, we do have a giant catapult. And our rather nifty underwater ramming device based on the – well never mind that. Loose lips sink ships, you know. And a water cannon. And flour bombs. And water pistols.’

I would be horrified if I hadn’t known that the evil brain of Professor Penrose was working along exactly the same lines.

Seeking a distraction, I rooted around amongst some sketches on his workbench. They appeared to be of dragons.

‘What’s this?’

‘Oh, these are designs for our figurehead. We must have one. I thought a dragon. Or a Valkyrie, maybe.’

‘Well, since we’re the Institute of History …’ I said, cunningly, ‘why not have History herself at the front bit? Sweeping aside all obstacles and clearing our path to victory.’

He stopped dead and peered at something that could only be seen by someone with a Professor Rapson-type brain. ‘Yes. Yes. Kleio, the Muse of History.’

‘In papier-mâché,’ I said, giving the pot a good stir, just to liven things up a bit.

‘Or polystyrene foam,’ he said, getting into the swing of things. ‘Yes …’

Ho ho ho …

Twenty minutes later, at three o’clock on the dot, I trotted outside, one hundred and twenty-five yards from the south-west corner of the Great Hall, to where Leon and his team were waiting with a small digger, a pile of fresh earth and a large hole.

‘It is in there, isn’t it?’ I said anxiously. ‘Nothing must go wrong.’

‘It’s there,’ he said, reassuringly. ‘We found it yesterday, checked it was untouched, and covered it back up again. We’re ready to “discover” it as soon as our leaders can peel themselves away from lunch. Relax. Nothing can go wrong.’

I looked across the grass. Dr Bairstow and the Thirsk team were just appearing on the terrace, presumably to enjoy some much-needed coffee.

I said to Leon, ‘You’re up,’ and stepped back.

It all went like clockwork.

Van Owen and I stood a little apart, ostensibly supervising the operation, but in reality, just getting in everyone’s way.

The digging-tool-thingy clanked on something metal. Someone shouted artistically and waved their arms, indicating excitement.

Van Owen and I rushed forwards theatrically to look into the hole. It was like one of those old silent movies. We telegraphed astonishment and surprise. On the terrace, heads went up and the next minute, they were all surging across the grass to see what was happening. Other members of St Mary’s, who had been vaguely hanging around waiting to be involved, turned up as well, so we had a good crowd for our moment of discovery.

We stood breathlessly as the digger got its digging-tool-thingy under the chest and prised it free of the hole. Lead is heavy. We couldn’t possibly have lifted it out ourselves. Van Owen said they’d all nearly had a collective hernia getting it in there in the first place.

The chest was laid gently on the ground and everyone looked at it for a moment.

I caught Dr Bairstow’s eye and he nodded. This was going well. In a moment, they’d break the lock, gently peel back the wrappings, and expose the treasures we’d salvaged four hundred years ago. Or last Monday – however you wanted to look at it. This would be a huge triumph. Another prestigious find for Thirsk University. Another world-headline event for them. They would love us again. Well, they would until we blew their arses out of the water in the Raft Race.

I allowed myself a small sag of relief and looked across at Van Owen, who was sagging similarly. She gave me a quiet smile and a thumbs up.

Dieter stepped forwards with a spade. With one blow, he knocked off the lock.

Everyone paused, savouring the moment.

I took a moment to look around. The Chancellor stood beside Dr Bairstow. She was a little flushed, but that would be the excitement and not in any way connected with the vast quantities of alcohol consumed at lunchtime. Everyone was staring at the chest. Dieter crouched at one end and Leon at the other. Professor Rapson was dancing with excitement. Dr Dowson was issuing a series of instructions. With a great deal of straining, the top of the lead chest came free and was gently lifted away.

We all craned forwards. There was complete silence. I could hear people breathing.

Leon and Dieter moved back and somewhat stiffly, Dr Dowson knelt alongside the chest. Very gently and delicately, he began to peel back the coverings.

I know, we should have taken it inside and opened it more carefully and discreetly, but we were the victims of our own excitement. Everyone wanted to see what was in the box and we wanted to see it now.

The Chancellor was no better than the rest of us. She and her team stood right behind Dr Dowson, eager – desperate even – for that first look. That first glimpse of artefacts that hadn’t seen the light of day for four hundred years. Whose last sight had been of Old St Paul’s burning around them.

Dr Dowson gently pulled aside the last layer and we all leaned forward to look.

A moment frozen in time. No one moved. No one spoke.

I remember it was a grey day. A day without weather. No wind. No sun. Not hot. Not cold. Just a milk-white sky looking down on us as we stood, all of us, rigid with shock.

We stood for several lifetimes. From nowhere, a sharp little wind sprang up, ruffled our hair, and was as suddenly gone. As if her spirit, imprisoned underground for all those years, seized its freedom and fled, never to return.

Movement came back into the world. A huge gasp of shock ran around those assembled. I felt my heart turn over. Van Owen gave a small cry and put her hands over her face. Peterson and Clerk were on either side of her, holding her up. Someone burst into tears.

Quick as a flash, Dr Dowson flicked the covers back again but it was far, far too late for that. We’d all seen it. None of us would ever forget the sight.

They’d had to fold up the body to get it in. It lay in an impossible position. Jagged yellow bone poked through fragments of rotting clothing that had once been an orange firesuit.

The head – the skull, rather – was almost buried amongst a quantity of pale blonde hair, but the bullet hole in the centre of the forehead was clearly visible.

We’d found Mary Schiller.

She’d been here all along.

She’d been here for four hundred years, waiting for us to find her.

Chapter Nine

The moment passed. The Chancellor, after the first shock, exchanged a look with Dr Bairstow, rounded up her people, and took them quietly back inside St Mary’s.

Peterson and Clerk helped Van Owen away. Helen went with them.

Dr Dowson still knelt beside the chest, distressed and shocked. He made several futile attempts to rise, but he was trembling to such an extent that he couldn’t get up.

Professor Rapson put his hand on his shoulder and said gently, ‘Never mind, Occy. Let’s get you inside, shall we?’ and helped him to his feet. Dr Dowson paused for a moment, said, with tremendous dignity, ‘I shall be in my office should anyone require me,’ and the two of them walked quietly away. Leon took his silent team back into Hawking, leaving just Dr Bairstow and the rest of the History Department, who were standing as if we’d never move again.

Dr Bairstow stirred. ‘I would like you all to go back inside, please. Miss Prentiss, if you would be so good as to ask Dr Foster to join me when she can be spared from Miss Van Owen. Dr Maxwell, would you remain here, please.’

We watched them walk away.

‘Are you all right, Max?’

I nodded. My voice wasn’t working.

‘See to your people, Max. Try to keep a lid on any high emotions. We don’t know anything yet. Try to keep everyone calm. I shall attend to our friends from Thirsk. Please join me in my office in one hour.’

I had to clear my throat. ‘We’re in trouble now, aren’t we?’

‘Yes, we are. But let’s get through today, first.’

It’s one thing to grieve for a colleague and friend you think has been lost in the line of duty. It’s quite another to find she’s been murdered. Murdered and brutally folded in two and then callously shoved into a lead chest by someone whose idea of revenge is so cold and calculating that he was willing to wait four hundred years for it to come to fruition.

Even before we found the message carefully left for us to find amongst the wrappings, I knew it was Ronan. What I wasn’t prepared for was the other signature on the letter.

Bloody Isabella Bitchface Barclay.

I blamed myself. I’d had a chance to shoot her last year at the Battle of St Mary’s and I hadn’t. She’d escaped, leaving me a note saying she’d be back one day, but I’d never dreamed she’d do anything like this. How had she and Ronan found each other? And how had they found us? So many questions. So many questions and no answers at all. We had nothing except for the pathetic remains of Mary Schiller left here all those years ago for us to find today.

With hindsight, it was all so clear. They’d attacked David Sands, accessed the coordinates from Number Eight, followed behind, waited until St Mary’s jumped away, dug up the chest, stolen the contents, and left Schiller instead. Never mind the possibly fatal damage to our reputation and prestige, the thought in my mind – in everyone’s mind – was that we’d been here for years, living, working, arguing, playing football and she’d been here all that time. In the cold. In the dark. All alone, while St Mary’s walked, unheeding, over her grave.

I met with Peterson while we discussed what we were going to say. He offered me a drink, but I declined. I wanted one quite desperately, but I needed to be stone cold sober for this. There was no dodging reality today.

My chest heaved in a dry sob. I couldn’t help it. Peterson, who didn’t look much better than I did, took my hand. ‘Not your fault, Max. You weren’t even on the assignment. In fact, if it wasn’t for you and Markham, we’d all have died there.’

‘I know. I’m thinking of Van Owen. She was just beginning to lift her head and come to terms with losing Schiller. And now – this. Can you imagine anything more cruel? To leave that gloating note. Where they knew we’d find it. What are we going to do now?’

‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘We don’t know where they are or when. There’s nothing we can do until we encounter them again.  In the meantime, we get on with the job.’

‘I’m off to talk to my people now. Van Owen’s under sedation. I’ll see her tomorrow.’

‘Thank God we don’t have any trainees,’ he said, draining his glass. ‘They’d be stampeding for the hills even as we speak. Come on. I’ll go with you, even though you don’t need me. They’re a good bunch.’

They were. I let them talk. I let them vent their hopeless, helpless anger, pouring a drink or two where I thought it would help. I listened. I put in a word here or there when I thought they’d listen. Gradually, things subsided.

Finally, Clerk said, ‘What happens now, Max? Not only do we not have anything for Thirsk, they’ve just witnessed our greatest disaster.’

‘First,’ I said, ‘we bury Miss Schiller with full honours. Then we take a bit of a rest. The Open Day is almost upon us. I know most of us don’t feel like it at the moment, but we’re St Mary’s and we can do this. I’ll start looking for a salvage operation so brilliant that Thirsk will forget all about this. It’s going to be a rough couple of weeks, but we’ll get through them. Miss Van Owen will probably return within a day or so. She’s now our only Senior Historian and I know I don’t have to ask you to do what you can to make things a little easier for her.’

I was sitting in my room, hugging my knees and trying to pull my thoughts together when Leon appeared.

‘What are you thinking about?’

We had promised we would always talk to each other, so I answered honestly. ‘About death and loss.’

‘Come here.’

I shunted across the sofa and we sat together. I rested my head on his shoulder. As always, he felt warm and solid. Today, he smelled of fresh earth, fabric conditioner and soap. Slowly, I felt some of the tension drain away.

‘Tell me.’

‘I was thinking of everyone I’ve lost here. Kevin Grant. Remember him? And our baby. Our little baby who never even lived at all.’

He raised my hand to his lips and kissed it. I turned his hand around and held it to my cheek for a moment then continued.

‘And Tom Baverstock. And you.’

Leon himself, lost and then miraculously restored to me as I had been to him.

‘Jenny Fields. Karl Ritter. Robbie Weller. Young Esterhazy. The list just goes on and on. And now Mary Schiller.’

I remembered the work she and Van Owen had done on Mary Stuart – how they’d burst into my office, faces alight with triumph and excitement because they’d found the answer. Schiller had gone with us to 16
^th
-century Edinburgh. I remembered the two of us giggling because she’d tied my bum roll on upside down and back to front. I looked like a pregnant frog. She couldn’t move for laughing and then we couldn’t get the knots undone, which hadn’t helped at all, and finally she had to go off for a knife.

She’d stood beside me, quiet and alert at the court of Mary Stuart, whispering names and brief descriptions in my ear as we negotiated that social minefield. She’d fought at the Battle of St Mary’s. I remember her being shoved around by the Time Police – hot, angry, and dirty. And now …

‘They killed her and stuffed her into a box for us to discover now. Today. Leon, she’s been here for hundreds of years and nobody knew.’

‘Shh,’ he said, tucking stray bits of hair behind my years. ‘For what it’s worth, she died instantly. I suspect they grabbed her at the top of the steps to the crypt and she never knew anything about it. Then they locked the door on us and jumped away. I know – I know – it’s no consolation but she didn’t burn to death. Nor was she trapped somewhere waiting to be engulfed by flames. She died doing what she loved. The fault does not lie with you, who planned the mission. Nor Dr Bairstow who authorised it. Or with me because I provided the pods. Nor with Ian Guthrie who provided the security. The fault lies with Clive Ronan and Isabella Barclay. Blame them, not yourself.’

He was right.

‘I mean it, Max. You must do that, because you have to get out there and pull your department together. You have to help them pick themselves up without seeming uncaring. You have to move them on without pushing them too far or too fast.’

‘It won’t be easy.’

‘No, it won’t. Good job you’re exactly the right person for the job, then.’

He dropped a kiss on top of my head. ‘Use me, Max. Whenever you want to shout or scream or cry or kick the furniture – use me. I’m always around.’

‘Have I told you …?’

‘Yes, yes,’ he said, quickly. ‘You’re always boring on about how wonderful I am. Actually, it’s becoming a bit of a drag.’

I never thought I would say this, but thank heavens for the Open Day. It gave us something else on which to focus. I allocated responsibilities, imposed deadlines, and chased them all ruthlessly.

Van Owen returned, quiet but functioning, and I watched my department close ranks around her. I know Dr Bairstow had offered her a transfer to Thirsk should she wish it, but she had declined with thanks.

For myself, I needed to give some thought to my ever-shrinking department. We were down to just five historians. We’d had fewer – back in the day, it had been just Kal, Peterson, and me, but we’re established for twelve. I also needed to consider whether to replace Schiller as Senior Historian. Peterson and I were Chief Officers. Van Owen was the other Senior Historian. I didn’t want to be in a position where we had more chiefs than Indians. Our manpower shortage was becoming serious.

Two weeks later, I had an update for Dr Bairstow, who questioned me closely on the progress of our ship. Boat. I was pleased to report the flat bit was completed. Or the deck was laid. One or the other.

‘I am requested by Professor Rapson to invite you to crack a bottle over the front bit the day after tomorrow, sir.’

‘Ah – the launching ceremony. Excellent. I like to see these old traditions kept up.’

‘Well, if you really want traditions, sir, I believe the established procedure is to launch the boat over the living body of a virgin, thus propitiating the gods and anointing the boat with sacrificial blood. To bring it good luck.’

‘Well, we could certainly do with some at the moment.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘I wonder …?’

‘Sir?’ I said, not completely convinced he was joking.

He sighed. ‘You’re right. So, what of the race itself?’

‘Across the lake, sir. There and back again. That way, everyone gets a good view. I understand Thirsk will be bringing a number of supporters whose dastardly schemes will, we hope, be neutralised by the Security Section who will be keeping a very close eye on them.’

‘And what will the other members of my unit be doing while this takes place?’

This was not knowledge with which he should be burdened. It’s always vital for Senior Managers to be able to maintain plausible deniability. I hastened to distract him.

‘Cheering on their team, sir.’

‘What? All of them?’

No – was the answer to that one. Apparently, small but carefully selected groups of St Mary’s personnel would be posting themselves at strategic points around the lake, all the better, they said, to facilitate the St Mary’s Path to Victory, which would have worried me considerably if I hadn’t known that Thirsk themselves would post similar numbers of evil-minded saboteurs – sorry, students – for exactly the same purpose.

‘A substantial number of people intend to indulge in the art of “cheerleading” as I believe it’s known.’

He blinked. ‘Cheerleading?’

‘Yes, sir. An American custom, I understand.’

‘And of what does this custom consist?’

‘As far as I can ascertain, sir, it consists mainly of hurling young women through the air to the accompaniment of a rhythmical chant.’

He blinked again. ‘Exactly how far through the air are these young women hurled? And of what does the rhythmical chant consist?’

‘Oh, I don’t know, sir. Something along the lines of “Go, Beavers, Go”.’

‘Go where?’

‘I don’t think they’re being directed to a physical location as such, sir, it’s more a kind of generic encouragement.’

‘And exactly who are these … er … Beavers?’

‘A hastily chosen example of a typically named American team, sir. I believe they’re very fond of naming themselves after animals – Rams, Lions, Dolphins …’

‘Marmosets, Prawns …?’

‘Exactly, sir.’

‘And are these cries actually uttered by the airborne young women? Are we sure they are not simply ejaculating in fear?’

‘Probably not, sir. The cries are generally uttered by those with at least one foot on the ground.’

‘Astonishing.’

Mrs Partridge coughed again and in the interests of sparing him mental disquiet, I veered away from the promising subject of pom-poms and their implementation.

He emerged from his reverie. ‘This is an American custom, you say?’

‘Yes sir. Of quite recent introduction, I believe.’

‘So the early settlers did not, in fact, throw their young women around in this manner?’

‘Just accused them of being witches and hanged them, as far as I can see, sir.’

He sighed. ‘With some trepidation, I enquire as to the possibility of this unit remembering that its behaviour should, at all times, reflect the gravitas and decorum of an internationally renowned academic establishment?’

‘Oh, I think we both know the answer to that one, sir.’

We attended Dr Bairstow’s pre-Open Day briefing, in which he ran over final details and timetable. It seemed to take forever. I suspected the Normandy landings were less complicated. Bearing in mind the way he’d ambushed me in the first place, Peterson and I were giving him our full attention.

He finished with a typical instruction.

‘Please bear in mind there will be a large number of undergraduates attending our event and many of them could be potential members of St Mary’s. I would be grateful if the benefits of working at this particular establishment could be made clear to them on every conceivable occasion.’

‘I’d be grateful if they could be made clear to me,’ murmured David Sands, behind me.

I turned and fixed him with my best ‘I’m your head of department and don’t you forget it’ look.

‘Is there a problem, Dr Maxwell?’ asked Dr Bairstow. A little unfairly, I thought.

‘On the contrary, sir. The entire History department, motivated by the inspirational words of its director, has just indicated its enthusiasm by volunteering, unanimously, to undertake the clearing-up process afterwards. However unpleasant a task that may be.’