Restoration (7 page)

  As he watched, one of the fat silver screws spiralled out from the wood and fell onto the carpet. It was followed by another. And again. The first plank fell.

  He stayed quite still. He had neither the energy nor inclination to run. The door would always be there when he returned.

  The screws from the second plank worked themselves free, metal woodworms glinting in the 60 watt light of his hallway. The second plank fell on top of the first.

  What was the point of a door if you couldn't step through it, he had wondered a day ago. What indeed?

  The third plank began to spit out its screws, one by one.

  The woman was talking again though he couldn't tell what she was saying. However loud her voice grew, there was no distinction to the words; it was as if they were muffled, by a gripped hand perhaps, or a firmly pressed pillow.

  The fourth plank fell.

  He thought about Jo, wondered what she would have made of this. She had always been more practical than he, a man prone to losing himself in his own mind. Would she have even seen it?

  The fifth joined the others in a pile.

  As the sixth plank fell, the woman stopped talking and was replaced by the castanet chatter of what may have been a sewing machine. Thrusting needles and spinning cogs.

  The seventh, and last, plank fell to the floor and for a moment there was silence.

  Then the door opened.

 
 
 

 

The silence was so absolute it was brittle as bone china. The snow glowed with an inherited luminescence too bright for unshielded eyes. A small amount of wind moved with grace and reverence along the sides of the mountain, delicately brushing the snow into smoky plumes. There are places on Earth that hold such serenity, such purity, that the mere act of walking in them feels a sacrilege. This was one of those places and, in truth, it wasn't patient to intruders. Its peaks were so lofty, it's air so thin, the fresh snow so treacherous, that it was a lucky man that survived in it for long.

  The train arrived with a roar of brakes, bursting from mid-air and grinding through the snow. It came to a stop at an angle and its doors opened with the hiss of hydraulics. Ashe clambered over the snow drift caused by the train's passage, cursing to himself as the sound of an automated announcement echoed from the carriage behind him.

  "We regret to announce that, due to the presence of leaves on the track, this, the 16.58 service to Dhuru Monastery will be unable to stop at its destination. Passengers are advised to alight here and make their own arrangements. Virgin Rail is unable to be held accountable for any passengers dying of exposure as it falls outside our insurance remit. Please contact our representative on your return for full details."

  Ashe toppled down the far side of the snow bank, roaring an anatomical suggestion that any rail company would struggle to fulfil. He got to his feet, tugging his overcoat around him, and shuffled away from the train. He had been sensible enough to shoplift some extra clothing from the station's branch of
Fat Face
. His usual coat now accessorised by a fur hat and woollen scarf that he had considered frankly ridiculous when looking in the dressing room mirror but a godsend now. The extra pair of jumpers he was wearing made him ungainly as he tried to run a good distance away before the time the train departed.

  The doors hissed closed and the train punched its way out of this time zone and on to destinations equally improbable. Ashe watched it go, then continued to shuffle down the mountain. As he waddled through the snow he became aware of a rumbling from further up the peak, the passage of the train having shaken the snow loose.

  "I suppose death by avalanche is also not covered by insurance." He struggled to move quicker as a fat wave of snow rolled towards him.

  The incline dropped sharply ahead, the land cutting back in on itself in a row of exposed rock. Ashe lowered himself over, dropping to a covered ledge as the snow shot past him in a waterfall of dust. He shuffled further along the ledge to an opening in the rock. Stumbling inside he was grateful for the padding of his extra layers as he lost his footing and fell a few feet into the centre of the cave.

  "Hello," someone said, holding a lantern aloft to illumine a narrow, bearded face. "Was that bloody racket your doing?"

  Ashe looked at the stranger, he was middle-aged, layered with thick tweed and wool. Propped next to him was an old-fashioned rifle (not old-fashioned here, Ashe reminded himself, everything had a chance to be new again when you were time travelling). Ashe got to his knees and slipped his hands in his coat pockets, ensuring his revolver was still to hand. Looping his finger through the trigger guard he kept the gun out of sight until he knew he'd need it.

  "Sorry," he replied, "problem with my transport."

  "Transport?" the man scoffed. "Your feet are the only transport you can rely on up here."

  "You may be right." Ashe decided to change the subject, he had no intention of trying to explain his circumstances to this man. "Mark Spencer," he said, extending the hand not gripping his revolver. The man stared at the gesture for a moment, either deciding whether he was willing to let the matter of Ashe's transport drop or wondering what sort of man wore gloves knitted in pink herringbone. Eventually he shook it, his Victorian breeding getting the better of his concerns.

  "Nigel Walsingham, good to meet someone with whom I share a language at least."

  "Likewise." Ashe was relieved – if surprised – to hear the man's name, it would appear that he might get this conversation under control at last. "Forgive me, but are you Walsingham, the botanist?"

  "One and the same." Walsingham's gruff manner thawed slightly. "Here on behalf of the British Society taking samples of medicinal herbs. I'm sorry but if we've met…"

  "We haven't, but we have a friend in common, Roger Carruthers?"

  At the mention of Carruthers' name all animosity vanished from Walsingham. "My dear fellow! I've known Carruthers for years, a pleasure to make your acquaintance!" Walsingham shook Ashe's hand again, this time with a genuine vigour. "What are the odds on two such souls meeting in such circumstances?"

  What indeed? Ashe thought. He was wondering how bizarre it was that his train should go out of its way to avoid his original destination and drop him here, mere feet away from the man he was after. Was Sophie helping them somehow?

  "My being here isn't a complete coincidence," Ashe admitted. "In fact I'm engaged in business on Carruthers' behalf."

  "Really?" Walsingham replied. "I had no idea he had interests in Tibet."

  Neither does he, thought Ashe, not yet anyway.

 

 

His discussion with Carruthers before leaving for the past had been unsurprisingly detailed. After all, if there was one thing Carruthers enjoyed it was discussing himself.

  "Walsingham's a fine chap," Carruthers had said, "as far as any man that can get excited over moss can be described as such. His heart's in the right place though he can kill a dinner party stone dead with his interminable waffle about flora. It was him that told me about the box."

  Which had marked Walsingham out as the man Ashe needed to meet.

  "He wrote to me," Carruthers had continued, "claiming to have met a man by the name of Mark Spencer. Apparently this fellow had traced the artifact to a Buddhist temple in one of the corners of Tibet less marked by the British interest."

  "By which you mean invasion force?"

  "Well, yes, I suppose so, though I will say that that was never the intention of many of the men involved. We were just eager to see what the hitherto unexplored country could offer. I suppose many indecencies have been committed in the name of curiosity. Anyway, I had no knowledge of the gentleman mentioned which made the matter all the more intriguing. Walsingham had me endorsed by his fellows at the British Museum and I made my way out there as fast as a boat could carry me."

  "Well," Ashe had noted, "at least one mystery is now solved for you."

  "Really?"

  "The identity of this unknown acquaintance." Ashe held up the box. "It must have been me."

  "Hmm." Carruthers had nodded. "Rum business time travel."

 

 

"Once the snow has settled a little," said Walsingham, "I'll lead you down to the monastery and introduce you to the rest of my party. At the very least we can make sure you have a bed and some warm provisions. The monks bend over backwards to ensure we're comfortable. Though I can't say I take to the tea much, oily stuff, like drinking paraffin. They swear it's good for you."

  "Are they not opposed to your presence then?" asked Ashe.

  "Opposed? Oh, being Westerners you mean? No, the Abbot's a friendly sort, head in the clouds of course, but the perfect host. The soldiers we've encountered on our travels have been a bit more trigger happy but everyone's accommodating enough for the most part, Younghusband was sensible enough to release most of his Tibetan prisoners once our interests here were endorsed by the Dalai Lama so everyone's on the same side."

  "We'll see how long it lasts," Ashe replied, only too aware that it wouldn't. Time travel turned one into such a know-it-all.

  "Our military companion shares your doubt," said Walsingham. "Major Kilworth, he's somewhat uneasy about the whole affair."

  "I thought there was nothing a military man liked more than occupation."

  "He was stationed in India for years and, unlike many of his fellows, came to sympathise with the locals."

  "A military man who has lost his taste for colonisation… I bet that attitude has helped his career no end."

  Walsingham smiled. "He's stuck nursemaiding a botanist and his party, make of that what you will."

  "What's the purpose of the expedition?" asked Ashe.

  "We're exploring the pharmacological value of the Tibetan medicine. These chaps swear by their brews and the medical profession is always eager to add new munitions to its armoury. I'm the botanist of course, and Lawrence Rhodes is the chemist. We also have Doctor Andrew Haywood with us, though I must confess it's not always a pleasure. The man's a wreck… cold sweats and delusions when he's at his worst."

  "Sounds helpful."

  "Claims it's altitude sickness but there's a suspicion that he has a taste for his own medicine cabinet."

  "I'm surprised you put up with him."

  "Can't really send him home can we? He was the measure of civility on our voyage but since taking residency here he grows from bad to worse. It's a damned mess… my wife has been under the weather recently but she refuses to let him anywhere near her. Can't say I blame her."

  "You've brought your wife with you?" Ashe found the idea startling given the politics of the time.

  "Oh she's a bright spark, my Helen, wouldn't dream of waiting dutifully behind for my return. Besides, she has always taken an interest in my work, her knowledge would put many lesser botanists to shame."

  "Taught her all you know."

  "I suppose I have," Walsingham smiled. "Besides, it makes these long expeditions all the more palatable to have her by my side. A marriage withers in isolation don't you think?"

  "Indeed I do," admitted Ashe, though he couldn't lay claim to any personal experience. There was an air of nervousness to Walsingham when he discussed his wife that Ashe found curious. For all his sentimental words, there was discomfort there. His "bright spark" was not the source of pleasure he made her out to be.

  "I think we can risk moving now," Walsingham said, poking his head out of the cave. "The light will be gone soon and the last thing we want is to be stuck out here in the dark." He pulled his pack on and tightened his scarf around his face. "Do you have no equipment?" he asked, his voice muffled by the thick wool.

  I didn't think I'd need any for such a brief trip, thought Ashe, I certainly never intended to go trekking over mountains. "I'm travelling light," he said. "Left the main party just over the last ridge." He hoped Walsingham didn't question him further. Next time he should prepare a cover story.

  "A proper Sherpa, eh?" Walsingham replied, heading out into the open air.

  They made their way out onto the narrow ledge, Walsingham leading the way. "The journey is a short one," Walsingham continued, "you should be fine. I have rope if we come unstuck
en route
."

  The ledge widened out a few yards from the cave and the going was as easy as Walsingham promised. Ashe couldn't help but be reminded of his recent trek within the house, where he, Carruthers, Miles and Penelope had travelled up the side of a mountain rising – in typically preposterous fashion – within the walls of one of the sitting rooms. Then they had been lucky enough to have a staircase to follow and regular pitstops within furnished caves.

  "It should only take us half an hour or so," shouted Walsingham. "Once we get around the next bend you'll see the monastery. I make it a point never to travel too far from the base on my own, once you get further afield the climb is far too dangerous to be attempted without roped support."

  "No need to make your wife a widow in the name of botany," Ashe replied.

  "Indeed not."

  After a few minutes the landscape below revealed itself. Further down, in the shelter of a narrow valley, a building pulled its stone walls around itself as if for warmth. Banners fluttered on parapets, shivering from exposure. A bell sounded, ringing around the central courtyard and calling the monks that lived there to prayer. Prayer was good, Ashe thought, bodies huddled in the fug of incense fires as they chanted. Even if nobody was listening it took the chill off.