1. Just One Damned Thing After Another (28 page)

There was another loud bang from inside.

He offered me his arm. ‘There’s nothing to concern yourself with at the moment, Miss Maxwell. Shall we re-join the party?’

The fire alarms went off.

‘Good heavens,’ he said. ‘At long last. This will make Leon a happy man.’

Actually, there was a much easier way to make Leon a happy man and only slightly less noisy, but probably best not to mention that.

Peterson rushed past. ‘Come on, Max! Swans in the library!’

‘What? How?’

‘Who cares?’ Good point.

In the distance, I could hear shouting. And screaming. Familiar sounds. St Mary’s thundered past on their way to make a crisis considerably worse.

It was nice to be home.

Epilogue

Three weeks later, we were finished. All our reports were written and filed away and our sunburn fading. We’d had the service for Murdoch and Jamie Cameron. Their names were on the Boards. The worldwide furore continued, but we played no part in that. Thirsk got the glory – we got the cheque, so the Boss was happy. He gave us three whole days off.

On one of the last golden days of autumn we sprawled on the South Lawn under the shade of the cedar tree. One or two people had dropped an optimistic fishing line into the lake and then apparently fallen into a coma. A couple of people were reading, someone strummed a guitar, and a couple of not very serious card games were going on. The entire technical section seemed incapable of adding up to twenty-one. Or even fifteen.

‘Thick as two short Plancks,’ muttered Kal.

I sat next to Leon, enjoying the unaccustomed holiday. Occasionally, his fingers brushed mine.

The peace was shattered as three men, headed by The Man From SPOHB (to whom we had been requested to be polite), trundled around the corner with a wheelbarrow filled with the tools of their trade and started laying into the fourth step outside the front door. St Mary’s sat up, the better to enjoy watching someone else do the work for a change.

I was watching Mrs Partridge and she was watching the Boss. The Boss was watching the workers and someone who knew him quite well might have caught a faint trace of anxiety.

A shout from the workmen dragged my attention away. They seemed to be bending over something. The Man From SPOHB took a few steps towards us, shouted something incomprehensible, and waved his arms.

‘Occy, I think you’re up,’ murmured the Boss and Dr Dowson set off across the grass at a hobbling trot, followed by Professor Rapson who didn’t want to miss anything.

They all bent over the hole again and then, very slowly and carefully, something was removed and placed reverentially on a wide plank. They disappeared inside the building.

‘Goodness me,’ said the Boss. ‘Do you think they can have found something?’

His entire unit turned to look at him in deep suspicion.

He smirked. He actually smirked. ‘Isn’t this exciting?’

I found my voice. ‘Do you know what they have found, sir?’

‘Well, if asked to speculate, which I have been, thank you very much, Miss Maxwell, I would say they may have uncovered a small box, carefully waterproofed and buried under our fourth step some five hundred years ago. Or last February. Ah, here it comes.’

Obviously pre-arranged, two trolleys with champagne and glasses were wheeled across the lawn towards us.

‘Gentlemen, if you could do the honours, please.’

Heads swivelled back to Dr Bairstow again.

‘May we ask you to speculate again as to the contents of the carefully waterproofed box, sir?’ asked Peterson.

‘Of course you may, Mr Peterson. I would say – this is only speculation, you understand – but if pressed, I would say it’s possible the box might contain a number of documents that, on examination, may prove to be a play and a collection of sonnets.’

I nearly dropped my glass.

Peterson did drop his.

‘Sonnets?’ he said.

‘A play?’ I said.

The Boss sipped his champagne and said nothing.

I made an effort to pin him down. ‘Sir, are we – are we talking – Shakespeare? Another collection of sonnets? A lost play? Not Cardenio?’

‘No, this is the last play he ever wrote. He wanted to make sure the main protagonists were dead, obviously. He was reluctant, but for certain promises and a big bag of gold, he allowed himself to be persuaded.’

‘But what’s the play?’ said Kal. ‘What’s it about?’

‘The Scottish Queen. Parts I and II.’

His entire unit regarded him with shock and awe.

Mrs Partridge finally looked at me. I felt a faint stir of disquiet. The anomaly …

Professor Rapson galloped back across the grass. Long years of practice had given him a useful turn of speed.

‘Edward,’ he gasped, throwing himself into a seat. ‘We have a problem.’

‘Don’t tell me we’ve lost it already?’

‘Worse,’ he said, downing someone’s champagne. ‘It’s a fake.’

‘No, it’s not. I buried it here myself, five hundred years ago. It’s quite genuine and will easily pass the most rigorous of examinations.’

‘No, you don’t understand. They executed the wrong queen.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘I may have skimmed through it …’

‘Why?’

‘I wanted to know how it ends,’ he said, defensively.

‘Andrew, my dear friend, we’re historians. No one knows how it ends better than us.’

‘Actually, Edward, no. Part I ends with the execution at Fotheringay.’

‘Yes, we know.’

‘No, no. You don’t understand. They killed the wrong queen. It was Elizabeth. They executed the Queen of England. Mary Stuart survived and went on to unite the two kingdoms.’

‘Impossible! I stood over him while he wrote every word. I had to. If I took my eye off the bugger even for a second, he was off to the nearest alehouse. You know what writers are like.’

‘Did you actually read it?’

‘There was no time. I alternately threatened and bribed until it was completed. I grabbed everything, jumped to St Mary’s, buried it all under the fourth step, and then got the hell out of there. I certainly didn’t proof read the thing.’

‘Do you think he did it as a joke?’

‘The man had no discernible sense of humour. Have you never read his comic dialogues? We need to get that manuscript back before anyone sees it. We can’t afford even the slightest hint of impropriety.’

‘Oh,’ said the Professor. ‘That’s not a problem. ‘It’s here,’ and he pulled the priceless document from under his jacket, wrapped in a Tesco carrier bag. The Boss closed his eyes briefly.

‘Well done, Andrew. Where are the sonnets?’

‘Occy has them in his safe.’

‘Well, for God’s sake, hang on to them; they clearly reveal the identity of his Dark Lady. And where is the gentleman from SPOHB?’

‘Lying down.’

The Boss frowned. ‘I gave explicit instructions – there was to be no violence.’

‘No, no, he was overcome.’

‘With emotion?’

‘Nearly right.’

Wisely, he let it go. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing we can do about it at the moment. We’ll just have to add it to our list of things to think about when we get back to work on Monday.’

Around me, St Mary’s glowed gently in the late afternoon sunshine. Mellow and golden. The gold was picked up and repeated with variations in the autumn foliage. Apart from us, everything seemed serene and quiet. Peaceful, even. But for how long?

A cool wind stirred the leaves. The sun dropped down behind the hills and long, purple shadows reached out towards us.

I sipped a little more champagne but the bubbles had gone. It was going flat. I looked up to see the Boss watching me, closely. I leaned nearer and said softly, ‘It’s not over, sir, is it?’

‘For the time being, Miss Maxwell, yes. But no, I’m sorry, it’s not over.

Not so much the end – more a kind of pause ...

The story goes on in
A Symphony of Echoes
 …

The Chronicles of St Mary’s
by
Jodi Taylor

Book Two in the madcap time-travel series based at the St Mary’s Institute of Historical Research that seems to be everyone’s cup of tea.

In the second book in the Chronicles of St Mary’s series, Max and the team visit Victorian London in search of Jack the Ripper, witness the murder of Archbishop Thomas a Becket in Canterbury Cathedral, and discover that dodos make a grockling noise when eating cucumber sandwiches.

But they must also confront an enemy intent on destroying St Mary’s – an enemy willing, if necessary, to destroy History itself to do it.

The story goes on in
A Second Chance
 …

The Chronicles of St Mary’s
by
Jodi Taylor

St Mary’s is back and nothing is going right for Max. Once again, it’s just one damned thing after another.

The action jumps from an encounter with a mirror-stealing Isaac Newton to the bloody battlefield at Agincourt.  Discover how a simple fact-finding assignment to witness the ancient and murderous cheese-rolling ceremony in Gloucester can result in CBC – concussion by cheese. The long awaited jump to Bronze Age Troy ends in personal catastrophe for Max and just when it seems things couldn’t get any worse – it’s back to the Cretaceous Period again to confront an old enemy who has nothing to lose.

So, make the tea, grab the chocolate biscuits, settle back and discover exactly why the entire history department has painted itself blue …

A seasonal short story

It’s Christmas Day 1066 and a team from St Mary’s is going to witness the coronation of William the Conqueror.

Or so they think.

However, History seems to have different plans for them and when Max finds herself delivering a child in a peasant's hut, she can’t help wondering what History is up to.

For more information about
Jodi Taylor
and other
Accent Press
titles
please visit

www.accentpress.co.uk

Published by Accent Press Ltd 2014

ISBN 9781783751778

Copyright © Jodi Taylor 2013

The right of Jodi Taylor to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her 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 the publishers: Accent Press Ltd, Ty Cynon House, Navigation Park, Abercynon, CF45 4SN

Original Cover Design by Dane Low