A Symphony of Echoes (30 page)

We always wait for each other. I insist on it. We always finish a mission together.

We stepped outside to cheers and applause. We were home. I could smell dust, hot electrics, and pods. Something warmed inside me. I looked up at Dr Bairstow, waiting alone on the gantry, smiled and nodded. He nodded slightly, twitched something that might have been a congratulatory smile – or not – and limped away.

I turned my attention to the rest of my team.

‘So,’ said Schiller, impatiently. ‘Were we successful?’

‘Are you kidding?’ I said. ‘We were bloody amazing!’

Helen and her team appeared, impatient and irritable at our non-arrival in Sick Bay.

Nurse Hunter expertly intercepted Markham, who was trying to slope off to the bar.

‘Why?’ he was saying, plaintively. ‘Do you know how awful 16th century beer is? I need something to take the taste away.’

She put her hands on her hips in mock horror.

‘You’ve been drinking the beer?’

‘Well … yes.’

‘You idiot!’

‘What?’ He was dumfounded. ‘Why?’

‘Have you any idea what lived in 16th century water?’

‘None at all,’ he said proudly. ‘But a couple of modern beers will soon see it off.’

‘You wish! You’ve almost certainly picked up a dose of worms and 16th century tapeworms are the worst. Left untreated, they lodge in your intestines, where it’s warm and wet – and I should imagine yours are warmer and wetter than most – and they just grow and grow. Finally, when they’re so big there’s no more room, they start to work their way up your gullet. Not overnight, obviously, but, one day, you’ll be talking to someone and you’ll feel the worm’s head, nodding away at the back of your throat.

Markham paled.

‘And by then it’s far, far too late,’ she continued, remorselessly, ‘because anything strong enough to kill a thirty-foot worm isn’t going to do you any good, either.’

Everyone else stepped back from him.

‘What about the other end?’ Dieter asked the question to which no one else wanted to know the answer. ‘The tail. Where does that appear?’

‘Well, guess.’

‘I need a drink,’ said Markham, desperately.

‘Sorry. Beer is the very worst thing you can drink when you’ve got a tapeworm. They just love the yeast. Doubles their size overnight. Definitely no beer for at least six months.’

She grinned; blonde, fluffy, and evil. ‘You’ve gone a really funny colour.’

‘I feel terrible,’ he said plaintively.

‘You poor, poor boy. Would you like to lean on me?’

‘If that’s all right with you,’ he said, bravely.

‘Well, it’s not. Get your arse up those stairs. Now.’

Guthrie uncrossed his eyes and focused on Helen.

‘Would it be possible to dissolve Mr Markham and keep the worm?’

She snorted and he was whisked away. The others trailed off behind them.

Which left Leon and me.

‘So,’ he said, brightly, as I limped down the hangar. ‘When would you like to tell me about you and the Earl of Bothwell?’

Epilogue

I got over it, of course. We always do. But sometimes the shadows linger on.

I spent a day in the library, following the history of events after our intervention. Mary Stuart went on to marry Bothwell and spent the rest of her life in tears and regret, exiled from her own land and imprisoned in England. I never called her The Tartan Trollop again.

Bothwell fled to Denmark and spent ten years chained to a pillar, unable to stand upright. He died insane. I try not to think of his green eyes and careless charm.

Elizabeth Tudor was saved and went on to have the entire age named after her.

James VI became James I.

Everything was exactly as it should be.

And at the end of the day, Leon was right. It all happened hundreds of years ago.

I nagged and scolded until I had everyone’s reports, wrote my own, signed and initialled everything in sight, and took it all off to the Boss, who congratulated me on a job well done. I thanked him politely.

We sat in silence for a while and then he said, ‘It had to be done. And you were the one to do it.’

‘I know.’

‘No one said it would be easy.’

‘I know.’ I tried to smile. ‘It’s been a rough year.’

‘And it’s not going to get any better. I’m sorry if you and your department were expecting an easy time for a while because that’s not going to happen.’ He passed me a file. ‘Read through this please, and talk to your people. I’d like a preliminary mission plan by next Wednesday.’

I was a little hurt. He was tough, but it wasn’t like him to be insensitive. A few days to let events settle in our heads would not have been unreasonable. I took the file, sat back, and glanced at the first page. I read the brief and looked at his expressionless face.

‘Well, can you do it? Or shall I give it to someone else?’

‘Over your dead body, sir.’

He’s not big on facial expressions, but at that moment he looked like a cat who had not only got at the cream, but knew how to open the fridge. And who had possibly just invested in his first dairy herd as well.

‘You’d better get on with it, then.’

I got up quietly, left his office, smiled politely at Mrs Partridge, strolled slowly along the corridor, round the gallery and down the stairs to the half-landing. Down in the hall, a bunch of tea-sodden disaster-magnets shouted, argued, and gesticulated. The History Department at work.

Eventually, they noticed me and silence fell. I kept my face quite expressionless.

‘OK, you lot. Strike the Mary Stuart material and start it packing away. I want this room cleared and ready for our next assignment by the end of today, please. Get the Archive staff in here to advise on what to keep.

‘Miss Lee, please set up a meeting for two o’clock this afternoon, in my office with all senior history personnel, together with Chief Farrell and Major Guthrie, if they’re free.

‘Dr Dowson, here’s a list of information I need from you as soon as possible, please.

‘All of you to clear your diaries for at least the next fortnight.

‘Dr Peterson, could I see you in my office at your earliest convenience?

‘Miss Lee, please telephone Dr Black at Thirsk and ask her to contact me when she has a moment.

‘Tomorrow morning, first thing, we start our new assignment. Thank you, everyone.’

I never thought they’d let me get away with it, but it was worth a try.

‘We have a new assignment? Already? That was quick. I thought we’d get a bit of time off, at least.’

There was muttering. I let them mutter. I knew what our new assignment was. Gradually, silence fell. I let it settle. Tim got it first, but he knew me very well.

‘You’re kidding!’

‘Nope!’

‘How did you wangle that?’

‘Wangle what?’ demanded Van Owen. ‘What’s going on?’

I grinned at her.

‘Come along, Miss Van Owen, think for a minute.’

They all just stared at me. It was a wonderful moment.

I held up the file. As I once said to Dr Bairstow – deep down, very deep down, I was having a shit-hot party.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, we’re going to Troy.’

THE END

The Chronicles of St. Mary’s Series
by Jodi Taylor

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

www.accentpress.co.uk

My thanks to :
Everyone at Accent Press for their support and encouragement.
Ahmet for his technical support and explaining patiently that toast crumbs in your laptop are A Bad Thing.
Mike and Jan for their hospitality.

Published by Accent Press Ltd 2013

ISBN 9781783751754

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