A Trail Through Time (The Chronicles of St Mary's) (16 page)

‘’Fraid so.’

‘Will they come back, do you think?’ he asked, craning his neck for a final, disbelieving glimpse.

‘Oh yes. Soon as he gets hungry,’ I said, and which one of them I was talking about was anyone’s guess.

After a while, the buzz of conversation started again, slowly at first, and then two minutes later, you couldn’t hear yourself think. Just another working day at St Mary’s.

It was easier to look out of the window, so I did. Like many things here, the grounds were similar but not identical. Beeches fringed the South Lawn rather than cedars, and they’d planted rose beds under the terrace, but otherwise, things were pretty much the same. Apart, of course, from the huge area of devastation around the lake. Most of the reed beds were just blackened stumps. The entire bank looked as if it had been on the wrong end of Lord Kitchener’s scorched earth policy. The jetty was just a memory. The sad remains of black-and-yellow safety tape fluttered in the breeze and there wasn’t a swan in sight. God knows where they were now. Still in the library, maybe? On the roof? India?

I was just finishing my lunch when Isabella Barclay made her entrance.

She’d once accused me of having stolen her life. That everything I had should have been hers. Well if that was the case, she certainly had it all back again. It was my turn to sit, sullen and resentful, watching her talking and laughing as she made her way across the dining room, exchanging insults and jokes with those around her. She’d certainly stepped into my empty shoes quickly enough.

I tried again to clear my mind of preconceptions.

She hadn’t come to eat. She had a folder in her hands. The dreaded St Mary’s paperwork. She’d come for me.

To put off the moment, I got up and made myself a pot of tea.

When I returned to the table, Ellis had gone.

Seemingly unaware of the deathly silence around us, she opened the folder.

I busied myself pouring my tea, using the time to decide what to say and do. I would have to say something. They all knew I could talk. If I said nothing, they would stick needles in me and I’d have no control over anything I said, or even remember afterwards what I’d said, and I couldn’t afford for that to happen.

I added sugar and stirred, desperately trying to see a way out of this, but the only thing in my head was a picture of Markham and Turk. That was typical of St Mary’s. Even though they were in the midst of a crisis, with their senior staff under house arrest, St Mary’s did things their own way. Maybe … so should I. Perhaps now was the time to go on the offensive. I could do that. For some reason, she’d chosen to do this in front of everyone. Was she trying to expose me in public? Of course she was. Perhaps it was time I sent a message.

She sat across from me, smiling pleasantly. I remembered her leaning over me in Sick Bay. I didn’t care what the rest of St Mary’s thought about her. She was trouble. She always had been. In every time. In every world.

‘I have a little paperwork to complete so if you could let me have a few details, please, just for our records …’

She let the sentence die away.

Well, I’d already screwed up once this morning. Let’s see if I could do it again. Maybe this was the time to declare myself. In fact – let’s really give them something to worry about. It occurred to me that if they concentrated on me, here at St Mary’s, maybe Leon would have a chance out there. Wherever he was. Whatever he was doing. I felt again the blast of hot air in my face. When he jumped away. When he left me …

Her voice brought me back. ‘Can I have your name, please?’

‘Maxwell.’

I didn’t raise my voice. People listen harder if you talk quietly.

Her hand jolted. I heard her swallow.

‘And your first name?’

‘Doctor.’

I was back at school again. Defying authority and digging myself a deeper hole with every word uttered. My own worst enemy and about to enjoy every minute.

‘Indeed?’ she said in polite disbelief. She looked me up and down, taking in my still very bedraggled appearance. I’m sure they all thought I was just some scruffy, ginger bint Leon had picked up from somewhere – which wasn’t that far from the truth when you think about it.

Somewhere, someone laughed. I grew very cold.

‘Well,’ she said, politely disbelieving. She was still smiling so everyone could see how nice she was, but her eyes were telling me a different story. ‘Let’s see if you are able to verify that statement, shall we? Perhaps you can give me some personal details. What about qualifications? Do you actually have any? At all?’

I took a deep breath and said in Latin, ‘Graduated from Thirsk University. L’Espec College – Northallerton campus. Doctorate in Ancient Civilisations. Post-graduate qualifications in Archaeology and Anthropology. Fluent in German, French, and Latin. Passable in Middle English and Greek. A smattering of Spanish, Italian, and Turkish. Fully qualified Field Medic with hospital experience. Reasonable with a quarterstaff, good with a bow, and bloody good with a handgun. Current in self-defence and side-saddle.’ I put down my cup. ‘I can make a weapon out of anything you care to put in front of me and should any proof be required, I’ll happily kill you with this teaspoon.’

My words rang around the room. I could hear whispers as people translated for those without Latin. I’d done everything except come right out and say I had been Chief Operations Officer. I knew Barclay didn’t speak Latin, but I was willing to bet she had a very good idea of what I’d just said. She kept her head, however, and rather than be seen to sit there, at a loss, she gathered up her paperwork and left the room.

I was shaking with rage. And fear. I sat quietly, staring out of the window, holding my tea with a trembling hand, wondering if I’d made things better or worse.

Gradually, the room emptied as everyone went back to work and I was alone.

What about me? Where should I go? Even my guard had left me. I pushed my chair back and slowly walked from the room.

I had no idea where I was going or what I was going to do when I got there.

Nothing new there then.

I made my way through the Hall. It was a familiar scene; groups of historians clustered around data tables or whiteboards, arguing, discussing, waving their arms. I caught snatches of conversation. Van Owen, who was probably in charge now, was saying, ‘My compliments to Professor Rapson. War budgies – yes. War goldfish – yes. War elephants? Not in a million years.’

Some things never change.

Something caught my eye and I came to a sudden halt, taking two steps backwards to stare at a whiteboard headed Battle of Shrewsbury – 1403.

I studied the bullet points listing the aims and objectives and tapped the board. ‘There’s a legend that the road nearby is named Featherbed Lane because that’s where the women dragged out their featherbeds for the wounded to rest on. You might want to check that out,’ and passed on before anyone could comment.

I made for the shelter of the library. I needed some peace and quiet before I fell apart altogether.

The high-ceilinged, sunny room was exactly as I remembered it. Apart from the strong chemical cleaning smell that was possibly not unrelated to the recent invasion by a dozen or so angry but loose-bowelled swans leaving ankle-deep calling cards with malicious intent.

Ignoring the siren call of Leick on Mesopotamia, I thought I would catch up on some old favourites. Since there weren’t any out there, I needed the comfort of familiar friends in here.

I pulled down
Jane Eyre
,
Pride and Prejudice
, a book of Sherlock Holmes short stories, the first
Harry Potter
, and finished off with Tom Holland’s
Persian Fire
. That should keep me quiet until teatime. I avoided Thomas Hardy because everyone should, and anyway, I was depressed enough. And Dickens. I’ve never liked Dickens. I laughed like mad when Little Nell died.

I found a comfortable chair, dropped the books on the floor around me, and curled up with the Bennett sisters.

It was a measure, I think, of how seriously my mind was disturbed. I’d read this story so many times but now, for some reason, I saw so much wrong with it.

There was Mr Bennett, quietly comical, along with his wife, the extremely silly Mrs Bennett – except that she wasn’t, was she?

We’re supposed to laugh at Mr Bennett’s dry wit and gently humorous comments, but this is the man who has so mismanaged his family’s affairs that, on his death, his wife and daughters will be homeless and almost penniless. In an age when there was no mechanism for gently born women to earn their own living, how would they survive?

The answer to that almost certainly kept Mrs Bennett awake at night and, knowing this, who could criticise her frantic efforts to get all her daughters safely married, their future well-being taken care of, while Mr Bennett amusingly uncaring, reads in his library? Poor Mrs Bennett. Laughed at by generations of readers. I wondered about Jane Austen’s contemporaries who would, like Mrs Bennett, have been only to aware of the likely fate of the Bennett girls – had they laughed too?

Bloody hell, I was a right little ray of sunshine today.

I let Elizabeth Bennett slide to the floor and picked up
Jane Eyre
.

The library was very quiet. I could hear Dr Dowson moving around the shelves, but otherwise, the place was empty. There was no sign of my guard. Obviously, I didn’t need one any longer because I’m an idiot and I’d told them everything they needed to know.

I sighed, turned another page, and someone coughed at my elbow. Looking up, I saw Dr Dowson. He took off his spectacles and polished them.

‘I was wondering … we usually have some tea around about this time. Would you care to join us?’

This unexpected gesture of kindness brought a lump to my throat.

I swallowed. ‘Yes, I would. Thank you.’

‘Please, come this way.’

I picked up my books and followed him to his office, a small room between the library and the archive.

Professor Rapson was already there. Just as I remembered him, with his shock of Einstein hair and his beaky nose. His eyebrows hadn’t yet grown back after the fireship trauma. Today he wore a white coat with a huge scorch-mark just over his heart. Heaven knows what had been going on there.

Dr Dowson ushered me into their cosy room. ‘Andrew, break out the crumpets! We have a guest.’

‘Excellent. Excellent. Welcome, my dear. Come and sit down.’

‘You’d better have the chair by the fire,’ said Dr Dowson. ‘Try to make sure the old fool doesn’t ignite the furniture, again.’

‘You can’t count that time, Octavius. The chair merely smouldered. It doesn’t count unless there is an actual flame, you know.’

He impaled a crumpet on a long fork and held it in front of the hissing gas fire. ‘I’ll toast. You butter.’

I nodded.

Dr Dowson made the tea.

At some point, the sun had disappeared and now rain splattered the windows. It was extremely pleasant to be in here, snug and warm, toasting crumpets with two old friends. Of course, any minute now, the professor could explode the sugar bowl.

I watched them moving around in this small space. Cups, saucers, and plates were all handed around. I buttered enough crumpets for a small country. It was all very peaceful. The sound of them bickering amiably was oddly soothing and familiar. This, at least, had not changed.

Eventually, we each had a small table, a plate of crumpets, and a napkin.

Professor Rapson handed me my tea and said, without looking at me, ‘Should they ever find him, Leon Farrell will be charged with removing a contemporary from his own time, the sentence for which is death. Dr Peterson and Major Guthrie will be charged as accomplices. Dr Bairstow, as the person ultimately responsible for everything has, only temporarily we hope, been removed from his position as Director of St Mary’s.

‘As mission controller, Dr Maxwell would have been charged as well, but she died. At this stage, we’re not sure if the colonel believes that or not. If he thinks you are Max, you’ll be shot. If he thinks you’re not Max, they might shoot you anyway. A no-win situation for you, I’m afraid. One lump or two?’

‘Three, please,’ I said, calmly, hoping my face showed nothing.

Old sins have long shadows. We’d taken Helios back and we still weren’t safe. Would we ever escape the consequences of that day?

I looked up from dark memories, to find the pair of them watching me. Gone were the familiar bickering academics. That was just the face they chose to present to the world. Neither of them was the bumbling buffoon they appeared. I suspected the charade gave them a great deal of quiet amusement.

Professor Rapson continued. ‘You are in a difficult position, but your ringing declaration in the dining-room may not be the catastrophe you think it is. You are Maxwell. Of that I have no doubt.’

He twinkled at me, and suddenly the world was not such an unfriendly place. ‘Of course, which Maxwell is another matter completely. If you will accept a friendly word of advice, stick with that. News of your possible identity has caused a considerable amount of consternation in the right quarters, which I am certain you will know how to exploit. Our Miss Barclay, for example, was most taken aback, don’t you think? One would have thought that the return of someone for whom she always professed great affection would be a cause for joy. One would have thought. And yet …’

He petered out, peering thoughtfully into his cup.

‘I am certain Dr Bairstow will be busy weaving this revelation into his plans even as we speak.’

‘Plans?’

Dr Dowson helped himself to another crumpet. ‘Oh yes. I’ve never known Edward not to have a plan of some kind.’

Without any change in his voice, he continued, ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Andrew, look what you’re doing, will you? You’ll have that chair up in flames if you’re not careful.’

He lunged forwards, upsetting the teapot. The table went over and they launched themselves into an ocean of recrimination and abuse, and Officer Ellis, who had been standing unseen in the doorway, informed me that the colonel wished to see me.