No Time Like the Past (14 page)

‘Ah. Excellent,’ said Dr Bairstow, nobody’s fool. ‘Are there any other volunteers for this valuable though undoubtedly lengthy and messy undertaking?’

Total silence at St Mary’s is such a rare thing.

Chapter Ten

All right – here we go. Open Day 101. Watch and learn, people.

At exactly 2.00 p.m. – or 1400 hours for the more military minded – the Boss opened the proceedings with the traditional ear-splitting howl as the sound-system registered its protest. We got that sorted out and he made his speech of welcome. Wisely, given the attention span of his audience, he made it brief. Very brief. I timed him at seventeen seconds and five of those were applause.

Duty done, he made himself scarce, (rumour had it he’d prepared an underground bunker for this very event), and the crowd scattered, hopefully to avail themselves of the many opportunities to spend vast amounts of money.

Apart from the sidesaddle demo, I hadn’t tied myself to anything in particular and spent some time wandering around the place and trying to stay out of trouble. There was plenty of excitement around – some of it planned and some of it not.

Professor Rapson had set up his trebuchet at the eastern end of the lake; the purpose of which was to hit the floating targets. Members of R&D were loading up with small rocks and simultaneously fighting off a not-inconsiderable number of small boys who were volunteering to be human missiles. I moved hurriedly on.

Screams and shouts emanated from the marquee where the IT crowd were showing our dinosaur holo. I could see the shadows of fighting reptiles jerking on the sides of the tent. Ear-splitting roars rent the air and that was just the audience. The queue for the next performance stretched all the way to the tea tent.

Over on the football pitch, a medieval tournament area had been set up. The Security Section’s colours were green and white. They’d tossed a coin, lost, and were relegated to the area near the toilet tent. The History department, wearing blue and green, had, for some inexplicable reason, chosen the end next to the beer tent. The participants were warming up for their sword fighting demonstration. I’d warned them all – ‘It’s a demonstration, not a war. Understand?’ and they’d solemnly nodded and ignored me. There would be four individual bouts and then a rest period during which volunteers from the audience would be invited to brandish a dummy sword or two. On strict instructions from Dr Bairstow, no one was to be maimed. Helen had uttered a snort of disbelief over that one and gone off, presumably to mug up on every type of sword wound, up to and including but not necessarily limited to, decapitation. Good luck to her. After the individual bouts, the four of them, uttering blood-curdling cries, would indulge in the closest thing four people could get to a melee and then the last man standing would limp away to the beer tent, job well done.

Another enormous queue was forming for Dr Dowson’s tour of St Mary’s. His working title had been ‘A History of Country House Architecture from the 17
^th
Century to the Present Day.’ Sadly, this had crumbled beneath the weight of overwhelming indifference, been renamed, ‘Blood, Disease, and Torture through the Ages,’ and risen, phoenix-like from the ashes. Several members of the Security Section (with suspicious alacrity) had covered themselves in gore and volunteered to be chained to the walls at strategic points of the tour. Evans had gone the extra mile and glued a stuffed rat to his chest. Naturally, at the end of the day, it refused to be unglued, and after losing painful amounts of chest hair, he’d given up and named it Archie. I was later told that for several days afterwards, members of St Mary’s were treated to the sight of Archie peering coyly over the top of his T-shirt, until eventually, he (Archie) dropped off of his own accord.

Streaks of wet ‘blood’ splashed artistically up the walls and a soundtrack of agonised screams echoed around the building. The whole thing was rather similar to one of Dr Bairstow’s lengthier all-staff briefings. (I had an unfamiliar fit of self-preservation and did not, in any way, mention this resemblance to the Boss.)

Back outside, several people had fallen into the lake. Hunter was keeping a careful tally. Bets had been placed on the final total and a lot of money was riding on this.

I spent some time trying to avoid SPOHB, who wanted to talk at me, the Chancellor and her crew who wanted to boast about their boat, and Dr Bairstow who wanted me to assist at the prize-giving in the Great Hall. Like that was ever going to happen.

Since I was somewhat conspicuous in my blue velvet riding habit, I stood quietly at the back and watched him present the prize for Best Picture of an Historical Event to Class 5 of Whittington Junior School for their picture of the Black Death wiping out nearly every living thing in their village in 1348. They’d put their hearts and souls into depicting, in enormous detail, the scabs, sores, buboes, gangrenous limbs … it was an amazing piece of work. I was very impressed.

He presented the prize to an angel-faced tot who, apparently, was responsible for the bloodstained rat climbing out of a skull’s left eye. I didn’t mind betting we’d see her here at St Mary’s one day. Either as an historian, or, more likely, a member of the kitchen staff.

I left before he could summon me to do something I didn’t want to do and bumped into Helen, busy dealing with injuries relating to overenthusiasm on the bouncy castle. She seemed to be disentangling two fathers, a mum, and a frisky septuagenarian. I know there was an age limit of fourteen, so God knows what had been going on there.

By way of a change, I went to visit the donkeys from the local sanctuary. They’d been tethered in the shade, looked incredibly cute and in contrast to the human-induced mayhem all around, doing no harm at all. I could have happily stayed there all afternoon, handing them the odd carrot and twitching my skin to keep the flies off. Mr Strong, when not enthusiastically directing the traffic with two table-tennis bats, was rushing to and from the compost heaps with buckets full of donkey-related product.

Comforted and calmed, I made the mistake of walking past a small blue and red striped tent and was pounced on by Madame Zara, All-Seeing Daughter of the Gods, who, apparently, just knew I would be walking past at that moment.

I told him I had no silver with which to cross his palm and he indicated, cheerfully, that this was no problem – he took all major credit cards.

I asked where, in a tightly fitting-blue velvet riding habit he expected me to keep a credit card, and would have moved on.

‘Oh come on, Max, just for a minute. Then you can stand outside and say loudly that I’m the best fortune teller you’ve ever been to.’

‘You’re the only …’

‘Please …’

I sighed. ‘All right.

We entered his gloomy tent.

‘What’s that awful smell?’

‘Isn’t it incense?’

‘I’m pretty sure it’s not.’

‘Oh, I thought it was. Never mind. Sit down and give me your hand.’

I held out my hand while he poured over it, making artistic passes, and breathing heavily. The smoke curled around his head. I began to feel giddy so God knows what it was doing to him and it wasn’t as if he was normal to begin with.

He seemed to spend a very long time peering at my palm. My hands are quite small. There’s not that much to see, surely. His breathing deepened – he appeared to be in some kind of trance, although with Markham, it’s hard to tell.

Whispered words drifted around the dim tent, as insubstantial as the evil-smelling smoke from his candles.

‘
Watch your back.
’
        

‘What?’ I said, confused by his departure from the script.

‘What?’ he said, blinking.

‘What was that all about?’

‘I told you. You will meet a tall, dark stranger …’

‘That’s not what you said.’

‘What did I say?’

‘Something about watching my back.’

‘No, I didn’t. I said you would meet a tall, dark stranger and you will travel across water.’

‘We’ve got to stop clouting you around the side of the head. It’s not doing you as much good as we hoped.’

Somewhat unnerved, I left him.

Small boys aged eighteen and upwards were admiring the display of vintage cars. I shook my head at such folly and passed on.

Things were hotting up in the local farmers’ market where smelly cheese and oddly shaped sausages were being purchased with enthusiasm, especially after sampling thimblefuls of assorted murky and very sticky drinks, which invariably resulted in a sharp intake of breath, a momentary loss of vision, and utterances of ‘Wow! I’ll definitely have a bottle of that! No, make it two!’ People were staggering away with slightly less control over their limbs than they had previously enjoyed.

Away in the distance, the Rushford and District Brass Band were belting out ‘The Floral Dance’ with considerable enthusiasm and much less rhythm. The sun shone down, birds sang, the house and gardens looked wonderful. How long could this last?

I wanted to have a clear look at the two boats, both now proudly moored alongside each other at the south end of the lake and guarded by rival squads from each organisation who gazed at each other with such hostility that I half expected a good number of bodies to be floating face down in the water already. Happily, not yet, but give it time.

Both ships were bigger than I expected. The word raft was misleading. True, they weren’t ocean-going liners, but they were substantial vessels.

The Black Carbuncle
towered malevolently, her skull and crossbones flag fluttering in the wind. Yes, technically she was a raft, but somehow, they’d managed to build two floors.

‘Decks,’ said Professor Rapson, materialising alongside (I’m told ‘alongside’ is another nautical term).

‘Doesn’t that make it a bit top-heavy?’

‘Surprisingly, no. I suspect there’s something attached below the waterline. I can’t make it out and they won’t let us get close enough to look.’

‘What are those things at the front bit?’

‘Prow. And they’re modified bull bars.’

‘Bull bars? For God’s sake, this isn’t the school run.’ I was suddenly anxious. ‘Professor, we’re not going to lose, are we? I really don’t want to be paraded around Thirsk behind the Chancellor’s chariot, exposed to the jeers of the mob – sorry, students – and knowing I’m heading for ritual strangling.’

His eyes twinkled. ‘Have a little faith, Max.’

He stepped aside and for the first time, I saw
The Valkyrie
close up.

Again, yes, technically a raft. But only technically.

‘Modelled on a Viking longship,’ he said, enthusiastically. ‘Lean, mean, fast, and manoeuvrable. It can go backwards and forwards. Although not at the same time, obviously.’

‘Professor, it’s magnificent.’

And it was. It was bloody wonderful. Our boys had done us proud. They’d even built a stubby mast with a red-and-white-striped sail. Colourful papier-mâché shields were slung along each side, each one with its own lovingly painted personal symbol. Crossed spanners for the Technical Section. A scroll for the History department. The caduceus for the Medical Section. A red, green, blue, and yellow window-shaped symbol for the IT people. You know the one I mean. The international warning sign for explosions for R & D. Even the Security Section, never normally recognised for their sense of humour, was represented by crossed shields. Yes, shields on a shield. All right, they’d managed the humour, but still had to work on imagination.

The best bit, however, was at the front.

‘Prow,’ said the professor, wearily.

‘A figurehead,’ I said in delight.

‘Yes. Come and see.’

He grasped my arm.

‘I took your advice, Max.’

Oh wonderful! After all these years, now they start taking my advice and they start with this.

‘The Muse of History,’ he said proudly. ‘Kleio herself. What do you think?’

Frankly, I was amazed the boat hadn’t tipped over. Completely by accident, they’d achieved a more than passing likeness to the Muse of History. Except for one very important area. Actually, two very important areas.

I said carefully, ‘Wow!’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We had a lot of papier-mâché left over and didn’t quite know what to do with it.’

‘So you thought …’

‘Well,’ he said, cheerfully, ‘she’ll never sink.’

‘Not with those flotation devices, no. Has Dr Bairstow seen this?’

‘Oh yes, yes. He was here earlier.’

‘Was he … did he … Was he alone?’

‘Oh no,’ he said vaguely. ‘I think Mrs Partridge was with him.’

‘How delightful. And did she pass any sort of comment?’

‘No, now you come to mention it. She was very quiet. I think perhaps she was struck dumb with admiration.’

‘Nearly right, Professor. Just to be clear, she didn’t say anything at all?’

‘Well, just as she was leaving, she did ask if anyone knew of your whereabouts. I believe she wanted a quick word.’

‘Jolly good,’ I said, weakly, wondering how long it would take me to find my passport and just how far I’d be allowed to get.

‘Anyway,’ he continued briskly, ‘let me walk you around the weapons systems.’ He pointed to a giant piece of rubber, mounted on the deck. ‘Giant catapult. Water cannons – one to port, one to starboard. Simple to set up. One end sucks up the water, the other end blows it out again. Water pistols for hand-to-hand combat when we board them. Over here, plastic bags for water bombs. A crate of well-past-their-best fruit and vegetables, kindly donated by the kitchen department. Ditto a supply of eggs. And flour bombs – and let’s face it Max, who does flour bombs better than St Mary’s?’

Flour, eggs, and water. The whole lake would become one vast lump of pizza dough.

‘And the crate of beer?’

He pushed his spectacles up his nose. ‘For the crew, of course, Max. What else?’

I sighed. Silly me.

‘So what exactly is involved here, Professor?’

‘They row, or paddle, or punt, or whatever, straight across the lake. See those two trees over there? There are two rosettes secured to their trunks. They must seize one and bring it back. First one back here is the winner and it will be us, because if you look carefully, you will see that our boat is reversible. As I said, it can go forwards and backwards; the crew just have to about-face and row like hell.
The Black Carbuncle
, however, must be physically turned. I think we’ve found their Achilles heel, Max.’