No Time Like the Past (4 page)

Downstairs in the Hall, I heard Captain Lacey raise his voice in challenge. He wasn’t dead, then. And if he was there, where was Peterson? And what of Markham? Was he on the roof?

Back in the sitting room, I could hear the crackle of burning wood and the roar of flames. Smoke began to fill the room.

I pulled the door shut in a vain attempt to prevent the fire spreading and ran around the gallery. I hoped to God that Margaret and Charles had escaped, even if only to run straight into a sword as they emerged. It would certainly be a far more merciful death than slowly cooking to death in what would be little better than an oven.

Looking over the gallery, I could see Sir Rupert, flanked by the other two men, facing Captain Lacey, who, sword drawn, was somewhat lopsidedly barring their way. His uniform jacket was gone and underneath, he wore a plain linen shirt. His left sleeve was red, and blood ran down his fingers onto the floor, but his right arm was undamaged and rock steady.

They laughed at him.

Until Peterson stepped out of the shadows, chairleg in hand, and stood alongside him.

Oh, Tim!

Sir Rupert hadn’t had time to reload, so they had only swords. It was still three to two, but one of those two was Peterson.

Actually, whom are we kidding? It was three to three. I pulled out my two hairpins and prepared – as they say – to take them from behind.

The two brothers were engaged down at the other end of the Hall, swords flashing, and had no eyes for anything other than each other, which suited me just fine. Peterson was engaged with the other two. Time to render assistance.

I heard Markham’s voice in my ear and stepped back, hissing, ‘Report. Quick.’

‘The kid’s on the roof. There’s smoke coming out from between the tiles. What’s going on?’

‘We’re on fire. Do
not
let anything happen to that kid.’

‘You and Peterson OK?’

I watched the vicious street fight going on in the Hall.

‘Yeah. Peachy.’

I ran down the stairs and crouched behind one of Peterson’s assailants. Peterson pushed hard and the guy fell backwards over me. I scrambled onto his chest and jabbed a hairpin into the fleshy part of his upper arm. He screamed and went to slap me away and it really was just his bad luck that his swinging hand encountered the other hairpin, which went straight through his palm. He screamed again and I scrambled to my feet, kicked him in the head, and stamped hard on his wedding tackle. I swear there was a rather nasty squelchy sound. He stopped screaming. He stopped everything. In fact, he just curled up and disappeared into his own world.

At the other end of the Hall, the two brothers were still going at it. Even to my inexperienced eyes, Captain Lacey was by far the better swordsman. Sir Rupert had obviously come to the same conclusion. He stepped back. At once, Captain Lacey lowered his sword, which was a big mistake because in one smooth movement, Sir Rupert reversed his sword and fetched his brother a vicious blow across the face. The captain fell to the ground. Sir Rupert hesitated a moment over his body, caught sight of me and Peterson heading towards him, recalculated the odds, and headed for the stairs.

I let him go and called Markham. ‘Report.’

‘Can’t stop. Kid’s running along the eaves. Can’t get to him.’

‘Sir Rupert’s on his way. Heads up!’

‘Copy that.’

Peterson was wiping the sweat from his face, standing over his fallen foe. He had a swollen eye and a split lip but the other guy looked worse. You don’t want to mess with a pair of historians. We’re not nice people.

I was already racing towards the stairs. ‘There’s another one outside, Tim. Probably guarding the priest hole’s exit. Waiting for Margaret and Charles. Go.’

Thank God he understood all that and headed for the door. I raced around the smoky gallery and found the narrow stone stair in the north-east corner. As I rounded the first bend into almost complete darkness, I realised I’d forgotten to bring a light.

It’s little things like this that always bring home to me that I’m out of my own time. A contemporary would automatically have picked up a candle on the way. I groped my way up. The stairs were uneven and irregular and designed expressly to trip those stupid enough to attempt to climb them in the dark. In the end, I tucked up my skirt and went on all fours. There’s no dignity in my job.

The last part was easier, because they’d left the door open at the top, giving me enough light to see by. I emerged cautiously, blinking in the bright summer sunshine.

Subconsciously, I suppose, I’d been expecting the vast, flat expanse that was the roof at our St Mary’s and it wasn’t like that at all. The roof was steep, tiled, and irregular. Bits stuck out all over the place. A small walkway around the very outside was the only way to get around without actually having to climb up the tiles. A very inadequate parapet, only just over knee-high, gave no illusion of safety whatsoever. On the contrary, it was a trip hazard. I thought again of Markham’s ghost. Someone was going off the roof today. Bloody hell – it might be me!

I couldn’t see anyone from where I was standing. Bugger! I was going to have to go out there.

I made my way slowly along the narrow walkway, definitely not looking down. Peterson was down there, somewhere. He could cope. I should concentrate on what was happening up here. Because, not to put too fine a point on it, this kid had to survive. Captain Lacey, Lady Lacey, and Charles Lacey – they all died today, but this kid had to live.

I leaned inwards, trailing one hand along the tiles, keeping as far from that parapet as I could. Where could they be? I scrambled over a gable and there they were. The kid had climbed up the roof  and was crouched, terrified, up near the ridge. Markham stood at the bottom, back to him, stun gun drawn, facing down Sir Rupert. And he was right; smoke was curling up through the tiles.

I thought of the fire in her sitting room. All that oil they’d thrown around. The attics above, stuffed with pictures, broken furniture, old hangings … all tinder dry. I thought of the wooden floors, wooden staircase, those hefty wooden hammer beams in the Great Hall … This was no place for gentle, inoffensive historians. Actually, it was no place for anyone. It would be a really good idea to get everyone off the roof and continue the discussion about who’d slept with whom and whose kid belonged to whom at a safe distance away from this burning building. Before someone fell off this bloody roof. And we had to save the kid. James Lacey definitely inherited. The records said so. Therefore, if no one else did, he must survive today.

I wished I could say the same about us.

Markham was calling to Sir Rupert, warning him to stay back. He flourished his stun gun, but of course, a man from the 17
^th
century would have no idea of its purpose and his sword gave him the longer reach. He kept coming. I had no idea what would happen. The two were equally matched. It could go either way.

I shouted. They both looked at me, but I was too far away. I threw caution to the winds and tried to run along the walkway. My skirt caught on the roof tiles to one side and the parapet on the other and then tried to wrap itself around my legs. I was forced to slow down. I wasn’t going to get there in time.

And then, it was all taken out of our hands.

The smoke, curling lazily out from around the edge of the roof, had given no indication of the inferno raging below. Fire burns upwards. Flames began to lick eagerly through the tiles. All around, I could hear the pinging noises as they cracked and below me, I could hear the roaring flames.

I heard Markham shout a warning to the kid and hold out his hands. Sir Rupert did a quick risk assessment, decided he could always sire another heir another day, and turned back the way he’d come. He’d have to pass me on this narrow walkway and he wouldn’t mess about. I didn’t either, getting out of his way by going up the roof like a rabbit. Do I mean rabbit? Some animal that climbs roofs easily. A goat, maybe?

Anyway, I went up that roof like a rocket. And it was hot. I could feel the heat coming up through the tiles. Were the roof timbers ablaze already?

Below me, Sir Rupert was heading for the little doorway in the north-east corner. I watched anxiously, in case he thought to lock it behind him and block our escape, but he was more interested in getting away. And killing his wife, of course.

I opened my com. ‘Tim. He’s on his way. He’s coming back.’

No reply. Bloody hell, Tim!

I slid down the roof on my bum. Please see my previous comment about dignity.

The kid, James, alas, didn’t possess my calm, good sense. He was frozen with fear. Fear of his father. Fear for his mother. Fear of heights. Fear of fire. Nothing even remotely like this could ever have happened to him before and he couldn’t deal with it, poor little lad. He couldn’t be much more than six or seven.

Markham was amazing. Holstering his stun gun, he began to climb the roof. I’ve said before, he’s not big, but he was considerably heavier than James was and I worried the weakened roof wouldn’t hold him. He halted just below the kid and held out his hand.

 I could hear the roaring flames quite clearly now. I stayed quiet because Markham was doing very well without any interference from me, so I stood still and held my breath.

After an endless moment, the boy reached out his arms. Markham grabbed him, slithered back down the roof, paused for a moment to settle him more securely on his hip, and set off towards me.

I heaved a sigh of relief.

That was when it happened.

He so nearly made it. I was only about ten or fifteen feet away. An entire section of the roof between us just dropped. Like a stone. Great orange and yellow flames whooshed up towards the sky, greedily reaching out for everything around them.

I shouted. The heat was enormous. I held up my arm to shield my face and tried to think what to do. I had no idea whether there was another way off the roof. I doubted it.

Markham shouted something that I never caught. He took two long paces forwards and threw the kid at me. He must have been desperate, but what else could he do? His orders were to keep James safe. The kid caught me squarely in the chest and for one heart-stopping moment, I flailed helplessly and then fell back onto the hot tiles.

The boy clamped himself to me. Arms round my neck in a stranglehold and legs wrapped around my waist. Which was good – he obviously wasn’t going to let go and it left my arms free.

For what? What could I possibly do? Markham was trapped. He knew it. I knew it. His famous luck had run out. I scrambled to my feet and stared at him through the leaping flames. This could not be happening. This was Markham. He was indestructible. He was famed for it. He couldn’t die today.

 Yes, he could. He was going to die. With sick certainty, I suddenly realised who it was who fell from the roof. And why he fell from the roof. And why only Markham could see it. Yes, it was a ghost. Or an echo of some kind. An echo from the past. And only Markham could see it because Markham was the ghost. Markham was the very last person I should have brought with us today.

All this was my fault. I clutched at young James, experiencing the paralysing, brain-numbing despair you can only feel when you’ve led a dearly loved friend into a stupid situation and lost him his life. After everything that had happened to us over the years, I was getting into the habit of thinking we were immortal and now, too late, I realised we bloody weren’t.

I called his name. I don’t know why. The tears running down my cheeks dried instantly in the heat. I heard him shout something, but the roar of the flames was too great to hear anything else.

He had a choice. He could jump or he could burn.

He jumped.

Chapter Four

There was a time when I never thought I’d have any close friends. That I would even want close friends. Those days were gone. Over the years, I’d rescued colleagues and they’d rescued me. I’d built relationships and grown fond of people. I even had a few individuals, other than Leon, who were special to me. Peterson – always. Guthrie. Helen – whether she liked it or not. Even, sometimes, Mrs Partridge … 

And Markham. Grubby, disastrous, loveable, brave as a lion. No one ever talked much about their time before St Mary’s, but I could make an educated guess. Something had happened to him – I could guess what – and he’d had to make a choice. How to deal with it. You can get angry – I did – but that wouldn’t have worked for him. He was small. He’d have been beaten to a pulp. So he’d become a clown. Self-preservation. People don’t hurt you if they’re too busy laughing at you. Obviously, it had served him well and even though he didn’t need it at St Mary’s, he’d kept up the charade. He was, in fact, intelligent, tough, and as Major Guthrie had once said, very, very good at his job. I suspected our Mr Markham, even when extricating himself from whatever disaster he had just instigated, had often enjoyed a quiet laugh at our expense.

In my mind, I saw him – defying Clive Ronan at Alexandria. Performing conjuring tricks in front of Mary Stuart, as cool as a cucumber. Stealing a Trojan chicken and shoving it down the front of his tunic. That final charge against the Time Police … And then – suddenly – he was gone. My friend, Markham.

I buried my head in James’s shoulder and we both cried.

The crash of falling timber brought me back. We weren’t out of the woods yet. Or off the burning roof, if you want to be more accurate.

I heard a shout behind me. Peterson was here somewhere. What fears had he overcome to force himself up here? And how would I tell him about Markham?

I inched my way along the walkway. Scrambled over the gables. Felt the heat. Heard parts of the roof give way around me. It seemed a very long way to the north-east corner.

Peterson came to meet us. He was white-faced and tense and I’ll swear he had his eyes shut most of the time. He couldn’t do anything except be with me but I appreciated it, all the same.

‘I’ll take the kid. You go first.’

I set off down the narrow stairs, rounded the first bend, plunged into darkness, missed my footing, and, because the day wasn’t bad enough, fell down the stairs. I fell quite slowly, rolling from step to step. If there had been a rail, or bannisters, I could have stopped myself quite easily, but there was nothing to get a grip on and so I fetched up, half way around the final bend, bruised, shaken and with every bone in my body broken. Or so it felt.

‘You all right?’ called Peterson, winning today’s award for Most Idiotic Question.

‘Yes,’ I shouted, winning today’s award for Most Inaccurate Answer.

‘Turn right at the bottom. There’s a small outside door.’

There was too, and it was open. I stumbled out into bright morning sunshine. Unbelievably, it wasn’t even lunchtime yet.

I could hear Peterson behind me. I looked left and right, trying to get my bearings. Where would he have fallen?

As I looked frantically around, Peterson caught me up. ‘Where’s Markham?’

I couldn’t tell him. I put my hand on his and rested my forehead against his arm.

He got an arm free from young James and put it around me. ‘Oh God, Max’, and we stood, the three of us, in the sunshine, just for a moment, until we were roused by the sound of falling tiles and breaking glass.

What to do next?

Someone had to get the kid to the village. That should be Peterson. He could easily pose as ‘the servant’ who was supposed to have saved James, and I should go and find Markham’s body. Somehow, we’d have to get it back to the pod.

And what had happened to Margaret? And where was Rupert? And actually, did I care?

Peterson was looking down at me. ‘Do you want to take James to the village?’

I shook my head. I was mission controller. It was my duty to stay with Markham.

‘If you can, Max, pull him away from the building. I know the walls stand, but the roof’s going to come down any minute now.’

I nodded.

‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

We separated and I set off around the building.

Unbelievably, it was still a lovely summer’s day. Flames were erupting from the roof and from a few upstairs windows, but in the distance, birds still sang, the sun still shone, the wind still stirred the leaves in the trees. You think the world should stop and join you in your grief, but it never bloody does.

Unlike our St Mary’s, this building was surrounded by a thick shrubbery. Laurels were the only bushes I recognised. I couldn’t see Markham anywhere. I’d become completely disoriented, tumbling down that twisty stair, and I have the sense of direction of a sponge, anyway. I had to run all the way around the building before I found him. And I didn’t find Margaret or Charles at all. Had they preferred to bake to death rather than face what the loving father and husband had in mind for them? Nor did I see any henchmen. Whatever had happened was all over now and I’d been so busy getting Markham killed that I’d missed it.

There he was. A limp, sad little shape, lying in a heap on the ground.

I ran towards him, my breath catching in my throat and gently rolled him over. His face was dirty, but that was nothing new. In addition to smoke and sweat stains, he’d obviously fallen into one of the bushes because his face was covered in scratches, blood, and sap. Leaves and twigs had caught in his hair.

Professional detachment flew straight out of the window. I don’t know why, but I tried to wipe his face clean.

He opened his eyes.

I was so shocked, I screamed and dropped him.

His voice was hoarse and weak, but even a near-death experience can’t shut Markham up for long. ‘Bloody hell, Max!’

Relief flooded through me like a tsunami. I cried. I couldn’t help it. He wasn’t dead.

He said feebly, ‘You’re dripping snot on me.’

‘Sorry. Sorry. I thought you were dead.’

‘No. Fell in that swiving bush.’

I looked to my right. A battered laurel had broken his fall. Looking at it, Markham had emerged from their encounter with slightly less damage. He wasn’t unscathed, however. His right leg shouldn’t look like that.

He clutched my arm. ‘The kid?’

‘On his way to the village. Safe.’

He looked past me. ‘Yeah. He is. We’re not.’

I looked behind me. Oh, shit! Would this day never end? All I wanted to do was get Markham back to the pod and leave the bloody Laceys to sort out their own bloody marital problems, and now there was no chance, because here came Sir Rupert and his one remaining henchman.

Bloody bollocking hell!

I groped for my pepper spray and Markham handed me his stun gun. Sir Rupert had his sword, still dramatically wet with his brother’s blood and the henchman had the standard henchman cudgel.

I appreciated that Markham didn’t tell me to run. He knew I wouldn’t leave him.

They saw me and stopped.

If I’d had a functioning Markham, it would have been a piece of cake, but I didn’t. I could hear him making efforts to sit up and the pain it was causing him.

‘Watch the one with the cudgel, Max. He’ll try to get behind you.’

I stood over Markham, stun gun in my right hand, pepper in my left, and wondered how long it would take Peterson to get back from the village. It seemed safe to assume longer than the ten or so seconds it would take them to reach me.

My plan was to stun cudgel man, who’d already been in a fight, and disable Rupert with the pepper spray. After that, I’d just wing it. And because fire doesn’t stop for anything, while all this was going on, windows were exploding along the top floor. Sparks flew through the air to land on our clothing. Scraps of glowing ash drifted silently past us. We’d really bitten off more than we could chew with this assignment.

I tightened my grip and bared my teeth. They wouldn’t be accustomed to aggressive women. I hoped.

Ten feet away, they paused. Sir Rupert nodded and just as Markham had predicted, cudgel man began to circle behind me. I half turned to face him. Sir Rupert matched my movement. Cudgel man moved to my left, brushing against the bushes. I tried to keep both of them in my vision. I couldn’t afford to turn my back on either of them.

There was a sound that was exactly the same as a piece of wood bouncing off someone’s skull and that must have been exactly what it was, because cudgel man fell to the ground.

Sir Rupert grunted in surprise and turned. I seized the opportunity and fired off the pepper spray. He shrieked another mighty oath, bent double, dropped his sword, and clawed at his eyes. I took two steps forwards and gave him another blast. He fell to the ground, eyes streaming, and snot bubbling from his nose. Already, his face was red and swollen. I felt a certain sense of job satisfaction.

Captain Lacey pushed his way through the remains of Markham’s laurel still clutching Peterson’s chairleg. Bloody hell – this man was indestructible. Behind him stood Lady Lacey and young Charles. Smoke-streaked, hair plastered to their heads with sweat, but very much alive.

The way today was going, I wasn’t the slightest bit surprised. Only a group of highly trained, professional historians with years of experience under their belts could get things this wrong.

Peterson arrived back from the village, breathless and astonished, and we assembled the wounded together in one place. His brother’s pistol shot had only grazed Edmund’s left arm and was soon dealt with. He also had a shallow sword wound to his right shoulder, a really deep gash across his cheekbone, which was going to spoil his pretty-boy looks, and extensive cuts and bruises. All of which he would survive.

Markham had well and truly broken his right leg. In several places, by the looks of it. Peterson went off to find something we could carry him on, returning with a broken gate and the small med kit. While Peterson shielded me from view, I shot Markham the pain-killing injection he was certainly going to need.

Lady Lacey was suffering from smoke inhalation and shock. Charles clung to her. He was frightened, but unhurt. I took advantage to say to her, quietly, ‘James is safe and well. He is in the village. I think it best he remains there.’

She looked at me for a while, opened her mouth, and then nodded. She was a sensible woman. He would be safe and well, but only if she never saw him again.

‘You should leave. Now. Don’t stop to take anything. Everyone will think you and Charles died in the fire. You can be safe. Go far away and never come back.’

She looked across at Edmund who was having his wounds treated by Peterson. ‘He will not come with us.’

‘He must. You will need his protection. He cannot return to his unit. He can never return here. Wherever he goes, sooner or later his brother will find him.’

I couldn’t tell her that Rupert would soon be dead, killed by a stray cannonball at the Battle of Cheriton, next year, because that was something she must never know. The records say she was never seen again. Killed in the fire along with her son and possibly Captain Lacey as well. The three of them must disappear. Start a new life in a strange, new, foreign world. America, maybe. Or Manchester.

We both turned to look at Sir Rupert, stretched out on the grass, still incapacitated after a discreet but thorough tasering. She nodded.

They found the horses, tied up in the stable yard. Peterson heaved Edmund onto his horse and helped Lady Lacey mount her husband’s. I was pleased to see she sat astride. I would definitely be having a word with Dr Bairstow about the amount of unnecessary sidesaddle hours we had to log each month.

Charles took another horse. It was too big for him and he could easily have ridden behind Captain Lacey, but I guessed they would head to the nearest port and sell them to buy their passage. To wherever they would go.

We let the other horses go. Wherever they came from, Sir Rupert and any surviving henchmen would be walking back. Together with cuts, bruises, swollen bollocks, and a disjointed nervous system. Served them right.

We watched the Laceys leave. They set off through the woods and were soon lost to sight. They had said hardly anything to us. I think we frightened them. They didn’t know who we were or where we came from. I suspected, in some way, they were convinced some of this was our fault.

 Markham was woozy but happy and so we sat on the grass and recorded as much of the burning of St Mary’s as we could. It had burned before and it would again, especially if Professor Rapson had anything to do with it. Even so, it’s sad to see your home go up in flames. We waited until Rupert Lacey heaved himself to his feet, looked around, and then staggered off unsteadily in the direction of the village. I have no idea what happened to the henchmen.

‘We can go now,’ I said.

‘Not a very tidy ending,’ observed Peterson. ‘Still, at least we now know which idiot fell off the roof.’

Markham grinned lopsidedly, eyes wandering in all directions. From past experience, any moment now he would start singing.

‘And we lost all our gear,’ I said, staring at the burning roof.

 ‘And you broke me, too,’ slurred Markham.

‘Save your breath,’ advised Peterson. ‘We still have to get you back to the pod.’

The trip back was no fun for any of us. Markham bore it all bravely by closing his eyes and singing a song about the Mayor of Bayswater’s daughter. What a gifted girl she turned out to be!

There wasn’t much of him, but he was heavy and so was the gate. Something metal was cutting into my hands, but I wouldn’t let go, and Peterson, whose facial injuries were more severe than they looked, began to complain of a headache.

We gave the burning St Mary’s a wide berth and staggered up into the woods. Peterson and I had to swap ends because he couldn’t see very well.

‘Nearly there,’ I said, ignoring my aching body and throbbing hands. Then we were.

I called for the door and we lifted Markham in as gently as we could. Peterson initiated the jump, sat back, and closed his eyes.