by Jodi Taylor
‘Yes, because geophys will never be able to detect such a sophisticated hiding place. Max, we need to think about this because we could be wrecking St Mary’s and ourselves for nothing. There’s no point in us doing it if less than twenty-four hours later, the sword’s back at Thirsk again.’
Silence.
‘And,’ I said, ‘there’s the problem of actually getting to Arthur’s Cave. It’s a quarantine area. We’re going to have to conceal the car somewhere and walk across country. We can’t afford to be irresponsible. We mustn’t carry infection in and we certainly mustn’t carry infection out. Someone needs to steal a couple of cans of the antibacterial stuff we use in the pods. Enough to spray us and the car.’
‘I’ll do that,’ said Markham.
‘We should take a pod,’ said Roberts. ‘We could do the whole thing in minutes.’
‘Thus implicating everyone at St Mary’s,’ said Peterson. ‘No. When the manure heap collides with the windmill, it needs to be very clear that we acted alone.’
‘We’ll find a way,’ said Roberts, with confidence.
‘You don’t know that.’
‘Yes, I do. It’s Arthur’s sword. It was left by him for the people of Caer Guorthigirn. The sword will find a way.’
An even more sceptical silence this time.
I think the only reason no one argued was that, actually, we never thought things would get that far. In my mind’s eye, I was already seeing high-speed motorway chases, police helicopters swooping down on us, stingers, arrest, disgrace, me giving birth in prison …
Afterwards, Peterson and I walked slowly around the gallery together.
‘I think we’ve done everything we can, don’t you?’ he said.
I nodded. ‘Yes, I think so.’
‘As I always say – whatever the task you’re about to undertake, you should never neglect the basics. Doesn’t matter what you call it – staff work, advance planning, spadework, foreplay – a little effort at the beginning always pays dividends in the end.’
‘Does Helen know you refer to your romantic interludes as spadework?’
He looked over his shoulder. ‘You’re not going to tell her, are you?’
‘Depends whether you make my silence worthwhile.’
His smile faded. ‘If we get this wrong – if we’re all banged up, then it won’t matter anyway.’
I stood still. ‘Tim, we’re not going to get away with this.’
‘I know. Max, have you thought of persuading Dr Bairstow just to ask Thirsk to give it up?’
‘To give up Arthur’s sword just because a couple of historians with over-active imaginations say so? You think they’d do that?’
He sighed. ‘No, you’re right.’
‘And as soon as we ask, we’ve tipped our hand. They’d never even let us on campus after that.’
‘Just a minute.’ He stopped, pulled me down and we sat on the stairs – often a traditional historian debating position. ‘Why do we do this?’
‘You mean all this?’ I gestured at the activity in the Hall below.
‘Yes, but specifically, why do we unearth artefacts? Why do we dig them up? Don’t you ever think we should just leave well alone?’
I nodded. He had a point. I’ve sometimes thought this myself. It happens with mummies. They’re removed from their final resting place and displayed in a public museum, or shut up alone in dusty storerooms. Does the fact that they were buried thousands of years ago make it right? When you think of all the love and reverence with which Egyptian mummies and their possessions were carefully buried. Images of loved ones, favourite pets, texts for future guidance, everything carefully placed to ensure their safe entrance into the next world – and then along we come. Well, not necessarily us, but someone. I’m not very religious, but other people are. I often wonder if we’ve screwed someone’s chances of an afterlife by disturbing what was supposed to be their final resting place and scattering their personal treasures as if their former owner has no more use for them. How many souls have been condemned to a kind of limbo, spending eternity in the cold and dark, and all because we took away the treasured possessions with which they had so carefully provided themselves?
I shook myself mentally. There would be plenty of time to debate the moral position with myself when I languished in a prison cell.
We settled on the next Friday. Not a lot happens at St Mary’s on a Friday. We had no trainees so there were no exams to set up. The afternoon would be devoted to the weekly Friday afternoon confrontation between the Security and Technical Sections on the battlefield – sorry, football field – followed by a lengthy session in Sick Bay for their wounds to be treated, followed by an even lengthier session in the bar while inquests were held and everyone blamed everyone else. We’d have a long day, but it was possible we’d be back before anyone noticed we were missing. Well, before everyone else was missed. I had the misfortune to be married.
There’s a downside to being married. Actually, there are several but they mainly involve who ate the last biscuit, who left his boots just where anyone could fall over them if she wasn’t looking where she was going, and inappropriate places to put ice-cold feet just as someone’s dropping off to sleep.
The really big downside to marriage concerns the inexplicable need of half a married couple to know, at all times, exactly where the other one is. I mean – what’s that all about?
I had two choices. I could lie or I could tell the truth.
I don’t like lying to Leon – I could if I wanted to, he would believe anything I said, and that’s why I don’t lie to him. I just told him I was going to Thirsk – God knows he’d find out soon enough anyway. He nodded absently, and continued staring at his data stack. I stared at his bent head for a few minutes, wondering if this was the last time I’d ever see him as a free woman – me, I mean, not him – and took myself off for an early night.
Chapter Nine
I don’t want anyone to think we just breezed through this with no thought of the implications. We all knew what we were doing and what would happen to us, and we went ahead and did it anyway.
We assembled an hour before dawn in the car park. Roberts was already in his car, waiting for us. I guess that, just like the rest of us, he hadn’t had much sleep. Markham had a backpack. Roberts and Peterson had the maps. Sands and I had sandwiches and enough water for an expedition to the Antarctic.
‘One final thing,’ I said, as we stowed our gear. ‘We all need to be perfectly clear that this was my idea. I compelled you to carry out my instructions. You were given no choice.’
‘No way,’ said Roberts, indignantly.
‘Yes way,’ said Peterson, heavily. He looked at me. ‘Are you absolutely certain?’
‘Yes. I’m thinking of St Mary’s. When we are caught, you will all need as much plausible deniability as you can muster. I’m head of the department which means I’ll go down regardless, so I’m ordering you to save yourselves. God knows how much shit will hit the fan, but you’re all key personnel and St Mary’s can’t do without you. Your instructions, therefore – and you will follow them – is to blame me for everything and save yourselves.’
‘Dr Bairstow won’t believe it for a moment,’ said Sands, shoving his bag in the boot.
‘No, but it will enable him to save you by sacrificing me.’
‘It should be me,’ said Roberts.
‘No, it shouldn’t. Your family is dealing with enough shit at the moment without you making things worse for them. You will comply, Mr Roberts, or you don’t come with us.’
Reluctantly, he nodded.
We drove slowly down the drive, tyres crunching on the gravel. There was little traffic in Rushford. We picked up the motorway and headed north. No one spoke.
Now that the moment had come, I was really regretting I’d ever agreed to do this. I never asked, but I wouldn’t have been the slightest bit surprised to find the others felt the same. If there had been roadworks, or heavy traffic jams, or anyth
ing really, we would quite happily have turned around and returned to St Mary’s. Sadly, the roads were clear and we were making good time. It’s typical, isn’t it? Where’s a bloody contraflow when you need one?
We left the Great North Road at the Thirsk turn-off and cruised into Northallerton around mid-morning.
Sands parked us behind the former prison, now the Zetland Library.
We’d argued long and loud over whether to wear the formal St Mary’s uniform, which would undoubtedly facilitate our entry to almost wherever we wanted to go, against the charge of publicly bringing St Mary’s into disrepute. Bearing that in mind, we wore civvies, but smart ones.
Sands stayed in the car. The windscreen was pebble-dashed with the appropriate permits, parking tickets and passes, but as Markham had said, you don’t take any chances with your getaway car.
I know the Boss always carries on as if Thirsk are the devil’s representatives on earth, but they were lovely to us. One of the librarians had ready all the volumes I’d requested. A quiet table had been reserved for our use. They’d even laid on tea after our long journey. I felt terrible. So, by the looks of them, did everyone else.
We thanked the librarians politely and made ourselves comfortable. From where we were sitting, I could see the unobtrusive door on the back wall that led to the working areas behind the library. There was a keypad attached. Fortunately – for us that is – it chirped musically as each key was pressed. Markham propped a book in front of him, stared unseeingly at the pages, and hummed the notes to himself, jotting things down on a scrap of paper.
I opened a few books myself, took out my scratchpad, logged into their system, and began to work. Everyone else did the same. Four hardworking academics dedicated to their task. Mr Roberts twitched occasionally, but librarians are always convinced that everyone finds old books as fascinating as they do themselves and, in an environment that frowns even on heavy breathing, silent twitching is excitement made manifest.
Lunchtime came. Most people disappeared. Standing as if to relieve my back, I could see just one member of staff quietly shelving books down at the far end. No one else was in sight. There would never be a better opportunity.
Markham closed his book and pocketed his piece of paper. ‘I’ve got it.’
‘Really?’
‘Easy. Just a tip, Max, always have a silent keypad.’
We made our way separately, each of us holding a book or scratchpad as camouflage, and silently converged on the door.
Roberts, despite his objections, was to stand guard and fend off anyone looking for us. He stationed himself in the Religion and Ritual section and opened a book at random.
‘Suppose there are cameras?’ he hissed. ‘Should you cover your faces?’
‘For God’s sake,’ said Peterson. ‘One pregnant woman. One midget with mange. One incredibly handsome man. Who else could it be but us?’
‘You’re not that short,’ said Markham.
‘Just shut up and do the thing with the door.’
Markham took a deep breath, hummed a series of notes under his breath, and stared at the keypad. ‘The first key is always the shiniest,’ he muttered, flexed his fingers like an internationally renowned classical pianist, and then in one swift, confident movement, tapped in the code, twisted the handle, and stepped back to allow us in.
We found ourselves in a large, open workspace. Various tables were dotted around. Computer monitors stood on every flat surface. Map cabinets were ranged against the far wall. But artefacts – none.
‘This way,’ said Peterson, and we strode confidently across the room to another door. A long corridor stretched before us, with two doors on each side, helpfully labelled A45, A49, B15 and M400. I hoped their artefact classification system was a little less random than their door numbering.
The secret is not to creep. To look as if you have every right to be there. I was at the front, holding my scratchpad, cover story prepared, but we never needed it. The place was deserted. I probably shouldn’t say this, but anyone wishing to break into a major academic establishment could do worse than consider a Friday afternoon. If challenged, our story was that we were lost and once we identified ourselves as St Mary’s, no one would doubt it.
We worked our way down the corridor. We would tap at the door, receive no reply, and slither inside. Markham would keep watch while Peterson and I worked our way around the room, scanning the classification labels.
The last door was locked.
‘Aha,’ said Markham. ‘A chance for me to demonstrate my talents again. Out of the way, Max. Let the dog see the rabbit.’
I stood nervously while he did whatever he needed to. There was no camera coverage in this corridor, but should anyone challenge us, our ‘lost and confused’ story wasn’t going to account for Markham’s obviously criminal activities. The one advantage, however, was that the fire door was right opposite, should we need to get out in a hurry.
More quickly than I could have imagined, there was a slight ‘snick’.
‘God, I’m good,’ he said, stowing something away in his pocket.
Peterson and I surged forwards.
‘Hang on,’ he said. ‘Seriously, you two shouldn’t be allowed out on your own. If the door is locked then it’s probably alarmed as well.’
‘It’s not the only one,’ muttered Peterson. ‘I’m bloody terrified.’
Markham had pulled out a tiny torch and was examining around the doorframe, muttering to himself. He inspected the handle closely.
‘Well?’ said Peterson, ‘is it?’
‘Don’t know. Probably.’
‘How can we find out?’
‘Open the door and if a bloody siren goes off then yes, it is.’
‘Can’t you fix it?’
‘No.’
‘What’s happening?’ said Roberts in my ear.
‘Technical discussion,’ I whispered. ‘Just keep your eyes open. And be prepared to move fast.’
Markham took hold of the handle. ‘Do you know what you’re looking for?’
‘Yes,’ said Peterson with confidence.
‘I think so,’ I said, with marginally less confidence.
‘Right,’ said Markham. ‘On three.’
‘One.’ He opened the door and pushed us in.
‘You said three,’ I said accusingly.
‘I lied.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve just broken into a top academic facility. On what grounds did you expect me to be truthful as well? Now get on with it.’
‘The alarm didn’t go off,’ I said. ‘That means we’re OK.’
He looked at me pityingly. ‘Ever heard the words “silent alarm”?’
‘Oh.’
‘Just bloody get on with it, will you. I’ll watch the door.’
We found ourselves in a large room with floor-to-ceiling wooden drawers. Some were shallow. Some deep. Some were long and flat. Others tall and thin. Some were tiny. Some were glass fronted, displaying artefacts. The old wood was darkened with age. The brass handles gleamed. All the joints were beautifully dovetailed. It was a work of art in its own right. I would have given anything to be able to examine it at leisure. I sighed. It seemed very likely that after today, none of us would ever have that opportunity.
Our computer talks to their computer. We had the classification number. This should be a piece of cake.
‘Right,’ whispered, Peterson. ‘It’s a sword. Look for drawers that are long and flat.’
We divided the wall between us and began, as quietly as we could, to scan the labels. Being Thirsk, of course, they hadn’t made it easy. Many of the labels were handwritten and had faded over time. I began to fret again.
I needn’t have bothered. Peterson found it almost immediately. Lying in a specially constructed case, there it was.
This was really going well.
I crossed the room to look over his shoulder. The sword seemed – diminished – somehow. Pitted. Rusted. Old. Somehow sad. I remem
bered the images the Chancellor had sent me. How could it deteriorate in such a short time?
‘Brilliant, Tim,’ I said. Stepping aside, I opened my com. ‘Roberts, Sands. We’ve found it. We just have to get it out now. Keep your coms open and be ready to move quickly.’
‘This is encouraging,’ said Markham, doing the finger-flexing thing again. ‘I can’t see any sort of security tags. I should just be able to lift it out. We’ll leave the case. I know it’s probably sacrilege, but I’m going to shove it down my trouser leg and we’ll just walk out. We’ll tell anyone who asks that we’re going for lunch and just never come back. And it’s Friday – we might have the whole weekend before anyone realises it’s gone. They might not even connect the theft with us. I rather think we might get away with this after all, don’t you?’
Gently, he reached out to touch the sword and with an ear-splitting shriek, every alarm in North Yorkshire went off.
‘Bollocks,’ said Peterson. ‘No time for finesse,’ and he yanked out the sword and handed it to Markham who pushed us out through the door. We didn’t bother with the corridor, heading straight for the fire door, which Peterson kicked open. We raced down another hot, dry, dusty, dead fly-filled corridor lit only by a dingy skylight, burst through another fire door at the other end and erupted out into some sort of loading area.
We paused to get our bearings and make ourselves look respectable.
Both Sands and Roberts were jabbering away in my ear. In stereo.
‘It’s all gone tits up,’ I said. ‘Mr Roberts, please make your way back to the car. Standard procedures.’
By which I meant, don’t draw attention to yourself. Don’t catch anyone’s eye. Don’t keep looking over your shoulder. Most importantly – don’t run.
‘This way,’ said Peterson. In the role of concerned colleague, he took my arm, presumably in case being pregnant had caused me to lose all sense of direction. Which, of course, implied I had one in the first place.
‘Just a word of warning,’ I said. ‘If the going gets tough I intend to faint. Watch out I don’t drag you down as well.’
We made our way slowly around the side of the building, back towards the car park.
