by Jodi Taylor
‘All right,’ she said, edging away. Without even a glance at my desk, I was pleased to note. ‘I’ll do that. Goodbye.’
‘See you later,’ I said, waited until she’d disappeared, and then pulled out King John again.
Less than three hours later, I had what I needed.
We lunched as normal, not that that was easy, and then made our separate ways to my room.
Markham made the tea and I locked the door, hoping Leon wouldn’t suddenly take it into his head to finish early. He never had before and there was no reason why he should now, but it did strike me that being in a locked room with Markham and Peterson could take some explaining away. We began.
‘OK,’ I said. ‘It’s October 1216 and King John is in deep shit. He’s lost his father’s massive Angevin empire and is in the process of losing his English kingdom as well. He’s ill with dysentery. He’s had to sign Magna Carta. And now, on top of all that, he’s about to lose the Crown Jewels.’
‘According to contemporary accounts, he’s travelling to Bishop’s Lynn – it’s been upgraded to King’s Lynn today – and he falls ill. Understandably by now, he’s quite paranoid, so he decides to move to Newark Castle where he thinks he’ll be safer. Attempting to cross The Wash, which was much more extensive than today, he crosses at Wisbech, fording the Wellstream. His baggage train doesn’t make it. It’s unclear whether John was present or not. All we know is that by the end of the day, it was all gone. And not just the Crown Jewels. There’s a quantity of stuff left to him by his grandmother, the Empress Mathilda, including a number of her husband’s crowns, holy relics, portable altars, and the famous Sword of Tristram. All lost, and John, for whom this was probably the last straw, dies just a few days later.
‘There’s a lot of discussion about this. Whether, for instance, John was present at the disaster or not; or whether, desperate for cash to pay his troops, he stole the jewels himself to break up or pawn, and losing them in The Wash was just his cover story. There’s no doubt they vanished, however. None of them were ever mentioned in the Rolls – that’s the royal inventory – from that date onwards.’
I continued with mounting excitement. ‘If we could just get our hands on even a tiny portion of what was lost … The total value has been estimated at £70 million. I have to sit down even to think about such a sum, although according to Dr Bairstow on a bad day, that’s what it costs to run St Mary’s for an afternoon.’
‘All right,’ said Peterson, ‘but now we have a problem. We’re not official any longer. What do we do with this stuff once we have it? Without the official backing of St Mary’s, we could be classed as looters.’
‘Never mind that,’ said Markham. ‘The issue we should be addressing is who do we get to recover it afterwards? Thirsk? Because I have to say I’m not thrilled about risking life and limb just to benefit the plonkers who inflicted Halcombe upon us.’
‘And the Chancellor got the boot,’ I said, because I still felt guilty about that.
Peterson grinned. ‘So let her discover it then.’
There was a silence as we all thought about that.
‘Well, why not?’ he said. ‘We keep this strictly in-house. We bury it somewhere in St Mary’s grounds. Up in the woods, perhaps, where it’s not going to be discovered by accident.’
‘That makes it very clear that St Mary’s is involved,’ nodded Markham.
‘And the Chancellor won’t need to beg permission to dig. Dr Bairstow will give it happily.’
I wasn’t too sure. ‘You don’t think it will look a little suspicious? Being found here?’
‘I don’t see why,’ said Peterson slowly. ‘There’s no reason why something lost in the 13th century shouldn’t eventually end up here. It’s perfectly possible that someone discovered it afterwards, brought it here and buried it for safekeeping, and then died.’
‘Taking the secret with him to his grave,’ said Markham, with relish.
‘It will just be one of those unresolved mysteries. And the Chancellor could bring in her own team. She could even include a few people from Thirsk for neutral observation.’
‘Will she do it, do you think?’
‘What? Would Dr Evelyn Chalfont pass up an opportunity to hand those bastards their own arses in public? How hard should we think about that?’
I nodded. He was right. ‘OK. That’s settled then. Tomorrow, first thing, we’ll meet up in the woods and do a recce. It shouldn’t take us long to find somewhere suitable and note the coordinates.’
‘All right,’ said Peterson. ‘Let’s do it.’
We planned the recce for dawn, making our separate ways to the old barn, and meeting there. Mindful of the need for plausible behaviour, I got up early, handed Leon a frigid mug of tea – I mean I was frigid, not the tea – and told him I was off to use the Library before anyone else could get in there. Which was mostly true, because I don’t lie to Leon, but there’s no doubt that being married is a bit of a bugger if you’re up to no good.
Letting myself out of our room, I crept around the gallery to the huge alarm of Evans who, far from patrolling the building and keeping us all safe through the night, was sitting in a small alcove having a crafty fag and reading the Sunday Sport.
‘It’s official,’ he said, flourishing the paper at me. ‘The PM and the Cabinet are being controlled by aliens from an underground spaceship just outside Saffron Walden.’
‘Well, that accounts for a lot.’
‘No, it’s true. Look.’
He handed me his paper, folded back to show a picture of one scientist handing this top-secret information to another. You could tell they were scientists because they were wearing white coats. And you could tell they were passing info because one was handing a briefcase to the other. And you could tell it was top-secret info because the briefcase was helpfully labelled Top Secret.
I unfolded the paper and read it. Yes, he was right. Apparently, for the last two hundred years, successive governments had been controlled by tentacled aliens who come from small star just north of Alpha Centauri, and who are operating from their spaceship just outside Saffron Walden. Just off the B184. Between Littlebury and the golf club. Their sworn purpose being to brainwash world leaders and reduce them to ineffective puppets with minimal brain function. So mission accomplished, then.
I handed him back his paper. ‘Any fall-out from Caernarfon?’
He shook his head. ‘Major Guthrie just glared at me, and everyone else moaned about the smell of fish, so no. You?’
I shook my head.
‘Where are you off to?’ he said, belatedly remembering his professional responsibilities.
‘Early morning run,’ I said, looking him in the eye.
He stared at me for a long time, taking in my inappropriate footwear, my lack of water, my pregnant condition.
Turning to the back pages of his chosen literature, he said, ‘Peterson and Markham said they’d meet you behind the barn. Don’t keep them waiting.’
We found what we thought would be an appropriate spot in a large clearing just off the path that led up to Pen Tor, well out of sight of St Mary’s. Well out of sight of everything, actually.
Markham stood with his hands on his hips and looked around. ‘It’s a clearing now, but suppose there’s some socking great oak tree growing here eight hundred years ago.’
‘Not important. The important thing is that the clearing exists now and can be easily excavated. Whatever is growing here eight hundred years ago will just have to be dealt with.’
I sat on a fallen log while they triangulated the position and when they’d finished, we all sat in the early morning sunshine and listened to the birdsong.
‘This is never going to work,’ said Markham, uncharacteristically gloomy.
I thought of the serendipitous data stack. ‘Yes it will. Trust me.’
Having settled on our burial site, we had to decide which pod to take. Not that there was really any choice. It would have to be Leon’s own persona
l pod, hidden from prying eyes in the paint store. We’d never get away with taking one of the regular ones. There was never a time of day when Hawking wasn’t occupied.
I stockpiled the food and drink. People kept staring as I helped myself to yet more sandwiches, but that’s one good thing about being pregnant – you can get away with all sorts of bizarre behaviour. Markham acquired the digging equipment. Again, people were so used to seeing him covered in dirt and clutching some kind of ferocious-looking implement, that they never looked twice.
We settled on the middle of the afternoon. Never choose midnight if you’re up to something dodgy. Creeping through a building at midnight is just asking for trouble. Not that we thought there would be any. With luck and careful planning, we would be there and back again before teatime. At some point, I did wonder about the ease with which we were pulling this off, and I was right – it was all too easy, because just as we were setting off down the dim corridor that led to the paint store, one of the shadows moved, revealing itself to be Miss Dottle. We all looked at each other.
‘This is what comes of saving civilians,’ said Markham, exasperated. ‘No good deed goes unpunished.’
Now what were we to do? The existence of Leon’s pod was an unofficial secret. I’m pretty sure most of the Technical Section knew about it, and most historians too, but Dottle, despite everything I’d said, wasn’t one of us. This wasn’t something we wanted Halcombe knowing about. Or anyone.
We looked at each other and I shook my head. Keeping the existence of Leon’s pod quiet was far more important than our hare-brained attempt to reinstate St Mary’s.
I turned back to her, smiled sweetly, and prepared to get rid of her. Chance would have been a fine thing.
‘I want to go with you.’
‘Go where?’
‘England. 1216.’
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
‘No, sorry,’ I said, ‘I’m not with you.’ I gestured at Markham and his implements. ‘We’re actually on our way to …’ I stopped, temporarily at a loss.
‘Empty the …’ said Markham, similarly stricken.
Peterson smiled down at her.
She blushed hotly, saying, ‘I know what you’re up to.’
His smile never faltered. ‘And what would that be?’
‘England 1216. And don’t bother to deny it.’ She turned to me. ‘I saw the file on your desk.’
‘What?’ I moved subtly into fighting mode. Was that why she’d been there? Had she been spying for Halcombe? I felt so stupid. I’d believed every word she said.
‘No, no,’ she said hastily, putting up her hands in a placatory gesture. ‘I wasn’t spying. Honest. I went to thank you. You were just going out of the door when I arrived. I called after you, but the door banged and I don’t think you heard me. I went to scribble you a quick note and saw the file.’ She blushed even more furiously; any minute now, she was going to burst into flames. ‘I didn’t think you’d want anyone seeing it so I pulled the flyer for the Rushford Show over it.’ She drew herself up. ‘I know you’re up to something. I’ve been watching you. I want to be involved.’
Peterson said gently, ‘The best way to help us is to go back to the main building and pretend you never saw us.’
She shook her head. ‘I want to come.’
He tried again. ‘I don’t think you understand how dangerous …’
Markham said, ‘Don’t want to rush anyone, but this lot’s heavy and someone’s going to be walking past in a minute. Can we get a move on?’
‘You must understand,’ I said desperately. ‘What we’re doing is not legal. Our careers are already in ruins. Yours isn’t.’
‘I don’t want a career. I want to do this.’
No she didn’t. If she knew what we were up to, she’d run a mile. She’d never have the balls for this. I wasn’t sure I had the balls for this.
I’d underestimated her. She drew herself up and stuck out her tiny chin.
‘Either you take me with you or I go straight to Halcombe right now and tell him what you’re up to. He’ll have the three of you out of here faster than …’ She paused, but lacking the historian’s traditional colourful turn of phrase, was unable to think of anything that would impress us. ‘If you want to proceed you have to take me with you. If I don’t go – no one goes.’
She set her mouth in a grim line. It was like being threatened by a wet hamster.
‘I blame you,’ said Markham to me. ‘Next time we just leave her in Caernarfon, OK?’
I looked at him. This was Markham-speak for yes, she can come.
I sighed and turned back to her. ‘You do as you’re told.’
‘Of course,’ she said, wide-eyed.
I knew that look.
Chapter Seventeen
We got it wrong. We got it all completely wrong. To this day, I can’t understand why we’re not dead.
For a start, John didn’t just drop the crown jewels in The Wash and run away. I’d held out the faint hope that it would be a case of just a few wagons being bogged down and spilling their load, which would enable us to take advantage of the confusion, quietly pocket a few items, and make our escape. Of course, it wasn’t that easy. Nothing’s ever that easy for us.
We landed as close as we could to the assumed sight of the catastrophe and that was the first thing that went wrong.
We touched down and the pod tilted. Dottle, who didn’t have her pod legs yet, staggered, and everyone looked accusingly at Peterson who held up his hands and said defensively, ‘Not my fault.’
One of the hydraulic legs extended, which did no good at all. We were still at an angle. The computer said, ‘Warning. Unstable surface. Recommend immediate …’
Peterson told it to shut up and it subsided with an offended chirp. We all hung on to the console, holding our breath, waiting to see if we would tilt any further. So long as we didn’t fall door-side down, we could still clamber out, although that’s a little undignified and does nothing to enhance our professional image.
We didn’t tilt any further. Everyone drew in the breath they hadn’t realised they were holding.
‘Right,’ I said, briskly. ‘Let’s have a look, shall we?’
We squinted at the screen.
‘Is it still night?’ asked Dottle, uncertainly.
‘No. According to us it’s several hours after dawn.’
‘Then why can’t we see anything?’
‘That’s a very good question,’ said Peterson thoughtfully.
We waited for his very good answer. In vain.
‘Come on,’ I said. ‘We can’t sit here all day. Let’s find out what’s happening. Miss Dottle …’
‘I’m coming with you,’ she said, alarmed.
I sighed. ‘Under normal circumstances I would allow that, but I don’t think these are normal circumstances. You can see the pod is unstable. We can’t just go off and leave it. We need you here.’
She blinked rapidly. Was she going to cry? ‘But I want to come with you.’
‘Look,’ said Tim gently. ‘You can see we have a problem with the pod. You insisted on coming along and you’re in a position to do some real good here, because if you weren’t with us today then I would have to risk life and limb by telling Max she should be the one to remain with the pod, because she’s pregnant and someone must. Fortunately for us, because Max isn’t very reliable, we have you instead. You insisted on coming – but the downside is that you have to do as you’re told.’ He stepped back and looked at her face. ‘Are you afraid to be alone?’
‘No,’ she said, stoutly and probably inaccurately. ‘I’ll be fine. And if anything does go wrong – which I know it won’t – I do know that whatever happens, someone will come and rescue you.’
There was a very slight emphasis on the last word, and I remembered her boss had abandoned her. I wondered briefly what it must be like suddenly to realise that the person to whom you have given your devotion isn’t worth it.
‘Secondly,’ c
ontinued Peterson, ‘we might have to exit in a hurry. And not for the first time, I might add, so we need you to watch the screen. If you see us galloping towards you, get the door open and be ready.’
‘Ready for what?’
‘For whatever we’re running away from to have a go at you too.’
Having thus reassured her, he turned to me and Markham. ‘Are we all set?’
We nodded.
‘Right, see you in a bit …’ he hesitated. ‘It’s Lisa, isn’t it?’
Oh, Tim. Everyone knows if you give a stray a name then you have to keep it forever.
She nodded, scarlet-faced again.
He thumped her cheerfully on the shoulder. She staggered. ‘Right. See you in a bit, Lisa. Have the kettle on.’
There was a storm coming. We could feel it in the air.
‘Well,’ said Peterson. ‘Now we know why it was so dark.’
Huge black clouds were massing overhead, lit with that lurid, dirty yellow glow that never bodes well, meteorologically speaking. A strong wind blew in our faces, pushing warm air ahead of it. We were in for a huge storm.
I looked around us. We’d scrambled ungracefully from the pod, splashed through eighteen inches of brackish water, and gained the comparative safety of a large tump of reedy grass.
In its own way, the landscape was quite beautiful. A vast expanse of salt marsh rolled away in every direction. Every now and then, the clouds would rip apart and all the channels and deep pools would gleam with brilliant light. Mudflats glistened so brightly they dazzled the eyes. Then the clouds would roll back together and the sullen darkness would descend again. On a still day, this area must be home to hundreds, if not thousands, of wading birds and wildfowl, but not today. Today, apart from the wailing wind, the landscape was lifeless. Channels of water twisted between isolated tussocks of coarse grass. There were no trees as far as I could see. Faintly, in the distance, I could hear what I assumed was the boom of breakers, crashing upon the shore. I could smell the sea, mud, and brackish water. Lots of brackish water.
