Another Time, Another Place

by Jodi Taylor

  ‘Have you lived here long?’ I enquired, pouring myself a cup. First out of the pot. The only one worth having. I am aware many people prefer their tea to be the colour of an American president on the campaign trail, but not for me. Occasionally, my duties at St Mary’s sent me to Thirsk in Yorkshire, where I always worried the inhabitants would stone me. And then reward themselves with a beverage the consistency and colour of tar. With milk. Because tar cordial isn’t evil enough on its own – you have to add the Juice of the Devil to make it completely undrinkable.

  I became aware my mind was wandering again. It does that. Especially in a crisis. Sadly, it never takes me with it.

  He was smiling at me and I didn’t care much for the glint in his eye. Still, I was holding his attention, which was my intention at the moment.

  ‘Not long,’ he said, evasively. ‘You like your tea very pale, Mrs Farrell?’

  ‘I do,’ I said defensively, because there are a lot of people in the world who have trouble with that. ‘And you, Mr Feeney?’

  ‘Me? I prefer mine black. Black as the devil’s heart.’

  I passed over a cup of tar.

  ‘Tell me, Mrs Farrell, how long have you been collecting for this worthy cause?’

  ‘Two or three years now.’

  ‘Rotherhithe? Is that not a little too far east for a lady such as yourself?’

  I wondered whether he actually suspected I wasn’t who I said I was or whether he automatically suspected everyone who came to the house. I rather thought the latter. I can’t think of anyone who looks less like a Time Police officer than me. To mutual relief, I suspect.

  ‘Well, it’s mainly my husband’s concern. He’s an explorer and one of his men mentioned the good work they do there.’

  ‘And what sort of good work would that be, Mrs Farrell?’

  ‘I am involved mainly with supporting the widows and orphans,’ I said firmly, having no knowledge of seamen in any way. Other than the fact that they were men who went to sea, of course. ‘We educate the boys wherever possible and find respectable places for the girls.’

  ‘Very commendable,’ he said, sitting back and stirring his tea. ‘And quite a coincidence. Mr W and I are always willing to give a decent girl a good start in life. We’ve had several come through here.’

  Yes – that I could imagine.

  I sipped my tea and said brightly, ‘Then perhaps I could add you to our list of prospective employers?’

  ‘You might,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Would this be instead of the subscription?’

  ‘Oh no,’ I said, holding his eye. ‘Having come so far, I could not possibly leave without a subscription.’

  He smiled over his cup. ‘Well, aren’t you the little tease.’

  I fumbled my cup and saucer back on to the table and while I was busy doing that he got unhurriedly to his feet, strolled across the room and locked the door.

  OK – not sure that was supposed to happen.

  I’ve been in situations similar to this before, but usually with the full might of St Mary’s behind me. Although sometimes having St Mary’s with you is helpful and sometimes . . . less so. Today, I was on my own. Yes, Markham was around somewhere, breaking and entering with a bit of luck, but not here and not just at this moment. At this moment it was just me. Mrs Farrell and her trusty pepper spray. Indefatigably labouring for the good of others and occasionally tossing out the sort of remark that could easily be misinterpreted. Keeping him just slightly off-balance until I could see my way clear.

  I allowed myself to look alarmed. Not actually that difficult. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Oh, come along, Mrs Farrell. You’ve wrapped it up in a cloak of fine words and good intentions, but here you are, like every other woman in the world, wanting money. The only question for us now to resolve is – what will you do for it?’

  ‘I think you mistake my purpose here, sir.’

  ‘Oh, I think not.’

  He began to walk towards me.

  My mouth went dry. I don’t know why I’d likened him to a cat. He was a snake. A king cobra, staring into my eyes, freezing me in my chair, unable to escape. Unable even to move . . .

  He lifted off my hat, set it on the table and gently ran his finger down the back of my neck, finding nerves and sensitive areas I didn’t know I had there.

  I drew a sharp breath.

  He smiled some more. ‘Well now, Mrs Farrell, that’s a lovely outfit you’re wearing today but why don’t you take off your coat. Relax a little with me in front of the fire. It’s a filthy day out there.’

  I swallowed and quavered, ‘I think not, sir.’

  He wandered over to the desk. I was surprised – and slightly offended – that he’d given up so easily. Rummaging in his pocket he pulled out a small key and unlocked a drawer. Smiling broadly, he pulled out a roll of banknotes.

  Even though I knew it was locked, I ran for the door and artistically tugged at the handle while he was over the other side of the room.

  ‘Locked,’ he said, laconically, undoing the roll. ‘Here you are, Mrs Farrell. Cash in hand. I’ve never yet come across any woman who didn’t like cash in her hand and I don’t suppose you so-called ladies are any different. Take off your jacket now.’

  I wheeled away from the door and allowed myself to cry a little. Would it be wrong to say a little bit of me was quite enjoying this?

  He was all concern. ‘Now Mrs Farrell, don’t you upset yourself. It’ll soon be over. Just think of the benefits. Take off your jacket and show me the pretty blouse underneath.’

  I lifted my chin. Every inch the plucky little woman standing firm. ‘I shall do no such thing.’

  ‘You’d rather I did it for you?’

  ‘I shall scream for help.’

  He shrugged. ‘Be my guest. No one hears the girls and believe me, in this house, they scream quite often. No one ever hears, Mrs Farrell. No one ever comes to help.’

  ‘But . . . Mr W,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, believe me, Mr W is, at this very moment, causing someone else to scream. Don’t worry, you won’t hear anything. He’s at the top of the house. It’s his way of passing the long, boring afternoons. Now, time’s passing, Mrs Farrell, so let’s get down to it. You take off your jacket or I’ll do it for you. That earns you . . .’ He held up a large white banknote. ‘Five pounds. Not bad for less than thirty seconds’ work. Removing your blouse will earn you another five.’

  He placed the second note alongside the first.

  ‘And then,’ he said, ‘you’ll lift your skirt and events will proceed very profitably. For us both.’

  He placed the whole roll of banknotes on the desk.

  ‘And then afterwards, Mrs Farrell, you and I will talk a little about these respectable girls of yours and the opportunities Mr W and I might be able to offer them. For a suitable remuneration, of course. You will find neither of us ungenerous.’

  I drew myself up to my full unimpressive height. ‘You are speaking of prostitution.’

  ‘I am.’ He smiled. ‘Theirs . . . and yours.’

  ‘Are you out of your mind? My husband . . .’

  ‘Oh, you’re going to tell him, are you? Well, that’s entirely up to you, Mrs Farrell, but what exactly will you say? You called, uninvited. I asked you in out of the wind. We had tea. I was about to make a very generous donation to the Seamen’s Mission when you had some sort of woman’s moment. I tried to call one of the maids but your behaviour, Mrs Farrell, was . . . well, I don’t like to say such things about a lady. But I don’t think you’ll mention any of this to your husband, will you? I like to touch – that’s all, Mrs Farrell. It’s really very lucky for you that you didn’t get my boss. He likes all sorts of things your little middle-class mind couldn’t even begin to comprehend. Whereas me – I just like to touch.’

  He showed his teeth s
uddenly. ‘And bite.’

  I slapped on the door panels. ‘Help. Help me.’

  He laughed, seized my skirt and dragged me back across the room. To the fireplace. And my muff. ‘You’re still wearing your jacket, Mrs Farrell.’ Suddenly his voice was different. ‘I shan’t tell you again.’

  This was going well. Target A acquired and happily occupied. The exact location of Target B unknown but Markham would be all over that. And if he wasn’t breaking in somewhere downstairs at this very moment, then he and I would be having words later on. And best of all, I could reach my muff. Time to turn the tables.

  I thought of the two maids I’d seen. Bruised and terrified. I thought about what might be going on at the top of the house at this very moment. I thought of these two men who’d contaminated their own time to such an extent they’d had to flee to another. And the opportunities in this century were so much greater. These men were monsters. I began to regret Pennyroyal’s firm instructions about not damaging the targets. However . . .

  Markham spoke in my ear. ‘There’s an unexpected third party up here, Max, but I’m on it. Can you have your man ready in five minutes? No more.’

  I yanked my skirt free of Feeney, seated myself at the tea table again, picked up my cup and smiled at Feeney. I too could enjoy myself.

  I nodded in the direction of the money. ‘How much is there?’

  ‘A goodly sum.’

  I sipped my tea. ‘I could match it without blinking.’

  He laughed. ‘You think you can buy your way out of this room?’

  ‘I don’t have to. You’ll open the door and let me out of your own free will.’

  ‘And why would I do that?’

  I smiled. ‘Because I say you will.’

  ‘A challenge? By God, Mrs Farrell . . . I’m going to enjoy you.’

  ‘No, you won’t, I’m afraid, but that’s your problem. Now – open the door, please.’

  He sat down and folded his arms. ‘Make me.’

  ‘After my tea. Would you like some more?’

  He smiled, mocking. Completely in control of the situation. ‘Thank you.’

  I turned the teapot so the handle was facing my way. Five minutes, Markham had said. No problemo.

  I swirled the dregs of my tea three times in the traditional mystic manner and upended the cup over my saucer. Righting it, I took the saucer away and peered into the cup, twisting it this way and that, remembering the portrait over the mantel next door.

  ‘I see a small dark woman.’

  He scoffed.

  ‘Very young. Very frightened.’ I looked over at him. ‘Quite alone.’

  He smirked.

  ‘But not as alone as she thinks.’

  He sat up but I swept on.

  ‘A romantic stranger has entered her life. He has travelled far. Across remote continents, vast mountain ranges . . .’ I paused. ‘The Oceans of Time itself.’

  Now I had his full attention. I could see him struggling to place me. Was I some do-gooder from this time who just happened to have made a lucky guess? But that comment about time? Was I Time Police? Surely not. Too old, for one thing. Was I someone hired by the desperate and despicable next-door neighbour to extricate himself – and his wife, if it was conveni­ent and didn’t cost too much – from the situation in which his folly had placed him?

  ‘Tall, dark and handsome, I suppose.’

  ‘I’d like to be able to say yes, but actually, short, fair and disreputable.’

  He sneered. ‘Her prince has come.’

  ‘How strange that you should say that.’

  He narrowed his eyes. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Oh, let’s not talk about me. Let’s continue to speak of Mrs Leyton whose life is about to take a very unexpected turn.’

  I swirled my tea leaves again. Mr Feeney owned a very efficient tea strainer and there were actually only about three tea leaves in the bottom of my cup, but trust me – from three tea leaves it is perfectly possible to extrapolate an entire plantation.

  ‘Oh, look.’

  It was instinctive but Feeney managed to stop himself leaning forwards. He smiled. ‘Mrs Leyton’s affairs have taken an unexpected turn for the worse, I think you’ll find, Mrs Farrell.’

  I frowned. ‘No . . . no . . . that’s not what it says here. I see Mrs Leyton leaving her husband – no great loss there, I think we can both agree. I see her leaving London. I see a pretty house. By the sea. And a little garden.’

  I squinted into the cup. ‘In fact, I see a long and happy life for Mrs Leyton. Who’d have thought?’

  He’d recovered himself. I’d hardly jolted him at all. ‘Alas, madam, I fear your talents with the teacups are very imperfect. Mrs Leyton is unlikely to be leaving this house at all in the near future. Not without physical assistance, anyway.’

  This was it. This was my moment.

  Very softly, I said, ‘Which she is, at this very minute, receiving.’

  He couldn’t help himself. Just for one moment, one very brief moment, his eyes flickered up to the ceiling. But one brief moment was all I needed.

  I ripped the lid off the teapot with my left hand, surged to my feet and in the same movement, hurled the contents straight into his face with my right. He screamed but not anything like loudly enough so I threw the teapot at him as well. It was a classically shaped, beautiful blue and cream china affair, with a perfect dribble-free spout, and it deserved a better fate than bouncing off Jack Feeney’s forehead and into his lap.

  Hats were being worn on top of the head this year and so my hair was bundled in a big knot at the back of my neck. I pulled out something shiny and sharp. Sadly, he was fully clothed, Victorian style, and I doubted I’d get penetration – so that was both of us disappointed this afternoon – so I slashed at his face. From the corner of his eye to the corner of his mouth. I have to say there was rather more blood than I was prepared for.

  He screamed. He actually screamed. What a baby. And it wasn’t as if I’d actually stabbed him – which had been my first impulse.

  There was certainly more blood than he was prepared for. He staggered backwards, yanked a cloth off a small table and held it to his face. His language was worse than mine. What sort of words were those to use to a lady?

  I pulled out the pepper spray. There was no real need but I’m a nasty person and I saw no reason at all why he shouldn’t suffer a little, so I aimed for the open gash and pulled the trigger.

  He reeled again, colliding with yet another knick-knack-laden table, which this time toppled over with a very satisfactory crash. And I was perfectly safe from interruption – the door was locked, although I was certain the maids would be under very strict instructions not to intervene no matter what they heard happening in this room. They probably thought it was me doing all this girlie screaming and falling over.

  He had his hands to his face. Bad mistake. In this situation you should always keep your hands away from your eyes. They only make things worse.

  No – actually I’d got it wrong. He wasn’t as helpless as I had thought. Far from rubbing his eyes, he reached around to the back of his neck, pulled out a knife and slashed blindly. A nasty low slice that should have disembowelled me. He was badly scalded, cut, peppered and bleeding but it was so fast and unexpected he nearly got me. I jumped backwards and my skirts saved me from injury. The knife caught in the material. He jerked blindly and I lost my balance, fell, and, because he hadn’t let go of the knife, I dragged him down with me.

  Shit. This wasn’t good. I really should have zapped him first. Not gloating is always the way to go. The gloater gloats over his fallen victim – the gloatee. The gloatee pulls himself together, launches a desperate attack, frees himself, overcomes the gloater and hey presto. Victory snatched from the jaws of defeat. Although not for the gloater, obviously. Clive Ronan never gloated. He just pull
ed the trigger and strolled away. He’s not exactly a role model for me but in the area of non-gloating – very sound. I really should have followed his example and just zapped this bugger as soon as I entered the room. Something to remember for the future.

  I rolled away from him as quickly as I could. He grabbed blindly for my skirt again. I kicked out and my foot caught something. The tea table. The whole lot went over with a crash. He yelled again. Typical. Obviously one of these people who can dish it out but is less enthusiastic about it being dished back again.

  Unfortunately, he still had hold of my skirt and was using it to pull me closer to him. My muff was only a fingertip away. If I could get to it. I kicked and kicked but he gritted his teeth and hung on. I couldn’t shift him and in a second or so he’d be close enough to do me some real damage.

  ‘I’m done up here,’ said Markham chattily in my ear. ‘Everything all right with you?’

  I grunted, ‘Absolutely fine,’ and stopped kicking because I could see my pepper spray. I stretched for it, felt something tear – not me, I hoped – grabbed it, sat up from the waist – which wasn’t something I’d done in years but trust me, you can do it when you have to – and gave him another quick squirt.

  Feeney was roaring and flailing with his fists. One hit me on the top of my left shoulder and my whole arm went numb. I had to get out of range. If he hit me and I went down, I’d never get up again.

  ‘You sure?’ enquired Markham. ‘There’s an awful lot of noise at your end.’

  ‘Absolutely certain,’ I said, grittily.

  ‘Well, OK then. I’ve got mine, by the way. He’s in a heap on the floor having the shit kicked out of him by a young lady who had the sense to keep her boots on. How’s yours?’

  ‘Scalded, kicked and sprayed. Still won’t go down.’

  ‘Do you need rescuing?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You sure? I’m not doing anything at the moment.’

  I instructed him to go forth and multiply.

  Feeney was proving more difficult to shift than the failed leader of a political party. I needed to use my brains. I said urgently, ‘Mr Feeney. You need to keep very still. You’re practic­ally in the fire. You’ll burn your legs.’ And he was so surprised that for a second, he did just that.