Another Time, Another Place

by Jodi Taylor

  I kicked viciously because there’s no point doing it any other way, rolled away, grabbed my muff, found my stun gun and gave him the good zapping he deserved. Probably more and for longer than I should but . . . well . . . what the hell.

  Panting, I scrambled to my feet. My hair was coming down. My skirt was torn. I was covered in tea and tea leaves and my hands were stinging so I guessed I’d got pepper on them.

  There is a use for milk after all. Who’d have thought? I carefully washed my hands in the remaining contents of the milk jug – I’m really not fit for polite society – and dried them on the tray cloth.

  The room was a bit of a shambles. Overturned tables, smashed china, and tea soaking into the rather nice carpet. The teapot had survived but both cups were history, together with most of the contents of the little knick-knack table.

  I could hear Markham at the door but first things first. I pulled Mr Feeney’s hands behind his back and zipped him firmly. And his ankles, too. And then just for good measure I yanked off a cushion cover and pulled it over his head. Then I really couldn’t think of anything else to do to him, so I kicked a helpless man a couple of times because that really does make you feel better.

  The door key lay on his desk, alongside the money. I let Markham in. As usual, he was surrounded by housemaids. It’s his USP.

  ‘Good God,’ he said, surveying the devastated room. ‘What on earth happened here?’

  I shrugged. ‘He tried to put milk in my tea.’

  ‘What a bastard.’

  ‘Where’s yours?’

  ‘In the hall.’

  ‘Conscious?’

  ‘He was, but I left him in the care of some of his staff so probably not any longer.’

  I lowered my voice. ‘What about his . . . guest?’

  ‘She’s still upstairs.’

  A housemaid was already slipping away. ‘We know what to do, madam. Leave her with us.’

  Again, I spared a second to wonder what the young woman from next door had done to merit the attentions of Mr W. I couldn’t believe that any action of hers could possibly have placed her in the power of these men. Her husband, however, the worthless Horace – yes, I could easily believe that something he’d done had landed him in big trouble, been found out by these two charming specimens, and he had used his wife to buy his way out of it. Well, that was all over now.

  I wondered what she would do. Divorce was possible in this day and age and if Leyton had any sense, he’d keep his mouth shut and sign everything put in front of him. The Married Women’s Property Act would allow her full control of her own property. Perhaps my little fantasy of a cottage by the sea was not so unrealistic after all.

  I gestured to the crowd of servants in the doorway. ‘So much for quick and quiet.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry, Max, but when I saw what Winterman was doing . . .’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said in my turn and we both surveyed the slowly-returning-to-this-world Jack Feeney, while I got my hair back together again.

  He groaned and then cursed, his words muffled by the cushion cover. Then he shouted for Maggie. Then for Kathleen.

  Two maids pushed past me in a rustle of starched aprons. Maggie and Kathleen, I supposed. One reached for the poker but I shook my head and handed her the shovel instead. She bobbed a curtsey and thanked me politely.

  I am continually being told that violence is never the solution to any problem, so I stepped back and considered the issue carefully, finally coming to the conclusion that that was a load of complete codswallop and that, in this instance, violence and retribution were actually doing these young girls a very great deal of good. There’s nothing like suddenly realising you’re not as much under someone else’s control as you thought. That in the end, ill treatment gets its just deserts, and it’s extremely satisfying to be the one doling out those just deserts.

  I dusted myself down, straightened my clothing and followed Markham out into the hall.

  Pennyroyal had been waiting further along the square. Markham stuck his head out of the front door and gave him the signal. A closed cab, pulled by a single horse, drew up at the foot of the steps.

  ‘You two get them out,’ I said to him. ‘I have something to do here.’ I turned to the maids. ‘Who’s in charge?’

  The cook elbowed her way through. ‘Mrs Proudie, madam. Cook.’ She gestured at the young maids, not one of whom looked over twenty-one. ‘I look after them. As best I can.’

  ‘Come with me.’

  I went back into the sitting room. Her eyes widened as she took in the full extent of the mess.

  I grinned. ‘He takes some fighting off, doesn’t he?’

  She nodded, grimly. ‘He does, madam. I think that’s the bit he likes best.’

  ‘Not any longer,’ I said, crossed to the desk and pulled out a drawer. In addition to another roll of banknotes, there were several soft bags that clinked when I placed them on the desk.

  ‘Were you all paid last quarter day?’

  She shook her head. ‘Nor the quarter before that.’

  I sighed. What a life. Servants were almost completely at the mercy of their masters. Especially female servants. The lack of a male butler or footmen was clearly deliberate policy by Feeney and Winterman. We had here five or six young girls – orphans, I was prepared to bet – with no relatives to speak up for them, or even come looking for them should things get out of hand – which I was prepared to bet they did occasionally. Always hanging over their heads would be the threat of dismissal with no references. Fatal for any chance of future employment. Or worse, several small ornaments would be discovered to be missing, and the police called. It would be the master’s word against theirs and theirs counted for nothing. Yes, the doors were locked and they were probably physically unable to leave, but they were trapped more completely than that. No pay – nowhere to run to – and then, when they were too badly damaged to be of any further entertainment, they’d be kicked out into the street to fend for themselves. Or die somewhere. Anywhere as long as it wasn’t here. If they healed, they’d be on the streets trying to earn a living, and dreadful things happened to unprotected girls earning a living on the streets. And things weren’t any better if you did have a pimp. What a choice. Perhaps, since abuse seemed inevitable, they preferred to have the dreadful things happen to them here, where at least there was food and a roof over their heads. Perhaps they saw it as the lesser of two evils and these two bastards had traded on that. I hoped Markham and Pennyroyal would manage to drop them down their own steps a couple of times.

  One bag contained a quantity of sovereigns.

  ‘How many are there of you?’

  ‘Five altogether, ma’am. Although Sarah ain’t been able to work for a while.’

  I pulled out ten sovereigns and handed them to her. ‘Two for each of you.’

  The other bag was loose change – half-sovereigns, crowns, half-crowns, shillings, sixpences, and so on. Probably about fifty pounds’ worth. I handed it to her. ‘Divide all that among you. Don’t touch the banknotes. Your masters are being taken away. You will never see them again. They will never come back here. But, sooner or later, enquiries will be made. Tidy up this room and carry on as normal. You know nothing. You’ll all be questioned and they’ll look for signs of pilfering, so leave the rest of this money exactly where it is. Take nothing. Say nothing. Any of you. Do you understand why that is so important, Mrs Proudie?’

  She nodded. Her bright currant-like eyes were shrewd. She was middle-aged and experienced. I was satisfied she’d look after them.

  ‘There’s enough there for you all to start again somewhere. When the moment is right.’

  ‘We’re from the agency, ma’am. Mrs White’s. She sends a lot of girls here.’

  Ah – that explained why he’d been so excited over the ‘respectable girls’ from the mission. Another source of income and
entertainment.

  ‘Well, don’t go back there, whatever you do,’ I said. ‘Register with a reputable agency but don’t be in a hurry. You have enough to keep you going for a while. And don’t let them spend it all at once. It’s possible the police will watch you for a while. Make the girls understand why they have to be so careful.’

  She frowned. ‘Believe me, ma’am, these girls know how to be careful.’

  ‘Will you be able to keep an eye on them?’

  ‘I can, ma’am. We’ll do as you say. Carry on normal like, answer any questions, leave the valuables alone. Rest assured, ma’am, these girls will take care. They won’t want nothing like this ever happening to them again.’

  I nodded. ‘I must go.’

  She passed me my hat and muff. I could hear Markham calling for me in the hall. The coach had stopped at the foot of the steps – Pennyroyal really couldn’t have got any closer – but someone might have seen something. We shouldn’t hang around.

  ‘Good luck, Mrs Proudie. And look after each other.’

  ‘We will, ma’am. And thank you.’

  I nodded.

  Markham was waiting in the hall. ‘He says he’ll meet us back at base. Are you ready?’

  I settled my hat as best I could, checked I had everything I’d brought with me, shook out my skirt to hide the worst of the tear and pushed my arm through his. ‘Ready when you are.’

  Mrs Proudie herself saw us out, curtseying politely as we passed through the front door. Pennyroyal’s coach was just disappearing around the corner. Typical Pennyroyal, he must have pulled straight out because we could hear the shouting, barking, neighing and screaming of dislocated traffic all the way from here.

  ‘Well,’ said Markham, as we made our dignified way down the steps. ‘I thought that went rather well. I could get used to this.’

  I nodded. Reprehensively, I’d rather enjoyed putting the boot into our Mr Feeney. So, I’m a bad person – live with it. And the constant worry about upsetting History, or inadvertently changing something, or setting off something apocalyptic – there was none of that in this line of business. You just went in, did whatever was needed to get the job done, and got out as soon as possible. Oh, dear God – I was turning into the Time Police.

  There was no tedious aftermath to cope with, either. No reports to write, no time in Sick Bay – just decontaminate and go. Markham and I both had a giant slug of something that could loosely be construed as extremely beneficial, and decided, medically speaking, that that would do.

  Pennyroyal had disappeared off to Time Police HQ with the prisoners. Markham and I tidied our own pod, set everything to charge, went back indoors and poured ourselves another congratulatory shot of medicine. And then another one, because why not?

  ‘Here’s to Pros and Cons,’ said Markham, and I was feeling so mellow I let it go. He scrambled some eggs while I did the toast – which both of us mistakenly thought would be the easier task. It was as we were sitting around the table, congratulating ourselves on a job well done, that he said suddenly, ‘Are you going to Peterson’s wedding?’

  ‘Well, I don’t see why I shouldn’t,’ I said. ‘I’m not wanted by the law.’

  ‘Well, technically, neither am I. I just pushed off before the law decided I was. Wanted, I mean.’

  I waited.

  ‘I was supposed to be his best man,’ he said gloomily, riskily holding the ketchup bottle over his head to see why nothing was coming out. ‘That won’t happen now. God knows what sort of a mess he’ll make of things without me there to keep an eye on him.’

  A large red blob slid reluctantly from the bottle and splatted unpleasantly on to his eggs.

  ‘You could still go,’ I said with alcohol-induced bravado. ‘In fact, we both could. It should be easy enough. They’re getting married at the village church, not the chapel at St Mary’s, because apparently it’s not big enough for all their friends and family.’

  We took a moment to contemplate people less fortunate than ourselves. Those burdened with innumerable friends and family.

  ‘We could still go.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said with enthusiasm. ‘Lightly disguised, of course.’

  I admit I was slightly uneasy at his use of the phrase ‘lightly disguised’, but on the other hand, if the authorities really were looking for him . . . I’d heard nothing official but if Markham had taken the precaution of removing himself and his family from public view, then I was prepared to trust his judgement. Suppose they guessed Markham would be unable to stay away? That here would be a good place to snatch him? Quick and quiet.

  And I certainly didn’t want Treadwell taking the opportunity to have another go at me. Weddings are stressful enough without one guest making her getaway by having to club another with a headstone.

  Markham nodded again. ‘St Mary’s will think we’re friends and/or family, and friends and/or family will think we’re St Mary’s. Yeah. That could work.’

  I sat back, alarmed. ‘I’m not going with you if you’re going to wear a dress.’

  ‘Actually, I was thinking of a false beard.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No one will expect to see me in a false beard, will they?’

  ‘I hate to break it to you, but I doubt anyone will be surprised. I don’t think you’ll be able to move for people saying, “Have you seen Markham and his ridiculous false beard?”’

  He sighed. ‘A false moustache?’

  ‘Dear God, no. Sunglasses. That’s it.’

  ‘What’s it?’

  ‘Your disguise. You can wear one open-bracket figure one close-bracket pair of sunglasses.’

  He considered this. ‘OK – sunglasses are cool. I am, after all, the epitome of cool.’ He struck an attitude. ‘Markham – king of cool.’

  I began to regret saying no to the dress.

  He grinned. ‘While Pennyroyal’s away the mice will play . . .’

  It was easy. I knew the exact time, date and location. Which was a lot more than I usually had for a lot of our assignments. We ransacked the costume room again. Pennyroyal had not been best pleased with the condition of my Victorian clothes – ripped, soaked and covered in tea leaves is not, apparently, the correct state in which to return things – and I was worried he might have locked the room in his absence, but I was worrying for nothing. He hadn’t.

  ‘We’ll be back before he is,’ said Markham, rifling through the suits. ‘He’ll never know anything about it.’

  Personally, I doubted this, but what the hell. Rules were for people on the right side of the law. As Markham said, we were badass fugitives, living wild, walking the mean streets and not to be trifled with and what did I think of this pink tie?

  It was a summer wedding so he chose a quiet grey suit. I had rather more to disguise – hair, build and so forth – so I chose a jumpsuit in a dramatic black and gold pattern, because people would see the pattern and not me, together with a wide-brimmed hat to hide my hair and shade my face, and a pair of giant sunglasses. Or possibly a giant pair of sunglasses. I never know which way round it is and I really should find out one day. I went for ballet flats too, in case I needed to make a run for it. Although, as I pointed out, yet again, I wasn’t the one wanted by the law and Markham pointed out, yet again, that it was only a matter of time.

  I have to say – if you smother me from head to ankle in a jumpsuit, cover my hair and plonk a pair of sunglasses on my nose, there’s not a lot left to recognise. Just the tip of my nose and a bit of chin.

  Markham looked unusually clean – I told him no one would know him – and he’d slicked his hair back with product which made him look much older. I wondered again – how old was he?

  We surveyed each other, side by side in the mirror. I suddenly couldn’t think of anything to say. Peterson was getting married.

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ said Markham. �
��And if not – well, how many people can say they’ve had St Mary’s Security Section, the police, the military, members of British Intelligence and probably a couple of black helicopters at their wedding?’

  I nodded. ‘Peterson should be grateful to us. It would probably have been quite dull otherwise.’

  ‘Exactly. Shall we go?’

  I put us down in the woods opposite the church. Coincidentally, not that far from the place where I’d been abandoned around six hundred and fifty years ago. I shook my head. Sometimes I felt as if my past was overwhelming me which, let’s face it, was perfectly possible because I had a hell of a lot of past to be overwhelmed by.

  We exited the pod carefully and looked around. The world was green and full of birdsong. Shafts of sunlight slanted through the trees. We made our way cautiously along the path, emerging almost opposite the church.

  The church gate was open and wedding guests were already arriving in small groups. I didn’t know most of them. I drew Markham back under the trees. We’d talked about this and we had a plan. We’d wait for the ceremony to begin and then creep in and sit at the very back. We’d be able to watch what was going on but unless anyone actually turned around – and why would they because they should be looking at the bride and groom? – we’d be lost in the dim shadows in a dark corner. And then, just before the ceremony finished, we’d nip outside, through the gate and back to the pod. No one would ever know we’d been there.

  Well, that was the plan anyway.

  It began well. We stood under the trees, watching people arrive, passing the time by criticising their outfits and agreeing we looked the dog’s bollocks and everyone else didn’t. Most of the St Mary’s men had run true to form and wore their formal uniforms. The women, however, had made an effort. Mrs Shaw, Peterson’s PA, looked very smart. As did Mrs Enderby and Mrs Mack. Sykes wore a pretty summer dress in yellow that contrasted nicely with her dark hair. Bashford walked on one side of her, Roberts on the other. Occasionally, they glared at each other over her head. Sykes walked imperturbably onwards, a small smile on her face.