No Time Like the Past

by Jodi Taylor

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘There’s a possibility someone may have fallen off the roof.’

  ‘Check around. Especially those idiots in R & D. Sounds like the sort of thing they might do. I’ll let you know if anyone turns up.’

  She closed the link.

  Markham was as near angry as I’d ever seen him. ‘There’s no “possibility” about it. I know what I saw.’

  ‘What did you see? Tell me every detail.’

  ‘I was standing just here.’

  He pushed me aside and stood where I had been.

  ‘I was walking towards your office.’

  He mimed walking, just in case I was having some difficulty grasping the concept.

  ‘The window was on my left. Just as I drew level, something black fell past. I was so surprised I couldn’t move for a second.’

  He mimed a level of surprise and horror that would lead anyone else to believe he’d just witnessed the asteroid wipe out the dinosaurs.

  ‘Then I heaved up the window, leaned out, and … and there was nothing there.’

  ‘Is there a possibility they got up and ran away before you had a chance to see?’

  ‘I don’t know. It took me a while to get the window open, but you’ve seen for yourself – there’s no cover. All right, they might not be dead since they only fell on gravel, but it’s three floors up – they’d have broken a bone or two at least. And why would they hide? It doesn’t make sense.’

  He looked genuinely agitated, which was a first for him.

  ‘I think,’ I said slowly, ‘that someone’s pulling your plonker. Someone’s up on the roof – they push off an old dummy and in between the time you see it and struggle to get the window up and look out, someone’s leaned out of a downstairs window and pulled it in. I bet they’re down there now, laughing their heads off and waiting for you to appear at any minute and start dashing about looking for bodies.’

  His face cleared. ‘Of course. Bastards! Good trick though. Talk about shitting bricks – I nearly evacuated a monolith. Thanks, Max.’

  He strolled off, presumably to bring down retribution on persons unknown and I wandered back to my office.

  The next day, he was back again and this time he wasn’t alone.

  They burst through my door, Peterson escorting Markham who looked – not to put too fine a point on it – as if he’d seen a ghost.

  ‘It did it again,’ he said, not very coherently for someone brought up in the Major Guthrie tradition of concise reporting.

  First things first. I opened my mouth to instruct Miss Lee to make him a cup of much-needed tea but she was already ahead of the game, gathering up two or three files at random and heading for the door, announcing she had to catch the post, which indeed, would be collected in about four hours’ time.

  Peterson made us all a cup of tea. I contemplated adding something comforting from my bottom drawer, but Markham was incoherent enough.

  ‘I saw it again, Max,’ he announced. ‘A black figure falling past the window and when I looked out there was nothing there. Again. Dr Peterson was there. He saw it.’

  ‘I saw you see something,’ corrected Peterson. ‘I didn’t see anything fall, but I can confirm there was nothing there when we looked.’

  ‘But you must have,’ objected Markham. ‘A black figure, silhouetted against the sky. I saw arms and legs. Just for a moment, true, but you can’t mistake a falling body.’

  I had a thought. ‘What did you hear?’

  He sat quietly, running through things in his mind. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing? No cry? No sound of impact?’

  He looked suddenly thoughtful. ‘No. There was no sound of impact. And if those buggers from R & D were playing silly devils and chucking things off the roof then you’d hear something, wouldn’t you?’

  Yes, you would. I looked at him again. I’d seen him wounded; I’d seen him running for his life; I’d even seen him in drag, but I’d never seen him like this before. I couldn’t dismiss this lightly.

  I stood up. ‘Tim, can you check out R & D? Tactfully, please.’

  He nodded. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m going to talk to Dr Dowson.’ I looked at Markham. ‘You all right?’

  ‘Yes. What shall I do?’

  ‘Nothing for the minute. If someone is playing a trick on you then the best thing you can do is ignore it. We’ll meet back here at half past three.’

  Dr Dowson was our librarian and archivist. In most organisations, this means spending the day in an atmosphere of tranquil serenity. Books don’t usually give you a lot of grief. Today, he was standing on his desk, pounding the ceiling with a broom handle and shouting curses. In Latin, Greek, and possibly Morse code, by the sound of it.

  He broke off to greet me with a smile. ‘Ah, Max. Can I help you?’

  I knew better than to ask what was going on. He and Professor Rapson from R & D were old friends, which apparently was sufficient grounds for mutual abuse and recrimination at every opportunity. R & D occupied the rooms directly overhead and possibly inadvertently, but probably not, had done something to incur his wrath.

  I helped him down off his desk and told him the story and feeling a little foolish said, ‘Is it possible, is it just possible, that we have a ghost we didn’t know about?’

  He stood still for a moment, polishing his spectacles, lost in thought, and then disappeared briefly, returning with an old book, two modern pamphlets, and a file of loose photocopies.

  He laid them on a table and we sat down.

  ‘Right.’ he said. ‘A potted history of St Mary’s.

  ‘The first building, the original Priory of St Mary’s, was raised by Augustinian monks towards the end of the 13th century. That building stood for more or less a hundred years. I think the location was too remote, however, and over the years, the monks just drifted away. St Mary’s, the village, and all the land with it were eventually acquired – it doesn’t say how – by Henry of Grosmont, 4th Earl of Lancaster. He did nothing with it, other than collect the rents, but his son-in-law, John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, bestowed the manor upon Henry of Rushford, a comrade in arms, for services rendered during the 1386 campaign in Castile.

  ‘This next bit is interesting. There was, apparently, a bit of a skirmish during the confusion of 1399. While Richard II and Henry Bolingbroke jostled for supremacy, it would appear another branch of the Rushford family took advantage of the confusion and attacked St Mary’s. Despite a spirited defence, the attackers did gain entry, but were foiled when, in a last desperate effort, the defenders, led by Henry’s granddaughter, attempted to burn the place down to cover their escape to Rushford. Exciting days, eh?

  ‘Matters were obviously resolved satisfactorily, but St Mary’s passed out of the Rushford family’s hands a generation or so afterwards. No heir, as is frequently the case, I’m afraid. I really don’t know why these things are always passed down through the male line – girl children are much more robust than their brothers, and let’s face it, Max – while here may always be doubt about the identity of the father, most people are usually fairly clear about who the mother is.’

  He brooded for a while on this unsatisfactory state of affairs, and who was I to disagree?

  ‘Anyway, St Mary’s had any number of owners, all of whom apparently lived perfectly peacefully, even during troubled times. The estate survived the Wars of the Roses, religious strife under the Tudors, and then, in the late 16th century, the Laceys of Gloucestershire moved in.’

  He opened the book. ‘The Civil War split them down the middle, with half of them supporting the King and the other half lining up for Cromwell. In 1643, a contingent of Parliamentary forces, led by Captain Edmund Lacey, left Gloucester for some reason, and rode here. Accounts are jumbled, and there are several versions of events, but they all agree that the Great Hall was torched and Margaret Lacey and her elder son, Charles, perished in the blaze. The younger son, James, who was only a very young boy at
the time, escaped to the roof, was rescued by a servant, and taken safely to the village. Captain Lacey disappeared, was tried, and found guilty of murder in his absence and was never seen again. The Hall was rebuilt by James and is largely as we see it today. With the exception of the glass lantern, of course.

  ‘St Mary’s continued to change hands, shedding land as it went, until it fell empty in the late 19th century. It was too big for a family house and since there was no longer any land left to support it, it became a bit of a white elephant, I’m afraid. It was used as a convalescent home for soldiers during and after World War I, and then was a school, briefly and disastrously. Apparently, someone left a tap running and the ceiling came down in what is now Wardrobe. It was used as a hospital again during World War II. And that’s it until we moved in, my goodness, some years ago now.’ He tapped the documents. ‘It’s all here. And much more besides.’

  I said slowly, ‘Thank you, Doctor, but I think might I have what I need.’

  He nodded. ‘1643?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. The little boy ran up to the roof. He survived, but maybe someone did fall. Captain Lacey, maybe. Perhaps that’s why he was never seen again. Because he died. Either in the fire or in the fall. Can you get me more details?’

  He smiled. ‘I expect so. Give me an hour.’

  We reconvened. There being no sign of Miss Lee, I made the tea this time.

  ‘You can’t be doing it right,’ said Peterson, smugly. ‘My Mrs Shaw brings me chocolate biscuits as well.’

  I ignored him.

  ‘There seem to be two candidates for Mr Markham’s falling body. In 1399, there was a minor skirmish over ownership. I suppose it’s perfectly possible someone could have fallen from the roof.’

  ‘Or possibly, someone had a mad wife and she jumped, like Mrs Rochester,’ added Markham, never one to choose the obvious option. ‘And she dashed her brains out on the flags below.’

  ‘When did you ever read Jane Eyre?’ demanded Peterson, easily distracted.

  ‘I broke my ankle.’

  We waited, but that seemed to be it.

  ‘Or,’ I said, firmly dragging them back on track, ‘in 1643, during the Civil War, the Roundheads arrived, threatened, and possibly murdered a woman and child. But, and this is the interesting bit, a second child sought refuge on the roof. Describe the body again.’

  ‘There’s nothing to describe. A black shape with arms and legs.’

  ‘Could it have been a child?’

  ‘It could, I suppose. It didn’t look very big, but …’ He sounded doubtful. ‘I don’t know. And anyway, the kid survived, didn’t he? It’s a bit of a mystery.’

  Silence. We slurped our tea.

  ‘Well,’ said Peterson. ‘Now what? All very interesting, but what has this to do with us?’

  There being no good answer to that one, we finished our tea and stood up. I walked with them to the door and out into the corridor.

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ said Peterson to Markham. ‘There’s just too little to go on. Apart from your daily hallucinations, we just don’t have any – ‘

  Markham stiffened, pointed, and cried, ‘There! Oh, my God! Again!’

  We stood paralysed, because we’re highly trained professionals, and then rushed to the window. Peterson heaved it up and stuck out his head. I elbowed myself some room and did the same. Markham, realising he stood no chance, ran to another window and looked out.

  The sun shone down on the frosty gravel. We looked to the north. We looked to the south. Markham thought to hang even further out of the window, twist himself around, and look up.

  Nothing.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, and we headed for the roof, emerging through a tiny door in the north-east corner. Despite the frost, the roof was a bit of a suntrap and pleasantly warm. In the old days, it had been gabled and tiled, but at some point in its history, the roof had been replaced and flattened. Groups of tall chimneys stood around. The big glass lantern, which let some much-needed light into the Hall, was over there. Over to the right, we could look down on lower roof levels. There was even a fire escape, which Markham headed towards. We watched him go.

  ‘What do you think?’ said Peterson. ‘It’s astounding, isn’t it?’

  ‘I know. I’m still gobsmacked. Jane Eyre!’

  ‘Are we going to check this out?’

  ‘Are you kidding?’

  ‘We’ll never get permission.’

  ‘Leave that to me. I’ve had a brilliant idea.’

  He groaned.

  Markham returned and crossed to the parapet, which was just above waist height and looked down. We joined him.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Peterson, stepping back.

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘Fine,’ he said, averting his eyes and stepping four or five paces back. ‘Just tell me what you see.’

  ‘Nothing. There’s nothing.’

  ‘And nothing’s been up here today,’ added Markham.

  He was right. Our footprints were clearly visible on the frosty roof. And only ours. Unless someone had come up here barefoot …

  We looked around, our breath frosty in the cold, sharp air.

  I looked at Markham. ‘Are you up for this?’

  ‘How can you even ask?’

  I spent the rest of the day putting things together and just as the lights were coming on and people beginning to drift towards the dining-room, I went to see Dr Bairstow. Who looked about as pleased to see me as he usually did.

  ‘Dr Maxwell. Can I assume you bring me details of your progress organising our Open Day?’

  ‘All in hand, sir,’ I said with massive confidence and even more massive untruthfulness.

  ‘Then you are here because …?’

  ‘I’d like to claim my jump, sir. If you please.’

  At the end of our unpleasantness last year, as an outright bribe, he’d offered me the assignment of my choice. At the time, I’d considered Thermopylae, but now …

  ‘Really? Where and when did you have in mind?’

  ‘St Mary’s. 1643.’

  He finished stacking his files and straightened, slowly.

  ‘And interesting choice. May I ask why?’

  ‘Ghost-hunting, sir.’

  He looked at me sharply. ‘There is no ghost at St Mary’s.’

  ‘We may have recently acquired one, sir.’

  ‘How?’

  I considered my options, remembered no good ever came of lying to the Boss, and said, ‘On three occasions now, Mr Markham has seen someone fall off the roof. When we go to check it out, there’s never anything there.’

  ‘1643? That would be the dastardly Captain Lacey?’

  ‘That’s the one, sir.’

  He moved the files around.

  ‘Do we have a working pod?’

  ‘I’m sure Chief Farrell will have one tucked away somewhere, sir.’

  I waited. There was no need to remind him of his promise.

  ‘Do not let the fact that I have pre-approved this assignment lead you to believe I will not wish to see the usual mission plan, Dr Maxwell.’

  ‘Of course not, sir.’

  ‘Or that the usual parameters will not apply.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘And your team will consist of …?’

  ‘Me, Dr Peterson, and Mr Markham.’

  ‘Ah. The usual suspects. Why Mr Markham?’

  ‘It’s his ghost, sir,’ I said, more accurately than anyone realised at the time.

  ‘Well, I suppose Mr Markham’s absence from St Mary’s is always a cause for celebration.’

  ‘Well not really, sir. He’ll still be here – just four hundred years ago.’

  He sighed. ‘I don’t really think that will be long enough.’

  Chapter Two

  I held a briefing.

  Since there were only the three of us, we held it in my office. I’d asked for tea to be served. Miss Lee had left out mugs, milk, lemon, sugar, tea bags, and even put water in the ke
ttle. Sadly, she had made no attempt to assemble these component parts, all of which remained scattered around the room. It was like a treasure hunt.

  ‘Your turn,’ I said to Markham and to the accompaniment of the boiling kettle and clattering teaspoons, I laid out Dr Dowson’s findings.

  ‘OK, listen up. It’s 1643 – right in the middle of the Civil War, just before the Siege of Gloucester gets under way. At some point, for reasons unknown, Captain Edmund Lacey slips away from the city and makes his way here, to St Mary’s. His elder brother, Rupert,’ I laid down a photograph of a very dim painting of a pouty man in a vast wig, ‘is away fighting for the King.’

  Markham gulped his tea. ‘They were on opposite sides?’

  ‘Yes. Something not uncommon in this particular conflict. Families divided. Some members fought for the King – others for Cromwell. Anyway, Captain Lacey fetches up here on …’ I consulted Dr Dowson’s notes, ‘3rd August. Sir Rupert, whereabouts unknown at this point, is away, leaving behind his wife, their two sons, and, presumably, one or two servants. Later that same day, there’s a fire – probably set by the Roundheads. Perhaps Edmund wanted her to surrender St Mary’s and she refused. Although it’s hard to see how she could possibly have resisted. Anyway, there’s a fire. A serious fire. It starts in one of the rooms off the gallery and spreads rapidly. Wooden floors, wooden furniture, hangings – it all goes up.

  ‘Margaret Lacey and the elder son, Charles, don’t survive. The younger boy, a lad of around six or seven, somehow gets away. He runs up to the roof. Maybe he’s pursued by Edmund Lacey who died when the roof came down. We don’t know. Edmund Lacey never rejoins his unit. In fact, he’s never seen again, so yes, at this time, we’ll assume he died in the fire, along with his sister-in-law and nephew.’

  ‘What happened to James?’

  ‘James was rescued by a servant and taken to the village for safety. Sir Rupert was killed later on in the war, so eventually James inherits St Mary’s. The estate escaped the fines and imprisonment usually imposed on the losing side by virtue of his youth. When Charles II later restored the monarchy, he escaped the fines or imprisonment usually imposed for having a Parliamentarian in the family, by virtue of his father’s service to the king. As far as everyone knows, he lived happily ever after.’