by Jodi Taylor
Charles took another horse. It was too big for him and he could easily have ridden behind Captain Lacey, but I guessed they would head to the nearest port and sell them to buy their passage. To wherever they would go.
We let the other horses go. Wherever they came from, Sir Rupert and any surviving henchmen would be walking back. Together with cuts, bruises, swollen bollocks, and a disjointed nervous system. Served them right.
We watched the Laceys leave. They set off through the woods and were soon lost to sight. They had said hardly anything to us. I think we frightened them. They didn’t know who we were or where we came from. I suspected, in some way, they were convinced some of this was our fault.
Markham was woozy but happy and so we sat on the grass and recorded as much of the burning of St Mary’s as we could. It had burned before and it would again, especially if Professor Rapson had anything to do with it. Even so, it’s sad to see your home go up in flames. We waited until Rupert Lacey heaved himself to his feet, looked around, and then staggered off unsteadily in the direction of the village. I have no idea what happened to the henchmen.
‘We can go now,’ I said.
‘Not a very tidy ending,’ observed Peterson. ‘Still, at least we now know which idiot fell off the roof.’
Markham grinned lopsidedly, eyes wandering in all directions. From past experience, any moment now he would start singing.
‘And we lost all our gear,’ I said, staring at the burning roof.
‘And you broke me, too,’ slurred Markham.
‘Save your breath,’ advised Peterson. ‘We still have to get you back to the pod.’
The trip back was no fun for any of us. Markham bore it all bravely by closing his eyes and singing a song about the Mayor of Bayswater’s daughter. What a gifted girl she turned out to be!
There wasn’t much of him, but he was heavy and so was the gate. Something metal was cutting into my hands, but I wouldn’t let go, and Peterson, whose facial injuries were more severe than they looked, began to complain of a headache.
We gave the burning St Mary’s a wide berth and staggered up into the woods. Peterson and I had to swap ends because he couldn’t see very well.
‘Nearly there,’ I said, ignoring my aching body and throbbing hands. Then we were.
I called for the door and we lifted Markham in as gently as we could. Peterson initiated the jump, sat back, and closed his eyes.
I poked him.
‘Don’t close your eyes.’
‘With you around, chance would be a fine thing.’
I activated the decon lamp and requested a medical team.
Duty done, I slumped to the floor alongside Markham and we got our breath back.
Nurse Hunter went ballistic. Why? What had we done?
It was all right for Markham – he was only semi-conscious and missed most of it, and Peterson clearly couldn’t sustain any more damage to his head, so that just left me.
I cowered in the treatment room, holding my bandaged hands high, half in surrender and half so she might actually remember I was a patient. I’m sure nurses aren’t supposed to carry on like this.
I said hopefully, ‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’ A remark carefully calculated either to recall her to her nursing duties, or, more probably, topple her over the edge completely so I could make my getaway.
To my horror, she began to cry, instead.
I scrambled off the treatment table. ‘Oh God, Di. Don’t cry.’
I didn’t even want to speculate on my fate should Helen come in and find I’d somehow reduced her toughest nurse to tears. Hunter was the Schwarzenegger of the nursing profession and here she was now, gulping into a wad of blue medical wipe.
She blew her nose with the thoroughness for which she was famed. ‘No, it’s OK. I’m fine. Sorry.’
I regarded her with misgiving. I didn’t even know she could cry. ‘What’s the problem?’
She stamped on the pedal bin opener and hurled the medical wipe inside. ‘Nothing. Well, not nothing, obviously, but not anything I can do anything about.’
I gestured over my shoulder to the next cubicle where the young master was lying, drugged to the eyeballs and alternately singing a song about an engineer and his mechanical contrivance, and inviting her to stroke his fevered brow. At least I hoped it was his brow.
‘Di, this is Markham. He is indestructible, you know.’
She batted my hand away angrily. ‘One day he won’t be.’
I saw again the billowing smoke, felt the heat, heard the flames, watched him jump …
I took a deep breath. ‘Did he ever mention that he kept seeing …?’
‘Something falling off the roof. Yes he did.’
‘Well, then Di, you’ll know why he went. Why he had to. Why he kept seeing something fall from the roof. Something only he could see, because he was the important one today. If he hadn’t been there today, a young child would certainly have died. And if I’d found the courage to cross that roof, then I’d have died too. And Peterson, big idiot that he is …’
‘Hey!’ said an indignant voice from further down the corridor.
‘… would probably have tried to save us and he might have died as well. And if we hadn’t dealt with Sir Rupert and his henchmen then they would almost certainly have overpowered Captain and Lady Lacey and young Charles, too. I don’t know what he had in mind for them, but it wouldn’t have been good. I know you’re a bit miffed with him at the moment,’ (a slight understatement there), ‘but it’s very possible he saved six people today. He’s a bit of a hero, you know. And it’s his job. He loves it. You know that.’
‘Yes, I do know.’ She slammed a cabinet door. ‘I know. I know that you tumble back to St Mary’s burned, bloody, broken, and full of good reasons why you had to act as you did and I don’t think any of you ever – ever – give a thought for those left behind. Or who have to pick up the pieces afterwards. It’s no fun, you know. And no, I’m certainly not going to make him choose, any more than Leon Farrell would ever ask you to choose, but please, Max, any of you, just stop occasionally, and think what it must be like for the rest of us. Now, I’m not going to say any more.’
She squared her shoulders and when she turned to face me, her face was back to normal.
‘Twelve hours’ observation for you and Peterson. Markham’s off to what Peterson unwisely referred to as “a proper hospital”, a remark which is about to cause him untold suffering – silly ass.’
‘Hey! You do know I can still hear you, don’t you?’
I refused to be deflected. ‘Have you mentioned any of this to Markham?’
‘On the contrary – I’ve told him it’s only the glamour of working here that renders him even remotely attractive.’
‘He doesn’t deserve you.’
‘Finally – the History department gets something right.’
Chapter Five
After that little lot, I thought we’d better try for something a touch more sedate. I had a look through our outstanding assignments, discarding (for the time being) battlefields, revolutions, major geological and meteorological events, and anything even remotely connected with riots and civil disturbances or assassinations.
Pretty well the only thing left was a basic bread and butter jump to the Crystal Palace Exhibition in 1851. I stared at it without enthusiasm. My speciality is Ancient Civilisations with a bit of medieval and Tudor stuff chucked in for luck. As far as I was concerned, 1851 was practically yesterday, but it was our first major assignment since the unpleasantness with the Time Police and really, it was ideal. Although the Exhibition itself is more than well documented, Thirsk had requested visuals and since they were our employers … A boring but necessary assignment that I could use to get the entire History Department back out there – it would almost be a works outing – and best of all, there should be no violence.
I thought very long and hard about stepping back from this one. Either of my senior historians, Schiller or Van Owen, could
easily head up this assignment. It would be safe, sedate, and probably utterly boring. On the other hand, both Roberts and Sands had only just been declared medically fit. Sands had lost a foot. I mean, he’d lost part of his leg, not that he’d suddenly become shorter. This would be his first assignment with his prosthetic and I had the unenviable task of assessing his physical fitness and recommending whether to keep him on. He swore to me that his bionic foot could easily mimic the function of a normal foot. That he could walk, run, dance, chase girls, whatever. I knew he was desperate to stay at St Mary’s and I certainly didn’t want to lose him, but, to be blunt, if he was unable to cope with rough ground, if he couldn’t run, if he was any sort of liability then I would have no choice but to make the appropriate recommendation to Dr Bairstow. Not only for his sake – if he fell or was left behind, the entire team would go back for him, so he wasn’t just a danger to himself, but to us as well.
He wasn’t stupid. He knew all this and still he bounced – literally – around the building, showing off his foot and inflicting his ghastly knock-knock jokes on anyone who had the misfortune to cross his path. I really, really didn’t want to be the one to carry out the assessment, but there was no way I could farm it out to anyone else. Being the boss is a bitch, sometimes. And then there was Roberts. I needed someone just to keep a quiet eye on him, as well. No, I wasn’t looking forward to this assignment at all.
Sighing, I divided us into groups. Maxwell and Sands. Schiller and Roberts. I put those two together because they were both desperate to see the elephant that was supposedly part of one of the exhibits. Historians and an elephant, all together in a giant glass greenhouse! I made a note to put the god of historians on full alert. The third team comprised Clerk and Van Owen. No one from the Security Section would accompany us. We didn’t need them this time. What sort of trouble could we possibly get into during what might be the most boring assignment in History?
We assembled in Wardrobe. I wanted everyone checked over very carefully. Victorian dress is intricate and complicated.
I wore an outfit similar to the one in which I’d encountered Jack the Ripper, but with stiffened petticoats instead of a bustle. A huge number of stiffened petticoats. In fact, more stiffened petticoats than one woman could reasonably be expected to endure. No matter in which time period I found myself, female apparel is never conducive to comfort and easy movement.
‘I can’t lift my arms above my shoulders,’ I said.
‘Why would you want to?’ asked Mrs Enderby. ‘Are you going to be turning cartwheels?’
My corset gave me the requisite tiny waist, but only at the expense of breathing. I wore a tight-fitting V-shaped bodice in a dark blue material. The skirt was flounced to within an inch of its life. I was offered an embroidered Paisley shawl, which I declined on the grounds I was encumbered enough, and a grinning Van Owen snapped it up. I discovered why when Mrs Enderby attempted to drape a dead fox over my shoulders.
‘No!’ I said, aghast.
‘It’s the height of fashion.’
‘It’s dead.’
‘Well of course it is. Do you know how difficult it would be to persuade a live animal to stay in place for hours on end?’
‘Can’t we give this one the day off? What was it anyway?’
‘A silver fox. And it’s not alive.’
‘So I should hope.’
‘I mean it never was. It’s artificial. Look.’
I lifted the end with the face. Beady glass eyes peered at me and, I suspected, found me wanting. The other end was probably even more unpleasant. Realism is overrated.
Without hope, I said to Van Owen, ‘Want to swap?’ and she pretended she’d gone suddenly deaf.
Sands appeared and recoiled. ‘Why are you wearing roadkill?’
‘Dear God, what’s happened to your face?’
He preened. ‘Victorian whiskers.’
‘Are they your own?’
‘Of course not. No one outside the Victorian era could possibly grow this amount of facial hair. I think they’re made from the same material as your polecat.’
I pulled out an imaginary clipboard and made an imaginary giant cross.
‘Failed. Go and pack your bags.’
‘Sorry,’ he said, hastily. ‘You look lovely. Not everyone can pull off the dead animal look, but you …’
‘Shut up.’
He, of course, looked pretty good, wearing a soft linen shirt, a floppy bow tie, an elaborate waistcoat, a thick dark coat, and lighter trousers in a different material. Suits hadn’t been invented yet. A glossy top hat completed his look.
I had a blue bonnet with a deep poke and a bunch of depressed flowers pinned to one side. One consolation, however, muffs were fashionable. Mine was made of soft, cream-coloured velvet, into which I had stuffed my recorder, two copper pennies for emergencies, a handkerchief, a small can of pepper spray, and my stun gun.
‘Yes, I know we’re only visiting a trade fair,’ I said, not meeting Mrs Enderby’s reproachful gaze. ‘But you never know when things will go pear-shaped. Suppose the elephant gets frisky?’
‘It’s stuffed,’ she said.
Muttering, I compromised by leaving the stun gun at home.
Down in Hawking, we assembled in front of our pods. Schiller and Roberts were in Number Four, Clerk and Van Owen in Number Five, and Sands and I were in Number Eight.
Schiller turned to Van Owen, winked, and said, ‘Love your muff.’
Every techie head jerked around.
Van Owen smiled demurely and I tried to pretend I couldn’t hear any of this.
‘I love how soft they are.’
‘I know. I’ve been stroking mine all morning.’
‘And, its capacity is amazing. You wouldn’t believe what’s nestling in mine.’
Someone, somewhere, dropped a tool.
‘Is it loaded?’
‘Locked, loaded, and ready to go.’
Young Lindstrom looked as if he was ready to faint.
It was a shame to tease him. He hadn’t been with us that long and was still finding his feet, although Leon spoke highly of him. He stood now, Adam’s apple bobbing uncertainly. Sands and Roberts were grinning.
Leon stepped forward. ‘Much as I hate to break up this discussion on female apparel …’ He held up Van Owen’s muff. ‘A muff, Mr Lindstrom, is a cylinder of warm material or fur, into which the wearer can insert her hands to keep warm, or, if you are an historian, carry her own personal arsenal of pepper spray, stun gun, flick knife, flame thrower, and surface-to-air missiles.’
I twinkled at him and said quietly, ‘Muff man?’
‘If you don’t know the answer to that one then I may have to initiate a rigorous refresher session tonight.’
I caught my breath and turned away before my own muff burst into flames.
Just time for one last word to the troops.
‘Right, you lot. I know we’ve been through this already, but a final reminder. This is a very rigid and very formal society. Everyone knows their place. Ladies, do not speak unless spoken to. Do not offer to shake hands. Do not make eye contact with members of the opposite sex. Curtsey when spoken to.
‘Gentlemen, raise your hats when speaking to ladies. You can get away with just a careless flick of the brim if speaking to a member of your own sex. Offer your arm to your partner. Steer her around obstacles and muddy ground, because, of course, she won’t be able to do that for herself. Victorian society genuinely feels that never having to open a door in your life more than compensates for not having your own job, your own money, or any sort of control over your own life, so remember that. Above all, be discreet with your recording. Any questions?’
Nope. They were itching to be off.
I turned to find Dr Bairstow at my elbow. Nothing strange in that – he often comes down to see us off. I suspect he just wants to reassure himself we’re actually off the premises.
I waited, but he said nothing.
Finally, I said, ‘Was
there something, sir?’
He seemed to debate with himself for a moment and then said, ‘No, I’ve just come to wish the History department well on its first full assignment after the Time Police.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
He nodded. ‘Good luck, everyone,’ and stumped away.
Inside the pod, I seated myself comfortably and said, ‘In your own time, Mr Sands.’
The world went white.
We landed in a very remote corner of the park; surrounded by sheds, outbuildings, compost heaps, and a great steaming pile of horse manure. Says it all, really.
Sands looked at me. I nodded for him to continue. He verified we were in the right place, carried out the coms check and decontamination, and we were all set to go.
We set off in our pairs – respectable middle-class Victorians come to celebrate the British Empire and, just for one afternoon, to identify with its glories. I could catch tantalising glimpses through the trees, and then, suddenly, there it was.
Ahead of us, I could see a giant glittering structure, taller than the trees around it. In fact, in the centre of the ground floor, adjacent to the Crystal Fountain, real trees had actually been incorporated into the design. This was the snappily named Great Exhibition of the Works of Industry of All Nations. Dreamed up by Victoria’s husband, Prince Albert, to celebrate Britain’s success as a manufacturing nation, and all of it incorporated into a palace made of glass – The Crystal Palace.
We paid the full price for admission – three guineas for gentlemen and two guineas for the ladies. There were days set aside for the hoi-polloi at vastly reduced entrance fees, but not today. I stood back and let Mr Sands pay for me. Commercial transactions were far beyond the capability of women.
We entered through the West Entrance and stopped dead in astonishment.
My first thought was that we really should have brought Kal on this one. With industrial history as her speciality, she would have loved this; but she was at Thirsk now, safeguarding our interests and terrorising harmless academics.
I hadn’t expected to be impressed, but it was amazing. Absolutely bloody amazing.
