No Time Like the Past

by Jodi Taylor

  Then we got on with things.

  Next up was the ‘discovery’ of the buried treasure in our grounds. The plan was that the Chancellor and other members of the senior faculty would be invited to lunch, plied mercilessly with alcohol, and while this was going on, a team of technicians, heavily disguised as people who actually worked for a living, would make an astonishing and exciting discovery while digging a channel for a new pipe. Or cable TV. Or something. They were still arguing about it. As if anyone would be interested.

  I did offer to take over from Van Owen if she wanted to step back from this one, but she refused, with thanks, and I think she was right.

  ‘So tell me,’ I said, feet up on my desk, drinking tea. ‘I haven’t had time to ask. What did we actually manage to salvage?’

  ‘A mixed bag,’ she said, leaning back in her chair with her mug and putting her feet up on my desk as well. She looked tired and heavy-eyed, but she was functioning. Work always helps.

  ‘There wasn’t much in the way of religious stuff knocking around. With so many people in and out all day long, it would have been asking for trouble. I suspect they only got the good stuff out on high days and holidays. However, we did get some very nice candlesticks, a couple of large pewter collection plates – empty, of course – some tapestries and hangings, a leather-bound Bible and the wooden book rest affair it was standing on. The rest of it was just small stuff that was lying around. Some wooden boxes – one had some rather nice fretwork – which turned out to contain someone’s treasured memories in the form of letters and locks of children’s hair. Some were deed boxes with hearth records and the like, which Thirsk will find useful. We grabbed as many books as we could, of course, because they were everywhere. There’s no saying what they are and we didn’t have time to look at all of them. Everything’s wrapped in waterproof cloth and stored in a lead chest. There’s no treasure, I’m afraid. The value comes from it having been rescued from St Paul’s, but it’s a good haul, Max. Thirsk will be pleased.’

  ‘I certainly hope so. Speaking of pleasing Thirsk – are you still up for the sidesaddle demonstration? I’ll understand if you want to back out.’

  ‘No, I’m looking forward to it. Besides, we’ll need someone to distract the crowd when you and Turk part company. As you always do.’

  ‘Hey,’ I said, stung, but it was good to see her smile again. ‘I’ve been practising.’

  She snorted.

  The Chancellor and her crew came to lunch. They ate in the dining-room along with us peasants, possibly in a spirit of democracy, but more likely so we could admire their capacity.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Peterson, anxiously, as yet more bottles were broached. ‘They’re going to drink us out of house and home.’

  ‘Unlikely,’ I said. ‘I’ve been down in the basement and there’s an entire reservoir of alcohol down there.’

  ‘Enough for a bunch of senior academics out on a jolly at someone else’s expense?’

  ‘Good point. Yes. Probably. Almost certainly. I hope so.’

  We were distracted from our anxious musings by a familiar voice.

  Max!’

  I turned round. ‘Eddie!’

  Professor Eddington Penrose was an old friend and fellow-disaster magnet. He’d proved himself during a public riot in 17th-century Cambridge and again when we found ourselves inexplicably at what might possibly have been the end of the universe. As a physicist, he’d been over the moon with excitement. Even when we nearly died.

  He shook my hand enthusiastically and cocked an eyebrow at Leon. ‘Dare I hope you are no longer …?’

  ‘No, you may not,’ he said.

  ‘Ignore Mr Grumpy,’ I said, giving him a hug. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Absolutely top-hole, Max.’ His round blue eyes sparkled appreciatively. ‘I talked Madam Chancellor into including me in this little jaunt.’

  ‘You’re interested in Old St Paul’s?’

  ‘Good heavens, no. Not in the slightest. I’m here to suss out the opposition.’

  Enlightenment dawned.

  ‘You’re building their boat! Eddie how could you?’

  ‘They asked me,’ he said, simply.

  Fair enough, I suppose.

  He was craning his neck, trying to see out of the window to the lake. ‘So how’s the St Mary’s effort going, Max?’

  ‘Excellently,’ I said, before Leon was overcome with the need to tell the truth. ‘You will be as flotsam – or jetsam, I never know the difference – in our wake.’

  ‘Indeed,’ he said, in beaming disbelief. ‘Would you care to mount a small wager?’

  ‘Bring it on, Eddie!’

  It was just possible that Leon might have been making no, no, no gestures. I don’t know. I wasn’t looking.

  ‘So what’s the wager, then?’

  He twinkled with pure mischief.

  ‘Me.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Yes, me. If we lose, you, my dear Max, have the benefit of me for say, seven days. Sadly, I’m not as young as I was,’ he confided in an undertone. ‘And if you lose, I get you. Only for seven days, of course. Again, not as young, etc.’

  ‘Eddie!’ I said, half laughing, half horrified.

  He didn’t miss a thing, did Eddie. ‘Ah, I see. The boat not going quite that excellently, then?

  ‘Of course it is,’ I said defiantly, ignoring not only Leon, but Dieter and Lindstrom as well.

  Peterson did his best. ‘Professor, you can’t bet a person … I’m pretty sure that’s illegal …’

  I waved this away. ‘We’re not going to lose, so I say now, in front of witnesses, the loser gets the services of the other for a period of seven days.’

  ‘Capital,’ he said, rubbing his hands together.

  Heads swivelled towards Leon who was looking unflatteringly unperturbed.

  ‘Are you … I mean … are you …?’ stammered Dieter.

  ‘Am I what?’ he said, calmly finishing his coffee and getting up.

  ‘Professor Penrose … and Max?’

  ‘Well, as I see it, a no-lose situation for me. If we win, we benefit from the unrivalled expertise of Professor Penrose for seven days and if we lose then Max is shunted off to Thirsk for them to benefit from her unrivalled expertise for the same period of time. It seems a fair trade to me, although my heart does go out to them.’

  He returned their stares blandly and said, ‘Why, what did you think they were wagering?’

  He waited a while, but nobody seemed inclined to say anything. ‘And, at last, I’ll get to watch Match of the Day in peace. Knock yourself out, Professor.’

  I waited until everyone was busy discussing boat building and then shot off in something of a panic. Straight to Professor Rapson.

  ‘Ah, Max,’ he said, straightening up from his cluttered workbench. ‘How delightful. Um – did we have an appointment? Should I be somewhere else?’

  ‘No, Professor, it’s OK. I just need a quick update and some reassurance. How’s the ship going?’

  ‘Boat, Max. It’s a boat.’

  ‘Boat, then. How’s it going?’

  ‘It’s all going very well.’

  ‘You do know Thirsk have got Professor Penrose on their side?’

  ‘A bit of a double-edged weapon, Max. He’s more than capable of sitting down to design and build a record-beating craft of some kind, doodle for ten minutes on the back of an envelope, and solve the problem of cold fusion instead. He’s very easily distracted you know and – oh look, there it is. I’ve been looking everywhere for this and – what was I saying?’

  ‘If we lose, I’ve sold myself to Thirsk for seven days.’

  ‘Goodness gracious, but there’s no cause for alarm. We’re not going to lose.’

  I looked around at the boat-free chaos of his workshop. There were no visible signs of construction. ‘Have you started yet? Where is it? Why haven’t you started yet?’

  He regarded me pityingly. ‘We’re building it outside, Max. If we b
uild it in here then we won’t be able to get it down the stairs.’

  ‘I knew that,’ I said, quickly. ‘I’m just concerned about the opposition. They’ve modelled their boat on a pirate ship, you know. It’s called The Black Carbuncle.’

  ‘Most amusing. Ours, however, is based on the design of those master mariners, the Vikings, and will prove to be immensely superior. Faster, more manoeuvrable, and with a few hidden surprises built in.’

  ‘We’re weaponised?’

  ‘Well, yes, of course, Max. Why wouldn’t we be?’

  ‘Please tell me you haven’t invented a Death Ray.’

  ‘Not yet,’ he said, regretfully. ‘There are still a few small flaws to iron out. Guidance. Range. Tendency to explode. However, we do have a giant catapult. And our rather nifty underwater ramming device based on the – well never mind that. Loose lips sink ships, you know. And a water cannon. And flour bombs. And water pistols.’

  I would be horrified if I hadn’t known that the evil brain of Professor Penrose was working along exactly the same lines.

  Seeking a distraction, I rooted around amongst some sketches on his workbench. They appeared to be of dragons.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Oh, these are designs for our figurehead. We must have one. I thought a dragon. Or a Valkyrie, maybe.’

  ‘Well, since we’re the Institute of History …’ I said, cunningly, ‘why not have History herself at the front bit? Sweeping aside all obstacles and clearing our path to victory.’

  He stopped dead and peered at something that could only be seen by someone with a Professor Rapson-type brain. ‘Yes. Yes. Kleio, the Muse of History.’

  ‘In papier-mâché,’ I said, giving the pot a good stir, just to liven things up a bit.

  ‘Or polystyrene foam,’ he said, getting into the swing of things. ‘Yes …’

  Ho ho ho …

  Twenty minutes later, at three o’clock on the dot, I trotted outside, one hundred and twenty-five yards from the south-west corner of the Great Hall, to where Leon and his team were waiting with a small digger, a pile of fresh earth and a large hole.

  ‘It is in there, isn’t it?’ I said anxiously. ‘Nothing must go wrong.’

  ‘It’s there,’ he said, reassuringly. ‘We found it yesterday, checked it was untouched, and covered it back up again. We’re ready to “discover” it as soon as our leaders can peel themselves away from lunch. Relax. Nothing can go wrong.’

  I looked across the grass. Dr Bairstow and the Thirsk team were just appearing on the terrace, presumably to enjoy some much-needed coffee.

  I said to Leon, ‘You’re up,’ and stepped back.

  It all went like clockwork.

  Van Owen and I stood a little apart, ostensibly supervising the operation, but in reality, just getting in everyone’s way.

  The digging-tool-thingy clanked on something metal. Someone shouted artistically and waved their arms, indicating excitement.

  Van Owen and I rushed forwards theatrically to look into the hole. It was like one of those old silent movies. We telegraphed astonishment and surprise. On the terrace, heads went up and the next minute, they were all surging across the grass to see what was happening. Other members of St Mary’s, who had been vaguely hanging around waiting to be involved, turned up as well, so we had a good crowd for our moment of discovery.

  We stood breathlessly as the digger got its digging-tool-thingy under the chest and prised it free of the hole. Lead is heavy. We couldn’t possibly have lifted it out ourselves. Van Owen said they’d all nearly had a collective hernia getting it in there in the first place.

  The chest was laid gently on the ground and everyone looked at it for a moment.

  I caught Dr Bairstow’s eye and he nodded. This was going well. In a moment, they’d break the lock, gently peel back the wrappings, and expose the treasures we’d salvaged four hundred years ago. Or last Monday – however you wanted to look at it. This would be a huge triumph. Another prestigious find for Thirsk University. Another world-headline event for them. They would love us again. Well, they would until we blew their arses out of the water in the Raft Race.

  I allowed myself a small sag of relief and looked across at Van Owen, who was sagging similarly. She gave me a quiet smile and a thumbs up.

  Dieter stepped forwards with a spade. With one blow, he knocked off the lock.

  Everyone paused, savouring the moment.

  I took a moment to look around. The Chancellor stood beside Dr Bairstow. She was a little flushed, but that would be the excitement and not in any way connected with the vast quantities of alcohol consumed at lunchtime. Everyone was staring at the chest. Dieter crouched at one end and Leon at the other. Professor Rapson was dancing with excitement. Dr Dowson was issuing a series of instructions. With a great deal of straining, the top of the lead chest came free and was gently lifted away.

  We all craned forwards. There was complete silence. I could hear people breathing.

  Leon and Dieter moved back and somewhat stiffly, Dr Dowson knelt alongside the chest. Very gently and delicately, he began to peel back the coverings.

  I know, we should have taken it inside and opened it more carefully and discreetly, but we were the victims of our own excitement. Everyone wanted to see what was in the box and we wanted to see it now.

  The Chancellor was no better than the rest of us. She and her team stood right behind Dr Dowson, eager – desperate even – for that first look. That first glimpse of artefacts that hadn’t seen the light of day for four hundred years. Whose last sight had been of Old St Paul’s burning around them.

  Dr Dowson gently pulled aside the last layer and we all leaned forward to look.

  A moment frozen in time. No one moved. No one spoke.

  I remember it was a grey day. A day without weather. No wind. No sun. Not hot. Not cold. Just a milk-white sky looking down on us as we stood, all of us, rigid with shock.

  We stood for several lifetimes. From nowhere, a sharp little wind sprang up, ruffled our hair, and was as suddenly gone. As if her spirit, imprisoned underground for all those years, seized its freedom and fled, never to return.

  Movement came back into the world. A huge gasp of shock ran around those assembled. I felt my heart turn over. Van Owen gave a small cry and put her hands over her face. Peterson and Clerk were on either side of her, holding her up. Someone burst into tears.

  Quick as a flash, Dr Dowson flicked the covers back again but it was far, far too late for that. We’d all seen it. None of us would ever forget the sight.

  They’d had to fold up the body to get it in. It lay in an impossible position. Jagged yellow bone poked through fragments of rotting clothing that had once been an orange firesuit.

  The head – the skull, rather – was almost buried amongst a quantity of pale blonde hair, but the bullet hole in the centre of the forehead was clearly visible.

  We’d found Mary Schiller.

  She’d been here all along.

  She’d been here for four hundred years, waiting for us to find her.

  Chapter Nine

  The moment passed. The Chancellor, after the first shock, exchanged a look with Dr Bairstow, rounded up her people, and took them quietly back inside St Mary’s.

  Peterson and Clerk helped Van Owen away. Helen went with them.

  Dr Dowson still knelt beside the chest, distressed and shocked. He made several futile attempts to rise, but he was trembling to such an extent that he couldn’t get up.

  Professor Rapson put his hand on his shoulder and said gently, ‘Never mind, Occy. Let’s get you inside, shall we?’ and helped him to his feet. Dr Dowson paused for a moment, said, with tremendous dignity, ‘I shall be in my office should anyone require me,’ and the two of them walked quietly away. Leon took his silent team back into Hawking, leaving just Dr Bairstow and the rest of the History Department, who were standing as if we’d never move again.

  Dr Bairstow stirred. ‘I would like you all to go back inside,
please. Miss Prentiss, if you would be so good as to ask Dr Foster to join me when she can be spared from Miss Van Owen. Dr Maxwell, would you remain here, please.’

  We watched them walk away.

  ‘Are you all right, Max?’

  I nodded. My voice wasn’t working.

  ‘See to your people, Max. Try to keep a lid on any high emotions. We don’t know anything yet. Try to keep everyone calm. I shall attend to our friends from Thirsk. Please join me in my office in one hour.’

  I had to clear my throat. ‘We’re in trouble now, aren’t we?’

  ‘Yes, we are. But let’s get through today, first.’

  It’s one thing to grieve for a colleague and friend you think has been lost in the line of duty. It’s quite another to find she’s been murdered. Murdered and brutally folded in two and then callously shoved into a lead chest by someone whose idea of revenge is so cold and calculating that he was willing to wait four hundred years for it to come to fruition.

  Even before we found the message carefully left for us to find amongst the wrappings, I knew it was Ronan. What I wasn’t prepared for was the other signature on the letter.

  Bloody Isabella Bitchface Barclay.

  I blamed myself. I’d had a chance to shoot her last year at the Battle of St Mary’s and I hadn’t. She’d escaped, leaving me a note saying she’d be back one day, but I’d never dreamed she’d do anything like this. How had she and Ronan found each other? And how had they found us? So many questions. So many questions and no answers at all. We had nothing except for the pathetic remains of Mary Schiller left here all those years ago for us to find today.

  With hindsight, it was all so clear. They’d attacked David Sands, accessed the coordinates from Number Eight, followed behind, waited until St Mary’s jumped away, dug up the chest, stolen the contents, and left Schiller instead. Never mind the possibly fatal damage to our reputation and prestige, the thought in my mind – in everyone’s mind – was that we’d been here for years, living, working, arguing, playing football and she’d been here all that time. In the cold. In the dark. All alone, while St Mary’s walked, unheeding, over her grave.