by Jodi Taylor
WHAT COULD POSSIBLY GO WRONG?
The Chronicles of St Mary’s Book Six
Jodi Taylor
List of Characters
Dr Edward Bairstow
Director of St Mary’s Institute of Historical Research.
Mrs Partridge
Kleio, daughter of Zeus, Muse of History. PA to Dr Bairstow.
History Department
Dr Tim Peterson
Chief Operations Officer.
Mr Clerk
Historian.
Miss Paula Prentiss
Historian.
Mr Tom Bashford
Recently rescued historian.
Miss Elspeth Grey
Ditto but strangely reluctant to resume her duties.
Mr Gareth Roberts
Historian.
Mr David Sands
Historian and possessor of the world’s worst collection of knock-knock jokes.
Miss Rosie Lee
PA to Chief Operations Officer.
Trainees
Dr Maxwell
Chief Training Officer. Also Mrs Leon Farrell.
Mr Phil Atherton
The quiet one.
Mr Laurence Hoyle
The mysterious one.
Miss Constance Lingoss
The misfit.
Miss Celia North
The perfect one.
Miss Elizabeth Sykes
The psycho.
Mrs Shaw
PA to Chief Training Officer.
Technical Section
Chief Leon Farrell
Chief Technical Officer.
Mr Dieter
The other Chief Technical Officer.
Security Section
Major Ian Guthrie
Head of Security Section.
Mr Markham
Security guard and winner of the one-handed bra-unfastening competition.
Mr William Randall
Security guard.
Mr Evans
Security guard.
Mr Gallaccio
Security guard.
Mr Cox
Security guard.
Mr Keller
Security guard
Medical Section
Dr Helen Foster
Suffering nicotine deprivation and possibly even more unstable than normal.
Nurse Diane Hunter
Recipient of Mr Markham’s affections.
Nurse Fortunata
Junior nurse.
Professor Andrew Rapson
Head of Research and Development.
Dr Octavius Dowson
Librarian and Archivist.
Miss Polly Perkins
Head of IT.
Mrs Theresa Mack
Kitchen Supremo.
Mrs Mavis Enderby
Head of Wardrobe.
The Time Police
Captain Matthew Ellis
Looking for trouble and choosing not to find it.
Dr Kalinda Black
Liaison officer to Thirsk University.
Vortigern
Agoraphobic kitchen cat reluctantly participating in vital historic research.
Key Historical characters
Herodotus
Father of History, Father of Lies, and a complete bastard.
Joan of Arc
Not having a good day.
Richard Plantagenet
Dick the Turd.
Henry Tudor
A man who would drink his own bathwater.
Sundry Egyptian tomb-builders, Neanderthals, Homo sapiens, mammoths, citizens of Rouen, the entire city of Bristol celebrating in the streets, various medieval armies, and a couple of passing policemen.
Prologue
I think I’m one of the most privileged people on this planet.
To do what I do – go where I go – see what I see – it’s a wonderful, unique, never-to-be-taken-for-granted privilege.
However with great privilege comes great responsibility. There’s nothing in our contracts about this, but it’s clearly understood nevertheless. Should anything go wrong, the responsibility for putting it right rests with us. Solely with us. We know this. We know it’s the only reason History allows us to do what we do.
And if we don’t step up – if we don’t put right the things we’ve caused to go wrong – then it will be done for us. And possibly to us.
So when you’re pursuing a fanatic with a gun, hell-bent on changing the course of History, it doesn’t matter if putting it right might cost us our lives, failure to put it right will cost us our lives.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Thanks and Acknowledgements
Jodi Taylor
Chapter One
I stared at Dr Bairstow.
‘I’m sorry, sir. Could you say that again?’
A bit of a mistake there. He doesn’t like to repeat himself. We’re supposed to pick things up the first time around.
‘Which particular part was unclear, Dr Maxwell?’
I took a deep breath.
‘The bit about the American, sir.’
‘Really? I thought I expressed myself perfectly clearly.’
‘You did, sir. It’s the concept rather than the words that I’m not quite clear on.’
‘I have five trainees for you, Dr Maxwell. As Chief Training Officer, I had expected more enthusiasm. Not to mention gratitude.’
‘As you must know sir, enthusiasm and gratitude are my default state. It’s surprise that I’m wrestling with.’
‘And I have no doubt you will gain the upper hand any moment now.’
I sighed. ‘Upper hand gained, sir.’
‘There will be five of them – two men and three women.’
‘Excellent, sir.’
‘And one of them is from America.’
‘So – an American, sir?’
‘Normally, the answer would be yes. As you so rightly point out, a person from America is usually an American. But in this case – no.’
‘So – not an American then, sir?’
He smiled. I suspected he was winding me up and while I believe that senior managers should be given every opportunity to display their frivolous side, it should not happen at the expense of their newly appointed Chief Training Officer.
‘Perhaps,’ I said cunningly, ‘as someone new to this country, it would be helpful if she could spend a period of time at Thirsk University, acclimatising herself, so to speak.’
As if St Mary’s was perched atop the Andes.
‘Actually, Dr Maxwell, she is a he.’
‘Well, that’s no good to us, sir. We need more women. The History Department is unbalanced enough as it is.’
‘At last, we are in agreement over something. As you know, I always maintain that if two parties discuss their difficulties in a rational and sensible manne
r, common ground always emerges.’
This breath-taking hypocrisy from someone whose style of management had passed autocratic years ago and was entering the foothills of dictatorship left me temporarily speechless and while I was attempting to regroup he stooped to conquer.
‘I am at a loss to understand your consternation, Dr Maxwell.’
‘Well, the borders have been closed for some time now. How did he get out?’
‘Through the Canadian Corridor, I believe.’
That shut me up for a bit. The Canadian Corridor is not a stroll in the park.
I tried again.
‘Will he be able to understand us, sir? It’s a foreign language over there. I’ve heard they spell plough with a “w”?’
‘I share your horror,’ he said, ‘but since I have the strongest doubts that anyone in the History Department can spell the word plough in any language, I do not feel this is an insurmountable barrier to admission at St Mary’s.’
‘And he’s probably called Otis P. Hackensacker III. Or Spiced Tea Bag. Or something like that.’
He pretended to consult his notes. ‘No, he gives his name as Laurence Hoyle.’
‘What sort of name is that for an American?’
‘I believe we have covered this already, Dr Maxwell. He is not an American.’
‘You said …’
‘I said nothing of the kind. He is British and found himself caught there when the borders closed. He has, apparently, devoted the last two years of his life to returning to this country.’
I said sceptically, ‘What was he doing there in the first place? Is he a spy? Why would he want to come here to St Mary’s? Really, sir, it’s all very suspicious. And annoying.’
‘Strange though it may seem to you, Dr Maxwell, I do not believe Mr Hoyle smuggled himself out of America, crawled along the Canadian Corridor, transported himself across the Atlantic, and hitch-hiked his way across this country for the sole purpose of annoying you.’
‘So who has he come to annoy?’
There was a bit of a silence.
‘In an organisation that already contains you, Dr Maxwell, the acquisition of any further irritants would be superfluous.’
He was effortlessly hacking the ground from beneath my feet. I made a last valiant effort.
‘Do we know why he was in America in the first place, sir?’
‘It’s no secret. He was undertaking some research and was overtaken by events when the borders closed. Which makes him half way to being a member of the History Department already, I think you’ll agree.’
I nodded, gloomily. He had me there.
‘Five trainees for you, Dr Maxwell, arriving in ten days’ time. Will you be ready for them?’
I brought up the data stack.
‘The training schedule is complete, sir.’
‘Talk me through it, if you would be so good.’
‘As you can see, sir, the focus is on getting our trainees out there as soon as possible.’
‘Not too soon, I hope.’
‘No indeed, sir. They will undergo the basic training, of course. Theory and practice, getting themselves fit, self-defence, first aid, outdoor survival, all the usual stuff. However, instead of waiting until after they’ve worked their way through the theory and practice-of-pods module and the endless simulations, I propose to introduce a number of small jumps quite early on in the process. These jumps will be purpose-oriented. For instance, the first jump, the one to the Valley of the Kings, will incorporate mapping and surveying skills. The third, to Thurii, will cover interacting with contemporaries, and so on. Obviously, I’ll need to liaise with Dr Peterson, because this will all be subject to pod availability, and the needs of the History Department will take priority, but these new procedures mean we could knock months and months off the training period.’
He frowned. ‘These jumps, especially the early ones, will, of course, be heavily supervised?’
‘Oh yes, sir. Either by historians, the Security Section, or a combination of the two, and I or a member of the History Department will personally be present at each jump.’
‘There is a certain amount of risk involved in sending inexperienced and only half-trained people on real-life assignments.’
‘Agreed, sir, but it works both ways. If there’s a problem with any of our trainees, surely it’s better to discover this fairly early on in the programme, rather than after we’ve spent a fortune on getting them trained up. Or worse, suppose they go to pieces halfway through their first assignment when others may be depending on them.’
He stared at the stack for a while. ‘Very well, Dr Maxwell, the schedule is approved. Work it up into a full training programme. Involve Dr Peterson, of course. As Chief Operations Officer, he will be providing the backup. Mr Markham will provide the security.’
I flattened the data stack and looked up.
‘What about Major Guthrie, sir?’
‘He may not be available for a short period. He has requested permission to spend some time at Thirsk.’
Elspeth Grey was at Thirsk. It struck me suddenly that she had been there for a long time, now. She and her partner, Tom Bashford, had recently been rescued after being missing for ten years, and had gone off to Thirsk for a few months to get themselves reoriented. Bashford had returned and was noisily among us. Seemingly, he had acclimatised himself to his new world with no problems at all. Not so Elspeth Grey, apparently. I couldn’t find it in my heart to criticise. Bashford had been semi-conscious throughout their ordeal. Most of it had gone way over his battered head. She had been the one who battled to keep them both alive.
I kept my face as non-committal as I could. ‘Well, the Major never takes any leave so perhaps it will do him good.’
‘Perhaps,’ he said levelly.
‘Sir, may I make a suggestion?’
‘Of course.’
‘You asked me to select someone to represent us on the Belverde Caves expedition.’
He looked up. ‘The Botticelli paintings?’
I crossed my fingers for luck. ‘If they’re still there, of course.’
He smiled. ‘I think the world would know if they had already been discovered, Dr Maxwell.’
‘True. Anyway, sir, may I suggest Miss Grey? It could be a stepping-stone for her before returning to full duties here. Perhaps it would give her a chance to regain her confidence.’
He seemed to consider the suggestion. ‘I believe you were to nominate Mr Sands?’
How does he know these things? Yes, I had been considering David Sands but I didn’t remember mentioning it to anyone.
He smiled faintly. ‘Miss Prentiss and Mr Bashford are scheduled for 11th-century Coventry. Mr Clerk and Mr Roberts are putting together the Riveaux assignment and as the only historian not currently assigned, that really only leaves Mr Sands. I am not, actually, omnipotent, Dr Maxwell.’
‘Alas, sir. Another illusion shattered.’
‘As is, I believe, the large window in R&D. May I expect a report on the History Department’s latest catastrophe in the very near future?’
I replied with all the confidence of one no longer in charge of an erring History Department. ‘A trifling episode, sir. The result of a – vigorous – discussion between Dr Dowson and Professor Rapson on the long-standing question of torque versus tension.’
‘And was any decision reached?’
‘Still undetermined, sir. It was direction control that got away from them this time. Literally, you could say. However, on Dr Peterson’s instructions, any further experiments are to be conducted outside.’
‘Very wise. And how are you settling into your new position, Dr Maxwell?’
‘Absolutely fine, thank you, sir. Dr Peterson and I always work well together.’
‘That wasn’t quite what I meant. I was enquiring into your new status.’
I blinked. ‘Sorry?’
‘Chief Farrell?’
‘Oh.’
Oh. Yes. Leon Farrell. Chief Tech
nical Officer. My … husband.
Yes. My husband. I was married. To Leon, I mean. I still had difficulty with that. Not being married, I mean. No, that wasn’t what I meant. I mean … oh, I don’t know. Start again, Maxwell.
Leon and I were married. Something neither of us ever thought would happen, and I’m damned sure no one else thought it would happen either and then, suddenly, right out of the blue, it did. On a wonderful starlit evening, surrounded by friends, we’d been married. We’d slipped away when no one was looking, driven off into the magical night, and ten minutes later we’d been assisting the police with their enquiries. A tree had been involved. Leon and I had history with trees. Apparently, the whole thing had passed into St Mary’s legend, and unkind people were still making jokes at our expense.
‘Everything is fine, thank you, sir.’
And it was. Mostly. There were the usual – discussions – that would always arise when two people, very accustomed to solitary lives, were suddenly living together, but this was easily overcome. In my new position, I wouldn’t see as much of him as I had when I’d been Chief Ops Officer. I was almost nine to five these days. He left me a cup of tea in the mornings when he departed and I often wouldn’t see him again until the evening meal. And Dr Bairstow had requested that, as far as possible, we didn’t both go on the same assignments, which made sense, so we were gently working things out as we went along and so far, marriage wasn’t anything like as bad as I thought it would be. Still, give it time.
I picked up the personnel files from Dr Bairstow’s PA, Mrs Partridge, took everything away, and went through it all very carefully. There were the usual discrepancies between the information provided by the trainees themselves and that uncovered by Major Guthrie's detailed background checks. The things people don’t mention are always more interesting than the things they do. Still, on paper at least, they all looked relatively normal. Even the non-American.
