What Could Possibly Go Wrong (The Chronicles of St Mary's Book 6)

by Jodi Taylor

  He nodded. No visible reaction.

  ‘Miss North, you and Miss Lingoss will observe and document the flora and fauna of the period.’

  I had been expecting at least a murmur of complaint from North, in case she considered herself overlooked again, but she was running her eyes down the briefing note. Given some of the fauna she would be observing, there really was very little to complain about. Lingoss was already grinning in anticipation. I looked forward to seeing how the two of them would work together.

  ‘Miss Sykes.’ She looked up. This mission was really all about her. Lingoss had proved herself, now it was Sykes’s turn. I wanted to see how she would set about this. ‘You will be mission controller. Put together your teams as you think fit.’

  I could almost feel her excitement from here.

  ‘Are there any questions?’

  They shook their heads. Sykes was already bashing away at her scratchpad.

  ‘Very well. Report back here in forty-eight hours. Professor Rapson, Dr Dowson, Dr Peterson, Major Guthrie, and I are already on high alert so don’t be afraid to consult as widely as you like.’

  ‘Consulting’ is such a useful word. Now they could legitimately ask as many questions as they wanted. In fact, they would gain points for doing so.

  They scattered to their various tasks and I made my way back to my office and the endless avalanche of paperwork that trainees generate. Sadly, and I never thought I’d use that word in conjunction with doing paperwork, I never got around to it that morning, because when I got there, I had a visitor waiting for me.

  Elspeth Grey. Back from Thirsk.

  Technically, she wasn’t now one of mine – she belonged to Peterson, who was derelicting his duty again by jumping back to suss out the political background to the War of Jenkins’ Ear. Typical.

  ‘Hello, Elspeth,’ I said, closing the door behind me. ‘When did you get back?’

  Unasked, Mrs Shaw put up the red light outside, signifying I wasn’t to be disturbed, and made herself scarce. No help there, then.

  Elspeth sat quietly, her light hair picking up colour from the sun. Despite her lengthy visit to Thirsk, she looked pale and heavy-eyed.

  ‘Yesterday.’

  I was surprised and to cover it, I made a business of sitting at my desk and shunting some files out of the way. She’d been back for nearly twenty-four hours and I hadn’t seen her in Hawking in any of that time. In fact, I hadn’t seen her at all.

  I decided to plunge straight in. ‘Have you been down to Hawking to say hello? Or to Security?’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.’

  I sat still and said nothing.

  I could guess what the problem was. It had never happened to me, but it did happen and I suspected it had happened to Grey. Normally, you can’t keep historians out of a pod. Any pod. They jostle each other in the doorway. They bicker over who sits in the favoured left-hand seat, but if Grey had been anywhere near a pod since her return from Roman Colchester then I had yet to hear of it.

  To say she’d lost her bottle would be unfair and unkind. She and Bashford had been snatched by Clive Ronan and dumped, unprepped, almost right under the bloodstained hooves of Boudicca’s approaching army, which was enough to cause anyone temporarily to mislay their bottle. True, Bashford appeared unaffected by the experience, plunging happily back into the noisy maelstrom of the History Department at work, but he’d had a bad blow to the head and for most of the time, he’d been cheerfully oblivious to what was going on around him.

  Elspeth Grey had not had that luxury. As many people often do, she’d risen to the occasion and then, afterwards, as the implications began to sink in … I could imagine her lying in bed at night, torturing herself by imagining what would have happened if we hadn’t turned up and saved them. That happy feeling of invulnerability that every historian carries with them … that nothing can ever happen to me feeling had been well and truly shattered …

  And then, they’d returned, to find that ten years had passed and things had moved on …

  ‘Elspeth, talk to me.’

  She said nothing.

  ‘Would you prefer to speak to Peterson?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t want to speak to anyone.’

  ‘But you must. If only so we can help.’

  She remained silent.

  ‘All right then, I’ll talk.’ Never a problem for me. ‘You’re afraid to go on assignment in case the same thing happens again. Like any historian, you’re not afraid of death or injury, but you’ve discovered there are worse things than that. You were thrust into a situation of extreme peril. Even if you’d survived the bloodbath that was Colchester, you faced a future where you had no hope of rescue. No one knew where or when you were. You would have been condemned to a short and very brutal life out of your own time. At that moment, you were too busy saving yourself and Bashford to give it any thought, but now you’ve had time to work through the implications and you’ve decided, not unreasonably, that you never ever want to set foot in a pod again. Am I right?’

  There was a horribly long pause and then, reluctantly, she nodded.

  ‘Elspeth, it’s not a problem. If you feel you want more time, I’d be happy to speak to the Boss for you. You and I both know he’s not unreasonable. I’m sure he’d be happy to give you the time you need.’

  ‘It’s not that, Max. I don’t … I don’t want …’

  Silence.

  Shit.

  I said quietly, ‘You don’t want to do this any longer, do you?’ and I think it’s to my credit that my first thought was not, ‘Bloody hell, there goes fifty per cent of our female historians.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘it’s not a problem because I’ve had a brilliant idea.’

  She blinked.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ I said. ‘Sometimes I amaze even me. I was going to mention this to you anyway. It’s the Belverde Caves expedition next month. They invited us to send a representative. Would you like to go? You’ll be gone about two months, possibly longer. Perhaps, when you return you’ll be able to see your way more clearly. Even if you don’t, at least you’ll have a few months’ thinking time.’

  She nodded, still not looking at me. ‘Thank you. Yes.’

  ‘All right. I’ll speak to Peterson and Dr Bairstow. You’ll have to speak to Major Guthrie. Just promise me one thing, Elspeth.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘That you will come back. Even if you’re leaving St Mary’s for good, come back and tell Ian to his face. Don’t leave him again.’

  Tears began to slide down her face. I suspected we had arrived at the real problem.

  ‘He’s not the person I left behind.’

  I said, gently, ‘No, he wouldn’t be, Elspeth. You were gone for ten years. People can change a lot in that time.’

  She began to cry. I reached for one of the many boxes of tissues Peterson had warned me that training officers needed.

  She continued. ‘But for me it was only a few hours and I came back and he’s different. Everything’s different. It’s no one’s fault, Max.’ She gulped. ‘I just don’t know where I fit in any longer. And now he’ll hate me.’

  ‘No he won’t. There are many solutions to this prob– situation. Go to Italy. Participate in the greatest archaeological find of the decade. Clear your mind. Make a decision. Come back here and tell us what it is.’

  ‘I will.’ She stood up suddenly, ‘Thank you, Max. I feel … much better.’

  ‘Glad to hear it.’

  Bloody hell, I’m good.

  On his return from the intricacies of Jenkins’ Ear, I invited Peterson for a drink. A statement that completely fails to convey the speed and enthusiasm with which he whirled us both into the bar and got the drinks in. I sipped my Margarita and brought him up to speed on Grey. That done, we fell back on having a good moan about our staffing issues. Being early evening there weren’t many people around and I had a good thirty minutes b
efore meeting Leon for something to eat. Peterson was avoiding Helen whose nicotine deprivation was laying waste to everything around her, so it was a rare moment of peace for both of us. We both sighed, sat back, put our feet up on the battered coffee table, and relaxed.

  The explosion blew in the windows at the far end of the room. The curtains billowed inwards. Tables were overturned. Glass lay everywhere in glittering fragments.

  Peterson and I, neither of whom had relinquished the grip on our drinks even for a second, were quite surprised by this. As was everyone else in the room. The only sound was the final tinkle of falling glass.

  And then the fire alarms went off.

  Major Guthrie raced through the bar, shouting, ‘Stay here, everyone,’ kicked his way through the shattered French windows, and disappeared.

  Peterson drained his drink. ‘Come on,’ he said, and we followed Guthrie outside.

  My first thought was that the Time Police were back for some reason. I always associate them with explosions. I’m told they have a similar opinion of us. My second thought was that Professor Rapson had really excelled himself this time. But no, this particular Big Bang had come from outside St Mary’s.

  A big, black mushroom cloud of smoke hung over the grounds. There was a terrible smell. A truly terrible, terrible smell.

  The traditional smoking crater occupied the space where much of the South Lawn had once been.

  Unidentifiable lumps of concrete lay everywhere. Some had come down with considerable force and gouged great lumps out of the tiny part of lawn that was still hanging in there. Burning branches and leaves were dotted around all over the place. People were stamping on the smouldering grass, trying to put out the fires and still, there was that terrible smell. Well, at least no one seemed to be hurt.

  Wrong.

  I caught Peterson’s arm. I could see three figures on the ground, horribly still. One was clad in the smoking remains of a green jumpsuit and the other two in blue.

  ‘Shit,’ said Peterson, under his breath and we ran to investigate.

  Markham, Bashford, and Roberts were lying spread-eagled on their backs. Their faces black, their eyebrows gone, their clothing smouldering. My finely honed historian senses told me that they and this unexplained explosion were somehow linked.

  Peterson was bending over them. They were alive, but only temporarily. Any minute now, the less-than-stable Dr Foster would be among us, closely followed by Dr Bairstow, unreasonably demanding explanations. I would have advised them not to start watching any long-running TV series, but they wouldn’t have heard a word I said. Guthrie was there as well, alternately yelling at them and checking them for fractures and the like. They smiled hazily at him. Evans was patting out their smouldering clothing.

  Given the damage around them, they seemed miraculously unscathed. Markham must have extended the umbrella of his invulnerability over them.

  Faintly in the distance, I could hear sirens. The emergency services were on their way. The Chief Constable would be on the phone. None of this was good.

  ‘Oh God,’ said Peterson. ‘Not again.’

  I said, ‘You go. Head them off if you can. I’ll see to this.’

  I could see Helen and her medical team jogging across the former lawn. She was probably so weighed down with nicotine patches that she couldn’t run any faster. At that moment, I wouldn’t have been Markham or Bashford or Roberts for any money.

  Out of corner of my eye, I could see two grubby, grey figures, Lingoss and Sykes, endeavouring to fade into the background. Of course I could. Just as I was congratulating myself that for once, none of my people could possibly be involved.

  ‘You two – front and centre. What happened here? And more importantly, what is the extent of your involvement?’

  Lingoss shuffled her feet. ‘There was a rat and it might have been my idea.’

  I set my teeth. ‘Go on.’

  ‘We saw a rat.’

  ‘Who are “we”?’

  ‘Mr Markham, Mr Bashford, Mr Roberts, and us. It ran into the shrubbery over there. We had to do something. They’re vermin, you know,’ she added in an explanatory tone.

  ‘I’m a training officer. I’m familiar with vermin.’

  She pointed to the ex-shrubbery at the top of the drive, now just a series of sad stumps. ‘It ran into those bushes there. Those bushes that used to be there. We thought we’d flush it out – and any others, of course.’

  Enlightenment landed as heavily as the lumps of concrete must have done. I mustered all the restraint I could find.

  ‘It’s the old septic tank. No one wanted the bother of digging it out so they planted the shrubbery to conceal it. You blew up the septic tank.’

  ‘We didn’t know that,’ said Lingoss. ‘None of us knew. Anyway, aren’t we on the mains?’

  I loomed. Quite a feat when you’re as short as I am, but I was in a looming mood. ‘We are now. We weren’t then. Continue with this sorry tale.’

  ‘Ah. Well. If we’d known that then our actions might have been a little different. It’s not our fault we didn’t know.’

  ‘Can we get back to the rat?’

  ‘Yes. Sorry. Well, it ran into the shrubbery which we now know concealed the septic tank.’

  ‘Yes, we’ve covered that. Move on.’

  ‘Actually, we were going to shoot it but Mr Markham said that might be quite dangerous and I had a brilliant idea. We got some bottles, filled them with just the very tiniest drop of paraffin, and plugged them with an old rag.’

  I groped for words. And that doesn’t happen often. ‘You what? Have you never heard of methane?’ I demanded, with all the confident knowledge of one who has experienced an exploding manure heap at first hand.

  ‘Well, yes, obviously, but we didn’t know there was methane because no one told us about the septic tank. Really, it’s not our fault.’

  I could feel the beginnings of a headache coming on.

  ‘We’ll have signs made,’ I said nastily. ‘Go on.’

  ‘We made up a few more bottles …’

  ‘Molotov cocktails …’

  ‘If you like, yes.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Only a few.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Hardly any.’

  ‘HOW MANY?’

  They stepped back. ‘Six.’

  I breathed heavily.

  ‘We could see this bit of broken concrete over what looked like a hole in the ground and we reckoned the rat had gone down there. Mr Bashford prised it up and we tossed in the five bottles. Then we lit the sixth and tossed that in as well.’

  She stopped. A born storyteller.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing happened. So Sykes and I started to leave because we’ve got exams tomorrow and we had to revise,’ she said virtuously. ‘Anyway we’d only gone about ten paces when there was this God-almighty bang and we were flying through the air. I curled into a ball because I could hear things hitting the ground around me.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘Bloody great lumps of what we now know to have been septic tank, mostly,’ said Sykes, helpfully, ‘but some other stuff as well.’

  ‘What other stuff?’

  ‘Probably the contents of the now-known septic tank. Great flaming lumps of congealed … organic matter. Bits of burning bush. Fortunately, we were pretty well out of range. Not so the others of course.’

  Helen and her team had the Three Stooges on their feet. Bashford was wandering in a small circle humming gently to himself. Peering blearily at the world in a semi-conscious daze appeared to be his default state.

  I wandered over.

  ‘Hey, Helen. How’s it going?’

  I had meant – how’s it going in relation to our three casualties, but she obviously had the tunnel vision common to all those weaning themselves off cigarettes.

  ‘Did you know,’ she demanded, apparently abandoning her medical responsibilities, ‘that when Raleigh returned from his tra
vels with potatoes and tobacco it was potatoes that were deemed to be hazardous to people’s health?’

  I did, actually, but now hardly seemed the moment to engage her in a discussion concerning the risks of starch versus nicotine.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Really? How interesting.’

  ‘Apparently, the potato was responsible for, among other things, scrofula, excessive farting, and general overindulgence in matters carnal.’

  ‘Well, that accounts for the Security Section’s love of chips.’

  She sighed.

  ‘So, other than that, how is it going?’

  ‘Oh, fine. Not too bad at all. Fortunately, I don’t seem to be falling prey to the sudden and irrational bouts of head-bursting rage that inflict lesser mortals giving up cigarettes. Bashford, I swear if you don’t stop doing that this minute, I’m going to tear off your head, reach down your neck, and rip out your testicles from the inside.’

  It’s all very well saying smoking can damage your health but giving it up damages everyone else’s.

  We watched as she shepherded them back into the building where they would be nursed back to health ready for almost-certain execution by Dr Bairstow.

  I was struck by a sudden thought and turned back to the perpetrators.

  ‘And what of the rat?’

  ‘Actually, we think the rat might have got away.’

  I looked around.

  In the distance, I could see Peterson arguing with a group of firemen. A big, red, shiny vehicle with a ladder panted at the gates. For some reason, they all wanted to come in.

  Mr Strong, on his knees at the edge of the pretty impressive crater, was keening over the remains of his South Lawn.

  In their panic, the horses had knocked down a section of fencing and bolted. God knew where they were.

  The swans appeared to have taken refuge in a nearby tree. I don’t know if other people’s swans can do this but I swear ours can go up a forty-foot beech tree faster than a banker can collect his annual bonus.

  People were standing around, grinning. Except for Hoyle who had on his Queen Victoria face. He was definitely not amused. Perhaps this was the final straw and he would leave. I had the grace to feel a little ashamed at the thought. But only a very little.