by Jodi Taylor
A TRAIL THROUGH TIME
Jodi Taylor
St Mary’s is back and is facing a battle to survive in this, the fourth instalment of the Chronicles.
Max and Leon are reunited and looking forward to a peaceful lifetime together. But, sadly, they don’t even make it to lunchtime.
The action races from 17th-century London to Ancient Egypt and from Pompeii to 14th-century Southwark as they’re pursued up and down the timeline, playing a perilous game of hide and seek until they’re finally forced to take refuge at St Mary’s – where new dangers await them.
As usual, there are plenty of moments of humour, but the final, desperate, Battle of St Mary’s is in grim earnest. Overwhelmed and outnumbered and with the building crashing down around them, how can St Mary’s possibly survive?
So, make sure the tea’s good and strong …
This book is dedicated to all the staff – past and present – of North Yorkshire Library Service. Thank you for your patience and your friendship during all those long dark years of fear and toil.
Contents
Prologue
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
Prologue
And once again, I was running.
I was always bloody running.
Over the years, I’ve run from Jack the Ripper; blood-crazed dinosaurs; a crowd of Cambridge citizenry hell-bent on indicting me for mirror-theft and witchcraft; Assyrian soldiers; you name it, I’ve scampered away from it. With varying degrees of success.
But – the point I’m trying to make here – is that I’ve always known what I was running from. I rarely knew what I was running to – I’m an historian and we don’t always plan that far ahead – but I usually knew what I was running from.
Sadly, not in this case. In this case, I was running for my life and I didn’t have a bloody clue why.
This next bit is difficult. We all need to pay attention, because I’m not sure I understand it myself.
I’m an historian. I work for the St Mary’s Institute of Historical Research. We investigate major historical events in contemporary time. It’s time travel, OK. Using small, apparently stone-built shacks known as pods, we jump to whichever time period we’ve been assigned, observe, document, record, do our best to stay out of trouble, and return to St Mary’s in triumph. Our pods are small, cramped, frequently squalid, and the toilet never works properly. For some reason, they always smell of cabbage, but they’re our pods and we love them.
Following the death of Leon Farrell, I accepted the position of Deputy Director of St Mary’s and put in for my last jump. For sentimental reasons, I chose France, 1415, the Battle of Agincourt. As usual, we – my colleague, Peterson, and I – pushed our luck and this time we really pushed it too far.
Peterson was badly injured in the attack on the baggage train. In an effort to draw our pursuers away, I hit him over the head with a rock (unconventional treatment, true, but I was trying to save his life at the time), rolled him under a bush where the rescue party would be sure to find him, and ran like hell in the opposite direction. As far and as fast as I could, until someone stabbed me through the heart. A fatal wound.
I gave it all up without too much regret and commended my soul to the god of historians, who, as usual, wasn’t concentrating, because I fell forwards, not into oblivion as expected, but onto someone’s hairy Axminster carpet, instead.
Still with me so far?
Mrs Partridge, PA to the Director of St Mary’s and, in her spare time, the Muse of History, snatched me from my world and dumped me, confused and in pain, into a different one. This one. Pausing long enough to inform me I had a job to do and to get on with it – she departed. Because God forbid she should ever make things easy for me. I thought I’d been saved. And yes, I had, but only in the way that turkeys are saved for Christmas.
In this new world, it was me who had died and Leon who had lived. He had not handled my death well. I thought she’d brought me here for him. To save him. To comfort him. I got that wrong.
Leon and I had a painful and confused reunion during which I slugged him with a blue plastic dustpan. Long story.
Anyway, the upshot was that I was here now, living in this new world which closely resembled my own. Although not in every way, as I would soon discover.
Leon and I, strangers to each other, and scared to death of making a mess of our second chance, agreed to take things slowly. We would start a new life together in Rushford, away from St Mary’s, and see what happened.
What happened was more pain, more confusion, and a very great deal of running away.
Now that I’ve written all that down, I’m not sure I believe it myself.
The point is, though, that I thought I was safe. That, finally, I’d come to rest. The phrase, and she lived happily ever after, comes to mind. Although in my case, and she lived, is the important bit. The other part, happily ever after, is always a bit of an optional extra for me. But, my plan was that I would live quietly with Leon. I’d paint, he’d invent things, and we would finally have a peaceful life together.
We had one day. Not even that. We didn’t even make it to lunchtime.
Chapter One
The first morning of my new life.
I’d had a good night’s sleep, a very long, hot bath, and several mugs of tea. Thus fortified, and in the full glory of yellow-and-white-spotted pyjamas, I was now feeling very much more on top of things and ready to get to grips with this new life.
In an effort to overcome the slight social awkwardness occasioned by the two of us not knowing where to begin, he was fussing around doing tea and toast, and I was busy at the kitchen table.
‘What are you doing?’ he said, plonking a mug of steaming tea in front of me.
‘Writing my obituary.’
‘What on earth for?’
‘Well, you can’t do it, can you? I never met you before yesterday.’
‘My surprise was based less on the fact that we’ve hardly met, but more because you’re not actually dead.’
‘No, but I was. Nearly. Maybe I’m a zombie. Do you have any brains?’
‘No brains,’ he said, putting a jar on the table. ‘Will Marmite do?’
‘A very acceptable alternative.’
There was a slight pause. I wondered if perhaps his Max hadn’t liked Marmite. Was this how it was always going to be? Each of us silently comparing this new version of ourselves to the old one? I liked Marmite – maybe his Max hadn’t. I don’t like milk – maybe his Max had bathed in the stuff. Suppose now … suppose we weren’t …
I curled my hands around my steaming mug. It was so hard to see how this could work. Things had not gone that well for us the first time round, and then he’d died, and then I’d died – well, I would have if Mrs Partridge hadn’t brought me here. Both of us had so much history … If anything went wrong – and it would – I wasn’t sure I could survive losing him again. And then I remembered that wonderful, heart-bursting, soul-lifting moment in his workshop when I saw him again, and I knew that, between the two of us, anything and everything was possible.
I looked up and he was watching me, following my eve
ry thought. That hadn’t changed, anyway.
‘It’s not going to be a problem,’ he said softly. ‘We don’t have to rush anything. We have our whole lives ahead of us and we’ll just take each day as it comes. The first priority is to get you fit and well again. I don’t like women running around the flat with big holes in their chests. It makes the place look untidy.’
‘All closed up now,’ I said, squinting down at my yellow-and-white-spotted chest. ‘It just hurts a bit every now and then.’
Actually, it still hurt a lot. Mrs Partridge had closed the wound but not healed it. Initially, I’d been annoyed, but she knew what she was doing. I had no choice but to remain there and take things slowly. For a week, at least. A lot can happen in a week.
And it was about to.
The telephone rang.
Busy buttering toast, Leon ignored it and the machine cut in.
I heard his voice. ‘Please leave a message.’
Dr Bairstow, his voice harsh with urgency said, ‘Leon. Get out. They’re here. Run!’
The line went dead.
He dropped the butter knife. I watched it leave a long, greasy smear across the floor. He never even looked at it.
‘You have thirty seconds. Grab anything valuable to you. Move.’
I didn’t bother with questions. He wouldn’t have bothered answering them.
I lurched into the living room and grabbed the model of the Trojan Horse he’d once made for me. Looking around, I also snatched up my little book on Agincourt – the only thing left over from my childhood – and my one photo of him and me. I draped my red snake around my neck – I’d made it in hospital while recovering from Jack the Ripper and there was no way I was leaving that behind – and presented myself at the back door with seconds to spare.
He eyed the snake. ‘One day, we must take a moment to discuss your skewed priorities.’ He hustled me out of the back door, down the steps, and into the garden.
I could hear sounds on the other side of the garden wall. ‘Aren’t you going to lock up?’
‘Won’t do the slightest bit of good. Get into the pod. Hurry.’
His pod nestled in a corner of the tiny garden, disguised as an anonymous garden shed. I called for the door to open as he ripped away the clothesline and kicked the water butt aside.
I had just time to inhale the familiar pod smell of overloaded electrics, stale people, damp carpet, and cabbage, before he piled in after me and slapped the door control.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, calmly. ‘We’ll be quite safe in here. I’m activating the camouflage system. We’ll just wait here quietly. With a bit of luck they’ll fail to find us and go away again.’
I should be asking – who were they? Why wouldn’t we be safe? Or the all-encompassing – what the bloody hell is going on here?
But I didn’t. For one thing, all his attention was focused on the screen, watching for any movement. He probably wouldn’t even have heard me. I stood, festooned with books, photos, and snakes, and felt my chest throb. And I still hadn’t had breakfast.
‘Here.’ He swivelled the seat. I was glad to sit down. I wasn’t anything like as fit as I thought I was.
We waited in silence. But not for long.
They came right through the gate and they didn’t stop to open it first. It exploded off its hinges and cartwheeled away. They poured across the little yard and fanned out. About six of them, as far as I could see, although there would be two or more outside, securing the entrance. They were frighteningly quick, quiet, and professional.
Two raced up the steps, kicked the back door open, and disappeared into the flat.
The rest made straight for us. Straight into the garden. Straight towards the pod.
They couldn’t possibly see us. There was nothing to see. We were camouflaged. With a background of a simple stone wall, we were invisible.
I felt a twist of fear. They knew we were here. They might not be able to see us, whoever they were, but they knew we were here somewhere.
My first impression was that they were military. They wore full body armour. Black-visored helmets gave them a sinister look and they carried some very serious weaponry. Not rifles, but rifle-shaped. With an underslung something-or-other. They moved smoothly, efficiently, and as a unit. We were definitely in some deep shit here.
Leon swore softly.
They dropped to the ground, weapons covering every inch of the small garden. How could they know we were here? What was going on?
With every angle covered, the soldier at the back raised something that looked, to my non-technical eyes, like a hair dryer.
Was that an EMP device? An electro-magnetic pulse would disable the pod and render us helpless.
Now Leon really swore, swept me from my seat and onto the floor, at the same time shouting, ‘Computer! Initiate jump.’
‘Jump initiated.’
The world went white.
We landed without even a tremor. He scanned the console, flicking switches and shutting things down. His hands danced over the controls in the way that was so familiar to me. Since he was busy, I lay quietly on the floor where he’d dumped me, stared up at the ceiling, and had a bit of a think.
They were obviously looking either for him or for me. And since he’d been in Rushford for some time now, presumably living a blameless life, and I was a recently arrived alien intruder in this world, it seemed likely that it was me they wanted.
That they were connected in some way with St Mary’s, I had no doubt. They’d been carrying some really cool kit. Besides, there was Dr Bairstow’s warning call. They’d hit St Mary’s and Rushford almost simultaneously. Something serious had occurred and it was almost certain to be me. How had they found me so quickly? And if they caught me – what would they do with me?
As if I didn’t know the answer to that one.
Thanks very much, Mrs Partridge. She’d snatched me out of my own world and dropped me into this one. From the frying pan into the furnace, you could say. Without warning. Without breakfast. And now something was after me. Something serious. What is it with me and a quiet life?
Leon came to sit beside me on the floor. ‘Thank you for not bombarding me with questions.’
‘A temporary respite. Make the most of it.’
‘Did I hurt you?’
‘On the contrary, I’ve never been hurled to the floor with such style. A five point nine score for that one.’
‘Up you get, then.’
I sat in the seat and stared at the screen and the familiar coordinates. I knew where we were.
My Leon and I had a special place and time. A small island in the eastern Med., thousands of years ago, before people turned up. I loved St Mary’s dearly, but, sometimes, you really want to be alone and so we would come here, to this special place, to spend some special time together. Best of all, absolutely no one knew about it. Sometimes it shows on an ancient map as the island of Skaxos, but mostly it’s too small even to appear, let alone be named. We would be quite safe here.
He finished at the console. ‘It’s still dark outside. Shall we take a moment to catch our breath?’
‘Good idea. And you can tell me what this is all about.’
He got up and put the kettle on. The traditional St Mary’s method of dealing with a crisis.
I’ve already said my name is Madeleine Maxwell. Chief Operations Officer at the St Mary’s Institute of Historical Research. Or rather, I was. Since I was never confirmed as Deputy Director, I wasn’t sure what I was now. Apart from short, ginger, and bewildered, of course, but that’s pretty much my default state, so don’t pay too much attention to that.
A week ago, I’d been in the Cretaceous period, fighting off a hungry Deinonychus with a fire extinguisher and some harsh words. This time yesterday, I had been at Agincourt, staring at a sword in my chest, just before being transported to another world. I’d just had time for a bath and now, here I was, being thrown around the timeline – in my pyjamas. Someone owed me an expl
anation. And breakfast.
He draped my dressing gown around my shoulders.
‘Thank you,’ I said in surprise.
‘Well, some of us were a little more focused when grabbing important equipment to see us through our current crisis.’
I smiled sadly at my little pile of possessions. ‘This is all I have in the world. You can’t blame me.’
‘I keep telling you – half of everything is yours. You left me everything in your will.’
We all make out wills. With our lifestyle, it’s compulsory. They’re all lodged with Dr Bairstow. In my world, I’d left everything to Leon and then when he died, I’d divided it between close friends: Markham, Peterson, and Kal. In addition, I’d made provision for putting a bit behind the bar as well. Without a doubt, back at my St Mary’s they were all having a world-class piss-up at this very moment. It’s always good to know you can be a disruptive influence even after death. A posthumous pain in the management arse.
‘So, who are they, Leon? And what do they want?’
‘They’re the Time Police.’
That meant nothing to me. I must have looked bewildered.
‘You didn’t have them in your world?’
‘No.’
‘Well – hope you never do.’
Silence. He made the tea.
‘All right. Here goes. A long time ago, I told my Max that Dr Bairstow and I were from the future.’
I nodded. ‘You told me you’d been sent back to protect St Mary’s. That we were – would be – under threat. ’
‘Well, it looks as if that time has come.’
‘Hold on. Wasn’t that Clive Ronan?’
‘Yes – in his own way. But the real threat to St Mary’s here is the Time Police. Sometime in the future – nothing to do with St Mary’s, thank God – several countries almost simultaneously discover how to travel in time. Suddenly, everyone wants it because everyone thinks they’ll be able to change their past and they all want to be first. An attempt is made to reach an international agreement that would allow limited and strictly controlled time-travel, while still protecting the timeline. It holds for a while. A very little while – but the temptation to go back and re-fight old wars, this time with hindsight, is too great.’
