by Jodi Taylor
‘So you see,’ I said, ‘in reality, I’ve got nothing. Certainly nothing tangible to take to the Boss.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Let’s listen to this before we succumb to despair and despondency.’ He activated the recorder, listened for a while, then pulled out his scratchpad and got busy.
‘OK, listen. Keywords. Horses. House. Gates. Eagles. Guthrie. Me. You. A grand room elsewhere. A performance of some kind that’s important. We could use this. We could work this up into a scenario for an assignment. He switched on the recorder again and we listened. I saw little pictures in my mind.
If the Chief’s recollections were not just dreams then this was an absolute gift. This was a scenario. The personnel would be right. These were the people I’d take, plus a few more, maybe. It was cold and rainy – that would be Scotland in early summer. And we already had Edinburgh in the 16th century. If you followed that logically, you got summer 1567. After Darnley’s murder but before Bothwell. Peterson was right, if you looked at it in those terms then it was easy.
On the other hand, they might be just dreams and my Mary Stuart-soaked mind was reading too much into this. In the old days, the old, confident me would have built a house on these rocky foundations. I was still missing something. But, it was a starting point.
I fired up my data table and started working up a scenario. He moved to David’s and did the same. After thirty minutes he said, ‘I’m done.’
‘Me too, just about.’
‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.’
We swapped – the two were reasonably similar. We merged the two, combined the common points, and picked and mixed the rest. There were several vigorous exchanges of views and a free and frank discussion at the end, but, hours and hours later, we finally had something. We worked it through again until at last we were satisfied and then went for a late supper.
I was up bright and early the next morning, too wound-up to stay in bed.
Early though I was, others were up before me. There were a number of historians milling around the hall, examining the displays, pointing and arguing. Standard historian behaviour. I stood at the back, watching. Arranged along the back wall were piles of working papers, secondary source stuff, background details, and a few maps. I picked one up at random. The 1852 Ordnance Survey map. The familiar landmarks were there, Holyrood House, Princes Street, John Knox House, Greyfriars, the castle. I looked at it for a moment and then knew, with absolute, total, complete, unqualified certainty that I was right. The knowledge made my head swim.
I took a moment to try and think clearly. The human brain is programmed to find patterns in a random world. Was that what I was doing? The unending human struggle to bring order into chaos? I leaned back against the table, feeling my heart pound while I tried to pull myself together and think this through calmly. I breathed deeply and found a point on which to focus. Now was not the time to go all wobbly.
I saw Dr Dowson enter the library and followed him in.
‘Good morning, Max, you’re an early bird this morning.’
‘Good morning, Doctor. I need some information urgently, please. Now, if possible.’
He looked at me over his half-moon spectacles. Possibly I still looked a little shell-shocked because he nodded.
‘I’ll get it for you myself. What do you want to know?’
I told him.
‘Well, that seems straightforward enough.’
He bashed a few keys and waited, frowned, bashed a few more, frowned again, went to a data table and fiddled there for a while.
I felt my heart pick up. I was right. I knew it.
‘Well, that’s a little odd … Just a minute, Max …’ He consulted an old-fashioned card index. At the end of the table, a printer hummed and spat out a sheet of paper. He brought it over. We surveyed it together.
‘Is that all you’ve got?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Can’t you get any more?’
‘There isn’t any more. What you see is all there is.’
‘What, anywhere?’
‘So it would seem.’
‘But how could that be? There must be more somewhere, surely?’
‘No, Max, that’s it. My only explanation is that it’s classed as sensitive information and restricted under the 30 Year Rule, or something similar. Although why is a bit of a mystery. It seems a perfectly innocuous request to me.’
I gave him back the paper.
‘Yes, I expect that’s it. Oh well, never mind. Thanks very much anyway, Dr Dowson.’
He wasn’t fooled for a minute.
‘If you say so, Max.’
I shot out of the library and ran headlong into Chief Farrell. He steadied me, realised who it was, and quickly dropped his hands.
‘Dr Maxwell?’
I decided to push my luck.
‘I’m not sure whether to be pleased to see you or not, Chief Farrell. I was just on my way to steal your pod. Do you want to come too?’
‘To steal my own pod?’
‘Only if you want to, of course. I’ll quite understand if you have other plans for the morning.’ I tried to get past him. He caught my arm.
‘Why?’
‘I need to make an unauthorised jump. Now. And I’m sorry but I don’t have time for this. Come or not, I really don’t mind. I think I’d prefer it if you do come, because this concerns you too, but if you are coming it has to be now.’
‘You’re stealing my pod and offering me the option of accompanying you?’
‘Yes,’ I said, impatient at his slowness. ‘Are you coming or not?’
He stared at me for what seemed a considerable time, his face unreadable.
‘Very well. But don’t race through the hall attracting so much attention. Stroll casually.’
‘OK,’ I said, strolling casually.
I couldn’t help speeding up down the long corridor, but by exercising huge, huge self- control, managed to keep it down to a casual canter.
Once inside his pod, however, he slapped my hands away from the controls.
‘No, that’s enough. What’s this about?’
I took a deep breath.
‘You may not remember this, but when you woke after your coma, the first words you said to me were, “Be careful, the names are the same. ”’
‘No, I don’t remember that.’
‘Well, you did. It was the most lucid moment you had for ages.’
‘I’ll take your word for it but I don’t see the significance. Whose names are the same?’
‘Knox. Dr Alexander Knox and John Knox. They have the same names. Well, the same surname anyway.’
He stared at me. I suspected Alexander Knox was a bit of a taboo subject.
‘John Knox. You know, the famous Scottish clergyman. Led the Protestant Reformation in Scotland. Met John Calvin. Instrumental in the removal of the Queen Regent. Wanted Mary Stuart executed for murder.’
‘I know who he is,’ he said, impatiently. ‘What’s that got to do with Alexander Knox? And do not answer that question by saying – Their names are the same.’
‘Well, they are,’ I said stubbornly. ‘And you’re the one who warned me about it.’
‘I was in a coma!’
‘No, you weren’t.’
‘As good as.’
‘Maybe that’s when you do your best work. Maybe you had a moment of clarity. Let’s face it, you’re about due. Look, I’m trying to find some information about Alexander Knox and all Dr Dowson can dig up is a few lines about him opening The Red House, seven years ago. There’s nothing on his background or education. Not even his qualifications, which you have to admit is a bit dodgy.’
‘Given what he does, it’s probably restricted information.’
‘Precisely. That’s why I’m going back to the future to see what they’ve got. The 30 Year Rule won’t apply any more. Now, can we go?’
‘Why are you always in such a hurry?’
‘I’m seeing the Boss at
ten this morning with the iffiest proposals you ever heard in your life and I really would like to have something more solid to give him. Can we go now, please?’
We went.
We materialised on the pan in front of Hawking and sat quietly while all the bells and whistles sounded. A double half-circle of armed guards surrounded the entrance to the pod. They’d learned their lessons well. I was proud.
‘I’ll go first,’ said Farrell. ‘Exit slowly and carefully.’ In the old days, he would have said, ‘Don’t bounce out like an excited wombat and get yourself shot,’ but we weren’t on those terms any more.
We walked slowly out of the pod, hands up.
A voice called, ‘Identify yourselves.’
‘Good morning. Farrell and Maxwell. To see the Director.’
‘This way, please.’
Some few months had passed since we left and renovations were still proceeding. The walls were still pitted and scorched, but the place was clean and tidy and people were going noisily about their business. There were familiar faces around and some waved.
Someone must already have contacted her. She was waiting for us on the half landing. I was impressed. Exactly the spot I would have chosen. She’d done us the courtesy of coming to greet us, but the half landing, while friendly and informal, still meant we had to walk up to her. I liked her style.
‘It’s good to see you both again. How can St Mary’s be of assistance?’
I smiled. ‘A very simple request to use the library, if I may, Director. I urgently need some information that’s not yet available under our 30 Year Rule. I’m hoping you can help.’
‘Of course. If you can be specific, I’ll have my people bring it to us in my office. I hope you have time for coffee.’
‘That’s very kind and, actually, I did miss breakfast.’
‘So, what exactly are you looking for?’
‘I’d like anything you can dig up on a Doctor Knox.’
Any doubts I might have had about whether or not I was wasting everybody’s time were immediately dispelled. She grabbed my arm and said in a fierce undertone, ‘What do you know about Alexander Knox?’
Two could play at that game.
I said, ‘What do you know about Alexander Knox?’
She looked around for a moment and then back at me again, plainly undecided.
I caught Farrell’s eye and he had the grace to nod.
I opened my mouth to speak, but she said, ‘Not here,’ and we set off for her office where I repeated my request to be allowed to check his background, credentials, anything they had on him.
‘You don’t have to,’ she said bitterly. ‘I can tell you everything you need to know about Alexander Knox.’
Having said that, she fell silent again, staring at her desk. We sat quietly. You couldn’t rush her. After a while, she looked up and said with a half-smile. ‘If you want this chronologically, it’s hard to know where to begin.’
‘We’re the guests,’ I said. ‘We’ll start if you like.’
I gave her almost everything. Knox. The Red House. His lack of background. The coincidence of the surnames. She listened in complete silence, her face was expressionless.
Eventually, silence fell again. We waited. I made myself be patient. There was more here than I knew.
She pushed herself back from her desk a little and clasped her hands in her lap. In a voice carefully devoid of any emotion whatsoever, she said, ‘Dr Alexander Knox is our missing Director.’
Chapter Thirteen
At first, I couldn’t grasp it at all. I had wild ideas of him being cast adrift in time, making a home and a life for himself with The Red House. But no, St Mary’s was only just up the road. He only had to bang on our door. Was he suffering from amnesia perhaps? Being propelled precipitately through time can sometimes do funny things to the human brain – and it’s not as if the brains at St Mary’s were particularly normal to begin with. Then, because the mind assigns strange priorities, I thought – I didn’t escape from The Red House at all. He let me go. Oddly, this made me hate him more than ever.
Everyone was looking at me, obviously having reached the correct conclusion long before I did.
‘He ran away,’ I said slowly, trying to imagine how the unit would feel if Dr Bairstow had abandoned us when we fought Ronan at Alexandria. I remembered how, when we were planning the mission to rescue the Chief, he had said he wouldn’t abandon St Mary’s; how his first duty was always to his unit.
Still no one spoke. I stopped talking and did a little more thinking.
‘No,’ I said eventually. ‘He sold you out. Ronan had so few men your kitchen staff could have dealt with them. Knox gave them information; entry codes, security protocols – everything they needed to get in, grab the pods, and get out. But Knox underestimated his own unit, though. Hawking was defended almost to the last man, buying you the time to get the pods out of his reach. Seeing it all go wrong, Knox disappeared with… Number Seven … and the wherewithal to start a new life. In our time. What a bastard.’
Chief Farrell stirred. ‘Actually, I think it’s worse even than that. It’s maybe no coincidence he’s not far from St Mary’s. I’ve often wondered about Sussman. He loved you. He hated you as well, at the end, but in his own way, he loved you. There never seemed any good reason why Sussman did what he did, but suppose Knox got to him. Suppose Knox got to Barclay. Not to destroy St Mary’s, but Barclay did an awful lot of damage in the four months she was Director.’
This just got worse and worse. Davey Sussman, my one time partner, had pushed me off a cliff in the Cretaceous Period. He’d subsequently come to a bad end. A very bad end. Maybe he had been working for Alexander Knox. And Barclay, who had left four men to die; who had sacked me and whose performance as Caretaker Director had nearly finished St Mary’s. Had she been working for Alexander Knox? With Ronan? Suddenly, it was all coming together.
Dr Bairstow had sent us to The Red House in all good faith. Knox could probably hardly believe his luck when we turned up. I felt hot with shame when I realised how easily he’d manipulated me. In less than one hour he’d thrown me off balance and caused me to question the fundamentals of my own life. He’d gone straight for my weak spots. That I was still at St Mary’s was a miracle. That the Chief was still there was only because the Boss refused to accept his resignation. Knox wasn’t Ronan – he didn’t kill – what he did was even worse. How much damage had he quietly done to St Mary’s over the years? And I bet he’d provided a base for Ronan and his crew whenever required. In fact, that was an interesting point. Who worked for whom? Knox was clever – Ronan was ruthless and driven. Which of them called the shots? I remembered the ravine outside Alexandria and the good people who had died there. A slow burn started deep inside.
I looked up. Everyone’s faces said the same.
I said, ‘What do you need?’
She said, ‘Co-ordinates. An idea of The Red House layout. As much information as you can give me. And a date when the two of you have unbreakable alibis.’
‘Why?’
‘You two were among his last patients. He’s an important and influential man who almost certainly knows more than he should about nearly everything. When he disappears – as he shortly will – the authorities will look very closely at anyone with whom he has had dealings. I need a date, so you won’t be implicated. We’ll get him and bring him back here to answer for his actions. Don’t worry – your St Mary’s will be represented and you’ll have your say. Just leave the rest to us, please.’
She swept out.
I said hopefully, ‘Is it too early for lunch?’
Of course it wasn’t. You can eat any time you like at St Mary’s and I frequently did. Mrs Partridge wasn’t in her office. I hoped I’d see her before I left. I felt strongly that she should be represented as well.
Farrell went off to see Katie Carr and I slipped quietly out of the building and trotted off to see the dodos. They hadn’t changed – as fat and clueless as eve
r. I watched them milling around, grockling in astonishment at a sinister twig or a threatening rock and smiled, remembering that happy day. And night. Life had been a lot simpler then.
I met Farrell in the dining room, where the kitchen staff rushed out clutching ladles, oven gloves and other implements of mass destruction and we submitted to having a fuss made of us. It wasn’t unpleasant.
There wasn’t a lot of talk over lunch. I was hungry and Farrell was distracted. Very distracted.
‘What?’ I said, finally.
‘I’ve been thinking about Knox.’
‘I think we all have,’ I said.
‘No. I mean, I think we might have another problem.’
‘Which is?’
‘I told him about Scotland.’
I stopped eating. A bit of a first.
‘Yes, you did, didn’t you.’
I put down my fork and started to think. He’d mentioned Scotland and Knox had changed the subject immediately afterwards. He’d been so keen to talk about the Chief’s condition and as soon as Scotland came up, he moved the conversation in a completely different direction. An hour later, I was on my way back to St Mary’s with our relationship beyond repair, and we’d barely spoken since.
‘Have a think about this,’ he interrupted. ‘History goes wrong in the 16th century – we suspect. Something else happened in the 16 th century that seemed – not trivial – but fairly minor in the scheme of things.’ He paused for me to catch up.
I shook my head.
‘Can I have a clue?’
‘Close to home.’
I got it.
‘Annie died. Oh, my God, Annie died.’
My mind flew back. Again, I heard Farrell telling me the story. 16th century Scotland. James VI. Three young historians, Edward Bairstow, Clive Ronan, and Annie Bessant are on assignment. Annie catches some disease. Quarantine is not declared. Protocols are ignored. Ronan shoots Edward Bairstow, leaves him to die and brings her back to St Mary’s. But, Edward is rescued. Ronan is arrested, breaks free, steals Number Nine, causes Annie’s death (to the everlasting and unspoken grief of Dr Bairstow) and disappears before anyone can stop him.
