A Symphony of Echoes

by Jodi Taylor

  The most peaceful assignment I’d ever had was not going to end well.

  ‘Major, where are you?’

  No reply. Were we in a dead spot?

  I struggled but I might as well not have bothered. I don’t think my captor even noticed.

  ‘Water,’ I said, desperately. ‘We were looking for water.’ If they realised I was foreign they might think we hadn’t understood the curfew and let us off.

  They weren’t even listening.

  Peterson stirred. They glanced at each other and nodded.

  One crouched alongside him, grasped his hair and pulled his head back. Dimly realising what was happening, he tried to struggle.

  I said urgently, ‘Major, now would be a really good time.’

  One of them said something that even I realised was, ‘Get on with it.’

  I heard the rasp of steel as a dagger was drawn.

  My own head was pulled back so hard it hurt.

  I looked up at the beautiful, uncaring stars.

  I felt the cold touch of metal.

  A voice that was both in my ear and above me said, ‘Max, hold on,’ and Major Guthrie dropped from a nearby roof at the same time as Markham and Evans stepped out from the shadows.

  With their usual disdain for historical accuracy, the security section was wearing full body armour and visored black helmets. Our captors must have thought the desert demons had risen against them. But not for long. Seconds later, all four guards were lying in the dust.

  ‘Good evening, historians. Can I be of any assistance?’

  I glanced down at the four unconscious soldiers.

  ‘Why did you do that? We were winning.’

  They helped Peterson to his feet.

  Guthrie spoke into his com. ‘Mr Clerk – we’ve got them. Send everyone else home and await our arrival.’

  Along the street, someone shouted. We weren’t out of the woods yet.

  ‘This way.’

  Following Guthrie, we set off. Weller and Evans supported the still-not-firing-on-all-cylinders Peterson.

  ‘Pod Five. Two streets down. On the left. Can you walk?’

  ‘Of course I can.’

  More shouting. Even closer.

  ‘Can you run?’

  ‘Can you keep up?’

  I took off like a rocket.

  The whole city was waking now. Shouts and clanging metal echoed off the buildings. Every dog in the city was yelling his head off. You could tell St Mary’s was in town.

  ‘Good job this is a stealth operation, Major. Imagine if people knew we were here.’

  ‘Just shut up and run.’

  The pod was just ahead of us. Clerk had the door open. Ritter covered our approach.

  We hurtled into the pod in the traditional St Mary’s manner with everyone yelling for the door.

  We were safe.

  I braced my hands on my knees and tried to get my breath back.

  ‘Well,’ said Guthrie, stowing his weapons, ‘you made a complete dog’s breakfast of this one, didn’t you?’

  I slid gratefully down the wall to sit on the floor. ‘Don’t know what you mean. We saw Sennacherib die.’

  ‘You must be thrilled. Because that worked out so well for you, didn’t it?’

  ‘And did you notice,’ said Peterson groggily as they lowered him to the floor, ‘they were infantry – not archers.’

  I glugged some water.

  ‘Yes – no ear flaps on their helmets.’

  ‘And we discovered The Hanging Gardens of Nineveh. Not Babylon.’

  Guthrie took my water off me. ‘Not too much.’

  He began to feel my arms and legs.

  I took the water back. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Trying to see where all this blood is coming from.’

  ‘It’s not blood – it’s dye. Can’t you tell the difference?’

  ‘How’s Mr Hopwood?’ said Tim.

  ‘Completely recovered. Why are you both covered in dye?’

  ‘Didn’t you see our message?’

  ‘What message?’

  ‘We left a message for you. On the wall. For God’s sake – it was in big writing. Even the security section couldn’t have missed it.’

  ‘We didn’t need a message. We just followed the riot. And surprise, surprise – there you were.’

  ‘You cut it a bit fine, didn’t you?’

  ‘We’d been with you for a good five minutes. We were just waiting for an opportunity to get you out quietly. Which never came.’

  ‘You could have given us a clue you were so close.’

  ‘You seemed to be managing perfectly well in your mission to wake the entire city. You didn’t need us.’

  ‘How long have we been missing?’

  ‘Six weeks.’

  ‘What?’

  For us, it had been two, no, three days.

  Reaction set in. I closed my eyes and felt again that cold touch of metal.

  Guthrie laid a gentle hand on my arm and I clutched at it for a moment and nodded my thanks to him.

  He stood up. ‘All right, Mr Clerk. Has everyone else jumped?’

  ‘Confirmed, Major.’

  ‘Let’s get them home.’

  The world went white.

  The whole world was waiting for us in Hawking. Armed and armoured people milled around, shouting and cheering. Miss Prentiss, Mr Dewar, and Mr Hopwood stepped forward.

  Peterson, supported by Markham and Evans, drew himself up and reverted to full Training Officer Mode.

  ‘Right. Can anyone tell me where we went wrong?’

  When I opened my eyes in Sick Bay, the room was very quiet. I was in my usual bed by the door.

  Dr Bairstow sat beside the bed, his face turned away. One hand rested lightly on mine.

  I closed my eyes again, sighed, and fluttered my eyelids a little. When I opened my eyes, he had both hands resting on his walking stick.

  ‘Good morning, Dr Maxwell.’

  ‘Good morning, sir.’

  I always appreciated that he never asked how I was. In his book, if you weren’t actually dead then you were fit to work.

  ‘An eventful assignment.’

  ‘Yes, indeed, sir.’

  I struggled to sit up and he passed me a rehydration drink.

  ‘So,’ I said, sipping. ‘Six weeks.’

  ‘Or three days.’

  This was an old argument. I would argue that we’d been missing for six weeks and our pay packets should reflect that fact. He would respond that according to my personal timeline, only three days had passed and therefore I was only entitled to three days’ pay. I never won, but I never wearied of the argument, either. It’s our responsibility to keep senior managers on their toes. I was doing him a kindness, really. He was never the slightest bit appreciative but we should never let management ingratitude deflect us from our duty.

  Dr Foster wandered in an hour later, peered at me, lit a cigarette, typed into her scratchpad, and began to mutter apocalyptically about liver flukes.

  I beamed at her because I knew it would annoy her. If there was one thing she hated more than a patient – it was a happy patient.

  And the next visitor, of course, was Leon, who stood uncertainly by the door.

  I’d been doing some thinking. There’s something about being adrift in time that rearranges some priorities and perceptions.

  Looking up at the stars while waiting to have your throat cut rearranges the rest.

  I climbed out of bed and wobbled towards him.

  Nobody said anything for a very long time. I think we both felt that more than enough had been said already. Eventually though, I had to speak.

  ‘Leon. Need to breathe.’

  He slackened his grip slightly. But not much.

  So there we were. All set for a romantic reconciliation. I gazed into his eyes. Rainbows blossomed. Bluebirds sang. The music swelled to a crescendo.

  The bloody fire alarms went off.

  He uttered a paint-bli
stering curse. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  Neither did I. Normally, there wasn’t a smoke detector in the building that had a battery in it.

  He strode from the room. There was a lot of shouting in the corridor. An awful lot of shouting. I could hear Leon. And Peterson. And Mr Markham – of course he would be here somewhere, wouldn’t he?

  Since Dr Bairstow wouldn’t let us have a goat, Mr Markham was the nearest thing we had to a mascot. Small, spiky-haired, and perpetually grubby, he had acquired unit-wide respect by running into a horse’s bottom and laying himself out cold. And that was just the beginning of his adventures here at St Mary’s. Invincibly cheerful, he had been badly injured on several occasions. He always bounced back. We reckoned he was indestructible. He was coming with me to Edinburgh.

  I could also hear Helen’s voice cutting effortlessly through the racket. And Major Guthrie’s. Everyone seemed to have a lot to say. It was tempting to go out there and make things worse, but I resisted.

  The ear-splitting shriek of the alarms just went on and on. Then, suddenly, there was blessed silence.

  The shouting, however, continued for some considerable time afterwards.

  Eventually, Leon returned, closing the door firmly behind him.

  ‘What was that all about?’

  ‘While visiting Mr Peterson, Mr Markham contrived to set fire to the curtains in the men’s ward. Everyone’s blaming you. Come here.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘Because I want to hold you again. Come here.’

  ‘I mean, why are they blaming me?’

  ‘You instructed him to practice his conjuring tricks. The curtains ignited. All over now. Come here.’

  ‘The trick involves producing silk scarves, for crying out loud. How the hell could he possibly manage to set fire to the curtains?’

  ‘How should I know? I’m only grateful he’s not sawing a woman in half out there. Please, come here.’

  We sat in the window seat and he talked quietly to me. His words were simple, but came from his heart. They reached out and touched my very core. And the whole black, ugly, gunky mess that had been inside me for so long just cracked apart and flowed away, like the tears on my cheeks.

  Chapter Sixteen

  My Mary Stuart briefing was set for two days after I left Sick Bay.

  Not without a great deal of trepidation, I assembled everyone in my office to divvy up the mission responsibilities. This would be our first mission with such high levels of interaction. This went against all our training, all our instincts. We would not be melting into the background this time.

  Present were Chief Farrell, the world’s most reluctant volunteer; Mr Dieter from the technical section; Major Guthrie, and Tim Peterson. Mrs Enderby, representing Wardrobe, separated Professor Rapson from Dr Dowson. Miss Schiller, Miss Van Owen, and Miss Lee squeezed themselves together at the foot of the table.

  I looked at them. They looked at me. And off we went.

  I said, ‘Has everyone read through their background notes?’ and they all nodded. ‘I’m going to run through this from beginning to end because some of you know more than others. After the briefing, I’ll be happy to answer questions and listen to any suggestions you may have. I don’t pretend to have all the answers, and if there’s anything you think I’ve missed, please speak up.

  ‘Initially, we thought this mission would be fairly straightforward, but things have moved on and we now have two mission objectives. The first, as you know, is to ascertain whether Mary Stuart, Queen of Scotland is married to, or about to marry, James Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell. If not, one of our objectives is to insinuate ourselves into her court and – nudge – events back into line. This is high-profile stuff. There will be no question of us working quietly in the background. For the first time ever we’ll be looking to interact with the major players of their age. And we don’t have long. Darnley is murdered on 10th February 1567 and Mary is supposed to marry Bothwell on 15th May. This gives us a window of only about 90 days to find out what’s gone wrong and to put it right. So we’re going to have to move fast. Make no mistake about this, people – we will be in harm’s way.

  ‘The second objective is to locate and neutralise the probable cause of all this. I present to you the villain of the piece, Clive Ronan, already known to most of us here, I believe.’

  I brought up the best image we could find.

  ‘Not content with getting his arse kicked in the Cretaceous Period and in the Alexandrian desert last year, we believe he’s attempting to manipulate events for his own personal benefit. You’ve read your notes; I don’t have to tell you the consequences if we don’t act.’

  A damaged timeline. Altered History. Personal consequences. Paradox. Nothing good for anyone.

  ‘So, let’s make a start. We’re jumping to 16th-century Edinburgh and far from keeping our heads down and staying out of trouble, we’re going to be walking right into it. Dr Peterson and I have put together a scenario, approved by the Boss, as follows:

  ‘Scotland is a trading nation. So is England. English wool is the backbone of their economy. Scotland exports wool too; Melrose wool is a quality product but, when it comes to wool, it’s England that the world looks to. We intend to come at this in an unusual way. The deal is that we offer Mary exotic goods and fabrics from the east, in exchange for Melrose wool. To establish Scotland on the important trade routes of the time. To raise its profile and give it the opportunity to get in with the big boys. If, and we emphasise this, only if she will substantially undercut Elizabeth’s prices. We don’t want to raise suspicions by making the offer too good to be true. However, given the rivalry between the two of them, we think she’ll jump at the opportunity to gain such a lucrative advantage over her cousin.

  ‘To this end, we will be posing as a delegation from Istanbul. And be careful here. Constantinople fell in 1453, and officially became Istanbul. You will find the city referred to by either name. Be aware of this. We are representing a guild of international merchants eager to open a trading relationship with Scotland. This should not have too great an impact on the timeline. We’re simply anticipating the formation of the Levant Company by a few years. We will be rich, grand, ostentatious, and very, very visible. We will obtain an audience with the Queen, present our credentials, letters of introduction and recommendations, and bring gifts – precious gifts.

  ‘This should give us the entrée and, from this grand opening, somehow, we will be seeking to influence events and get things back on track. And before you all look too dismayed, remember this. Just for once, it might be that History is on our side. We’re the good guys in all this – this time she might just bat for our team, so keep your fingers crossed.

  ‘Now, how do we achieve all this? If I could refer you to your cast of characters, please. The delegation will be headed by the French speaking Sir Richard Hampton, representing the merchants of Istanbul. Or Chief Farrell as he prefers to be known. Accompanying him are his brother Christopher, that’s Dr Peterson and his aide de campe, Robert Morton. Major Guthrie, that’s you. Major, Mr Markham is already signed up, but please can you select two or three more people from your team to accompany us. Please emphasise their main objective will be to safeguard a bunch of historians hell-bent on disaster, and therefore some sort of death-wish and a complete disregard for personal safety will be an advantage on this assignment.’

  Guthrie grinned.

  ‘They’re queuing up.’

  ‘Really?’

  He grinned again.

  ‘Are you kidding?’

  ‘OK. Well, setting aside the lemming-like behaviour of the security section for one moment, I’m going as the sister, Mary Hampton. A female presence may be useful since we’re dealing with a queen. Miss Schiller, our Tudor specialist, will accompany me as Janet, maid and chaperone.’

  ‘Good luck with that,’ said Peterson and she laughed.

  ‘Moving on,’ I said, glaring at the two of them. Water off a duck’s back. ‘Equipm
ent required:

  ‘We’ll be using Pods Five and Six. The big ones. However, they’re not big enough for this number of personnel, so …’ I took a deep breath. This was the biggie. ‘We won’t be using them as our base. They are transport only. We’ll leave them outside town. We’re actually going to be living amongst 16th century contemporaries.’

  Complete silence.

  OK, it could have been worse. They were all still here. I ploughed on.

  ‘We could be there for up to three months. There will be at least eight of us, coming and going. With all the gear we’re taking, we’d need at least four pods. Too many. Besides, we’ll be high profile. We may need to entertain. So, we’ll be hiring a house. Right slap bang in the most fashionable area – Canongate, where the top people live.

  ‘Firstly, however, I want to send Mrs Enderby, properly escorted of course,’ I said to reassure her, and wasting my time because her whole face lit up with excitement, ‘to 16th century Istanbul to organise the purchase of carpets, silks, lace, velvets, all kinds of fabrics – gifts with which to tempt a Scottish queen to sign a trade agreement.’

  ‘Can we not use contemporary fabrics?’ she asked.

  ‘We could, but if we have to leave in a hurry – and past experience suggests we will – we can’t leave them behind and we can hardly present her Scottish Majesty with fabulous gifts then ask for them all back again, can we?’

  ‘We could show them to her and then take them away afterwards,’ suggested Guthrie.

  ‘They’re gifts, Ian,’ said Peterson, crushingly, ‘You’re not supposed to ask for them back. Jeez, I bet Christmas is fun in your house.’

  I continued. ‘From a security point of view and given the nature of the assignment, I am not in favour of anything that could delay our getaway. However, it does seem quicker and simpler to present her with stuff from our time. It would certainly make a greater impact.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Enderby, joining the discussion. ‘Modern fabrics, modern colours, modern techniques. That would certainly stop her in her tracks. I could put together something really sumptuous. After all, the whole point is to impress her. If we don’t gain access to her court, then the whole mission is over before we even start.’