A Catalogue of Catastrophe

Book 13: Chronicles of St. Mary's

by Jodi Taylor

Genres: Time Travel

Synopsis

'Jodi Taylor is quite simply the Queen of Time. Her books are a swashbuckling joyride through History' C. K. MCDONNELL

BOOK 13 IN THE INTERNATIONALLY BESTSELLING CHRONICLES OF ST MARY'S SERIES

For fans of Richard Osman's Thursday Murder Club series, Jasper Fforde and Doctor Who.

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Finally - finally! - Max has that nice office job she's always wanted. The one with no heavy lifting and no one tries to kill her. Well, one out of two's not bad...

Punching well above their weight, Max and Markham set out to bring down a sinister organisation founded in the future - with a suspicious focus on the past.

Max's focus is staying alive long enough to reunite with Leon and Matthew, alternately helped and hindered by St Mary's. Who aren't always the blessing they like to think they are.

But non-stop leaping around the timeline - from witnessing Magna Carta to disturbing a certain young man with a penchant for gunpowder - is beginning to take its toll. Is Max going mad? Or are the ghosts of the past finally catching up with her?

What people are saying about Jodi Taylor:

'Once in a while, I discover an author who changes everything... Jodi Taylor and her protagonista Madeleine "Max" Maxwell have seduced me'

'This amazing series is anything but formulaic. Just when you think you've got to grips with everything, out comes the rug from under your feet'

'Addictive. I wish St Mary's was real and I was a part of it'

'St Mary's stories are the much-anticipated highlight of my year'

'Jodi Taylor has an imagination that gets me completely hooked'

'A tour de force'

(P) 2022 Headline Publishing Group Ltd

Release date: April 14, 2022

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 416

Sample

1.

They came in the night. No warning. No nothing. The first I knew about anything was when I opened my eyes to find the dark shape of Pennyroyal leaning over me, which, trust me, is enough to propel anyone into full consciousness in record time.

He had his hand over my mouth. Not threatening – just a light pressure which nevertheless conveyed the necessity for utter silence.

I nodded understanding. There was the faintest clunk as he left something on my bedside table before ghosting silently back into the dark.

I swung my legs out of bed, pulled jeans and a sweatshirt over my pyjamas, jammed my feet into trainers, and had a quick look at what he’d left me. Night visor, blaster, handgun, stun gun. It would seem something fairly dangerous threatened. Jehovah’s Witnesses, perhaps.

I had no idea what time it was. There was complete silence and it was cold. Very cold. Shivering, I pulled on my night visor, took two deep breaths to calm myself and then eased my head around my bedroom door. I could see a bright green blob further down the landing, which I hoped very much wasn’t just some carelessly discarded nuclear waste. Since I wasn’t at St Mary’s any longer, it seemed safe to assume the blob was only Markham.

Keeping to the long runner that ran down the middle of the landing, I made my way to the top of the stairs, found my own patch of deep shadow, checked my weapons, tried to slow my heart rate . . . and waited.

We’d practised for this. The sudden appearance of unwelcome visitors. All of us knew where to go and what to do when we got there. Dr Bairstow and Mrs Brown would take themselves down to the special cellar – ‘bunker’ would be a better description – with instructions only to open the door when they heard the safe word, no matter who or what was happening at the time.

Pennyroyal and Smallhope would cover downstairs – Penny­royal stationed at the back door that led from the barn where we kept our pods, and Smallhope at the front door. I had the stairs and Markham the long landing. Between the four of us, we had every inch of Home Farm covered.

We’d always known this day would come. With our lifestyle, it was almost inevitable. We had two likely scenarios here: one – we’d finally managed to well and truly piss off the Time Police and they’d decided to wipe us off the face of the earth, or two – what Lady Amelia always persisted in referring to as the criminal classes had come to the conclusion we were too good at what we did and turned up to murder us in our beds. Since our main occupation was to descend on said criminal classes, arrest them and then sell their arses to the Time Police for extremely handsome bounties, this was the more likely option.

Alone in the silent darkness, I adjusted my night visor, eased my position and waited. Whoever they were, wherever they’d come from and whatever they wanted, we were ready for them. The house was surrounded by a complicated network of sensors, which was obviously what had aroused Pennyroyal, who takes security very, very seriously indeed. We were well armed, well prepared and knew exactly what to do. Unless these intruders had brought a battalion or two, the odds were with us.

‘Anything?’ said Pennyroyal in my ear.

‘Negative,’ said Markham.

‘No,’ said Smallhope.

I opened my mouth and in the crackling silence of the house, I heard a faint sound. Directly over my head. A very slight chink.

I whispered, ‘Heads up. They’re coming over the roof.’

The loft hatch was to my left, further down the landing. I inched my way past two empty bedrooms and crouched in an open doorway. The hatch was about ten feet away. I sensed rather than heard Markham move up to take my place at the head of the stairs.

‘I’m coming up,’ said Pennyroyal softly – presumably so we wouldn’t shoot him – and the next moment he’d joined me in my doorway.

That slight sound came again. Difficult to identify. And then I had it. Someone was very slowly and very carefully taking the tiles off the roof. I could picture the scene. A sharp knife to cut through the waterproof membrane and insulation and then they’d have access to the attic. This was a Pennyroyal attic. There would be no generations of ancient furniture and useless bric-a-brac. The space would be clean and clear. Easy for them to move around in.

I looked up. I doubted they’d use the hatch – it would be a pinch point. We’d easily be able to pick them off as they dropped through. No, they’d come straight through the ceiling. I endeavoured to convey this to Pennyroyal through the medium of mime.

He shook his head either in exasperation or admiration – it really wasn’t clear. He obviously didn’t have my skills.

I wasn’t too worried. There were three of us up here – and two of those were Pennyroyal and Markham. Unless our uninvited guests had armed a small thermo-nuclear device, all the advantage lay with the home team.

It would seem Pennyroyal didn’t share my optimism. ‘Back,’ he breathed. ‘All of us.’

We retreated back along the landing and not a moment too soon. With a massive crash and a ton of dust and plaster, the whole ceiling at the end of the landing disintegrated. I jumped, swallowed and brought up my gun. Pennyroyal had provided me with a neat, medium-range blaster. Light, accurate and very effective. Trust me, if I’d been Horatius Cocles, I could have held that bridge forever.

Three figures emerged from the billowing dust, raking the corridor with fire, all of which went straight over our heads because we were safely on the floor. I heard the roar of their blasters and felt the heat. At the same time, I heard Smallhope open fire downstairs. We were being attacked on at least two fronts.

I aimed low. Smallhope always likes us to try to take people alive because we get more for undamaged – or nearly undamaged – illegals. And a bit extra for the amount and value of any intel they might provide, as well. So far, in the course of our new careers as bounty hunters – sorry, recovery agents – Markham and I hadn’t felt the need to kill anyone. Tonight might be different. I could feel the milk of human kindness curdling within me.

They raced down the landing, firing as they came, hoping to drive us back. Perhaps the blasters had just been to soften us up because now bullets thudded into the wall above me, showering me with yet more plaster, and trust me, it’s a bugger to get out of your hair.

Pennyroyal moved up to return fire. Someone went down with a thud. I’d lost sight of the three intruders. Night visors are all very well but even they’re pretty useless when everything’s enveloped in clouds of dust, plaster and shattered wood. I didn’t want to hit Pennyroyal by mistake – I had an idea that wouldn’t go down at all well – so all I could do was wait for the situation to resolve itself.

There was a shout from behind. Markham yelled at me to get clear.

I rolled into the shelter of the bedroom to my left and as I did so, twin streams of blaster fire roared past the door. I swear I felt my hair curl in the heat.

I heard Markham shout, ‘Clear. Fire at will,’ so I rolled back out again, firing as I came.

My role was simple. To keep them pinned down while Markham and Pennyroyal used my covering fire to move forwards. I kept playing the flame from right to left and back again. The long carpet was on fire, as were the curtains at all the windows. Unless the buggers had taken cover in one of the bedrooms, they were toast.

Pennyroyal called to cease fire so I rolled back into the bedroom again to check my weapons. The blaster was nearly empty. No matter – it had done its work. I suspected it would be handguns from now on.

I saw the blur that was Pennyroyal whip past the door. I tossed aside my blaster and pulled out the handgun and waited.

The next few minutes were confused. I had no idea who was where. Somewhere I heard Pennyroyal shout, ‘Max, hostiles at your two o’clock.’

I rolled back out of the bedroom, fired two shots and heard something hit the floor. I stayed where I was. We all had our own part to play – our own position to hold. Markham at the rear providing long-range cover and watching our backs. Me holding the middle ground, ready to move forward or back as circumstances demanded. Pennyroyal up front, all ready to go in and do as much damage as he pleased.

Bullets and blaster fire criss-crossed the narrow passage. The heat and noise were intense. I could hear the same happening downstairs. I had no idea how many intruders there were altogether. Nor did I have any idea how Smallhope was coping on her own, although I was prepared to bet she was carving her way through wave after wave of miscreants with the winning combination of bad language, brutally accurate gunfire and margarita fumes. If she wasn’t, then they could be coming up the stairs behind us at this very moment.

I couldn’t spare the time to worry about that. Concentrate on the now, Maxwell. My job was in front of me: to do my best and trust others to do theirs.

A plaster-bedecked figure loomed through the dust. I think we were both equally surprised to see each other. He raised his weapon. I had nowhere to go. I made a split-second decision and rolled under his gun, knocking his legs out from under him. He fell across me and my first thought – because I’m not famed for my focus in a crisis – was that he was wet. Very wet. The second was that he didn’t weigh anything like as much as I thought he would.

He was crushing my gun into my body. I couldn’t get it free. We rolled around. At some point I was back on top again. I had a vague impression of armour, a helmet and Chanel No. 5. That didn’t seem right. Had I banged my head?

A voice hissed in my ear. ‘You bitch – I could have loved you.’

I wonder if that’s come as much of a surprise to you as it did to me.

It was enough for me to lose concentration. The next minute she was back on top of me. I needed to separate her from her weapon, but the only way I could do that was to relinquish my own and she already had an advantage over me with her armour and helmet and so on while I was still, technically, in my pyjamas.

I let go of my own gun and concentrated on just keeping the business end of hers pointing away from me. The battle raged around us. This close combat wasn’t to my advantage. She was dealing short, sharp, vicious punches to my ribcage, each one extremely painful. And then I got an elbow in my face. I tasted blood from a split lip. Was this personal? It felt personal. It was very fortunate that most of her blows were either deflected or went astray in the dark, otherwise I’d have been finished there and then.

She headbutted me which really, really hurt because only one of us was wearing a helmet. I blinked to try to clear my vision and she drew her head back to do it again.

I didn’t think I could handle another one and so, in desper­ation, I twisted and bucked like an old mule. Anything to get her off me. There was a confused and tangled moment in the dark during which I became quite disoriented and then, suddenly, the floor disappeared beneath me and we were both falling down the stairs.

They were wooden but carpeted. I’ve fallen down worse. And they were fairly wide and shallow. Trust me – I’m an expert on stairs. You should have seen the murderous death trap that ended Amy Robsart.

The next few seconds were jumbled. As they tend to when you’re tumbling down stairs. The good news was that she let go of her gun as she fell. We both grabbed at it – she to retrieve it and me to get it out of the way. We both missed. I heard it falling down the stairs ahead of us.

The bad news was that she didn’t let go of me. Her momentum propelled her downwards – as did mine – and there was rather more of me. We tumbled over each other. I know my knee must have caught her somehow because of the sudden flash of hot pain in my right leg. Like a big red sunburst. And then I was upside down. I was on the bottom, bearing the weight of both of us and I was bruised all over. And, for the record – carpeted stairs are no better than bare wood. I would be looking at savage carpet burns.

Something bashed my arm and I instinctively grabbed at what turned out to be one of the carved wooden spindles that made up the banisters. It jarred my shoulder and the old pain started up again but it did arrest my fall. Not so my dancing partner, who rolled right over the top of me and continued the trip solo. I heard a rather nasty sound as she hit the stone flags at the bottom.

I followed her down, all ready to give her a seeing-to if she looked like getting up – because for some reason, she’d had a real desire to do me harm – but she wasn’t moving. She sprawled at the foot of the stairs, face down and quite still. Out cold by the look of it.

‘Hold your fire – it’s me,’ I said breathlessly before Smallhope could make an unfortunate mistake in the dark.

I jammed my gun between my assailant’s shoulder blades and shouted, quite redundantly as it turned out, ‘Don’t move.’

She didn’t, so taking advantage of this unexpected cooperation, I pulled her arms behind her back and zipped her tight.

‘Prisoner secured,’ I said to Smallhope, found a spot on the bottom stair and waited.

There was more gunfire upstairs. They were going at it hammer and tongs up there.

Smallhope called for me to watch the back door just as it burst open and two gas canisters rolled across the floor. Instinctively – well, I call it instinct, everyone else calls it blind stupidity – I stood up, took two steps and kicked them straight back out again.

‘What?’ shouted Smallhope. ‘Gas canisters? That’s just rude. If you want us, come and get us, boys.’

The shooting upstairs had stopped. For what I could only hope were good reasons.

Smallhope and I were pouring fire through the open back door, keeping whoever was out there completely pinned down. I heard someone on the stairs and Markham said, ‘I’m behind you,’ which wasn’t anything like as reassuring as he thought it was.

‘Where’s Pennyroyal?’

‘Gone out the window,’ he said tersely. ‘Not in a good mood. Wouldn’t want to be them.’

Home Farm is a long, low building. The bedroom windows aren’t that high. Pennyroyal would be heading towards the barn to come up behind them.

I flexed my fingers. My gun was hot in my hands and my forearm ached with the strain. My shoulder was throbbing from when I’d fallen down the stairs.

A couple of flashes and an enormous bang told me Pennyroyal was busy doing some damage outside. The three of us waited, weapons raised, all ready for whatever came through the door next.

I heard Pennyroyal shouting not to shoot. Which meant he was in the barn with our unwelcome visitors. Coming up behind them probably. Which also meant they would very soon be regretting their decision to get out of bed this morning. I was crouching to one side of the stairs, my legs on fire and I was covered in dust, but otherwise unscathed. Was it all over? I could hear Markham reloading behind me.

We waited. We waited some more.

Suddenly, there was a shout, a burst of gunfire, and then, finally, after one almighty bang – silence. Dust and black smoke poured in through the shattered back door. I brought up my gun, all ready for whatever came through the door next.

Which was Pennyroyal. ‘All clear,’ he called, emerging through the smoke. ‘Two of them out here. One dead. One not very well.’

‘Two up on the landing,’ reported Markham. ‘Dead.’

‘One down here,’ I said. ‘Unconscious.’

‘Well, sodding arseholes,’ said Lady Amelia. ‘Struggling not to feel left out.’

Markham told her she could have one of his.

I went to see if mine had come round yet. I lifted her visor and got rather a shock. I’d gathered she was female because you can’t roll around with someone and be completely unaware of their gender, but I’d envisaged some battle-hardened veteran with the scars to prove it. Given the viciousness of her attack, I think that had been a natural assumption. But she wasn’t. She was younger than me. And pretty. She was also dead. I swallowed. Her blue eyes stared straight at me.

‘Dead,’ I called.

Her head lay on her shoulder. Like a broken doll. Had that been the sound I heard? Her neck breaking?

I think the first thing that flashed through my mind was the randomness of fate. Or luck. We’d both rolled down the stairs. At some point either impact or an awkward position had ended her life, but it could just as easily have been mine. I shivered. When I think of the number of times I’ve fallen down a flight of stairs. I just pick myself up, dust myself down, swear a bit and carry on. And not just me. Many of us believe Bashford is constitutionally incapable of descending a staircase without tumbling from top to bottom. And these weren’t even particularly steep stairs.

Around me, silence had fallen.

Markham appeared beside me. ‘Is there something you want to tell us?’ I realised he must have heard what she’d said.

You bitch – I could have loved you.

‘No.’

‘Sure?’ He bent down to take off her helmet.

I made myself look at her face again. A little younger than me. Chin-length, glossy black hair, flattened now by her helmet. Very blue eyes. ‘I’ve never seen her before – I swear it.’

‘You sure? You do know you can be a bit forgetful at times, don’t you? You sure you haven’t had some sort of relationship that’s just slipped your mind?’

‘I don’t think so.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Unless you’re saying I bewitched her from a distance with my beauty.’

‘No. No one’s saying that.’

I looked again. ‘Do you know her?’

‘Don’t know any of them.’

‘Who are they? What’s this all about?’

‘Absolutely no idea. And why are they all so wet? They’ve definitely been in water in the last hour . . .’

I looked again. The woman had a couple of long black scorch marks along her breastplate that I didn’t think had been my doing.

Markham sniffed gently. ‘She smells of burning.’

‘Perhaps that’s why she’s wet – trying to put out a fire somewhere.’

‘Mm.’ He looked around. ‘I suspect they’d had a rough day even before they turned up here, don’t you think?’

We dragged them all into the hall and zipped them hard. Even the dead ones.

‘The ties are coded to us,’ Pennyroyal had said during our induction. ‘The Time Police tot them up and reward us accordingly. Eventually.’

This is a long-standing grievance for Pennyroyal. The Time Police always cough up in the end, but they often make us wait and as he says, the invoice clearly states payment within twenty-eight days of delivery.

Markham and Pennyroyal went off to search upstairs – just to make sure we hadn’t missed anyone – while Smallhope and I did a room-to-room downstairs. Then we all went outside and searched the farm buildings and garden.

Nothing and no one. Just the five inside. We traipsed back in again to inspect the damage. At least, Pennyroyal and Markham inspected the damage; Smallhope searched the prisoners and I put the kettle on. We all have our own areas of expertise.

‘Well,’ said Smallhope, ‘wasn’t that exciting while it lasted? What’s the bad news? Is the house about to fall on our heads, Pennyroyal?’

‘There’s a big hole in the roof, my lady,’ said Pennyroyal. ‘That’s not going to be cheap. Bastards.’

He scowled at our unwelcome guests. The five of them lay in a neat row along the narrow passage because Pennyroyal does like things to be tidy. Four men and one woman, and definitely not included in the kitchen festivities because, as Lady Amelia had kindly informed the survivor – they weren’t really our sort of people.

‘Part of the landing ceiling’s come down and I can see the sky,’ continued Pennyroyal. ‘Your rooms are OK.’ He nodded at me and Markham. ‘And your end of the building is untouched, my lady. The worst is the damage to the back door leading from the barn. We are no longer secure.’

‘The pods?’

‘Unharmed. We can check them over later but there’s no visible damage.’

I nodded. It’s almost impossible to gain entry to a pod if you don’t have the right biometrics or password or door code or whatever. You can kick the door all you like – you can whine, beg and plead – but you ain’t getting in.

‘Well,’ Smallhope said, getting the mugs out, ‘I wonder what that was all about. There wasn’t anything in their pockets. Not that I thought there would be.’

‘Let’s ask the survivor,’ said Pennyroyal, getting to his feet.

The others congregated around the zipped survivor while I stared down at the woman again. Medium height, medium build. Those bright blue eyes still stared sightlessly over my shoulder. Once again, it crossed my mind that that could easily have been me. If I’d been the one to fall awkwardly . . . If I hadn’t grabbed the banister . . . If I’d . . . Stop that, Maxwell.

Now the light was better, I could see the others had scorch marks on their armour and clothing as well. I sniffed. It was hard to tell with the dust and smoke mingling with their damp clothes, but they all smelled . . . burned . . . to me. Perhaps they had been in a fire after all.

Smallhope was examining their weapons. ‘There’s some good stuff here. I think we’ll hang on to some of this.’

‘Not some second-rate organisation,’ said Markham, turning a blaster over in his hands. He looked down at their black clothing, boots, body armour, helmets. ‘A professional outfit.’

‘Good to know,’ said Lady Amelia. ‘I refuse to be terminated by people at the unfortunate end of the social scale.’

‘Indeed, my lady,’ said Pennyroyal, nodding his agreement.

He addressed the sole – but possibly not for much longer – survivor. ‘Name?’

The man shook his head. He was, I think, the youngest, but none of them looked older than their mid-thirties. I didn’t think he’d talk. Markham was right – they were professionals. And if they’d been hired, they might not even know for whom they’d been working.

I made the tea and then went off to let Dr Bairstow out of the cellar because – and don’t tell him this – we’d forgotten he and Mrs Brown were still down there.

I made very sure to tap on the door and give the safe word, because no one wants the phrase ‘friendly fire’ on their death certificate. My caution was more than justified. He and Mrs Brown had built themselves a completely unnecessary barricade out of all the sort of stuff you usually find in cellars and were manning it with considerable enthusiasm. I could see a couple of heavy-duty blasters pointing in my direction. Really, I don’t know why Markham and I had bothered getting out of bed.

‘We won,’ I said, standing in the doorway.

‘I never doubted it for one moment,’ said Dr Bairstow, shutting down his blaster. ‘Report.’

‘Five of them. Four men, one woman. One survivor who isn’t talking. Or wasn’t when I left. Pennyroyal may be able to change his mind.’

Mrs Brown shouldered her blaster. ‘Are we secure?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Big hole in the roof. Ceiling down on the landing. Back door blown off its hinges. Otherwise, all OK.’

They trotted up the stairs. Dr Bairstow especially can get around considerably more quickly than you might think. Ask Markham, who, several times in his career, has come across Dr Bairstow at the most inconvenient moments. He can be quite eloquent on the subject.

Dr Bairstow bent over the prisoners. ‘Anything?’ he enquired of Pennyroyal, who shook his head.

‘Do you recognise them at all, sir?’

Dr Bairstow shook his head. He and Mrs Brown had recently spent some time as unwilling guests of the government. It had not ended well. For the government, that is. Was it possible the targets of tonight’s little adventure were Dr Bairstow and Mrs Brown, rather than Pennyroyal and Smallhope as I’d assumed? There was also an outside chance they’d been after Markham – who isn’t who he seems, and that’s all I’m going to say. It seemed safe to assume no one was after me. I tried not to feel too aggrieved because no one likes being left out, do they?

‘I think,’ said Lady Amelia, ‘that we should get these fellows off the premises as soon as possible. I don’t like having dead people about the place. Pennyroyal can drop them off with the Time Police and claim any bounty. With luck it’ll be enough to cover the damage.’

She bent down. ‘You hear that, you bastard? We’re selling you to the Time Police. Pennyroyal, be sure to tell them how uncooperative the prisoner has been. Invite them to try out all their latest interrogation techniques. Say goodbye to the world, my friend. You’ll never see it again. Get them out of here.’

We carted them into Pennyroyal’s pod, huffing and puffing away because some of us are not as fit as we should be. His pod disappeared and we retreated back into the kitchen.

‘If you’ve no objection, Lady Amelia,’ said Markham, ‘I’ll take Max and we’ll have a look around outside. I know we’ve covered the farm buildings but I’d like to extend the search. They must have come from somewhere.’

‘You’re expecting to find a pod?’

‘Given the quality of their weapons, I wouldn’t be surprised.’

‘In that case, have at it. We’ll have breakfast on your return.’

2.

I threw on my old riding mac, slung a new blaster over my shoulder, and set off to look for any clues as to the origin of our night visitors. Which I quite enjoyed, actually, because it gave me the opportunity to ride one of those quad bike thingies and they’re great fun. Although surprisingly wilful. There had been that incident when the sheep had herded me instead of vice versa. Which wasn’t half as funny as Markham would have you believe.

We worked in increasing circles from the farmhouse. Markham clockwise and me the other way. I’d say widdershins but that would only set him off on his Fun Facts again as he attempted to explain the origins of the word, and one can only take so much cataclysm in one night.

I bumped across fields, swerving around sleepy sheep who made absolutely no attempt to get out of my way. I couldn’t help wondering how Markham was faring because he’s a priority target for the animal world. I had a proximity meter, and apart from a few hazy green blobs that could have been either sheep or Markham – very similar readings, for some reason – I was alone.

And then, north of Home Farm and about three fields away, in a small copse, a brief flicker. A pod signature.

I opened my com. ‘Hey.’

‘Good morning,’ he said reproachfully, because he does like standards to be maintained.

‘Possible signature. Hundred yards to my right. That small copse we can see from the kitchen window. Find me. I’ll wait for you.’

I parked the bike, adjusted my night visor, followed the hedge, and approached the copse with caution, because I had no idea whether anyone would’ve been left on board. Finding a handy bush to crouch behind, I settled down to wait for the young master.

He’s really very good. I never heard the slightest whisper of either him or the quad bike. I was blithely looking in the wrong direction for him when his voice said, ‘Two trees to your right.’

I squinted through my visor at what was either a very strangely shaped tree or a normal tree with a wayward ex-Head of Security crouching behind it.

Following his hand signals, we moved silently towards the pod, ghosting from tree to tree. The ground was damp so I didn’t have to worry about rustling leaves. The morning was still dark but if they had proximity alerts and night vision, they’d know we were here anyway. I couldn’t see any signs of life from the pod which led me to believe it was unmanned. Surely the driver would have legged it by now, having lost all contact with his comrades well over an hour ago. Even so, we weren’t going to take any chances.

I can’t believe I just said that. Do you think that’s what they call personal growth? Moving on . . .

We both fetched up at the pod together – Markham on the right and me on the left. The door was midway between us.

I remembered an old trick. I held up my hand to signal ‘wait’. He lowered his gun. I pointed to the roof and cupped my hands.

He nodded, took two steps forwards and I boosted him up. Well, actually, I performed the basic functions of a ladder and he scrambled up me like a monkey up a stick. Good job he’s small and light because I have the upper body strength of damp cotton wool. There was a brief, perilous moment when we both nearly toppled into the mud but then I leaned against the wall and braced myself and generally saved the day.

He jumped down. I massaged some life back into my hands and he shook his head. No one up there.

If there was anyone inside, they were taking their time coming out and shooting us. We both looked at the door. There had been five of them. This was a small pod. They’d have been cramped. It would appear no one had called the pod for reinforcements. Or to tell them to get out while the going was good. On the balance of probabilities, this pod was empty.

I looked at Markham, whose thoughts, I suspected, were running along the same lines. I backed off behind a tree and brought up my blaster to give him cover.

He said, ‘Door,’ and at the same time threw himself to one side.

Nothing happened. He picked himself up and I advanced cautiously.

Both St Mary’s and Time Police pods are fitted with the latest in biometrics, meaning most people can’t gain access unless they’re programmed in. However, it’s expensive enough to build a pod, without struggling with the cost of optional extras. Even programmed passwords. When I was at St Mary’s, I could barely remember my head of department login and frequently had to ask my assistant, Rosie Lee. Rather in the same way I have to get Matthew to open things with childproof locks. We – they – St Mary’s – don’t password our pods because trying to remember a complicated set of numbers and letters that must include at least one punctuation symbol, one number, and one uppercase letter in the middle of the Great Fire of London or with a hungry T-rex bearing down on you is quite difficult. So mostly, we – they – just call for the door and as long as we’re programmed in – it opens. Occasionally, if things are expected to become really hairy, we have a code woven into the fabric of our costumes. Just in case you’ve had your tongue cut out, they told me during training.

‘Door,’ however, wasn’t the word.

I frowned. ‘Open.’

Nothing.

Markham leaned over my shoulder. ‘Open, please.’

The door opened.

‘I keep telling you,’ he said, radiating smugness, ‘standards should always be maintained.’

I informed him I could maintain my own standards by shooting him now, and we entered the pod.

It was empty. No people inside and nowhere to hide. There was a very basic console, six metal seats bolted around the walls, and some sort of weapons locker. That was it. No decon lamp. Not even a kettle. Certainly no bathroom. Bloody amateurs.

The next thing that grabbed my attention was the smell of burning. There was a big impact burn on the wall opposite the door. It looked as if something fiery had come through the door, ricocheted off that wall, hit the wall over the console – damaging the screen and leaving another long scorch mark – and then dropped to the floor, where it had obviously burned for some time because there was a small melted crater, at the centre of which were the remains of a burned-out fizzer.

Fizzers are a form of emergency flare made to fire into the air. I’ve used them myself. They hover for ages, painting everything a lurid red and convincing your enemies/dinosaurs/religious fanatics/whoever that the end of days is at hand and to push off while they still can.

What you don’t do – what you don’t ever do – is fire one inside. They’re only for exterior use. They go off with considerable force and once they’re lit, you can’t put them out. Even if they land on water, they’ll still fizz for a while. Like phosphorous. Do I mean phosphorous? Or magnesium, perhaps? Anyway, you never fire a fizzer inside because they’ll just keep going – bouncing off the ceiling, walls, people, whatever – until they expire. Which takes a while. I remembered our assailants had all been wet. Had they had an accident with a fizzer and tried to put it out?

I looked around. No fire extinguisher. No fittings on the wall where a fire extinguisher could be mounted. Sloppy. Very sloppy.

Markham rummaged through the contents of the locker, shoving it all into a small cardboard box, while I sat at the console and checked the coordinates. Surprisingly, there were quite a lot. Far too many to remember.

‘We need to download these,’ I said, ‘and I don’t have a gizmo.’ Neither of us had thought to bring one.

‘You go back,’ I said. ‘I’ll be fine here. I’ll have a poke about and see what else I can find. Anything interesting in the locker?’

‘Yes. Take a look at this while I’m gone. I’ll be ten minutes – no more.’

Markham handed me a scrap of A4 paper torn in half, with LC 0900 20/5 scribbled on it. There seemed to be some kind of logo in the top left-hand corner. Part of a hand, perhaps, holding an ice-cream cone.

‘An appointment,’ I said, and stuffed it into my pocket.

‘Don’t open the door to strangers.’ He disappeared and I heard his bike start up in the distance.

Now that all the excitement was over, the night had turned even colder. I was glad of my scruffy, smelly, but very warm riding mac. Shivering, I stood in the doorway and shone my torch around the little wood outside. The light picked out gaunt and skeletal trees. And eyes. Lots and lots of eyes. Which was really creepy. And did I mention how cold it was?

I shut the door against anyone or anything attempting to gain access – either human or a passing badger, wanting to get into the warmth. It seemed the sensible thing to do at the time. As I explained to everyone afterwards. You’d think I’d know better by now. When does being sensible ever keep you safe?

I settled myself down at the console for a bit of a think.

Everyone does it occasionally. You sit down and reflect on how you got to this point in your life. Ponder your life choices. What would you have done differently? What should you have done differently?

Quite a lot in my case.

My world was upside down. The reported death of Dr Bairstow had brought John Treadwell to St Mary’s. It really hadn’t taken me long to fall foul of him. And the knowledge he was really a Time Police officer had not endeared him to me even a little bit. And then there’d been Hyssop – Markham’s replacement as Head of Security. I’d really managed to fall out with her. And the people she brought with her. I suppose the only surprise was that it had taken me so long to be sacked. Perhaps I was losing my touch. Or mellowing with age. Although, remembering the head-bursting rage with which I’d confronted both Treadwell and Hyssop – probably not.

And now, here I was with Markham – who, for reasons of his own, had also left St Mary’s and was here with me. Here is Home Farm, owned by Lady Amelia Smallhope and her alleged butler, Pennyroyal. They’d recruited us and now Markham and I were both pursuing successful careers as . . . recovery agents. Hey, how about that? I remembered.

Very successful careers, actually. Trust me, being on the slightly wrong side of the law is considerably more lucrative than being on the right side of it. Markham and I were doing very nicely, thank you. Due, in no small part, I suspected, to our naturally unlaw-abiding natures. The phrase ducks to water had been used. And by Dr Bairstow, no less. It’s a long story but both Dr Bairstow and Mrs Brown are wanted by government security. Especially since Markham and I had snatched Dr Bairstow from the clutches of Martin Gaunt, superintendent of the Red House and one of the few people who genuinely frightened me. I was definitely in no hurry to see him again. But – should all this ever resolve itself into a happy ending for everyone – Markham and I would be very nicely placed to make a fresh start with our respective families.

So the situation wasn’t desperate. Not for us, anyway. And Peterson would look after St Mary’s in the meantime. He was far more adept at dealing with idiots than me. As someone had pointed out, St Mary’s would probably do much better now I wasn’t there. But even so . . . none of this was ideal. And there was Leon out there somewhere, conducting the world’s longest field trial on a pod. Sooner or later . . .

No – nothing I could do about that. Have some faith in other people, Maxwell, and concentrate on the job in hand.

Good advice. I should take it.

I was leaning over the console to make an in-depth analysis of the data available – or as in-depth as I could get until Markham turned up with the right equipment – when the chronometer went clunk.

Something lit up on the console. A metallic voice said, ‘Autopilot engaged. Enter code to disengage.’

I leaped out of the chair.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. It wasn’t anything I’d done. I swear it wasn’t anything I’d done. I hadn’t touched a thing. Honest.

And I hadn’t got a clue what the code might be. I didn’t even intend to try. I had only a second or two and then I was going to be in very deep trouble indeed.

I shouted, ‘Door,’ out of sheer habit, completely forgetting that wouldn’t work, and then lunged across the pod, meaning to pull the trip switch and cut off the power, but it was too late.

‘Code not entered. Jumping in three, two, one . . .’

Shiiiiiiiiiit . . .