Lies, Damned Lies, and History

Book 7: Chronicles of St. Mary's

by Jodi Taylor

Genres: Time Travel; Historical Fantasy

Synopsis

The seventh book in the bestselling Chronicles of St Mary's series which follows a group of tea-soaked disaster magnets as they hurtle their way around History. If you love Jasper Fforde or Ben Aaronovitch, you won't be able to resist Jodi Taylor.

Rules are meant to be broken, aren't they?

'I've done some stupid things in my time. I've been reckless. I've broken a few rules. But never before have I ruined so many lives or left such a trail of destruction behind me.'

Max has never been one for rules. They tend to happen to other people.

But this time she's gone too far. And everyone at St Mary's is paying the price.

With the History Department disintegrating around her and grounded until the end of time, how can she ever put things right?

(P) 2016 Audible, Ltd

Release date: January 1, 2019

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 362

Sample

Dramatis Thingummy

Key historical figures

Also featuring besieged Britons, marauding Saxons, excited Londoners, supernatural apparitions, Rushford’s finest, pickpockets, bluestones, thieves in the night, possible wolves, a clergyman with a high moral tone, a number of lightly damaged Time Police Officers, an unspecified amount of Turd Tumbler, and Oscar the Ringworm.

Prologue

I’ve never been one for rules. They don’t really seem to apply to me. I can’t begin to count the number of times I’ve had to stand in front of someone’s desk while they talked at me, sometimes for some considerable length of time. The only good thing is that, usually, it’s only me involved.

But not this time. This time I was in serious trouble. This time I’d done something really bad. Never mind that I thought it was for the best of reasons. This time I’d really gone too far.

I couldn’t complain. Not long ago, Dr Bairstow, who always saw further than anyone else at St Mary’s, had tried to warn me, saying, ‘You need to take care, Max. Great care. You are beginning to tread the line between what is acceptable and what is not. From there, it only takes the smallest step to find you have stepped over that line and that you have done the wrong thing for the right reasons. I am warning you, in future, to be very, very careful.’

I should have listened to him and I didn’t. This time, I’d not just crossed the line – I’d practically pole-vaulted over it.

And this time I’d involved Peterson – whose future at St Mary’s was looking very shaky indeed.

And Markham who, thanks to me, would now probably never succeed Major Guthrie as head of the Security Section.

And that wasn’t the worst of it. People had lost their jobs. Roberts, my youngest historian had given in his notice. He’d insisted on trying to take all the blame. There had been a brief shouting session with Dr Bairstow and then Roberts was gone, hurling himself through the front doors and crashing the gears of his car in his haste to get down the drive and out of the gates. With the state he was in, I shouldn’t have let him go, but there was no holding him.

And David Sands – long-time friend and ally. He’d resigned, too.

And possibly the worst of all, the Chancellor of the University of Thirsk, Dr Chalfont, who had fought our corner on so many occasions – she was out as well. She’d stood her ground and argued for us – which was good of her because she’d been more furious with me than anyone else, Dr Bairstow included – and the knives that had been waiting for this opportunity for years came out. She’d been allowed to retire. Ill health, they said, but that was just for public show. I’d got her sacked as well. And Dr Bairstow was only hanging on by the skin of his teeth.

I’ve done some stupid things. I’ve been reckless, but never have I ruined so many lives or left such a trail of destruction behind me.

I suppose the story begins with Bashford’s attempt to emulate William Tell.

Chapter One

‘Right you lot,’ I said, crashing through the door to the men’s ward in Sick Bay, mug of tea in one hand, Accident Book in the other. ‘What’s the story here?’

They regarded me guiltily. Historians Bashford and Roberts were contravening rules and regs by sitting on the bed. Sands hung over the back of a chair. Miss Lingoss was perched in the window seat, giving us all a first-class view of today’s hair extravaganza. A red, gold, and orange sunburst was exploding around her head. She looked like an exuberant cactus.

The villain of the piece – or the idiot responsible for this particular catastrophe, if you wanted to use Dr Bairstow’s exact words – was propped up on his pillows looking interestingly pale, his left ear covered with a dressing, which was, in turn, held in place by a rakishly angled bandage.

Someone found me a chair. One of the few advantages of being pregnant: you’re not allowed to stand up. God knows why. You’re just as pregnant sitting down. Anyway, I made myself comfortable, put my feet up on Markham’s bed, pulled over his fruit bowl, and helped myself to his grapes. He knew better than to argue. He was – they all were – in some deep shit here. Since this was something that happened on a regular basis, no one seemed that bothered.

My name is Maxwell, and I’m in charge of the History Department – or The Usual Suspects, as they’re sometimes known. Everyone present belonged to me, with the exception of Markham – or The Patient, as he’s sometimes known. Or, on one or two occasions – The Accused.

He was fussing about my boots on his bed.

‘If Nurse Hunter comes in I’ll get the blame,’ he said.

That’s another thing about Markham. He’s as brave as a lion, gets himself shot at, blown up, set on fire, dropped or drowned far more often than is probably good for him, and it’s all water off a duck’s back, but one harsh word from blonde, fluffy Nurse Hunter and he looks like a puppy with a brick round its neck.

‘The sooner I get this sorted, the sooner I’m gone,’ I said. ‘Who’s going to start?’

I’m not sure why I bothered asking. No one at St Mary’s is backward when coming forward to tell their side of the story. They all talked at once, of course, and it would have been sensible of them to have spent a little time first agreeing which was going to be the official version, but we got there in the end.

‘William Tell,’ said Roberts, and from that moment, everything was crystal clear. No reason why I shouldn’t have a little fun, though.

It would seem that an argument – sorry, academic discussion – had arisen over various myths and legends, and someone had dragged in William Tell. From there, it was only a short trip to the story of Tell shooting the apple off his son’s head. From there, it was an even shorter trip to the possibility of such a feat. From there, it was only a tiny step to them having a go themselves, and from there it was as inevitable as a politician cheating on his expenses claim that Markham would lose a body part.

Back in the 14th century, Switzerland was occupied by the Austrians. They set up a hat on a pole in the Altdorf marketplace and instructed the people to bow as they passed. William Tell refused. Tell was famous for his prowess with a crossbow and, displaying the sense of humour for which Austrians are renowned, they thought it would be a hilarious idea to place an apple on his son’s head and challenge him to shoot if off.

Which he did.

Apparently, various historians had scoffed at this, one thing had led to another, and the next minute, half of St Mary’s was outside with a crossbow and a bowl of fruit.

You do see where this is heading, don’t you?

‘Whose idea was this? I asked and the way no one looked at Miss Lingoss told me everything I wanted to know.

‘So why was the apple on Markham’s head and not Miss Lingoss’s?’

‘Oh come on, Max,’ said Sands. ‘Stick an apple on her head and you’d never see it again.’

True enough, I supposed.

‘Who shot the bolt?’ I demanded and, astonishingly, no one could remember.

I sighed and closed the book. The only reason we weren’t shut down years ago by the Health and Safety Executive is that we only have to file official paperwork if someone is actually carted off to hospital. Since we have our own very well equipped Sick Bay, we’re able to keep most things in-house. Although if anyone ever checks up on exactly how we manage to get through two Accident Books a month, we’re in serious trouble.

‘So what really happened?’ I said, putting the book away so they knew we were off the record.

‘He moved,’ said Bashford indignantly.

‘I did not,’ said Markham, even more indignantly.

‘For the love of God, I was only ten feet in front of you. I couldn’t possibly have missed. You moved.’

‘You couldn’t hit a bloody barn door,’ replied Markham with spirit. ‘I told you we should have used a pumpkin.’

I enquired exactly what the damage was.

‘Lost the top of my left ear,’ he said proudly. ‘I look like Spock. Not the baby guy. The other one.’

‘Actually,’ said Lingoss, whose fault all this probably was, ‘we should do the other one as well. So he’s balanced.’

‘It’ll take a lot more than snipping his ear to balance Markham,’ said Bashford, who obviously hadn’t forgiven him for the slur on his marksmanship.

‘You don’t think it’s spoiled my looks, do you?’ said Markham, anxiously.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing could.’

He brightened. ‘Thank you.’

I don’t think that was quite what Bashford had meant but, at that moment, Hunter appeared with a tray of instruments and a determined expression, and we all found good reasons to be somewhere else.

I had an excellent reason for being somewhere else. Dr Bairstow wished to see me. I suspected he was about to make a spirited attempt to reduce Markham’s salary on the grounds that he was paying full whack for someone with two good ears, and suddenly he had a security guard with only one and three quarters.

As I said, my name is Maxwell and I’m Chief Operations Officer here at St Mary’s, or the Institute of Historical Research at St Mary’s Priory, to give us our full title. We observe and document major historical events in contemporary time. Calling it time travel incurs Dr Bairstow’s displeasure and you really don’t want to do that, which was why, as I trotted towards his office, I spent the time deleting some facts and rearranging others, so that I could present him with a coherent and, above all, very nearly accurate account of the events that had led Markham to shed yet another body part.

I handed Mrs Partridge the Accident Book and she waved me through to his office.

‘Good morning, sir.’

‘Dr Maxwell. Please sit.’

I complied, eyeing the two mission folders on his desk. This looked interesting.

He never wasted time asking me how I was feeling, which I always appreciated. There was no point. I had significantly failed to suffer morning sickness, swollen ankles, cravings for bizarre combinations of food or any of the symptoms typical of your gravid female. Occasionally I suffered a little absent-mindedness. Twice Leon, my husband, had found his beer under the bathroom washbasin and the toilet cleaner in the fridge, and if he wanted to put that down to baby brain that was fine with me.

‘Two assignments. Both from the usual source.’

He was referring to the University of Thirsk. Our employers. Or so they liked to think.

‘So what have we got, sir?’

The first is to observe the coronation of George IV …’

‘OK,’ I said, mentally assigning that one to someone else. Anyone else.

‘And the other is …’ he paused dramatically, because if he does have a weakness, it’s to be a bit of a showman, ‘Arminius.’

I was enthusiastic. ‘Herman the German! Cool.’

He leaned back. ‘Yes, but not for you. I’d like you to give Arminius to Mr Clerk.’

‘What? But why?’

He raised an eyebrow.

‘I’m pregnant, sir,’ I said indignantly. ‘Not diseased. Or incapable. Or deficient.’

He raised the other eyebrow, effortlessly indicating that, for me, it was possible to be all four simultaneously.

‘That was the deal, Dr Maxwell. No hazardous jumps. If you decline the coronation, I can always send Miss Sykes. She needs the experience.’

‘So George IV or nothing at all.’

‘How quickly you grasp my meaning.’

‘Being pregnant has given me superpowers, sir. Which you could use to the advantage of St Mary’s by sending me to the Teutoburg Forest and Mr Clerk to Westminster Abbey.’

‘I don’t think you will find this assignment to be lacking in excitement.’

‘But it’s so …’ I paused.

He looked up. ‘So …?’

‘So … girlie, sir.’

He sat back and prepared to enjoy himself. I sometimes think winding me up is the one small daily pleasure he allows himself.

I gritted my teeth and persevered. ‘The Battle of the Teutoburg Forest is the battle that halted the Roman advance across Germany. A key point in History, and as such, sir, you need an experienced historian to lead the mission and …’

‘Do you doubt Mr Clerk?’

‘No sir, he’s very competent. It’s just that he’s not …’ I paused to grope for a word, which was a mistake.

‘Pregnant.’ He finished the sentence for me. ‘The deal was that you continue to jump as long as your health permits – and I have to say it is a pleasure to see you looking so well, if a little flushed at the moment – and that you avail yourself only of the … gentler … assignments. I have distinct memories of putting these terms before you, and even more distinct memories of your accepting them.’

He had me there. At the time, I’d been so grateful not to be removed from the active list that I would have agreed to almost anything, but to see the great Arminius – Herman the German – to be in the Teutoburg … to witness the battle that turned back the Romans …

‘I don’t think you will find the coronation dull, Dr Maxwell, if that is what is troubling you.’

‘More or less dull than a full-scale military engagement, sir?’

He handed me the folders. ‘I’m sure you will make something of it. Take Mr Markham with you. A full set of ears is probably not a requirement for this assignment.’

Markham wouldn’t be happy either. A major military confrontation would be kicking off in the Teutoburg Forest and neither of us would be there. Life is very hard sometimes. Coronations are usually long, stately, majestic, and, above all, respectable affairs, full of pomp and ceremony, with everyone on their best behaviour. The worst thing that can happen is forgetting to go to the loo before the six-hour-long ceremony commences.

This particular coronation did have a couple of redeeming features. Namely, two of the most unattractive people on the planet. Let me introduce the protagonists.

On my right, ladies and gentlemen, George Augustus Frederick, former Prince Regent, now George IV, King of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland and of Hanover. Fat. Debauched. Crippled by massive debts. Gambler. Drunkard. You name it – he’d bet on it, shagged it, drunk it, or sold it to the highest bidder. Oh, and he was illegally married to Maria Fitzherbert.

On my left, his legal wife, Caroline Amelia Elizabeth of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel. Fat. Highly strung – all right, mad. Hysterical. Demanding. Bossy. Unhygienic. Promiscuous. Loud.

Really, you could argue that by taking each other out of circulation, they’d done the world a favour.

Anyway, the marriage was a catastrophe even by royal standards, where the bar is set pretty high for catastrophe. Apparently, George was blind drunk for three days before his wedding and spent his wedding night passed out in the fireplace where, according to her version of events, his new wife left him to lie. Rumour had it that this was the only night they ever spent together. Since nine months later Caroline gave birth to a baby girl, we can only assume he had the most determined sperm in the history of … well, sperm.

Anyway, on the death of his father, mad George III – the one who mistook a tree for the King of Prussia (easy mistake to make I should think) and peed blue urine – George ascended the throne. His wife turned up for the coronation and had the doors of Westminster Abbey slammed in her face.

And that’s what you’re stuck with if you’re a pregnant historian.

Everyone else was off to record the History-changing Battle of the Teutoburg and I get bloody Caroline of bloody Brunswick. I said as much to Leon, whose fault all this was.

‘I blame you,’ I said. ‘It’s your incessant demand for sex that has saddled me with the Daft Bat of Brunswick.’

‘Really?’ he said, maddeningly unmoved by my plight. ‘I don’t remember any objections. In fact, I seem to remember you being hugely enthusiastic at the time. You did the thing with the … you know.’

‘Yes, never mind that now,’ I said hastily. The only way to deal with embarrassing truths is to ignore them. Like a politician. ‘The fact is that I’m off to 19th-century London to watch a bunch of fat Germans shouting at each other, and I’m going to miss one of the most important events in History.’

‘That was the deal,’ he said, mildly. ‘You can continue jumping but only the quieter jumps. I seem to remember it being your idea.’

‘Yes, but only because the other option was no jumps at all.’

‘Which we can easily implement, if you’re unhappy with the current arrangement.’

I sighed. ‘No, it’s fine.’

‘You sure?’ he said, suddenly anxious.

I felt my usual pang of conscience. Poor Leon. He never complains, but things aren’t easy for him, sometimes.

‘It’s fine,’ I said, suddenly aware that it was.

Chapter Two

Although he succeeded his father in January of 1820, George’s coronation wasn’t held until 19th July the following year. It took him that long to plan it. I might have forgotten to mention he was vain as well. He wanted the biggest, most badass coronation ever. Bigger even than Napoleon’s – and he was an emperor.

The sums he spent were colossal. Parliament voted him £100,000 – which is a lot of money even today – and then, when it was obvious that even that sum wasn’t going to be anything like enough, another £138,000. A total of about £9.5 million in today’s terms. He commissioned a new crown, rejecting the traditional crown of King Edward. He even acquired the Hope Diamond, previously looted from the French Crown Jewels. You only have to look at the Brighton Pavilion – George’s modest little seaside residence – to see he didn’t do things by halves. Sadly for him, despite all his best efforts, the one thing his coronation would be famous for was not the spectacle, or the extravagance, or even his gorgeous self – it would be for his wife, the ghastly Caroline of Brunswick, who would steal the show. And for all the wrong reasons.

The 19th July was a hot day. Just for once, however, fashion worked in the female favour. I wore a pretty summer bonnet, which I tied rather racily under one ear, and a high-waisted walking dress of light blue silk. Since I wasn’t a young girl, I had sleeves and only a moderate number of flounces. The material was light and comfortable. No corsets were involved in any way.

Markham, on the other hand, was trussed up like a turkey in a dark green long-tailed coat and an exotically embroidered waistcoat. He wore an intricately knotted cravat that pushed up his chin for that authentic ‘staring down your nose at the peasants’ look, tight breeches, and boots. He was hot before we even started. I tried not to feel smug.

We met in Hawking Hangar, outside Pod Eight, my favourite. Yes, it was looking a little battered these days, but weren’t we all?

Pods are our centres of operation; they’re solid, apparently stone-built shacks, which jump us back to whichever time period we’ve been assigned. They’re cramped, squalid and the toilet never works properly. Number Eight smelled as it always did – of stale people, overloaded electrics, unstable plumbing, musty carpet, and cabbage.

We bustled inside, depositing our gear in the lockers. The console sat under the wall-mounted screen, which currently showed us a view of scurrying techies heaving their kit back behind the safety line. The two seats bolted to the floor were lumpy and uncomfortable, but life’s essentials – a kettle and a couple of mugs, were present and correct. Since this was my pod, there would be chocolate biscuits around somewhere.

Bunches of thick cable ran up the walls and looped across the ceiling. Lights flashed among the mass of dials, gauges, and read-outs on the console. The whole effect was shabby hi-tech. Dilapidated and scruffy. Just like us. Actually, just like all of St Mary’s.

As Chief Technical Officer, Leon was checking over the coordinates. ‘All laid in. And for your return jump, too.’

‘Thank you very much,’ I said, seating myself in the left-hand seat and giving everything the once over.

‘Take care,’ he said, as he always did.

‘Of course,’ I said, as I always did.

He smiled for me alone and disappeared out of the door, which closed behind him.

I glanced at Markham. ‘All set?’

‘Ready when you are.’

‘Computer, initiate jump.’

‘Jump initiated.’

The world went white.

There were many people on the streets today, but this was London and there were many people on the streets every day. Given that this was Coronation Day, however, there were not as many as there could have been. To distract the crowds from any possible scenes his wife might make, a whole programme of public events had been laid on away from Westminster Abbey. There was to be a balloon ascension from Green Park. Even a herd of wooden elephants were to be rowed up the Thames. Something I thought would be considerably more entertaining than watching Prinny and his fat friends.

At this early hour, I found the temperature agreeably cool. We stood for a moment, inhaling the pleasant smells of fresh bread and – for the first time that I could remember on an assignment – coffee. Oh – and horses, of course. Hot, excited horses always have a strong olfactory presence. The streets were already deep in muck. Crossing boys were everywhere, industriously sweeping paths across the road for a carelessly tossed penny. I was glad of my ankle-length skirt and sturdy half boots. No historian ever goes anywhere wearing inadequate footwear: it’s just asking for trouble.

Towards Westminster Abbey, the streets were cleaner – they’d obviously been swept for the occasion – but more crowded.

‘Keep your hand on your holiday money,’ advised Markham, piloting me through the crowds.

‘What?’

‘Pickpockets.’

‘Ah,’

I’ve always regarded Westminster Abbey as an old friend.

‘I’ve been here before,’ I confided to Markham, as we elbowed our way through the enthusiastic crowds to get a decent view. ‘Eight hundred years ago. My first proper assignment. Peterson and I were here as the first stones were being laid. Just before the Confessor died.’

‘Really?’ said Markham, fending off a man who wanted to sell us a flag. ‘How did that go?’

‘Quite well, actually. A bloody great block of stone missed us by inches and Peterson peed on me.’

‘A big success by History Department standards, then.’

Having achieved our objective, we stood quietly, waiting. I had my recorder to hand. A stun gun and pepper spray nestled in the pretty reticule dangling from my wrist. We were ready to go. And there was not as long to wait as I had thought. Possibly thinking a timely arrival might mean easier access, the queen had arrived early. A clatter of hooves and a coachman roaring to small boys to get out of the way, announced the arrival of her carriage. An anticipatory stir ran through the crowd, all of whom knew she hadn’t been invited. This was going to be good.

Dear God she was fat. And what was she wearing? Thankfully, someone had prevented her from adopting her usual style of dress, because there were occasions on which she had been seen in public with her dress open to the waist. Presumably, in deference to the solemnity of the occasion, she’d toned it down a bit, but not by much.

She wore a voluminous white satin gown, gathered under her massive bosom and falling to the ground, ending in a demi train. Her dark hair – too dark to be natural, surely – was skewered to the top of her head with nodding white ostrich feathers. Corkscrew ringlets framed her already flushed face. A hideously ugly diamond necklace did nothing to obscure the huge amounts of chest on view. Equally ugly diamond bracelets cut into the mottled flesh of her plump arms. Various brooches were scattered across the vast expanse of white satin. I swear, if she had stood in front of a mirror and said to her maids, ‘Just throw everything at me and pin it where it sticks,’ she couldn’t have made a worse job of it. It must have broken their professional hearts to send her out looking like that.

I had no idea what was keeping all that flesh from falling out of her dress.

‘Blimey,’ said Markham, beside me. ‘You don’t get many of those to the pound.’

She climbed awkwardly from her carriage – it took two stout footmen to assist her – paused for the gasp of astonished admiration from the crowd, which never came, and began to make her way towards the doors of the Abbey, still standing open as the last of the guests slowly filed inside.

As she approached, a number of enormous, ugly men, hilariously dressed as pageboys, barred her path. Her husband, expecting trouble and knowing his wife, had hired professional prize-fighters to keep her out, led by the famous Gentleman Jackson himself. Which in itself was a good idea, but dressing them as pageboys probably was not.

Whether they actually would have manhandled her in front of the crowd, we’ll never know. The crowd, sensing drama, fell quiet. She stood before them, unaccompanied even by a single lady-in-waiting. I thought she looked rather small (although still extremely fat) and pathetic. Raising her head, she shouted, ‘The Queen. I am the Queen. Open.’

To say that her voice carried was an understatement. No horses actually bolted, but flocks of pigeons took to the air, probably never to return.

The crowd roared its approval of the pre-coronation entertainment and took up the cry.

‘The Queen. The Queen.’

Nothing happened, and the shouting died down again while everyone waited to see what she would do next.

I could hear quite clearly from where we were standing.

She said, in strongly accented English, but with enormous dignity, ‘I am the Queen of England,’ picked up her skirts, and tried to squeeze between two cauliflower-eared pageboys, each the size of the Colossus of Rhodes.

Somewhere just inside the abbey, an unseen official roared, ‘Do your duty, by God,’ and with an echoing boom that could probably be heard three streets away, the massive doors slammed shut.

The crowd gasped. It was an almighty insult. True, she hadn’t actually been crowned queen, but she was the wife of the king and no matter how much they loathed each other – and they did loathe each other – it was still a dreadful public insult.

She should have left. She should have gathered herself together, returned to her carriage and driven away. If she had left then, dignity and health intact, she would have won the day. At this point, the crowd was behind her. Being Caroline, of course, she blew it.

She uttered a shriek of rage, flung her ostrich feather fan to the ground, picked up her skirts and showing scandalous amounts of chubby leg, she ran.

She didn’t walk, stroll, perambulate, amble, saunter, pace, stride, or waddle – she ran, and this was not an age in which highborn women ran. And certainly not in public. Probably most of them didn’t even know how. For a princess – a royal – to hoist up her skirts, publicly show her legs and run was unthinkable.

Except that it did happen. She ran. Well, no, to be accurate – she lumbered.

The crowd, eager to see what could possibly happen next, streamed along behind her.

‘Come on,’ said Markham, seizing my arm, and we went with them.

Actually, I worried for her. Even though it was still early morning, it was a hot. . .