No Time Like The Past

Book 5: Chronicles of St. Mary's

by Jodi Taylor

Genres: Time Travel; Contemporary Fantasy

Synopsis

The fifth 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.

A Fete Worse Than Death...

The St Mary's Institute of Historical Research has finally recovered from its wounds and it's business as usual for those rascals in the History Department.

From being trapped in the Great Fire of London to an unfortunately timed comfort break at Thermopylae, which leaves the fate of the western world hanging in the balance, Max must struggle to get History back on track.

But first, they must get through the St Mary's Fete - which is sure to end badly for everyone.

Only one thing is certain, life at St Mary's is never dull!

(P) 2015 Audible, Ltd

Release date: January 1, 2019

Publisher: Audible Studios

Print pages: 320

Sample

Dramatis Thingummy

The tea-sodden catastrophe-cluster that is the History Dept:

Chapter One

Another all-staff briefing from Dr Bairstow. The first since our unpleasantness with the Time Police last summer. However, they’d gone – we were still here – most of the building had been restored, and St Mary’s was open for business.

We work for the Institute of Historical Research at St Mary’s Priory. We investigate major historical events in contemporary time. For God’s sake – do not call it time travel. The last person to do that had her head thumped and then was inadvertently caused to fall down the stairs.

Anyway, the building had recovered from its wounds – we’d recovered from ours – and here we all were, slowly suffocating in the smell of new wood, damp plaster, and fresh paint. Not the best smells in the world, but still a big improvement on cordite, blood, and defeat.

Tim Peterson and I sat in the front row and assumed expressions of near-terminal enthusiasm and commitment. Once we would have sat at the back and played Battleships, but senior staff have to sit at the front and show willing. It makes the destruction of the enemy fleet that much more difficult, but we were willing to rise to the challenge.

Here came the Boss, limping to the half-landing and standing in his usual position, leaning heavily on his stick. The cold winter sunshine streamed through the newly restored glass lantern above him as he surveyed his unit with the expression of an impatient vulture waiting for a dying wildebeest to get a move on.

‘Good morning, everyone. Thank you for coming.’

As if we had any choice.

‘As you can see, with effect from 10 a.m. this morning, St Mary’s is up and running.’

There was a polite smattering of applause. Most of us had been working our socks off for the last three weeks, restoring the Library and Archive, and generally helping to put the building back together, so whether St Mary’s was open or not actually made very little difference to us.

‘There are a few staff changes to announce. If you care to consult the organisational charts distributed at the beginning of this meeting by Mrs Partridge …’ He paused for the traditional panic from those who had lost theirs already. Peterson and I were using ours to record the disposition of our respective armadas.

‘Firstly, I would like to confirm Dr Maxwell in her position of Chief Operations Officer.’

He paused again. I fixed my attention on my imperilled destroyers and mentally crossed my fingers. There was a small round of applause and I breathed a sigh of relief. There had been that episode last Christmas, when Dr Bairstow had returned from a rare night of carousing in Rushford to find he had mysteriously acquired two additional historians. He’d taken it very well, all things considered. They were off now, reorienting and acclimatising themselves at Thirsk University – a necessary procedure after such a long absence. They’d been missing for ten years. And Ian Guthrie, to whom one of the missing historians was very special indeed, had caught me in the corridor one day, held my hand very tightly, said, ‘I owe you, Max,’ and then walked away before either of us displayed any unseemly emotion.

Dr Bairstow was forging on. ‘Dr Peterson assumes his original position of Chief Training Officer. Chief Farrell returns as joint head of the Technical Section, alongside Mr Dieter. Miss Perkins is appointed Head of IT, replacing Miss Barclay who has left us.’

Yes, she bloody had. She’d escaped in the confusion arising from the kitchen staff blowing up the building with flour-filled condoms. Long story. Still, a wrecked building was a small price to pay for ridding ourselves of Bitchface Barclay. Sadly, she hadn’t gone for good. She was out there, somewhere. It was only a matter of time before we met again. She’d left me a note to that effect.

He continued. ‘I would like to congratulate Mr Markham on his promotion to second in charge of the Security Section.’

No, I didn’t think he’d be able to bring himself to utter the words, Number Two and Mr Markham in the same sentence. It would be asking for trouble. Markham sat up and beamed amiably at him. His hair, as usual, stuck up in irregular clumps. He looked like someone being treated for mange. And not for the first time, either.

‘Mrs Partridge is confirmed as my PA and Miss Lee will return to her former position as admin assistant to the History Department.’

The History Department sighed. As did I. Yes, there she was, two rows along, her short dark hair waving around her head, just like Medusa’s snakes, but slightly more intimidating. She turned her Gorgon stare upon the History Department who promptly shut up.

‘I would also particularly like to welcome back our caretaker, Mr Strong.’

This time, the round of applause was enthusiastic and genuine. He was an old man and last year, he’d disobeyed instructions, pinned on his medals and stepped up to fight for St Mary’s. He’d been injured – we all had. Some of us had died. The Boss had tried to send him away to convalesce and he’d respectfully refused to go and spent his time stumping around the ruins of the Great Hall, telling the builders where they were going wrong and infuriating the Society for the Protection of Historical Buildings, who were supposed to be overseeing the repairs. They’d complained and Dr Bairstow, in a few well-chosen words that echoed around St Mary’s, had given them to understand that Mr Strong was one of his most valued employees and his long years at St Mary’s made him a leading authority on the building and everything in it. They got the message. Mr Strong had, however, in the interests of good will, consented to a two-week visit to see his grandchildren.

‘Mr Strong has asked me to remind you that this building is in better condition now than at any time during its long history – and certainly since we moved in – and he would be grateful if you could all use your best endeavours to keep it that way. As would I.’

He paused for this to sink in as Peterson whispered, ‘B6.’

‘Miss!’

‘Normal service is to resume as soon as possible. The History Department will let me have their schedule of upcoming assignments and recommendations by tomorrow.’

‘B7.’

‘Bollocks!’

‘Dr Foster, please confirm all personnel are medically fit to return to duty. Or at least as fit as they are ever likely to be.’

‘B8.’

‘You’re cheating, aren’t you?’

‘The Technical Section is to confirm that all pods are serviceable.’

‘B9.’

‘Sunk.’

‘Dr Peterson? Do we possess any trainees at this moment, or did they all run for the hills during our summer unpleasantness?’

‘No and no, sir. We didn’t have any trainees before the summer unpleasantness, let alone afterwards. Our last recruiting drive was … ineffective.’

He sighed, impatiently. ‘I cannot understand why St Mary’s finds it so difficult to recruit and retain staff.’

In my mind’s eye, I saw the broken bodies, half-buried under the rubble, the blood, heard the thump of explosions …

‘Please draw up ideas and suggestions for recruiting and, most importantly, retaining suitable personnel. Please do not construe this instruction as permission to roam the streets with nets and ropes, offering people the King’s Shilling. Attempts to retain future trainees by nailing them to their own desks will be discouraged.’

‘You are imposing unreasonable restrictions, sir, but I shall do my best.’

He started on about something else, but I’d discovered Peterson’s cruisers, cunningly clustered together in the top left-hand corner of his A4 ocean. In the subsequent orgy of destruction, I completely missed what he said next, and was roused only by his traditional, ‘Are there any questions?’ which is Dr Bairstow-speak for ‘I’ve told you what to do – now get on with it.’ He had once been forced to attend a ‘Caring Management‘ seminar, during which someone had courageously informed him that staff are more productive if they feel included and valued. Clearly, he hadn’t believed a word of it. There were never any questions.

‘Dr Maxwell, if you could spare me a moment, please? Thank you everyone. That will be all.’

Back in his office, he didn’t waste any time.

‘I’ll leave you to set the date, Dr Maxwell. I think you’ll agree that sometime during the coming summer seems most convenient – good weather and so on. There will be an enormous amount of work, of course, but farm it out as you think appropriate. I shall want weekly updates, but just a quick progress report will be sufficient. Draft in whomever you need. I’ll be able to let you have details of the budget sometime over the next few days.’

I hadn’t the faintest idea what he was talking about.

Behind him, Mrs Partridge smirked unhelpfully.

‘I’m sorry, sir?’

‘Mrs Partridge will handle the admin side – licenses, permits, insurance, etc. Pass all the details to her.’

‘Um …’

He handed me an already bulging file and dismissed me. ‘Thank you, Dr Maxwell.’

My finely honed historian senses told me I’d missed something. And he knew it. There was no escape.

‘I’m sorry, sir – perhaps you could elaborate a little?’

He sighed, and as one addressing an idiot, said, ‘The Open Day.’

‘What Open Day?’

‘St Mary’s Open Day.’

‘What? When?’

‘Whenever you select the date. St Mary’s is to hold an Open Day and you are to organise it.’

‘Am I? When was all this announced?’

‘About twenty minutes ago. Just as you destroyed Dr Peterson’s second submarine.’

I was back in my newly refurbished office. The windows had been heaved open, but even so, the stench of paint was making my eyes water. The smell reminded me of the polyurethane poisoning I’d had as a student, when I’d painted my room one weekend and had only a very rudimentary understanding of the words ‘adequate ventilation’.

In reverse order of importance, I had something ergonomic in the way of a desk, a new, posh chair, and a new kettle. Sadly, I also had Miss Lee, who was peering at her screen and possibly frying a few circuits with her Gorgon glare.

I dropped the folder onto my desk with a thud and was about to request a cup of tea from Miss Lee – yet another example of blind optimism over experience – when Markham burst into the room.

‘Max! Quick! Someone’s fallen off the roof!’

I shot to my feet and followed him out. We ran down the corridor to the second window from the end. Unlike the others along the corridor, it was open. He thrust out his head and shoulders, leaning precariously over the low sill.

‘It was here!’

 I grabbed a handful of his green jumpsuit and yanked him back.

‘Steady on or there’ll be two of you stretched out on the gravel …’

There was nothing there.

I looked left and right but there was nothing there. The bare-stemmed Virginia creeper covered the walls, but other than that, there was no plant life for yards around. A wide gravel path ran along this, the eastern side of St Mary’s. There was just the path and the frosty grass sloping down to the lake. The only sign of life was a few of our less traumatised swans, stumping up and down on the far side of the lake. Other than that – there was nothing.

I pulled my head in.

‘Where?’

‘Here. I saw it. They fell past this window. But when I looked, there was no one there.’

I didn’t bother asking, ‘Are you sure?’ This was Markham. To be sure, he was small, grubby, and accident prone, but he was also virtually indestructible and very, very tough. Yet here he was, standing in front of me now, so pale that I could see the blue veins in his temples. There was no doubt he thought he’d seen something.

He stuck his own head back out of the window, presumably in case the body had magically reappeared.

‘Perhaps they weren’t hurt – or not hurt very badly,’ he said, ‘and they got up and went for help.’

‘Good thought.’ I opened my com link and called Dr Foster. ‘Helen – has anyone reported to you at any time in the last ten minutes?’

‘No. Why?’

‘There’s a possibility someone may have fallen off the roof.’

‘Check around. Especially those idiots in R & D. Sounds like the sort of thing they might do. I’ll let you know if anyone turns up.’

She closed the link.

Markham was as near angry as I’d ever seen him. ‘There’s no “possibility” about it. I know what I saw.’

‘What did you see? Tell me every detail.’

‘I was standing just here.’

He pushed me aside and stood where I had been.

‘I was walking towards your office.’

He mimed walking, just in case I was having some difficulty grasping the concept.

‘The window was on my left. Just as I drew level, something black fell past. I was so surprised I couldn’t move for a second.’

He mimed a level of surprise and horror that would lead anyone else to believe he’d just witnessed the asteroid wipe out the dinosaurs.

‘Then I heaved up the window, leaned out, and … and there was nothing there.’

‘Is there a possibility they got up and ran away before you had a chance to see?’

‘I don’t know. It took me a while to get the window open, but you’ve seen for yourself – there’s no cover. All right, they might not be dead since they only fell on gravel, but it’s three floors up – they’d have broken a bone or two at least. And why would they hide? It doesn’t make sense.’

He looked genuinely agitated, which was a first for him.

‘I think,’ I said slowly, ‘that someone’s pulling your plonker. Someone’s up on the roof – they push off an old dummy and in between the time you see it and struggle to get the window up and look out, someone’s leaned out of a downstairs window and pulled it in. I bet they’re down there now, laughing their heads off and waiting for you to appear at any minute and start dashing about looking for bodies.’

His face cleared. ‘Of course. Bastards! Good trick though. Talk about shitting bricks – I nearly evacuated a monolith. Thanks, Max.’

He strolled off, presumably to bring down retribution on persons unknown and I wandered back to my office.

The next day, he was back again and this time he wasn’t alone.

They burst through my door, Peterson escorting Markham who looked – not to put too fine a point on it – as if he’d seen a ghost.

‘It did it again,’ he said, not very coherently for someone brought up in the Major Guthrie tradition of concise reporting.

First things first. I opened my mouth to instruct Miss Lee to make him a cup of much-needed tea but she was already ahead of the game, gathering up two or three files at random and heading for the door, announcing she had to catch the post, which indeed, would be collected in about four hours’ time.

Peterson made us all a cup of tea. I contemplated adding something comforting from my bottom drawer, but Markham was incoherent enough.

‘I saw it again, Max,’ he announced. ‘A black figure falling past the window and when I looked out there was nothing there. Again. Dr Peterson was there. He saw it.’

‘I saw you see something,’ corrected Peterson. ‘I didn’t see anything fall, but I can confirm there was nothing there when we looked.’

‘But you must have,’ objected Markham. ‘A black figure, silhouetted against the sky. I saw arms and legs. Just for a moment, true, but you can’t mistake a falling body.’

I had a thought. ‘What did you hear?’

He sat quietly, running through things in his mind. ‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing? No cry? No sound of impact?’

He looked suddenly thoughtful. ‘No. There was no sound of impact. And if those buggers from R & D were playing silly devils and chucking things off the roof then you’d hear something, wouldn’t you?’

Yes, you would. I looked at him again. I’d seen him wounded; I’d seen him running for his life; I’d even seen him in drag, but I’d never seen him like this before. I couldn’t dismiss this lightly.

I stood up. ‘Tim, can you check out R & D? Tactfully, please.’

He nodded. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘I’m going to talk to Dr Dowson.’ I looked at Markham. ‘You all right?’

‘Yes. What shall I do?’

‘Nothing for the minute. If someone is playing a trick on you then the best thing you can do is ignore it. We’ll meet back here at half past three.’

Dr Dowson was our librarian and archivist. In most organisations, this means spending the day in an atmosphere of tranquil serenity. Books don’t usually give you a lot of grief. Today, he was standing on his desk, pounding the ceiling with a broom handle and shouting curses. In Latin, Greek, and possibly Morse code, by the sound of it.

He broke off to greet me with a smile. ‘Ah, Max. Can I help you?’

I knew better than to ask what was going on. He and Professor Rapson from R & D were old friends, which apparently was sufficient grounds for mutual abuse and recrimination at every opportunity. R & D occupied the rooms directly overhead and possibly inadvertently, but probably not, had done something to incur his wrath.

I helped him down off his desk and told him the story and feeling a little foolish said, ‘Is it possible, is it just possible, that we have a ghost we didn’t know about?’

He stood still for a moment, polishing his spectacles, lost in thought, and then disappeared briefly, returning with an old book, two modern pamphlets, and a file of loose photocopies.

He laid them on a table and we sat down.

‘Right.’ he said. ‘A potted history of St Mary’s.

‘The first building, the original Priory of St Mary’s, was raised by Augustinian monks towards the end of the 13th century. That building stood for more or less a hundred years. I think the location was too remote, however, and over the years, the monks just drifted away. St Mary’s, the village, and all the land with it were eventually acquired – it doesn’t say how – by Henry of Grosmont, 4th Earl of Lancaster. He did nothing with it, other than collect the rents, but his son-in-law, John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, bestowed the manor upon Henry of Rushford, a comrade in arms, for services rendered during the 1386 campaign in Castile.

‘This next bit is interesting. There was, apparently, a bit of a skirmish during the confusion of 1399. While Richard II and Henry Bolingbroke jostled for supremacy, it would appear another branch of the Rushford family took advantage of the confusion and attacked St Mary’s. Despite a spirited defence, the attackers did gain entry, but were foiled when, in a last desperate effort, the defenders, led by Henry’s granddaughter, attempted to burn the place down to cover their escape to Rushford. Exciting days, eh?

‘Matters were obviously resolved satisfactorily, but St Mary’s passed out of the Rushford family’s hands a generation or so afterwards. No heir, as is frequently the case, I’m afraid. I really don’t know why these things are always passed down through the male line – girl children are much more robust than their brothers, and let’s face it, Max – while here may always be doubt about the identity of the father, most people are usually fairly clear about who the mother is.’

He brooded for a while on this unsatisfactory state of affairs, and who was I to disagree?

‘Anyway, St Mary’s had any number of owners, all of whom apparently lived perfectly peacefully, even during troubled times. The estate survived the Wars of the Roses, religious strife under the Tudors, and then, in the late 16th century, the Laceys of Gloucestershire moved in.’

He opened the book. ‘The Civil War split them down the middle, with half of them supporting the King and the other half lining up for Cromwell. In 1643, a contingent of Parliamentary forces, led by Captain Edmund Lacey, left Gloucester for some reason, and rode here. Accounts are jumbled, and there are several versions of events, but they all agree that the Great Hall was torched and Margaret Lacey and her elder son, Charles, perished in the blaze. The younger son, James, who was only a very young boy at the time, escaped to the roof, was rescued by a servant, and taken safely to the village. Captain Lacey disappeared, was tried, and found guilty of murder in his absence and was never seen again. The Hall was rebuilt by James and is largely as we see it today. With the exception of the glass lantern, of course.

‘St Mary’s continued to change hands, shedding land as it went, until it fell empty in the late 19th century. It was too big for a family house and since there was no longer any land left to support it, it became a bit of a white elephant, I’m afraid. It was used as a convalescent home for soldiers during and after World War I, and then was a school, briefly and disastrously. Apparently, someone left a tap running and the ceiling came down in what is now Wardrobe. It was used as a hospital again during World War II. And that’s it until we moved in, my goodness, some years ago now.’ He tapped the documents. ‘It’s all here. And much more besides.’

I said slowly, ‘Thank you, Doctor, but I think might I have what I need.’

He nodded. ‘1643?’

‘Yes, I think so. The little boy ran up to the roof. He survived, but maybe someone did fall. Captain Lacey, maybe. Perhaps that’s why he was never seen again. Because he died. Either in the fire or in the fall. Can you get me more details?’

He smiled. ‘I expect so. Give me an hour.’

We reconvened. There being no sign of Miss Lee, I made the tea this time.

‘You can’t be doing it right,’ said Peterson, smugly. ‘My Mrs Shaw brings me chocolate biscuits as well.’

I ignored him.

‘There seem to be two candidates for Mr Markham’s falling body. In 1399, there was a minor skirmish over ownership. I suppose it’s perfectly possible someone could have fallen from the roof.’

‘Or possibly, someone had a mad wife and she jumped, like Mrs Rochester,’ added Markham, never one to choose the obvious option. ‘And she dashed her brains out on the flags below.’

‘When did you ever read Jane Eyre?’ demanded Peterson, easily distracted.

‘I broke my ankle.’

We waited, but that seemed to be it.

‘Or,’ I said, firmly dragging them back on track, ‘in 1643, during the Civil War, the Roundheads arrived, threatened, and possibly murdered a woman and child. But, and this is the interesting bit, a second child sought refuge on the roof. Describe the body again.’

‘There’s nothing to describe. A black shape with arms and legs.’

‘Could it have been a child?’

‘It could, I suppose. It didn’t look very big, but …’ He sounded doubtful. ‘I don’t know. And anyway, the kid survived, didn’t he? It’s a bit of a mystery.’

Silence. We slurped our tea.

‘Well,’ said Peterson. ‘Now what? All very interesting, but what has this to do with us?’

There being no good answer to that one, we finished our tea and stood up. I walked with them to the door and out into the corridor.

‘Sorry, mate,’ said Peterson to Markham. ‘There’s just too little to go on. Apart from your daily hallucinations, we just don’t have any – ‘

Markham stiffened, pointed, and cried, ‘There! Oh, my God! Again!’

We stood paralysed, because we’re highly trained professionals, and then rushed to the window. Peterson heaved it up and stuck out his head. I elbowed myself some room and did the same. Markham, realising he stood no chance, ran to another window and looked out.

The sun shone down on the frosty gravel. We looked to the north. We looked to the south. Markham thought to hang even further out of the window, twist himself around, and look up.

Nothing.

‘Come on,’ he said, and we headed for the roof, emerging through a tiny door in the north-east corner. Despite the frost, the roof was a bit of a suntrap and pleasantly warm. In the old days, it had been gabled and tiled, but at some point in its history, the roof had been replaced and flattened. Groups of tall chimneys stood around. The big glass lantern, which let some much-needed light into the Hall, was over there. Over to the right, we could look down on lower roof levels. There was even a fire escape, which Markham headed towards. We watched him go.

‘What do you think?’ said Peterson. ‘It’s astounding, isn’t it?’

‘I know. I’m still gobsmacked. Jane Eyre!’

‘Are we going to check this out?’

‘Are you kidding?’

‘We’ll never get permission.’

‘Leave that to me. I’ve had a brilliant idea.’

He groaned.

Markham returned and crossed to the parapet, which was just above waist height and looked down. We joined him.

‘Bloody hell,’ said Peterson, stepping back.

‘You all right?’

‘Fine,’ he said, averting his eyes and stepping four or five paces back. ‘Just tell me what you see.’

‘Nothing. There’s nothing.’

‘And nothing’s been up here today,’ added Markham.

He was right. Our footprints were clearly visible on the frosty roof. And only ours. Unless someone had come up here barefoot …

We looked around, our breath frosty in the cold, sharp air.

I looked at Markham. ‘Are you up for this?’

‘How can you even ask?’

I spent the rest of the day putting things together and just as the lights were coming on and people beginning to drift towards the dining-room, I went to see Dr Bairstow. Who looked about as pleased to see me as he usually did.

‘Dr Maxwell. Can I assume you bring me details of your progress organising our Open Day?’

‘All in hand, sir,’ I said with massive confidence and even more massive untruthfulness.

‘Then you are here because …?’

‘I’d like to . . .