Plan for the Worst

Book 11: Chronicles of St. Mary's

by Jodi Taylor

Genres: Humorous sci-fi; Time Travel

Synopsis

The 11th book in the best-selling Chronicles of St Mary's series. If you love Jasper Fforde, Ben Aaronovitch or Doctor Who, you won't be able to resist Jodi Taylor. You know what they say. Hope for the best. But plan for the worst. Catch up with the tea-soaked disaster magnets in their latest madcap adventure as they hurtle their way around history.

Release date: April 16, 2020

Publisher: Audible Studios

Print pages: 480

Sample

Dramatis Thingummy

St Mary’s Personnel

Dr Bairstow

Head of St Mary’s. Always reso­lute in his determination to protect his people. Until now.

Mrs Partridge

PA to Dr Bairstow. Muse of ­History. Not above the occasional intervention herself.

Dr Peterson

Deputy Director. Inching his way towards an understanding with Miss Lingoss. Think continental drift with the brakes on.

Thirsk’s new representative

Not sure there’s any more to say.

History Department

Dr Maxwell

Head of the History Department. Hopes for the best but plans for the worst. Major protagonist in the Malevolent Mug of Tea crisis.

Mr Clerk

Senior Historian.

Miss Prentiss

Senior Historian.

Mr Sands

Newly returned historian, bestselling author, shacked up with Rosie Lee. Living dangerously.

Mr Roberts

Another newly returned historian. Victim of an unexpected passion for Miss Sykes. Another one living dangerously. What is it with historians?

Miss Sykes

Historian. Apparently no longer willing to share her man with a gender-neutral chicken and ready to move on.

Mr Atherton

Historian. Normal. A bit of a contradiction in terms but definitely normal. Within the standard St Mary’s definition of the word ‘normal’.

Miss Van Owen

Another newly returned historian. Eagle-eyed readers will have noted the absence of Miss North.

Rosie Lee

PA to Max. The other protagonist in the Malevolent Mug of Tea trauma.

Security Section

Mr Markham

Apron-wearing Head of Security. Imminent father. Might be in serious trouble. Of course he’s in serious trouble. He’s always in serious trouble. Only the depth varies.

Mr Evans

Security guard.

Mr Cox

Security guard.

Mr Keller

Security guard.

Mr Gallacio

Security guard.

Mr Scott

Security guard.

Mr Gregg

Security guard.

Mr Irving

Security guard.

Technical Section

Chief Technical

Guilty or not? He can’t remember.

Officer Farrell

Mr Dieter

Technician. Unexpectedly reunited with his soulmate. Not sure the world is quite ready for this.

Mr Lindstrom

Small, shy technician.

Adrian

New arrival. Former fugitive. Part-owner of the most dangerous piece of equipment in the universe.

Research and Development

Professor Rapson

Chicken-flinging maniac.

Miss Lingoss

The nearest thing to normal in this reality-challenged department.

Mikey

New arrival. The other owner of the most dangerous piece of equipment in the universe.

Others

Dr Dowson

Head Librarian. Reluctant chicken recipient. He’s reluctant – not the chickens. Just to be clear. The chickens’ views were never known. Earthquake enthusiast.

Mrs Mack

Kitchen Supremo.

Mrs Enderby

Head of the Wardrobe Department.

Mrs Brown

Ah yes . . . Mrs Brown.

Angus

Small brown chicken. Averse to being flung over the banisters.

Matthew Farrell

Making progress.

Professor Penrose

Utter lunatic. In an organisation famed for utter lunatics he’s up there with the utterest.

Dr Stone

Not half as green as he’s cabbage-looking. Max is beginning to listen.

Nurse Hunter

Married? Not married? Rendered moot by the end of the book. There are other things to worry about.

From the Future

M Bernard

Head concierge. Seventeen Rue St Jean.

M Caron

Another concierge.

The Time Police

Commander Hay

Head of the Time Police. Not Max’s favourite person.

Captain Farenden

Commander Hay’s adjutant.

Captain Ellis

Another unfavourite person.

Various other Time Police officers – including a probably very reluctant rescue team.

Future St Mary’s Personnel

No – that’s not clear. Personnel from a future St Mary’s.

Director

He didn’t give his name.

St Mary’s rescue team

Yes, another rescue team. There’s a lot of rescuing in this one.

Historical Persons

Eleven Vikings led by Rolf

Or possibly Hrolf. Excessive beard growth makes communication difficult.

Edward V

A prince in the Tower.

Richard, Duke of York

Another prince in the Tower.

Sundry Tower of London personnel

Sinister figures seen only after dark

Citizens of Mechelen, Burgundy

King Minos of Crete

High Priestess to the Mother

Three other priestesses

Intent on having their wicked way with a certain Head of Security.

Citizens of Knossos, Bull-leapers, bull handlers, bull worshippers, bull stable hands, escaped bulls. There’s a lot of bull in this one.

Firefighters

Magnificent in any age.

Clive Ronan

The clock is counting down . . .

1

I’ve always been vaguely aware of the existence of Duvet Days. I know Dr Bairstow ranks them alongside Atlantis, unicorns and competent politicians in the scheme of believable things, but I was believing in them now. In fact, I was on my sixth.

My recent secondment to the Time Police had left me so drained – physically and emotionally – that even the phrase ‘absolutely fine’ had failed to secure my release from Sick Bay. I’d tried to get out of bed, swayed in what Nurse Hunter had declared to be an unnecessarily dramatic manner and been commanded to climb back in again.

Dr Stone turned up with a syringe – there was a small prick – I really couldn’t be bothered to do the jokes all over again – and I suddenly felt better. Much better. Much, much better.

‘Wow,’ I said. ‘That’s really good stu . . .’ and fell heavily asleep for the rest of the day. And for much of the day after that, as well. I’d opened my eyes a couple of times, looked at the rain dribbling down the windowpanes, decided I couldn’t be bothered and closed my eyes again.

Now, however, it had been more than a week. Time, in the words of Dr Stone, to take up my bed and walk.

On doctor’s orders, I took it easy to begin with, spending the mornings in our sitting room with my feet up, reading to Matthew, half-heartedly watching holos on TV and generally not doing very much at all. In the afternoons the three of us – me, Matthew and Leon – would go for a stroll around the lake, peering into the water looking for fish, avoiding the swans, and in Matthew’s case, mostly not falling in.

In the evenings, when Leon and I could finally get a moment to ourselves, there were long moments when he just held me and that was fine because he was solid and warm and I could feel his slow, steady heartbeat. We would stand for a long time, not saying anything to disturb the moment. He would rub my back, gently, up and down, and slowly my jangled nerves would subside. Occasionally I’d bring up a bit of wind, as well.

There were big meals and a lot of resting. It wasn’t unpleasant. Everything was absolutely fine. Well, they were during the day – the nights were slightly different.

We’d have our evening meal together, watch a little TV and then Matthew would get ready for bed. There would be the usual washing and brushing teeth battle – he really didn’t see the point of cleaning himself up just to go to bed – and then Leon and I would settle down, sometimes with a glass of wine. Sometimes he’d work and I’d read a book, or he’d watch the football and I’d definitely read a book, and then it was time for bed. Everything would still be absolutely fine. We’d snuggle down for the night and I’d fall asleep almost immediately.

And then it would begin. Ten minutes later and I would be awake. Wide awake. Was that a sound on the roof? Was Clive Ronan, at this very moment, creeping across the roof tiles?

Or that creaking board on the landing. Were the Time Police on their way up the stairs, heavily armed and determined to get Matthew back, at any cost? Would Leon and I go down in a hail of fire as we tried to defend our son?

St Mary’s is a noisy place at the best of times. I don’t mean just the human inhabitants – I mean the creaks and cracks of an old building. Clanking pipes, ticking radiators, rattling windows. Normally these were comforting background noises, but not any longer. Leon had stolen Matthew back from the Time Police and I was certain they’d never willingly let him go. So I would lie awake, listening for telltale signs that Matthew was in danger.

Eventually, when I couldn’t stand it any longer, I’d get up, creep across our sitting room to his bedroom and check he was safely asleep. Then I’d go around checking the windows and doors. Then I’d stand in his doorway listening to him breathe in the dark. Then I’d check the doors and windows again in case I’d missed something. Then I’d go back to bed, fall asleep, and ten minutes later I’d jolt back to wakefulness, convinced I’d heard something, and the whole process would start all over again.

Two days later I was nearly dead on my feet.

On the third night, I was standing in Matthew’s doorway, staring at the dark shapes of his furniture – to check it was just furniture and not a Time Police squad lurking in the corner – when Leon came up behind me.

I didn’t jump out of my skin because he’d made sure I heard him coming. He put one arm around my waist, pulled me back into our sitting room and gently closed Matthew’s bedroom door behind me.

We sat on the sofa in the dark.

‘Max, you can’t keep doing this.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I know I’m being high-maintenance again, but I can’t get these stupid thoughts out of my head. Sometimes I’m certain I can hear footsteps on the roof or coming up the stairs – but even if I can’t hear anything, I’m convinced someone’s here anyway and Matthew’s in danger.’

‘He’s not,’ Leon said gently.

‘I know. I do know that. But suppose he is. I can’t lose him again.’

‘You won’t. We won’t. He’s very safe here. I’m not worried about him at all. You, on the other hand . . .’

‘Suppose Ronan comes back and tries . . .’

‘Max, I will never let that happen. Trust me.’

‘No, I know you won’t, but suppose the Time Police . . .’

‘Edward will never let that happen. Nor Markham. Trust them.’

I drew a deep breath. ‘I know. I do know, really. I just . . .’ I was shivering with cold and . . . fear, I suppose.

He pulled the throw off the back of the sofa and wrapped it around the pair of us. We stretched out. I could feel his warmth and his slow, steady heartbeat. It felt good. I felt myself slowly relax into his arms. If Leon was here then nothing would ever get into Matthew’s room.

I touched his face. ‘Thank you for bringing him back.’

‘You and Matthew are the most important things in the world to me. I will never let anything happen to either of you.’

I closed my eyes. And opened them some hours later to find Leon smiling down at me. I snuggled closer and just as things were becoming exciting, Matthew’s bedroom door was flung open and Matthew himself, half in and half out of his dressing gown, raced in, trailing electrical cables and power leads and shouting, ‘Dad, it works.’

‘That’s good,’ Leon said vaguely, his mind and other things elsewhere. ‘You go back to bed and I’ll be in to see it in a minute.’

‘No need,’ he said. ‘I can show you now. Look.’

He clambered up on to the sofa, clutching something that looked as if a colander had mated with a calculator, and wriggled his bony, icy-footed way between us.

‘Drat,’ said Leon, mildly.

I told him he was displaying impressive restraint.

‘It wasn’t my restraint that was intended to be impressive,’ he said. I gave him a consolation kiss and took the opportunity to be the first in the bathroom that morning.

I slept better the next night, and the night after that I hardly woke at all. Slowly I began to relax. I became a little more balanced on the subject of Matthew being stolen from under my very nose, and started making every effort to get on with a normal life.

And Matthew himself?

Worryingly, he’d picked up the threads of his previous life here at St Mary’s almost as if nothing had happened. Which was both good and bad.

His calm acceptance of wherever he was, whenever he was and whoever he was with was worrying. One day I came right out with it and asked him if he missed the Time Police.

He was building something complicated with Lego and didn’t even look up.

‘I’ll see them again.’

I left it at that.

Unfortunately, before being released back into the wild, I had an appraisal with Dr Bairstow to get through. Apparently, it was felt that the last few months had been a little rough. For me, that was. A colourful kaleidoscope of fights with the Time Police, sex clubs, dinosaurs, organising the demise of Queen Jane the Bloody before she could do any real damage to the timeline and very nearly losing Matthew again. And then – the icing on the cake – my beautiful plan had worked beautifully and we’d finally, finally captured that bastard Clive Ronan and those even bigger bastards in the Time Police had let him go again. It would be fair to say I’d been a little bit put out by that. My near homicidal rage had been mitigated to some extent when Leon walked off with Matthew, right from under their stupid Time Police noses and brought him home.

There was no denying, though, that some recent events had been a teensy bit difficult and I’d had a couple of rough moments in the privacy of Sick Bay while Dr Stone kept the world away until I was ready to face it again. And now I was attempting to blag my way back on to the active list.

Before I go racing off into the story again, leaving everyone wondering what the hell’s going on – my name is Maxwell and I’m Head of the History Department here at the St Mary’s Institute of Historical Research, where we investigate major historical events in contemporary time and never, under any circumstances, call it time travel. So that’s everyone clear as crystal, then. Where was I?

Yes. Sitting in Dr Bairstow’s office, watching him read through my medical file and, I have to say, making rather heavy weather of it.

He sighed. Men do that a lot, I’ve noticed. ‘Reassuringly, Dr Maxwell, Dr Stone tells me that despite recent events, your descent into madness does not appear to have accelerated. Not noticeably, anyway.’

‘Jolly good, sir.’

‘Your eccentric behaviour patterns remain unchanged.’

‘Excellent, sir.’

‘Your phobias, anxieties and irrational fears are all exactly as they were twelve months ago.’

‘Well, that’s good news, sir.’

‘The usual problems associated with your personality type have, apparently, failed to manifest themselves.’

‘That’s me, sir. Perpetual underachiever.’

‘In short, Dr Maxwell, astonishingly, you appear to be – and I hesitate to use the word normal to describe anyone in the History Department – but you appear to be no more abnormal than before you embarked upon your recent Ronan-based initiative.’

I beamed at him. ‘So, still hovering indecisively at the top of the personality disorder chart, but failing to slither down the slippery slope of insanity, sir.’

‘Astonishingly, yes.’

‘Dr Stone assures me I’ve found my sessions with him to be very beneficial, sir.’

‘In that case, and despite all my best efforts, I can find no reason not to put you back on the active list. I am, however, offering you the option of another seven days’ leave first.’

I’d have loved another seven days’ leave but sometimes you just have to get back on the horse. Or behind the desk. Or into the pod. Because it’s always best to face these things head-on and give them a good kicking.

‘Thank you, sir, but no.’

He closed my file and pushed it away from him. ‘I shall be happy to sanction your return to duty as soon as you tell me what’s really troubling you.’

I briefly considered issuing my standard blanket denial of everything that had happened since the earth cooled, but this was Dr Bairstow and I knew better than to try. I looked out of the window for a while, clasped my hands tightly together and said, ‘Sir – what the Time Police did to Clive Ronan. The smartdust in his brain. The bomb.’

He folded his hands on his desk. ‘Yes?’

I closed my eyes for a moment but it had to be said. I had to know. ‘Did they do that to me too? I was unconscious for a time.’

‘No. You were exposed to the effect of their sonic weapons but that was all. We couldn’t get to you immediately because of the floodwaters, but I assure you, Max, you were never out of my sight. Not for one moment. Nor Leon’s, of course. The Time Police scanned you in their hospital pod and I saw the results of that scan. Dr Stone tells me that smartdust is detectable in its early stages – to make sure it’s been correctly placed in the brain – and as a further precaution, we scanned you ourselves on your return to St Mary’s. I can categorically assure you – you are completely free of smartdust.’

That was good enough for me. ‘Thank you, sir.’

He shifted in his seat. ‘Max, I know you’ve had a great deal to think about recently, but have you given any consideration as to how Matthew will live here? Schooling and so on.’

‘I have, sir – on and off. I’ve been waiting to see whether the Time Police would turn up demanding his return but so far that hasn’t happened. We can’t leave it much longer, though. We’ll have to start looking at schools and things soon.’

‘I may be able to help you there,’ he said. ‘Obviously, you will want to discuss this with Leon – and if neither of you are taken with the idea, then please do not hesitate to say so – but I wondered, what would you say to private tutoring?’

‘I think it would be wonderful, sir, but probably quite costly.’

He had that smug look he gets occasionally – like an ancient vulture in sole possession of a recent battlefield. An all-you-can-eat extravaganza for one.

‘I wondered if you would consider Professor Penrose? The two of you seemed to get on rather well when you met.’

Well, that was a bit of an understatement. Professor Eddington Penrose and I had started a riot in 17th-century Cambridge when that thieving sod Isaac Newton had stolen my mirror. From there we’d gone on to melt a pod and possibly kick-start a universe – as you do.

This was such an exciting idea. I couldn’t help it – I started waving my arms around. The traditional indication of an excited historian. ‘That would be amazing, sir. Absolutely amazing. And Matthew would love him, I’m certain. I’ll speak with Leon but I’m sure he won’t have any objections. But would Eddie want to do it? Come out of retirement and return to St Mary’s to tutor a slightly unusual child, I mean.’

‘I think I could persuade him,’ he said, placidly, ‘if you would like me to try.’

I nodded. ‘Yes, please, sir. If Leon’s happy, of course.’

He put my file away in a drawer. ‘Moving on to other matters, Dr Maxwell, we begin with some bad news, I’m afraid. Dr Black has allowed herself to be tempted away from St Mary’s and has taken up a post directly with the University of Thirsk.’

I stared at him. This wasn’t bad news – this was catastrophic news. Kalinda was our representative at the University of Thirsk. She went in to bat for us. She fought our corner. She secured our funding. She defended us on the distressingly frequent occasions when we needed defending. And she was good at it. At just under six feet tall, blonde, blue-eyed and looking like a Disney princess, she could punch a man’s liver out through his ears in 0.5 seconds flat. People were terrified of her. She was terrifying. She certainly terrified the living daylights out of the Senior Faculty at Thirsk. And now she was leaving us.

I sat back to contemplate the ramifications. This was a bit of a double whammy. Because the other half of the equation, Thirsk’s representatives at St Mary’s – both of them – had turned out to be a right pair of murdering bastards. One of them had suffered a tree-related death and the other was unsuccessfully attempting to explain his actions to a group of even bigger bastards than he was – namely, the Time Police.

We’d rather been hoping that they – Thirsk – would take the hint and keep their representatives to themselves in future. Obviously, we’d been deluding ourselves and now it looked as if we were going to be in the position of having one of them here without the benefit of having one of us there. I sighed. Some days it’s just like Sisyphus and his bloody boulder.

I was about to make this observation to Dr Bairstow when it suddenly struck me that he wasn’t looking anywhere near as depressed as he should be. In fact, to anyone who knew him well, he looked very nearly cheerful.

I sat back to have a bit of a think. And then I had it.

‘Dr Black is Thirsk’s new representative here, isn’t she?’

‘She is indeed.’

‘Well, that’s good news, sir. In fact, it couldn’t be better.’

He sighed again. ‘If you say so, Dr Maxwell. I should warn you I have already been on the receiving end of half a dozen emails from her requesting – no, demanding we put together something spectacular to celebrate her new posting here.’

‘I’ll give it some thought, sir.’

I was expecting one of his don’t just sit there, Dr Maxwell, see to it looks but it didn’t happen. There must be more to come.

There was.

He shifted a couple more files. ‘Moving on. At her request, Miss North is remaining at TPHQ for a while longer.’

That didn’t come as a great surprise. I knew she’d been giving evidence against Halcombe and Sullivan after our infringement of a Triple-S site. Technically, it should have been me, but since relations between me and the Time Police were at an all-time low, I’d just been grateful North had been prepared to stand in.

‘Do we know why, sir?’

‘There appears to be a mutual attraction.’

Interesting. Actually, I could just see North doing quite well with the Time Police. Their rigid, authoritarian, do as I say and stop thinking for yourself approach would probably quite appeal to her. And her I like to do everything properly attitude would certainly appeal to them. A marriage made in heaven. However . . .

‘The only downside is that it will leave me short of female historians, sir. I’d have only Miss Sykes and Miss Prentiss. And me, of course.’

‘Allow me to present you with a very acceptable alternative. It is proposed to exchange Miss North with Miss Van Owen, who has, apparently, expressed a desire to return to St Mary’s.’

‘One for one, sir?’

‘Indeed.’

This was even better, having North safely out of the way – or transferring to a more sympathetic environment as I must remember to say in future – and Greta Van Owen, an experienced historian, returning to the nest. I couldn’t see a downside.

‘Will I need to liaise with the Time Police about this, sir? Because I think it would be fair to say I’m not their favourite person at the moment. We will almost certainly have real problems being civil to each other.’

‘I have an immediate assignment for you, Dr Maxwell, that will preclude your involvement in any way. In fact, I have appointed Dr Peterson to deal with Miss North’s transfer so there will be no need for either of us to become involved.’

That was a relief. Dr Bairstow was no more popular with the Time Police than I was. If that were even possible. Still, the possible absence of North and the reacquisition of Van Owen was such good news that I wasn’t going to do anything to preju­dice it. I could safely leave everything to Peterson.

There was one thing, though.

I leaned forwards and said quietly, ‘Sir, I have to ask.’

He knew what I was going to say. ‘Yes, Dr Maxwell?’

‘The teapot, sir.’

And no, I’m not referring to the traditional tea-pouring, cosy-clad receptacle, but the time-travelling twelve-foot-high teapot belonging to a couple of naughty but rather endearing teenagers named Adrian and Mikey, which was supposed to have been destroyed as part of the deal between the Time Police and us. They’d broken their end of the deal and we’d broken ours. The teapot was currently concealed in Hawking Hangar awaiting its fate.

He seemed to become strangely reluctant. He didn’t actually say, ‘What teapot?’ but the question certainly hung in the air between us.

‘We were supposed to destroy it, sir, and while I have no qualms at all about deceiving the Time Police, I am reluctant to give them a reason for coming back here.’ I gathered myself for just the teensiest hint of criticism. ‘It does seem to be an unnecessary risk.’

We both took a moment to contemplate those unfamiliar words and then he said, ‘I find myself reluctant to part with it.’

I waited, but he said no more.

‘Sir, Clive Ronan now knows of its existence. A pod with no safety protocols built in is God’s gift to anyone who wants to plunder the past. I doubt he’ll be able to resist.’

‘Leon tells me he and Miss Perkins may be able to reprogramme some of its basic protocols and if this is, in fact, the case, it would give us an additional and much needed working pod. And I am confident the removal of some of its more . . . controversial features will render it acceptable to the Time Police.’

‘Sir, it’s a twelve-foot-high teapot.’

‘I’ll admit its appearance is a little bizarre but there are any number of low-profile tasks for which it would be invaluable, don’t you think?’

I didn’t know what to think. Yes, we could do with another pod. And yes, it was a very good idea to remove what he referred to as ‘some of its more controversial features’ – its ability to remove objects from their own timeline, or the way it could override normal safety protocols – but even so . . . However, he hadn’t signed off on my appraisal yet so I was reluctant to argue.

I gathered from his silence that there was even more to come.

‘Regarding your very natural apprehensions over Ronan, Max, how are you dealing with recent events?’

‘Very well, sir,’ I said confidently. ‘I’ve talked things over with Leon and we’ve decided the worst thing we can do is let him ruin our lives. We won’t give him that power over us any more. And since it’s all out of our hands anyway, we’re just going to carry on as usual.’

‘An excellent strategy. And you might want to consider this: how many times has Ronan had a go at you? How many times has he failed? You might be angry and frustrated, but I am certain that’s nothing to the way he feels. Once again, he had you in his hands and you got away. I personally would not care to be around Clive Ronan at this very moment.’

Very true. I hadn’t thought of things that way.

He pulled out another file.

‘And as a first step towards carrying on as usual, I have a task for you. I’d like you to return to our remote site. As you know, we had to leave in rather a hurry last time and there was no opportunity to carry out a thorough FOD plod. We did what we could at the time, obviously, but anything to do with America is such a sensitive issue we must be absolutely certain we have left nothing behind. I’d like you to take a team and clear the site. There will be some equipment to dismantle, final FOD plods to carry out and so on. It’s a big area to cover thoroughly and we were there for some months. I estimate between three days to one week to get it done. By the time you return, not only should our personnel issues be resolved, but I will have spoken to Professor Penrose as well.’

Well, that all sounded good. With the added bonus of a week in the fresh air, a little gentle exercise, and no one trying to kill me or eat me. Yeah, I could do that.

It got even better.

‘Take Leon and Matthew, if you like. I think it would be good for you all to spend a little time together.’

I beamed.

He shuffled a few papers before I started embarrassing us both by thanking him. ‘Who else will you include in your team?’

I thought for a moment. ‘Markham, I think, sir, for security. Evans and Dieter for strength and any heavy lifting. Leon, obviously. Sykes, and either Bashford or Atherton from the History Department. And possibly Mikey – Miss Meiklejohn – from R&D. With your permission, sir, I’ll talk to them this afternoon and we’ll jump first thing tomorrow. We’ll take the big pod, I think – TB2.’

He signed my appraisal with a flourish and handed it back to me. ‘That all sounds quite satisfactory. See to it, please, Dr Maxwell.’

2

Well, plenty there to think about. A bit of a holiday coming up. Kal on her way back to St Mary’s. The possibility of losing North and regaining Van Owen. Professor Penrose to tutor Matthew. Yeah – all good. I was feeling quite cheerful when I left Dr Bairstow’s office.

Markham was outside, talking to Mrs Partridge. I could tell from her expression that things weren’t going well. On the other hand, this was Markham, so it wasn’t clear which of them things were going badly for. It would seem he was trying to persuade Mrs Partridge to allocate him an assistant.

I had a momentary twinge of guilt. This was all my fault. I’d packed him off on the steam-pump jump because I’d been in Sick Bay at the time and he’d been my proxy with a hidden agenda – i.e. getting Peterson and Lingoss together. Which, to be fair, he’d done – in his own peculiar fashion – but at some point, in between decking himself out from head to toe in pink and trying to drown Miss Lingoss in the moat, he’d somehow got the idea he wanted – nay, urgently required – an administrative assistant.

His argument was running thusly: ‘Max has an assistant.’ I opened my mouth to tell him he could have Rosie Lee –