‘I’m not saying you’re wrong,’ said Smallhope. ‘Recent events may very well be linked in a way we cannot yet see, but it’s a case of priorities.’

  ‘And resources,’ said Pennyroyal.

  ‘Yes,’ said Markham. ‘While we think something bad is happening around Swan Court, we know someone’s trying to kill us here. It makes sense to deal with that first. We can deal with Swan Court when our backs are safe.’

  There was more silence and then Pennyroyal said, ‘That is a very valid point. We have two areas where further action may prove necessary, but we start in Great Russell Street.’

  ‘It is the British Museum, isn’t it,’ cried Lady Amelia. ‘I knew it. The villains. They still haven’t paid those invoices from last year, either. Pennyroyal, make sure the buggers settle before we wipe them from the face of the earth.’

  ‘Regrettably, my lady, I think we can discount the British Museum. For the time being,’ he added, as she seemed inclined to argue.

  ‘Thank God,’ said Markham. ‘I really didn’t fancy bringing down a national treasure. I’ve been there, you know. They actually let me in.’

  ‘They let anyone in,’ I said witheringly before he developed delusions about being an acceptable member of society. Turning back to Pennyroyal, I said, ‘The British Museum might very well be innocent . . .’

  ‘They are innocent,’ he said firmly.

  ‘In that case, we should be the ones to establish their innocence. The point I want to make is that only my on-site investigation will clear them.’

  Pennyroyal closed his eyes. ‘They don’t need clearing. Could we please stop assuming the British Museum are a bunch of murdering, criminal masterminds.’

  ‘Easily done,’ I said. ‘I’ll go there and check it all out.’

  ‘You will not,’ he said, and you don’t argue with that tone of voice. Everyone stared at the table, deep in thought. Well, actually I was worrying about lunch because I was starving. Lady Amelia was possibly considering how to take down the entire British Museum and subdue the thousand-plus people who worked there. Pennyroyal got up to attend to something in the oven that smelled great and God knows what Markham was thinking.

  I knew what I wanted to do but I wasn’t Head of the History Department any longer. Doing the right thing was of secondary importance now. Smallhope and Pennyroyal would weigh the various courses of action open to them and select the most profitable. That was a foregone conclusion.

  ‘I think we all need to consider our next actions very carefully,’ Smallhope said, eventually. ‘Pennyroyal will drop off our prisoners with the Time Police and we’ll reconvene after lunch.’

  We enjoyed a pleasant lunch – chicken in white wine sauce. I suddenly realised I’d been woken in the middle of the night, fought a bit of a battle, located a hostile pod, been kidnapped by said pod, whirled off to pastures unknown, whirled back again, jumped to London, subdued a couple of potential assassins, successfully relocated my boss and his . . . friend . . . and returned to base, bringing the aforementioned potential assassins with me for Pennyroyal to transmute into gold, and still been able to construct and present a compelling argument for doing something amazingly stupid. And I hadn’t eaten since 1893. You have to admit – as an employee I’m excellent value.

  I explained all this over lunch. The lack of response from my colleagues was disheartening so I took myself upstairs to review my actions to date – which is historian speak for having a nap. And to give them all the opportunity to discuss things in my absence, of course.

  Markham woke me with a cup of tea – which was a nice gesture. I thanked him politely so standards would be maintained.

  ‘Downstairs when you’ve finished,’ he said. ‘They’ve made a decision.’

  ‘Without me?’

  ‘You were there in spirit,’ he said soothingly. ‘Plus, we could hear you snoring.’

  They had indeed reached a decision. They’d even come up with a tentative plan, which was that Markham jump to Great Russell Street to investigate.

  I got all set to protest.

  ‘No,’ said Pennyroyal, and I closed my mouth again. ‘He goes in first, susses things out, reports back here and we put together a proper plan based on actual facts rather than an unexplained and unexplainable attempt to pin everything on to a much-loved institution. That will be when you step in, Dr Maxwell. Teamwork.’

  ‘Another job for Pros and Cons,’ said Markham happily.

  Oh God, he was back to that again.

  The thing about Smallhope and Pennyroyal is that they don’t mess around with formal procedures. There’s none of this ‘setting up working groups to study proposals and consult with everyone under the sun’. A decision was reached, where and why sorted, and the personnel delegated, given the freedom to act as they saw fit and told to get on with it.

  Markham was there and back less than twelve hours later and he had a lot to report.

  Firstly, to relieve any unnecessary stress among anxious readers – we must all do what we can in these difficult times – let me assure everyone that the British Museum was completely innocent. Well, innocent as far as we were concerned, anyway. As Markham said, God only knew what went on behind that portentous pillared portico, but as far as we were concerned – not the BM.

  ‘If not them, then who?’ I said, quite unwilling to let it go. I’d been in a warehouse of sorts. A secret, sinister underground basement – exactly the sort of thing with which, for all we knew, the British Museum could be riddled. I was envisaging long cobweb-bedecked corridors with ancient, warped wooden doors, opening into cavernous chambers that had remained unexamined since the Dawn of Time, containing dark and dangerous knowledge forbidden to man and . . .

  ‘It’s not them,’ said Markham, impatiently. ‘Will you please get over this fixation with the British Museum?’

  I subsided.

  ‘Given the coordinates,’ he said, returning us to the business in hand, ‘I’ve narrowed it down to one of three establishments. There’s a dark, old-fashioned second-hand bookshop – and we all know they’re always a lot more sinister than they appear; a very posh gent’s outfitters making bespoke suits; and . . .’ He paused dramatically. ‘A highly visible outfit called Insight.’

  I blinked. ‘Incite? As in provoke, inflame or motivate?’

  ‘No, Insight. As in perception, vision or understanding.’

  ‘So what exactly is Insight as in perception, vision and . . . thingummy?’

  Markham grinned at me. ‘Believe it or not – an historical research organisation.’

  I gaped at him. ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘Nope.’ He brought up an image. ‘This is their HQ. Incorpor­ating SPOHB – remember them? And SPERM, of course. The Society for the Preservation of English Regalia and Monuments. And they house the people from the Historical Ships Records. And they also hold part of the National Archive.’

  I was actually quite disappointed. ‘That all sounds very respectable. It can’t be them, surely. My money’s on the second-hand bookshop. It’s always the second-hand bookshop. They’re portals to another universe and inhabited by sinister beings disguised as little old men with spectacles and carpet slippers.’

  ‘Well, not wanting to rain on your parade, but no, it’s not. Take a look at this.’

  Markham took his recorder back off Pennyroyal and brought up an image of a promotional pamphlet. The name Insight was emblazoned across the top and the capital I was a stylised hand holding a flaming torch.

  I blinked. I’d seen that before. I wasn’t the only one. Silently, Pennyroyal produced the bloodstained scrap of paper.

  ‘Not an ice-cream cone,’ I said, enlightened. ‘A torch.’

  Which, on mature consideration, would make more sense. As did their logo – ‘Keeping Alight the Torch of Knowledge’.

  Markham grinned. ‘You have to watch out for these historical research societies, you know. Not one of them is what they seem. Do you think they’re all a mask for sinister activities?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Pennyroyal. He narrowed his eyes and looked at me. ‘And one day we’ll take them all down.’

  Pennyroyal has a very specialised sense of humour. At least, I was hoping he had. Because that wasn’t worrying at all, was it?

  ‘So, our next move is for me to infiltrate . . .’ I felt quite proud of that word, ‘this organisation, gain an insight into their activities – see what I did there? – and somehow bring them to their knees. Then we hand them over to the Time Police who will charge them with illegal time travel, possession of illegal pods, and anything else we can pin on them, and give us oodles of cash in return. Job well done.’

  ‘An oversimplification,’ said Pennyroyal, ‘but yes.’

  I think that was the moment I stopped listening. I picked up Markham’s recorder and began to flip through the images. Promotional literature, services offered to the public, price lists. Their credentials were impeccable. They supported the teaching and learning of History at all levels – something of which I could only approve. They promoted historical research and their proud mission statement was to make history accessible to all. I couldn’t argue with any of that. Markham had got it wrong, surely. I began to inch back towards suspecting the BM.

  And that wasn’t all. Insight influenced government policy regarding History and the national school curriculum. Although considering the amount of History taught in schools these days, that wasn’t much to be proud of. And it provided practical support as well, distributing grants, awards, bursaries and scholarships to needy students. They funded research grants; there was a hardship fund . . . they were a real force for good.

  I read it all through as the discussion ebbed and flowed around me then I picked up my mug, sat back and sipped, and had a bit of a think.

  It wouldn’t be the first time I’d jumped into the future to work for a sinister organisation. I’d done it with the Time Police and I could do it again. I did at least have a nodding acquaintance with the future – how things worked and so forth. I wouldn’t be going in completely blind. And I had the historical know-how to blag my way through any sort of situation where specialist knowledge was required. And – forgive me, Dr Bairstow – I had a time-travelling background. Seriously – I was tailor-made for the job.

  I mentioned this.

  ‘Sadly,’ said Markham, ‘she is.’

  ‘You can’t go alone,’ said Smallhope, decisively.

  ‘She won’t be,’ said Markham.

  The discussion went on for hours. Everyone had a great deal to say. We stopped for a mid-afternoon break. It began to get dark outside. My mouth was dry – even tea wasn’t helping. Everyone was talking over everyone else and I could see Penny­royal growing annoyed.

  ‘Stop,’ I said. ‘Please, can we stop for a moment. This isn’t how we usually work – any of us. If I were back at St Mary’s, I’d be sitting down and devising something realistic and achievable – which I would then present to Dr Bairstow. Allow me to do the same here. At the very least it will provide a starting point and focus for our discussions and we can take it from there. Can you give me a couple of hours?’

  ‘We can do more than that,’ said Lady Amelia, getting up. ‘Tomorrow, Dr Maxwell. We’ll reconvene after lunch tomorrow.’

  I nodded, climbed stiffly to my feet and wandered next door to what they normally referred to as their office. Markham followed me in. I fired up the data table and we got stuck in.

  ‘Accommodation could be a problem,’ he said after a while. ‘I don’t fancy living in a tiny pod with you. Not for any length of time anyway. You snore.’

  Yes, I do, but it was hardly polite of him to mention it – as I pointed out.

  ‘And not just snoring,’ he said. ‘You make these funny whiffly noises.’

  ‘Shut up, will you.’

  ‘That’s what I say to you and you just ignore me and carry on. Sometimes the windows rattle.’

  He was exaggerating. There are no windows in a pod. ‘Just shut up about my snoring. We’ll delegate.’

  ‘What will we delegate? And to whom?’

  ‘Those two . . .’ I jerked my head in the direction of the kitchen, ‘can be in charge of securing accommodation. I’m sure they’ll be more than up to the challenge and I could find myself in something rather plush.’

  ‘We.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We.’

  ‘We what?’

  He sighed. ‘We could find ourselves in something rather plush.’

  ‘What about my snoring?’

  ‘I’ll find a way to cope. The thing is you shouldn’t go alone.’

  He was right, of course, and I was pleased to hear he intended to accompany me, but there is such a thing as professional pride.

  ‘I can manage.’

  ‘No, you can’t, but that’s not the main reason I’m not letting you go alone.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘I’m not looking Leon in the eye and saying, “Well, yeah, mate, sorry, but your wife had one of her daft ideas and we all just stood back and let her get on with it. Sorry about the way it turned out. Fancy a drink in her memory?”’

  ‘Whereas the news that we’ve been shacked up together – possibly for months – will bring a happy smile to his face.’

  ‘Probably happier than mine since I’ll have been the one bearing the brunt of the shacking. He’ll probably have to buy me a drink. Many drinks.’

  I glared at him – for all the good that did – and we carried on.

  Considerably less than twenty-four hours later, we had our proposal ready.

  I told myself it was just another briefing. I don’t know why I felt so nervous about this one. We didn’t actually need Smallhope and Pennyroyal’s approval. Yes, we worked for them, but we were free to leave any time we weren’t actually in the middle of an assignment. If they didn’t like our plan, then we – Markham and I – could do it by ourselves. Probably. Although if you have access to assets like Pennyroyal and Smallhope then it makes sense to utilise them. They could make everything very much easier for us. If they chose to. So yes, I was nervous.

  ‘The proposal is this. Markham and I jump to sometime before the date Insight tried to kill the six of us. We need to be in and out before that happens.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Smallhope. ‘Shall we say six months before? I think if you haven’t discovered what they’re up to in six months, it will be time to withdraw and readjust our strategy.’

  ‘Agreed,’ I said. ‘Markham and I establish ourselves somewhere. I apply for a job with Insight . . .’

  ‘Won’t they know who you are?’ enquired Smallhope.

  I shook my head. ‘It’s six months before the attack. Hard to believe if they knew who I was they’d wait six months before attacking me.’

  ‘Suppose they shoot you as soon as you walk through the door?’ said Pennyroyal, working very hard to suppress the note of optimism in his voice.

  ‘Problem solved,’ I said. ‘All our suspicions confirmed. Take them down.’

  No one replied to that so I pressed on.

  ‘From reading through their bumf, it seems they’re always recruiting. Perhaps they’re utter shits to work for and have a high turnover. Or the fact that we put five of them out of circulation the other night might have something to do with their high attrition rate. For whatever reason, they say here . . .’ I brought up the relevant blurb, ‘that they’re always on the lookout for enthusiastic and experienced people with historical and archaeological backgrounds. I think they would jump at the chance of having me on board.’

  Silence. Now for the difficult bit.

  ‘Except . . .’

  I stopped.

  ‘Except what?’ said Smallhope.

  ‘Except that won’t be the sort of job I’ll be applying for.’ I took a breath and braced myself. ‘I want an admin job.’

  ‘Why?’ enquired Pennyroyal.

  I marshalled my arguments.

  ‘Because admin staff can go pretty well anywhere. All you need to do is look serious and clutch a few files. If you catch a researcher poking around the financial department, eyebrows could be raised. An admin assistant, on the other hand, has a perfect right to be anywhere from the stationery cupboard to the switchboard, from the basement to the boardroom.’

  I began to gather speed. ‘Plus, admin staff are invisible most of the time. Until something goes wrong, of course, when they tend to find themselves alone and unprotected on the front line, but most of the time no one ever notices them. They’re just there. And besides, I applied for a research job at St Mary’s and look what that led to.’

  ‘You might find another husband,’ Markham said, nodding.

  Pennyroyal rolled his eyes. ‘I can’t think of anyone else who’d be prepared to take you on, but by all means give it a shot.’

  I don’t think he was referring to my attempt to infiltrate Insight but I decided to misunderstand him.

  ‘Great,’ I said. ‘Thanks for your support.’

  He opened his mouth and I rushed on.

  ‘So – tasks. I’m afraid there’s going to be a lot of delegation on this one but I can’t see any other way. Markham’s offered to accompany me and although we could live in the pod . . .’ Markham made a faint noise like a stricken antelope discovering the waterhole to be infested with predators, ‘we would prefer proper accommodation. It’s more comfortable in the long run and will give me an address.’ I looked at Lady Amelia. ‘I was hoping you could . . .’ and tailed away.

  She made a note. ‘Very well. Leave that with me.’

  ‘And a wardrobe. Nothing flashy. A cheap interview suit and some very basic office clothes. I’m not well off. That’s why I need a job.’

  She made another note. ‘Anything else?’

  And so we worked through it all. Who I was. What I was. How I would proceed. What I would do if this happened, or that. They were very thorough. I noticed Smallhope would ask a question, move on and then ten minutes later Pennyroyal would ask the same question but in a slightly different format. Whether they were testing me or my plan was never really clear. In their own way they were worse than Dr Bairstow and when I eventually left the table, I was exhausted. I wouldn’t mind betting I was more knackered than if I’d actually done the job itself.

 

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