A Catalogue of Catastrophe, page 27
part #13 of Chronicles of St. Mary's Series
‘Yes, but no time for that now. The Monteagle letter.’
He blinked. ‘Francis Tresham. Gunpowder Plot. Oh God, Max. What . . . ?’
‘I need a really good copy. Could you ask Dr Dowson if he could oblige, please? We need to fool everyone. Not just Lord Monteagle but possible future scientific analysis as well.’
‘Why?’
‘Because there’s a very good chance the original letter will never make it.’
He stood for a moment, taking in the implication, then nodded. ‘All right, I’ll go and speak to Dr Dowson. How long have you got?’
‘It doesn’t matter – you know that. As long as I can get this slightly unreliable pod back about an hour after I left . . .’
‘No, I meant for you. I’d like Dr Stone to look you over.’
‘I don’t think I should leave the pod . . .’
‘Hyssop’s not here. She and her team are out with Roberts and Atherton. Lost Libraries of Timbuktu.’
‘Treadwell?’
‘In his office.’
‘Bugger.’
‘No problem. He’ll never know.’
‘How’s he doing?’
‘Not too badly. He’s been asking for money-making ideas and someone mentioned having another Open Day.’
I groaned. ‘Oh God. Do we never learn?’
‘It’s all right – he wasn’t that keen.’
‘Thank God.’
‘Until someone pointed out that you’d been shot at the last one and he suddenly became quite enthusiastic.’
‘I’m not even here any longer.’
‘He said that wasn’t a problem. Historical re-enactments are our thing and could he volunteer to pull the trigger.’
‘He was joking, surely.’
‘Not sure. Hard to tell with him. Anyway, wait here.’ Peterson deepened his voice, intoning impressively, ‘I’ll be back.’
‘Sorry – what?’
‘I said . . .’ He deepened his voice even further. I swear I felt my chest vibrate. ‘I’ll be back.’
I blinked. ‘Yes, I know.’
He sighed. ‘Remind me again why I bother.’
He disappeared. I put down my tea because I didn’t really want it.
Minutes later, he reappeared with Dieter.
Dieter sniffed the air a few times. ‘Is the problem with you or the pod?’
‘Drifting.’
‘Badly?’
‘No, but getting worse.’
‘Thirty minutes.’
‘OK.’
Peterson passed me a black jumpsuit and a baseball cap to hide my hair. It would seem I’d been promoted to the IT Department.
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Yes. Good thought.’
‘Other people do have them, you know.’
They waited outside while I changed.
‘It’s mid-afternoon and the place is heaving at the moment,’ said Peterson, as I emerged. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t aim for around half past six in the evening. That’s what I would have done.’
Sadly, the many and brilliant responses to this remark formed a kind of logjam in my brain and instead of annihilating him on the spot with my caustic comeback I could only stare at him. I told myself I was tired, obviously.
He patted me on the shoulder. ‘Never mind. It was a good effort.’
Never have I more longed for the power to strike a man dead where he stood.
‘Come on,’ he said, cheerfully, ‘and whatever you see or hear, stay close to me. Dr Dowson’s waiting for you. Just tell him what you want. Dieter will do the biz here. Then you shoot off to Sick Bay for an overhaul and Bob’s your uncle.’
Well – it was never going to be that simple, was it?
We’d barely got out of the paint store when the racket started. I heard someone shout a warning in the distance. There was a rumbling noise as of something heavy being trundled around the building. Followed by a sudden, sharp cry of warning. Followed by the sound of breaking glass. Followed by screams. And overturning furniture. And shouting.
Instinctively, I set off in the Direction of Doom.
‘No, no,’ said Peterson. ‘We’ll go around the outside and in through the Library windows. Like normal people.’
‘But . . .’ I said.
‘Just ignore everything.’
‘What have you done?’ I said in alarm.
‘I haven’t done anything,’ he said. ‘I simply asked for a small diversion to keep everyone congregated in the Hall while you and I scamper happily around the outside of the building.’
‘Who did you ask?’
‘Professor Rapson, of course. Can’t wait to see what he’s come up with. Stick with me now. And do try to look like a normal member of the human race.’
We let ourselves out of one of the back doors and trotted around the side of the building. Even from out here I could hear sounds of . . . let’s go with ‘agitation’.
Normally the Great Hall – home of historians – is the preferred venue for whatever has just gone horribly wrong. With R&D running a close second. Followed by the Library – usually an unwilling and bitterly complaining participant. The car park too has had its moments of drama over the years. And the lake, of course. Even Wardrobe has seen its fair share of tense moments. On reflection, it might be quicker and easier to list the areas where nothing untoward has ever occurred.
Pause for reflection.
No – sorry, I’ve got nothing. All of St Mary’s has figured in what Pennyroyal would no doubt refer to as another Catalogue of Catastrophe.
It’s going to take me a while to climb through the Library windows because we always have to keep an eye open for swans. Other organisations might have guard dogs or robot security systems. We have swans. And before you laugh – the Romans had geese and it worked for them. Anyway, to help you pass the time, let me list the component parts of this afternoon’s particular incidentette and you see if you can work it out more quickly than I did.
Item 1. Broken glass all over the Hall. Everywhere. Masses and masses of broken glass. It looked as if some sort of giant glass tank had sustained some sort of giant accident.
Item 2. An upturned flatbed trolley – possibly borrowed but more likely stolen from Hawking – on which the giant glass tank was seemingly being transported.
Item 3. A vast quantity of what looked and smelled like wood shavings. Pine, if I wasn’t mistaken. Rather a pleasant smell. I made a mental note to discuss scattering them around the pod instead of our traditional floor covering. To counteract the smell of cabbage, of course. And, more recently, sick.
Item 4. Slightly more puzzling – dog food. A lot of dog food. I knew it was dog food because it was pink. These days the law says that pet food must be pink or blue so people don’t confuse it with human food. I don’t object to the government being idiots – if they weren’t idiots then they’d have a proper job like the rest of us – but I do object to them thinking we’re idiots. However, pink dog food is here to stay.
Item 5. Perhaps I should have led with this. A rather large dead pig. Which appeared to have tumbled from the now shattered glass tank. Either it had sustained a lot of damage during its tumble or it hadn’t been good to start with, being full of holes and with bones and things poking out. Moth-eaten was my first impression. It had obviously rolled some distance from the flatbed and had come to rest against an already laden table which was showing signs of imminent collapse.
Item 6. Scattered across the floor, a very large quantity of cheap jewellery. From Wardrobe. I thought I could see one or two pieces I’d worn to Babylon.
Have you got it yet? Need any more clues? OK then – last clue. The Big Finish.
Item 7. A large number of beetles. Not the car – the insects. Lots and lots of scuttling, crawling, scurrying, running beetles.
Got it now? Just let me get in through this window and I can describe the scene properly.
It was some time since I’d last seen the Hall and I could recognise Treadwell’s influence immediately. All the tables were in straight lines, parallel to each other and at right angles to the walls. All the files were neatly stacked and not toppling over. All the whiteboards were arranged against the walls where no one could walk into them. All the scruffy notices, rosters, reminders, and Post-its had been taken down. All the fire exits were clearly marked. The floor was cleared of trip hazards and the secondary filing system. The place looked clean, tidy and efficient. It was enough to rot your soul just looking at it.
Except today. Today was the St Mary’s I knew. Today there was screaming and mass climbing on to furniture. We at St Mary’s – sorry, St Mary’s personnel – are as brave as lions when it comes to the animal world. Dinosaurs, mammoths, horses, even swans (as long as we’re standing behind someone else) – we’ve dealt with them all. But beetles – thousands of beetles – were another matter. And if these beetles were what I thought they were, then we were due a panic of biblical proportions.
It was at this point that Commander Treadwell made a tactical error and appeared on the gallery demanding to know what was going on.
I drew well back in the Library and stood behind Peterson.
Just for the record, the correct procedure – as employed by Dr Bairstow – should have been to close his office door and become massively busy with an important telephone call to the exclusion of all lesser matters. Treadwell still had a lot to learn.
‘Oh, good afternoon, Director,’ said Professor Rapson, who, with the other members of his department, was scurrying around, picking up beetles and dropping them into anything that looked fit for purpose. He gestured expansively. ‘Museum bugs.’
I suppose he thought that sounded better than the more well-known name, and for all I know he was right.
‘Museum bugs?’ said Treadwell.
The professor beamed and moved sideways. Treadwell turned to keep him in view. Peterson nudged me into an alcove. Dewey number 236 – Eschatology, if I remember correctly. Which seemed very appropriate under the circumstances.
‘It’s an experiment,’ said the professor. ‘In conjunction with our colleagues at Thirsk. Inter-site cooperation.’
He stopped, obviously assuming this explained everything.
Treadwell now had his back to me. ‘An experiment?’
‘Well, more of a race, really.’
‘A race?’
He really wasn’t going to get anywhere just repeating everything the professor said.
‘Fascinating to watch,’ continued the professor, seemingly unaware he had completely mistaken his audience. ‘And to listen to. If everyone could just stop screaming for a moment, you’ll be able to hear them at work. They sound exactly like that breakfast cereal when you pour your milk over it.’
He tilted his head to one side in an attitude of intense concentration.
Several people turned green although you’d think anyone daft enough to engage with milk – the juice of the devil – would have a strong enough stomach to cope with a few beetles, wouldn’t you?
Treadwell, who obviously hadn’t learned anything during my absence from St Mary’s, continued with his interrogation. ‘Exactly what has occurred here, professor?’
‘Well, as I said, it’s an experiment with our colleagues at Thirsk to discover which strain of flesh-eating beetle . . .’
That was as far as he got for quite some considerable time. I think it would be fair to say mass consternation ensued.
‘. . . is most efficient at stripping skeletons of their flesh,’ he continued happily. ‘We each constructed an equal-sized glass tank – for the purposes of observation – and obtained similarly sized pigs. But – and I think you’ll agree this is the fascinating part – we are using different sub-species of beetle. I know this will excite you, Director, since several well-known museums – our friends at the BM, for instance – have registered an interest in the results. Our plan is to breed the winner on a commercial scale and thus obtain some much-needed income for St Mary’s – as you continually exhort us to do, Director.’
His face afire with an evangelical fervour which wouldn’t have deceived Dr Bairstow for a microsecond, he continued. ‘I thought some of the empty rooms along the admin corridor would be ideal for our purpose.’
Mrs Partridge’s expression invited him to try.
‘Although we haven’t met with quite the enthusiasm we expected from our co-workers . . .’
He appeared to contemplate this sad state of affairs for a moment and then gave himself a little shake. ‘Anyway, the jewellery was concealed inside the pig – much as ancient people were buried with their valuables.’
He picked up a small diadem last seen adorning Rosie Lee and which now had something pink and wobbly dangling from one end. ‘The object was to see which species of beetle would uncover the jewellery most quickly so that we could begin commercialisation as soon as possible. We really are quite excited about this one, Director. And to appeal to your competitive instincts, we here at St Mary’s are definitely well ahead and . . . Or rather we were. Our attempts to move the tank will almost certainly set back our progress and . . .’
‘And the dog food?’
The professor radiated innocence. ‘In case they didn’t like the pig.’
Bashford started to scratch. ‘Oh my God, I think one’s just run up my leg.’
Many people tried to climb up on to trestle tables not designed for this purpose. Those who had already gained the illusory safety of being off the ground showed no signs of willingness to share their refuge. Shouts of ‘Bugger off and find your own table’ echoed around the Hall.
‘Flesh-eating beetles?’ said Treadwell, apparently under the impression this wasn’t an actual thing.
The professor frowned reproachfully. ‘Their proper name is Dermestids, Director. Flesh-eating beetles sounds a little melodramatic, don’t you think? I always feel it’s important not to overdramatise this sort of situation.’
‘They eat flesh?’
‘Well, not live flesh, obviously. Only dead flesh. Could someone reassure Mr Bashford as to the safety of his external reproductive organs? Unless he falls off the table and kills himself, in which case, one lucky little beetle has a head start on his friends.’
Bashford screamed and scrabbled to rip off his clothes. His boots, jumpsuit, socks . . .
Several other people screamed, but not for beetle-related reasons, I suspected.
‘Or,’ continued the apparently oblivious professor, ‘if they can’t get dead flesh, they’re rather partial to wool . . .’
Mrs Enderby screamed and fled into the Wardrobe Department, slamming the door behind her.
‘. . . wood . . .’
Mr Strong screamed. Ditto with the front doors.
‘. . . paper . . .’
Dr Dowson screamed and headed towards the Library. Exactly where I wanted him to be. I cast a suspicious look at Peterson, standing innocently in the End of the World section.
‘. . . cotton . . .’
Mrs Midgley screamed and surged up the stairs. To defend her airing cupboards to the death, presumably. Although whose death wasn’t entirely clear.
How Treadwell dealt with all this I never knew. Peterson and I followed Dr Dowson into his office. He shut the door behind me and beamed. ‘How are you, Max?’
‘Very well,’ I said. ‘But I desperately need your help, doctor.’
‘Yes, so Dr Peterson explained.’
‘And we can’t wait, sir. The only way we can be truly certain the letter is delivered is to deliver it ourselves. As soon as possible.’
He sat for a moment, drumming his fingers on his desk. I waited.
‘The letter itself is not a problem. A simple enough matter to copy, I think. The problem is the paper or parchment. I’m certain I don’t have anything suitable here, and we’re talking about a national document so it’s going to have to be spot on. How easy would it be for you to acquire something suitable at the other end, so to speak?’
‘I think Mr Markham has that in hand, sir. What about ink?’
‘If you can acquire paper then you can probably acquire ink at the same time. If not, we can probably knock something up from soot and gum arabic. I must say, Max, you appear to be leading a very adventurous life since you left us.’
‘Well, it wasn’t exactly a quiet life while I was here, was it? And now St Mary’s is grappling with ten thousand flesh-eating beetles.’
He shook his head. ‘No, it isn’t.’
I pointed back towards the Great Hall. ‘But I just saw . . .’
‘No, you didn’t. No more than five hundred at the most.’
I don’t know why he thought five hundred flesh-eating beetles would be more acceptable than ten thousand and said so. ‘Aren’t you a little concerned they’ll eat St Mary’s around your ears?’
He shook his head. ‘We’ll entice them back with the dead pig. That’s what it’s there for. The old fool upstairs has a second tank all set up and ready to go and they’ll all be back on the job by nightfall. It’s a genuine thing, you know – stripping flesh this way doesn’t damage the skeleton underneath. And if this works well, we’re thinking of trying it on a dead mammoth.’
‘And Thirsk?’
‘No, I don’t think we can try it on them, Max. I can’t see the Chancellor being at all happy about that.’
‘I mean – the experiment.’
‘Enthusiastically on board with this one,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Just in case Treadwell checks with Dr Chalfont – although he won’t, I’m sure, because he’s no fool – and I have to say, Max, St Mary’s flesh-eating beetles are considerably more efficient than Thirsk’s. Bets have been placed and I myself stand to win a handsome sum.’
‘They’ll say we cheated,’ I said, unable to avoid being dragged into these deep academic issues.
‘Dr Black is adjudicating. No one argues with her. Now – to business.’
Not without some difficulty, I dragged my mind away from flesh-eating beetles and the only marginally less apocalyptic sight of Bashford taking his clothes off in public. Because now it was time for the difficult bit. Time to persuade Dr Dowson to entrust himself to a sick historian, enter an unreliable pod and jump to a hazardous destination where anything could be waiting for us – up to and including the world’s scruffiest partner in crime. I was going to have to exercise all my powers of persuasion and probably borrow a few more from someone else.
