‘Not for the ram,’ I said, dusting myself off and looking up and down the main street.

  There was a great deal more commercial life going on than in my time. Apart from the Falconburg Arms I could see at least two more pubs, together with some kind of all-purpose shop with its contents spilling across the path outside, a bakery, and what looked like a haberdasher. Milk and meat must come round on a cart, I reckoned. The most modern building was a garage with a single solitary petrol pump at the top of the hill. Markham craned his neck.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Trying to see how much they charge for petrol.’

  Men do this. Football, beer and the price of petrol. Incomprehensible, but the best thing to do is let them get on with it.

  Not all the little cottages were occupied. A good many were still boarded up. Perhaps they’d been abandoned during the war and for some reason the inhabitants never returned. The Great Slump wouldn’t happen until the late 1920s, but here in rural England, the post-war depression was already biting.

  There were no street lights. The hedges bordering the road were untrimmed. I don’t know what the road was made of. Most of it was covered in a lethal mixture of mud and fallen leaves. The trees were bare, silhouetted against the sky, and there was no colour anywhere in the world.

  There were no people about, either. Such men as had returned from the war would be working, either in the fields or in Rushford. Women would be in the home and the kids in school. Everyone in their proper place.

  The bridge over the stream was a rickety wooden affair that didn’t look capable of supporting the weight of a car. Or even a laden wagon. We picked our way across very carefully. There was definitely no road on the other side. A muddy track, badly rutted by wagon wheels, led up to St Mary’s, very visible between the bare trees.

  The day was cold. Not one of the bright and frosty days. This one had a chill that struck right through to my bones. No wonder sheep were so bad-tempered, living in a muddy field in these temperatures. Perhaps we should have parked closer, but caution – and Pennyroyal – had advised keeping the pod a safe distance away. Should the Time Police appear and attempt to arrest us all, we didn’t want our pod swept up with all the others.

  St Mary’s had that blind look common to empty houses. The windows were shuttered but both the gates were open. One was hanging off its hinges so it probably wouldn’t have shut anyway. Between weeds and potholes, the drive was barely visible. I wondered when someone had last lived here.

  We’d been careful, but others hadn’t been so cautious. Or, more likely, too lazy to walk that far. Two or three small rectangular boxes were parked in the long grass on what we’d come to know as the South Lawn.

  ‘There’s another two under the trees over there,’ said Markham. ‘And I reckon there’ll be some more round the back.’

  I began to do some calculations in my head. Say an average of two people per pod, five pods that I could see, probably more. Lady Amelia always charged top whack for her bounty, saying that if we didn’t put a high price on our services then how could we expect anyone else to do the same? So that was a possible ten people – minimum. A lot of people. And that didn’t include those running the auction. Although how two of us would manage ten people was a bit of a mystery. Never mind – we’d think of something. There was a lot of money parked here.

  I grinned at Markham. ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

  He grinned back again. ‘Seriously, Max, we were born to do this.’

  We carried on slowly up the drive. St Mary’s looked truly decrepit. There were things growing out of the chimneys. The stonework was crumbling quite badly. In fact, two heavy wooden buttresses were pushing it upright in one place, and everything was stained with rainwater because the gutters and downspouts had been pinched for the lead. It would be horribly damp inside. I never before realised how much work Dr Bairstow had had to do to make it habitable – or nearly habitable. And even after all his work, there was always something falling down. Or off. Or in. Although, to be fair, this was quite often not unrelated to events within St Mary’s itself. Professor Rapson’s dandelion wine had blown out the windows. The kitchen and admin staff had brought down the lantern roof in the Great Hall. Frozen chickens had demolished the Library. To say nothing of dead dogs flying through the windows, runaway monoliths, exploding rocks . . .

  I was quite unprepared for the sudden and unexpected attack of homesickness coming out of nowhere. I don’t know why, because I was actually far more comfortably housed at Home Farm. It was warm, there was plenty of hot water and the food was good. I wondered what St Mary’s was doing now. How were they getting on without me? Very much better, probably. Rosie Lee, my alleged PA, always claimed History Department efficiency soared when I wasn’t around.

  I snuck a glimpse at Markham to see how he was taking being back at St Mary’s, but his face told me nothing. It never does if he doesn’t want it to.

  Hands in pockets, we strolled slowly up the drive, getting the lie of the land. No one else was in sight. The whole place looked completely deserted. We’d got this far unchallenged. I began to wonder if we were in the right place.

  Markham nudged me. ‘Bet you never thought you’d be doing this when you got up this morning?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘We’re very, very naughty people.’

  ‘We certainly are,’ said Markham. ‘We’re the Pros and Cons.’

  I sighed. Every time I thought he’d forgotten that stupid name . . . he hadn’t. He’d wanted a team name, he said, and since he’d done a bit of time here and there, that made him a Con. Short for convict, he would explain, convinced that if I could only see the joke, I’d adopt the team name with enthusiasm. He was always trying to get me to disguise myself as a prostitute so I could be the Pro part. It was never going to happen, but you can’t fault his perseverance. Well, you can, and I was going to fault it with a clip round his bloody ear one day if he didn’t give over.

  On the other hand, Combat Wombat – his second choice – hadn’t met much favour either – especially from Pennyroyal, whom I suspect has a very specialised sense of humour. Me bleeding to death at his feet would probably evoke a merry chuckle. Combat Wombat did not.

  I had an idea Markham would never give up on Pros and Cons and that he’d be repeating his arguments ad infinitum, which is never fun, but at least it kept him off the Fun Facts – which, as you will have observed, are even worse.

  ‘Fun Fact,’ he said, as we approached the steps.

  ‘Oh God . . .’

  ‘Do you know,’ he said, ignoring me, ‘this is exactly how St Mary’s looked the first time I clapped eyes on it.’

  ‘Did you have any idea what you were getting into?’ I asked.

  ‘Nope. Did you?’

  ‘None at all,’ I said. ‘I thought I’d come for a research job.’ I stepped back and looked up. ‘The house certainly looks deserted. Do you think we’ve come to the wrong place?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Other than all the pods scattered around the place, there’s a very modern security camera concealed behind the pediment.’

  ‘Excellent,’ I said, which, I admit, is not the normal reaction to finding oneself under surveillance, but it was good to know we were in the right place.

  ‘Microphones?’

  ‘Doubt it,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Too much faff for only one afternoon. Plus there’s too much background noise. Wind and whatnot.’

  ‘I can’t see any more pods,’ I said. ‘Do you think there’ll be any hidden up in the woods?’

  Markham frowned. ‘Possibly, but I suspect these will be people too posh to walk.’

  ‘We’re walking.’

  ‘We’re not posh.’

  ‘They don’t know that.’

  ‘We’re eccentric.’

  I nodded. ‘OK. I can do eccentric.’

  ‘Eccentric is my middle name,’ he said.

  ‘No, it’s not.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  Peterson would not have wanted me to miss this opportunity. His lifelong quest to discover Markham’s real name occupied much of his waking hours. And as Deputy Director of St Mary’s, it wasn’t as if he did a lot of work anyway. Cunningly, I said, ‘I don’t even know your first name.’

  ‘No, you don’t, do you?’

  And now we were at the front door, having walked up the drive, having a natural conversation and behaving perfectly normally. Which, trust me, is the best way to do it.

  We broke off as the doors opened before us. I saw two men, both adhering to the 1920s setting. They were dressed in dark jackets, grey striped trousers and very nearly terminally shiny shoes.

  ‘Hello there,’ said Markham cheerfully. ‘Are we in the right place?’ He flourished his printed invitation which was immediately scanned.

  The secret is not to watch anxiously, worrying about whether or not you’ll pass muster, but to fix your attention elsewhere. We turned our back on whatever they were doing because it wasn’t important and of course we’d get in, and surveyed the remains of the once and future South Lawn.

  ‘I bet this was a nice place once,’ remarked Markham.

  I nodded. ‘Shame to let these old places go but I suppose no one wants to live in them any longer.’

  ‘No,’ said Markham. ‘Only idiots would live in a place like this.’

  We turned back again.

  ‘Everything OK?’ said Markham, holding out his hand for the invite.

  ‘One moment, please, sir. This is a polite request for you to surrender any weapons voluntarily.’

  ‘Not armed,’ he said sunnily, which was perfectly true. Unless we’d brought Pennyroyal’s portable armoury with us, we’d never be able to match the sort of firepower our hosts – whoever they were – could probably muster.

  We were wanded anyway, which displayed typical levels of trust between punters and puntees.

  They stepped back. ‘Everything is perfectly in order, sir and madam,’ said Retainer One, not relinquishing our invite but imprinting a barcode on the back of Markham’s hand. ‘This will grant you access to all the parts of the building deemed safe. For your own safety, sir and madam,’ he imprinted another barcode on mine, ‘please do not deviate from the safe areas. Some parts of this building are in a fragile condition.’

  ‘Be awful if you had to dig us out before we’d had the chance to buy something expensive,’ said Markham.

  ‘Our thoughts exactly, sir.’ Retainer Two handed us a glossy catalogue. I couldn’t wait to see what was being offered, but first things first.

  Retainer Two continued. ‘Ahead of you is the Great Hall where the auction will take place in . . .’ He consulted a lovely old-fashioned fob watch. They really had spared no expense. ‘Twenty minutes. Refreshments are being served in the old dining room to your right. The artefacts are currently being displayed in the Library should you wish for a closer look, although each item will be brought through into the Great Hall when its turn comes. Is there anything else with which we can assist you?’

  ‘Toilets,’ said Markham promptly, because climbing out of the toilet window is always number one choice for a quick exit.

  ‘First floor, sir. Ladies to the right, gentlemen to the left.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Markham. ‘All ready, dear?’

  He offered me his arm. I’d like to say I seared him to the bone with a single glance but he never notices that sort of thing. I’ve no idea how Hunter copes with him but she seems to do quite well. Speculation on her methods has been varied, imaginative and fruitless.

  We were approached by a man dressed as a waiter and offered a glass of champagne each. We’re not supposed to drink on the job but I took a sip anyway. Just for authenticity, you understand.

  Markham tucked his catalogue away. ‘Let’s go and see if it’s the real deal, shall we?’

  Mindful of the ever-watching cameras, I nodded enthusiastically, and was quite proud of myself for remembering to ask our waiter where the Library was, and off we went.

  My first thought was, thank God Dr Dowson couldn’t see the state of his beloved Library. For a start, part of the ceiling had come down and R&D hadn’t even moved in yet. All the bookcases were empty. In fact, there wasn’t a book in sight anywhere. Some of the shelving had come away from the walls, bringing the plaster down with them and exposing the wooden lathes. There were holes in those too. The windows were boarded up so at least the swans wouldn’t be joining us. The lights were on but I could hear the sound of the generators in the distance, so the building hadn’t yet been wired for electricity. Actually, it was all a little bit sad.

  ‘Over here,’ said Markham, taking my arm, and we went to inspect the merchandise.

  Well – was all I could say. In fact, I’ll say it again. Well.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Markham, transfixed.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said a voice behind us because we were blocking the way. We stepped aside and I led Markham to a quiet corner where Dr Dowson’s desk normally sat, whispering, ‘If even a fraction of this is genuine . . .’ and had to stop because the implications were mind-blowing. If this was typical of Flying Auctions, then I was going to be recommending to Smallhope and Pennyroyal that we move into this area full-time. The display was gobsmacking – and that’s a technically correct historical expression. Absolutely gobsmacking.

  I took another sip of champagne because – well.

  We made our way slowly around the room. Anticlockwise.

  ‘Fun Fact,’ whispered Markham and I just knew he was about to explain the origin of the word widdershins, but at that moment, my brain was concentrating on the glories on display.

  Directly in front of me, resplendent behind a transparent but no doubt very effective security shield, stood an exquisite golden, glimmering panel, very carefully lit to bring out the detail. Markham dragged out his catalogue, but if this was what I thought it was, then we were looking at a panel from the famous Amber Room. It was staggeringly beautiful. I had no idea whether it was genuine or not – it looked genuine, but the best fakes always do. On the other hand, given the nature of naughty people for whom the timeline is just something to plunder, it might well be the real thing. I had no way of telling, but if it was . . .

  The Amber Room was part of the Catherine Palace, built in the 18th century at Tsarkosoye Selo near St Petersburg. The palace was stuffed full of gold-gilded mirrors, mosaics, carvings, ornaments, furniture and so forth, but was most famous for the massive amber wall panels in one of its rooms – hence the name, the Amber Room. Tsarkosoye Selo was captured by the Germans in 1941 and the Amber Room was disassembled and taken back to Germany, after which it was never seen again.

  As you can imagine, the panel was attracting a great deal of attention. I could hear gasps and soft cries of amazement. Markham and I stood a little to one side, ostensibly admiring the panel, but in reality, checking out our fellow punters. Of whom more later.

  A little further on stood what looked like a great stone sarcophagus. Heaven knows how they’d got it in here. Actually, heaven knows how they’d managed to get it out of its original resting place. I couldn’t see it going anywhere without a ton of heavy-lifting gear. Or some kind of anti-grav device so beloved of sci-fi writers. A carefully printed notice nearby proudly informed us we were looking at the Sarcophagus of Menkaure.

  ‘What do you think?’ murmured Markham.

  I pretended to flip through the catalogue. ‘Well, the sarcophagus was originally looted from the Pyramid of Menkaure – that’s the smallest of the three Cairo pyramids – and loaded aboard the merchant ship Beatrice, which sank on her way back to England, taking the sarcophagus with her. Given the size and weight of it, it’s unlikely to have been reclaimed from the bottom of the sea, even if anyone knew where it actually sank. A fake, I should imagine. Or they’ve somehow obtained a genuine sarcophagus and called it Menkaure’s to jack up the value.’

  ‘Or,’ said Markham, ‘given the dastardly deeds of Time Pirates . . .’

  ‘Really,’ I said, turning to look at him. ‘That’s what we’re calling them now? Time Pirates?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, excitedly. ‘I’ve always wanted to be a Time Pirate. Haven’t you?’

  I rolled my eyes.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘If it was me, I’d have half-inched the thing before it even got on board the Beatrice. The fact that the ship foundered before the theft was discovered was just a piece of luck.’

  I stared at the lump of inanimate matter in front of me. And then the sarcophagus, as well. ‘A possibility, I suppose.’

  ‘A probability, I would have thought,’ he said. ‘What’s next?’

  The next exhibit was tiny. We had to wait for people to move away before we could get close enough to see for ourselves. Two fragments of papyrus covered in faint, light brown symbols or handwriting. Markham consulted his catalogue.

  ‘Oh, this is interesting. Greek texts from the Hidden Library of Ivan the Terrible. Know anything about those?’

  ‘Wow,’ I said, peering more closely and trying to see if I recognised any of the symbols. Ivan’s Hidden Library was supposed to have contained hundreds of ancient Greek texts – it was famous for them, in fact – and here were just a couple of fragments. I had visions of laughing Time Pirates – bugger, now he’d got me at it – tearing the texts into fragments and selling each piece separately. I gritted my teeth. These bastards were going to hell.

  We moved on. ‘A jewelled star of the Order of St Patrick,’ said Markham, reading the carefully handwritten sign. ‘Stolen in 1907 and never seen again.’

  ‘Until now,’ I said, moving on. ‘Oh my God.’

  The next exhibit was jaw-dropping. A copper scroll retrieved . . . good word . . . retrieved from Qumran and supposedly giving specific details of the exact location of the massive hidden treasure referred to in some of the existing scrolls. ‘Bloody hell, Markham.’

 

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