‘What will you do with the sword?’

  ‘I thought I’d bury it or shove it inside a tree or something.’

  ‘What sort of tree?’

  ‘I don’t know. And none of them have any leaves right now, which makes it even more difficult. I’ll have to mark the tree somehow.’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘A sign or something.’

  I had a cunning thought. ‘Your initials.’

  He blinked. ‘We’ll need a big tree.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I waited a moment and then said, casually, ‘You’d better tell me what they are in case you don’t live long enough to retrieve it.’ And waited, because this would be something to report back to Peterson. If I ever saw him again.

  ‘What – all of them?’

  Now I blinked. ‘How many have you got?’

  ‘Initials?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Altogether?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  There was a lot of heavy breathing and finger counting. I held my breath. This was it . . .

  ‘One.’

  He might have had a sword down his trouser leg – that was his story anyway – but he still moved too fast for me to get to him, disappearing into the woods in search of an appropriate tree.

  I made my way back to the pod for a nice cup of tea. It had been quite an exciting day.

  And it wasn’t over yet.

  On Markham’s return, there was a certain amount of discussion between us. This is St Mary’s speak for a bit of an argument. But no bloodshed. Bloodshed is defined as a brisk discussion.

  ‘I’ve set the coordinates for exactly the same place,’ I said. ‘Ian won’t squeak if he sees our pod in his back field.’

  Markham nodded. ‘Date?’

  ‘Last summer,’ I said, and braced myself for argument.

  ‘Why then?’

  ‘Well, we don’t know how long the Time Police will occupy the building. And although we know St Mary’s is empty now, we do know it’ll become a school very soon. We could try to gain access then, but I think the chances of getting in unnoticed would be remote. After that, it’s requisitioned as a hospital during the Second World War and the last thing we need is to be dancing around a semi-military establishment in wartime without any official ID. We know it was empty afterwards, but I can’t help feeling that if the organisers of the Flying Auction had been able to gain access then, then they would have done so, because at least it would have been wired for electricity. So I think the best thing for us is to jump back to our own time, last summer – because we weren’t there then – but if we are caught, then I have lots of plausible explanations.’

  Talk about over-explaining.

  He was very unimpressed. ‘Such as?’

  ‘Sorry? Such as what?’

  ‘These plausible explanations of yours. What are they?’

  ‘I haven’t thought of them yet,’ I said with dignity.

  ‘And suppose someone else has got there first and the stuff disappeared years ago?’

  ‘Well, I don’t think that’s happened. We’ve heard nothing. No headlines about unexpected treasures discovered in obscure country house libraries. All the bookcases are still original, so for all we know they just replastered the walls, shoved the bookcases back against them and filled the shelves up with books again.’

  ‘Can’t help feeling a lot of that is wishful thinking, Max.’

  ‘I’m not the one who shoved two priceless Fabergé eggs in a hole in the wall.’

  ‘I made an executive decision,’ he said with dignity.

  ‘Look – if they’re not there then, we’ll jump back to, say, the 1960s.’

  ‘The place could be full of hippies,’ he objected.

  ‘Well when, then?’

  He remained silent.

  I tried again. ‘Look, it makes sense to go back to our own time, not least because if we are caught there isn’t actually a reason why we shouldn’t be there. All right, I’ve been sacked, and there was a certain amount of “never darken my door again”, but that’s only something to worry about if I’m actually caught. And why would I be? No one’s more familiar with the layout of St Mary’s than me. Come on – don’t tell me we can’t outwit Treadwell. And we can certainly run rings around Hyssop.’

  He still didn’t say anything.

  ‘And it’s not because I want to go back to St Mary’s.’

  ‘I didn’t say it was.’

  ‘Well, don’t, because that’s got nothing to do with it.’

  ‘I never said it did.’

  I glared at him.

  He said nothing and I thought I’d got away with it and then he said brightly, ‘And Leon might be there.’

  Now I said nothing.

  We landed in exactly the same place. Except we were in a different century. And a different time of year because now it was summer. And a different time of day. And there were fewer fields, less livestock and more houses. And no ram. Otherwise – not a lot different.

  ‘Can you remember where you left the sword?’

  ‘Of course I can,’ Markham said indignantly. ‘It was only ten minutes ago.’

  ‘Then let’s go.’

  We set off across the fields, parting at the edge of the woods.

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘I’ll get the eggs and you get the sword because you know where you left it.’

  He was staring at the leaf-laden trees. ‘It might take me a while. Things will have changed. The tree will probably be dead.’

  ‘If you can’t find it then you can’t find it. We’re no worse off.’

  ‘True. Try to stay out of trouble.’

  I laughed and he shot off into the woods.

  I didn’t hang around either. There were security cameras dotted throughout the grounds, although I knew from experience that early morning was the best time to sneak around. The night watch would be yawning and writing up their logs and the day watch would be stumbling down the stairs on their way to their breakfast bacon butties.

  I checked my watch. Just after six in the morning. This had to be a move calculated with military precision. I was standing behind the bin store in the car park. Birds everywhere were singing the ‘Hallelujah Chorus’ and really putting their backs into it. The sun shone. The grass was damp with dew. Everything was peaceful and . . .

  I could hear it coming. I tensed. I had to get this just right. I wouldn’t get another chance. Deep breath, Maxwell.

  The bread van appeared around the corner. Five minutes past six on the dot, pulling up at the back door. The driver jumped out and began to unload. Now. Before the back door opened.

  Bashford never locks his car. He lives in hope of it being stolen. He once left it unlocked in the middle of Rushford with a bottle of whisky on the front seat as an incentive. Returning three days later he was dismayed to find the car still there. And the bottle of whisky. To be absolutely clear – Bashford’s car is never going to be stolen. Ever.

  I opened his car door, slammed it shut and strolled over to the bread-van driver as if I’d just got out. We were just a pair of unfortunate sods whose jobs required them to do this crack-of-dawn stuff.

  I gave him a grin. ‘Do you want a hand, mate?’

  ‘Oh. Cheers.’

  He passed me over a tray of croissants. I shuffled into position so that when someone opened the back door, I was standing behind the driver with the tray obscuring most of my face.

  ‘Morning,’ he said cheerfully and I followed him in. As far as the driver was concerned, I was with St Mary’s and lending a helping hand out of the goodness of my heart. And St Mary’s would think I was just a slightly-more-smartly-dressed-than-usual deliverer of baked goods.

  The familiar smell hit me as I crossed the threshold. Dust, old stone, damp, yesterday’s lunch. Some things never change.

  I strode boldly down St Mary’s back passage. Don’t bother – all the jokes have already been made – and into the deserted kitchen. I plonked the tray on a handy worktop and pushed off before the kitchen assistant on earlies could catch sight of me. I think it was Ellen, but I was so busy making sure she couldn’t see me that I didn’t really see her, either.

  I shot out of the kitchen, through the empty dining room, and out into the Hall. It was only as I was weaving my way through whiteboards and tables and stacks of miscellaneous historical paraphernalia – things really hadn’t got any tidier since I left – and was halfway across the room that I realised I hadn’t thought to bring any tools. Never mind, I’d think of something. I always did.

  Not this time. I should have realised as soon as I saw the doors were closed. No one ever closes our Library doors – they’re too big and heavy. Normally, we hook them back against the wall. Not today, however. And not only were they closed – they were locked.

  Bloody, bloody Treadwell. We never had this bother when Dr Bairstow was in charge. Although, on reflection, the culprit was more likely to be that waste of good oxygen, Hyssop – our new Head of Security. Towards whom I harboured a great deal of ill will – and she didn’t love me, either. It was so like her to lock things up at night. I looked around. All the doors were closed. Wardrobe, Matthew’s former classroom, everything. Everything was locked away. I’d never have got in the building if I hadn’t come in with the bread. That had been a stroke of luck. Which had now run out. And I couldn’t stand here forever; people would be coming down for breakfast. As all sensible people do in a crisis, I headed back to the kitchen.

  It was Ellen. She was going around switching things on, filling the water boilers and so on. She had a radio on and something cheerful was making enough noise to cover any sounds I was making. I waited until her back was turned and then shot into Mrs Mack’s office, pulling the door almost closed behind me. I knew I wouldn’t have long to wait.

  Nothing much had changed – including Vortigern the cat, sprawled across her desk like a prolapsed bolster. In fact, I was pretty sure he was in exactly the same position as the last time I’d seen him. I wondered if perhaps he was dead and no one had noticed, so I poked him – just to make sure.

  He wasn’t.

  I sucked my finger and left him alone.

  I heard Mrs Mack call a greeting to Ellen, bang something around on a metal surface and then she pushed open her office door. Bearing in mind she’d once been an urban terrorist I very carefully didn’t creep up behind her. She could kill me with an egg cup. And probably would.

  I said quietly, ‘Good morning.’

  She stiffened, but fortunately remained egg cupless. She turned slowly. ‘Max?’

  ‘The one and only. How are you?’

  ‘Surprised. Actually, on second thoughts, no, I’m not. Why are you here?’

  ‘I’m up to no good and I need to get into the Library.’

  ‘You’ll be lucky. Hyssop keeps the keys now.’

  ‘Even yours?’

  She grinned. ‘Not after I’d dragged her out of bed at four-thirty in the morning for six days on the trot.’

  ‘You get up at half past four in the morning?’

  ‘Not after she gave me back my kitchen keys.’

  I was enormously cheered to find someone else making Hyssop’s life hell.

  ‘When will the Library open?’

  ‘Not until eight o’clock.’

  Shit. Shit, shit, shit. I’d hoped to be long gone by then.

  ‘Can’t Dr Dowson let me in?’

  ‘He doesn’t hold his own keys any longer.’

  I said, more to myself than to Mrs Mack, ‘She’s going to have to go,’ but she nodded agreement just the same.

  ‘I can’t hide you away anywhere, Max. Unless you’re prepared to stand in the cold room all morning . . .’

  ‘Nope,’ I said, struck with a Brilliant Idea. ‘I’ll hide in plain sight. Give me an overall. I’ll do the toast.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘Will you really?’

  A little harsh, I thought.

  She handed me an overall – I never found out whose – and one of those white hats. Fortunately, my hair was still quite short – courtesy of Martin Gaunt, of whom I try not to think because the bastard cut my hair. He actually cut my hair off. All right, yes, I was breaking Dr Bairstow out of his establishment at the time, but that’s not the point. The bastard cut off my hair. All of it. Although obviously I’m over it now. Obviously. Anyway, I was able to tuck it all away quite easily. I pulled off my scarf and jacket, shrugged on the overall, and thus anonymously clad, I sallied forth on major toast-making duties.

  Actually, I didn’t have to do much at all. St Mary’s has a giant toast-making machine and all I did was feed bread in at one end and take the finished product out of the other. Endlessly. I honestly had no idea St Mary’s ate so much toast. And they weren’t even all here. According to Mrs Mack, Sands was leading a team to 17th-century Edinburgh – something to do with James VI about to become James I – and Roberts had taken the rest off to Denmark. To investigate the assassination of Harald Greycloak. All of which was good news. I love the History Department dearly but I couldn’t help feeling their absence considerably enhanced my chances of getting through this unnoticed.

  A big stroke of luck though – Hyssop had despatched her own security people to go with both teams. They were all out, leaving our own people in charge of building security. This was excellent news. I could easily see Evans or Keller munching their way through a pile of superbly prepared toast and carefully looking in the wrong direction as I snuck past.

  ‘It’s not good though,’ said Mrs Mack as I rammed in yet another ten slices of bread. She looked over her shoulder and made sure we both had our backs to the serving hatches because the dining room was beginning to fill up. ‘Evans’ people have barely been on a jump since you left. Hyssop makes sure only her own people get the good stuff. Our lot are hanging in there – Evans sees to that – but they’re getting bored. Sooner or later . . .’ she tailed off.

  Yes. Sooner or later they’d start to drift away and then we’d just be left with useless Hyssop and her useless band of useless troglodytes.

  I seriously toyed with the thought of telling her Dr Bairstow was still alive. That he’d be back one day. And Markham, too. But I couldn’t; I couldn’t give Dr Bairstow away. So I lowered my voice and said, ‘Well, I’m here to walk off with something valuable right from under her nose, if that’s any consolation.’

  ‘It is.’ She looked over my shoulder. ‘Take that toast over, will you?’

  The kitchen had filled up. There were six of us now on breakfast duties – Sally on eggs, Mrs Mack mixing something in giant bowls, Kim doing the tea, Terry doing the bacon, Janet pouring orange juice, Edna on sausages. I wished I was on sausages. I suddenly realised I was hungry. I should have availed myself of more refreshments at the Flying Auction. I sighed. Was I beginning to lose my historian skills?

  I don’t know if Mrs Mack did it on purpose, but I arrived with the extra toast at exactly the same moment as Peterson turned up at the counter. There was no time to pull my hat down or turn away or do anything, really. I think it’s fair to say he was as surprised as me. We stared at each other for long seconds and then he smiled and said, perfectly normally, ‘Two slices, please.’

  I shoved some random toast at him. ‘Everything OK?’ I asked, and if people wanted to assume I was talking about the toast then that was fine by me.

  ‘You were at my wedding,’ he said quietly, apparently making the hard choice between Marmite, marmalade or jam.

  ‘Me and my monkey,’ I said cheerfully.

  He selected marmalade. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Up in the woods doing unspeakable things to trees with the contents of his trousers.’

  He stepped back. ‘Oh my God – that’s something my mind is never going to be able to unsee.’

  I looked at him from under my hat. ‘How are you?’

  He grinned. ‘Surviving. Felix keeps me sane.’

  ‘You chose a good one there.’

  ‘I did, didn’t I. You here long?’

  ‘No – I’m gone in a little while. Have you seen Leon?’

  ‘Once. Have to say he was looking a bit frayed around the edges. I think his crew had been giving him some grief.’

  ‘Well, if you see him again, can you say . . .’

  ‘I can, yes.’ He paused. ‘Max, for God’s sake . . .’

  ‘It’s all right – we’ll take care.’

  ‘I was going to say, please could you pass the butter.’

  He was lucky he didn’t get it thrown at him. He grinned, winked and turned away. I deposited the toast in the rack, grabbed a slice for myself and pushed off.

  I couldn’t leave the kitchen until Hyssop unlocked the Library and she obviously wasn’t going to do that until Dr Dowson turned up. Typically, just for that one morning, he was late. I suppose he thought that with all the History Department out on assignments, he’d re-catalogue something, or play with his card indexes, or even just have a bit of a snooze in the little-used ‘Political Ethics’ section. Nothing he needed to be on time for, anyway. Time ticked on and there was no sign of him.

  Fulfilling St Mary’s almost insatiable desire for toast took me a very long time. I was knackered at the end of it. At some point Commander John Treadwell himself came down. I kept my distance and managed to avoid him by getting stuck into the mountain of washing-up at the big sink in the corner.

  ‘I thought we had giant machines for this,’ I said to Mrs Mack, waving my hose around.

  ‘We do. This is the stuff that won’t fit. Get on with it now.’

  I worked side by side with Ellen and Terry for an hour or so. I don’t know what Mrs Mack had told her people but they accepted me without question. We even had a refreshing mug of tea together. I’ve long had the suspicion Mrs Mack recruits from the criminal classes. They once blew up St Mary’s using nothing but flour power. I personally wouldn’t cross any of them.

 

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