They angled me so my back was to the dining room and the hat and overall rendered me almost completely invisible. It was hard work, though. I decided to be much nicer to the kitchen staff in future. Not that I’d been particularly brutal before – and I always said thank you when I took my plate back, for instance . . . and then I realised it was very possible I might never come back here again. Not unless something amazing and unexpected happened. And then I became depressed all over again. The only good thing was that Leon and Matthew weren’t here. I hadn’t seen my family for quite a while now and lovely though it would have been to spend even a little time together, I don’t think it would have done me much good.

  And then – finally – Dr Dowson turned up.

  I let him eat his breakfast in peace because twenty minutes wasn’t going to make a lot of difference. He and Professor Rapson sat at a table in the corner, arguing amiably together. I was alternately scrubbing something sticky at the sink and trying to reassemble some piece of esoteric kitchen equipment I’d foolishly taken to pieces to clean and hopping with impatience at their slowness. Eventually, though, they got up and made their way towards their respective places of work.

  I was heading after Dr Dowson when bloody Treadwell turned up out of nowhere and stood talking to Hyssop. Right outside the bloody Library. There was no way I could get past them. And I couldn’t hang around in the Hall either.

  I could go out and around the building and try to climb in through the Library windows, but if they were locked for some reason then I might not be able to get back into the building again.

  ‘I don’t know what to do,’ I whispered to Mrs Mack. ‘Why can’t he just bugger off somewhere? Dr Bairstow never came out of his office. Why can’t Treadwell do the same?’

  ‘Well, he can’t stand there for much longer,’ she said. ‘He has a Parish Council meeting at ten. We’re doing the refreshments now.’

  I recoiled. ‘He feeds them? Isn’t that a bit like feeding gremlins after midnight?’

  She rolled her eyes and went away.

  I spent the next half hour laying out plates and doilies and fancy biscuits. Since Treadwell had turned up to replace Dr Bairstow, everything had been costed down to the last penny and saving money was his – Treadwell’s – first priority. I couldn’t help feeling he could have saved a bit by:

  (a) serving cheaper biscuits

  or

  (b) serving no biscuits at all

  or

  (c) buggering off somewhere else and taking Hyssop with him.

  Just saying.

  I was arranging the biscuits in an artistic pattern – lemon, chocolate, vanilla and so on – when I looked up to see Evans and his team go past the windows, dragging various pieces of gardening equipment with them.

  I squinted and craned my head to see where they were going. ‘What are they doing?’

  It was Mrs Mack, busy turning tiny cakes on to a cooling tray, who answered. ‘Those members of the Security Section not actually out on assignment or guarding the building are seconded to . . . other jobs.’

  ‘What sort of other jobs?’

  ‘Gardening – which is probably where they’re off to at the moment – or handymanning – fixing things or moving furniture around. That sort of thing.’

  ‘I can’t see them being happy with that.’

  ‘They’re not. In fact, the whole bunch are rather fed up at the moment.’

  ‘I can imagine. It’s a miracle they’re even still here.’

  ‘They’re waiting for you to come back, Max. You know – the once and future historian.’

  I shook my head. ‘That might never happen.’

  ‘You shouldn’t doubt yourself.’

  I shook my head again. ‘It’s Christmas where I am. Or will be in a couple of days. There’s no Leon. No Matthew. No St Mary’s. No home.’ I tailed away.

  She dropped another tray of cakes on the stainless-steel top. ‘St Mary’s is like having the pox – you’re never really free of it and it affects your life choices forever. And home is wherever you happen to be at that moment. You know that.’ She passed me the Oven Gloves of Comfort. ‘Can you take those biscuits out of the oven for me, please. We need to get a move on.’

  She was right. I couldn’t hang around here all day and I still had to get into the Library. On an impulse, I asked her if she had a crowbar I could borrow, and do you know, she did, and while she was fetching it, Treadwell and Hyssop cleared off.

  I plonked this very useful-looking implement – clearly labelled Property of the Kitchen Department – on to my trolley, covered it with a cloth and trundled it into the Library, which was deserted except for Dr Dowson working quietly at his desk.

  He looked up as I and my trolley clattered through the doorway, saying, ‘Ah. There you are.’ He showed no surprise at all. ‘I was certain we hadn’t seen the last of you, Max. I told that old fool upstairs you’d be back. For one reason or another.’

  ‘Dr Dowson, sir, could you make yourself scarce for ten minutes?’

  ‘I could do, but why?’

  I pulled out my crowbar. ‘I’m very sorry but I’m going to have to vandalise one of your bookcases.’

  ‘Oh – you’ve come back for them, have you?’

  It took a moment to register but then I very nearly dropped the crowbar in shock. ‘What?’

  ‘Second bookcase on the left? That was you, was it? I can’t think why I never guessed before.’

  ‘What was me?’

  ‘Two rather nice Fabergé eggs? That was you?’

  I think, for a moment, I might have felt a little dizzy. ‘Dr Dowson . . .’

  ‘Oh, no cause for alarm, Max. They’re quite safe.’

  ‘You found them?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘When St Mary’s was refurbished?’

  ‘No – actually, not until the time that old fool upstairs tried to kill us all with frozen chickens.’

  Ah yes, the professor’s rapid chicken-firing gun experiment. There had been substantial damage.

  ‘They’re still here?’ I think up until this moment I hadn’t really believed that could be possible. ‘Where?’

  ‘In an archive box on the top shelf in my office. Covered in very authentic dust and marked Library Classification Notes ARS to TIT. Perfectly safe. I’ve been keeping them for the day we’d have to bribe someone or pay a ransom or bail you out of prison. May I suggest you continue to leave them where they are?’

  I shook my head. ‘Sorry, sir, I have a Greater Purpose.’

  ‘In that case, come through.’

  We moved into his cluttered office and he carefully closed the door behind us. ‘Do you know how much these things are worth, Max?’

  ‘I have a vague idea. Thank you for looking after them. And can we not say anything to anyone.’

  ‘You can trust me. And the old fool upstairs as well.’ He pulled out his wooden ladder and began to climb. ‘We’re the Guardians at the Gate, Max.’

  He passed down an archive box. I settled it carefully on the desk, and, still not quite believing they were here and safe, whipped off the lid.

  There they were. Two small but exquisitely jewelled Fabergé eggs, still in their protective display cases. When I think of everything that had happened at and to St Mary’s over the years . . . fires, explosions, invasions, frozen chickens . . . It was a bit of a miracle they were still intact.

  I stared thoughtfully. Wisely, Markham had avoided the biggest egg, the Royal Danish; these two were much more portable. If I could get them out of their cases they would fit very nicely in my pocket. If I could get them out of their security cases. I picked one up, looking for the release mechanism.

  Dr Dowson read my thoughts. ‘Oh – that’s easy enough, Max. Any competent librarian can undo a security case with nothing more than a paper clip.’

  I wrinkled my nose. ‘I don’t think so, sir. These are very high-end and . . .’

  There was a click and one case sprang open. A fraction of a second later, the second followed suit. Never underestimate the skill set of a chartered librarian.

  Feeling extremely stupid, I very carefully lifted the first one from its case and eased it into my left-hand pocket, where it sat – heavy but safe.

  This is just a small point but well worth making, I think. Ladies – never, ever find yourself wearing a garment with no pockets. You’ll have nowhere to stow your stolen Fabergé eggs.

  A moment later the second was in my right-hand pocket. They were very heavy. I hung a Tea Towel of Concealment from each pocket and replaced the box lid. ‘Thank you, Dr Dowson. I’d better be off now. Don’t want to be caught with these in my possession.’

  Markham’s voice sounded suddenly in my ear. ‘Have you got them?’

  Dr Dowson was replacing the box on the top shelf but I turned discreetly to one side anyway. ‘Yes. Have you?’

  ‘Can’t find the bloody tree.’

  He couldn’t find a tree in a wood. Typical. ‘Keep looking.’

  ‘I am keeping looking.’

  ‘I’ll come and give you a hand.’ I turned to Dr Dowson. ‘I have to go. Thank you for looking after them.’

  ‘Our pleasure, Max. I’m not going to ask what you’re doing with them. Give my regards to Mr Markham.’

  I opened my mouth to say I hadn’t seen him for months, gave it up, and said, ‘I will. Take care, sir.’

  I replaced the unused crowbar and trundled my trolley back across the Hall – carefully not catching anyone’s eye – and back into the kitchen.

  Mrs Mack was waiting for me. ‘All right?’

  I went to take off my overall. ‘Fine, thank you. I’m off now. Your crowbar’s on the trolley. Thank you for your help.’

  She started to say something but I’d stopped listening. I was staring out of the window, unable to believe my eyes. Although I could believe my eyes. That was the problem. Because now I’d have to gouge them out and burn them.

  Actually, it was a good job I was staring out of the window because that daft bat Hyssop chose that exact moment to stride into the kitchen demanding to know if the refreshments for Commander Treadwell’s meeting were ready. I jumped a mile and pretended to do something with some piece of culinary equipment I later discovered was a ricer, which came as a complete shock to me because I thought it looked like something with which you could separate cats from their nadgers. Still – what do I know?

  Our relationship – mine and Hyssop’s – had been short but full of incident. She and her team had wrecked the Babylon assignment, shown themselves incapable of grasping the basic principles of St Mary’s, indirectly been responsible for me being sacked – although to be fair, that had been mostly me – and generally meddled with everything and everyone, and then saved my life when the idiot Halcombe and his mate Sullivan were about to either rip my arms off or shoot me. Whichever came first.

  So, as I say, mixed feelings. I had no idea how I should react to her or she to me, so I kept myself well hidden. Just to be on the safe side.

  I heard Mrs Mack say, ‘Of course,’ in the tone of voice she uses to Fascists when they try to invade Cardiff, and fortunately for both of us, Hyssop, continuing with her Woman on a Mission morning, strode back out again before she could clock me, still staring, paralysed, out of the window and wondering if I would ever be able to unsee . . . things . . . again.

  In my own defence, I did struggle. A prudent historian – never met one of those – but as I say, a prudent historian would seize the moment while everyone’s attention was elsewhere – as it very soon would be – and shoot out of the door to assist her colleague in his search for a tree in a wood. Fortunately, prudent historianism never happens to me.

  ‘I’ll take them up,’ I said to Mrs Mack, meaning the refreshments, obviously, and not the things outside the window.

  Mrs Mack stared at me. ‘You?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Look out of the window.’

  She did.

  Mrs Mack led the troops who threw the Fascists out of Cardiff. She made the final stand on Barricade Bridge. She faced down a Leviathan. Nothing fazes Mrs Mack. Today, she reeled.

  ‘Max . . .’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said.

  ‘Max . . .’

  I pointed to the calendar. She squinted and reeled again. ‘Oh my God – that’s an actual thing?’

  ‘It’s underlined twice,’ I said.

  ‘I thought someone was just having a laugh.’

  I pointed out of the window again. I think she would have liked to close her eyes but sometimes your body parts just won’t do as they’re told.

  I asked her where the trolley was for Treadwell’s meeting.

  She gestured blindly. I checked everything over and added an extra pot of boiling water because he was going to need all the refreshments he could get.

  She still hadn’t moved. ‘Max . . .’

  ‘Someone has to inform Commander Treadwell,’ I said, ‘and trust me, I will scramble over the cold, dead bodies of my former colleagues for the opportunity to do it myself.’

  She still hadn’t moved.

  I patted her on the shoulder. She was tough. She’d get over it.

  I took the goods lift to the first floor, humming a cheerful tune as I went. And, because the lift is slow and you have to pass the time somehow, I snaffled two lemon biscuits and a chocolate fondant cake on the way up. And then a fairy cake because they were still warm. And then I thought Markham might like one so I popped another into my pocket. Then I thought he’d never miss what he’d never known, and ate that one too.

  I brushed off the crumbs, straightened my hat, checked my tea towels were secure and arrived at Treadwell’s office.

  I don’t think Mrs Partridge is capable of anything so pedestrian as a start of surprise but she certainly raised an eyebrow when she saw me.

  ‘Trust me,’ I said. ‘I come in peace.’

  And up went the other one. Then she waved me through.

  ‘You should come too,’ I said, as she got up to open the door for me. ‘You really won’t want to miss this.’

  Treadwell looked up with a beaming smile which, I think, we can safely assume was because he thought I was the Parish Council. I’ve never seen a smile disappear so quickly. It was like watching the Cheshire Cat being hit by a truck. Not being anything like as classy as Mrs Partridge, he executed several starts of surprise. I suspected I was the last thing he expected to see that day.

  ‘What are you . . . ?’

  I banged into his desk with the trolley because I’m not good at controlling things with four wheels and there was a tinkle of overturned crockery. Mrs Partridge frowned, although it wasn’t the best crockery so no great disaster.

  I said, ‘Sorry,’ and scrabbled to right the cups again.

  I finally had the satisfaction of knowing I’d caught Treadwell on the hop. I could see him trying to work out why I was here, why I was dressed like that, and what the bloody hell was going on. And lastly – but definitely not leastly – that the Parish Council would be walking through his door any moment now.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  I ignored his question, pouring myself a cup of tea. I offered one to Mrs Partridge because I’m polite, but she shook her head.

  I picked up another biscuit and rearranged the ones still on the plate in the hope no one would notice they were looking a little thin. Very thin, actually, since I’d had more than half of them.

  I sipped my tea and said casually, ‘Would I be right in thinking you thought you’d get more value for money from the non-Hyssop part of the Security Section by ordering them to do a few odd jobs when things are quiet?’

  ‘Possibly,’ he said, a little stiffly, I thought, but interestingly, he made no move to contact Hyssop to have me thrown out.

  I hadn’t finished. ‘And would I be right in thinking it’s the third Thursday of the month, which means it’s the day for your monthly meeting with the Parish Council?’

  ‘Possibly,’ he said, still unwilling to commit himself, although everyone knew it was.

  I glanced at the clock. Three minutes to ten.

  ‘Do you remember one of your many complaints about St Mary’s was that it was almost completely unaware of the world around it?’

  He’d pulled himself together. ‘Is there some point to your maunderings, Kitchen Assistant Maxwell?’ He’d always been a sarcastic bugger.

  I was grinning fit to bust. ‘And fourthly – and possibly most importantly – are you aware that today is actually . . .’ I paused, all the better to build up the suspense, ‘World Naked Gardening Day? And yes, that is a thing. It’s on Mrs Mack’s calendar downstairs.’

  I saw him open his mouth to tell me not to be so ridiculous, close it again, struggle to take in the implications and then, all of a sudden, push back his chair and move to the window.

  I joined him because there was no way I was missing this. Mrs Partridge hadn’t even bothered to try to account for her presence and was standing at the other window. Evans was marching his team smartly down the drive. A neat squad of six, all in military formation, garden implements at the correct angle across their chests.

  They were all correctly kitted out with goggles, gloves and steel-toe-capped workboots, everything legal required for the safe operation of all those strimmers, scythes, axes, pitchforks and chainsaws, presumably. A sight to gladden any health and safety officer’s heart. Although from up here, they rather gave the impression they were about to wage war on a small country.

  The most striking aspect of their appearance – for me, anyway, I can’t speak for anyone else – was that they were all stark bollock naked. With the main emphasis on the last three words in that sentence.

 

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