Mrs Proudie was suggesting tea. Kathleen had already scuttled off to light the fire in the drawing room. Maggie relieved Mr and Mrs North of their hats and coats and ushered them in. Evans grinned at me and disappeared downstairs into the probably much warmer and more comfortable kitchen. Everything had gone much more smoothly than I could ever have anticipated. I actually felt quite optimistic for a change. This was one of the best Brilliant Ideas I’d ever had; it was actually going to work.

  And then – believe it or not – someone knocked at the front door.

  We all stopped dead. Dr Bairstow and Mrs Brown were just entering the drawing room. Kathleen was holding the door open for them. Mrs Proudie was chivvying the remaining servants back through the door into the nether regions. And me, standing around like a spare part, as usual. We all stared at the front door. Tension twanged in the air. I could see the servants’ first thought was that Feeney and Winterman were back. I knew that was utterly impossible – the Time Police were entertaining them for as long as it took to extract everything they needed to know, after which their usefulness would be at an end. And, probably, their lives, too.

  I looked at Mrs Proudie. It was still quite early. Not yet nine o’clock. Far too early for a social call. Not that anyone had ever made any social calls here anyway. I had a very bad feeling about this.

  I said, ‘I’ll handle this,’ and was proud of my confident tone. True, I had no idea how I would handle it, but I was positive I’d think of something in the next six or seven seconds.

  Dr Bairstow drew Mrs Brown into the drawing room, leaving the door slightly ajar behind them. He had his swordstick and if both he and Mrs Brown didn’t have a small arsenal distributed between them then they weren’t the people I thought they were.

  Kathleen came out into hall, staring at the door.

  I said, ‘One moment, Kathleen. Mrs Proudie, may I have your keys, please.’ I gestured at her chatelaine.

  She stared for a moment and then handed them over. I took them off her, saying, ‘I am the housekeeper, Mrs Farrell. Make sure everyone knows that.’

  She nodded and melted back through the door. I could only hope Evans would be on the other side of it and not warming himself by the kitchen fire with a cup of tea and his boots off.

  I took off my coat, rolled it up, whipped off my hat, and shoved it all behind an overstuffed red armchair in the corner. Its fellow, a smaller red armchair, stood in the opposite corner.

  I fastened the keys at my waist and there I was – Mrs Farrell, housekeeper – a person to be reckoned with.

  The knock came again.

  Kathleen looked at me, her eyes wide with panic.

  I took a deep breath and lifted my chin. ‘Answer the door, please, Kathleen.’

  She trod across the black and white tiles and opened the door.

  I clasped my hands in front of me and waited at the foot of the stairs. The house was suddenly very quiet.

  I heard Kathleen say, ‘Good morning, sirs. Can I help you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said a man’s voice, quite clearly. ‘Is Winterman at home? Or Feeney?’

  I called, ‘Who is it, Kathleen?’

  Bless her, she answered without a tremor. ‘Two gentlemen for the master, ma’am.’

  ‘Ask them to come in, please.’

  She held wide the door and two men entered.

  I knew immediately. Their clothes weren’t quite right. I mean their clothes were right, but the way they wore them was wrong. Their attitude was wrong. And most damning of all, they didn’t remove their hats as they entered. I watched an historical drama holo last week. Not one of Calvin Cutter’s, before you ask. This one was actually very good – they got nearly everything right. Except Elizabeth I walked past and not one single courtier removed his hat. If I’d been her, I would have removed their heads instead.

  Where was I? Yes. These weren’t contemporaries. These were, like me, people from another time. Except I was making a bloody sight better job of blending in than they were. Amateurs. Bloody amateurs.

  I’ve said this before and I’m going to keep on saying it, so just shunt on a couple of paragraphs if you’re easily bored. Living outside your own time is not as simple as you think. You can’t just rock up anywhere you like and expect to be accepted into society. Presumably anyone leaving their own time to live in another would demand a comparable standard of living – which usually meant at least middle class – which was fine but only to a certain extent. Contemporaries would want to know who you were, who your people were, where you hailed from, mutual acquaintances and so forth. Letters of introduction would be required. Enquiries would be minute and persistent.

  The aristocracy were even worse. There was absolutely no point in me calling myself Lady Maxwell because as soon as I did so, the stock books would be consulted, family lines explored, marriages and alliances recalled, and the sad truth that Lady M was a fraud would soon emerge. There would be scandal and notoriety – none of which those fleeing from justice would welcome.

  And then there were the ordinary everyday problems. How to manage your clothing – don’t laugh, I’ve frequently been overwhelmed by my own underwear. How to wear a hat. When not to wear a hat. Gents take theirs off – ladies keep theirs on. There was glove etiquette, what clothes to wear on what occasions, manners, how to address people above and below your station, the names of common household objects. For women especially, the social customs would be very different from those they’d been accustomed to. And on top of all that – as amply demonstrated by the two troglodytes currently standing in the hall – modern people just don’t look quite right. There’s always that indefinable air of not quite fitting in. Yeah – living outside your own time is not easy.

  I sailed forwards with all the confidence that being encased in three petticoats and twenty-five yards of fabric can bestow.

  The man on the left was skinny and rat-faced. His top lip didn’t quite cover his front teeth. His dark eyes slid about all over the place. Especially all over me.

  The other was chunky with an air of well-fed smugness about him. He wore his bowler on the back of his head because he probably thought it made him look rakish and Jack the lad, and actually just made him look a complete pillock. Although I rather thought that, of the two, he would be the one to watch.

  Kathleen, bless her, was standing in the shadows on the other side of the hall. Just outside the dining room. Ready if needed.

  Time to earn my pay. ‘I am Mrs Farrell, the housekeeper. Can I help you?’

  Rat-face was obviously happy to leave the talking to Smuggy. ‘We’re here for Winterman.’

  Well, that was just plain rude. ‘I’m sorry to inform you, gentlemen, that neither Mr Winterman nor Mr Feeney are at home at the moment.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  I paused for a moment to allow him to reflect on his bad manners. He failed to avail himself of the opportunity so I said, ‘Their whereabouts are, at this moment, unknown.’

  They eyed each other and then the other one said, ‘When did they leave?’

  ‘Approximately three weeks ago.’ Always tell the truth if you can. If you can’t – make it up.

  ‘You haven’t seen them for three weeks?’

  I drew myself up. ‘We are accustomed to Mr Winterman and Mr Feeney absenting themselves occasionally.’

  ‘What for? Where do they go?’

  I looked down my nose. ‘Neither Mr Feeney nor Mr Winterman are in the habit of informing us of their movements.’ I was proud of myself for remembering to use the present tense. ‘Business trips, I believe, is how they describe them. If you care to leave your cards, I will apprise them of your visit on their return.’

  Will you listen to me? It’s all that underwear. You just can’t help yourself.

  They had no visiting cards, of course. What they did have, however, was something heavy dragging down and distorting their right-hand pockets. I was certain these men were armed. Not that I was bothered. With Evans behind the servant’s door, Dr Bairstow across the hall in the drawing room, and Kathleen standing next to a particularly hideous vase whose demise no one would mourn, I reckoned we possessed more than enough firepower.

  That wasn’t what was worrying me. There was something slightly . . . odd . . . about this. It seemed safe to assume these two men were from the same time as Feeney and Winterman, that they knew all about them and why they were here, but what could these two want with them? Monitoring? Checking everything was OK, that they had everything they needed? Or was it a genuine social call, to chat over old times? Perhaps they themselves had been transplanted into this century and that formed the basis of a social group? No, none of that seemed very likely. These two weren’t in the same league as Feeney and Winterman. If I didn’t know better, I’d say they weren’t much more than armed thugs. And they certainly weren’t happy to find the occupants of the house absent. Perhaps, at some point, an appointment had been made. And not kept.

  Something tickled the back of my brain. In between wrest­ling with Jack Feeney, chucking tea all over him, spraying him with pepper, zapping him with my stun gun, wrecking his front room and kicking the living shit out of him – yes, it had been a crowded afternoon even by my standards – but even while all that had been going on, I’d found a moment to speculate on the possibility of the existence of an organisation that provided an escape into the past for people who had made their own time too hot to hold them. An organisation that, for a not inconsiderable sum of money, would provide a new life in the century of your choice. They’d prep you, clothe you, install you in appropriate living accommodation, thank you for your business, and move on to the next client. But suppose they didn’t. Suppose a few months after you’d settled in, these two turned up. To do . . . what?

  I dragged my attention back to the here and now.

  That they were concerned was very apparent. They’d def­initely expected to find Winterman and Feeney here. I could imagine the conversation.

  Just checking up on you, old chap. How’s it going? Everything all right?

  I stared at them as they stared at each other, and wondered what would happen next. They still hadn’t taken their bloody hats off. And then one of them, making yet another rookie error by assuming people in the past were thick and couldn’t hear properly, said quietly, ‘What shall we do? We can’t bring in the new people until . . .’

  Not so much the penny dropping as the entire Royal Mint plummeting from thirty thousand feet. They were hitmen. Assassins. Paid killers. Hired guns. Murderers. And they’d come for Feeney and Winterman because . . . because . . . oh my God, because that’s how it worked. They pretended to set people up in a new life. They resettled them in a new home – charging them a fortune for the privilege, obviously. Then, having given them a few months to relax, drop their guard and start enjoying their new life, they sent the boys round to take them out. A short while later they would install a whole new set of people – who would also have paid handsomely – give them a few months, dispose of them, re-let the house to yet another set of fugitives and do it all over again. No one would ever survive long enough to grass them up. There would never be any inconvenient witnesses. Do that three or four times a year and you were on to a real winner. More than ever, I was convinced that somewhere out there was an organisation that needed the close attention of Markham and Maxwell – bounty hunters. Sorry, sorry, sorry – recovery agents.

  I resurfaced to find Rat-face and Smuggy both looking at me. Shit – because the next logical thought was that if you take out the owners then you should probably take out the staff as well. Definitely no witnesses then. And guess who’d just firmly identified herself as staff? Planning ahead – not always my forte.

  I smiled at them and said, ‘I have an address for emergencies if you think that might be helpful.’

  Their faces brightened. Problem solved.

  I began to rummage in the vast folds of my skirt. I knew there was a concealed pocket in here somewhere, it was just a case of finding the bloody thing . . . ah – here we go.

  I pulled out my stun gun and got one of them, no trouble at all. Rat man crashed to the tiles with rather a nasty crack that possibly did him more harm than the actual zapping. I left him where he was because Smuggy was already going for whatever he had in his pocket. It was all a bit like one of those party games. What has it got in its pocketses, my precious?

  I was whole seconds too slow. These guys might not be the brightest hangmen on the gallows but they knew their stuff. He was already bringing out his gun. And a nasty-looking thing it was. A Webley, Evans said afterwards. British Bulldog. Hugely popular – a lot of them about. Fits easily in a coat pocket. He was right. It had.

  I flung myself sideways, although that was going to put me on the floor – not the best place from which to mount a ­counter-attack, but I didn’t have a lot of choice.

  And then he too jerked and shuddered as Evans zapped him neatly from behind. This is why every historian should always be accompanied by her own member of the Security Section. Although don’t tell Markham that because he’s convinced he and his team are indispensable, and sadly, all the evidence bears out his conviction.

  Evans’ efforts weren’t completely flawless. Unfortunately, one of Smuggy’s spasms tightened his trigger finger and something sang past my ear – I swear I felt the slipstream although Evans says no, I didn’t, and stop being such a drama queen – and shattered the hideous porcelain vase. I heard the pieces tinkle to the tiled floor. So not all bad, then.

  I hit the ground, rolled over and sat up. Evans was standing over Smuggy, stun gun crackling in his hand. Dr Bairstow – who, as previously stated, can move like lightning when he has to – was standing over Rat-face, drawn sword only microinches from his right eye.

  I felt a quiet pride. I know I sometimes liken St Mary’s to performing chimps – to the advantage of the performing chimps – but on the days we get it right, we are magnificent.

  An opinion obviously shared by Mrs Proudie and L’Équipe Domestique, who were all gazing at both Evans and Dr Bairstow, mouths open in shock, awe and admiration. Never mind whose quick thinking had brought about this happy turn of events – I’ll just sprawl here on the cold floor, shall I?

  I kicked myself free of my encumbering skirt and clambered to my feet. Dr Bairstow enquired politely whether I was hurt.

  I shook my head. ‘Absolutely fine, thank you, sir.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Mrs Brown, wandering over to inspect the sad remains of the vase. She too was armed with a small pistol, not quite concealed in the folds of her skirt. I could see her prestige rocketing as well. I might as well go home now. I said as much to Evans, who agreed.

  We all stared at the former hitmen who were probably catching their death lying on this cold floor.

  ‘Now what do we do?’ I said. ‘We can’t carry them back to the pod in broad daylight.’

  ‘They can walk,’ said Evans, unsympathetically.

  One of the men slurred something along the lines of no, they bloody wouldn’t.

  ‘Yes, you bloody will,’ said Evans. He picked up Smuggy and threw him hard into the panelled wall. The impact reverberated around the hall and something else fell over. I never found out what it was.

  Smuggy slithered bonelessly down the wall to lie in a pathetic heap on the tiles. Evans leaned down, picked him up again, virtually one-handed, and threw him into the wall again.

  I winced. That had to have hurt.

  ‘I can do this all day,’ said Evans, bending over him for the third time.

  Smuggy groaned.

  Rat-face shrieked.

  Startled, I jumped a mile and looked around.

  ‘My dear fellow,’ said Dr Bairstow. ‘I’m so sorry. Did I inadvertently catch you with my sword? Huge apologies – that looks quite painful.’

  ‘We could swap, sir,’ said Evans. ‘I’ll throw yours and you can stab mine.’

  ‘An excellent idea,’ said Dr Bairstow. ‘It is the duty of every conscientious employer to bring variety and interest to their employee’s working day.’

  ‘Your efforts are greatly appreciated, sir,’ said Evans, bending over Rat-face in a not particularly reassuring manner. ‘Do you think he knows he’s bleeding?’

  ‘Won’t matter once Pennyroyal gets hold of him,’ I said, because sometimes just mentioning Pennyroyal’s name was all it took and people couldn’t talk fast enough. Seriously. Was the guy some sort of legend? I suspected yes was the answer to that – and for all the wrong reasons.

  Not this time, however. The two of them closed their eyes and refused to cooperate. It was too much trouble to shunt them out of the hall so we left them where they were. Evans zipped them tightly and then searched them, but apart from their weapons, their pockets were empty. These were professionals.

  Evans crouched off to one side – out of range of anything they might try – and I made myself comfortable in the smaller red armchair.

  Evans smiled his big friendly smile because he’s a big friendly bloke. ‘Let’s start with the easy stuff, shall we? Names?’

  They shook their heads and refused to speak.

  ‘Who sent you?’

  Nothing.

  ‘Why are you here?’

  Still nothing. Well – there was the occasional whimper or curse, but you know what I mean.

  I leaned forwards. ‘What did you mean by new people coming?’

  Their eyes flickered.

  ‘When do they arrive?’

  Still nothing.

  Evans tried again. ‘Do you live here? Do you have a pod? Where is it?’

  Nothing. Just a couple of blank stares.

  Evans stood up and took me to one side. ‘We’re not going to get anything from them, Max.’

  ‘No,’ I said, watching the two men. ‘Best leave it to Pennyroyal, I think. He’s not as squeamish as us.’

  Evans crouched again. ‘I expect you’d like us to let you go, wouldn’t you?’

 

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