Why is Nothing Ever Simple?
Author: Jodi Taylor
Date: 2019-12-25 00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: kindle; fiction; sf; science fiction
Publisher: Headline

Copyright © 2019 Jodi Taylor

The right of Jodi Taylor to be identified as the Author of
the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published in Great Britain in 2019 by

HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

1

Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be
reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior
permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in
accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

All characters in this publication – other than the obvious historical figures – are
fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
eISBN 978 1 4722 6676 7

Cover design and illustration by zoedrawsthings.co.uk

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About the Book

It’s Christmas at St Mary’s and time for the traditional illicit jump. Except this one is perfectly legal. It’s Major Guthrie’s last jump. To the Battle of Bannockburn, no less. An important moment in History for two nations – one that warrants everyone’s full attention.

But Max soon finds herself grappling with a near-lethal game of pooh sticks, another avian incursion and two turbulent teenagers intent on piloting their own illegal jump. And that’s all before they even get near fourteenth-century Scotland.

For this is St Mary’s and nothing is ever simple . . .

About the Author

Jodi Taylor is the internationally bestselling author of the Chronicles of St Mary’s series, the story of a bunch of disaster-prone individuals who investigate major historical events in contemporary time. Do NOT call it time travel!

Born in Bristol and now living in Gloucester (facts both cities vigorously deny), she spent many years with her head somewhere else, much to the dismay of family, teachers and employers, before finally deciding to put all that daydreaming to good use and write a novel. Nearly twenty books later, she still has no idea what she wants to do when she grows up.

By Jodi Taylor and available from Headline

Time Police series

Doing Time

The Chronicles of St Mary’s series

Just One Damned Thing After Another

A Symphony of Echoes

A Second Chance

A Trail Through Time

No Time Like the Past

What Could Possibly Go Wrong?

Lies, Damned Lies, and History

And the Rest is History

An Argumentation of Historians

Hope for the Best

The Long and Short of It (short-story collection)

Long Story Short (short-story collection)

The Chronicles of St Mary’s digital shorts

When a Child is Born

Roman Holiday

Christmas Present

Ships and Stings and Wedding Rings

The Great St Mary’s Day Out

My Name is Markham

A Perfect Storm

Christmas Past

Battersea Barricades

The Steam-Pump Jump

And Now For Something Completely Different

When Did You Last See Your Father?

Why is Nothing Ever Simple?

Elizabeth Cage novels

White Silence

Dark Light

Frogmorton Farm series

The Nothing Girl

The Something Girl

Little Donkey (digital short)

A Bachelor Establishment

Contents

Title

Copyright

About the Book

About the Author

Also By

Dramatis Thingummy

Why is Nothing Ever Simple?

Acknowledgements

Dramatis Thingummy

Dr Bairstow

Director of St Mary’s.

Dr Maxwell

Head of the History Department. Parent to Matthew. In loco parentis to Adrian and Mikey and the strain is beginning to show.

Dr Peterson

Inching towards the possibility of c onsidering having an important conversation with Miss Lingoss but don’t hold your breath.

Mr Markham

What’s going on there?

Major Guthrie

His last jump. Surely it won’t all end in disaster? Not on his last jump.

Chief Tech Farrell

Appearing briefly and mainly in his role as something to do in a dark cupboard.

Adrian and Mikey

Missed the party. Fortunately.

Matthew Farrell

Manufacturing a very important Christmas gift.

Lady Amelia Smallhope

Second daughter of the Earl of Goodrich. Expelled from every top-class establishment that could be bribed to take her. All of whom forecast she would come to a bad end.

Pennyroyal

Former SAS. Crack shot. Explosives expert. Skilled thief. Butler.

Elspeth Grey

Got her mojo back. Yay, Elspeth!

Robert the Bruce

About to be King of Scotland. If he can keep his head.

Henry de Bohun

Sadly doesn’t get to keep his.

The Scottish army

The English army

Four utter pillocks whose lives are about to go right down the pan as soon as the Time Police turn up.

Major Guthrie was leaving us. We all knew he would, sooner or later, but the confirmation was a bit of a blow just the same. He was as recovered as he would ever be. His leg had healed well but not well enough for him to resume his duties as Head of Security. And nothing could replace his lost eye. I believe the Time Police had offered him some kind of cosmetic prosthetic which, typically, he’d declined on the grounds he wasn’t Borg, and instead adopted a black eyepatch which he thought gave him a sinister and menacing air but actually made him look like a battered hero in one of those bloodthirsty online computer games. I’d mentioned this and he’d huffed indignantly at me and ten minutes later I’d caught him checking out himself and his eyepatch in the nearest mirror. We never spoke of that moment.

His leaving filled me with dismay. It wasn’t that Markham was doing a bad job as his replacement – he was bloody good at the job, actually – it’s just that . . . well, Ian Guthrie was Ian Guthrie and we all owed our lives to him many times over.

When he told me that he and Elspeth Grey were taking over the pub in the village, the Falconburg Arms, I was pleased for him because he would be so good at running a pub – and he’d be just down the road should we ever need him. Typically, Peterson and Markham’s thoughts were far more Peterson and Markham-centric. Free drinks for life. Or so they thought.

‘Not a chance,’ said Ian when they broached this pleasant subject. ‘In fact, my business manager –’ he nodded at Elspeth, who looked up from her laptop and scowled at them both in a way that made it clear that, while she might have attended the brewery’s official Customer Care Course, she hadn’t actually believed a word of it in general and certainly not in connection with two customers in particular – ‘my business manager has recommended I levy a St Mary’s surcharge of at least twenty per cent.’

‘What?’ demanded Markham.

‘Why?’ demanded Peterson.

‘Oh, all sorts of excellent reasons. Compensation against lost revenue because no one locally wants to share a bar with you lot. A deposit against potential breakages because you know what you’re like. But mostly because we’re the landlords and what we say goes.’

Peterson and Markham were convinced he was joking. I wasn’t so sure. And Leon was certain he wasn’t.

Anyway, Guthrie and Elspeth had done their training – although as Peterson said, ‘Putting liquid in a glass and handing it to someone – how difficult can that be?’ – and now they were all set to go. There was the official opening night – from which St Mary’s was banned – and it all went very well, apparently, although there was some St Mary’s muttering that we weren’t good enough for Guthrie now he had a pub. Which was definitely not true, he said. We hadn’t been good enough for him before he had a pub.

We were worrying unnecessarily. A week later, as part of our run up to Christmas, we were to have our own official St Mary’s dining-in night. The conservatory in which they served food had been reserved just for us. We responded by turning up in force because, as Markham informed him, they needed the business.

We began with cocktails – which, yes, with hindsight, might have been a mistake. There was a tab running for everyone because none of us could be bothered with money. Indeed, as Ian had cruelly remarked, most of us couldn’t count properly anyway. Everyone was colour-coded. I overheard Peterson charging his drink to green and promptly followed suit. I had a couple of margaritas which went down very well, let me tell you, and then we wandered – or lurched – into the conservatory to eat.

The food was gorgeous – they’d hired a new chef – and Elspeth showed she hadn’t wasted her time at St Mary’s by handing out the dessert menus first because there is nothing more heartbreaking than stuffing yourself on the first two courses and then realising you haven’t left room for your favourite pudding. In fact, after I’d given a talk about the Battles of Stamford Bridge and Hastings at a local school recently, one of the teachers had asked me if I had any advice for young people and I’d said yes, always eat dessert first, which I don’t think was what she’d meant at all.

Anyway, menus were carefully scanned and dishes carefully chosen. Everyone was in good spirits. We were all here. Even Kal, who had come down from Thirsk. I hadn’t seen her since the day she pushed me into the lake, an event she didn’t appear to remember at all, telling me I’d been pretty much out of things at the time and I must have imagined it.

It isn’t often most of St Mary’s is present and uninjured, but at that precise moment we were. All that remained of Dottle’s treachery was just a tree stump and a stain on the memory. Peterson had the steam-pump jump under his belt and seemed happier for it. He and Lingoss sat side by side, chatting away to each other and I was pleased for them. Bashford and Sykes sat opposite each other – he with the naked and vulnerable air of a man who has, reluctantly, had to leave his chicken at home and she with the cheerful chirpiness of one whose man has been induced to leave his chicken at home. And I had Leon with me which is always my definition of a perfect evening. And yes, all right, we might have been a little bit noisy, but we had a lot to be noisy about.

I ordered Leon a beer and then another. He commented on my generosity. I smiled benignly and signed the green chit with a flourish.

There were some absentees. Dr Bairstow wasn’t here. He tends not to frequent this sort of event, leaving us to let our hair down without embarrassment. It’s a shame because it was a good evening and he would have enjoyed himself. It occurred to me that he must sometimes be quite lonely and then someone said he’d gone into Rushford with Mrs Partridge. Everyone said, ‘Aww, that’s nice,’ and Peterson whispered to me that he probably just wanted to be as far away as possible when the obligatory midden hit the inevitable ventilation system.

‘Plausibuble deniabilility,’ he said, wagging a wayward forefinger for effect.

I ordered him another drink and winked at Lingoss whose seemingly casual attitude towards Peterson was fooling no one. Today’s hair was a festive red and green.

Mikey and Adrian weren’t here, either. Well, they weren’t old enough to drink for a start. Old enough to have built an illegal pod and gallivanted all over the timeline with it, endangering the lives of everyone with whom they came into contact, but not old enough to consume alcohol.

‘As if we would ever want to,’ Mikey said in disgust. We’d left the two of them babysitting Matthew. They’d turned up at our door, staggering slightly under the weight of pizza boxes and age-inappropriate holos.

Anyway, back to the battering the Falconburg Arms was taking. We ate well. We drank even better, but recent Atticus Wolfe events had rather taken their toll on me and I’d been under instructions from Dr Stone not to make too heavy a night of it, and anyway, neither of us wanted to leave Matthew too long with those particular babysitters, so Leon and I were among the first to leave. We – well, I – staggered into the bar where Ian was waiting for us, all ready to settle the bill.

‘Ah yes,’ he said, pulling out a tab as long as a toilet roll. ‘Green.’

‘No,’ I said, in some dismay. ‘No, no, no. Peterson’s green. Not me.’

‘Peterson’s blue,’ he said, consulting a multi-coloured chart of typical military complexity and thoroughness.

‘No, he’s not. I definitely heard him say green.’

He grinned. ‘No, sorry, Max. Far from you charging your evening to him – he’s been charging his to you.’ He scanned down the list. ‘Wow. Someone’s had a good night.’

‘Do you take credit cards?’ I said gloomily.

‘What? From you?’

I don’t know what was so funny about that. It seemed to me to be a perfectly reasonable request.

I turned to Leon who had wandered off and was, for some reason, examining the sign directing people to the Ladies and being of no use whatsoever.

Ian looked down at my giant tab again and said, slightly too casually, ‘They’re all right, aren’t they? Hunter and Markham?’

They were both still in the dining room behind me. That wasn’t what he was asking.

I got as far as, ‘As far as I know they’re both fine,’ and then I stopped talking and started thinking. Guthrie and Markham were close friends. He probably knew how things were going better than I did.

‘Actually . . .’ I said, and stopped and waited for him to leap into hasty indiscretion.

That never works with Ian Guthrie. He just looked at me. I was going to have to say it.

‘Actually, he got a letter.’ I looked over my shoulder. Leon was further down the hall reading the fire evacuation instructions. A bit of a busman’s holiday for him.

Guthrie cast him a glance and then said, ‘Is this the one he had back in the summer? After the steam-pump affair?’

I nodded.

He said quietly, ‘You doing anything tomorrow, Max?’

‘Well, yes, obviously. I’m massively busy. Always am.’

‘So no, then.’

‘Not really, no.’

‘Can you get away sometime?’

I nodded.

‘Come and see me. I’d like a quick word.’ He raised his voice. ‘Now, about this credit card of yours . . .’

I tugged out my wallet, pulled out my credit card, polished it hopefully on my sleeve – as if that would help – and handed it over.

It went through. Both Ian and I were utterly and equally gobsmacked and I whirled Leon out of the door before everyone could discover there had been a horrible mistake somewhere along the line.

We wandered happily up the road back towards St Mary’s. Christmas was only a week or so away but the night was quite mild. I didn’t even need my gloves.

I admired the pretty golden Van Gogh nimbus around each of the street lights – although that might have been my eyesight rather than actual atmospheric conditions. Or even that last margarita. We held hands – and not just because I might have been a fraction unsteady on my feet. We walked slowly, enjoying a few rare moments on our own, stopping at the little stone bridge over the stream to look at the black water flowing underneath.

I remembered this stream from six hundred years ago when it had been wider and shallower and there was no bridge at all. You got across by hopping from one wide, flat stone to another. Mostly but not always successfully in my case. And there had been bundles of willow twigs standing in the water to keep them supple enough to weave, and up there had been the mill with whatshisname the miller – Robert Stukely – who would rob you blind as soon as look at you, and over there had been the big tithe barns where the harvests were stored. And over there had been Pikey Peter’s mother’s house . . .

I was wandering happily through the past when Leon, who can be quite frivolous for a techie, suggested pooh sticks. The bridge was well lit at both ends – thank you, Parish Council – and Leon had his torch anyway. We could easily see well enough to break off a few twigs from nearby bushes. I accepted his challenge and away we went.

He won the first couple of tries because I had some difficulty getting my pooh sticks into the water – I think one went over my shoulder – but I soon found my rhythm and then it was a case of pooh sticks to the death.

We were still at it when some of the others caught us up and then, of course, because St Mary’s is very competitive, everyone wanted to play.

Leon and I stepped back and watched their efforts for a while until Leon suggested they might find the game easier and more interesting if they dropped their sticks from the upstream side of the bridge. There was a kind of collective ‘Ah’ of enlightenment, and then they all rushed to the other side. I’m surprised the bridge didn’t tip over.

Eventually everyone ran out of sticks and we decided to leave them to it before someone came up with the bright idea of playing pooh sticks with actual . . .

We were just moving away when there were two loud splashes and a lot of cheering and Bashford and Keller floated out from underneath the bridge, flailing and cursing, both locked in mortal combat. We discovered afterwards they’d both been volunteered to be pooh sticks by their colleagues who were taking the spirit of inter-departmental competitiveness just a little bit too far. It was fortunate for them the weather was unseasonably mild and they didn’t encounter an iceberg.

Anyway, they were beyond our reach and there wasn’t anything Leon or I could do other than abandon them to their fate and go to bed. As we left, I could hear Dieter and Kal wondering if they’d float all the way out to sea and would that be some kind of record?

They didn’t, obviously. They somehow made their way into the middle of our lake. No one’s ever worked out how they managed that because the stream actually flows out of the lake. It was really dark by that time and their pathetic cries for help went unheeded by everyone except Mr Strong, our caretaker, who was locking up for the night. He reported strange noises to the more responsible members of the Security Section who suddenly realised what – or who – it could be and wandered outside to mount a rescue.

Commandeering one of our old rowing boats, they all piled in and set off, torches flickering back and forth across the water. The search took some time and our two pooh stickers would probably never have been found if the boat hadn’t actually collided with them both before they completely disappeared beneath the storm-tossed waves, as Cox persisted in calling the lake’s placid surface.

There were already far too many of them in the boat to take on any more passengers, so singing loud-and-anatomically-impossible sea shanties, Security towed Bashford and Keller back to shore, taking the scenic route through the pond scum, weed and swan shit.

All was apparently going well until someone thought to look behind the boat and discovered they were being tracked by a dozen or so swans, drawn up in battle formation, necks extended, gliding silently and sinisterly through the darkness. Waiting to pick off the stragglers, as Evans said the next morning, shuddering at the recollection.

There’s a kind of unofficial agreement between us and our swans. During daylight hours St Mary’s can get up to more or less whatever it pleases – as long as that doesn’t include flames, explosions, dogs or music (no idea what the problem is with music – sorry) and St Mary’s doesn’t intrude on whatever it is they get up to in the hours of darkness. And now we’d broken the treaty. Things were not looking good.

Speeding up, our jolly mariners eventually collided with land and fell out of the boat. They all helped each other up because, as Evans explained afterwards, it was vital not to break ranks. The swans climbed silently out of the water and looked at them. It was at this point that the St Mary’s nerve broke and everyone ran. Evans later described it as, ‘A textbook tactical withdrawal in the face of avian incursion but with added panic,’ and Markham described it as the sort of thing that happened if he wasn’t there to keep an eye on things.

Whichever it was, they reached Hawking Hangar only just ahead of either two hundred swans – as Evans later described it – or eight swans, as the slightly less traumatised Mr Strong described it – where they were all rescued by Kal and Dieter who were in pod Number Six for reasons never satisfactorily explained.

Ian and Elspeth later said they were adding a new wing to the dining conservatory on the strength of what they’d taken at the Arms that night and that St Mary’s was welcome at any time and to bring our wallets with us.

Dr Bairstow and Mrs Partridge returned from a pleasant night out in Rushford. Neither was soaking wet or covered in swan shit.

Things were very quiet the next day which is always the sign of a very satisfactory night out and I slipped out for a quiet word with Ian.

He was waiting for me at the pub. ‘Have you had lunch?’

I shook my head.

He took me into the kitchen, made us both a round of chicken sandwiches and tipped some crisps into a bowl while I made us a pot of tea. We took the whole lot into his little office down the hall. I’d been in here once or twice before. Nothing had changed. It was a nice room with dark panelling and a cheerful log fire. Weak winter sunlight filtered in through the window.

I put a couple more logs on the fire while Ian laid everything out on his desk, saying, ‘You eat and I’ll talk.’

‘This sounds serious,’ I said, half-joking.

‘It is.’

About to sit down, I stopped. ‘Are you sure you want to tell me? Because I’m not sure I want to hear.’

He sat heavily. ‘We don’t always have a choice.’

I lowered myself into my chair. ‘Then why are you telling me now?’

‘Because I’m not at St Mary’s any longer and someone else should know.’

I put the crisp back on my plate. ‘Know what?’

He poured the tea, dropped in a slice of lemon for me and passed it over.

‘About Markham.’

It was a good job I’d already put down my tea. ‘What about Markham?’

‘He might be in trouble, Max. He may need help soon and he may need it quickly. There might not be time for him to explain so I’m telling you now. Don’t look so worried – you probably won’t ever have to do anything. Just park the information and forget it. With luck you’ll never need it. This is just in case . . .’

‘In case of what?’

He didn’t answer directly, sitting back in his chair and stirring his tea. ‘You said he’d had a letter?’

I nodded. ‘Yes. He didn’t say anything at the time, but it was very obvious he wasn’t happy about it.’

‘Then they know.’

‘Who knows? And what do they know?’

‘They know he’s disobeyed instructions.’

I was growing cold. This sounded bad. ‘What instructions?’

‘To keep his head down. To keep his mouth shut. And most importantly, to keep it in his pants.’

I swallowed. ‘You mean – not to get Hunter pregnant?’

‘I mean not to get anyone pregnant.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because of who he is.’

I was conscious of great gaping holes opening beneath my feet. Of a few of life’s certainties suddenly not being quite so certain.

‘He’s Markham. Isn’t he? For heaven’s sake, Ian . . .’

He got up, opened the door, looked up and down the corridor, closed and locked it. Then he crossed to the window, checking it was closed. That done, he returned to his desk, clasped his hands and said, without any emotion whatsoever, ‘Markham is the establishment’s dirty little secret.’

My stomach knotted. Astonishment. Yes, a lot of that. Fear. Yes, some of that. And anger. ‘Don’t say that. He’s Markham. He’s one of the best people I know. He’s not anyone’s dirty little secret.’

‘Calm down, Max. You don’t have to tell me that. He and I have been friends for a long time.’

I reached out for my tea. My hand wasn’t quite steady and my thoughts were all over the place. I took a couple of calming sips and said, ‘Tell me.’

‘I can’t tell you much because I don’t know much.’

‘Tell me what you do know.’

‘I know he was still very young when he came to me and yet he’d managed to be in trouble nearly all his life. Whether he was the product of a broken home or the victim of a bad upbringing or anything like that, I don’t know. His file was short on personal detail but long on criminal record. He was just . . . when he came to me . . . when he was drafted into the army . . . he was so angry, Max. He was lashing out in all directions – hurting others, hurting himself.’

‘And you took him in.’

‘Yes. I wasn’t that keen, I admit. I had a pretty good set of people under me at the time and we’d worked hard together to achieve that and now they wanted me to take this bad apple. But, no one gives you any choice in the army, so grudgingly, very grudgingly, I took him on.

‘The first thing I realised was that I’d better ditch that attitude pretty quickly because I was just the latest in a long line of people who hadn’t wanted anything to do with him. He’d been shunted from pillar to post and back again. There was one year when he’d had four different homes.

‘Yes, I know,’ he said as I went to speak. ‘But, reading between the lines, he wasn’t doing himself any favours at all. People had taken him on with all sorts of good intentions but it never lasted. I decided I’d give him a month and if things didn’t get better, then I’d add my name to the long list of people who apparently couldn’t be bothered with our Mr Markham.’

He sipped his tea.

‘And then I walked around a corner one day and there was our hero having the living shit kicked out of him.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, no one ever said, but they were an unpleasant bunch of characters and I suspect, with typical disregard for the consequences, our hero had pointed this out to them and they hadn’t welcomed his constructive criticism, which was just so entirely typical of his . . . almost a death wish. Sometimes I was convinced he just wanted to cause as much trouble as possible for as many people as possible. Or, it occurred to me, as I stood wondering what the hell I was going to do with him, he was a deeply unhappy young man on a mission to make everyone else deeply unhappy too.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I yelled at them all impartially; no one was badly hurt so I sent them on their way. I gave Markham twenty-four hours to cool down and then had him in for a chat. I asked him straight out what the hell he thought he was playing at and he said he was making things easy for me.

‘That took me back a bit, I can tell you. I demanded to know what he meant and he said he liked me and was therefore making it easy for me to chuck him out. I said what did he think would happen to him if I did that and he said he didn’t know and didn’t care. It wasn’t important. Quite honestly, Max, just in that moment, I’ve never seen anyone look so lost, so unhappy, so alone, so . . . at odds with the world. It was him versus everyone else. He couldn’t possibly win and he was damaging himself in the attempt. I thought about a bird beating its wings against the bars of its cage, hurting itself, bleeding, not understanding what was happening to it . . .’

Ian tailed away.

‘Anyway, instead of giving him the traditional stiff bollocking, I actually talked to him. And I made him talk. He’s not inarticulate. I listened to what he had to say. I challenged him. I made him think. He soon lost his temper and started shouting – I think that was his favourite way of dealing with everything – but I kept plugging away. We were at it all afternoon. My clerk came in once to see if everything was all right. I don’t know what it was that I said to him – Markham – but something must have stuck because slowly, over time, I began to notice his first response to a problem wasn’t just to thump the nearest person present. He’s not stupid, our Markham. He just needed . . . I don’t know . . . I think, over the years, people’s responses to his behaviour had been to fence him in, to surround him with a list of things he couldn’t do, to make his cage smaller and smaller and I wanted him to see that suddenly, the cage door could be open for him.’

‘He started using his powers for good,’ I said, oddly touched.

He nodded. ‘Exactly.’

‘So what was his background?’

‘Well, there is virtually no information on him for the first ten or so years of his life. At that point he was farmed out to some posh family with whom he didn’t get on. I don’t know any details. They didn’t treat him very well and he went off the rails quite badly. And then from one home to the next, gradually sliding down the greasy pole of unacceptable behaviour. You name it – he was into it. Not drugs or violence or murder – but he was heading that way. And I have to say – a lot of it was his fault. We have to remember, Max, he wasn’t always as we know him today. Anyway – and he makes no secret of this – eventually he was offered the choice: the army or prison. He chose the army and came to me – trailing his extensive and imaginative criminal record behind him.’

‘I don’t understand. Why would he behave like that? Why wouldn’t he . . .’

I broke off, slightly unable to believe I’d asked such a stupid question.

Guthrie smiled and sipped his own tea. ‘Well, it’s Markham, isn’t it? I suspect he got fed up with people telling him he should be grateful to them because he was a problem and an inconvenience, so he decided to show them how much of a problem and inconvenience he could really be if he put his mind to it.’

I could identify with that. ‘But now he’s in trouble again?’

‘He was doing so well here, Max. Dr Bairstow gave him his confidence and trust and Markham’s more than repaid him. He and St Mary’s were made for each other.’ He grinned. ‘He’s a bit of a chameleon, our Markham, haven’t you noticed? Adapts himself to whatever’s happening around him.’

‘In what way?’

‘Well, you’ve noticed his accent.’

‘Bristol.’

‘He’s just taking the piss. He was a Geordie in the army.’

I was gobsmacked. ‘You’re kidding. Why?’

He shrugged. ‘Because he can?’

‘But what has this to do with him and Hunter? As far as I know, even the most dangerous criminal is allowed to breed. I know governments are always a bunch of suited control freaks hell-bent on bettering their own lot at public expense, but surely even they haven’t yet got around to telling people whether they can or can’t have kids?’

‘I don’t know. Perhaps he’s part of some social experiment – you know, weeding out the bad by not allowing them to breed.’

‘That’s . . . that’s . . .’ I was lost for words.

‘It is, isn’t it?’

‘Why are you telling me all this?’

‘Because, as I said, I’m not at St Mary’s any longer and I’m worried that one day he could find himself in need of help. Urgent help.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Nothing. Just keep an eye on things for me, would you?’

‘Are you expecting something to happen?’

‘I’ve no idea. He’s been keeping his head down and I was rather hoping they’d forgotten all about him. Now, of course . . .’ He sighed. ‘I’m sorry to lumber you with this, Max.’

‘No, it’s all right. I think. I’m just a little . . .’

‘Taken aback.’

‘Yes.’ I had a thought. ‘Does Dr Bairstow know?’

‘Oh yes. I showed him Markham’s file.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He said it was a most unfortunate start to a young life and never mentioned it again. If it was anyone but Dr Bairstow, I’d say he’d forgotten all about it.’

He shifted in his seat. ‘If you could have seen Markham when he first came to me, Max. Angry. Defensive. Destructive. Self-destructive. Now look at him. A man with a child on the way who wants only to live quietly and probably isn’t going to be allowed to do so.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Nothing. Just be there. If you’re needed.’

I shifted in my seat. ‘Ian . . .’

‘I know, Max. I haven’t done you any favours today. I might have put you at risk as well. Which is why I’m saying – keep this to yourself.’

‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I will.’ I think I was holding on to the hope that if I never ever mentioned it again then eventually it might slip from my not very capacious memory altogether. Fat chance of that.

Silence fell. I listened to the crackling fire. Felt the warmth from the flames.

‘Anyway,’ I said, more to push these recent revelations to the back of my mind than because he would have forgotten, ‘you haven’t forgotten next week?’

‘No, indeed,’ he said, picking up a sandwich. ‘Looking forward to it.’

‘You do know it’s a record-and-document-only assignment. No interaction. In fact, I forbid you – any of you – to leave the pod.’

‘No problem,’ he said. ‘Don’t know if you’ve noticed but I don’t move as fast these days.’ He gestured to his eyepatch. ‘And I walk into things a lot, as well.’

‘Yes, I know. We all think it’s hilarious.’

He scowled at me and then picked up a copy of the menu.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Preparing your bill.’

‘What?’

‘For lunch.’ He nodded at my mostly undrunk tea and uneaten sandwiches.

I drew myself up. ‘It was the Battle of Culloden, wasn’t it?’

‘Bannockburn.’

‘No, I’m pretty sure the mission folder says Culloden.’

He replied in purest Caledonian. ‘Away, ye wee hinny. Yer bum’s oot the windae. Bannockburn.’

I replied carefully and in impeccable English, ‘Shut yer yeggie. Yer aff yer heid,’ and he was so appalled at this assault on his mother tongue that I was able to escape. But not, however, to have the last word.

I was halfway up the road when the window opened and a voice accustomed to being heard over battlefields and feeding time at St Mary’s bellowed, ‘Bannockburn.’

I made the Agincourt gesture and ran for it.

As it happened, I never made it to Bannockburn. Well, I did, but not officially. I’m accustomed to encountering obstacles during assignments but rarely beforehand. Today, however, was just Pelion piled upon Ossa.

I’m a mother. Not a particularly good one – no one’s ever going to nominate me for the Mother of the Year award – but, after a while, even a bad mother develops certain instincts. You soon realise that too quiet is a hundred times worse than too noisy. Too quiet is sinister. A clean and smiling child should be regarded with the very greatest suspicion and a thorough investigation carried out immediately. Likewise, obedience. An obedient child is a child who’s up to something. Obedience is not a natural state for the young. You need to get in and sort things out before events slide, inevitably, towards the catastrophic.

Strictly speaking, Adrian and Mikey weren’t mine. They were teenagers who’d turned up one day in their teapot-shaped pod in desperate need of assistance. They were attempting to evade the Time Police so assistance was enthusiastically and successfully provided. They’ve been living here at St Mary’s ever since. Mikey works in R&D, often with Matthew, and Adrian adds colour and variety to Leon’s working day in the Technical Section.

Just in case anyone from the Time Police is reading this, their pod very definitely does not reside here. Absolutely not. Never. Because that would be very, very wrong and we at St Mary’s are always very careful never to . . . no, I’m sorry – I can’t finish that sentence.

It wasn’t anything new to see Adrian and Mikey talking together in a corner. It was the way they were talking together that aroused my suspicions. Normally there would be laughing, a little bit of shoving, deadly insults exchanged – that sort of thing. But not today. The two of them stood, heads together, talking quietly, all of which was so wrong that my mother senses kicked into overdrive and – yes, I spied on them. No, I’m not ashamed and it turned out to be a bloody good thing that I did.

They’d changed into civilian clothing. Mikey has to change at the end of every working day anyway. It’s a rare day in R&D when they’re not covering themselves in something unspeakable. Or, worse, covering everyone else in something unspeakable. I still had vivid memories of being pursued around the gallery by R&D-manufactured ever-expanding exothermic foam. Seemingly possessed of a malevolent intelligence – which was more than could be said of anyone else in this unit, as Dr Bairstow had acidly remarked afterwards – it had surged and frothed its way massively around the gallery, swallowing up everything in its path. People fled before it. Except for Bashford who ran the wrong way – typical historian sense of direction – and ended up alone and cornered outside Peterson’s office.

His near-end was actually quite moving. Last heard shrieking, ‘Fly, my pretty one, fly,’ he’d attempted to fling Angus to safety over the banisters and into the Hall below. Sadly, Angus has the flying abilities of a brick and she’d been very lucky to be caught by an astonished Mr Sands. As he said later, one minute he’d been concentrating on avoiding certain death by man-eating foam and the next, a gravity-constrained chicken had dropped heavily into his arms.

People had scattered, running for their lives or shooting into offices and barricading the doors behind them. It was like being pursued by a giant Crunchie, said Peterson later as we recovered in the bar. An image that appears occasionally in my dreams.

Anyway, Leon and I had been in the corridor, amicably arguing over the pod schedule, when the giant Crunchie thing kicked off. He looked over my shoulder, shouted, ‘Look out,’ grabbed my arm and suddenly the two of us were in the airing cupboard. Trapped together in the warm, fragrant darkness. All alone and trying to think of a way to pass the time during what might be the final moments of our lives.

The foam surged along the gallery, wisely stopping short of Dr Bairstow’s door, and everyone assumed the danger had passed. Until it began to harden.

It took several hours to chip Bashford free. Fortunately, his head was still above the foam and he was able to converse with his rescuers and enquire after the well-being of Angus, who had not taken kindly to being hurled over the banisters by her idol and was sulking in the kitchen.

Anyway, back to being a mother – as if that’s something that ever goes away. The two of them – Adrian and Mikey – had changed out of their working clothes and back into what Adrian often referred to as their battledress. He wore his favourite black jeans and T-shirt with his long, leather coat over the top. He loved that coat and would frequently and dramatically swirl around the building like a villain in a Victorian melodrama.

Mikey also wore jeans, a St Mary’s sweatshirt and her truly dilapidated flying jacket, together with her Snoopy helmet and completely unnecessary goggles.

I watched them as they set off down the Long Corridor towards Hawking Hangar. Where we keep our pods.

Just a word of explanation here. Yes, I know it’s been a long time coming but it’s here now. Pods are our centre of operations. We use them to travel up and down the timeline as we investigate major historical events in contemporary time. Don’t call it time travel or Dr Bairstow will probably feed you to the foam.

I stood in a doorway and watched them. I would put money on these two being up to no good. It struck me now – and it should certainly have struck me long before this – that our Adrian and Mikey – long-time fugitives and accustomed to living exciting lives – might well attempt to alleviate their traditional teenage boredom by indulging in a few illicit jumps. Which was no huge problem for me. I’m not sure if anyone’s ever noticed but I myself am no stranger to the occasional illicit jump – especially at Christmas. No, the problem lay with the vessel in which they no doubt intended to make said illicit jump.

A mainstream pod wouldn’t be a problem – and Leon would almost certainly head them off at the pass anyway. My concerns lay with the teapot. A sentence not quite as surreal as might initially appear. Mikey and Adrian’s pod is shaped like a twelve-foot-high teapot. It also has one or two other interesting features – not least the ability to remove objects from their own time, which is very much a no-no and liable to lead to all sorts of trouble with the bastard Time Police – and since we’d told them we’d destroyed the pod and hadn’t, we really couldn’t afford to attract any attention.

I let them get to the end of the Long Corridor and then set off after them. I’ll use the time it takes me to get from one end to the other to explain about us here at St Mary’s.

We all belong to St Mary’s Institute of Historical Research – a small organisation outside Rushford where we live in peaceful rural seclusion – mostly – and hardly get into any trouble at all. We jump back in time to record major historical events. Sometimes we don’t always manage to return successfully, but mostly we do. So that’s quite clear, then.

I slipped quietly into Hawking Hangar and waited to see what would happen next. There was no sign of Leon anywhere – I suspected he was in with Peterson and Guthrie, prepping Number Four, all ready for the Bannockburn jump. Where I myself should be right at this moment.

I peered cautiously down the hangar because this was probably something that should be handled with discretion. Which is something I can do when I have to. Number Four was over to my left, easily distinguishable because, in honour of Ian’s last jump, someone had stencilled the blue and white cross of St Andrew – the Saltire – on the side.

There was a light on in Leon’s office at the far end. I could see Dieter and Polly Perkins bending over a screen, their faces lit from below and actually looking quite sinister. Otherwise, just for once, the place was deserted. Adrian and Mikey had chosen their moment well.

They paused just inside the hangar and then turned off and made their way quietly along the back wall.

I knew exactly where they were going. I slipped in behind them and followed them across the hangar to Tea Bag 2.

TB2 is our big pod. We use it for transporting large numbers of people or plant and equipment. Especially when we’re on a search and rescue mission. There’s a living area and a toilet that sometimes works, and it’s very big and really useful for storing things inside. Such as, for example, an illegal teapot.

This is complicated. Bear with me. We can’t use the teapot because as soon as we did, the Time Police would pick up the signature and we’d told them we’d destroyed it. It was part of a deal which they’d broken on their side and we’d broken on ours. Such are the levels of trust between St Mary’s and the Time Police. And now, it looked as if our two teapot tearaways had plans that were wrong on so many levels. I didn’t know what they were up to, but it wouldn’t be good and would almost certainly bring the Time Police down on top of us and then there would be all sorts of tears and trauma. And for us, as well.

I should have expected something like this. Adrian and Mikey were teenagers. The pair of them were geniuses. They’d had the freedom of the whole timeline. They’d come and gone as they’d pleased. Yes, they’d been pursued every minute of every day by the Time Police but it hadn’t seemed to cause them any problems. And yes, life here at St Mary’s could be exciting at times, but I bet it wasn’t half as exciting as their previous existence. I remembered their enthusiasm for bringing down renegade historian Clive Ronan. They’d allowed themselves to be captured by the Time Police and that couldn’t have been pleasant for them. Then there had been all the perils of the Cretaceous period and Mikey had nearly been washed away in a flash flood.

Now they were living a quiet-ish life at St Mary’s. Dr Bairstow ruled with a light hand and they weren’t prisoners but . . . I suspected they were bored. At some point they’d planned this illegal jaunt. I might have been tempted to let them go. They could more than look after themselves. Except for the teapot. The one we were supposed to have destroyed.

I stepped out of the shadows. ‘Good afternoon.’

They didn’t shriek or panic.

‘Bugger,’ said Mikey, accepting the inevitable. ‘Busted.’

‘More than busted,’ I said. ‘What’s going on here? – and I’m supposed to be on my way to Bannockburn so don’t mess me about. In fact, I shouldn’t be here at all, so make it quick.’

Admitting that was a mistake. I could see their thinking. She’s in a rush. We’ll fob her off with any old rubbish. Seriously? Did they think I’d never been a teenager myself?

I folded my arms. ‘But for this, I have all the time in the world.’

‘Well, the thing is, Max . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, and I can’t think why no one has ever done this before . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘In fact . . .’

Just as we were about to get to the good stuff, I had Peterson in my ear. ‘Max, where are you?’

‘I need a few minutes. Something’s come up.’

‘You should go,’ said Mikey, generously. ‘It’s Major Guthrie’s last jump and you wouldn’t want to miss that.’

Adrian nodded. ‘Yes, you’ll be late.’

‘They’ll wait for me,’ I said, without any hope at all.

Peterson spoke again. ‘Max, we’re not waiting for you. Get a move on, will you?’

‘I’ll be there in a minute. Right, you two, what’s happening here?’

‘Well . . .’

‘Stop saying “well”.’

‘Well, I mean – nothing. Nothing’s going on. We’re just talking to you.’

I narrowed my eyes. If that didn’t work, then I’d smile at them. That always works. People will do anything to stop me smiling at them.

‘Obviously I need to narrow the focus of my interrogation.’

‘Are you allowed to interrogate us?’ enquired Mikey. ‘I mean – we’re minors, you know. The law doesn’t apply to us.’

And there you have their entire attitude to life in a nutshell. I would bet good money they’ll still be using that excuse when they’re in their eighties. If they live that long.

Peterson was becoming impatient. ‘Max, where the hell are you?’

I looked at the two of them grinning at me. Just waiting for me to go away. I came to a decision.

‘Sorry, Tim. I’m not going to make it. Go without me.’

That wiped the smiles off their faces. But put the smile back on mine. ‘Give my regards to Ian. Have a good trip.’

Peterson was not impressed. ‘What’s the problem? Max, this is Ian’s last jump.’

‘Yes, I know,’ I said, with a nasty look at the two reprobates in front of me. ‘And I’m sorry to miss it but I’ll be here when you get back. All ready to review the tapes and point out where you went wrong.’

There was a pause and then Peterson said, ‘All right then, if that’s what you want. See you later this afternoon.’

He closed the link.

Lights flashed above Number Four’s plinth. Moments later there was the familiar wind in my face and then they were gone.

I turned back to Adrian and Mikey. ‘Right – I’ve missed Ian’s last jump and now, thanks to you two, I am highly pissed off.’

This was overstating things slightly. I hadn’t been that enthusiastic to begin with. Bannockburn was the battle that England lost. It’s not that I’m a bad loser – although I am – but we really should have won that one and we didn’t, thanks to that dipstick Edward II.

I’m sure I’ve mentioned him before. The job description for a medieval king wasn’t onerous. You kept the realm safe and sired the next generation. Fight and fu . . . well, you get the drift.

Young Teddy Two managed the next generation part – although he and his wife loathed each other so I bet that was fun – but his main problem was that he was rubbish at controlling his barons.

The whole medieval period was one long, bloody struggle between the king and his lords. Both were vital to the other. The king was the fount from which lands, titles and riches flowed. The barons were vital to the safety of the realm. In return for the aforementioned lands, titles, etc., they maintained the borders. And they were powerful clans. They had to be. The Percys and other northern lords maintained the border against the Scots. The western border with Wales was protected by the Marcher lords – among them, the Mortimers. Roger Mortimer would go on to become Edward’s wife’s lover and the two of them would eventually overthrow him.

London was a long way off back then; communications were only as good as the weather and the fastest horse, which rendered these families virtually autonomous. Not a problem if you had a strong king who could keep them all in line but definitely a problem if you were weak, ineffective Edward II, over-reliant on low-born personal favourites.

Possibly he was gay. Probably he was gay. And if he’d exercised a little discretion then things probably wouldn’t have turned out so badly for him. He certainly wouldn’t have been England’s first gay king. There was William Rufus, Richard the Lionheart, possibly William of William-and-Mary fame – perhaps even Queen Anne. There’s no reason to suppose people in the Middle Ages were any more or less gay than in modern times and he could probably have got away with it if he hadn’t flooded his favourite, the despised Piers Gaveston, with expensive gifts. If he hadn’t fawned on him in public while tough-as-shit border lords, who needed a firm but light hand, looked on in disgust and laid their plans accordingly.

Gaveston had been safely disposed of and Edward – whose survival instincts were slightly less reliable than Bashford’s – immediately took up with Hugh Despenser and his old dad, two utter bastards, who must have made Edward’s nobles long for the good old days of Piers Gaveston.

And – for those of you confused by my above rant, we’re now back to the reasons I wasn’t going on the Bannockburn jump – now I could perhaps spend some time wrapping presents with Matthew. Or rather, since I possess the ability to transform the rectangular shape of a book into an inter-dimensional, Sellotape-smothered, irregular dodecahedral lump of Christmas wrapping paper, Matthew would do the actual wrapping and I would be trusted to hold the scissors and sticky tape. And not to touch anything unless specifically instructed otherwise. I envisaged a quiet afternoon with carols playing and a steadily growing pile of neat packages around our Christmas tree while we scarfed down a plate of mince pies together.

Anyway, back to Adrian and Mikey after that scenic and informative digression. I think it was dawning on them that, like an STD, I wasn’t going to go away. Not without some sort of divine intervention. Or antibiotics.

They sighed. ‘Well . . . the thing is . . . we’re not doing anything wrong.’

‘In fact,’ said Mikey, apparently struck by a brilliant idea, ‘you could say it’s our duty to go.’

I folded my arms again. ‘And why would I say that?’

‘Because – well – we’ve been invited. We’re expected. It would be rude not to go.’

They looked at me triumphantly. Argument over. Whatever their intent had been, their actions were completely justified and I was being an unreasonable adult. I began to feel a very slight sympathy for the Time Police. No need to tell them that. Ever.

‘What invite? No one in their right minds would invite you two anywhere.’

‘That’s hurtful,’ said Adrian, hurt. Mikey contrived to look stricken. It’s her go-to expression in a crisis.

I unfolded my arms just so I could fold them again. With added menace.

They sighed. Just two misunderstood young people alone and defenceless in a cruel world. I prepared to make it even crueller.

‘The thing is, Max . . .’

‘Stop talking about the bloody thing,’ I shouted. ‘Whatever it is.’

‘But you asked us,’ said Mikey reasonably, effortlessly shifting the blame for everything on to my sagging shoulders. ‘You said . . .’

I can’t understand why more teenagers aren’t justifiably slaughtered by enraged adults goaded beyond human endurance. There should be awards. And an annual dinner. And a rewards system.

‘Listen to me very carefully. I’m an historian. I know a hundred and thirty-five ways of killing you without leaving any trace. I know where to bury your bodies so they’ll never be found. Just saying. Now, we can do this one of two ways. I can kill you – here and now – quick and quiet – and no one will ever know. Or I can rip you painfully to pieces, smearing your internal organs across the walls and tying your innards in a bow around the light fittings, before going off for the cup of tea I so desperately need. And if by some chance I am apprehended, I shall not only get away with my hideous crime but probably receive a medal and a small reward for services towards ridding the world of two really, really irritating smart arse teenagers.’

Wordlessly, Adrian pointed upwards to one of the discreetly placed CCTV cameras with which Hawking is infested.

I moved a menacing step closer. ‘I no longer care.’

Nothing happened for long seconds and then, finally, just as I was thinking I was going to have to kill them after all, Adrian pulled out his scratchpad, brought something up on the screen and handed it to me.

It was indeed an invitation. Unbelievably, some idiot had issued these two – sight unseen, obviously – with a formal invitation to some sort of function.

With a plummeting heart, I read the words aloud.

My voice petered away. I looked up. They were beaming at me.

‘See,’ said Mikey. She pointed at the invitation. ‘We’re invited.’ She seemed to think this made everything all right. ‘In fact, we’re all invited. Why don’t you come too?’

God help me, I was tempted. I was very tempted indeed. Who wouldn’t want to go? The chance to meet Stephen Hawking. To talk with him. To see his face as we walked in. To see his face as he clapped eyes on Adrian and Mikey. It would be so worth it.

They were grinning at me. ‘There’s champagne,’ said Mikey, beguilingly.

‘Neither of you are old enough to drink.’

‘And horses doovers.’

‘If you knew what a horses doover was you wouldn’t be half so enthusiastic.’

‘But Max . . .’ she wheedled.

I rallied. ‘Where did you get this?’

‘It’s out there, Max. All over the internet and anyone with a pod can go.’ They beamed. Presumably access to the internet and possession of a pod made everything all right.

I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry, guys. I’m completely with you on this one, but no.’

‘Max . . .’

‘No. It’s not possible.’

Mikey pointed to the invite. ‘But . . .’

‘Look – it contravenes the Hundred Years Rule. It contravenes Ian Guthrie’s “No jumping back to irritate Professor Hawking” rule and most importantly, the party has already happened and no one turned up. You didn’t go to the party. You never got to meet Professor Hawking. It’s a shame because I think the three of you would have got on like a house on fire, but no. Believe me, I am sorry, but absolutely not.’

I felt bad. Really, really bad. But no contact with Professor Hawking was just about the first rule I ever learned at St Mary’s and one of the few I hadn’t yet broken.

They looked so upset that I said, ‘Come on. I’ll take you for a drink.’

They brightened up.

‘Nothing alcoholic.’

They drooped again. I felt like a kitten-murderer but just imagine if I’d missed them. If they’d gone ahead and made the jump. I could just see the teapot materialising in the middle of the room, the two of them throwing out their heavy ladder, hopefully not stunning one of the world’s leading cosmologists and Giant Brain. The implications were enormous but thanks to me, would never happen. I’d averted catastrophe. Never mind them – I needed a drink.

So that was how I missed the jump. But not Bannockburn. I didn’t miss Bannockburn at all.

Anyway, after all that, just to keep an eye on them for a while and not in the least because I needed a drink, we sat in the bar, talking of this and that, reminiscing about Atticus Wolfe and the Time Police. They regaled me with some of their more hair-raising adventures, all of which confirmed my belief we’d done the universe an enormous favour by removing them from general circulation, and the time passed really quickly.

Too quickly. It was a shock to look at the clock and realise that Number Four’s return time had passed more than half an hour ago. And at exactly that moment, Dr Bairstow requested the pleasure of my company.

I said goodbye to the teapot tearaways and trotted up the stairs. Mrs Partridge waved me through.

‘Good afternoon, sir.’

‘Dr Maxwell, we appear to have a problem.’

For one moment I wondered if he’d heard about Adrian and Mikey’s attempt to subvert the course of History, physics, cosmology and the universe in general, but no – we had another problem. Number Four had not returned.

In older, happier days, our assignments were open-ended. We could return any time. Now, however, in these more perilous times, we’d introduced specific return times. If a pod failed to materialise at the designated time, then we could safely assume something had gone wrong. It would appear the Three Stooges had encountered a problem at Bannockburn.

‘How late are they, sir?’

‘Nearly an hour, now. I am beginning to experience some concern.’

So was I. This was Ian Guthrie, our former Head of Security; Markham, our current Head of Security; and Peterson, our Deputy Director. It seemed unlikely they’d get themselves into difficulties, but this was Bannockburn, after all. It seemed much more likely difficulties had got to them.

I sighed. This is what happens if you let men out on their own without adequate female supervision. They just can’t handle it. Guilt kicked in. I should have gone with them. I could have just sent Adrian and Mikey on their way. I could have asked Leon to keep an eye on them. I was Head of the History Department and I’d let them go on their own. One civilian and a couple of idiots. Of course they were going to get themselves lost, injured or dead. And it was my fault.

Dr Bairstow was taking a less pessimistic view. ‘I feel sure there will be an adequate explanation, Dr Maxwell. They are probably stranded somewhere unable to return to their pod without assistance.’

I’d forbidden them to leave the pod. I’d suspected at the time they’d ignore that instruction and now look what had happened.

‘I’ll put together a rescue team as quickly as I can, sir.’

‘I think not, Dr Maxwell. Bannockburn is a battlefield. There are around thirty thousand armed men in the vicinity. We could not possibly compete. Therefore, I think, in and out, quick and quiet. A scouting party. Take a look around, locate our people and if you can’t immediately retrieve them, jump back here for reinforcements.’

I sat quietly and had a bit of a think. ‘In that case, sir, I think I’ll take Mr Evans – an obvious choice – and . . .’

I was hovering between Atherton and Clerk when Mrs Partridge entered. ‘Miss Grey is here and would like to see you immediately, Dr Bairstow.’

He frowned. I could see his thinking. He wouldn’t want Elspeth knowing we were having a problem. On the other hand, Mrs Partridge wouldn’t let anyone in without a very good reason.

‘Ask her to come in, please.’

Elspeth was pale but resolute. ‘They’re late, aren’t they? Ian said he would ring me as soon as he got back and he hasn’t.’

‘Good afternoon, Miss Grey. Yes, they are, but not hugely so. Dr Maxwell and I are just considering our options.’

‘I’d like to be included in any rescue mission.’

I frowned. I could understand her wish to be included, but I, for one, had several objections to this and I was certain Dr Bairstow would, as well.

There’s no nice way of wrapping this up: Elspeth Grey is pod-shy. It’s not her fault and certainly no one blames her, but it’s the reason she doesn’t work here any longer. She and her then partner, Bashford, had been snatched by that bastard Clive Ronan and dropped, defenceless, into the middle of Colchester, minutes before Boudicca turned up to massacre the inhabitants and raze the place to the ground.

We’d got there just in time to pull them out – another illegal Christmas jump – avoided a hundred thousand blood-hungry Brits and an enraged pig – and returned them safely to St Mary’s.

Alas for Elspeth, no happy ending. She just couldn’t rid herself of the fear that it would happen all over again. Her subsequent assignment had been a bit of a disaster and she’d quietly resigned. No one held it against her. I’m surprised it doesn’t happen more often. You could argue that Elspeth was actually the most intelligent person here. You could also argue that she must be really concerned to be volunteering to get back into a pod again.

I looked at her anxious eyes.

‘I know what you’re thinking, Max, but I have to do this. It’s Ian and I’d never forgive myself if . . . I have to stop running away. I have to deal with this.’

‘Elspeth, it’s not important. There are far more important things in this world than gallivanting up and down the timeline in an unreliable box accompanied by a bunch of lunatics.’

She shook her head. ‘I thought if I left . . . started a new life . . . but . . . don’t tell Ian . . . but it’s not working. It’s not St Mary’s that’s the problem – it’s me. I’ve lost my bottle and everyone knows it. Including me. And everyone’s been really nice to me and I don’t deserve it. And yes, I’m terrified but I have to get past this. So I can look myself in the eye every morning. I have to do this. I have to get out there and conquer my fears. For Ian.’

I should say no. A few Christmases ago I reunited her and Ian. I brought them together when everyone thought she and Bashford had been lost forever. And now this was Ian’s last jump before what everyone hoped was his long and happy retirement. We’ve all seen those films where the detective is killed on his last case. The racing driver killed in his last race. The soldier on his last assignment. It’s a kind of narrative imperative. And now, here she was . . . Had I brought Elspeth home one Christmas only to lose her during another? And then I looked at her face.

Turning to Dr Bairstow, I said, ‘I have no objection, sir. Mr Evans and I can take a quick look around and if Miss Grey is content to remain in the pod, she can monitor the situation from there, give us an overview and warn us of any impending situations. She could be very useful.’

He thought for a moment, staring out of the window, and then nodded. ‘Very well, Dr Maxwell. See to it, please.’

We kitted ourselves out in woodland-green camouflage. There was absolutely no point in wrapping ourselves up in contemporary 14th-century gear. For a start, whose side would we choose? Quick, quiet and invisible was the way to go on this one.

I toyed with the idea of taking Leon’s pod with its camouflage device but decided against it in the end. In a hazardous situation the last thing you need is to be racing around shouting, ‘Where the hell did we leave the bloody thing?’ And if we weren’t going to activate the camouflage device then there was no point in taking it.

I sighed. Best-case scenario – if they’d obeyed my instructions – and I think we all know how likely that was – they’d be safely inside the pod and we’d be talking about nothing more serious than a minor systems failure. Although don’t mention that to Leon. We’ve never yet had a pod fail, despite, as he often points out, the fragile state in which some of them are returned.

I thought we’d take Number Eight – my favourite pod. We’ve seen some exciting times together.

We drew weapons – even Elspeth. I took a stun gun, a pepper spray and slapped a small blaster to the sticky patch on my combats.

Evans took the same plus a massive blaster slung over his shoulder. Presumably he was hoping to subdue the Loch Ness Monster at the same time.

Elspeth took two stun guns and a pepper spray.

We surveyed each other outside the pod.

‘Everyone all set?’ I said.

They nodded.

Leon was just finishing laying in the coordinates. I’d asked for about an hour after their arrival and as close as possible to their landing site. There was a bloody great battle going on out there so I didn’t want to have to do too much running around outside the pod.

‘All set,’ he said. ‘Return coordinates laid in as well. Just in case.’

I nodded. Sometimes we have to leave quite quickly and you don’t want to spend time calculating the returns. We always set up as much as we can in advance. Plenty will always go wrong and it gives us a couple of seconds’ head start on whatever is trying to kill us all.

He smiled for me alone, wished us all good luck and left.

‘Right then,’ I said. ‘Off we go. Computer – initiate jump.’

‘Jump initiated.’

The world went white.

Well, here we were. Bannockburn, June 1314. The two-day battle which would ultimately result in Scottish independence. There’s a bit of a story behind Bannockburn. Well, there’s a bit of a story behind most events in History, obviously, but you know what I mean.

The English were occupying nearby Stirling Castle – it being a strategic point for everyone. Edward Bruce – brother of the more famous Robert – was laying siege to it. I suspect it was a bit of a miserable business for both sides – the Scots up to their waists in mud and the English facing the prospect of slowly starving to death – and so the two sides reached a kind of gentlemen’s agreement. If the castle wasn’t relieved by midsummer, it would be handed over to the Scots without bloodshed.

It is possible that hearing his brother’s arrangement – made without his knowledge – that mighty Robert Bruce fetched his younger and much dimmer sibling a mighty thump upside the head, because what Edward had done, in effect, was hurl down a challenge the English king couldn’t possibly ignore. A tiny Scottish army that had previously used only guerrilla tactics and avoided formal warfare like the plague suddenly found itself number one on the English summer fixture list.

Once he’d calmed down, however, some brave soul had pointed out to Robert Bruce that he now knew where the English army would be next midsummer and he could therefore lay his plans accordingly. He had time to shape the battlefield to his advantage and he did.

He had pits dug to break up the powerful English cavalry. He revived the fearsome Scottish schiltron – a mass of men welded together with long pikes bristling in all directions, disciplined and well trained and virtually invulnerable to mounted knights. Bruce was a canny man who used the time granted him to skew the odds in his favour.

I called up Number Four as soon as we landed. There was no response. We tried our individual coms. Nothing.

‘They’re about twenty yards away,’ said Grey, peering at the screen.

She was right. Number Four sat at the edge of our small clearing, just to the east of us. Unscathed and undamaged. I only hoped we could say the same of its occupants.

Both pods had landed in the Torwood, situated about half a mile to the south of the Bannock Burn. The English army lay to our right, camped along the Roman road, and the Scots had made their stand on the boggy ground on the other side of the burn, behind their ditches. We had quite a good view from here, which is why I’d chosen it, although tomorrow, when the English would move east to the Carse, less so.

Compared to the Scots, drawn up in four compact schiltrons, the English army must have seemed massive. At least ten divisions, their weapons glinting in a temporary glimpse of the sun, colourful banners and pennants everywhere and heaving with horses, they sprawled across the landscape.

The glimpse of the sun was very short. This was a typical Scottish summer – mild enough but very damp. There was a misty rain in the air. At least no one would have the sun in their eyes or find themselves slowly cooking in their own armour. The downside was that the going was soft. Very soft indeed. I could see puddles of water everywhere. There would be mud on an industrial scale. Actually, until very recently, most of History is mud, blood and pestilence. These days it’s greed, corruption and incompetence.

Evans unshouldered his elephant gun. ‘I’ll go and check the other pod. You two stay here. Keep checking the proximities.’

I looked up. ‘There are more than thirty thousand men here today. I’m not sure how helpful the proximities will be but yes, we’ll watch your back.’

Elspeth angled the cameras and we watched him approach Number Four. He circled cautiously. He’d left his com open and we heard him call for the door which opened perfectly normally. He disappeared inside. We waited, hoping – no, expecting – to see Markham or Peterson’s head appear, demanding to know what all the fuss was about.

It didn’t happen.

Evans appeared instead, shook his head and called me over.

‘And me,’ said Elspeth, getting to her feet.

We checked around very carefully before leaving the pod because we didn’t know who else was out there. Well, actually we did, there were thirty thousand of them, and none of them would be feeling friendly.

I sent Elspeth over first, covering her from Number Eight, and then set off myself.

Apart from the lack of people, Number Four looked completely normal.

‘The Marie Celeste of pods,’ said Evans cheerfully, then remembered Elspeth and shut up.

Everything was working perfectly. Even the toilet, which might have been the one reason someone had nipped outside. Although, as Evans said, they wouldn’t all have gone at the same time. They weren’t girls.

The girls in the pod ignored him.

‘The external cameras are still running,’ said Elspeth, checking over the console. ‘Shall we see if there’s a clue there?’

I took the other seat and Evans stood behind us.

‘Computer – play back external tapes.’

‘Playing back external tapes.’

I’d read up on the battle obviously, so I knew pretty much what to expect and I have to say – apart from the normal troop movements as everyone shuffled into position – not a lot was happening.

‘This must be fairly early on,’ I said. ‘There’s no blood or bodies that I can see.’

‘Well, something must have happened,’ said Evans. ‘Something took them out of the pod.’

I felt Elspeth tremble.

‘Not Clive Ronan,’ I said in an effort to reassure both of us. ‘They’re none of them overendowed with brains but even they know he couldn’t get in. They’re perfectly safe as long as they remain inside the pod.’

‘It must be something to do with the battle,’ said Evans. ‘Something unusual or unexpected, perhaps.’

I instructed them to keep watching.

Nothing was happening. Well, there was a lot of milling around obviously. Battlefields are chaotic places. It’s interesting to think I’ve probably seen more battlefields than even the most experienced general. Concentrate, Maxwell.

‘Come on,’ I said, talking to the screen. ‘What did you see?’

And then . . .

‘Hang on,’ said Evans, leaning forwards.

The English were on the move. A group of about three hundred men detached themselves from the main force and appeared to be trying to get to Stirling Castle.

‘I know this bit,’ I said, pointing at the screen. ‘This is Clifford and de Beaumont. These are the opening moves. The Scots will move forwards to block them.’

They didn’t just block them – they charged with such force they split the English line clean in two. Chaos ensued. There was no clear leadership – always a feature of Edward II’s reign. Of the scattered English forces, half pushed on to Stirling – the other half lost their nerve, were routed and fled back to the safety of the English lines. We could hear the shouts of derision from the Scottish camp.

While this was happening, the bulk of the English forces were slowly and ponderously on the move. Led by the Earls of Hereford and Gloucester, they headed straight for the Scottish lines.

‘They thought the mere sight of their superior numbers would cause the Scots to panic and retreat back into the New Park,’ said Grey. I suspected she’d been hearing a lot about Bannockburn over the past few weeks. ‘And to be fair, until today, that was their preferred method of warfare. Oh look – here we go.’

The most magnificent figure appeared at the forefront of the English lines. Elspeth focused on his shield. Blue and yellow. Azure, a bend argent between six lions rampant or. The de Bohun family arms. This was Henry de Bohun, riding one of the biggest horses I’d ever seen. The man who famously challenged Robert Bruce to personal combat.

Trumpets rang out from the crowded English lines. We could hear them cheering. Which turned to laughter when Bruce eventually appeared from the Scottish ranks. Whereas de Bohun was fully equipped and armoured and resplendent on his warhorse, Bruce was only lightly armoured and rode a much smaller and lighter horse. A mud-splattered palfrey. A comfortable, lady’s ride. Bruce would have used his for cantering from one side of his military camp to the other. Definitely not for charging into battle. We could actually hear the jeers and mockery spreading through the English ranks. They must have thought it was hilarious.

In contrast to de Bohun’s full battle rig, Bruce wore only a sword and carried an axe. You could just hear the English thinking – well, this won’t take long. What an idiot.

A trumpet sounded again. Light and tinny but clear over our sound system. Before the last notes had died away, de Bohun was off. His great horse reared up, appearing to claw at the sullen sky, fought with its rider for a moment, then lowered its head and thundered towards Bruce, who suddenly looked very small and vulnerable on his little palfrey. We could see great clods of mud being thrown high into the air, dark against the lighter sky.

De Bohun’s horse might be huge and powerful but Bruce’s was more nimble. And, like its rider, it apparently had nerves of steel, barely batting an eyelid as man and monster thundered towards it. At just the right moment, it stepped neatly to one side. At the same time, Bruce actually ducked under the point of de Bohun’s lance, and then, standing in his stirrups, he stabbed upwards with his axe, point first.

It seemed to catch de Bohun under the chin – an unusual blow from an unusual angle, massively risky, but it paid off. Such was the force of his blow that he shattered de Bohun’s head, tearing it clean off his shoulders and sending it soaring high into the air, trailing long ribbons of scarlet blood behind it.

De Bohun’s body slumped to one side, frightening and unbalancing his horse which galloped back to the English lines, reins and stirrups flying. It was met with a stunned and disbelieving silence.

The Scots didn’t waste time cheering. Robert Bruce had them all on the attack, smashing into the English forces while they were still ponderously trying to get themselves into position.

We never saw what happened to de Bohun’s head.

‘Well . . .’ said Evans, which pretty well summed up everything.

‘Well, I knew he lost his head,’ I said, ‘but that must have been one hell of an axe.’

And indeed, Bruce’s only comment when he returned to his own lines was to lament the loss of his good axe.

Evans opened his mouth to say something and at that moment, the picture trembled. Just very slightly. As if there had been some sort of impact with the pod.

‘What was that?’ I said, standing up. ‘What just happened?’

‘Wait here,’ said Evans. ‘Don’t touch the cameras. Don’t change the angles.’ He disappeared outside.

We watched him on the screen. I saw him appear briefly, glance up and wave and then disappear round the side of the pod.

After a few minutes he was back. ‘Max, come and look at this. Careful now. Elspeth, you stay put – just in case.’

I pulled out my blaster and slipped out to join him. Silently he gestured to the side of the pod.

All our pods are much the same. Some are smaller, some are bigger, but they all have the same design: Apparently stone-built huts that blend into their surroundings. The stone bit is simply a cosmetic casing. It’s fairly robust – although I’ve knocked some corners off in my time. It’s supposed to be fireproof too, although I did manage to melt it once. The point I’m making, though, is that although the casing has faced some challenges in its professional life, I don’t think it’s ever had to cope with a diagonal spray of ten or twelve small round holes slanting upwards, straight through the centre of the carefully stencilled Saltire, up towards the top right-hand corner.

There was no mistaking what they were.

‘Bullet holes?’ I said in disbelief. ‘Bullets at Bannockburn?’

Evans nodded, threw a worried glance around and then said, ‘Back inside, please.’

‘I’ve checked around everywhere,’ said Elspeth as we re-entered. ‘They left no messages – no clues – nothing. And there’s no response to my calls, either.’

‘Let’s see some more of the tape.’

What followed consisted mostly of troop movements and a few minor skirmishes. We watched, but our hearts weren’t in it and after about ten minutes we blanked the screens.

Evans turned to face us. ‘I can think of four explanations.’

‘Go on.’

‘One – they’ve removed their earpieces – for some reason that may not necessarily be bad.

‘Two – they’re out of range. Which is unlikely. They’d have to be several miles away.

‘Three – they’re physically unable to respond – again for some reason that may not necessarily be bad.’

He stopped.

‘Or they’re dead,’ said Elspeth, quietly.

I caught Evans’s eye. ‘Unlikely,’ he said. ‘If it was just historians on their own, then I’d be considering that because everyone knows they’re a bunch of overeducated, intellectually stunted idiots with delusions of adequacy, but we’re talking about Mr Markham and the major here, so my betting is that if there are any casualties, they’ll be on the other side.’

It was a good save. Elspeth looked reassured.

‘So,’ I said. ‘They were present for the duel between de Bohun and Bruce. The camera work proves that. We can see the changing angles and there are close-ups and so on. That would be Peterson’s work. Subsequent to that, there’s only the one camera operating and that from a single angle. The main events are not even in shot a lot of the time. In other words, the camera was on but no one was operating it. Or even watching the screen. I think it’s fair to say they watched the duel and then left. Why?’

‘Because the pod was under attack and they went to investigate?’ said Evans.

Well, of course they did. Why would anyone remain safely inside a pod when they could get out there and investigate who was spraying bullets around in the middle of a battle on a summer’s day in 1314? I’d have been out of the door in a flash.

‘I’ve been reviewing the records,’ said Elspeth, still at the console. ‘They left the pod nine minutes after the Bruce/de Bohun incident.’

‘No record of why?’

‘None. The door was open for seven seconds and then closed. It didn’t open again until we turned up.’

‘Nothing on camera?’ asked Evans.

‘No, it was pointing the other way.’

‘So they went to investigate,’ I said, and sighed. So much for not stepping outside the pod.

‘What do you want to do, Max?’ asked Evans. ‘Do we go back and report? Or do we go and check it out?’

They both looked at me.

Going back would waste valuable time if they were in trouble now, right at this moment. On the other hand, returning with more people would make finding them considerably easier. If they weren’t already dead. Six of one – half a dozen of the other. I threw it open to the floor.

‘Your recommendations, please,’ I said.

‘We go and look for them,’ said Elspeth.

Evans nodded.

I nodded too. ‘Unanimously settled then.’

‘I’ve been trying to call them up,’ said Elspeth. ‘As far as I can establish, their coms are working but they’re just not responding.’

‘No need to read anything into that,’ said Evans, just a shade too heartily. ‘It might simply be that they’re not in a position to answer and there could be many reasons for that.’

‘Yes,’ said Elspeth. ‘Perhaps they’re in a hollow or a cave, or something similar.’

Evans and I very carefully didn’t look at each other. ‘You’re absolutely right,’ he said. ‘No cause for alarm just yet. Right then. It’s you and me, Max. Elspeth, it makes sense for you to remain here as point of contact. They’ll probably be back in a minute and we’ll have done all this for nothing. We’ll leave our coms open at all times. Give us a shout if you see anything. Max – you stay behind me. Don’t worry, Elspeth. We’ll be back before you know it.’

Our proximities were useless. Well, no, actually they were working perfectly, showing every single one of the thirty thousand men out there.

Our tag readers weren’t much better. Over the years we’ve found the quickest and easiest way to find any missing colleagues is to close our eyes and keep walking until we fall over them. It helps if the rescuees can jump up and down, shouting, ‘We’re over here, stupid,’ and set off a few fizzers as well.

The readers were giving us two readings – one for Peterson and one for Markham – Guthrie had had his tag removed when he left St Mary’s – but were declining to tell us in which direction and how far away our missing colleagues actually were. So, helpful as ever.

I tucked myself behind Evans and we moved very slowly and very carefully, flitting from tree to tree, watching where we put our feet and keeping our eyes open. There were God knows how many armed men jammed into these few square miles. Anyone they didn’t recognise was an enemy and would be treated as such.

Time passed. We paused at regular intervals to crouch behind trees to try to raise the other team but there was still nothing. We were still in communication with Elspeth, so the obvious conclusion was that our boys were for some reason unable to respond, and that was deeply worrying.

More time passed. The wood itself was silent – there was no birdsong or woodland noises – and trees deaden sound so the noises of men and horses had dwindled into a distant murmur beyond the trees, from which would emerge a trumpet call, occasionally, or the whinny of horses. The sounds were far off but continuous. A constant reminder of what was happening not that far away.

I began to have a very bad feeling. The further we got from the pod the more nervous I became. There could be a man hidden behind every tree. There could be traps set to catch spies. The area to cover was huge. The two of us could barely scratch the surface. We needed more people and better equipment. I think Evans was feeling the same way because he took a quick look around and then pulled me down into a shallow ditch, whispering, ‘Max – I’m not happy about any of this. There’s not enough cover and we’re too close to the battle lines.’

He was right. We were slightly above and to the south-west of the action but still close enough to see the southern edge of the Scottish lines. As far as I knew no action took place anywhere in the Torwood – no official action, anyway – but there would be troop movements and scouts and we were far more exposed than I was happy with.

‘We have to look for them,’ said Elspeth, managing to sound angry even over the com. ‘We can’t just go home.’

‘We can come back with more people and cover more ground more quickly,’ said Evans, quietly, trying to calm her down.

‘And waste more time.’

‘He’s right,’ I said. Listen to me being Mrs Sensible. ‘We’ll have more tag readers. We’ll be able to triangulate much more quickly and easily. We could even stand Bashford on the roof with a loudhailer. What we can’t do is creep around in the middle of a battle looking for three people who, if they’ve got any sense, have climbed a tree and are waiting quietly for a chance to get back to their pod.’

‘No!’

‘Elspeth, our chances of finding them in this lot are—’

Evans cocked his head suddenly and gestured me to silence. His proximity meter was lighting up like a Christmas tree. Given their uselessness, this generally meant someone was standing about two inches to our right.

I whispered, ‘Elspeth – got something. Call you back.’

We worked our way very quietly and slowly along the ditch. The trees were closer together here and there was more cover. Best of all, the almost permanent mizzle had solidified decades of fallen leaves into a wet, dense, but fortunately silent carpet.

At a sign from Evans, we both halted and hoisted a couple of very cautious eyes over the edge.

I didn’t see him at first. All credit to Evans because I thought I was just staring at a heap of miscellaneous forest foliage and I wasn’t.

The shape resolved itself like one of those 3D pictures. I was looking at a man wearing a sophisticated camouflage suit. A ghillie suit, as Evans later described it. Unbelievably, I was looking at a sniper, lying prone and quietly nursing a long-barrelled, super-sighted, bolt-action sniper rifle.

OK – so not one of my lost boys. Who were still out there somewhere. This was a sniper. The thought kept running through my head. A sniper. There was a sniper here at Bannockburn. In 1314. Suddenly the spray of bullets across the pod made a little more sense. And de Bohun’s shattered head as well. A lucky axe stroke – possibly. An armour-piercing bullet – almost certainly.

Evans gestured for me to stay put and I was very happy to do so. He’s a grown lad and could easily handle this one on his own. Inch by inch he pulled himself out of the ditch. For a big bloke he moved very quietly, never dislodging earth or leaves, not letting the edge crumble, placing his hands and feet with delicate precision.

Having extricated himself, he paused for a moment, gathered himself and then literally launched himself through the air to land squarely on our would-be sniper.

The impact must have knocked all the air out of the sniper’s body. And possibly broken a few of his bones. And crushed a few vital organs, as well. Evans is not small, as I say. At any rate, he put up no sort of fight and quick as a flash, even with the difficulties of getting hold of him in that suit, Evans had him trussed like a Christmas turkey. I was very impressed. I might even remember to tell him so.

I climbed out of the ditch, skidding down the slight slope to where Evans had just finished securing our new friend, and we rolled him over on his back and pulled off his hood to have a better look.

I don’t remember his face because the first thing I noticed was the red and white badge of St George on his sleeve. Silly sod. What’s the point of doing yourself up to look like a piece of Scottish woodland if you’ve got St George emblazoned all over your arm? And at Bannockburn, for God’s sake. What an idiot.

Besides, it didn’t make sense. If they were English, then why shoot de Bohun? His spectacular defeat had pretty much set the tone for the entire battle. The whole thing was one disaster after another for the English. And then I remembered how, at the very last moment, Bruce’s well-trained horse had executed that neat side-step and Bruce himself ducked, then suddenly stood in his stirrups to deliver that deadly blow. In my mind I saw the bullet whistle harmlessly past Bruce to shatter de Bohun’s head instead.

You see – this is what happens when you try to interfere with History. At the very least you end up bringing about the very thing you tried to prevent. At the very worst you end up dead. Bloody amateurs.

Beside me, Evans went rigid and grunted. I half turned to see what had happened and then he toppled sideways like one of those industrial chimneys, bringing me down with him, driving the air from my lungs and rendering me completely helpless. What the hell . . . ?

Trust me, you never want to find yourself underneath Mr Evans. For any reason at all. The guy weighs as much as the Isle of Wight on a wet day and it’s all solid muscle.

Apparently – as I now know – snipers work in pairs. One to set himself up and get the range and angle and do all the other technical bits and pieces, and the other with the spotter scope. I can’t think why they don’t teach this sort of thing in schools. It’s got to be more useful than knowing Lima is the capital of Peru, which I can state, with certainty, is a piece of information I have never, until this moment, had cause to use. They bang on and on about bloody x. And photosynthesis. They even make you knit things, and what an utter waste of time that turned out to be. And yet I don’t remember that useful phrase – remember, class, snipers come in pairs – ever being uttered in all the long, dreary years of my schooling. I honestly don’t know what teachers find to do all day long.

Anyway, reluctantly setting all blame and recrimination to one side, obviously his partner had turned up, correctly identified Evans as the main threat, taken him out and then used him to incapacitate me. No one functions well with Mr Evans on top of them. That did not come out quite right but you know what I mean.

He was a single-minded bugger. The second sniper, I mean – Evans has all the laser-like focus of cigarette smoke. Completely ignoring his fallen colleague, he secured Evans first because I wasn’t going anywhere – trust me, I could barely breathe – and then me second. Showing no compassion at all for sniper number one, he heaved him out of the way, lowered himself to the ground and sighted along the gun.

I wriggled and kicked because suddenly this was serious. Given that he too was wearing the cross of St George, I was pretty sure who his intended target was and this couldn’t be allowed to happen. I struggled, but not only had he zipped my wrists and ankles tightly but that great lump Evans was still slowly crushing the life out of me as well.

These men were not amateurs. They hadn’t killed us, presumably because that wasn’t in their brief. They had their target and they had their objective. Everything else was incidental.

It was bloody embarrassing actually. Two of St Mary’s finest – three if you counted Evans twice and many of us do – rendered utterly helpless. The implications were massive. Take out Robert Bruce and everything changed. No charismatic king of Scotland. No Scottish independence. History completely off the rails again. And, most importantly, where the bloody hell were the Time Police? This was exactly the sort of thing they were supposed to deal with. I thought of the number of times they’d appeared on the scene at just the wrong moment and made a bad situation considerably worse – and now that they were really needed there was no bloody sign of them anywhere. Probably off harassing some very nearly innocent historians somewhere else. Not here, anyway, where, just for once, they could be useful.

I couldn’t see much – just his hands, camouflaged green and brown like his face. I saw him make a last-minute, infinitesimal adjustment to something and then . . . the world fell silent. I held my breath and waited . . .

And then there was a sound very similar to a large halibut being slapped down on to a marble slab. His hands went into some sort of spasm and then fell limply to the ground.

Behind and above me, a privileged, upper-class voice that reminded me strongly of Miss North said, ‘Oh, jolly well done, Pennyroyal.’

A hoarse voice with a strong London accent said, ‘Thank you, my lady.’

‘Let’s see what we have here, shall we?’

‘As you wish, my lady.’

I could hear the sounds of people scrambling down the slope. For God’s sake – now what?

I saw two pairs of legs and ankles. Boots, combats . . . not much of a clue there and then, thank God, someone heaved Evans off me and I could breathe again.

Well, they weren’t Time Police.

Sorry – I can’t add anything else to that statement. I didn’t know who they were but they definitely weren’t Time Police. They were far too quick and efficient for that bunch of numpties. And there were only two of them and the Time Police usually travel in fours and – most tellingly – fifty per cent of this pair were female. The Time Police don’t really do women. Too difficult for them, I suspect.

I sucked in some grateful air and stared up at the sky above me. Still grey and miserable. Still in Scotland then.

Looking back, there must have been a bloody great battle going on not that far away but I have no recollection of the sounds of it. Whether because we were in a thick, sound-deadening wood or, more likely, because an historian’s tiny mind can only concentrate on one crisis at a time, I don’t know, but I only remember silence.

I stared at the man now competently zipping the second sniper. I’d seriously lost count of how many of us there were on the ground at that moment. Me, Evans, two snipers . . . and still no sign of our own people. What a complete lash-up this was turning out to be. It was definitely time I looked for an office job.

Anyway, back to our possible rescuers. The female was youngish – younger than me, anyway. And tall – taller than me. And thin – thinner than me. And her hair was exactly the same colour that mine used to be. I tried not to hate her on sight and failed miserably.

Her companion was older – perhaps around Leon’s age. His white-blond hair was cut short in a rather brutal crew cut. He had hard grey eyes and, frankly, looked much more like a serial killer than serial killers usually do. You definitely wouldn’t want your daughter bringing this one home. It began to dawn on me that our situation had not improved by very much.

Evans was still semi-conscious and dribbling so it was all obviously up to me.

I twisted to bring her into view. ‘Who are you?’

‘I beg your pardon – how rude of us. My name is Amelia Smallhope and this is Pennyroyal.’

I looked over at the serial killer, still competently dealing with the sniper. ‘Your hitman?’

‘My butler, actually.’

Well, OK, I asked for that. ‘No, seriously?’

‘Seriously.’

‘Your butler?’

‘My butler. Can I recommend you get one? If you want to avoid situations like this, I mean.’

‘Pennyroyal?’

‘That’s him.’

‘Not Parker?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Nothing. And you’re who, exactly . . . ?’

‘Lady Amelia Smallhope,’ interrupted Pennyroyal, efficiently going through his prisoner’s pockets. ‘We should be moving, my lady. The Time Police are almost certainly not far behind us.’

‘Of course. And it’s nearly time for cocktails.’

‘Indeed, my lady.’

‘And you are?’ She smiled at me.

‘Maxwell.’

‘And him?’

‘Evans.’

‘Does he have a first name?’

I wasn’t in the mood for this. ‘Mister.’

‘My goodness, he’s a big boy, isn’t he? I’ve always had a weakness for big men, you know. Things tend to be proportionate. But enough of me.’ She gestured at the now ex-snipers. ‘I think we’ll walk off with these two here. The reward will certainly make all this . . .’ she gestured disparagingly at Scotland, ‘worthwhile. We’ll leave their pod for the Time Police though, just to rub their noses in it.’

I had no fault to find with any of that. Rubbing Time Police noses in anything sounded good to me. And besides, the Elephant of Enlightenment had suddenly fallen from the sky.

‘You’re bounty hunters? You are, aren’t you? You’re bounty hunters.’

‘We prefer the term “recovery agents”.’

Well, bloody bollocking hell. I couldn’t believe it. Was it possible those bastards in the Time Police were outsourcing?

She flashed a virtual card at me. I didn’t have my specs on and wild horses couldn’t have induced me to squint. I assumed it was supposed to be some sort of holographic ID. I was determined not to be impressed.

‘And you have to be St Mary’s,’ she said.

‘Not necessarily,’ I said, defensively.

She smiled blindingly. She had perfect teeth. ‘An inadequate force, inadequately equipped, walking blindly into an unknown situation and making a complete dog’s breakfast of everything when they get there? Who else would you be?’

Who else indeed? I stared at them. They hadn’t untied us but I didn’t think they meant us any harm. I toyed with the idea of asking them about our other team and decided against it. If they’d seen them – alive or dead – they’d have mentioned it. And I didn’t want them knowing there were another three St Mary’s people out there because that would tip the balance of power in St Mary’s favour and they just might decide to do something about that. Starting with us. I wouldn’t trust that butler as far as I could throw him.

I tried to divert the conversation away from St Mary’s before she started wondering if there were any more of us. ‘Actually, you’ve just described the Time Police.’

Pennyroyal got to his feet. ‘And those buggers will be here soon enough, my lady. We should take our prisoners and go.’

‘We are not your prisoners,’ I said firmly, from my prone and completely helpless position on the ground.

‘No bounty on you,’ she said regretfully. ‘Otherwise I’d beg to differ.’

‘So let us go, then.’

‘Not taking any chances with St Mary’s. You lot do have a bit of a reputation, you know. You’re probably not in any danger – the battle’s way over there – and the Time Police will be here soon looking for these two. I imagine there will be some witty amusement at your expense but I’m sure they’ll let you go eventually. After taking you back to TPHQ for processing, of course. And photographing. And statements. I’m sure it won’t be hugely embarrassing at all.’

Craning my neck was painful but I was determined to find out. ‘So if you’re bounty hunters then who are these two?’ I nodded towards their prisoners.

She fetched the nearest one a vicious kick. I made a mental note to dial back on the piss-taking.

‘These two? These are members of a particularly witless organisation – trust me, they make St Mary’s look like MENSA – dedicated to the promotion and protection of all things English.’

‘Oh,’ I said.

‘They call themselves the English National Liberation Army which they have to abbreviate to ENLA because the majority of them are too stupid to understand polysyllabic words.’ She gave them another kick. ‘Barely sentient but extremely valuable. The Time Police will pay heavily for these two.’

‘Ah,’ I said. ‘Give them both a kick from me while they’re down there, will you?’

‘Gladly.’ She gave them several, actually. I could only approve this generous gesture. ‘These two – ostensibly slightly less stupid than their colleagues – like to think of themselves as “assassins”, although most of us shorten the word to just the first syllable. They thought they’d take out Robert Bruce, and guarantee an English victory, thus ensuring Scotland would remain a vassal state of England over the coming centuries.’

Well, isn’t it gratifying to be right? Believe it or not, I often am. And that solved the mystery of the shot-up Saltire, as well. They just hadn’t been able to resist.

‘Wow,’ I said. ‘No independence. No Stuarts. History all over the place. Good job upsetting that applecart.’

‘Thank you.’

I doubt Pennyroyal had ever been agitated in his entire life but he was exhibiting signs of slight concern. ‘My lady . . .’

‘Yes, Pennyroyal, I’m coming.’ She bent over the recovering Evans and smiled at him. ‘Shame. Another time, perhaps.’

He grinned blearily back at her, slurring, ‘If you’re very lucky,’ and I made a note to speak to him about inappropriate workplace behaviour.

‘Maxwell, I shall say goodbye now and . . .’

No, she wouldn’t, because at that moment Elspeth Grey rose up behind the pair of them like the wrath of God, stun guns crackling with maximum charge, and zapped the pair of them into paralysed unconsciousness. I had forgotten I had said I’d call her back. She must have been nearly out of her mind with anxiety, stifled her fears and ventured forth to find out what was happening.

There was a moment’s silence during which Evans and I made a simultaneous mental note never to mention this again.

I pulled myself together first. ‘Quick,’ I said. ‘Cut me free and let’s get these two dealt with. They’re easily the most dangerous people here today. And that includes the two armies out there.’

Pausing only for a quick recount of unconscious bodies – four and a half so far because Evans was still at the drooly stage – but the day was still young – we zipped Pennyroyal first, paying him the compliment of double ties, then Smallhope, who managed to look elegant even when face down in a Scottish forest. I left Elspeth assisting Evans back into this world and tried again to raise our team.

Nothing.

‘We’ll leave these two,’ I said, pointing to Pennyroyal and Smallhope. ‘Make sure they’re well secured. I don’t know about anyone else but I definitely wouldn’t want that butler coming after me on a dark night.’

‘What on earth is going on?’ said Elspeth, looking around at the bodies on the ground.

‘Good question,’ I said. ‘I think we can assume these two here . . .’ I gave the snipers a couple of swift kicks to maintain the tradition, ‘were responsible for the death of Henry de Bohun.’

‘Given what happened to his head,’ said Elspeth, nodding, ‘that makes far more sense.’

‘Actually, no, it doesn’t,’ said Evans, who had been examining the sniper rifle. ‘This gun hasn’t been fired.’ He picked up the second sniper’s weapon. ‘Nor this one. Whoever killed de Bohun, it wasn’t these two.’

The implications sank in. There was another team.

‘Bloody hell,’ said Evans, wiping his chin again. ‘Why is nothing ever simple?’ Which I thought summed things up very well.

We propped him against a convenient tree. He’d taken quite a hit, after all.

‘Right,’ I said. ‘Back to the pod.’

It was our only course of action. To proceed with our search without a fully functioning Evans would be madness.

Elspeth tightened her lips but said nothing. She’d moved to the top of the slope, watching our backs. Good to see she hadn’t forgotten her training.

‘What about this lot?’ said Evans, gesturing to our prisoners.

‘We leave them here. None of this is our business. According to Smallhope, the Time Police will be here any minute. They can sort it all out, including the other team and their pods, too. In fact, this place is going to be crawling with clean-up crews any minute now.’

‘In that case, we should definitely go,’ said Evans. ‘I’m not in the mood to be cleaned up by anyone.’

He bent over the recovering Smallhope and gently moved her into the recovery position. I swear she winked at him.

‘Shame,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘Another time, perhaps. When you’re feeling more yourself.’

I made another mental note about inappropriate workplace flirting. ‘When you’re quite ready, Mr Evans.’ I tapped my ear to give it one last try. ‘Peterson. Markham. Anyone. Where are you?’

‘Behind you,’ said Markham and the three of them emerged from the trees.

Safe and sound, as far as I could see. And they weren’t alone. ‘We’ve brought you a present.’

He gestured to another two ghillie-suited figures, both competently secured with a complicated cat’s cradle of their own belts – I recognised the master hand of Major Guthrie from my training days – ‘Everything can be used as a weapon, Max’ – and blindfolded and gagged with what looked like their own torn-up tighty-whiteys. I suspected the fell hand of Mr Markham there. And both wore the cross of St George on their sleeve.

‘See,’ said Evans to Elspeth. ‘I told you the damage would be done to the other lot.’

‘Oh,’ I said, gesturing at their prisoners. ‘That’s so sweet. You shouldn’t have.’

‘We grudge no effort.’

‘No, you really shouldn’t have.’ I gestured at ours. ‘We’ve already got our own set.’

‘Ah, but these are the ones who shot our pod.’

‘Bloody vandals,’ I said. ‘Leon is not going to be happy.’

‘And, rather more importantly, they’re the ones who shot the unfortunate de Bohun.’

‘Never mind that,’ said Elspeth, placing herself in front of Ian Guthrie. ‘I’m still waiting to hear why you didn’t answer our calls.’

‘Didn’t know you were here,’ said Peterson, tactfully inserting himself between them. ‘We thought we heard something crackle once or twice but mostly we were in the wrong place or the wrong time or too busy. When we finally heard you clearly, we were nearly on top of you and it seemed a bit pointless to use our coms then.’

I don’t think she heard a word. ‘Or why you were all stupid enough to leave the pod at all.’

‘They had guns. At Bannockburn. It was our duty to stop them.’

‘No, it’s the Time Police’s duty to stop them.’

We all looked about us at the ostentatiously Time Police-free landscape.

‘Well, yes,’ said Markham, ‘but they’re such a bunch of useless wazzocks they’d be bound to screw it up, so we thought we’d better step in.’

No one found any argument to that.

They dropped the two new snipers to lay face down alongside the other two. I carried out another head count. Two plus two plus two equalled six. Sadly, Smallhope and Pennyroyal were now wide awake and glaring.

Peterson bent over them. ‘Who are these two?’

‘Sorry – where are my manners? This is Lady Amelia Smallhope and her butler, Pennyroyal.’

There was a bit of a silence.

Eventually Markham said, ‘And they are here because . . . ?’

‘They’re bounty hunters.’

‘Recovery agents,’ said Smallhope with dignity.

‘And they’re after these two?’

‘These four.’

I counted the snipers by kicking them. ‘If we hang on a bit longer, we could be in double figures soon.’

‘No, we will not,’ said Markham firmly. ‘We’re leaving. I know you’re only historians but even you can’t have failed to notice the bloody great battle going on around us.’

A slight exaggeration but I could see his point. There’s such a thing as outstaying one’s welcome. And Elspeth, taking care to stand near Guthrie, should definitely be taken back to St Mary’s as soon as possible. Not least so everyone could see what a hero she had been. She’d left the pod – alone – and come looking for us. That had taken some doing.

‘Well, now what?’ said Peterson as we prepared to depart with everyone’s weapons, because we weren’t going to leave those lying around for any contemporaries to fall over. ‘Do we just leave them all here?’

‘Don’t see why not,’ I said. ‘They were going to leave us.’

‘But the Time Police . . . ?’

‘Well, these four . . .’ I pointed at the snipers, ‘are legitimate prey, and these two . . .’ I pointed at Smallhope and Pennyroyal, ‘I’m going to pay them the compliment of saying they’re too dangerous to take any chances with. They’re probably legit – although that’s not our problem. I’m sure the Time Police will soon be here to rescue them.’

I looked down at the two of them. ‘I imagine there will be some witty amusement at your expense – because I’ll bet you’ve been witty at theirs on many occasions. I’m sure they’ll only put the boot in very gently. After taking you back to TPHQ for processing, of course. And photographing. And statements. I’m sure it won’t be hugely embarrassing at all.’

They glared at me.

‘We should go,’ said Markham. He looked down at our prisoners. ‘Lovely to meet you all today but we really must be going. Long walk back.’

‘Yes,’ I said nastily, as we scrambled out of the ditch. ‘We can spend the time discussing which bits of “Do not leave the pod” were too difficult for you to understand.’

‘They shot at us, Max.’

‘And who can blame them. I’m stifling that urge, myself.’

We set off back to the pod leaving four snipers and two bounty hunters. A pretty impressive afternoon’s work, I think everyone will agree.

I walked alongside Major Guthrie. ‘Ian, I’m sorry to cut this short but I really don’t think we should hang around here. There’s more going on here than just . . .’ I gestured vaguely in the direction I thought the battle should be.

‘Than the Scots kicking the English arse?’ he said, helpfully.

I glared at him.

He grinned. ‘Too soon?’

I persevered. ‘I know you’ll miss the second day, but . . .’

‘It’s OK,’ he said cheerfully. ‘It’s not as if we don’t know how it ends.’

Evans nodded. ‘And I’m bloody sure I don’t want to be around when that butler’s able to function again.’

Peterson nodded. ‘I don’t think any of us do.’

I hadn’t finished. ‘Just think, Ian – we saved Scotland. Your guys missed Robert Bruce and our guys never got around to taking their shot. If those other bastards back there had had their way – that’s the ENLA bastards, not the member of the aristocracy and her semi-trained thug – Bruce would have died, and without his tactical abilities, to say nothing of the massive loss of morale, the Scots would have lost. Bruce would never have become king. Scotland would not have become an independent nation. Everything would have been different. We might have been a united nation some four hundred years earlier.’

He frowned. ‘Would we? Even if he’d won here today, I don’t think Edward would have been capable of holding on to Scotland.’

‘He might not but his son would have.’

‘Yes, but that means he would have had to concentrate all his attention on Scotland rather than France. Possibly no Crecy and no Poitiers. And even if he’d been successful, I don’t think Scotland and England would have become one nation. The English would always have regarded Scotland as a vassal state.’

‘And we’d never have had the Stuarts,’ said Peterson, turning around. ‘Which means that after Elizabeth died . . .’

‘Hey,’ said Markham from the rear. ‘More walking, less talking.’

Barely had he spoken than Evans, who was in the lead, stopped dead. The rest of us remembered we were supposed to be professionals and did not concertina into the back of him.

Gesturing over to the right, he dropped to the ground. We followed suit.

Shit. I thought things had been too easy up until now.

They were on a parallel course with us, about twenty yards over to our right. Eight or ten of them, skinny, badly dressed, damp, muddy, poorly equipped, and heading away from the battle.

Deserters. And English, judging by the direction they’d come from. Fed up with bad weather, bad food and bad leadership, they were going while the going was good. I couldn’t blame them. They wouldn’t know this – although given how today had gone so far, they might have had an inkling – but English losses tomorrow would be huge. Of those who did survive, many would not find their way safely home. Except for Edward, of course, who, given the way his life turned out, would have done better to have died gloriously on the battlefield.

This bunch crept almost soundlessly through the woods, knives and axes out, very scared and very jumpy.

I crouched behind something bushy and watched them pass.

The good news was that they completely missed us. The bad news was that they were heading in the direction of Smallhope and Pennyroyal. Who were on the ground, trussed and helpless.

I stood up, stared after them, then turned to Markham and whispered, ‘We left them tied up. They won’t stand a chance. We have to go back.’

Evans shook his head. ‘Max, they were going to leave us.’

‘We’re not them.’

‘The Time Police will be here any moment,’ whispered Peterson. ‘Let them do any saving.’

‘Tim, it’s Christmas.’

‘Not here, it’s not. It’s summer. You can tell by the trees.’

I stared at him, baffled. ‘You mean the leaves?’

‘No, I mean that grand old Scottish saying: “If you can’t see the trees, it’s raining. If you can see the trees, it’s going to rain”.’

I ignored him. ‘It’s goodwill to all men and all that. You guys go on. I’ll catch you up.’

I turned back the way we’d come.

Markham sighed deeply. ‘You stay with them,’ he said to Evans. ‘Get them back to the pods. I’ll keep an eye on the daft bat here.’

Evans offered him his big blaster and very, very cautiously, we set off through the vast acres of wet woodland with which Scotland was so generously endowed.

We caught up with them as they were standing over our prisoners, knives drawn, waiting for someone else to make the first move. I didn’t blame them. Strange people, strangely dressed. Tied up and left in the middle of nowhere. They’d be deeply suspicious. Would they kill them? Attempt to rob them? If they had any sense at all, they’d leave them there and just keep going.

All four snipers were now making desperate efforts to free themselves. Pennyroyal had rolled on top of Smallhope in an effort to shield her.

As we watched, one of the deserters sidled closer and raised his axe. There were shouts and pleas from the snipers who, while they had no problems with slaughtering others willy-nilly, seemed to have every objection to having the same done to them. The deserters wouldn’t want all this noise drawing attention to them. Three or four more stepped forwards, knives drawn, their intentions obvious.

Shit.

Markham wasted no time in friendly introductions, firing the big blaster at a small bush that had never done him any harm, and which went up in a very satisfactory roar of red flames. I leaped down the slope, shouting and waving my arms and they were so surprised that I was able to stun two of them before they even knew I was there. Two ran away immediately. Two or three hung back, unsure what to do next. The rest stayed to make a fight of it and I left them to Markham. I threw myself down beside Pennyroyal, cutting his ties and rolling out of the way as he exploded into action. Men flew in all directions. Trust me, a pissed-off butler is a terrifying sight. I’d never seen anything like it. He and Markham made a great team. I suspected they were enjoying themselves so I sat down beside Smallhope and regretted the absence of popcorn.

I know it’s traditional to say, ‘When the dust had settled,’ but this was Scotland, so when the mud had settled, those who could had run away. I counted those on the ground yet again. Two snipers. And another two snipers. Four deserters. Eight altogether. We’d failed to reach double figures which was disappointing. And yes, before anyone starts, I know we’re not supposed to injure contemporaries. So put me on a disciplinary. It’s a long time since I had a yellow sheet in my file.

‘You came back,’ said Smallhope. We’d managed to surprise her.

‘It’s Christmas,’ I said, sawing her free.

‘Well . . . thank you.’

Everyone was dusting themselves down.

‘And,’ I said, ‘now you have four prisoners to deliver. Double the bounty.’

‘Very grateful,’ said Smallhope.

‘Buy me a drink sometime,’ I said.

‘For God’s sake,’ muttered Markham, rolling his eyes. ‘You’ll be inviting them back to lunch in a minute.’

‘That’s a very good thought,’ I said, turning to Smallhope and Pennyroyal. ‘What are you doing for Christmas lunch?’

They blinked. ‘What?’

‘Christmas lunch. Do you want some?’

I don’t think they quite knew what to say.

‘It’ll be good,’ I said. ‘The food is brilliant and there’s a lot of it. Sadly, you’ll have to endure the Security Section’s traditional rabid reindeer routine but why should we suffer alone?’

‘No more chat,’ said Markham sternly. ‘Back to the pods right now. I’m assuming you two can take things from here?’

Pennyroyal was heaving snipers to their feet. ‘My lady . . .’

‘Yes, we should be going too. Where’s the other one?’

‘Which other one?’ said Markham, looking around.

‘You mean Mr Evans,’ I said.

‘Yes – the big one.’

‘Gone on ahead, I’m sorry to say.’

‘Shame,’ she said, grinning.

‘He’s a good lad,’ I said. ‘Very . . . capable.’

Markham gave me a shove. ‘Time to go.’

We went.

‘You didn’t leave me time to give them our coordinates,’ I said as Markham hustled me away.

‘If they can’t work them out for themselves then they don’t deserve Christmas lunch,’ he said. ‘Now can we please get a move on.’

In among the flurry of medical attention back in Sick Bay, I managed to have a quiet word with Elspeth.

‘Elspeth, you were amazing and so I shall say in my report.’

She was almost sparkling. ‘Thank you, Max.’

‘I have to say this – if you want to come back to St Mary’s, it’s not too late and I’d be overjoyed to have you.’

She smiled. ‘No. Thank you, Max, but no. I still don’t want to do it but now I don’t want to do it for the right reasons. I don’t want to do it because I have something better now. My life has moved on. Rather than because I’m too shit-scared ever to get into a pod again.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘I’m sure. And this is me making the decision this time, rather than the decision making me.’

‘In that case, Merry Christmas, Elspeth.’

Deep down, I didn’t think Lady Amelia and Pennyroyal would turn up but they did, arriving about eleven o’clock on Christmas morning. They’d obviously done their homework, bringing a beautifully wrapped bottle of something for Dr Bairstow. It would have been wrapped by Pennyroyal, I was certain. No dodecahedral nightmares for him. He’d probably done it at the same time as servicing their pod, cleaning their weapons and producing a four-course dinner. I bet he did flower arranging as well, and spent a happy few minutes imagining the damage he could do with a daffodil.

They were both on their best behaviour. If they were armed, our wands failed to pick it up and we didn’t make a big thing of searching them.

Pennyroyal was a huge hit with everyone, demonstrating how to defend oneself single-handed while at the same time making the perfect margarita. I instructed Markham to take notes. He went on to compliment Mrs Mack on her menu and was offered a tour of the kitchen. Matthew was rendered speechless by his conjuring tricks. Even Angus adored him.

We were all gathered in the Great Hall. The tables and whiteboards had all been cleared away and the usual tasteful St Mary’s decorations were dangling from every surface. Our Christmas tree stood tipsily at the foot of the stairs topped by its traditionally lopsided star. Every attempt to replace it with something more modern and in much better condition had been fiercely resisted and last year, Dr Bairstow had formally awarded it listed status. It would now probably survive us all. And speaking of survival, Leon and Dieter had done the Christmas lights this year, thus considerably enhancing our chances of making it alive to Boxing Day.

The Yule Log burned merrily in our massive fireplace, hurling out great gusts of superfluous heat, but it was traditional and we like our traditions here. If you turned down the sound the whole place looked like something out of Dickens. Shutting your eyes helped, as well.

Matthew tugged at my sleeve. ‘Have you seen Mikey?’

‘Over by the fireplace.’

I watched him set off across the Hall, a carefully wrapped present in his hand. It wasn’t very big. I had no idea what was in it.

Very casually, pretending to admire a particularly battered piece of wooden wall panelling, I sidled close enough to hear their conversation. They were talking about cheese and Mikey’s lack thereof.

‘I know I don’t need it any longer,’ she was saying, ‘but somehow it doesn’t seem right, making a jump without my emergency cheese. You know, just in case.’

‘Yes,’ he said seriously. ‘I know.’

She sighed. ‘I miss my lucky cheese.’

‘Yes, I know. I got you this.’

He handed her the tiny present.

I crossed my fingers that she would know how important this was to him but I needn’t have worried.

‘Oh, Matthew, this is so kind of you. I’m so excited. I love presents. Can I open it now?’

I decided the next time she wanted to visit Stephen Hawking I would not stand in her way.

He nodded. He was standing very still but his skinny little body twanged with tension.

She carefully unwrapped her present and stared at it.

‘It’s cheese,’ said Matthew, helpfully.

‘It’s more than that,’ she said, smiling at him. ‘From now on this will be my lucky cheese. Um . . . what’s the hole for?’

‘To hang round your neck. With ribbon. So you don’t lose it.’

‘What a good idea,’ she said, without a pause. ‘Do you think green would look nice?’

He nodded, although I think he’d have nodded if she’d said sky-blue-pink.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a length of green ribbon – I discovered when emptying his pockets later that he had seven different shades of ribbon tucked away – carefully threaded it through the cheese and handed it back to her.

She didn’t even blink. ‘Brilliant.’ She tied the lump of cheese around her neck. ‘Thank you, Matthew.’

He nodded shyly, suddenly looking very like Leon when we first met. ‘You’re welcome.’

Eventually, Dr Bairstow appeared, looking remarkably mellow. Christmas morning, good food, good drink, nothing on fire, no one screaming . . . how often does that happen?

‘Good morning, Mr Pennyroyal. I trust my people are making you welcome.’

Pennyroyal straightened up from showing Matthew a card trick. ‘They are, indeed, Dr Bairstow. Most welcome. I’ve been given a tour of the kitchens – I have a professional interest, you know – and enjoyed a most interesting half hour with Theresa and her excellent team.’

Theresa? Did he just call Mrs Mack Theresa?

Dr Bairstow looked around the room. ‘And the whereabouts of our second guest?’

Markham intervened. ‘Mr Evans has volunteered to escort Lady Amelia, sir.’ He paused. ‘Close protection, obviously.’

‘Ah,’ said Dr Bairstow to me. ‘One can only imagine the enthusiasm with which Mr Evans has hurled himself into that particular duty.’

I never know whether he’s making a joke or not. There’s never the tiniest clue. Not even a flicker. No one has ever dared take the risk and I wasn’t going to break our record. I murmured, ‘Yes, sir,’ which he could interpret any way he pleased.

‘Mr Pennyroyal, I would like to extend our customary invitation to those who have rendered St Mary’s a service. Should you ever require it, there will always be rest and a shelter for you and Lady Amelia here at St Mary’s.’

‘Thank you, sir. I know Lady Amelia would wish me to express her own gratitude and acceptance of your kind offer.’

Dr Bairstow nodded. As we both moved away, he lowered his voice. ‘Worth keeping an eye on those two, don’t you think, Max?’

‘Absolutely, sir. A very close eye.’

I should perhaps say that Evans, with his usual devotion to duty, kept so close an eye on Lady Amelia that we didn’t see either of them until late afternoon on Boxing Day.

It was as I was working my way around the room, looking for Leon so we could go in to lunch together, that I overheard a very interesting conversation.

Markham and Pennyroyal were standing quietly in a corner, both of them far too experienced to stand with their backs to a room.

‘Here,’ said Markham, handing him a drink.

‘Oh, cheers, mate. I would have got it.’

‘Nah,’ said Markham. ‘Too much of a busman’s holiday for you.’

They eyed each other for a moment and then Pennyroyal said quietly, ‘Do they know?’

Markham’s face never changed for a moment. ‘No.’

Silence.

‘You’ll be fine, mate.’

There was another long pause. It would seem neither of them had anything further to say. Thinking the conversation was over, I drifted across to join them. Pennyroyal acknowledged me with a nod. He rummaged in a pocket, took out a smart wallet and extracted a business card.

‘You’re going to need a job soon. Contact us. We could always do with someone like you.’

He laid the card down on the table in front of us, smiled in a way he probably imagined was friendly and reassuring and wandered off to astound Matthew some more. I heard him say, ‘Here, mate, what’s this in your ear?’

I looked at Markham. ‘Did he just offer you a job?’

He frowned. ‘Actually, Max, I thought he was talking to you.’

We stared at each other and then Markham remembered he was supposed to be sticking close to Pennyroyal and I wanted to see what had been found in Matthew’s ear – which since it was Pennyroyal could have been anything up to and including a live hand grenade – and we set off after him.

At that moment the front doors were thrown open with a flourish and here were Ian and Elspeth – our other guests of honour, here for their formal dining out.

Ian had been a well respected and highly regarded member of St Mary’s. There were a lot of people lining up to shake his hand. One leg would always be shorter than the other, and his hair was greying, but even with the eyepatch he was Major Guthrie and always would be. I waved and cheered with the rest of them.

Dr Bairstow tinkled his glass.

‘May I have your attention, please. I’d like to propose a toast – to Major Ian Guthrie, to whom we all, at one time or another, have owed our lives. Veteran of the Civil Uprisings. One of the first people I recruited to St Mary’s. Our first Head of Security and, if I may say so, the rock on which we have all leaned.

‘Ian, I would like to take this opportunity to thank you for your exemplary service over the years. Many of us are here today only because of you.’

Well, that was true. He’d saved me at Troy. And again at Nineveh. And on countless other occasions. I remembered our constant battles over Outdoor Survival exercises and my avoidance thereof. I remembered his face when we brought back Elspeth and Bashford. So many memories of him. All good. There was a huge lump in my throat and I suspected I wasn’t the only one.

Dr Bairstow continued. ‘I know we are all hungry so I shan’t keep you any longer, but before we go in, I ask you all, please, to raise your glasses in our traditional toast.’ He turned to Ian. ‘Major Guthrie, St Mary’s thanks you for your service.’

We echoed the toast, our voices ringing around the Hall.

He stood for a moment and then smiled and raised his glass. ‘St Mary’s – it’s been an honour and a privilege.’

THE END

Acknowledgements

All thanks to Tim Moffatt for all the information regarding snipers. Remember, people – they come in pairs.

Thanks to Phil Dawson for his assistance on other random issues.

Thanks to Frances Edwards and Bea Grabowska, my editors, and Sharona Selby for all their hard work whipping this story into shape.

And a very Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to everyone, from St Mary’s.

We hope you enjoyed Why is Nothing Ever Simple?

Read on for a preview of the next instalment in Jodi Taylor’s much-loved CHRONICLES OF ST MARY’S series . . .

PLAN FOR THE WORST

I’ve always been vaguely aware of the existence of Duvet Days. I know Dr Bairstow ranks them alongside Atlantis, unicorns and competent politicians in the scheme of believable things, but I was believing in them now. In fact, I was on my sixth.

My recent secondment to the Time Police had left me so drained – physically and emotionally – that even the phrase ‘absolutely fine’ had failed to secure my release from Sick Bay. I’d tried to get out of bed, swayed in what Nurse Hunter had declared to be an unnecessarily dramatic manner and been commanded to climb back in again.

Dr Stone turned up with a syringe – there was a small prick – I really couldn’t be bothered to do the jokes all over again – and I suddenly felt better. Much better. Much, much better.

‘Wow,’ I said. ‘That’s really good stu . . .’ and fell heavily asleep for the rest of the day. And for much of the day after that, as well. I’d opened my eyes a couple of times, looked at the rain dribbling down the windowpanes, decided I couldn’t be bothered and closed my eyes again.

Now, however, it had been more than a week. Time, in the words of Dr Stone, to take up my bed and walk.

On doctor’s orders, I took it easy to begin with, spending the mornings in our sitting room with my feet up, reading to Matthew, half-heartedly watching holos on TV and generally not doing very much at all. In the afternoons the three of us – me, Matthew and Leon – would go for a stroll around the lake, peering into the water looking for fish, avoiding the swans, and in Matthew’s case, mostly not falling in.

In the evenings, when Leon and I could finally get a moment to ourselves, there were long moments when he just held me and that was fine because he was solid and warm and I could feel his slow, steady heartbeat. We would stand for a long time, not saying anything to disturb the moment. He would rub my back, gently, up and down, and slowly my jangled nerves would subside. Occasionally I’d bring up a bit of wind, as well.

There were big meals and a lot of resting. It wasn’t unpleasant. Everything was absolutely fine. Well, they were during the day – the nights were slightly different.

We’d have our evening meal together, watch a little TV and then Matthew would get ready for bed. There would be the usual washing and brushing teeth battle – he really didn’t see the point of cleaning himself up just to go to bed – and then Leon and I would settle down, sometimes with a glass of wine. Sometimes he’d work and I’d read a book, or he’d watch the football and I’d definitely read a book, and then it was time for bed. Everything would still be absolutely fine. We’d snuggle down for the night and I’d fall asleep almost immediately.

And then it would begin. Ten minutes later and I would be awake. Wide awake. Was that a sound on the roof? Was Clive Ronan, at this very moment, creeping across the roof tiles?

Or that creaking board on the landing. Were the Time Police on their way up the stairs, heavily armed and determined to get Matthew back, at any cost? Would Leon and I go down in a hail of fire as we tried to defend our son?

St Mary’s is a noisy place at the best of times. I don’t mean just the human inhabitants – I mean the creaks and cracks of an old building. Clanking pipes, ticking radiators, rattling windows. Normally these were comforting background noises, but not any longer. Leon had stolen Matthew back from the Time Police and I was certain they’d never willingly let him go. So I would lie awake, listening for telltale signs that Matthew was in danger.

Eventually, when I couldn’t stand it any longer, I’d get up, creep across our sitting room to his bedroom and check he was safely asleep. Then I’d go around checking the windows and doors. Then I’d stand in his doorway listening to him breathe in the dark. Then I’d check the doors and windows again in case I’d missed something. Then I’d go back to bed, fall asleep, and ten minutes later I’d jolt back to wakefulness, convinced I’d heard something, and the whole process would start all over again.

Two days later I was nearly dead on my feet.

On the third night, I was standing in Matthew’s doorway, staring at the dark shapes of his furniture – to check it was just furniture and not a Time Police squad lurking in the corner – when Leon came up behind me.

I didn’t jump out of my skin because he’d made sure I heard him coming. He put one arm around my waist, pulled me back into our sitting room and gently closed Matthew’s bedroom door behind me.

We sat on the sofa in the dark.

‘Max, you can’t keep doing this.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I know I’m being high-maintenance again, but I can’t get these stupid thoughts out of my head. Sometimes I’m certain I can hear footsteps on the roof or coming up the stairs – but even if I can’t hear anything, I’m convinced someone’s here anyway and Matthew’s in danger.’

‘He’s not,’ Leon said gently.

‘I know. I do know that. But suppose he is. I can’t lose him again.’

‘You won’t. We won’t. He’s very safe here. I’m not worried about him at all. You, on the other hand . . .’

‘Suppose Ronan comes back and tries . . .’

‘Max, I will never let that happen. Trust me.’

‘No, I know you won’t, but suppose the Time Police . . .’

‘Edward will never let that happen. Nor Markham. Trust them.’

I drew a deep breath. ‘I know. I do know, really. I just . . .’ I was shivering with cold and . . . fear, I suppose.

He pulled the throw off the back of the sofa and wrapped it around the pair of us. We stretched out. I could feel his warmth and his slow, steady heartbeat. It felt good. I felt myself slowly relax into his arms. If Leon was here then nothing would ever get into Matthew’s room.

I touched his face. ‘Thank you for bringing him back.’

‘You and Matthew are the most important things in the world to me. I will never let anything happen to either of you.’

I closed my eyes. And opened them some hours later to find Leon smiling down at me. I snuggled closer and just as things were becoming exciting, Matthew’s bedroom door was flung open and Matthew himself, half in and half out of his dressing gown, raced in, trailing electrical cables and power leads and shouting, ‘Dad, it works.’

‘That’s good,’ Leon said vaguely, his mind and other things elsewhere. ‘You go back to bed and I’ll be in to see it in a minute.’

‘No need,’ he said. ‘I can show you now. Look.’

He clambered up on to the sofa, clutching something that looked as if a colander had mated with a calculator, and wriggled his bony, icy-footed way between us.

‘Drat,’ said Leon, mildly.

I told him he was displaying impressive restraint.

‘It wasn’t my restraint that was intended to be impressive,’ he said. I gave him a consolation kiss and took the opportunity to be the first in the bathroom that morning.

I slept better the next night, and the night after that I hardly woke at all. Slowly I began to relax. I became a little more balanced on the subject of Matthew being stolen from under my very nose, and started making every effort to get on with a normal life.

And Matthew himself?

Worryingly, he’d picked up the threads of his previous life here at St Mary’s almost as if nothing had happened. Which was both good and bad.

His calm acceptance of wherever he was, whenever he was and whoever he was with was worrying. One day I came right out with it and asked him if he missed the Time Police.

He was building something complicated with Lego and didn’t even look up.

‘I’ll see them again.’

I left it at that.

Unfortunately, before being released back into the wild, I had an appraisal with Dr Bairstow to get through. Apparently, it was felt that the last few months had been a little rough. For me, that was. A colourful kaleidoscope of fights with the Time Police, sex clubs, dinosaurs, organising the demise of Queen Jane the Bloody before she could do any real damage to the timeline and very nearly losing Matthew again. And then – the icing on the cake – my beautiful plan had worked beautifully and we’d finally, finally captured that bastard Clive Ronan and those even bigger bastards in the Time Police had let him go again. It would be fair to say I’d been a little bit put out by that. My near homicidal rage had been mitigated to some extent when Leon walked off with Matthew, right from under their stupid Time Police noses and brought him home.

There was no denying, though, that some recent events had been a teensy bit difficult and I’d had a couple of rough moments in the privacy of Sick Bay while Dr Stone kept the world away until I was ready to face it again. And now I was attempting to blag my way back on to the active list.

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The St Mary’s crew are back. Join them as they hurtle their way around History in . . .

I would have trusted this man with my life.

Until a couple of days ago, anyway.

You know what they say – hope for the best, but plan for the worst.

Max is quite accustomed to everything going wrong. She’s St Mary’s, after all. Disaster is her default state. But with her family reunited and a jump to Bronze Age Crete in the works, life is getting back to normal. Well, normal for St Mary’s.

And then, following one fateful night at the Tower of London, everything Max thought she knew comes crashing down around her.

Too late for plans. The worst has happened. And who can Max trust now?

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If you can’t get enough of Jodi Taylor’s chaotic, brilliant and wonderfully imagined worlds, don’t miss the first novel in the brand-new Time Police series . . .

Available to download now!

THE CHRONICLES OF ST MARY’S SERIES GUIDE

Don’t know where to start with Jodi Taylor’s CHRONICLES OF ST MARY’S series? Never fear! We know timelines are a tricky business, so we’ve created a go-to guide to help you navigate the series and make the most of your adventure with the tea-soaked disaster magnets of St Mary’s as they hurtle their way around History.

JUST ONE DAMNED THING AFTER ANOTHER

So tell me, Dr Maxwell, if the whole of History lay before you . . . where would you go? What would you like to witness?

Recruited by the St Mary’s Institute of Historical Research, Madeleine Maxwell discovers the historians there don’t just study the past – they revisit it. But one wrong move and History will fight back – to the death. And she soon discovers it’s not just History she’s fighting . . .

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘I never meant to write a bestseller. I just wanted to see if I had the mental discipline to write a book. I have to say no one was more surprised than me that the answer was yes. The only thing that surprised me more was that it did so well. I’m continually amazed that historians and physicists don’t spit on me in the streets. Although give them time.’

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A SYMPHONY OF ECHOES

Wherever the historians go, chaos is sure to follow . . .

Dispatched to Victorian London to seek out Jack the Ripper, things go badly wrong when he finds the St Mary’s historians first. Stalked through the fog-shrouded streets of Whitechapel, Max is soon running for her life. Again.

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘This is the Jack the Ripper story! I frightened myself to death over this one. And it’s got dodos as well.’

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WHEN A CHILD IS BORN – a short story

It’s Christmas Day 1066 and a team from St Mary’s is going to witness the coronation of William the Conqueror. Or so they think . . .

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘Christmas was coming and the decree came down from above. “It’s Christmas, Taylor – we need a short story. Don’t just sit there.” So I didn’t. I think my publishers would like me to point out I’m not usually so obedient. Not unless electrodes are involved.’

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A SECOND CHANCE

I could have been a bomb-disposal expert, or a volunteer for the Mars mission, or a firefighter, something safe and sensible. But, no, I had to be an historian.

It began well. A successful assignment to 17th-century Cambridge to meet Isaac Newton, and another to witness the historic events at The Gates of Grief. So far so good.

But then came the long-awaited jump to the Trojan War that changed everything. And for Max, nothing will ever be the same again.

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘This one was fun. I really enjoyed writing this one. St Mary’s really goes through it. Heh heh heh.’

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ROMAN HOLIDAY – a short story

Question: What sort of idiot installs his mistress in his wife’s house? Especially when that mistress is Cleopatra VII Thea Philopator, Queen of Egypt and the most notorious woman of her time?

Answer: Julius Caesar – poised to become King of Rome. Or as good as.

Question: At this potentially sensitive point in your political manoeuvrings, who are the last people you’d want crashing through the door, observing, recording, documenting . . .?

I think we all know the answer to that one.

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘This is the embarrassing one. I wrote it because I couldn’t work out how to operate the door in my offspring’s flat, so I was trapped. All day. I wrote almost the whole story in one day. Ten thousand words, people! And everyone laughed at my predicament because children today have no respect for their elders.’

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A TRAIL THROUGH TIME

Sometimes, surviving is all you have left.

From a 17th-century Frost Fair to Ancient Egypt; from Pompeii to 8th-century Scandinavia; Max and Leon are pursued up and down the timeline, playing a dangerous game of hide-and-seek, until finally they’re forced to take refuge at St Mary’s, where a new danger awaits them.

Max’s happily ever after is going to have to wait a while . . .

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘I really didn’t think people would like this one but it’s turned out to be many people’s favourite so, like Jon Snow – I know nothing.’

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CHRISTMAS PRESENT – a short story

It’s Christmas Eve at St Mary’s

And all through the house

Nothing is stirring . . .

Except for Max, Peterson and Markham, sneaking out at midnight for an assignment that is very definitely off the books.

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘I was a bit worried because this story was supposed to be a Christmas story and it was all about Boudicca sacking Colchester, so I tried to keep the nasty bits to a minimum. It’s the one where Bashford waves to Boudicca because, well – why wouldn’t you?’

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NO TIME LIKE THE PAST

A Fete Worse Than Death . . .

The St Mary’s Institute of Historical Research has finally recovered from its wounds and it’s business as usual for those rascals in the History Department and Max must struggle to get History back on track.

But first, they must get through the St Mary’s Fete – which is sure to end badly for everyone.

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘I wanted St Mary’s to have an open day. The phrase “A Fete worse than death” shot into my head – trust me, there’s plenty of room – and I just had to write it.’

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THE VERY FIRST DAMNED THING – a short story

Ever wondered how the St Mary’s of the future came to be?

Warning: this story may contain scenes about stolen furniture, a practical demonstration at the Stirrup Charge at Waterloo, students’ alcohol-ridden urine, a widowed urban guerrilla, a young man wearing exciting knitwear, and four naked security guards.

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘I think I’d written more than four or five books before I wrote this prequel. I don’t know why I was suddenly overwhelmed by a need to go back to the beginning but I did. Normally my overwhelming needs involve chocolate. I always say to people – don’t read this one first. Get a couple of books under your belt first otherwise some of it might not make sense. Which assumes the rest of it does . . .’

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WHAT COULD POSSIBLY GO WRONG?

To do what I do – go where I go – see what I see – it’s a wonderful, unique, never-to-be-taken-for-granted privilege.

With great privilege comes great responsibility, something Max knows only too well, and as newly appointed Chief Training Officer at the St Mary’s Institute of Historical Research, it’s up to her to drum this guiding principle into her five new recruits.

Expect a training programme that includes Joan of Arc, an illegal mammoth, a duplicitous Father of History, a bombed rat, Stone Age hunters and Dick the Turd.

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘My personal favourite. I’ve been a training officer. I’ve been in that particular hell. I’ve questioned my life choices, my sanity and the intelligence of trainees. On the other hand, there was the episode of the bombed rat.’

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SHIPS AND STINGS AND WEDDING RINGS – a short story

It’s Christmas at St Mary’s and time for Max’s obligatory illegal jump. On this occasion, however, they’re right up against it. And as if that’s not enough, someone (Max) has inadvertently poisoned Mr Markham.

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘This is what happened when I was bored and there wasn’t anything on TV and I was reduced to reading the small print on a can of WD40.’

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LIES, DAMNED LIES, AND HISTORY

I’ve done some stupid things in my time. I’ve been reckless. I’ve broken a few rules. But never before have I ruined so many lives or left such a trail of destruction behind me.

Max has never been one for rules. They tend to happen to other people. But this time she’s gone too far. And everyone at St Mary’s is paying the price.

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘I wrote this one to avenge myself on my brother who abandoned me on top of Doward Hill because there was a cow on the horizon. It was the size of a dachshund but apparently had a nasty look in its eye. He said. I didn’t get time to argue because he was off. Normally I’d let him go but he had the car keys.’

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THE GREAT ST MARY’S DAY OUT – a short story

Astonishingly, Dr Bairstow has declared a holiday. Even more astonishingly – he’s paying for it.

Needless to say, there are strings attached. They have to record the 1601 performance of Hamlet, with Shakespeare himself in the role of the Ghost.

It doesn’t go well, of course. With Dr Bairstow and Mrs Mack turning a simple visit to a street market into a public brawl, Professor Rapson inadvertently stowing away on a vessel bound for the New World, and Shakespeare himself going up in flames, it would seem that Max, of all people, is the only one actually completing the assignment.

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘I challenged myself to get the words “Dr Bairstow” and “selfie” in the same sentence. Challenge accepted!’

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MY NAME IS MARKHAM – a short story

Like a smaller and much scruffier Greta Garbo – finally – Markham speaks!

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘This is the one told by Markham himself. I wanted to give a tiny but tantalising glimpse of his background.’

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AND THE REST IS HISTORY

Because, my dear Max, you dance on the edge of darkness  . . . and I don’t think it would take very much for you to dance my way.

When an old enemy appears out of nowhere with an astonishing proposition for Max – a proposition that could change everything – Max is tempted. Very tempted.

With an end to an old conflict finally in sight, it looks as if St Mary’s problems are over with. Can they all now live happily ever after?

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘Ah! The dramatic one. Probably best if I don’t say any more.’

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DESSICATED WATER – a short story

Professor Rapson breaks astonishing new ground with his latest feat of scientific invention.

MARKHAM AND THE ANAL PROBING – a short story

When Markham disappears in the middle of nowhere, Max jumps to the logical conclusion – alien abduction.

A PERFECT STORM – a short story

For Max, what starts off as a perfectly normal week is about to degenerate into a quagmire of egotistical film producers, monumental pub crawls, unsigned contracts, exploding rocks, Professor Rapson and his megaphone, the world’s biggest bacon butty – and Angus – the third component of the most notorious love triangle since Menelaus, Paris and Whatshername – the one with the face they launched ships off.

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘Oh yes. Calvin Cutter – bless him. His one-sided telephone call to Marge, his PA, as she’s trying to have her baby in peace was so much fun to write.’

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CHRISTMAS PAST – a short story

The First Farrell Family Christmas.

Max, Leon and Matthew – together at last for Christmas at St Mary’s – a time of conspicuous consumption, riotous misbehaviour and the traditional illegal Christmas jump. And this time, it’s inter-generational.

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘The one where Matthew and Max take their first steps towards an understanding. The king-sized picnic they take to the starving boys was personally researched by me. I don’t think anyone realises quite how many sausages authors must force down for the sake of verisimilitude. A little more sympathy, please.’

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AN ARGUMENTATION OF HISTORIANS

They say you shouldn’t push your luck. Max gives her own luck a massive shove every day – and it’s only a matter of time until luck pushes back . . .

January 1536 – the day of Henry VIII’s infamous jousting accident. Historians from St Mary’s are there in force, recording and documenting. And arguing – obviously.

A chance meeting between Max and the Time Police leads to a plan of action to bring down Clive Ronan, once and for all.

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘Well, obviously, once I discovered the collective noun for a group of historians was an argumentation, there was no holding me back. Sorry!’

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THE BATTERSEA BARICADES – a short story

It’s not easy being a rebel.

So many new skills to assimilate.

Never mind strategic planning, weapons expertise and the like – there’s bicycle-stealing, oil-stain removal and boat steering to be mastered first. And quickly.

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘I’ve had people accusing me of being able to see the future but I swear I can’t. I made it all up. I suspect politicians are now lining up to spit on me in the streets.’

Available to download

THE STEAM-PUMP JUMP – a short story

Not one to let being banged up in Sick Bay stop her, Max has had a brilliant idea. But she needs Markham to execute it on her behalf. Told in Markham’s own words, this is the story of an intervention – St Mary’s style.

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘This is the one set in Raglan Castle which I visited with my brother. The purpose of our visit was to discover where the steam-pump was installed. There was a certain amount – actually, a huge amount – of arguing. We waved our arms and shouted. I had to remind him of all the times he’d been wrong throughout his life and it took a long time. People moved away from us. I googled it when I got home and discovered we’d both been wrong. Quite embarrassing actually.’

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AND NOW FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT – a short story

Here’s a question for you. What’s the most exciting thing ever found in a fire bucket? And don’t say ‘fire’ because you’ll be wrong.

Every Christmas, for reasons which seem good at the time – especially after an eggnog or two – Max and the others leap into the nearest pod and indulge in their illegal Christmas jump. It’s a tradition. This year, however, just to be different, they find themselves part of someone else’s illegal Christmas jump. It’s time to don a spacesuit and bring your own urine!

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘I actually wanted to write this one years ago. It’s why I kept mentioning the Mars Project every now and then. And I wanted to do something completely different.’

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HOPE FOR THE BEST

You can’t change History. History doesn’t like it. There are always consequences.

Max is no stranger to taking matters into her own hands. Especially when she’s had A Brilliant Idea. Yes, it will mean breaking a few rules, but – as Max always says – they’re not her rules.

When History goes rogue, there’s a St Mary’s team right in the firing line and Max must step up.

You know what they say. Hope for the best. But plan for the worst.

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘So I rang the offspring and said, “What do you know about sex clubs?” and was pleased/horrified/surprised/disturbed to find out he knew quite a lot. Hmm . . .’

Available to download

WHEN DID YOU LAST SEE YOUR FATHER? – a short story

Max, your father is here. He’s come to take Matthew away.

Have you ever wondered what would happen if Max’s husband met Max’s father? What would Leon do?
This is the story of what to expect if St Mary’s doesn’t like someone. As in, really doesn’t like someone. It is also a story of revenge. Because this is payback – St Mary’s style.

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘This is the one that kept me up all night, writing. It was quite a job devising a solution in which no one died and nothing caught fire – St Mary’s usual method of conflict resolution.’

Available to download

Psst! If you like your short stories all in one place, then these two collections are perfect for you . . .

THE LONG AND SHORT OF IT

In print for the very first time, The Long and Short of It collects eight unmissable short stories from the international bestselling Chronicles of St Mary’s series including:

When a Child is Born

Roman Holiday

Christmas Present

The Very First Damned Thing

Ships and Stings and Wedding Rings

The Great St Mary’s Day Out

My Name is Markham

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘A collection of the earlier short stories. Initially we put it together in response to those who didn’t have kindles and therefore couldn’t access them.’

Available to download

LONG STORY SHORT

This collection brings together seven short stories and one special guest tale from somewhere completely different:

Christmas Past

The Battersea Barricades

The Steam-Pump Jump

And Now For Something Completely Different

When Did You Last See Your Father?

Desiccated Water

Markham and the Anal Probing

Little Donkey

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘The usual thing. The telephone rings.

“We’re putting together another collection of short stories, Taylor, and your readers would appreciate you writing a new one.”

A short pause.

“Have you finished it yet?”

And it includes ‘Little Donkey’ from one of my other series – Frogmorton Farm. How not to bathe a donkey.’

Available to download