The Toast of Time
Author: Jodi Taylor
Date: 2021-12-25 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Time Travel; Fantasy; Science Fiction; Fiction; Historical Fiction; Short Stories; Humor; Christmas; Alternate History
Description: Once again, the Toast of Time falls butter side down. Dr 'Max' Maxwell prepares for her very first Christmas away from St Mary's... It's that most wonderful time of the year once more. But Max and Markham are a long way from St Mary's. What sort of Christmas will it be without their loved ones? Settle down with a mince pie and a small sherry and prepare for an unlikely combination of Flying Auctions, Fabergé eggs, duped Time Police officers, the Parish Council, a TWOCed Bentley (no, not that one), legendary swords and a belligerent ram. Will it be Peace and Goodwill to all men? Well, we all kn

Copyright © 2021 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 2021 by

HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

This Ebook edition published in 2021 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

ISBN 978 1 4722 8345 0

Cover design and illustration by zoedrawsthings.co.uk

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Contents

Title

Copyright

About the Author

About the Book

Also By

Author’s Introduction

Dramatis Thingummy

The Toast of Time

Acknowledgements

Discover More about Jodi Taylor

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! She is also the author of the Time Police series – a St Mary’s spinoff and gateway into the world of an all-powerful, international organisation who are NOTHING like St Mary’s. Except, when they are.

Alongside these, Jodi is known for her gripping supernatural thrillers featuring Elizabeth Cage, together with the enchanting Frogmorton Farm series – a fairy story for adults.

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.

About the Book

It’s that most wonderful time of the year once more. But Max and Markham are a long way from St Mary’s. What sort of Christmas will it be without their loved ones?

Settle down with a mince pie and a small sherry and prepare for an unlikely combination of Flying Auctions, Fabergé eggs, duped Time Police officers, the Parish Council, a TWOCed Bentley (no, not that one), legendary swords and a belligerent ram.

Will it be Peace and Goodwill to all men? Well, we all know the answer to that . . .

By Jodi Taylor and available from Headline

time police series
doing time
hard time

SAVING 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
plan for the worst

Another Time, Another Place

short story collections

The Long and Short of It

Long story Short

The Chronicles of St Mary’s digital shorts

When a Child is Born

Roman Holiday

Christmas Present

Ships and Stings and Wedding Rings

THE VERY FIRST DAMNED THING

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?

The Ordeal of the Haunted Room

Elizabeth Cage novels

White Silence

Dark Light

LONG SHADOWS

Frogmorton Farm Series

The Nothing Girl

The Something Girl

Little Donkey (digital short)

Joy to the World (digital short)

––––––––––––––

A Bachelor Establishment

Author’s Introduction

It was the title that came first for this one. I thought The Toast of Time had rather a nice ring to it. True, it doesn’t have much to do with the story, but I never let that stop me.

I wanted to write a story that brought everyone together for Christmas. A bit of a tall order given that Max was separated from St Mary’s both geographically and temporally but I’ve done my best. All the old favourites are here – and some new ones, too. Lots for you to get your teeth into.

SPOILER ALERT – Not only is Pennyroyal eventually able to remove his arm from the turkey, but we even find out what Markham is keeping in his trousers.

Merry Christmas to you all.

Dramatis Thingummy

Lady Amelia Smallhope

Second daughter of the previous Earl of Goodrich and sister of the current E of G. Organiser of extravagant Christmas presents. Very successful bounty hunter. Sorry – recovery agent.

Pennyroyal

An alleged butler. Currently toiling over a turkey. Ditto with the recovery agent thing.

Markham

You’ll never guess what he’s got down his trousers.

Maxwell

Definitely not considering catering as an alternative career. Rubbish at buttering toast.

Mrs Mack

Former urban terrorist and one of the leaders of the Civil Uprisings. Now Head of Kitchen Services at St Mary’s – a much more hazardous occupation.

Ellen, Sally, Janet, Kim, Edna, Terry and others

Kitchen staff grappling with an unexpected colleague.

Dr Dowson

Locked out of his own Library, would you believe?

Mr Evans and his Magnificent Security Team

Modelling the very latest in gardening gear – to the massive appreciation of some of the Parish Council.

Mrs Partridge

Keeping her cool as all around her lose theirs.

Captain Hyssop

Yes – her again. The scourge of the Security Section and sadly still at St Mary’s.

Commander John Treadwell

Whose meeting with the Parish Council is about to take a typically St Mary’s turn for the worse.

Mrs Huntley-Palmer

Proud owner of the soon to be TWOCed not-as-classic-as-Dr-Bairstow’s-Bentley Bentley. Representing the Forces of Darkness – or the Parish Council, as they’re usually known outside of St Mary’s.

The Rev Kev

Keep pedalling, Kev. Eyes front and place your trust in the Lord.

Miss Peek

Miss Frean

Also members of the Parish Council. The acceptable side of the Forces of Darkness. Recipients of more horticultural insight than they bargained for but bravely soldiering on. Bless them.

Major Guthrie

Ex-St Mary’s but having no success in leaving them behind. His secret cellar is not as secret as he thinks it is.

Elspeth

His strangely shaped partner.

Various unexpected Christmas guests

Hush – they’re a secret. Have to kill you now.

Various shady characters

Or ‘Naughty People Easily Translated into Ready Cash’, as Lady Amelia refers to them.

The Time Police

Arriving just a fraction too late in this instance but jolly useful for tidying up loose ends and allowing the author to get on with the story.

A ram

Not on Markham’s Christmas card list. Very prepared to stand his ground against two of St Mary’s former finest.

Various lost treasures

One of which spends most of the story down Markham’s trousers, which is no way to treat a legend.

Mrs Huntley-Palmer’s not-as-classic-as-Dr-Bairstow’s-Bentley Bentley

Enjoying a brief moment of fame.

The Toast of Time

It anything likewas the toast that started it. Markham and I were making toast. Or rather, I was making it and he was in charge of the buttering because, apparently, I don’t butter all the way into the corners. Once I would have argued fiercely. I would probably even have held him down while I demonstrated just how much butter it is possible to get into even the most remote corner – and not necessarily using a piece of toast, either. Or even butter. But that day I just couldn’t be bothered.

He finished buttering, passed me back the appropriately garnished baked bread product – without looking what he was doing, obviously – and I reached out for it – without looking what I was doing, obviously – and rather like the British Relay Team, we dropped the baton at the crucial moment and the toast crashed to the floor. Butter-side down, obviously, because toast doesn’t know any other way.

Both Markham and I stared at it. I, because butter-side-down toast just about summed up my life at that moment, and Markham . . . well, I’ve no idea why he does anything, let alone stares at a piece of toast.

Neither of us moved. The rain smacked against the windows, the kettle switched itself off, the toast obviously wasn’t going anywhere unaided, and Markham and I were watching it go nowhere.

Markham sighed. ‘Once again the Toast of Time falls butter-side down.’

I nodded. Of course it did.

We might be there still if Pennyroyal hadn’t come in.

‘Well, pick it up,’ he said. Pennyroyal runs a tight ship, and random slices of toast littering the spotless kitchen floor were never going to be his favourite thing.

I bent to pick it up while Markham wiped up the butter.

I looked around. I was pretty sure the five-second rule would apply so I blew on it, cut it neatly in half and buried it at the bottom of the pile. No one would ever know.

Markham brought over the teapot and I wrangled the plate of toast on to the table.

Pennyroyal accounted for the top layer.

Markham moved more quickly than me and snaffled the next tier.

Which just left me and the gravity-damaged bottom level.

I sighed and slathered it an inch thick with marmalade because everyone knows marmalade kills ninety-nine per cent of all known germs. Dead.

We ate in silence.

For anyone wondering about the cause of my depression, it was that time of the year again. The time of jolly and holly and Christmas pudding and carols and arguments and bickering and presents and goodwill.

And families.

This would be the first time for ages that I’d been away from St Mary’s for Christmas. I don’t know how Markham was feeling about that but I really wasn’t in a festive mood at all. Au contraire, as our French friends would say.

I missed Leon. I missed the way he smiled for me alone. The way he looked for me whenever he entered a room. And I missed Matthew. Especially our nightly battles over face-washing and teeth-cleaning.

I even missed St Mary’s. The lunchtime scrum. The noise. The smells. And continually having to step over an unconscious Bashford. Or Roberts and Bashford glaring at each other over a grinning Sykes. Or Sands and his never-ending knock-knock jokes. Even Angus crooning happily from the top of a cupboard.

Normally, at this point, I’d go on to describe St Mary’s, what we did, warn people against saying ‘time travel’ in Dr Bairstow’s hearing, talk about the pods without mentioning the word ‘cabbage’ in every sentence and just generally bring people up to speed on how things stood at the moment.

But not this time.

For a start, Markham and I were no longer at St Mary’s. Neither was Dr Bairstow – whose whereabouts are, at present, a closely guarded secret to be dealt with at another time. Along with Mrs Brown. I can only say they’re not at St Mary’s. And that’s it. That’s all anyone’s getting from me.

Back to me and Markham, living wild and free on toast.

Smallhope and Pennyroyal had given us a home. A very comfortable home. There was good food and plenty of it. And excellent pay and conditions, together with lots and lots of rules to break, bend or completely ignore, but nothing could compensate for not being at St Mary’s any longer. And, worst of all, we’d both of us lost our families. Leon was out there somewhere, jumping up and down the timeline, keeping Adrian, Mikey and Matthew on the straight and narrow, possibly assisted by Professor Penrose but more probably not. And Hunter and Baby Flora were safely hidden away from the world. Markham saw them occasionally – not as often as he would like to, I suspected – while I hadn’t seen Leon since I left St Mary’s.

But, we were here and we were safe. We shouldn’t complain. We had a roof over our heads and a certain amount of job satisfaction as we apprehended various lowlifes (lives?) who thought it would be a good idea to conceal themselves in another time to escape the attentions of the Time Police, but failed to take into account the Magnificent Markham and Maxwell – bounty hunters.

Sorry – recovery agents.

I really didn’t have a thing to complain about. Compared to how badly things could have turned out, everything was fine – it really was. But so dejected were Markham and I that neither of us could be bothered to argue about whose turn it was to clear away the breakfast things and load the dishwasher. We just got up and did it in silence.

‘It’s like a wet weekend in here,’ said Pennyroyal, rummaging in his briefcase.

I looked out of the window at the rain. He wasn’t wrong. It was indeed a wetter weekend in here than it was out there.

‘Perhaps this will cheer you up,’ he said. ‘New assignment for you,’ and dropped a file on the table.

We looked at it. ‘Anything interesting?’ said Markham, poking it with his finger.

‘Depends,’ Pennyroyal said. ‘Take a look and tell me what you think.’

Markham opened up the file. Lady Amelia and Pennyroyal always preferred paper to electronics. Their home was as secure as they could make it but there was always the chance of something unexpected erupting through the door and catching them in the act, so paper was their preferred way to go. That way one of them could shove the evidence in the range while the other launched a small nuclear strike at their unwelcome visitors. No – I’m not joking.

‘Where did you get this?’ asked Markham.

‘An announcement on the Dark Web,’ Pennyroyal said. ‘Useful place if you know where to look.’

According to the single sheet of paper in the file, a Flying Auction was to be held. That was it – no other details. Just the announcement and two long lines of coordinates at the bottom of the page.

I stared at it. ‘What on earth is a Flying Auction?’

Pennyroyal was pouring himself a coffee. ‘Flying Auctions are markets of no fixed abode. They simply occur as and when required. They are an established way of disposing of items that can’t be widely advertised. Or even advertised at all. This one purports to be selling historical artefacts.’

‘Fake historical artefacts?’

Pennyroyal grinned. ‘Not if we’re very lucky.’

‘So would we be buying? Selling? Observing?’

Pennyroyal shook his head. ‘In these sort of circumstances, Lady Amelia always favours keeping our plans fairly loose. A fast and flexible approach enables us to take advantage of sometimes rapidly changing situations.’

‘Ah – gotcha,’ said Markham. ‘Make it up as we go along.’

‘Yes. We appreciate this is the first time for you two, and if you feel it would be wiser to limit your ambitions to something fairly modest then that is entirely up to you. On the other hand, of course, you might well encounter a set of circumstances from which it would be criminal to walk away empty-handed.’

You had to admire his use of the word criminal.

‘Well, let’s go and see, shall we,’ said Markham, picking up the file, and we moved into the room next door, leaving our host to his coffee. This was the closest thing Pennyroyal and Smallhope had to an office. There was a data table, scratchpads, reference material, writing stuff – and an industrial-strength shredder probably robust enough to shred both me and Markham in the not-unlikely event of our hosts deciding they were tired of our company and needed to dispose of the bodies.

I fired up the data table and laid in the coordinates as Markham dictated them.

We double-checked the lat and long and viewed the result with equal astonishment and amusement.

‘Cheeky buggers,’ said Markham. He nodded with his head at Pennyroyal’s end of the farmhouse. ‘Do you think he knew?’

I nodded. If someone told me there was nothing Pennyroyal didn’t know then I’d believe them.

The coordinates translated to a decrepit old country house just outside of Rushford. Somewhere remote and that had been empty for some time. You would know it as the future Institute of Historical Research at St Mary’s. The date was November 1921.

‘Standard procedure,’ said Pennyroyal, coming in to view the result and to have a bit of a laugh. ‘They choose somewhere out of the way and forgotten, give it a bit of a temporary tart-up, invite a few select punters and auction off a ton of very dodgy gear.’

‘Does that mean some of it’s fake?’

‘No – as often as not the stuff is all genuine. It’s the acquiring of it that is the dodgy bit.’

‘Stolen?’

‘Yep. Looted. Pillaged. Smuggled. Just generally nicked. Can’t be sold on the open market, obviously – hence the Flying Auction.’

‘What sort of very dodgy gear?’ I asked. ‘What can we expect to see?’

‘Could be anything. Quite often you don’t know until you get there.’

I gestured to the twirling data stack. ‘Isn’t that a bit of a risk? Publishing the where and when, I mean.’

Pennyroyal shrugged. ‘Got to get the punters in somehow. This was only up for thirty minutes last night. You have to be quick. Any longer and some sort of virus comes winging its way through your system and your whole electronic life collapses around your ears.’

I nodded. Yes, Major Ellis – then Captain Ellis – of the Time Police had once explained that particular tactic to me.

‘You have to know where and when to look,’ Pennyroyal continued. ‘I had a bit of a tip-off. Someone owed me a favour. The trick will be to get in and out of the auction before those Time Police buggers track it down.’

‘So where did the organisers get whatever they’ll be selling?’ asked Markham.

‘No idea, but it won’t have been legal.’

‘Specific instructions?’ said Markham.

He shrugged. ‘Don’t get caught.’

Smallhope and Pennyroyal are not in business out of the goodness of their hearts. Making money is their prime objective. Something to which neither Markham nor I objected because – as I always said – they’re not my rules so why should I bother? And we were making a fair bit of money as well. When all this came to an end – if all this ever came to an end – then both Markham and I would find ourselves quite well set up for the future, which would certainly be useful if we had to make a fresh start somewhere else. I sometimes wondered what our chances were of ever enjoying a normal life again. To which Markham would invariably reply that we’d hardly enjoyed a normal life before, so there wasn’t a lot of difference really, was there?

He would also like to point out that I haven’t explained where we were, what we were doing and why, so here goes.

Obviously, we’re not at St Mary’s any longer. I was sacked after falling out big time with the new Director, Commander Treadwell, then head-hunted by our charming hosts, before going on to break Dr Bairstow out of a secure government establishment. As you do. It had been a lively couple of months.

Markham and his family had quietly disappeared before the authorities could take it into their heads to do more than sack him, and here we both were, earning a dishonest crust. Although where here is isn’t quite clear. Nor are we in our own time, which is a source of grief to Markham because his baby daughter can’t join him here. And Leon’s busy with his own problems – which, since they involved controlling Matthew, Professor Penrose, Mikey and Adrian, would be extensive.

We’re living in a large farmhouse – aptly named Home Farm – along with Lady Amelia Smallhope, who is a genuine member of the aristocracy – sister of the current Lord Goodrich, I think – and Pennyroyal, her butler. And bodyguard, thief and thug as well, and who could probably kill you in a million different ways while mixing the perfect margarita at the same time.

They’d offered us both a job and so far, it was going quite well. It turns out that there are a significant number of people who, having made their own time too hot to hold them any longer, relocate to the past, together with a dozen or so big bags of gold, to spend their days in peace and prosperity, living off their illicit gains. In some cases, they simply pick up where they’d left off, but in a different century. A whole new time and place to exploit and terrorise. But not for long, however, because Markham and Maxwell are on the job now. We zoom in, overpower the illegals by whatever method seems good at the time and then hand them over to Smallhope and Pennyroyal who, in turn, present them to the Time Police in return for a very handsome reward. A very handsome reward indeed. Pennyroyal then deducts expenses and we split the rest between us. Yes, Markham and I really weren’t doing too badly at all.

One day I knew I’d be reunited with Leon and Matthew, but even so . . . This was my first Christmas away from St Mary’s since I’d gone to work there. There was no reason why we wouldn’t have a perfectly pleasant Christmas here, but . . . well, it wasn’t home.

On the other hand, neither Markham nor I were on the streets. Or in prison. Or dead, so there was no real reason for my mood. I sat up. I had a living to earn and I should get on with it.

Where was I? Yes – back to the plot. If that’s what you want to call it. Our loose brief. Arrive, sum up the situation, bring back anything that could be translated into cash. Don’t get caught. Have a good day.

Markham and I went off to select our costumes.

The costume room is next door to the office. The costumes are arranged on racks, more or less chronologically. The majority of outfits appeared to be from the 1800s onwards. I guessed not many people ever wanted to be relocated to the Middle Ages. It’s by no means as picturesque as the entertainment industry would have you believe.

My instinct was to wear something from 1921, but as Markham pointed out, that wasn’t really necessary, was it? No contemporaries would be present at the auction. We could both wear ordinary clothes and be comfortable, just for once.

‘We don’t want to be too distinctive,’ said Markham, rifling through a rack of clothes ranging from Roman and Greek tunics, European doublets, Tudor and Stuart silks and satins, huge Georgian skirts, Regency breeches, Victorian frock coats, sharp 1920s suits, fringed flapper dresses – I held my breath because you never know with him – mumsy 1950s housewife stuff, and even a few mod outfits from the 60s, including the classic Mary Quant Mondrian dress which I actually quite fancied myself. ‘Never make it easy for people to describe you to the authorities,’ he continued. ‘Simple, good quality, tasteful. A bit like me, really.’

‘You once went through an entire assignment dressed in pink,’ I said. ‘I hardly think that marks you out as an expert on quiet good taste.’

‘It was rose,’ he said, hurt.

‘It was eye-catching,’ I said. ‘And that was without the giant feather in your hat.’

He disappeared into another rack of clothes, muttering as he went.

In the end, I went for a rather nice pair of black trousers, a white shirt, a khaki jacket and a casual scarf, loosely knotted. Scarves are good. They can double as bandages, slings, or blindfolds. You can tie people up with them, or use them to carry away your loot. At a pinch you can even wear them, although for some reason, only Frenchwomen seem able to achieve that effortlessly nonchalant careless look. I laboured for nearly thirty minutes over my effortlessly nonchalant careless look and in the end Markham did it for me.

He himself was simply dressed in a leather jacket and dark jeans. We surveyed ourselves in the mirror.

‘Looking good,’ I said.

He smirked. ‘We’re Markham and Maxwell – bounty hunters.’

‘Recovery agents,’ I said gently.

Our pod was parked around the back. The perfectly genuine farmhouse had a perfectly genuine farmyard at the rear. A couple of people came in every day and did farming things while Smallhope and Pennyroyal got on with the business of living dangerously but making a lot of money at the same time. There were barns, stables, sties, all with various bits of agricultural equipment scattered around. Real chickens pecked in the yard – something which always caused Markham some disquiet because he’s not completely at home with the animal world.

The big building to the left – accessible from the house in case we ever needed to make a quick getaway – was, ostensibly, a barn, but actually it was the rural equivalent of Hawking Hangar. Our pod was in there – actually it was Leon’s pod, but currently enjoying temporary new ownership. It was usually neatly parked alongside our employer’s slightly larger pod and connected to the power supply by thick black umbilicals. Pennyroyal was very keen on any pod being ready to go at a moment’s notice.

I was surprised they had only the one pod – what happened if they needed to split up, for instance? – but Markham reckoned they had one other at least, carefully tucked away somewhere else that we didn’t know anything about. Thinking about it, that made sense.

Ours was the only one here today because Lady Amelia was off doing her Christmas shopping. Why she couldn’t have taken the car like a normal person was never satisfactorily explained. Perhaps she was avoiding London’s notorious parking problems. I don’t know whether Harrods provided parking for their customers but I could just picture her pod occupying a premium spot while she herself zipped around, credit card in one hand, margarita in the other, buying up half the shop.

I think out of kindness to me and Markham, she and Pennyroyal had declared this Christmas a ‘no gift’ zone (something with which I’d been happy to comply – I’m not sure what would constitute the perfect gift for a wayward member of the aristocracy and her thug of a butler), so I assumed it was her family for whom she was shopping. And Christmas food, of course. Pennyroyal had produced an extensive list of delicacies without which Christmas could not possibly proceed.

A sneak peek had revealed our Christmas would be enhanced by:

Every bottle of claret in the western hemisphere. That would be Pennyroyal. He’s very partial to the occasional glass.

Three rivers’ worth of salmon – smoked and otherwise.

Hand-shot venison – what? Is there any other way? Unless our Caledonian cousins have taken to pursuing deer across the highlands with a trebuchet. On the other hand, it’s Caledonia – anything is possible.

A vast quantity of esoteric cheeses including Stinking Henry. A cheese so pungent that the law required it to be served underwater for the safety of society.

Icelandic tea bags – don’t ask me what that’s all about.

Organic sprouts – yeah, like that renders them any more acceptable.

The world’s most expensive coffee – yuk. Sticking three noughts on the price does not render coffee any more drinkable, people.

Twiglets – Pennyroyal again.

Two gross of macaroons – although I might have misread the quantity.

Hand-picked peanuts – what was the alternative? Feet-picked?

Château Cusheeyonne’s world-famous champagne – obviously. To be read with a French accent. Obviously.

Two boxes of Pennyroyal’s specially designed Christmas crackers – one hat, one joke, one hand grenade, presumably.

Taylor and Edwards’s Magnificent Self-Igniting Christmas Pudding with free fire extinguisher.

And a turkey hand-reared exclusively on the finest corn and so free-range it had apparently been on a walking tour of the Lake District.

Well, shopping for that lot should keep Lady Amelia occupied for a while.

Our pod – well, my pod – all right, Leon’s pod – looked very small in the vast space of the barn. That’s partly because it is very small. It’s a single-seater with some unusual features. Markham and I both fit inside quite neatly, although once I’d had four people and a ton of boxes and crates in there and things had been more than cosy.

The barn was chilly. I called for the door and we entered the pod. We carried nothing personal and we certainly weren’t armed because that would be asking for trouble. We had our invitations to the auction, of course, printed off by Pennyroyal, without which there was no chance of getting in, even if we promised to buy everything in sight. Apparently, they contained some kind of hidden code that would sort the goats from the sheep. I had a perfectly genuine credit card in the name of Smallhope tucked in an inner pocket, because who would attend an auction without the means to purchase something, and just in case there was any trouble and we had to prove who we were to the authorities, Markham and I both carried SmartCards, each disguised as a small business card, on which our fake names were neatly inscribed but with a hidden hologram, the reading of which by a Time Police scratchpad would identify us as acting under their authority. For any other authority we’d have only our wits on which to rely. So, as Pennyroyal said, completely on our own, then.

I have to say, this being on the dodgy side of the law business is excellent. I can really recommend it. There was no tedious checking each other over for inadvertent anomalies, no uncomfortable clothing, no hours of boning up on the appropriate subject matter – you just strolled into your pod and went. So that’s what we did. We strolled into our pod and went.

Early November, 1921. The war had been over for three years but there still weren’t a lot of men around in the village. They hadn’t built it yet, but there would be a war memorial up by the church to the eighteen men who hadn’t come home again. That’s a lot for a small place like this. I often wondered how they would have felt if they’d known that thirty years later, they’d have been inscribing yet more names on the memorial. That the War to End All Wars actually hadn’t.

Gloomy thoughts for a gloomy day. It was autumn out there. Chilly and damp. I could see dew-drenched cobwebs hanging in the hedgerows and the grass was beaded with moisture.

We’d parked in the field behind the Falconburg Arms. A number of grubby sheep peered curiously as we exited the pod.

‘There’s a ram,’ said Markham, nervously. He and the animal kingdom don’t love each other, as I say. I looked forward to seeing him being beaten up by the kitten that young Flora would inevitably demand.

‘It’s that time of year,’ I said. ‘Just make sure he doesn’t see you as competition and you’ll be fine.’

‘Fun Fact,’ he said, taking care to walk on the non-ram side of me.

Markham and his allegedly Fun Facts are one of the great curses of the modern world. The secret is not to let him get started. ‘I don’t care. Just keep your eye on Big Boy over there.’

He was big, too. And his horns were impressive. He stared at us and stamped a warning hoof.

‘No,’ said Markham. ‘Listen. This could be useful. Did you know that if a ram backs away from you it isn’t because he’s intimidated but simply because he’s lengthening his run-up?’

‘That was your Fun Fact?’

‘No – my Fun Fact is that if that happens then we should walk towards it.’

‘Walk towards it?’

‘Yes. And don’t run. He’ll think you’re charging and respond appropriately.’

‘And if that doesn’t work?’

‘Wave a stick. They don’t like that.’

‘Bugger,’ I said, looking at our stickless state.

The ram stamped its foot again. All its wives had stopped eating to watch the entertainment.

‘I think it’s going to charge,’ said Markham. ‘Stand your ground.’

‘No – you stand your ground. I’m off.’

He grabbed my arm. ‘No – don’t do that. Just stand still and then, as it rears up on its hind legs, you step smartly to one side.’

‘You do know you’re insane, don’t you?’

‘The important thing is not to run, Max. These things can hit thirty miles an hour. Can you?’

Since I couldn’t, I tried to stand behind Markham. Since he was trying to stand behind me, we were going nowhere.

The ram snorted a funny snorting sound. We were going to die.

‘OK,’ said Markham. ‘If all else fails then one of us should wrestle it to the ground.’

‘What?’

‘Grab its horns and wrestle it to the— hey, wait for me.’

We ran. At speeds of very nearly thirty miles an hour in my case. The ram watched us with contempt then lowered its head and continued eating. As did its many wives.

‘Well, that was embarrassing,’ said Markham, clambering over the gate to stand beside me.

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

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

‘What are you doing?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Oh God . . .’

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

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

‘Nope. Did you?’

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

‘No.’

‘How do you know?’

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

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

‘Microphones?’

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

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

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

‘We’re walking.’

‘We’re not posh.’

‘They don’t know that.’

‘We’re eccentric.’

I nodded. ‘OK. I can do eccentric.’

‘Eccentric is my middle name,’ he said.

‘No, it’s not.’

‘You don’t know that.’

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

‘No, you don’t, do you?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We turned back again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Bloody hell,’ said Markham, transfixed.

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

I took another sip of champagne because – well.

We made our way slowly around the room. Anticlockwise.

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

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

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

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

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

‘What do you think?’ murmured Markham.

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

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

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

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

I rolled my eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Hush,’ he said, taking my elbow and moving me on towards a waiter bearing a silver platter. ‘Have a vol-au-vent and calm down.’

I did both – one more successfully than the other.

We both recognised the objects on the next table. Three bejewelled golden eggs, each in a transparent display case and snuggled in a nest of purple silk. ‘Fabergé eggs,’ I said. ‘These could well be genuine’ – as if I’d know any different – ‘there are still a number of eggs unaccounted for, I believe.’

‘Three less now,’ said Markham, thoughtfully.

I opened my catalogue. The first egg – only about four inches tall – was described as the Alexander III Commemorative. The surface was enamelled in a beautiful greeny-blue with an almost metallic sheen. The exterior was divided into squares and diamonds by precisely placed jewels, each with a central design, in tiny, winking precious stones. It was exquisite and must have taken months of eye-straining work.

‘This is one of three eggs made to commemorate Tsar Alexander III,’ I said, reading from the catalogue. ‘Every egg contained a surprise and this one contained a tiny golden bust of Alexander himself. I wonder if it’s still inside.’

Markham was staring thoughtfully and said nothing.

The next egg was the largest at nearly nine inches high. ‘The Royal Danish,’ I read aloud, ‘containing miniatures of the King and Queen of Denmark.’ I stared at the beautiful pale blue and white object in front of me, its jewels sparkling even in the current not very good lighting. ‘Wow.’

‘There’s an elephant on the top,’ said Markham, critically. I don’t know what he had against elephants but I suspected one would have got the better of him at some point in his life.

The third egg was labelled the Nécessaire. ‘Designed as an etui,’ I read.

‘A what?’

‘An etui. It contains – or did contain – miniature women’s toilet items. No, hang on – women’s miniature toilet items. I’m surprised you didn’t know that.’

‘You’re reading that out from the catalogue, aren’t you?’

‘Maybe.’

We gazed in awed silence at the glittering bejewelled egg, nestling in its silk nest. Sapphires, emeralds, rubies, diamonds – it was superb. One of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen.

‘This one survived the Revolution,’ I continued, ‘and was last seen officially in 1952.’

There was no reply from Markham. He was staring at the eggs. No – actually he was staring at the transparent boxes containing the eggs. Each was in its own case so I suspected each egg was to be sold separately.

‘What are you thinking?’

‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’

‘Don’t believe you.’

‘If you steal something from someone who has already stolen it in the first place, then is it actually stealing? I mean, you’re not depriving the rightful owner, are you?’

‘A tricky conundrum, but possession is nine tenths of the law,’ I said.

‘Exactly what I was thinking. Shall we move on?’

We moved on. Up until this moment, everything I’d seen had been beautiful, magnificent, spectacular, or a combination of all three. Not this time. ‘Bloody hell, that’s ugly.’

Markham clutched my arm. ‘That’s the Jules Rimet Cup.’

‘The what?’

‘Your ignorance is astounding.’

‘Hey . . .’

‘It’s the World Cup.’

‘The what-what?’

He sighed in an unnecessarily exaggerated manner. ‘It’s the Jules Rimet Trophy. Presented to winners of the World Cup.’

I must have looked blank.

‘Football, Max.’

‘Oh. Sorry – I thought you were talking about something important.’

‘No, if a country won it three times then it was theirs to keep.’

I peered at the object in question. ‘As a punishment? A warning not to do that again?’

He ignored this. ‘It was presented to Brazil permanently and then it was nicked from Rio de Janeiro in 1983. Never found.’

‘You can see why. Who would want that on their mantelpiece? Not when you could have the Sarcophagus of Menkaure.’

‘You’re so weird,’ he said. ‘Let’s move on, shall we?’

We moved on. All the years I’d worked at St Mary’s and I’d never had any idea the Library had ever housed anything like this. Damp and dilapidated it might be at the moment, but there were all sorts of stunning artefacts housed here today. I’ve never seen such a treasure trove. Not outside of a museum, anyway. There were fragments of fossils, including, supposedly, a piece of Peking Man. We spared that a brief glance and then I touched Markham’s arm. On a small table, propped against the wall, stood, supposedly, Michelangelo’s Leda and the Swan.

‘Bloody hell,’ I said, staring, unable to believe my eyes.

‘Bloody hell,’ said Markham, for completely different reasons. ‘How the hell did that ever get past the religious censors? Is that swan doing what I think he’s doing? Is it suddenly very hot in here? It’s a miracle the paint didn’t melt.’

I moved him on. Before he melted.

There were various fragments of scrolls and papyrus, including, apparently, work by Sappho; some small statues rescued from Nimrud before parts of the city were destroyed by ISIS; what looked like a parliamentary mace – from Victoria, Australia, according to the catalogue; and any number of swords.

Including one in particular.

Unlike the gleaming, fairly modern-looking weapons lying around, this was a dull, badly nicked affair, with loose leather threading around the hilt. I stared for a moment. Given where we were and the supposed quality of the artefacts on offer, this was . . . intriguing.

I consulted my catalogue.

It’s not polite to hyperventilate in public. Sadly, my efforts not to hyperventilate in public nearly caused me to explode. I did manage to stay on my feet but I might have experienced just the faintest tremor.

I was looking at Durendal. The legendary sword of Roland. Durendal.

Originally forged by Wayland the Smith, maker of weapons and armour to gods and heroes, it was supposedly presented to the young Charlemagne by an angel and later given to Roland, who was one of the twelve legendary paladins of Charlemagne. At the Battle of Roncevaux Pass, Roland held the rear, enabling Charlemagne’s army to retreat to France, and doing massive damage to the Saracens, including, I think, the Saracen king and his son. Legend says Roland and his men routed the hundred-thousand-strong army.

Roland was killed and there are several versions of what happened to Durendal. Some say Roland attempted to destroy it by repeatedly clashing it against the rocks, but the sword could not be broken. The monks of Rocamadour claim he flung it into a deep ravine where it still lies – although not any longer if I was looking at the real thing. Some say that he fell, mortally wounded, and his last act was to try to conceal the sword beneath his body.

Whichever story was true, there was a possibility I was looking at the actual sword of Roland. Durendal. As with all the other exhibits, this one was securely encased in a transparent box, but I was able to walk all around it, getting as close as I could. At one point I was so close my breath was actually steaming the case. A security guard coughed and I moved back on wobbly legs. This sword could be genuine. It looked genuine. Imagine if it was.

Markham took my arm. ‘All right?’

I nodded, unable to speak. And that doesn’t happen often.

I looked at it again. Old. Tired. Battered. Torn from its resting place. The place where its master had left it. Doomed to end its days in a vault somewhere, possibly never to see daylight again. It didn’t seem right, somehow.

I looked around, torn between Oh my God, this stuff is amazing and Oh my God, these people deserve to be torn asunder by angry horses. And whether I meant the people running the auction or the punters themselves, I couldn’t say. Who is the greater criminal? The person who supplies the demand or the person who creates it?

The people here looked respectable enough – I bet at least half of them were pillars of their communities. Business-suited men. Impeccably turned-out women. All crouched gloatingly over what was nothing better than plunder. They were no better than the grave robbers of Ancient Egypt.

There were real treasures here – treasures that belonged to the world – that should be available for study and research. They’d been ripped from their context – and don’t get me started on what so-called lesser treasures would have been destroyed during the process – and were about to be snapped up as an investment by people whose souls were made of the sort of hairy gunk normally found at the bottom of a grease trap. I should do something.

I looked around. In addition to the two very superior gentlemen on the door, there were two more similarly dressed and acting as ushers, six highly visible security staff inside with an unknown number outside, two stately waiters, and another unknown number of catering staff doing a sterling job somewhere because the refreshments were excellent. All were men, all were very polite and professional and, I suspected, all were armed to the teeth. We wouldn’t be single-handedly arresting this little lot.

We left the Library and split up to get the lie of the land. Or looking for the toilet, as it’s known if you get caught.

The Ladies’ restroom was on the first floor – up the familiar rickety and uncarpeted stairs – Bashford would do himself a real injury if he fell down these – and just down the corridor from my old office. I resisted the temptation to go and look.

Internally, St Mary’s was in a pitiful state. All the windows were shuttered. Most of the doors were locked. Plaster was falling from the walls and the smell of damp was very strong up here. I know there were generators outside but I had no idea how the organisers had managed to get a water supply – probably better not to ask – so I gave the facilities a miss and headed back downstairs again to the Great Hall.

Markham was waiting for me at the bottom, just as a little bell tinkled. People began to move towards the rows of chairs that had been set out.

The Flying Auction was about to begin.

The ushers locked the doors and, interestingly, a paragraph on the back page of the catalogue informed us no one was allowed to leave until the auction was concluded. Even after they’d purchased their items of choice, everyone had no option but to stay put until the end. A sensible security precaution – and, I suppose, there was always the chance another item would unexpectedly catch their eye.

There were eleven other customers excluding me and the embryo Time Pirate at my side. Only two were women. One was the traditional Lady in Black. She sat slightly apart, her wide-brimmed hat shading her face. Completely pointless because she chain-smoked throughout the entire proceedings – despite murmured protests around her – and was so wreathed in smoke you couldn’t make out her features anyway. I’ve no idea how the auctioneer knew whether she was bidding or not but that was his problem. The other woman was fur clad and elderly. She kept her attention solely on her catalogue and appeared only interested in the supposed works of Sappho.

The men were more difficult to place. They all wore suits of either dark grey or black. Markham and I were easily the most casually dressed people there, and that included the staff. I think three of the suits had come together – they all seemed to know each other, anyway. They sounded German or maybe Austrian. Some of the others seemed to know each other, as well – there was a great deal of handshaking and some backslapping. They probably met at this type of thing quite often.

Markham and I split up. A greater chance of one of us getting away should things go tits up, said Markham. And for God’s sake, don’t bid for anything by mistake.

One of the waiters held a chair for me. I was off to the right – Markham to the left. I suspected the major bidders – the ones from whom they expected to make big money – were seated front and centre. However, the chairs were very comfortable with – ta dah! – cupholders. I placed my mysteriously empty glass in the appropriate holder where it was immediately topped up again. Seriously, I could get used to this.

I settled myself and then looked around. There were still two or three empty seats so possibly some people hadn’t turned up or had changed their minds. I could see two guards at the front door, wearing neat black suits and earpieces. They probably carried enough weaponry to invade a medium-sized country. Presumably their function was to keep us in and everyone else out. There was no Long Corridor because Hawking didn’t exist yet, so the only other exit from the Great Hall was through the kitchen. Another guard stood there. I knew there were two more in the Library, guarding the merchandise. Another one stood at the foot of the stairs. So that was the six accounted for.

The two waiters flitted about, either refilling glasses or brandishing trays of elegant snacks. We were encouraged to partake freely so I did, because you don’t want to be rude, do you?

I glanced casually around and Markham had vanished. Nowhere to be seen. I didn’t dare peer too closely. There was no shouting so presumably he hadn’t been caught yet. Whatever he was doing.

I made a business of scanning through my catalogue and marking up items in which I might possibly be interested, all the time keeping my eyes peeled for him. Whatever he was doing. I sighed and began to plan our possible escape. Out through the kitchen seemed quickest and easiest, although I wasn’t optimistic.

A bell tinkled and the auction began.

The auctioneer – a tall, cadaverous man in formal morning wear who looked like an undertaker but had the most melodious voice I’d ever heard – took up his position at the podium set up outside the Library, checked his catalogue, straightened his sleeves, ran an experienced eye over the expectant crowd, and began.

‘Good day, ladies and gentlemen. Today’s auction will be conducted in English. I believe most of you are comfortable with that language?’ He paused. No one disagreed. ‘The currency will be pounds sterling. Conversion charts can be provided on request.’ He paused again. No one took him up on the offer.

‘Before we begin, there are just a few tiny housekeeping details to address. As old friends will already be aware, the doors will be locked for the duration of the auction. I can assure you this is solely for reasons of security and absolutely not because we intend to hold you all to ransom afterwards.’

He paused again for the uncertain laugh. I made sure to smile at his jolly jape while thinking, shit . . .

‘Just to reassure you all – in the extremely unlikely event of a fire, please remain calm and our staff will escort you quickly and safely to the nearest exit.’

In common with every meeting I’d ever attended, no one took a blind bit of notice of the important information designed to save their lives in an emergency, instead shifting impatiently in the seats and rustling their catalogues.

‘And finally, as always, you will be required to surrender your catalogue on leaving. For obvious reasons. And now, if everyone is ready – we shall begin. Can we have the first lot, please.’

We started with the small stuff. Fossils, tablets, scrolls and such. I suspected the Amber Panel would be the climax of the afternoon. The pace was brisk. Each item was brought in and displayed on two big screens set up each side of the room. Anyone who wanted a closer look was invited to do so although no one was allowed to touch. That done, the auctioneer would name the opening bid and off we would go. Bidding was fierce and fast. There were, obviously, no telephone or internet bids. If you wanted to bid, then you had to be here in person to do it.

Bids were tremendously discreet. No one waved their arms around like a windmill. Half the time I had no idea who was bidding, but presumably the auctioneer, standing on his temporary dais outside the Library, had an excellent view of his audience.

I sat very quietly, hands firmly clasped in my lap, and hoped Markham – wherever he was – was doing the same. The cost apart, we’d never get a giant, inadvertently purchased sarcophagus home in the pod.

On completion of each sale, the artefact in question was taken to a separate room – part of what would be Wardrobe one day – presumably to be packaged and paid for. The ushers would have the next item up on display even before the first one had cleared the room. There would be murmurs of either congratulation or disappointment and then everyone moved on to the next lot. The whole thing was slick and well organised. These people were really professional. So fast were they that the first three to four items sold in under five minutes.

I looked down at the catalogue again. The final paragraph advised us that once the Flying Auction was over, guests were requested to vacate the premises no more than thirty minutes after the sale of the last item. I calculated the whole thing would be over and done with in less than two and a half hours. If they hadn’t received any sort of tip-off, the chances of the Time Police nailing any of this little lot were remote. All the better for Smallhope and Pennyroyal, of course. And Markham and Maxwell, too.

My attention, which had been wandering as I watched the crowd, was suddenly caught. The next item had not appeared as smoothly as it should have done. In fact, it hadn’t appeared at all. The air of expectancy gave way to concern. This was obviously unprecedented. People began to crane their necks towards the Library. Had something gone wrong? I too was gazing around with a worried expression, only I was looking for Markham. Who was nowhere to be seen. I sighed. Here we go.

A guard appeared at the auctioneer’s side and whispered urgently. As I watched, more armed guards moved suddenly in front of the doors. Which were locked, anyway.

The auctioneer, whose face showed no expression at all, turned back to the murmuring customers.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, many and profound apologies. This auction is at an end. No more items will be offered for sale this afternoon. I regret to inform you that we have a thief in our midst.’

Well, that was a bit rich considering who it was coming from.

I looked around again. Definitely no Markham in sight and I think we all know what that meant. He could be in the bog, of course, but it was much more likely he’d been in the Library. Being a naughty boy.

Things suddenly looked very ugly indeed. Black-clad security staff stood at every door. More were emerging. A lot more than I’d originally noticed. I wondered if they’d been outside watching for intruders. The punters were murmuring angrily among themselves. Outrage and ‘Do they know who I am?’ were only seconds away.

The auctioneer drew himself up to his full height. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, regrettable though such a step might be to us – nay, repugnant, even,’ he paused, suddenly looking considerably less benign than a minute ago, ‘you will all be searched.’

‘We will not,’ said a man behind me. Other people nodded in agreement. I had no issues with being searched, but heaven knows what Markham could have hidden in his nooks and crannies. Always supposing you could find someone foolhardy enough to approach his nooks and crannies without special equipment.

The auctioneer wasn’t having any of that. ‘Willingly or unwillingly, you will be searched. If you do not cooperate, you will be held down and searched, a procedure you will not enjoy. Now, we can do this the easy way – or we can do it these gentlemen’s preferred way, which is with lots of public groping and all the unpleasantness that will entail.’

There was a lot of angry muttering. One or two people stood up, clearly intending to head for the doors. They’d be turned back and things would get ugly. Time to establish my credentials as a good girl. I stood up. ‘You may begin with me.’

The auctioneer bowed gravely. ‘Thank you, madam. Your cooperation is greatly appreciated.’

I was taken into the Library, now half empty of treasures, although the big stuff was still here. The two other women trailed along as well. It would seem that women were to be searched in here – men in what would one day be Wardrobe.

I tried to see which artefact could be missing but the layout was different now that some items had been removed and it could have been anything. Except for the sarcophagus, the amber panel and Leda and the Swan, all still very visible.

The search was manual, carried out by a man because there were no women on the staff. He was thorough but professional. The groping threat might have been just that – a threat. On the other hand, of course, I might now be outside the accepted parameters of groping eligibility.

He certainly knew what they were looking for, even if I didn’t. At his request, I handed over my jacket. He went through the pockets and then patted me down in a general sort of way, but it was very obvious that whatever he was looking for, I didn’t have it. I suspected they’d checked their own footage and knew I hadn’t moved from the auction area. It wasn’t a strip search – I was wearing clean underwear, should anyone be curious – and it certainly wasn’t a rubber gloves job, either.

They did Chain-Smoking Lady at the same time. I was interested to see they’d managed to persuade her to desist for a few moments, though I have to say the haze appeared to be permanent.

Eventually he was done with me and muttering, ‘Thank you, miss,’ he passed on to his next victim – the fur-bedecked matron who gave him to understand she had boundaries and crossing them would result in the loss of his front teeth. Disappointingly, she didn’t say how that would be accomplished and I was ushered out before I could see how her search went.

Everyone was presented with a glass of champagne on completion of the search. I took my glass and circulated, listening to the outraged comments around me.

Markham had mysteriously reappeared. I have no idea from which direction he’d emerged. No one has worked out how he does that. He was now standing just inside Wardrobe, waiting in the men’s line, three from the end, hands in his pockets, looking bored.

I tried to keep my face expressionless. Would he have had a chance to stash the stuff or was it still on him?

Casually I made to wander over – there might be an opportunity for him to pass whatever it was on to me, now that I’d been done, so to speak, but a guard very politely turned me aside. For precisely that reason, I suspected. The guard wasn’t unpleasant. In fact, everyone was very polite. Mind you, for the amount of money some people were splashing out, they should be.

Markham twitched me a frown. Bugger. He hadn’t managed to shed his load. Now what?

His line was inching forwards. He was the next one to be searched. I had only a minute to think of something. I was just contemplating setting fire to the place – my go-to procedure in times of crisis – when there was a shout from outside, a bang that sounded very like an explosion, and a sudden impact on the doors as something big tried to gain access.

Everyone – punters and puntees – stood frozen. Including, it has to be said – me. Because I knew what this was. Sinking under the weight of stolen goods he might be, but suddenly, Markham was no longer the issue. Because if this was who I thought it was, then we could kiss goodbye to our profit margin and commission this afternoon. To say nothing of brief but thoroughly unpleasant treatment at the hands of the Time Police.

I had only seconds to think of something. I flung a quick prayer in the direction of the god of historians and just for once – it worked. I was damn near dazzled. Because I’d had a Brilliant Idea. A staggeringly Brilliant Idea. Stonking even by my standards. All I would need was a ton of luck and balls of steel. Stand back everyone and watch Maxwell Save the Day.

Without thinking – a very valuable character trait, trust me – I ran up the wobbly stairs to the half-landing. Glancing at my watch – because I had to get this right – I pulled out my SmartCard and held it high, at the same time shouting, ‘I am an accredited representative of the Time Police and you are all under arrest. Your pods are impounded and all stolen property seized by me.’

And suddenly found myself looking down at every gun in the western hemisphere. Unimportant, as it turned out. Barely had I finished speaking when the outer doors exploded inwards with an enormous crash and suddenly there were armoured men everywhere shouting at us to put our hands in the air and get down on the ground.

I don’t know if you’ve ever tried that, but it’s bloody near impossible – not without bruising your knees quite badly, anyway.

The bloody Time Police were here. Useless pillocks that they usually were. But not today. Today I was very pleased to see them.

They were fully helmeted so I couldn’t see their faces. I couldn’t read any of their names either but I didn’t think I recognised any of them. Which, I hoped, meant they probably wouldn’t recognise me, either. They strode around in typical Time Police mode, pushing people in all directions and shouting at the tops of their voices. I couldn’t see outside, but I didn’t mind betting the South Lawn was covered in pants-wetting black pods. Arrested by the Time Police. Oh – the embarrassment of it all.

I was grabbed by some sapling with the name Rosen imprinted on his chest. ‘You’re nicked.’

‘No,’ I said, ‘I’m not.’

You’re not supposed to argue with the Time Police. They don’t like it. He pulled out his sonic. I was seconds away from not having clean underwear any longer.

‘I’m one of you,’ I said. Not words I ever thought I’d have to utter again. ‘This is my ID. Do you have some higher form of life to which I could show it?’

He didn’t sonic me but I’m guessing it was close.

Very, very slowly, because I think I might have managed to annoy him, I offered him my SmartCard – the one with the magic hologram authorising the bearer to act on behalf of the Time Police when the occasion warranted, etc., etc.

He stared suspiciously. At least I assumed that was what he was doing, I could only see myself reflected in his shiny black visor. I compounded the danger I was in by using my reflection to check my lipstick was OK. Personally, even I’d have shot me.

He ran my card through his scratchpad and it bleeped. He nodded and reluctantly – very reluctantly – stepped back. I made sure I retrieved my SmartCard because Pennyroyal had been very explicit on the subject of lost cards.

The officer in charge, a big bloke, even for a Time Police gorilla, started giving orders for the transfer of prisoners. Time to act. And while everyone was concentrating on me, they weren’t concentrating on Markham and whatever he was up to.

‘Not so fast, young feller,’ I cried, trotting across the Hall and channelling Lady Amelia as hard as I could go. ‘I think you’ll find this is our collar. I and my team tracked them down. We followed them here and arrested them, and their pods, and their stolen property. Ergo – our collar. Our bounty.’

I flashed my SmartCard again, really quite enjoying myself.

He loomed but I wasn’t in the mood to be a loomee. ‘How many of them are you claiming you arrested?’

‘All of them.’ My gesture encompassed the entire room. ‘And I’ve already officially impounded the really rather impressive stash of goodies in the next room. And their pods outside. I’m awfully glad to see you, of course, because I’m really not sure how we’d have got all this lot back to TPHQ, so I’m grateful for your assistance. Nevertheless –’ I flourished my card again – ‘my collar, sunshine.’

One or two punters, possibly under the mistaken impression that sticking with me would enable them to escape the Time Police, nodded vigorously.

‘If you collect the security footage –’ I gestured to the cameras – ‘you’ll see that I arrested everyone here at 1529 hours, and you entered the premises at 1530. I’m happy to let you take them into your custody now, of course, because you’ll be saving me all that tedious paperwork.’

I scribbled a receipt on the back of my catalogue and handed it to him. ‘If you could sign my docket, please. Thank you so much, Captain. The prisoners are officially all yours. We’ll be off now and leave you to take all the credit. To which you are welcome, with my goodwill. Toodle-pip.’

Markham was standing behind him, innocence radiating from him in waves. He smiled politely at the officer, holding up his own SmartCard. ‘Good afternoon, officer. When you’re ready, ma’am.’

It wasn’t that easy, of course. They had to go through the footage first, but there I was, large as life – slightly larger, actually, because the food at Home Farm was very good – wreathed in the rosy glow of slightly too much champagne, single-handedly arresting the entire room and impounding their pods and stuff. I stood patiently while all this happened because my concern now was getting myself and Markham out of their clutches – not least because the wannabe Time Pirate standing beside me was riddled with stolen property.

Eventually and very reluctantly, they let us go.

‘Slowly and without running,’ said Markham as we left the Hall and headed out through the front doors.

Just to be on the safe side, I waited until we were down the drive, out of the gates and halfway to the village before asking, ‘What did you get?’

‘Two of the Fabergé eggs. Valuable and portable.’

‘And priceless.’

‘And that.’

‘How did you . . . ?’

‘Well, their security was very good as far as it went, Max. Those display boxes were uncrackable and I didn’t even try. Sadly, the silly sods didn’t think to screw them down because, well . . . why would they? I magicked away the two smaller ones.’

‘How?’

‘Sleight of hand. I just tossed them under the table. Hidden by the fancy hangings. Mind you – I had to pick my moment and I had to be quick. One minute there – the next minute gone.’

‘But wasn’t there some sort of alarm?’

‘As I said, Max, their security wasn’t as good as it looked. Mind you, I don’t know what else they expected. Everything was powered by generators. Their greatest strength – holding the auction in the past – turned out to be their biggest weakness. The bulk of their power went on lighting, heating and refreshments. And the cameras, of course.’

‘Didn’t they pick you up on camera?’

‘Well, there was a fair bit of agitated milling around when someone said they’d seen a rat.’

I regarded him suspiciously. ‘Who said they saw a rat?’

‘A genuine error,’ he said, looking hurt. ‘I think it was that woman’s fur thing actually, but the lighting was very bad.’

‘They’d have rumbled you sooner or later. Good job the Time Police did turn up.’

‘Yes, they’ve done us several massive favours today, haven’t they? And the best thing is they don’t even know it.’

‘Let’s have a look then.’

He looked shifty. ‘Ah.’

‘Oh God . . . what have you done?’

‘No, no, everything’s fine – it’s just that when the Time Police turned up, I grabbed the opportunity to stash the stuff in case they took it into their heads to search me.’

‘You idiot – I had everything well in hand.’

‘Well, I didn’t know that.’

‘You should have. I always have everything well in hand.’

‘How can you say that? I’ve never known anyone have anything less in hand than you.’

‘Says the bloke who stole two priceless eggs and then lost them.’

‘They’re not lost. I know exactly where they are. It’s just a case of . . . going back and getting them.’

‘Are you insane? The Time Police will be all over St Mary’s.’

‘They won’t find them.’

‘You hope.’

‘They won’t know they’re missing.’

‘They will if they match their haul against the catalogue. Missing – two Fabergé eggs.’

He shrugged. ‘I took a chance. If the Time Police do find them then we’re no worse off. If they don’t . . .’ He grinned.

‘Well,’ I said, doubtfully. ‘You might get away with it. They were very small. I suppose you could argue they’re the sort of thing that could easily be mislaid.’

‘Um . . .’ He looked even more shifty.

‘Oh God – what now?’

‘Well, it was just lying there. It seemed too good an opportunity to miss.’

‘What was too good an opportunity to miss?’

‘The sword. You know – the one you quite liked.’

The world swam before my eyes. I clutched his arm. ‘Durendal? The sword of Roland? You stole the fabled Durendal?’

‘I did indeed. If I wasn’t before, I’m certainly a legend now.’

‘Don’t you have to be dead before that can happen? Because if so I’m happy to oblige.’ I was struck by a thought. He looked remarkably sword-free. ‘Did you stash that too?’

‘No. Too big.’

Oh God. ‘So, where is it?’

‘It’s fine,’ he said. ‘Everything’s fine. Absolutely fine.’

‘Where is it?’

I knew the answer even as I asked. He was walking strangely, even for him.

‘Down my trouser leg.’

I can’t tell you what images flashed through my mind because these stories are supposed to be suitable for young people.

‘Which leg?’

‘Can’t you tell?’

‘Don’t tell me the eggs are down there, too.’

‘Of course not. They weren’t big but I couldn’t keep them on me so I shoved them behind one of the bookcases.’

‘What?’

‘What’s the problem?’

‘Well, I don’t know. I thought you’d have buried them. Or found a secret panel or something.’

‘I had seconds to dispose of some of the hottest property in History. And it’s only supposed to be temporary. I’ll retrieve them somehow later on.’

‘So, you shoved two priceless artefacts down an unknown hole where something unpleasant could happen to them, and another down your trouser leg where something unpleasant is certain to happen to it.’

Markham grinned. He does this. He does the most outrageous things and when you attempt to point out the outrageousness of the things he’s done, he just grins at you, and after a while your brain shuts down and you find yourself agreeing that his actions were entirely and completely reasonable, and well done, Markham.

‘Nothing wrong with the inside of my trousers.’ He shook his leg like an inaccurate drunk on a Saturday night.

Unpleasant image aside, I was horrified. ‘You’re kidding. It’s the sword of Roland. It deserves a bloody sight better than having all your private bits within nestling distance. Good job it’s not still sharp.’

He grimaced. ‘Yes, it is.’

‘A good job?’

‘Still sharp.’

I ignored any potential damage to his nether bits. They’d once survived a thorough scalding – they could handle this. ‘The eggs. Which bookcase?’

‘Second one from the end on the left. They’ll be fine. Lots of reasons they might not still be there in our time, of course. Renovation, rebuilding and all that. They could have been found any time since 1921.’

‘True – although we’ve never heard anything.’

He grinned. ‘No, we haven’t, have we? I’m a bit optimistic about this one, Max. But I’m not risking taking this bugger through time.’ He slapped his leg and then winced. ‘Not with all these Time Police bastards around. I’ll just stash this somewhere and then we’ll jump forwards and do a bit of sneaky retrieval, shall we?’

We were nearly back at the pod. I have to say I was surprised how well our pod blended into the general landscape. There were strange little huts all over the place, knocked together out of old bits of wood, sacking, mismatched bricks and stones – anything anyone could lay their hands on. Everyone in the village seemed to have at least one for animals, wood, farm stuff, fodder, old furniture, and so on. Our pod was just one of many.

‘What will you do with the sword?’

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

‘What sort of tree?’

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

‘With what?’

‘A sign or something.’

I had a cunning thought. ‘Your initials.’

He blinked. ‘We’ll need a big tree.’

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

‘What – all of them?’

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

‘Initials?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Altogether?’

‘Yeah.’

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

‘One.’

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

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

And it wasn’t over yet.

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

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

Markham nodded. ‘Date?’

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

‘Why then?’

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

Talk about over-explaining.

He was very unimpressed. ‘Such as?’

‘Sorry? Such as what?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Well when, then?’

He remained silent.

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

He still didn’t say anything.

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

‘I didn’t say it was.’

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

‘I never said it did.’

I glared at him.

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

Now I said nothing.

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

‘Can you remember where you left the sword?’

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

‘Then let’s go.’

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

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

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

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

‘True. Try to stay out of trouble.’

I laughed and he shot off into the woods.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Oh. Cheers.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wasn’t.

I sucked my finger and left him alone.

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

I said quietly, ‘Good morning.’

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

‘The one and only. How are you?’

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

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

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

‘Even yours?’

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

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

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

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

‘When will the Library open?’

‘Not until eight o’clock.’

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

‘Can’t Dr Dowson let me in?’

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

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

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

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

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

A little harsh, I thought.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Me and my monkey,’ I said cheerfully.

He selected marmalade. ‘Where is he?’

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

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

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

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

‘You chose a good one there.’

‘I did, didn’t I. You here long?’

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

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

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

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

‘It’s all right – we’ll take care.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then – finally – Dr Dowson turned up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She rolled her eyes and went away.

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

(a) serving cheaper biscuits
or

(b) serving no biscuits at all
or

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

Just saying.

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

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

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

‘What sort of other jobs?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘You shouldn’t doubt yourself.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I could do, but why?’

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

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

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

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

‘What was me?’

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

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

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

‘You found them?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘When St Mary’s was refurbished?’

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

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

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

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

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

‘In that case, come through.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Can’t find the bloody tree.’

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

‘I am keeping looking.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mrs Mack stared at me. ‘You?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Why?’

‘Look out of the window.’

She did.

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

‘Max . . .’

‘Yeah,’ I said.

‘Max . . .’

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

‘It’s underlined twice,’ I said.

‘I thought someone was just having a laugh.’

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

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

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

She still hadn’t moved. ‘Max . . .’

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

She still hadn’t moved.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘What are you . . . ?’

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

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

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

‘What are you doing here?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

I glanced at the clock. Three minutes to ten.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I don’t know what was passing through Treadwell’s head just at that moment – probably a desire to kill us all and take refuge in the pub – and as he struggled with the situation, the gates opened to admit a small convoy of cars. The Parish Council had arrived.

First – as always – was Mrs Huntley-Palmer, who swept in through the gates in her not-quite-as-classic-as-Dr-Bairstow’s-Bentley Bentley – a source of continual resentment for her, which Dr Bairstow had never done anything to alleviate, often handing Markham his keys and asking him to ensure his car was strategically parked next to Mrs H-P’s in the car park.

She slowed for a moment as though unable to believe her eyes – although the evidence was dangling there for all to see – and then she sped up. Scattering gravel in all directions, her not-quite-as-classic-as-Dr-Bairstow’s-Bentley Bentley screeched to an illegal halt outside the front doors. I caught a brief glimpse of her struggling to get out.

Up next was the vicar, the Rev Kev, pedalling sedately through the gates on his ancient bike and a little flushed on a hot day like this. I’d met him once and he seemed quite a nice bloke despite his calling. He rode past, waving at Evans, did a bit of a double take and then pedalled faster, his eyes fixed sensibly on the drive ahead of him.

Two other cars – occupants unknown – slowed and then slowed some more and then sped up.

The final car, a battered old Austin even more ancient than its owners, contained Miss Peek and Miss Frean, who didn’t mess about. There was none of this girlie slowing down for a better look. They actually stopped and got out.

Treadwell met my eyes. I gave him my best nothing to do with me look – because it wasn’t, just for once – and started slinging plates and cups on to the briefing table. Once I’d got everything nicely arranged, I helped myself to the last chocolate biscuit and headed for the door.

The last I saw of Miss Peek and Miss Frean, they were being greeted by Mr Evans, who’s a lovely lad and always very respectful towards elderly ladies. He stood to attention and threw them one of his best salutes, which I think both ladies very much appreciated, and then they all clustered around the rose bed – not too closely in some cases – presumably to discuss the curse of aphids and how to rid oneself of the pesky little buggers.

Mrs Huntley-Palmer was just surging through the front doors as I walked back around the gallery. I could hear her demanding to know the whereabouts of that Treadwell person and not to fob her off, so I didn’t even try, pointing politely and informing her he was in his office and very much looking forward to explaining St Mary’s latest gardening initiative. Then I headed for the goods lift and laughed all the way back to the kitchen.

I was just sneaking through the door when Markham Spoke. Before anyone says anything, he’s the one insisting on the capitals – don’t blame me. Apparently, they lent emphasis to his Quest. I asked if that was the one where he’d spent a couple of hours shoving his arm up dead trees and he got very huffy, banging on about badgers, stinging nettles, sinisterly rustling undergrowth, man-eating squirrels and heaven knows what else. Anyway, among all the complaints, self-congratulations and vivid descriptions of the perils he had survived, it would seem he’d found the sword.

I said, speaking of peril, had he ever seen Evans naked, and there was a thoughtful pause which I used to shut down my com. By this time, I was back in Mrs Mack’s office, where I handed over her hat and overall and thanked her politely for her hospitality. She thanked me for my morning’s work, warned me never to consider the field of catering as an alternative career, and tactfully averted her eyes as I transferred a fortune in Fabergé eggs into a Tesco carrier bag.

The Great Hall was empty – obviously. As was Wardrobe. I suspected the normal occupants had developed a sudden interest in gardening. I shot out of the front doors and down the steps just as Markham sidled around the corner. He was walking strangely again so I guessed the sword had been returned to its original hiding place.

I grinned at him. ‘Whosoever draweth this sword from these trousers will . . .’

‘. . . will not survive the experience,’ he said.

‘You can barely walk. How are we going to get back to . . . ?’ I stopped because he was leaning against the Bentley and grinning at me and it wasn’t pretty.

The penny plummeted. ‘You . . . that’s Mrs Huntley-Palmer’s . . . oh my God, that’s brilliant.’

‘Isn’t it?’ he said smugly. ‘And imagine the reasonable explanations Treadwell’s going to have to come up with.’

‘With you every step of the way,’ I said, ‘but for God’s sake, become rightwise king of all England and remove that sword before you inadvertently cut off your own todger.’

I averted my eyes while he rummaged.

‘Hold that,’ he said, thrusting something unpleasantly warm at me. I made him bundle it up in his jacket.

The car was unlocked. Mrs Huntley-Palmer had been in far too much of a hurry to get to Treadwell to bother about tiny things like that. She had, however, taken the keys with her.

No one was in sight. And I was pretty certain that while faces lined the windows of St Mary’s, no one was looking at us. Trust me, if you’ve got six naked men showing you the best way to eradicate greenfly, you have precious little attention for a spot of Grand Theft Auto happening just over there. We snuck into the car and closed the doors very quietly.

‘Are we going to hot-rod it?’

‘For the last time, Max – hot-wire. Hot-wire.’

‘Is it important?’

‘No more important than knowing the Saxons won at Hastings.’

I opened my mouth and then shut it again.

I don’t know what he did but the engine roared suddenly into life. Markham shoved it into gear and we raced off down the drive, tooting the horn for dear life. Past Evans and his team who waved like madmen. Past the near delirious Misses Peek and Frean, as they immersed themselves thoroughly in the unique horticultural experience that is St Mary’s, and out through the gate, straight down to the village.

As getaway dashes go, it was only a couple of hundred yards, but as Markham said, it was the gesture that was important. ‘It’s this one, isn’t it,’ he said, primly obeying the Highway Code, indicating left and pulling into Mrs H-P’s overdecorated cottage with its twee gables, immaculately landscaped gardens and historically inaccurate windows.

She’d left her garage door unlocked, so I nipped out and threw up the door. Markham pulled in smoothly and switched off the engine. He took a minute or two to wipe off our fingerprints and exited the car. I pulled the door back down again.

‘She’ll have reported us to the police by now,’ he said, giving the door handle a final wipe. ‘There’ll be lots of activity and searching – she’s a local JP so she won’t give them any choice – and after a while, someone will think to look in her garage and with luck, assume she’s losing her marbles and possibly arrest her for wasting police time. Score one for Dr Bairstow in his continuing battle against the evil wiles of the Parish Council.’

‘That’s . . . diabolical.’

‘Yep,’ he said, clutching his sword like a mini Arthur on his way to Mount Badon. ‘Fancy a drink?’

We crossed the road to the pub which was very quiet at that time of day. ‘This is no good – they’re not open yet,’ said Markham. He stood in the reception area, shouting, ‘What ho, mine host.’

I asked him what had happened to standards.

‘It’s Christmas,’ he said, indicating the bright summer sunshine outside.

‘Oh God,’ said Guthrie, appearing through a door. ‘Go away. We’re closed.’

‘No, you’re not.’

‘We are now.’

‘Give us a drink and we’ll go.’

‘How about I don’t give you a drink and you go anyway?’

‘How about you give us two drinks and we don’t implicate you in the theft of Mrs Huntley-Palmer’s classic-but-not-as-classic-as-Dr-Bairstow's-Bentley Bentley?’

‘How about half a glass of water between you in the car park and then you bugger off?’

‘Don’t you want to see what I’ve got in this bundle?’

‘No.’

‘Or what Max has in her carrier bag?’

‘No.’

Elspeth appeared. ‘What’s going on? Hey, Max.’

Both Markham and I stepped back. I said, ‘Elspeth? Is that you?’

‘Well, of course it is,’ said Guthrie. ‘Who did you think it was?’

‘She’s a different shape.’

‘So will you be if you don’t bugger off.’

‘Congratulations,’ I said to Elspeth. ‘You look amazing.’

She beamed. ‘I am amazing.’

‘Is he still making you work?’ demanded Markham, darkly. ‘Heaving beer crates and things around. Do you want me to have a word?’

‘No, he’s not and no, she doesn’t,’ said Guthrie. ‘And why are you still here?’

‘We need help,’ said Markham, crumbling into piteousness.

‘I’ve said that for years. Go and get it.’

I dropped the carrier bag on the reception desk because it was becoming heavy.

Elspeth peeked inside. ‘Ooh – pretty.’

Guthrie groaned. ‘Elspeth, don’t look. They’ll seduce you to the dark side.’

‘Too late,’ said Markham. ‘Can you pop these in your secret cellar for us?’

‘What secret cellar?’

‘Your secret cellar.’

‘I don’t have a secret cellar.’

‘Yes, you do. It’s an ancient pub. They all had secret cellars to hide the smuggled brandy and rum from the Revenue. You know: “Brandy for the Parson, Baccy for the Clerk”.’

‘What?’

‘“Watch the wall, my darling, as the Gentlemen go by.”’

‘You’re insane. Give that here before someone sees it.’

I just had time to snatch up the smaller egg – the Nécessaire – as Guthrie disappeared the sword and the other egg. After which we had a shot of something powerful to settle our nerves – Elspeth had orange juice – and we were shown the door.

Markham clutched Guthrie’s arm, hissing, ‘Keep it secret. Keep it safe.’

‘Bugger off and never darken my door again,’ said Guthrie amiably and I couldn’t help feeling that if he’d been Frodo Baggins then the entire Mordor jaunt would have proceeded down a very different path.

We made our way back to our pod, still patiently waiting for us in the sunshine. At least the solar power levels would have been topped up which would be one less thing to do when I got back.

I checked everything over carefully, because mistakes happen when you’re tired. And I was tired, but at least we had a couple of days off ahead of us. Good food – because Pennyroyal doesn’t produce any other sort – lots to drink, and an opportunity to put my feet up for a bit. I told myself this would be a very enjoyable holiday and I wasn’t going to miss the madness and mayhem of a St Mary’s Christmas at all. Not one little bit.

We landed with only the tiniest bump – because I’m not Peterson. I shut everything down while Markham checked some of his more remote areas for post-sword trauma. I gave him the egg to hold while I set everything to charge, then we decontaminated and left the pod.

Pennyroyal had forgotten to leave the lights on in the barn. I sighed. It was only a little thing but . . . oh, I don’t know. We fell over each other trying to plug in the umblicals but we got there in the end.

‘Come on,’ said Markham. ‘It’s freezing in here. Let’s get inside.’

‘Have you got it?’

‘Of course.’

‘Please tell me that’s not down your trouser leg as well.’

‘I am a possibly married man,’ he said, primly. ‘And you definitely are a married woman. The contents of my trousers are my own concern.’

‘I cannot think of anything that interests me less than the contents of your trousers.’

By this time, we were at the door and fumbling for the keypad. Markham banged in the code and finally we were inside. Light and warmth were all around us and we made our way to the kitchen.

Lady Amelia had returned in our absence and was enjoying a post-Christmas-shopping drink. An island of margaritaness in a sea of up-market shopping bags, hampers, beautifully decorated and beribboned gift boxes and the like. She was obviously exhausted, poor thing.

Pennyroyal was doing something to a very large and very naked turkey. For the avoidance of reader trauma, I should emphasise that the turkey was already dead. Although if it wasn’t, it very soon would have been after what Pennyroyal was doing to it.

‘Hello there,’ Lady Amelia cried. ‘How did it go? Successfully, I hope. Let me pour you a drink while you regale us with tales of your triumph.’

‘It didn’t go too badly,’ I said, sitting down. ‘The Time Police turned up, sadly . . .’

‘Arseholes,’ she said. ‘In fact, sodding arseholes. I hate it when they do that. Did they whip everything away before you had a chance to . . . ?’

‘Yes,’ I said, gloomily. ‘When we left, they were loading up one of their big pods. Illegals, punters, stolen property, pods . . . they got the lot.’

‘Well,’ she said, bravely downing the rest of her drink. ‘Never mind. We can’t win them all.’

‘We won this one though,’ I said, gently laying my catalogue/receipt in front of her. ‘We got the lot. Everything. Everyone. I was able to arrest the entire room and officially impound the contents a fraction of a second before the buggers came through the door.’ I pointed to the receipt. ‘Signed, sealed and delivered. By a certain Lt Rosen himself. Time Police verified. Official. With the whole thing recorded and over twenty witnesses, the Time Police had no choice but to agree. It was quite a moment. Even better, the bounties and rewards should be yours as soon as you present your receipt.’

Lady Amelia was jubilant. ‘What a haul! Oh Frabjous Day! Pennyroyal, come and look at this.’

Pennyroyal dragged himself away from his own private festival with the turkey at the other end of the kitchen. He flicked me a glance and just for a moment I thought he was going to smile. ‘Indeed, my lady.’

‘Artefacts, perpetrators, punters, pods, the lot. Wouldn’t be surprised if we didn’t have to work for the rest of the year.’

‘It is late December, my lady. We wouldn’t have worked for the rest of the year anyway.’

‘Well, you know what I mean. Bit of a party-poo this evening, I think. Lots to celebrate. Colleagues’ efforts to reward. Bounties to calculate and gloat over. Undrunk margaritas to rectify, and so on.’

‘Yes, my lady.’

Markham joined us at the table. ‘You know you told us we weren’t doing gifts this Christmas?’

She nodded. ‘I do. Not terribly fair on fifty per cent of the team, I thought. Besides – Christmas, you know . . . no families and . . .’

Markham heaved the jewelled Nécessaire out of his pocket and laid it gently on the table in front of her. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘We’re not that good at doing as we’re told. Merry Christmas to you both.’

Both Pennyroyal and Smallhope lead adventurous lives – even by our standards – and it takes a lot to astonish them but we managed it now.

Pennyroyal withdrew his arm from the turkey again and Lady Amelia actually put down her glass.

‘Bloody bollocking hell,’ she said. Not sure from where she picked up that particular phrase but just a gentle warning to all that I’ve copyrighted it.

The egg sat quietly on the kitchen table. Scores of tiny jewels winked in the soft overhead lights. The little object glowed in the warm kitchen, making everything else around it – especially me and Markham – look shabby and second-rate.

We didn’t touch it – although why I thought it would fall apart now after everything that must have happened to it in its life was a bit of a mystery. We just gently circled the table, viewing it from all angles.

I think it’s accurate to say they were gobsmacked – the pair of them.

‘I don’t know what to say,’ she said, eventually. ‘I genuinely don’t know what to say.’

‘We thought it would cover our board and lodging for a few weeks,’ said Markham, helpfully.

‘I rather think you might be understating its value,’ she said. ‘A month, at least.’

She sat back down again and picked up her drink.

‘By the way,’ said Markham to Pennyroyal, ‘the lights are out in the barn. Do you want me to take a look?’

‘Nah,’ he said, looking at Lady Amelia. ‘It’ll wait.’

There was a silence. I looked from one to the other. ‘What?’

Pennyroyal sighed and withdrew his arm yet again. ‘Never going to get the bloody turkey done at this rate. Now, my lady?’

‘Now,’ she said, decisively. ‘Follow me, everyone.’

We followed her along the corridor towards her own private quarters at the end.

‘We thought we’d open up the old sitting room,’ she said. ‘It’s got a lovely fireplace and lots of room to spread out in. We’ll need to put up some decorations, of course, because it’s looking a bit gloomy at the moment, and do the tree, and bring some logs in, but that shouldn’t take too long. Oh, and we’ll need to clear it out first. It’s a little cluttered at the moment.’

She flung open the door and stepped back.

I saw Leon. And Matthew. And Hunter, sitting on a sofa. No Flora, because you can’t take babies out of their own time. Well, you can, but trust me, it’s a world of pain and grief if you do.

I saw Dr Bairstow and Mrs Brown together by the fireplace. I saw Adrian and Mikey over by the tree ransacking a box of Christmas decorations and Professor Penrose wrestling with the Christmas lights – well, there was a catastrophe just waiting to happen.

I just had time to take it all in before Markham pushed past me to get to Hunter. She stood up, laughing. ‘I’ve come to take you home for Christmas. Flora’s waiting to see her daddy again.’

The next minute I was in Leon’s arms. He said, ‘Merry Christmas,’ and then Matthew was there, as well.

‘Mum, I built a machine that makes tea and biscuits at the same time.’

‘Well, good for you,’ I said, not panicking in any way because I’m a mother and my duty was clear. ‘Does it work?’

‘No, but Uncle Penrose says it will one day.’

I looked around suspiciously. ‘Where have you left Uncle Markham’s assistant?’

‘R2-Tea2? It’s in the barn. Uncle Pennyroyal wouldn’t let me bring it inside.’

I grinned at the suspiciously blank-faced Uncle Pennyroyal. This was why the lights had been off in the barn. So we wouldn’t see TB2 parked there.

There were greetings and hugs and drinks – together with a bloody great jug of margaritas for which I had to fight Lady Amelia – and someone lit the fire without incident and Mikey and Adrian started to put up the Christmas decorations and no one fell off the ladder – and there were jokes and laughter and everything was lovely.

At the height of the noise and chaos, Hunter and Markham got up quietly and went out of the door.

I followed him out into the hall. Hunter was putting on her coat.

‘Are you both going now?’

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Have a great Christmas.’

‘You too.’ I hugged Hunter. ‘Lots of love to little Flora.’

Markham took my hands and smiled. ‘Merry Christmas, Max.’

Hunter grinned. ‘He’ll be back before you know it.’

‘Oh God – really?’

‘Ready?’ said Pennyroyal, coming through the door. They followed him down the passageway. I opened the door back to the sitting room and when I looked back, they’d gone.

I settled myself in the crook of Leon’s arm and recounted the day’s adventures. Dr Bairstow especially seemed very taken with my story, particularly the bit about Mrs Huntley-Palmer’s nothing-like-as-classic-as-his-Bentley Bentley, which he made me repeat several times. With all the appropriate actions.

Leaving Leon supervising the Christmas lights – thus considerably enhancing Home Farm’s chances of seeing Christmas Day unignited – I went out to the kitchen to talk to Pennyroyal and see if I could help with supper.

‘Nah,’ he said, pricking sausages with what looked like a kukri. ‘You’ve had a busy day. I can manage.’

‘OK,’ I said. ‘After the holidays are over, can you and I have a word?’

He looked up at me. ‘Problem?’

I shook my head. ‘Idea.’

‘OK.’

Adrian brought in more logs for the fire. Under Professor Penrose’s instructions, Mikey and Matthew finished decorating the tree. Again, no one fell off the stepladder.

I had another margarita.

Then I took Leon upstairs to show him our room, which took an astonishingly long time considering it wasn’t a large space. And then, having given everything a very thorough inspection, he insisted on doing it all again, because, he said, you couldn’t take any chances with these old buildings. If it hadn’t been sausages for supper, we might have been there all night.

Eventually, with all the fires going, all the lights on and darkness relegated to outside where it belonged, we assembled around the table for a Christmas Eve supper of jacket potatoes and sausages. The curtains were drawn, the turkey was in the oven, good smells prevailed, and there was a fresh jug of something tasty nearby. Leon held my hand under the table in a manner that led me to believe there would be more room inspections after supper.

Dr Bairstow tinkled his glass and stood up. ‘With your permission,’ he nodded at Lady Amelia, ‘I would like to say a few words. Firstly, to thank our hosts for their generous hospitality.’

‘Hear, hear,’ we all said, raising our glasses.

Lady Amelia waved this aside. ‘We enjoyed your hospitality last year. It seemed only fair that this year it was our turn.’

He continued. ‘Never has the phrase living in interesting times been more appropriate. And we are living in uncertain times too. None of us knows where or how we will be living this time next year. Our lives have been overturned. We are scattered. We are apart – but we are St Mary’s and therefore we are never alone. I believe we may take comfort in small things. For instance, we are together, here and now, and one day, we will be together again. Family and friends will be reunited. And so, I would like to take this opportunity to say to you – and to all the friends of St Mary’s, wherever they may be at the moment – whatever the world throws at us, we shall prevail. I am convinced of it. Here’s to us. A very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to all.’

THE END

Acknowledgements

Thanks as always to everyone at Headline for all their hard work on my behalf.

Special thanks to my editors, Frankie Edwards and Bea Grabowska, who, on receipt of every manuscript, overcome their instincts to run for the hills and drag themselves back to the typeface with undiminished enthusiasm.

Thanks also to Jo Liddiard and Shadé Owomoyela for Marketing, Antonia Whitton for Publicity, Hannah Cawse for Audio, and everyone in the Sales, Art, Production and Rights teams as well.

More thanks to Sharona, my Copy Editor.

Many thanks to Hazel Cushion, my agent, who has not let lockdown get in the way of regular and enthusiastic use of the electrodes – or encouraging and motivating, as she calls it.

And thanks to everyone who has bought this story. I hope you enjoy it.

Discover More about Jodi Taylor

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.’

Available to download

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.’

Available to download

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.’

Available to download

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.’

Available to download

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.’

Available to download

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.’

Available to download

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?’

Available to download

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.’

Available to download

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 . . .’

Available to download

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.’

Available to download

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.’

Available to download

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.’

Available to download

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!’

Available to download

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.’

Available to download

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.’

Available to download

DESICCATED 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.’

Available to download

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.’

Available to download

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!’

Available to download

THE BATTERSEA BARRICADES – 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.’

Available to download

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.’

Available to download

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

WHY IS NOTHING EVER SIMPLE? – a short story

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 . . .

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘Well, this one didn’t turn out at all as I intended. It’s a bit embarrassing to admit I have no control over my writing – or even my entire life – but this one swerved off in completely unexpected directions. I suspect I’ve stored up all sorts of problems for myself in the future. Although that might be the official definition of a writer.’

Available to download

PLAN FOR THE WORST

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?

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘Well, when you’ve written Hope for the Best you have to follow it up with Plan for the Worst, don’t you? There’s a lot packed into this one and a number of resolutions – both good and bad. Sorry – no clues from me!’

Available to download

THE ORDEAL OF THE HAUNTED ROOM – a short story

On the longest night of 1895, a terrible storm rages above Harewood Hall. Max, Markham and an injured Peterson are welcomed in by the Harewood family, but soon realise that, in true St Mary’s style, they couldn’t have arrived at a better moment. For tonight marks the Ordeal of the Haunted Room. Dum . . . dum . . . dum . . .

Every Harewood heir must endure one terrifying night alone in the Haunted Room before he can inherit the family seat. Legend says that a ghost will murder anyone who isn’t the true successor.Henry Harewood’s ordeal will begin at midnight and end at dawn, but it isn’t long before everything goes horribly wrong . . .

Jodi Taylor says . . .

‘Another Christmas Crisis for the Traumatic Trio. With added food and fainting.’

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

Have you met the Time Police?

A long time ago in the future, the secret of time travel became known to all and the world nearly ended. And so an all-powerful, international organisation was formed to keep the timeline straight. At all costs.

Enter Jane, Luke and Matthew. The worst recruits in Time Police history. Their adventures kick off in . . .

Available to order

Discover Jodi Taylor’s gripping supernatural thrillers

There are some things in this world that only Elizabeth Cage can see. Important things. Dangerous things.

But what is a curse to Elizabeth is a gift to others – a very valuable gift they want to control. And they’ll stop at nothing to do so . . .

Available to order

To discover more about

visit

www.joditaylor.online

You can also find her on

/JodiTaylorBooks

@joditaylorbooks

@joditaylorbooks

Table of Contents

- Title
- Copyright
- Contents
- About the Author
- About the Book
- Also By
- Author’s Introduction
- Dramatis Thingummy
- The Toast of Time
- Acknowledgements
- Discover More about Jodi Taylor