No Time Like the Past (2 page)

‘It did it again,’ he said, not very coherently for someone brought up in the Major Guthrie tradition of concise reporting.

First things first. I opened my mouth to instruct Miss Lee to make him a cup of much-needed tea but she was already ahead of the game, gathering up two or three files at random and heading for the door, announcing she had to catch the post, which indeed, would be collected in about four hours’ time.

Peterson made us all a cup of tea. I contemplated adding something comforting from my bottom drawer, but Markham was incoherent enough.

‘I saw it again, Max,’ he announced. ‘A black figure falling past the window and when I looked out there was nothing there. Again. Dr Peterson was there. He saw it.’

‘I saw you see something,’ corrected Peterson. ‘I didn’t see anything fall, but I can confirm there was nothing there when we looked.’

‘But you must have,’ objected Markham. ‘A black figure, silhouetted against the sky. I saw arms and legs. Just for a moment, true, but you can’t mistake a falling body.’

I had a thought. ‘What did you hear?’

He sat quietly, running through things in his mind. ‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing? No cry? No sound of impact?’

He looked suddenly thoughtful. ‘No. There was no sound of impact. And if those buggers from R & D were playing silly devils and chucking things off the roof then you’d hear something, wouldn’t you?’

Yes, you would. I looked at him again. I’d seen him wounded; I’d seen him running for his life; I’d even seen him in drag, but I’d never seen him like this before. I couldn’t dismiss this lightly.

I stood up. ‘Tim, can you check out R & D? Tactfully, please.’

He nodded. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘I’m going to talk to Dr Dowson.’ I looked at Markham. ‘You all right?’

‘Yes. What shall I do?’

‘Nothing for the minute. If someone is playing a trick on you then the best thing you can do is ignore it. We’ll meet back here at half past three.’

Dr Dowson was our librarian and archivist. In most organisations, this means spending the day in an atmosphere of tranquil serenity. Books don’t usually give you a lot of grief. Today, he was standing on his desk, pounding the ceiling with a broom handle and shouting curses. In Latin, Greek, and possibly Morse code, by the sound of it.

He broke off to greet me with a smile. ‘Ah, Max. Can I help you?’

I knew better than to ask what was going on. He and Professor Rapson from R & D were old friends, which apparently was sufficient grounds for mutual abuse and recrimination at every opportunity. R & D occupied the rooms directly overhead and possibly inadvertently, but probably not, had done something to incur his wrath.

I helped him down off his desk and told him the story and feeling a little foolish said, ‘Is it possible, is it just possible, that we have a ghost we didn’t know about?’

He stood still for a moment, polishing his spectacles, lost in thought, and then disappeared briefly, returning with an old book, two modern pamphlets, and a file of loose photocopies.

He laid them on a table and we sat down.

‘Right.’ he said. ‘A potted history of St Mary’s.

‘The first building, the original Priory of St Mary’s, was raised by Augustinian monks towards the end of the 13
^th
century. That building stood for more or less a hundred years. I think the location was too remote, however, and over the years, the monks just drifted away. St Mary’s, the village, and all the land with it were eventually acquired – it doesn’t say how – by Henry of Grosmont, 4
^th
Earl of Lancaster. He did nothing with it, other than collect the rents, but his son-in-law, John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, bestowed the manor upon Henry of Rushford, a comrade in arms, for services rendered during the 1386 campaign in Castile.

‘This next bit is interesting. There was, apparently, a bit of a skirmish during the confusion of 1399. While Richard II and Henry Bolingbroke jostled for supremacy, it would appear another branch of the Rushford family took advantage of the confusion and attacked St Mary’s. Despite a spirited defence, the attackers did gain entry, but were foiled when, in a last desperate effort, the defenders, led by Henry’s granddaughter, attempted to burn the place down to cover their escape to Rushford. Exciting days, eh?

‘Matters were obviously resolved satisfactorily, but St Mary’s passed out of the Rushford family’s hands a generation or so afterwards. No heir, as is frequently the case, I’m afraid. I really don’t know why these things are always passed down through the male line – girl children are much more robust than their brothers, and let’s face it, Max – while here may always be doubt about the identity of the father, most people are usually fairly clear about who the mother is.’

He brooded for a while on this unsatisfactory state of affairs, and who was I to disagree?

‘Anyway, St Mary’s had any number of owners, all of whom apparently lived perfectly peacefully, even during troubled times. The estate survived the Wars of the Roses, religious strife under the Tudors, and then, in the late 16
^th
century, the Laceys of Gloucestershire moved in.’

He opened the book. ‘The Civil War split them down the middle, with half of them supporting the King and the other half lining up for Cromwell. In 1643, a contingent of Parliamentary forces, led by Captain Edmund Lacey, left Gloucester for some reason, and rode here. Accounts are jumbled, and there are several versions of events, but they all agree that the Great Hall was torched and Margaret Lacey and her elder son, Charles, perished in the blaze. The younger son, James, who was only a very young boy at the time, escaped to the roof, was rescued by a servant, and taken safely to the village. Captain Lacey disappeared, was tried, and found guilty of murder in his absence and was never seen again. The Hall was rebuilt by James and is largely as we see it today. With the exception of the glass lantern, of course.

‘St Mary’s continued to change hands, shedding land as it went, until it fell empty in the late 19
^th
century. It was too big for a family house and since there was no longer any land left to support it, it became a bit of a white elephant, I’m afraid. It was used as a convalescent home for soldiers during and after World War I, and then was a school, briefly and disastrously. Apparently, someone left a tap running and the ceiling came down in what is now Wardrobe. It was used as a hospital again during World War II. And that’s it until we moved in, my goodness, some years ago now.’ He tapped the documents. ‘It’s all here. And much more besides.’

I said slowly, ‘Thank you, Doctor, but I think might I have what I need.’

He nodded. ‘1643?’

‘Yes, I think so. The little boy ran up to the roof. He survived, but maybe someone did fall. Captain Lacey, maybe. Perhaps that’s why he was never seen again. Because he died. Either in the fire or in the fall. Can you get me more details?’

He smiled. ‘I expect so. Give me an hour.’

We reconvened. There being no sign of Miss Lee, I made the tea this time.

‘You can’t be doing it right,’ said Peterson, smugly. ‘My Mrs Shaw brings me chocolate biscuits as well.’

I ignored him.

‘There seem to be two candidates for Mr Markham’s falling body. In 1399, there was a minor skirmish over ownership. I suppose it’s perfectly possible someone could have fallen from the roof.’

‘Or possibly, someone had a mad wife and she jumped, like Mrs Rochester,’ added Markham, never one to choose the obvious option. ‘And she dashed her brains out on the flags below.’

‘When did you ever read
Jane Eyre
?’ demanded Peterson, easily distracted.

‘I broke my ankle.’

We waited, but that seemed to be it.

‘Or,’ I said, firmly dragging them back on track, ‘in 1643, during the Civil War, the Roundheads arrived, threatened, and possibly murdered a woman and child. But, and this is the interesting bit, a second child sought refuge on the roof. Describe the body again.’

‘There’s nothing to describe. A black shape with arms and legs.’

‘Could it have been a child?’

‘It could, I suppose. It didn’t look very big, but …’ He sounded doubtful. ‘I don’t know. And anyway, the kid survived, didn’t he? It’s a bit of a mystery.’

Silence. We slurped our tea.

‘Well,’ said Peterson. ‘Now what? All very interesting, but what has this to do with us?’

There being no good answer to that one, we finished our tea and stood up. I walked with them to the door and out into the corridor.

‘Sorry, mate,’ said Peterson to Markham. ‘There’s just too little to go on. Apart from your daily hallucinations, we just don’t have any – ‘

Markham stiffened, pointed, and cried, ‘There! Oh, my God! Again!’

We stood paralysed, because we’re highly trained professionals, and then rushed to the window. Peterson heaved it up and stuck out his head. I elbowed myself some room and did the same. Markham, realising he stood no chance, ran to another window and looked out.

The sun shone down on the frosty gravel. We looked to the north. We looked to the south. Markham thought to hang even further out of the window, twist himself around, and look up.

Nothing.

‘Come on,’ he said, and we headed for the roof, emerging through a tiny door in the north-east corner. Despite the frost, the roof was a bit of a suntrap and pleasantly warm. In the old days, it had been gabled and tiled, but at some point in its history, the roof had been replaced and flattened. Groups of tall chimneys stood around. The big glass lantern, which let some much-needed light into the Hall, was over there. Over to the right, we could look down on lower roof levels. There was even a fire escape, which Markham headed towards. We watched him go.

‘What do you think?’ said Peterson. ‘It’s astounding, isn’t it?’

‘I know. I’m still gobsmacked. Jane Eyre!’

‘Are we going to check this out?’

‘Are you kidding?’

‘We’ll never get permission.’

‘Leave that to me. I’ve had a brilliant idea.’

He groaned.

Markham returned and crossed to the parapet, which was just above waist height and looked down. We joined him.

‘Bloody hell,’ said Peterson, stepping back.

‘You all right?’

‘Fine,’ he said, averting his eyes and stepping four or five paces back. ‘Just tell me what you see.’

‘Nothing. There’s nothing.’

‘And nothing’s been up here today,’ added Markham.

He was right. Our footprints were clearly visible on the frosty roof. And only ours. Unless someone had come up here barefoot …

We looked around, our breath frosty in the cold, sharp air.

I looked at Markham. ‘Are you up for this?’

‘How can you even ask?’

I spent the rest of the day putting things together and just as the lights were coming on and people beginning to drift towards the dining-room, I went to see Dr Bairstow. Who looked about as pleased to see me as he usually did.

‘Dr Maxwell. Can I assume you bring me details of your progress organising our Open Day?’

‘All in hand, sir,’ I said with massive confidence and even more massive untruthfulness.

‘Then you are here because …?’

‘I’d like to claim my jump, sir. If you please.’

At the end of our unpleasantness last year, as an outright bribe, he’d offered me the assignment of my choice. At the time, I’d considered Thermopylae, but now …

‘Really? Where and when did you have in mind?’

‘St Mary’s. 1643.’

He finished stacking his files and straightened, slowly.

‘And interesting choice. May I ask why?’

‘Ghost-hunting, sir.’

He looked at me sharply. ‘There is no ghost at St Mary’s.’

‘We may have recently acquired one, sir.’

‘How?’

I considered my options, remembered no good ever came of lying to the Boss, and said, ‘On three occasions now, Mr Markham has seen someone fall off the roof. When we go to check it out, there’s never anything there.’

‘1643? That would be the dastardly Captain Lacey?’

‘That’s the one, sir.’

He moved the files around.

‘Do we have a working pod?’

‘I’m sure Chief Farrell will have one tucked away somewhere, sir.’

I waited. There was no need to remind him of his promise.

‘Do not let the fact that I have pre-approved this assignment lead you to believe I will not wish to see the usual mission plan, Dr Maxwell.’

‘Of course not, sir.’

‘Or that the usual parameters will not apply.’

‘No, sir.’

‘And your team will consist of …?’

‘Me, Dr Peterson, and Mr Markham.’

‘Ah. The usual suspects. Why Mr Markham?’

‘It’s his ghost, sir,’ I said, more accurately than anyone realised at the time.

‘Well, I suppose Mr Markham’s absence from St Mary’s is always a cause for celebration.’

‘Well not really, sir. He’ll still be here – just four hundred years ago.’

He sighed. ‘I don’t really think that will be long enough.’

Chapter Two

I held a briefing.

Since there were only the three of us, we held it in my office. I’d asked for tea to be served. Miss Lee had left out mugs, milk, lemon, sugar, tea bags, and even put water in the kettle. Sadly, she had made no attempt to assemble these component parts, all of which remained scattered around the room. It was like a treasure hunt.

‘Your turn,’ I said to Markham and to the accompaniment of the boiling kettle and clattering teaspoons, I laid out Dr Dowson’s findings.

‘OK, listen up. It’s 1643 – right in the middle of the Civil War, just before the Siege of Gloucester gets under way. At some point, for reasons unknown, Captain Edmund Lacey slips away from the city and makes his way here, to St Mary’s. His elder brother, Rupert,’ I laid down a photograph of a very dim painting of a pouty man in a vast wig, ‘is away fighting for the King.’

Markham gulped his tea. ‘They were on opposite sides?’

‘Yes. Something not uncommon in this particular conflict. Families divided. Some members fought for the King – others for Cromwell. Anyway, Captain Lacey fetches up here on …’ I consulted Dr Dowson’s notes, ‘3
^rd
August. Sir Rupert, whereabouts unknown at this point, is away, leaving behind his wife, their two sons, and, presumably, one or two servants. Later that same day, there’s a fire – probably set by the Roundheads. Perhaps Edmund wanted her to surrender St Mary’s and she refused. Although it’s hard to see how she could possibly have resisted. Anyway, there’s a fire. A serious fire. It starts in one of the rooms off the gallery and spreads rapidly. Wooden floors, wooden furniture, hangings – it all goes up.

‘Margaret Lacey and the elder son, Charles, don’t survive. The younger boy, a lad of around six or seven, somehow gets away. He runs up to the roof. Maybe he’s pursued by Edmund Lacey who died when the roof came down. We don’t know. Edmund Lacey never rejoins his unit. In fact, he’s never seen again, so yes, at this time, we’ll assume he died in the fire, along with his sister-in-law and nephew.’

‘What happened to James?’

‘James was rescued by a servant and taken to the village for safety. Sir Rupert was killed later on in the war, so eventually James inherits St Mary’s. The estate escaped the fines and imprisonment usually imposed on the losing side by virtue of his youth. When Charles II later restored the monarchy, he escaped the fines or imprisonment usually imposed for having a Parliamentarian in the family, by virtue of his father’s service to the king. As far as everyone knows, he lived happily ever after.’

We drank our tea.

‘So no one falls off the roof?’ persisted Markham.

‘Well, if anyone does, I’m betting it’s Edmund Lacey.’

‘Why did he desert his unit in the first place?’

‘Dunno. Maybe he thought his brother was already dead and came to claim the property.’

‘But there were sons to inherit.’

‘Yes,’ I said quietly, ‘but there was also a fire in which one son died. The other escaped only thanks to their servant. Who knows for what purpose Captain Lacey chased him up onto the roof?’

Silence.

‘A bit of a bastard, then,’ observed Markham.

‘Yep.’

‘And that’s who we’re going to check out?’

‘Yep.’

‘Cool.’

We assembled outside my favourite pod, Number Eight, and checked each other over.

Peterson and Markham both wore unpadded jerkins, knee-length breeches, stockings, heavy leather shoes, and mirth-provoking hats. Fortunately for me, ladies’ costumes were looser and more comfortable than the heavily embroidered portable torture chambers of Elizabethan times. However, I do have to say that for the short, mildly overweight ginger historian, the mid-17
^th
century wasn’t a good look. In addition to what Mrs Enderby from Wardrobe maintained was actually a very moderate bum roll, my ankle-length full skirt made me look wider than I was high.

 I unwisely enquired whether my bum looked big in this.

There was a brief pause.

‘Bloody massive,’ said Peterson. ‘I’m not sure we’ll get you through the door.’

I glared at him. ‘You could at least have tried for a tactful response.’

‘That was the tactful response. Be grateful.’

‘Yes,’ said Markham, ‘because I was going to say …’

‘Just shut up and get in the pod.’

Once inside, we were joined by the centre of my universe. Or Chief Farrell, as everyone else called him. He wore the orange jumpsuit of the Technical Section and was, as usual, festooned with tools and implements. He had more silver in his hair than when we first met, but his blue eyes remained as bright as ever. He winked at me and began to check over the console.

Markham stowed our gear while Peterson and I ran our eyes over the read-outs.

‘All laid in,’ said Leon, stepping back. ‘Return coordinates, too.’

Arising out of an assignment last year, I’d made two recommendations to Dr Bairstow. The first was that there were no more open-ended assignments. Peterson and I had jumped to 14
^th
-century Southwark last year, and he’d carelessly picked up a touch of plague. ‘Just a twinge,’ as he was fond of saying, but I’d been unable to get him back to St Mary’s.

Not normally a problem, they’d have sent out search parties soon enough, but in this case, being open-ended, we had no return date, so no one knew we were in trouble. By the time St Mary’s realised something was wrong, it could have been too late. So now, every assignment had a specific return date and time, and if we didn’t show up, they’d come looking for us.

The second recommendation concerned contamination. We always decontaminate on our return from every mission. It had occurred to me – actually, I’d been sniffing around Peterson’s groin at the time, but never mind that – that our modern bugs could be as fatal to contemporaries as theirs were to us. Look at Cortéz and the South American natives. After some discussion, we now not only decontaminated on our return, but also when we left St Mary’s as well. As a further precaution – Peterson getting the plague had been a nasty shock for everyone, especially for him – the inside of the pod was painted in that special paint that kills bacteria when lit with fluorescent lights and a strip across the floor  ensured our shoes were treated as well.

Markham shut the locker doors and said, ‘All done.’

‘That’s it,’ said Leon. ‘Good luck, everyone.’ He held out his hand as he spoke. We shook hands, just as we always did when others were present. His hand was warm and rough and firm. ‘Stay safe.’

‘You too,’ I said.

He smiled for me alone and then exited the pod. The door closed behind him.

I seated myself. ‘Whenever you’re ready, Tim,’ and felt the familiar tingle of anticipation.

‘Computer – initiate jump.’

And the world went white.

We stared at an unfamiliar St Mary’s.

‘It looks so small,’ said Markham, eventually, and he was right.

This was not the St Mary’s we knew, with its flat roof and Virginia creeper, its sprawl of outbuildings, its car park, and neat grounds. This St Mary’s was square and blocky, with a steeply gabled roof from which protruded randomly placed chimneys which wouldn’t have been part of the original structure and must have been added on as required.

There were no formal gardens as we knew them, just trees, bushes, an orchard and extensive vegetable garden. Sheep cropped the ancestor of Mr Strong’s beloved South Lawn. There was no drive leading to the house, just a wide grassy path, rutted with wagon tracks. The gates were high, wooden, and firmly shut. Most noticeably, there was no lake. A string of ponds had been built – by the monks, I guessed – to supplement their diet with the occasional carp. When Capability Brown or whoever got his hands on St Mary’s, they and the surrounding boggy area would be excavated to make the familiar lake.

The silence was complete. I remembered what Dr Dowson had said about the monks drifting away. What was pleasant seclusion at our St Mary’s was remote and lonely at this one. Everything looked small, rural, and at the moment, very peaceful.

That wouldn’t last. In a day or so, much of this St Mary’s would be gone.

There was no one around. The shadows were long. The sun was setting.

‘Right,’ I said, turning from the screen. ‘Plan of action. We wait until it’s dark and then nip across the grass. Do not fall over the sheep. We’ll approach from the east, and see if we can get a window open. Then it’s up the stairs to the attics and find a place from which to observe events. Tomorrow is the day the Roundheads turn up.’

‘Are we likely to encounter any dogs?’ said Peterson.

‘Unlikely,’ said Markham. ‘Not if they have sheep outside, but in case my lady has a lapdog or similar …’ He flourished a small aerosol.

‘Not pepper,’ I warned. The last thing we wanted was a pack of hysterical, sneezing, panic-stricken spaniels yelping all over the house.

‘No, it’s something the professor knocked up. It’s quite harmless. It just … confuses them.’

‘Well in that case, for God’s sake don’t spray it on Peterson.’

‘Don’t spray it at all,’ warned Peterson. ‘Remember the professor’s hair lacquer?’

He had a point.

Responding to the many complaints from female historians about the difficulties of managing the enormous lengths of hair with which they were cursed, the professor had given the problem some thought and then announced the invention of a hairspray guaranteed to hold in place even the most unruly locks. Delighted historians had given it a go until the whole lot was confiscated by Dr Bairstow when it was discovered to be so inflammable you couldn’t even walk under a streetlight without featuring in the next scientific paper on spontaneous human combustion.

I interrupted the discussion between Peterson and Markham who had gone on to dispute exactly who had been responsible for the small fire in the copse behind our big barn, and why Peterson couldn’t land a pod without bumping it, which was threatening to become wide-ranging and noisy.

‘The sun’s going down. I’m going to decontaminate now,’ and operated the lamp. The cold blue light glowed and I felt the hairs on my arms shiver.

‘I swear that bloody thing makes you sterile,’ muttered Markham.

Nobody fell over a sheep. A minor miracle in itself.

The moon came up, sending long blue shadows over silver grass. We flitted from tree to tree in a magical landscape. The woods came down much closer to the house than in our time and we hugged the treeline as far as we could.

I’m not sure we needed to. There were no signs of life anywhere. No lights showed from the blank windows. No dogs barked. Even the stables seemed deserted. Had Sir Rupert taken all his horses off to war? Not even leaving his wife the working horses for the land?

We paused for a final check before approaching the house.

‘This is suspiciously easy,’ murmured Peterson. ‘Are we even sure anyone’s at home?’

‘We’re not sure of anything,’ I whispered, which was true. Our assignments usually had a stated purpose. To observe the fall of Troy. To carry out an in-depth study of the Cretaceous period. To catch a glimpse of Isaac Newton. Today we’d just turned up. To see what, if anything, happened next. To solve a mystery we weren’t sure even existed. And, of course, to discover why something or someone only Markham could see kept falling from the roof.

 It seemed likely that out here in the country, the household went to bed at sunset and rose at dawn. The house certainly looked bedded down for the night.

‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Before we lose the moonlight.’

We made a final dash to the side of the house, standing in its shadow as clouds scudded across the sky. The wind felt cool on my face.

Peterson and Markham felt around the windows while I kept watch. They didn’t seem to be having any luck until suddenly, in the dark, I heard a quiet tinkle of broken glass.

‘What?’ I said, managing an outraged whisper with no trouble at all.

‘Relax,’ said Markham. ‘I was doing this when I was in my cradle.’

‘What?’ said Peterson. Ditto with the whisper.

‘That’s why I had to join the army.’

‘You’re a felon?’ It takes talent to hiss when there isn’t a single ‘s’ in the sentence.

‘Well, yes. Aren’t you?’

‘You had to join the army?’ persisted Peterson.

‘Yeah. It was that or – something else.’ He was working the catch. ‘Served under Major Guthrie. Didn’t you know? There we go.’

He eased open a small window.

We paused for irate householders, watchdogs, patrolling servants, crying children, whatever, but apart from the odd owl, we could hear nothing.

Markham was fastidiously picking up the glass.

‘What are you doing?’

He tossed the shards under a bush. ‘We don’t want some servant noticing a broken pane and raising the alarm.’

‘Oh. Good thinking.’

‘I offer a complete service,’ he said smugly.

We pushed the curtain aside and clambered in, dropping silently to the floor. Risking a little light, Peterson flashed a tiny torch.

We appeared to be in a small, wood-panelled room. I wondered if this was Sir Rupert’s study. Just faintly, I thought I could make out the smells of wood, leather, and tobacco. Like most rooms of the period, it wasn’t over-cluttered with furniture and what there was of it was dark and heavy. Markham crossed to the door, opened it a crack, and peered out. Peterson and I remained motionless.

He watched and listened for what seemed a very long time then signalled us forwards. From now on, there would be no talking.

We glided across the Great Hall, keeping to the shadows. There was no glass lantern in the roof. Massive hammer beams supported the high ceiling, but the smell was just the same – dust and damp stone. I listened to St Mary’s talking to itself in the darkness. Boards creaked. Timbers settled. Somewhere, a mouse skittered along the floor.

The staircase was unfamiliar, being long and straight and running up the wall. The famous half-landing, the centre of St Mary’s life, had yet to be born. We eased our way around the gallery, silent apart from the swish of my skirts. From somewhere in the dark, I could hear the murmur of a woman’s voice. A high, childish voice answered. We veered silently away, past closed doors, heading for the narrow staircase in the corner. Our plan was to spend the night in the attics and that was all the plan we had. We had no idea what to do next. We’ve had missions fall apart around us – that happens all the time – but this was the first time we’d set out with no clear course of action. It was quite exciting, actually.