Lies, Damned Lies, and History Read online

  LIES,

  DAMNED LIES

  AND

  HISTORY

  THE CHRONICLES OF ST MARY’S BOOK SEVEN

  JODI TAYLOR

  '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.'

  As Max would be the first to admit, she's never been one for rules. They tend to happen to other people. But this time she's gone too far and everyone is paying the price.

  Grounded until the end of time, how can she ever put things right?

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Dramatis Thingummy and Key historical figures

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Other Jodi Taylor Titles

  Other Accent Press Titles

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to Catherine Curzon and her excellent website for all her help with Caroline’s efforts to enter Westminster Abbey.

  Thanks to Jacquie for patiently answering my midwifery queries. And then answering all the questions I forgot to ask the first time round.

  More thanks to Phillip Dawson, who advised me on police procedures.

  Thanks also to Sally Mylles and Alex Mylles for setting me straight on the turd equation. Any subsequent errors are all mine. So hands off!

  Thanks to my editor, Rebecca Lloyd, who never lets my perpetual failure to grasp the basic rules concerning punctuation, spelling, grammar, character development, plot structure and basic novel writing get her down.

  Thanks to Hazel for the ham sandwiches, hot buttered crumpets and crispy fried beef. To say nothing of her generous hospitality.

  Dramatis Thingummy

  Dr Bairstow Director of the Institute of Historical Research at St Mary’s Priory. Hanging on by the skin of his teeth. Not a happy man these days.

  Mrs Partridge Kleio, daughter of Zeus, Muse of History. PA to Dr Bairstow. Usually quite cross with Max anyway, so nothing new to worry about.

  Max Chief Operations Officer. In even more trouble than usual.

  Leon Farrell Chief Technical Officer. Just as furious with Max as everyone else is.

  Mr Dieter Second Technical Officer.

  Dr Tim Peterson Chief Training Officer and potential Deputy Director. Also in deep disgrace.

  Major Ian Guthrie Head of the Security Section. Furious with Max, which is OK, but disappointed in Markham – which isn’t.

  Mr Markham Guthrie’s number two. Also in it up to his neck.

  Dr Helen Foster Chief Medical Officer. Always furious with everyone, so no change there.

  Dianne Hunter Chief Nurse and long-suffering recipient of Mr Markham’s affections. Probably still speaking to him out of pity.

  Prof. Rapson Head of Research & Development. Not often quite up to speed on current events, so relatively neutral.

  Dr Dowson Librarian and Archivist. As above on current events.

  Theresa Mack Kitchen Supremo. Former urban terrorist, so tends to reward rule breaking with second helpings of gooseberry crumble.

  Mavis Enderby Head of Wardrobe. ‘Not sure what it’s all about, but look at the damage to this costume and it’s so difficult to remove bloodstains.’

  Rosie Lee PA to the Chief Operations Officer. Doesn’t care what’s going on. Everyone else is an idiot anyway.

  The History Department Conflicted. Loyal to Max and Peterson, but horrified at what they have done. Concerned for the future. Makes a change from fretting about the past!

  Gareth Roberts Soon to be ex-historian.

  David Sands Keeping an eye on him.

  Mr Clerk Historian.

  Paula Prentiss Historian.

  Tom Bashford Historian.

  Elspeth Grey Unenthusiastic historian.

  Mr Phillip Atherton Pathfinder. Bemused but loyal.

  Miss Elizabeth Sykes Pathfinder. Ditto.

  Miss Celia North Pathfinder. Never bemused. Loyal for as long as it suits her.

  Malcolm Halcombe Possibly from Salcombe.

  Lisa Dottle A bit of a wet hamster.

  Clive Ronan Renegade historian and bad guy. Hasn’t been seen for a while.

  Chancellor and members of the Senior Faculty, University of Thirsk. Nominal employers and purse-holders. All head-burstingly furious with St Mary’s and out for blood.

  Dr Kalinda Black St Mary’s liaison officer with Thirsk University. Keeping out of it.

  Miss Lingoss Former trainee historian in search of excitement. Transferred to R&D and found it.

  Key historical figures

  Caroline of Brunswick Unofficial Queen and professional troublemaker. Fat.

  George IV Her even fatter husband.

  Arthur, Dux Bellorum Yes – that Arthur.

  Old man in cave Your guess is as good as mine.

  John Lackland King John. About to lose something in The Wash. Not a sock!

  Herne the Hunter Or not. Possibly an hallucination. Or not.

  Also featuring besieged Britons, marauding Saxons, excited Londoners, supernatural apparitions, Rushford’s finest, pickpockets, bluestones, thieves in the night, possible wolves, a clergyman with a high moral tone, a number of lightly damaged Time Police Officers, an unspecified amount of Turd Tumbler, and Oscar the Ringworm.

  Prologue

  I’ve never been one for rules. They don’t really seem to apply to me. I can’t begin to count the number of times I’ve had to stand in front of someone’s desk while they talked at me, sometimes for some considerable length of time. The only good thing is that, usually, it’s only me involved.

  But not this time. This time I was in serious trouble. This time I’d done something really bad. Never mind that I thought it was for the best of reasons. This time I’d really gone too far.

  I couldn’t complain. Not long ago, Dr Bairstow, who always saw further than anyone else at St Mary’s, had tried to warn me, saying, ‘You need to take care, Max. Great care. You are beginning to tread the line between what is acceptable and what is not. From there, it only takes the smallest step to find you have stepped over that line and that you have done the wrong thing for the right reasons. I am warning you, in future, to be very, very careful.’

  I should have listened to him and I didn’t. This time, I’d not just crossed the line – I’d practically pole-vaulted over it.

  And this time I’d involved Peterson – whose future at St Mary’s was looking very shaky indeed.

  And Markham who, thanks to me, would now probably never succeed Major Guthrie as head of the Security Section.

  And that wasn’t the worst of it. People had lost their jobs. Roberts, my youngest historian had given in his notice. He’d insisted on trying to take all the blame. There had been a brief shouting session with Dr Bairstow and then Roberts was gone, hurling himself through the front doors and crashing the gears of his car in his haste to get down the drive and out of the gates. With the state he was in, I should
n’t have let him go, but there was no holding him.

  And David Sands – long-time friend and ally. He’d resigned, too.

  And possibly the worst of all, the Chancellor of the University of Thirsk, Dr Chalfont, who had fought our corner on so many occasions – she was out as well. She’d stood her ground and argued for us – which was good of her because she’d been more furious with me than anyone else, Dr Bairstow included – and the knives that had been waiting for this opportunity for years came out. She’d been allowed to retire. Ill health, they said, but that was just for public show. I’d got her sacked as well. And Dr Bairstow was only hanging on by the skin of his teeth.

  I’ve done some stupid things. I’ve been reckless, but never have I ruined so many lives or left such a trail of destruction behind me.

  I suppose the story begins with Bashford’s attempt to emulate William Tell.

  Chapter One

  ‘Right you lot,’ I said, crashing through the door to the men’s ward in Sick Bay, mug of tea in one hand, Accident Book in the other. ‘What’s the story here?’

  They regarded me guiltily. Historians Bashford and Roberts were contravening rules and regs by sitting on the bed. Sands hung over the back of a chair. Miss Lingoss was perched in the window seat, giving us all a first-class view of today’s hair extravaganza. A red, gold, and orange sunburst was exploding around her head. She looked like an exuberant cactus.

  The villain of the piece – or the idiot responsible for this particular catastrophe, if you wanted to use Dr Bairstow’s exact words – was propped up on his pillows looking interestingly pale, his left ear covered with a dressing, which was, in turn, held in place by a rakishly angled bandage.

  Someone found me a chair. One of the few advantages of being pregnant: you’re not allowed to stand up. God knows why. You’re just as pregnant sitting down. Anyway, I made myself comfortable, put my feet up on Markham’s bed, pulled over his fruit bowl, and helped myself to his grapes. He knew better than to argue. He was – they all were – in some deep shit here. Since this was something that happened on a regular basis, no one seemed that bothered.

  My name is Maxwell, and I’m in charge of the History Department – or The Usual Suspects, as they’re sometimes known. Everyone present belonged to me, with the exception of Markham – or The Patient, as he’s sometimes known. Or, on one or two occasions – The Accused.

  He was fussing about my boots on his bed.

  ‘If Nurse Hunter comes in I’ll get the blame,’ he said.

  That’s another thing about Markham. He’s as brave as a lion, gets himself shot at, blown up, set on fire, dropped or drowned far more often than is probably good for him, and it’s all water off a duck’s back, but one harsh word from blonde, fluffy Nurse Hunter and he looks like a puppy with a brick round its neck.

  ‘The sooner I get this sorted, the sooner I’m gone,’ I said. ‘Who’s going to start?’

  I’m not sure why I bothered asking. No one at St Mary’s is backward when coming forward to tell their side of the story. They all talked at once, of course, and it would have been sensible of them to have spent a little time first agreeing which was going to be the official version, but we got there in the end.

  ‘William Tell,’ said Roberts, and from that moment, everything was crystal clear. No reason why I shouldn’t have a little fun, though.

  It would seem that an argument – sorry, academic discussion – had arisen over various myths and legends, and someone had dragged in William Tell. From there, it was only a short trip to the story of Tell shooting the apple off his son’s head. From there, it was an even shorter trip to the possibility of such a feat. From there, it was only a tiny step to them having a go themselves, and from there it was as inevitable as a politician cheating on his expenses claim that Markham would lose a body part.

  Back in the 14th century, Switzerland was occupied by the Austrians. They set up a hat on a pole in the Altdorf marketplace and instructed the people to bow as they passed. William Tell refused. Tell was famous for his prowess with a crossbow and, displaying the sense of humour for which Austrians are renowned, they thought it would be a hilarious idea to place an apple on his son’s head and challenge him to shoot if off.

  Which he did.

  Apparently, various historians had scoffed at this, one thing had led to another, and the next minute, half of St Mary’s was outside with a crossbow and a bowl of fruit.

  You do see where this is heading, don’t you?

  ‘Whose idea was this? I asked and the way no one looked at Miss Lingoss told me everything I wanted to know.

  ‘So why was the apple on Markham’s head and not Miss Lingoss’s?’

  ‘Oh come on, Max,’ said Sands. ‘Stick an apple on her head and you’d never see it again.’

  True enough, I supposed.

  ‘Who shot the bolt?’ I demanded and, astonishingly, no one could remember.

  I sighed and closed the book. The only reason we weren’t shut down years ago by the Health and Safety Executive is that we only have to file official paperwork if someone is actually carted off to hospital. Since we have our own very well equipped Sick Bay, we’re able to keep most things in-house. Although if anyone ever checks up on exactly how we manage to get through two Accident Books a month, we’re in serious trouble.

  ‘So what really happened?’ I said, putting the book away so they knew we were off the record.

  ‘He moved,’ said Bashford indignantly.

  ‘I did not,’ said Markham, even more indignantly.

  ‘For the love of God, I was only ten feet in front of you. I couldn’t possibly have missed. You moved.’

  ‘You couldn’t hit a bloody barn door,’ replied Markham with spirit. ‘I told you we should have used a pumpkin.’

  I enquired exactly what the damage was.

  ‘Lost the top of my left ear,’ he said proudly. ‘I look like Spock. Not the baby guy. The other one.’

  ‘Actually,’ said Lingoss, whose fault all this probably was, ‘we should do the other one as well. So he’s balanced.’

  ‘It’ll take a lot more than snipping his ear to balance Markham,’ said Bashford, who obviously hadn’t forgiven him for the slur on his marksmanship.

  ‘You don’t think it’s spoiled my looks, do you?’ said Markham, anxiously.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing could.’

  He brightened. ‘Thank you.’

  I don’t think that was quite what Bashford had meant but, at that moment, Hunter appeared with a tray of instruments and a determined expression, and we all found good reasons to be somewhere else.

  I had an excellent reason for being somewhere else. Dr Bairstow wished to see me. I suspected he was about to make a spirited attempt to reduce Markham’s salary on the grounds that he was paying full whack for someone with two good ears, and suddenly he had a security guard with only one and three quarters.

  As I said, my name is Maxwell and I’m Chief Operations Officer here at St Mary’s, or the Institute of Historical Research at St Mary’s Priory, to give us our full title. We observe and document major historical events in contemporary time. Calling it time travel incurs Dr Bairstow’s displeasure and you really don’t want to do that, which was why, as I trotted towards his office, I spent the time deleting some facts and rearranging others, so that I could present him with a coherent and, above all, very nearly accurate account of the events that had led Markham to shed yet another body part.

  I handed Mrs Partridge the Accident Book and she waved me through to his office.

  ‘Good morning, sir.’

  ‘Dr Maxwell. Please sit.’

  I complied, eyeing the two mission folders on his desk. This looked interesting.

  He never wasted time asking me how I was feeling, which I always appreciated. There was no point. I had significantly failed to suffer morning sickness, swollen ankles, cravings for bizarre combinations of food or any of the symptoms typical of your gravid female. Occasionally I
suffered a little absent-mindedness. Twice Leon, my husband, had found his beer under the bathroom washbasin and the toilet cleaner in the fridge, and if he wanted to put that down to baby brain that was fine with me.

  ‘Two assignments. Both from the usual source.’

  He was referring to the University of Thirsk. Our employers. Or so they liked to think.

  ‘So what have we got, sir?’

  The first is to observe the coronation of George IV …’

  ‘OK,’ I said, mentally assigning that one to someone else. Anyone else.

  ‘And the other is …’ he paused dramatically, because if he does have a weakness, it’s to be a bit of a showman, ‘Arminius.’

  I was enthusiastic. ‘Herman the German! Cool.’

  He leaned back. ‘Yes, but not for you. I’d like you to give Arminius to Mr Clerk.’

  ‘What? But why?’

  He raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I’m pregnant, sir,’ I said indignantly. ‘Not diseased. Or incapable. Or deficient.’

  He raised the other eyebrow, effortlessly indicating that, for me, it was possible to be all four simultaneously.

  ‘That was the deal, Dr Maxwell. No hazardous jumps. If you decline the coronation, I can always send Miss Sykes. She needs the experience.’

  ‘So George IV or nothing at all.’

  ‘How quickly you grasp my meaning.’

  ‘Being pregnant has given me superpowers, sir. Which you could use to the advantage of St Mary’s by sending me to the Teutoburg Forest and Mr Clerk to Westminster Abbey.’

  ‘I don’t think you will find this assignment to be lacking in excitement.’

  ‘But it’s so …’ I paused.

  He looked up. ‘So …?’

  ‘So … girlie, sir.’

  He sat back and prepared to enjoy himself. I sometimes think winding me up is the one small daily pleasure he allows himself.

  I gritted my teeth and persevered. ‘The Battle of the Teutoburg Forest is the battle that halted the Roman advance across Germany. A key point in History, and as such, sir, you need an experienced historian to lead the mission and …’

  ‘Do you doubt Mr Clerk?’

  ‘No sir, he’s very competent. It’s just that he’s not …’ I paused to grope for a word, which was a mistake.