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  Copyright © 2019 Jodi Taylor

  The right of Jodi Taylor to be identified as the Author of

  the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in Great Britain in 2019 by

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  First published as an Ebook in Great Britain in 2019

  by HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

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  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be

  reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior

  permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in

  accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication – other than the obvious historical figures – are

  fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  eISBN 978 1 4722 6424 4

  Cover design and illustration by zoedrawsthings.co.uk

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  About the Book

  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.

  Seconded to the Time Police to join in the hunt for the renegade Clive Ronan, Max is a long way from St Mary’s. But life in the future does have its plus points – although not for long.

  A problem with the Time Map reveals chaos in the 16th century and the wrong Tudor queen on the throne. History has gone 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.

  About the Author

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

  Born in Bristol and educated 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 pick up a pen. She still has no idea what she wants to do when she grows up.

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  By Jodi Taylor and available from Headline

  The Chronicles of St Mary’s series

  Just One Damned Thing After Another

  A Symphony of Echoes

  A Second Chance

  A Trail Through Time

  No Time Like the Past

  What Could Possibly Go Wrong?

  Lies, Damned Lies, and History

  And the Rest is History

  An Argumentation of Historians

  Hope for the Best

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

  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

  Elizabeth Cage novels

  White Silence

  Dark Light

  Frogmorton Farm Series

  The Nothing Girl

  The Something Girl

  Little Donkey (digital short)

  A Bachelor Establishment

  CONTENTS

  TITLE

  COPYRIGHT

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO BY

  DRAMATIS THINGUMMY

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  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

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  DISCOVER MORE BOOKS BY JODI TAYLOR . . .

  Dramatis Thingummy

  My resolution to write books with fewer characters has been even more unsuccessful than my resolution to give up chocolate. Please don’t judge me.

  St Mary’s Personnel

  Dr BairstowDirector of St Mary’s. One step ahead of everyone. As usual.

  Dr PetersonDeputy Director. Stubbornly refusing to act in his own best interests. Nothing new there.

  Mrs PartridgePA to Dr Bairstow. Kleio, daughter of Zeus, and Muse of History.

  History Department

  Mr ClerkHistorian.

  Miss PrentissHistorian.

  Miss SykesHistorian.

  Mr BashfordHistorian and chicken lover.

  Miss NorthHistorian. About to do her duty.

  AngusNon-egg-producing historian.

  R&D

  Miss LingossMulti-hued weirdo. Now wearing a beanie.

  Medical Section

  Dr StoneMedical doctor. Devious, cocoa-drinking optimist.

  Nurse HunterStill not giving anything away.

  Security Section

  Mr MarkhamHead of Security. Personal status still shrouded in mystery.

  Mr EvansSecurity guard. Not Welsh and suffering because of it.

  Technical Section

  Chief Tech. OfficerHusband, hero and bringing his own

  Farrelldoughnuts.

  Mr DieterAnother chief technician. Rumour says if you put one in a warm, dark place and cover it in shit then you’ll have another by the morning.

  Mr LindstromOrdinary technician. If there is such a thing.

  Time Police

  Commander HayCommander of th
e Time Police. Doing what she thinks is right.

  Captain FarendenHer adjutant.

  Captain EllisMatthew’s long-suffering mentor. Possibly not quite as indifferent to Max as he thinks. We’ll see.

  MaxFormer Head of the History Department. Now a lowly officer in the Time Police and making friends wherever she goes. Not so much changing History as re-routing it.

  Map MasterNot having a good day map-wise.

  Mr GrintGrint the Grunt. Let’s face it – he and Max are never going to get on.

  Mr NashRe-routing History partner in crime.

  Mr OliverAs above.

  Mr BevanAs above.

  Master SergeantZapped and zipped. And in her own

  Romano detention centre, too. She’s not going to be happy.

  Greta Van OwenFormer historian. Is she leaning back towards St Mary’s?

  Medical doctorAnother cheerful, chatty officer brimming with social skills and joie de vivre.

  Various others too numerous to mention.

  Others

  Mrs De WinterFormer schoolteacher. Sibylline Oracle.

  David SandsFormer historian. Shacked up with Rosie Lee and therefore entitled to some sort of award.

  Gareth RobertsFormer historian. Beard owner.

  Rosie LeePA to Head of History Dept. According to her job description.

  BenjaminHer son.

  Ian GuthrieFormer Head of Security. Has something planned but you won’t learn about it in this book.

  Unpleasant people

  Malcolm HalcombeFormer representative from Thirsk University. About to make the biggest mistake of his life.

  Major SullivanHalcombe’s right-hand minion. If he wasn’t claustrophobic before, then he is now.

  His men

  Sex-club owner and staff

  Atticus WolfeImmoral sex-club owner, trafficker, vicious and untrustworthy. Not your standard Jane Austen character.

  Demiyan KhalifeHis PA. Even more vicious and untrustworthy. Fortunately.

  Waiters, bouncers et al.

  The villain

  Clive RonanHeading for trouble.

  Historical personages

  Mary TudorMore sympathetic than might be thought.

  Her household

  Various Londoners

  Three men and their rabbit

  Priests and priestesses of Amun-Ra

  Citizens of Kush

  With a full supporting cast of:

  Bees, horses, doughnuts – ta-dah! dinosaurs, dodos, camels, a cobra, donkeys, a very pretty ram, and an enormous prehistoric snake poised to make the evolutionary leap but who now probably won’t bother.

  Matthew FarrellInsufficient data to comment.

  Author’s note

  There are many versions of the events that took place during the week 3-10 July 1553. And some discrepancies over the exact dates as well. This isn’t a huge problem if you’re studying events from the safe distance of nearly five hundred years in the future but presents certain difficulties when trying to put together an almost hour-by-hour account of the events happening at the time. I’ve tried to steer a middle course through all these different versions.

  My usual plea – historians, please do not spit on me in the streets – is more appropriate than ever.

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  I was worried about what Matthew would make of his parents’ disabilities, because – let’s face it – neither Leon nor I were in good condition at the moment. Leon was still recovering from being blown up in Hawking Hangar and I’d been shot and then fallen off the roof – hey, shit happens – and I was so busy worrying about us that I never even considered that Matthew himself might be walking wounded as well.

  Leon was getting around well and only sometimes needed his stick, but I was still in my wheelchair, looking pale and interesting. Or, if you listened to Markham, pathetic and feeble.

  St Mary’s, obviously, thought Leon and I were hilarious. There may be organisations where personal tragedies are treated with sympathy and support but, trust me, St Mary’s isn’t any of them. There were all sorts of jokes flying around which I’m not going to repeat because they were cruel and insensitive. Although the ones about Leon were quite funny.

  Anyway, it was the day of Matthew’s long-awaited visit. Leon and I assembled ourselves on the pan outside Hawking, awaiting his arrival. The Time Police were punctual. They always are. It’s one of their many irritating features, along with no sense of humour and shooting you dead if you look at them wrong. Their pod materialised – not one of their detention pods, I was pleased to note – and Matthew, accompanied by Captain Ellis, stepped out.

  I felt Leon stiffen beside me. I didn’t need to stiffen. With both ankles encased in flexi-boots and my arm in a sling and flexi-glove, I was there already and, now, here was Matthew making a major contribution to the Farrell family’s current lack of working limbs. His left arm was swathed in a bright blue flexi-glove that stretched nearly to his shoulder, and a large piece of sticking plaster adorned his forehead. It had an inaccurately depicted dinosaur on it.

  I glared at Captain Ellis, who spread his hands defensively. ‘Not my fault.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He fell out of a tree.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Lost his grip.’

  ‘I mean – why was he in a tree?’

  ‘His dirigible got stuck.’

  Leon said with interest, ‘Still not solved the steering problem, then?’

  In addition to having a poor grasp of priorities, men are very easily distracted. Especially techies.

  Matthew silently shook his head. He doesn’t talk much.

  Leon frowned. ‘Have you tried . . . ?’ And the three of them embarked on some long, incomprehensible discussion of interest only to those with a Y chromosome or no social life.

  I could see a change in Matthew since his last visit. He’d filled out and he seemed more confident. He still wasn’t chatty – his early years as a climbing boy in the slums of London had left their mark upon him – but his silences were no longer hostile. Dr Stone had warned me that, while bright enough, he would probably never develop as a normal child. ‘There’s nothing wrong with him, Max – he’s just a product of his early upbringing. Be prepared for the unexpected.’

  ‘Must talk to Auntie Lingoss,’ said Matthew, spotting her over by the hangar and setting off across the grass towards her, without even the slightest interest in why his mother was currently occupying the St Mary’s wheelchair.

  ‘Wait until he starts harvesting you for parts,’ said Leon, grimly. Noticing my expression, he added hastily, ‘Wheelchair parts, I mean.’

  Captain Ellis was grinning. I enquired coldly why he was still here.

  ‘Glad to see you too, Max.’

  I scowled at him but refrained from the traditional criticism of the Time Police’s failure to capture the renegade Clive Ronan, because the truth was that he’d been living on our roof for quite some considerable time and we hadn’t noticed. Although, to be fair, neither had the Time Police, but it was embarrassing, just the same.

  We had, however, managed to get his accomplice’s body out of the tree. The operation had been quite complex, involving a cherry-picker; Angus the chicken in an observer’s capacity; less than helpful suggestions from Professor Rapson, hanging precariously out of his window for a good view; an inordinate amount of rope; the entire Security Section; Miss Lee, who had taken advantage of my absence to be a nosey-parker; and finally, when the situation had become desperate, Mr Strong and his chainsaw. Down came the tree, Dottle and all. I was sorry I’d missed it, but I was in Sick Bay at the time, having my bones glued back together.

  It’s a bit of a bugger, but the truth is that, at my age, the bones don’t knit quite as quickly as they used to and I was having tr
ouble knitting. Or so Dr Stone said. I told him I personally blamed my lack of knitting on the poor standards of medical care currently prevailing at St Mary’s, and that turned out to be a bit of a mistake because the next moment he was standing over me with a syringe the size of a Saturn V rocket.

  I sat up in a hurry. ‘What the hell’s that?’

  ‘Nothing for you to worry your little historian head about. Good heavens, what has Mr Bashford done now?’

  I twisted my head to look and the bastard got me.

  ‘Ow,’ I said indignantly, rubbing my arm.

  ‘There,’ he said happily. ‘That should do it.’

  ‘What do you mean – should?’

  He stared dubiously at the syringe. ‘Well, I have to admit I’m not completely confident because I’ve only ever used this stuff once before and that was on a ginger tomcat.’

  ‘What? Did it survive?’

  ‘Sadly, no.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Relax. It was run over by a bus.’

  I sagged back on to the pillows with some relief.

  ‘Yes,’ he continued. ‘It had some sort of fit about ten seconds after the injection and ran out into the road. Don’t worry, we won’t let that happen to you.’

  ‘It’s a little late now, surely.’

  ‘We thought we’d tie you to the bed and hope that will increase your chances of survival. Hold still now.’

  ‘Bugger off.’

  He grinned. ‘Bet you’re feeling better now.’

  I hauled the bedclothes up to my chin. ‘Much. I can hear my bones knitting faster than a bunch of tricoteuses at the foot of the guillotine.’

  I know it sounds as if I’d done nothing but lie around and not be tied to my bed, but I hadn’t been wasting my time. While vari­ous flexi-boots and gloves did their work, soothing swollen flesh, healing broken bones and torn ligaments, and rendering me not only pain free but quite euphoric on occasions, I’d used the time to do some thinking. Quite a lot of thinking. And a lot of planning, too. I suspect Nurse Hunter was quite surprised at my docility. She was always bursting in and staring at me suspiciously, looking for signs of misbehaviour. I would stare back, looking for signs of marriage and/or motherhood. We – Peterson and I – had failed to elicit information of any kind from Markham. I don’t know why we thought we’d succeed where teachers, police, magistrates, the army and Dr Bairstow had failed. And if I wasn’t being either the starer or the staree then I was being surrounded by visitors.