A Catalogue of Catastrophe Read online

  Copyright © 2022 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 2022 by

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  This Ebook edition published in 2022 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 8687 1

  Cover design and illustration by Sophie Ellis

  Author photo © Accent Press

  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

  Finally – finally! – Max has that nice office job she’s always wanted. The one with no heavy lifting and no one tries to kill her. Well, one out of two’s not bad . . .

  Punching well above their weight, Max and Markham set out to bring down a sinister organisation founded in the future – with a suspicious focus on the past.

  Max’s focus is staying alive long enough to reunite with Leon and Matthew, alternately helped and hindered by St Mary’s. Who aren’t always the blessing they like to think they are.

  But non-stop leaping around the timeline – from witnessing Magna Carta to disturbing a certain young man with a penchant for gunpowder – is beginning to take its toll. Is Max going mad? Or are the ghosts of the past finally catching up with her?

  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. Over twenty books later, she still has no idea what she wants to do when she grows up.

  Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also By

  Dedication

  Dramatis Thingummy

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  Acknowledgements

  Have you met the Time Police?

  Discover more Jodi Taylor . . .

  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

  A Catalogue of Catastrophe

  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

  The Toast of Time

  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

  This book is dedicated to the memory of

  Leslie Robert Steian – honorary member

  of the St Mary’s Institute of Historical Research.

  Dramatis Thingummy

  Max

  Going quietly mad.

  Markham

  Founding – and only – member of Pros and Cons. Marches to the beat of his own drum. Frequently followed by a crash, bang and clatter because the little drummer boy didn’t look where he was going.

  Lady Amelia Smallhope

  Upmarket bounty hunter.

  Pennyroyal

  Her butler.

  Bridget Lafferty

  Max’s boss. The nicest one she’s ever had.

  Eddie Middleditch

  Non-talking non-toupee wearer.

  King John

  Not a happy bunny.

  Peterson

  Co-opted historians and one ­enthusiastic security guard.

  Sykes

  Sands

  Roberts

  Keller

  Dr Bairstow

  In the process of being rehomed. With mixed results.

  Mrs Brown

  Evans

  Mrs Proudie

  Definitely no longer on Team Winterman and Feeney.

  Kathleen

  Sarah

  Maggie

  Sally

  Mary

  Rat Face

  Miscreants – as Lady Amelia would c
all them.

  Smuggy

  Lady Nicola de la Haye

  Hereditary chatelaine of Lincoln Castle.

  Her steward

  Her maid

  Her guards

  Her runners

  Her garrison

  Falk de Breauté

  His archers

  William Marshal senior

  A bit of a legend.

  His army

  You surely don’t want me to name them all.

  A smith and his mates

  Pissed as newts, the lot of them.

  Guy Fawkes

  Well, we all know about him. Failed mass murderer.

  Thomas Ward

  One of the most important people in History. Remember his name.

  Guards

  Soldiers

  Boatmen

  Dr Dowson

  Master forger.

  Major Guthrie

  Seeing even more of St Mary’s than when he worked there.

  Leon

  Good thing someone knows where the plunger is kept.

  Matthew

  Nervous about his exams but ­‘Algernon, take me, take me, my body is on fire for you,’ should see him through.

  Professor Penrose

  Matthew’s teacher.

  Adrian and Mikey

  Making trainspotting cool.

  Commander Treadwell

  Bringing new meaning to the phrase ‘Getting shot of . . .’

  Captain Hyssop

  Head of Security.

  Gallacio

  Cox

  Keller

  Mentioned twice!

  Harper

  Jessop

  Glass

  Lucca

  The one whose name no one can remember including the author

  Dr Stone

  Bearer of some unwelcome news.

  Nurse Fortunata

  Hair stealer.

  Martin Gaunt

  I think we all knew we hadn’t seen the last of him.

  His minions

  Leaving their master to sink or swim. SPOILER ALERT – he doesn’t swim.

  Two paramedics

  Who wander in and then wander back out again.

  Janet Thompson from the kitchen

  Markham’s personal Spotted Dick provider. Possibly the best job description ever.

  Various other members of that accursed organisation who zip in and out of the story as the fancy takes them.

  They came in the night. No warning. No nothing. The first I knew about anything was when I opened my eyes to find the dark shape of Pennyroyal leaning over me, which, trust me, is enough to propel anyone into full consciousness in record time.

  He had his hand over my mouth. Not threatening – just a light pressure which nevertheless conveyed the necessity for utter silence.

  I nodded understanding. There was the faintest clunk as he left something on my bedside table before ghosting silently back into the dark.

  I swung my legs out of bed, pulled jeans and a sweatshirt over my pyjamas, jammed my feet into trainers, and had a quick look at what he’d left me. Night visor, blaster, handgun, stun gun. It would seem something fairly dangerous threatened. Jehovah’s Witnesses, perhaps.

  I had no idea what time it was. There was complete silence and it was cold. Very cold. Shivering, I pulled on my night visor, took two deep breaths to calm myself and then eased my head around my bedroom door. I could see a bright green blob further down the landing, which I hoped very much wasn’t just some carelessly discarded nuclear waste. Since I wasn’t at St Mary’s any longer, it seemed safe to assume the blob was only Markham.

  Keeping to the long runner that ran down the middle of the landing, I made my way to the top of the stairs, found my own patch of deep shadow, checked my weapons, tried to slow my heart rate . . . and waited.

  We’d practised for this. The sudden appearance of unwelcome visitors. All of us knew where to go and what to do when we got there. Dr Bairstow and Mrs Brown would take themselves down to the special cellar – ‘bunker’ would be a better description – with instructions only to open the door when they heard the safe word, no matter who or what was happening at the time.

  Pennyroyal and Smallhope would cover downstairs – Penny­royal stationed at the back door that led from the barn where we kept our pods, and Smallhope at the front door. I had the stairs and Markham the long landing. Between the four of us, we had every inch of Home Farm covered.

  We’d always known this day would come. With our lifestyle, it was almost inevitable. We had two likely scenarios here: one – we’d finally managed to well and truly piss off the Time Police and they’d decided to wipe us off the face of the earth, or two – what Lady Amelia always persisted in referring to as the criminal classes had come to the conclusion we were too good at what we did and turned up to murder us in our beds. Since our main occupation was to descend on said criminal classes, arrest them and then sell their arses to the Time Police for extremely handsome bounties, this was the more likely option.

  Alone in the silent darkness, I adjusted my night visor, eased my position and waited. Whoever they were, wherever they’d come from and whatever they wanted, we were ready for them. The house was surrounded by a complicated network of sensors, which was obviously what had aroused Pennyroyal, who takes security very, very seriously indeed. We were well armed, well prepared and knew exactly what to do. Unless these intruders had brought a battalion or two, the odds were with us.

  ‘Anything?’ said Pennyroyal in my ear.

  ‘Negative,’ said Markham.

  ‘No,’ said Smallhope.

  I opened my mouth and in the crackling silence of the house, I heard a faint sound. Directly over my head. A very slight chink.

  I whispered, ‘Heads up. They’re coming over the roof.’

  The loft hatch was to my left, further down the landing. I inched my way past two empty bedrooms and crouched in an open doorway. The hatch was about ten feet away. I sensed rather than heard Markham move up to take my place at the head of the stairs.

  ‘I’m coming up,’ said Pennyroyal softly – presumably so we wouldn’t shoot him – and the next moment he’d joined me in my doorway.

  That slight sound came again. Difficult to identify. And then I had it. Someone was very slowly and very carefully taking the tiles off the roof. I could picture the scene. A sharp knife to cut through the waterproof membrane and insulation and then they’d have access to the attic. This was a Pennyroyal attic. There would be no generations of ancient furniture and useless bric-a-brac. The space would be clean and clear. Easy for them to move around in.

  I looked up. I doubted they’d use the hatch – it would be a pinch point. We’d easily be able to pick them off as they dropped through. No, they’d come straight through the ceiling. I endeavoured to convey this to Pennyroyal through the medium of mime.

  He shook his head either in exasperation or admiration – it really wasn’t clear. He obviously didn’t have my skills.

  I wasn’t too worried. There were three of us up here – and two of those were Pennyroyal and Markham. Unless our uninvited guests had armed a small thermo-nuclear device, all the advantage lay with the home team.

  It would seem Pennyroyal didn’t share my optimism. ‘Back,’ he breathed. ‘All of us.’

  We retreated back along the landing and not a moment too soon. With a massive crash and a ton of dust and plaster, the whole ceiling at the end of the landing disintegrated. I jumped, swallowed and brought up my gun. Pennyroyal had provided me with a neat, medium-range blaster. Light, accurate and very effective. Trust me, if I’d been Horatius Cocles, I could have held that bridge forever.

  Three figures emerged from the billowing dust, raking the corridor with fire, all of which went straight over our heads because we were safely on the floor. I heard the roar of their blasters and felt the heat. At the same time, I heard Smallhope open fire downstairs. We were being attacked on at least two fronts.

  I aimed
low. Smallhope always likes us to try to take people alive because we get more for undamaged – or nearly undamaged – illegals. And a bit extra for the amount and value of any intel they might provide, as well. So far, in the course of our new careers as bounty hunters – sorry, recovery agents – Markham and I hadn’t felt the need to kill anyone. Tonight might be different. I could feel the milk of human kindness curdling within me.

  They raced down the landing, firing as they came, hoping to drive us back. Perhaps the blasters had just been to soften us up because now bullets thudded into the wall above me, showering me with yet more plaster, and trust me, it’s a bugger to get out of your hair.

  Pennyroyal moved up to return fire. Someone went down with a thud. I’d lost sight of the three intruders. Night visors are all very well but even they’re pretty useless when everything’s enveloped in clouds of dust, plaster and shattered wood. I didn’t want to hit Pennyroyal by mistake – I had an idea that wouldn’t go down at all well – so all I could do was wait for the situation to resolve itself.

  There was a shout from behind. Markham yelled at me to get clear.

  I rolled into the shelter of the bedroom to my left and as I did so, twin streams of blaster fire roared past the door. I swear I felt my hair curl in the heat.