The Steam Pump Jump Read online

  Not looking at me, she continued. ‘Well, I thought … that night of all nights … when I had to leave so suddenly … that it wouldn’t be a good thing for him to be alone, and I didn’t have much time and the first person I saw was Lingoss.’

  ‘Wouldn’t have been my first choice,’ I said cheerfully.

  ‘Well, it wouldn’t have been mine, either, because let’s face it, she’s a bit … well, you know … weird … but now I think it might have turned out to be an enormous piece of luck. And then, after you’d arrested Dottle, Lingoss went in to talk to him – you know, to keep him out of the way. And she had the sense to bring him in here while you were trying to get the body out of the tree. And I suspect they’ve been seeing quite a bit of each other … nothing romantic, but she seems to be able to reach him and … perhaps I’m being stupid … I don’t know …’

  ‘Prevent him from topping himself,’ I said, bluntly.

  She nodded and a tear slid down one cheek. ‘It’s not going to come to that, is it?’

  I shoved the box of tissues at her. ‘Not if I can help it. Do I gather you have a plan?’

  ‘Well, yes, I have, but I’m stuck here – although I’ll have my walking casts on soon and then I’ll be mobile, but I’m not sure it’s a good idea to wait that long … and Matthew’s coming for a visit soon so I’ll be busy … and then I thought of you.’

  ‘And a very good thought it was, too,’ I said, lying through my teeth. ‘Er … what exactly did you want me to do?’

  ‘Well that’s it – I’m not sure. I was going to take them out on this assignment – this nice, low-risk assignment – throw them together and then just … wing it.’

  ‘Wing what?’

  ‘The assignment. And now, I’m stuck here and, obviously, someone will have to accompany North and Sykes – if only to prevent them killing each other – but I thought Peterson and Lingoss could spend a quiet afternoon together and we could … just … see what happens.’

  Time to inject a note of realism into this romantic fantasy. ‘With a 17th-century steam-pump in the vicinity? Are you insane?’

  She was most indignant. ‘No. I’ve been tested. As far as I can discover, the steam-pump demonstration was a huge success. As Lingoss herself said, “Nothing blows up and no one dies.” I thought we could take a picnic – it was a bit of a social event, apparently – and just enjoy ourselves. And the castle is magnificent and the grounds are lovely. We’ll get a snapshot of 17th-century life before the Civil War kicks off, Lingoss gets to see the first steam-engine, Peterson gets an afternoon away from St Mary’s, North and Sykes get an opportunity to bond – what could possibly go wrong?’

  I suspected she was being a little over-optimistic there – or possibly her medication had further loosened her already tenuous grasp on reality. Always a possibility.

  On the other hand, it was hard to see what disaster could possibly befall us and a nice, quiet and, above all, successful assignment was just what the unit needed. We could keep it low profile security-wise. I’d take Evans along. He could keep an eye on the Deadly Duo, Sykes and North, and, with the subtlety and discretion for which I’m famed, I’d take on Peterson and Lingoss. Give them a little time together. On their own. Without the usual St Mary’s distractions. Yeah – that would work.

  I nodded. ‘OK.’

  She let out her breath in a sigh of relief. ‘Thank you. You probably won’t have to do anything much. Just … you know … keep an eye on them.’

  I nodded. ‘Right – that’s those two sorted. What about you?’

  She looked up in surprise. ‘What about me? I’m absolutely fine.’

  Presumably she’d been stricken with temporary blindness and deafness and couldn’t see the bandages, or the casts, or the bruises, or hear the medical equipment bleeping away and so on. The St Mary’s definition of ‘absolutely fine’ is a very broad one.

  I gestured. ‘I don’t mean all this. I mean …’ I stopped and said quietly, ‘Is everything OK with you and Leon?’ and knew at once I’d scored a bull’s-eye. She turned bright red and the machines began to bleep faster. Shit. Any second now we’d have Hunter in here, smiting her enemies hip and thigh and generally blaming me for everything.

  We both waited anxiously, watching the door until things calmed down a little. I passed Max some water and said, ‘Don’t tell me if you don’t want to,’ because I’ve found that if you say that people generally fall over themselves to gabble their darkest secrets at you.

  Not this time. She nodded and said, ‘OK, I won’t,’ and I thought bugger.

  ‘Is it Matthew?’ I asked casually, taking her water off her. ‘Is Leon not happy about him being with the Time Police?’ and watched the machines. No reaction. So not Matthew then. Try another tack, Markham.

  ‘Mind you, I was watching him the other day. Leon, I mean. He’s getting around OK now, isn’t he? Hardly needs his stick at all, does he?’ And watched her readings spike again.

  So – the problem was connected with Leon. Hmm …

  The read-outs began to settle back down again and I looked back to her politely smiling face – her expressionless politely smiling face – the one that gives away far more than she ever realises and put two and two together. Leon had been badly injured at Constantinople. Very badly injured. Well, the three of us had. I was back to what passed for normal. Major Guthrie was up and moving around. And so was Leon. Or so I had thought. He seemed fine, but some things take longer to heal than others. I wondered if anyone else knew about this. I doubted it. This was Max and she doesn’t talk to people. Well, she does – actually she never stops talking at you – but not about the really important stuff. Never about the really important stuff. And she wouldn’t have spoken to Peterson because he was in his own dark place at the moment. Actually, we all were. Max, Peterson and me. We were all in a dark place.

  I looked back at her, saw the anxiety in her eyes and swallowed down what I had been going to say. She doesn’t deal well with sympathy and she had enough on her plate at the moment. And if I made her cry then Hunter would probably do the same to me.

  I smiled at her as she attractively wiped her nose on the sheet. ‘Of course I’ll do it. It’ll be a doddle. Just leave everything to me.’

  Next on my list of people to visit was the main subject of this morning’s conversation, Deputy Director Peterson, temporary Head of the History Department. I bounced into his office just as Mrs Shaw was lovingly pouring him a cup of tea. In a pretty cup. With a saucer. And laying out two chocolate Hobnobs. I lunged but she was too quick for me.

  A brief pause here. It’s just occurred to me that Peterson has an assistant – the lovely Mrs Shaw; Max has one – the dreaded Rosie Lee; but I don’t. Why not? I’m a Head of Department, too. I should have an assistant. Perhaps I should approach Mrs Partridge and ask if I too could have someone to bring me tea and biscuits. Hmm … definitely something to think about later …

  Anyway, back to the temporary Head of the History Department, shunting paper around his desk and trying to look important.

  I said good morning, maintaining the standards of politeness and decency for which I wish the Security Section is famous. ‘Did you know you’re down for the steam-pump jump?’

  He dropped a pile of papers on the floor – the traditional St Mary’s filing system – and looked up. ‘Is that Lingoss and her water-commanding engine?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘Then yes. You?’

  ‘The Security Section will be playing a major part in the success of this assignment, obviously. Who’s doing the briefing now Max isn’t around?’

  ‘Me. This afternoon, in her office. Who else are you putting forward?’

  ‘Just Evans, I think. There’s no immediate threat that I can identify, so as long as you historians can play nicely together, we can keep a low profile.’

  ‘I’m astonished any of you have any idea of the meaning of the phrase.’

  ‘Says the department who ga
ve us the exploding pig, the exploding rocks, the exploding wine …’

  ‘Isolated incidents,’ he said, dismissing these actually quite spectacular events with a careless nonchalance perfected by frequent practice. ‘Nothing the Security Section need worry its pretty little head over. Why are you here anyway?’

  ‘Lunch and to report on Max.’

  ‘Oh yes, how is she?’

  ‘Fretting.’

  He sat still for a moment and then got up and closed the door. ‘Can we have a word?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, wondering how many more people would want a word with me this morning.

  ‘The thing is …’ he said – so that was two of them at it. Perhaps it’s a History Department thing. Perhaps they just can’t help themselves.

  I said impatiently, ‘What is this “thing”?’ Because it was lunchtime and I was hungry and someone had to put a conversational bomb up the History Department’s inarticulate arse otherwise we’d still be here this time next week.

  He said, ‘I’m worried about Max. I mean it’s great that Leon’s not dead and he’s better every day, but they still haven’t got Matthew back and then she was shot and fell off the roof and I know she says it’s just a couple of broken bones …’

  ‘And a gunshot wound …’

  ‘And a gunshot wound, but …’ He petered out. Sorry – no pun intended there.

  ‘Well,’ I said briskly, ‘I think the best thing we can do for her is to keep calm, carry on, and get a successful assignment under our belts.’

  He nodded, staring down at his desk.

  To give him a moment, I stared out of the window and then said casually, ‘Of course, it’s not going to be an easy assignment. We’ll have Sykes and North crammed together in a small space. To say nothing of Connie Lingoss and a steam-pump. What could possibly …?’

  ‘Don’t call her that,’ he said, quite angrily for him. ‘I can’t think where that stupid nickname came from. Her name’s Felix.’

  ‘Is it?’ I said, quite pleased with the result of my little experiment. We in the Security Section have a wide variety of interrogation techniques, you know. And of resisting interrogation, as well. Years of facing Dr Bairstow over his desk have honed my skills to genius level. Unless the interrogator is Hunter, of course, in which case I might as well save myself a great deal of time and effort and just tell her everything as quickly as possible. ‘That’s a nice name. Pretty and unusual. A bit like Lingoss herself.’

  But he had himself back under control again. ‘Are you going to stand around chuntering on about girls’ names all day? I want my lunch.’

  ‘Right behind you,’ I said, following him out.

  I love the way the History Department thinks it’s responsible for planning these little jaunts. Personally, I think someone just thinks of a date, sticks a pin in a map, they all bundle themselves into a pod and spend the next forty-eight hours uttering cries of ‘Wow! This is amazing!’ and escaping death by the skin of their teeth.

  There’s a lot more to it than that. Admittedly this was a fairly minor assignment, but that didn’t mean we in the Security Section could shirk our responsibilities. Evans was waiting for me after lunch, armed with mission folders and data sticks and so on, and we sat down in my office and went through the assignment. Moment by moment. Starting with where and when we were landing, what we could expect to see, what was going to happen and so on. We read through Dr Dowson’s background notes for the historical perspective and then discussed what could go wrong, what was likely to go wrong, what would definitely go wrong and so on, moment by moment, all the way through to the hopefully successful conclusion.

  As far as we could see, there wasn’t a lot to worry about except for the moment they fired up the pump and it started squirting water into the air. Apparently, it was a bit noisy and caused some consternation among the watchers, not least a bunch of Protestants who happened to be visiting the castle to check for illegal weapons.

  ‘Why?’ said Evans, puzzled.

  ‘The Somersets were Catholics,’ I said. ‘Not allowed.’

  ‘And did they?’

  ‘Did they what?’

  ‘Have illegal weapons?’

  ‘How should I know? Probably. Everyone else did. And they were very pro-king. Anyway,’ I said, remembering the secondary and not publicly known part of the assignment, ‘you’ll have Sykes and North …’ – he groaned – ‘… and I’ll take Peterson and Lingoss.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There’s a steam-pump,’ I said, patiently. ‘And Miss Lingoss. Together. In the same place. At the same time.’

  ‘A good point,’ he said. ‘I definitely think you should take that one, boss.’

  We held the briefing in Max’s office. There was me, Peterson, Lingoss, North, Sykes and Evans. We brought our own tea. Max might occasionally be able to get tea and biscuits out of Rosie Lee but no one else was even going to try. She sat triumphantly at her desk, pretending to take notes.

  Peterson explained the assignment.

  ‘Right, people. Raglan Castle. Home of Henry, Earl of Worcester. A very rich and prominent Catholic family. It’s 1641 and the country is dividing – Parliament versus the king, Catholic against Protestant, family against family. It’s all going to kick off in a year or so but not yet. Our purpose will be to witness the first public demonstration of the first steam-engine, built by the eldest son, Edward, Lord Herbert. He’s a bit of a clever bugger – although not clever enough to make any money out of his inventions. He was broke when he died. A bit ahead of his time, possibly.

  ‘Now then – we’ll all be in Number Six. Miss North and Miss Sykes, you’ll team up with Mr Evans. I want you to get as much background footage as you can. It’s a major social event and we want to be able to identify as many members of the pre-Civil War aristocracy as possible. Also, get some footage of the castle – it’s at the height of its power and influence. The buildings are magnificent and there are extensive gardens and orchards – all of which will be rooted out to clear lines of sight for the cannon, and the castle itself will suffer some slighting, so this will be our last chance to see it in all its glory.

  ‘Speaking of which, Miss North, I believe you’ve prepared a quick background on the political situation at the time.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ She stood up. ‘I think it’s important to bear in mind that no one sets out to have a civil war. No one sets out to overthrow the monarchy or start a revolution. Events just … escalate. The main causes are money and religion – as they usually are. The king is continually forced to apply to Parliament for funds they are reluctant to grant, so in 1629 he dismisses Parliament completely and attempts to go it alone.’

  ‘Fat lot of good that did him,’ said Sykes, disparagingly. ‘He had to recall Parliament in the end; they weren’t happy and all he’d managed to do was alienate a lot of people who might otherwise have supported him.’

  ‘And religion,’ continued North, apparently ignoring her. Sykes and North were polar opposites. North came from a privileged background – Sykes was very proud of what she always referred to as her peasant origins. It was very possible that back in the mists of time, some of North’s ancestors had hanged some of Sykes’ ancestors for poaching. Neither had any difficulty disliking the other. Sometimes their disagreements were quite amusing. Other times – less so.

  ‘There’s always religion behind civil unrest,’ said Sykes.

  ‘The conflict between Protestant and Catholic was Europe-wide,’ persevered North, ‘and certainly not confined to England. There’s no doubt that Catholics were unpopular and widely distrusted …’

  ‘It wasn’t that long since Bloody Mary had attempted to burn the Protestants out of existence,’ interrupted Sykes. ‘And there were still people alive who would remember the Spanish Armada.’

  ‘The king had a right to rule,’ snapped North in exasperation, slapping her notes onto the table.

  ‘Through Parliament.’

  ‘Who w
ere corrupt and incompetent.’

  ‘Parliament’s always been corrupt and incompetent,’ said Sykes, scornfully. A remark which would certainly have had unfortunate consequences for her in the mid-17th century.

  ‘Enough,’ said Peterson, mildly, but they did shut up which was a bit of a relief. If they’d come to blows I’d have had to send in Evans to sort them out. ‘The rights and wrongs of Parliament and the king are for another day. To continue. Miss Lingoss and I will cover the purpose of the afternoon – the demonstration of the steam-engine. We’ll be escorted by Mr Markham. Miss Lingoss …’ He turned to Lingoss, who was hardly able to sit still with excitement. ‘Would you like to give us a brief explanation of how the pump works and what we can expect to see?’

  Well, of course she would, leaping to her feet and bombarding us with facts and figures, and bring up bewildering images of tanks and pipes and valves and God knows what. We all zoned out except for Peterson who regarded her with rapt attention and possibly only I knew he’d mastered the art of sleeping with his eyes open.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, as she eventually wound down. ‘Most helpful. Everyone please report to Mrs Enderby for your costumes. We’ll be a little more upmarket for this one. We’re aiming for minor nobility. Not important enough to warrant any special attention, but too important to be challenged.’

  ‘All of us?’ I said, suspiciously.

  He started shunting files around. ‘Well, no, obviously we’ll be attended by … attendants.’

  ‘You mean servants.’

  ‘In a loose sense of the word, yes.’

  I think I might have mentioned this before. The Security Section are always the servants. Or, depending on the time period, the slaves. Or the eunuchs. We struggle along at the back – and yes, I know that’s the best position from which to keep an eye on things, but that’s not the point. We’re always the ones who have to wear the scratchy clothes and no drawers. We’re the ones who have to carry the heavy loads. In the heat. Or the wet. I remember we went to Egypt once and I was the bloody slave and the bloody History Department nearly bloody killed me. Yes, accidentally, but that’s not the point. I was in a right state when we got back. I could just see how this assignment was going to pan out. They’d all loll about on the grass eating picnics and being posh and noble and Evans and I would be racing around doing all the fetching and carrying and the buggers wouldn’t even think to save us a sausage roll, some ghastly catastrophe would occur, we’d save the day as we always do, and not only would there be no bloody gratitude, but we’d be covered in ridicule because we were only the bloody servants.