A Perfect Storm Read online

  ‘In a tree?’

  ‘Um…’ I wasn’t sure what to say. As far as I know, our swans are unique in that they’re more often to be found a good thirty feet up a beech tree, rather than swimming serenely across the lake looking picturesque.

  ‘Dear God,’ he said, giving his ear a good belt again. I’d have been happy to do it for him. ‘Justin, book me a call to the BBC Wildlife Unit in Bristol.’

  I had an idea we weren’t going to be featuring on Justin’s Christmas card list this year.

  Mr Cutter turned to me. ‘How long have they been doing that?’

  ‘They’ve always done it,’ I said, striving to present at least an appearance of casual normality and slight surprise that other people’s swans don’t do the same.

  ‘This place is totally weird,’ he said. ‘Where to next?’

  I led him slowly along the corridor, taking care to go the long way around, and bless me, if there wasn’t Mrs Enderby miraculously ahead of us, breathlessly tweaking the folds of an Elizabethan noble’s doublet.

  ‘Ah, there you are,’ I said, rather brilliantly I thought. ‘They said you might be here. Can I introduce Mr Cutter from Cutter Cavendish films?’

  Mrs Enderby, seemingly determined to distance herself from their unfortunate initial encounter, smiled widely and in the world’s worst Irish brogue said, ‘A pleasure to meet you, Mr Cutter. I do so admire your work. Of course, I was a little astonished to see that, in your adaptation of Emma, none of the ladies wore headgear. I know such a lapse was widely discussed afterwards in the trade, and we all agreed there must have been overwhelming production reasons for such an oversight.’ Adding belatedly, ‘To be sure.’

  I think it was around about now that I had an inkling of just how badly things were going to go that day.

  He stared at her for a moment. She held out her hand. ‘Enderby. Mavis Enderby. From Dublin.’

  She was from Welwyn Garden City.

  He shook her hand. ‘How do you do. These are all … very pretty.’

  The temperature plummeted. He had passed beyond the Pale.

  Mrs Enderby is small, round, and endlessly kind. She also fought in the civil uprisings along with Peterson’s PA, Mrs Shaw, and our Kitchen Supremo, Mrs Mack. Mrs Mack commanded the famous Battersea Barricades, and these days was as famous for her raspberry crumble as she was feared for the battle ladle she kept under the counter.

  I think I remembered Mrs Shaw telling me that Mrs Enderby had worked in logistics while she herself had been in code breaking. To hear the two of them speak about that time, you’d think they just made the tea and did the filing, but I knew for a fact they’d been with the rebel forces in Gloucester when the Fascists poured out of Cardiff and across the Severn. They’d been overrun in Westgate Street and fallen back to College Green. With the cathedral at their backs and nowhere to go, they’d made their final stand and prevailed. Three weeks later, after the famous victory at the Battersea Barricades, it had all been over. The three of them had fought together again at the less famous Battle of St Mary’s and had pretty much brought the building down. A compassionate and caring guide would probably take Mr Cutter aside and point out that many of our civilian staff were, in fact, weapons of mass destruction. Yeah, I really should do that. For his own good.

  I stared at my feet and wondered what to have for lunch.

  She said frigidly, ‘You are too kind,’ entirely forgetting the brogue, and stepped back, staring glassily over his shoulder.

  A rather sticky silence descended. Even Mr Cutter seemed to realise he’d gone wrong somewhere or other and, while he was endeavouring to bring himself back up to speed, a fat brown chicken walked past, paused to peck at a bit of carpet and then continued on its way down the gallery.

  Mr Cutter turned to me. ‘Was that…’

  ‘Was that what?’ I said helpfully.

  He pointed. ‘There’s a bloody chicken over there. Not ten feet away.’

  Out of the corner of my eye I could see the chicken was on the move again. At the end of the gallery landing it paused briefly, presumably getting its bearings, and then turned right towards Admin – I didn’t much fancy its chances in there – and disappeared from view.

  We turned around and ostentatiously looked up and down the gallery.

  ‘No,’ said Mrs Enderby with simple sincerity, ‘I can’t see a chicken anywhere. Can you, Max?’

  ‘No,’ I said in tones of concern. ‘Can I get you a glass of water, Mr Cutter?’

  ‘It’s gone now.’

  ‘Of course it has,’ soothed Mrs Enderby.

  I winked at her and we led him slowly down the line of costumes. To be fair, apart from glancing back over his shoulder a couple of times, he did make an effort. He admired the Tudor and Stuart stuff – and so he should because the costumes were superb. Optimistically, I began to think we might possibly overcome our unfortunate beginning.

  We paused outside the door to R&D, currently being guarded by a model of a Scottish Highlander, complete with blood-stained claymore and a dying Redcoat at his feet.

  He peered around the tableau. ‘What’s in there?’

  I’m famous for my brilliant ideas. Although brilliant is not a word often used to describe them. But some of them have been stonkers and I had one now.

  ‘Records,’ I said, smoothly, ‘Going back to the year dot and hugely fascinating. Let me show you…’

  His nose twitched. He had instincts. Or hay fever.

  ‘No, I don’t think so. What, Justin?’

  I took advantage of his distraction to beckon to Miss Lee, invariably present at any potential disaster and whispered, ‘Release Professor Rapson from wherever he’s been stored for safekeeping. Tell him he has my permission to set up the Hannibal Barca experiment. He has two hours and he’d better make it good.’

  Her eyes sparkled. ‘Can we have war elephants?’

  ‘If you can find a dozen war elephants in the next thirty minutes then yes,’ I said, knowing full well it takes a decade of paperwork. Minimum.

  ‘Gotcha,’ she said, and disappeared. Time to get our guest out of the building.

  I piloted him outside, hoping he might be interested in something a little less girlie and a little more action related, but it was the same story for Peterson’s archery demonstration and Prentiss and Sykes’s rather good side-saddle show. Yes, he watched them, but he talked all the way through. I told myself he was in the entertainment industry. They were supposed to be able to multi-task. Just because he wasn’t looking or listening, there was no reason to suppose he wasn’t taking it all in somehow. By osmosis, perhaps.

  If he was taking it in – osmotically or otherwise – we had no clue as to his opinions. He strode briskly back into the building where we showed him carefully selected examples from some of our more spectacular assignments. Mr Clerk filled him in on the Troy stuff. Mr Cutter was disappointingly Helen-oriented. The whole thing was about her after all, he said. Why didn’t she get a mention? Which of the film industry’s leading ladies did we think she most resembled?

  He described a dramatic scene – just off the top of his head, of course – in which, heavily disguised in Paris’s battle armour, Helen stole away to the Greek camp at the dead of night to intercede with Agamemnon on the Trojans’ behalf, and then slept with Odysseus to seal the deal. Naturally, she would encounter great perils all along the way, including, oh, who was that woman with the snakes – Medusa, yes, that was her, and that hydra thing and possibly the minotaur, all of whom she would despatch with ease. My own opinion was that with those sort of skills, the Trojans could just have sent her out into the field by herself and themselves stayed at home drinking tea. We listened politely because Dr Bairstow insists on good manners and then, thank God, it was time for lunch – something to which, for once, I was not looking forward. Our Mr Calvin Cutter was rather heavy going.

  Mrs Mack had set aside a quiet table for us. I was just pulling out a chair when a small miracle occurred and Peterson
said, ‘Mind if we join you, Max?’ and he and a grinning Markham sat down with us. I gave silent thanks to the god of historians.

  I wondered if the best way to keep Cutter off the phone was to get him to talk about himself. The same idea had obviously occurred to Peterson who, with an expression of great interest, requested Mr Cutter to tell us about his current productions.

  ‘Well,’ he said, shovelling his food down with no appreciation whatsoever, ‘just now we’re looking for something a little different.’

  ‘Really? What sort of different?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet, but I’ll know it when I see it.’

  He cut us off to talk to his ear again. I refused to catch Peterson’s eye and concentrated on my food until Mr Cutter deigned to rejoin us.

  ‘So tell me, Dr Maxwell…’ so he had picked up my name, ‘what are you researching at the moment?’

  I tried to choose topics that would interest him. ‘Well, we’ve just finished with Hastings, as you’ve just seen. Before that, we looked at the coronation of King George IV, examined the possibility that King John lost the crown jewels in The Wash, and attempted an in-depth survey of an early version of Stonehenge. Over the years, we’ve studied the battles of Agincourt and Thermopylae. And some time ago, we took a close look at Mary Stuart, her marriage to the Earl of Bothwell, and the circumstances leading up to it.’

  He stabbed at a chip. ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, there was some doubt as to the accuracy of…’

  ‘No, I mean why do you waste your time with all this dead stuff?’

  Well, that was rather rude. Peterson and Markham put down their forks – a St Mary’s manifestation of outright shock. I was made of sterner stuff, but he must have guessed we weren’t that impressed because he smiled a surprisingly charming smile.

  ‘I’m sorry. That came out all wrong. What I meant to say is that this stuff is dead and buried. It’s finished – done with. And yet, there are all these people here, ferreting away to uncover tiny bits of information which simply aren’t relevant any longer. I mean, look at you all. Most of you are young – comparatively,’ he said, looking at me and not making any friends at all as far as I was concerned. ‘I’m not going to say, “Why don’t you all get proper jobs?” but I’m certainly thinking it.’

  I opened my mouth to reply but there was no chance. It was like trying to hold back the Red Sea after Moses had been messing around with it.

  ‘I mean, it’s OK if you’re applying this knowledge to something relevant or important, like making a holo or a TV programme maybe, but you’re all so up your own – I mean the amount of effort you put into tiny details is quite disproportionate to the results. Who cares if Emma Woodhouse wore something on her head or not? Who cares if we show the Greek cavalry with stirrups? How important is all that, really? In the scheme of things?’

  I didn’t hit him with my Spotted Dick but I came close. I do think, however, something of what I was feeling might have got through to him.

  ‘I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.’ He smiled again. He really did have quite a nice smile. ‘I know what you think of me and I enjoyed your efforts when I was talking on my phone. I’m sorry – that was rude of me. Having three conversations at once is standard behaviour in my world, but I forget it’s not like that here. I mean, this place is so sedate. And serious. Sober. Solid. Settled.’

  Apparently, he was determined to empty the English language of words beginning with S. He ended with a big finish. ‘Staid.’

  At this moment, Miss Lee materialised at my elbow. For once, I was pleased to see her. It was about time she used her powers for good.

  ‘Professor Rapson presents his compliments, ma’am. The fires have been lit. We have vinegar, sour wine, cola and water.’

  Peterson looked thoughtful for a moment then caught my eye. I had a twinge of doubt. He was management, after all.

  He took advantage of Mr Cutter conversing with his ear again, to say quietly, ‘Do I know about this – whatever it is?’

  ‘No, plausible deniability. You are DD after all.’

  Markham grinned. ‘Is that his bra size?’

  Peterson regarded him coldly. ‘And your role this afternoon?’

  ‘None of this is anything to do with the Security Section,’ he said, spooning up the last of his custard. ‘We’re just going to sit back and watch. See you later.’

  Peterson watched him go, turned back to me, glanced at the still chattering Cutter, and winked. Another flash of the old Tim. I grinned back again.

  Lunch finished, I took Mr Cutter outside for our St Mary’s extravaganza. Someone had set up benches and tables and chairs. I chose a table in the warm sunshine which should have an excellent view of unfolding events. Acting on previous instructions, Mrs Mack brought tea. It was interesting to watch the way it was delivered. Peterson got a warm smile because everyone likes Peterson. I was the recipient of a slightly smaller smile because on the one hand I’m a known troublemaker but, on the other, my ability to pack away gargantuan amounts of her chocolate-orange cheesecake meets with her approval. Mr Cutter received a ferocious scowl, but I guessed her failure to behead him with the tea strainer meant she too had been warned not to damage him before contract signing had occurred.

  Barely had we made ourselves comfortable when we were disconcertingly joined by Dr Bairstow, who mildly enquired what was happening.

  ‘Fire setting, sir.’

  He said nothing very eloquently.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, sir, but it’s a perfectly legitimate experiment. The professor gave the statutory three-days warning last month.’

  This three-day warning period had been stipulated by Dr Bairstow himself after the Clock Tower Trauma some years ago, so he had no cause for complaint there. And besides, if things went well – and the law of averages decrees that surely, one day they must – something this spectacular could just tip things in our favour.

  And yes, all right, before anyone says, ‘Fire setting? Professor Rapson? Are you out of your mind? What did you think would happen?’ I have two very reasonable excuses. Firstly, this experiment had been on the books for quite some time and, secondly, it really is quite legitimate.

  We all know Hannibal crossed the Alps with his war elephants. Obviously, they encountered a hefty rock or two obstructing their path. For those that didn’t respond to the traditional pick and shovel, the ancients used fire setting. It’s quite simple. You set fire to the rock. I know they’re not usually that flammable, but Professor Rapson could ignite a bucket of water, so no difficulties there.

  Anyway, having set fire to your rock and got it good and hot, two things could happen. Either the rock fell apart all by itself due to the heat, or – and this is the good bit – you adopted the Hannibal Barca method of rock disposal and tossed vinegar on it and watched it shatter. Apparently, he carved his way across the Alps that way. Pliny bangs on about it somewhere if you want to read up on it. It’s very efficient and I believe people used variations of this method until comparatively modern times. Especially down the mines. The main drawback is the production of what everyone refers to as ‘foetid vapours’ but because, here at St Mary’s, Health and Safety is paramount at all times, we were doing it outdoors. Where absolutely nothing could possibly go wrong.

  And yes, you’re right. I wanted to shake Mr Cutter out of his anti-history complacency with something spectacular. To put things in perspective, I had, at one point, considered a spot of jousting – spectacular and exciting – but that’s only fun and games up until the moment when someone loses an eye – as the French king Henry II discovered to his cost in 1559 and look at all the trouble that caused. I bet fire setting doesn’t look so bad now, does it?

  Anyway, to add a modern twist to things, not only was the professor using historically accurate vinegar, but we were also having a go with sour wine –available by the amphora in ancient times – water, or melted snow as it would have been then, and cola. Everyone knows the effect co
la has on pennies, teeth and stomach linings – but now we were using it for a practical purpose. If it performed as well as vinegar, then maybe they could add fire setting to their advertising campaign. It could be the real thing.

  We have some rather pleasant rock gardens at St Mary’s. They were laid out about two hundred years ago, when landscape gardening was all the rage. There are a couple of quiet pools where big, orange goldfish swim serenely from one end to the other. We don’t have any problems with herons: Bashford swears he once saw one dragged under by a couple of determined koi.

  Obviously, we weren’t going to have a go at anything in the rock garden because it was almost certainly the horticultural equivalent of a listed building. Happily, whichever 18th-century garden designer had ordered most of the rock in the county of Westmoreland to be delivered here had got his quantities wrong, and we had four enormous if superfluous slabs of Westmoreland stone stationed at one end of the car park. No one knows why. They’d sat there for donkey’s years. Although if the professor got things right and things went well today – not for very much longer. So, as I pointed out to Dr Bairstow, this experiment had a practical value as well.

  They’d obviously had their fires going for some time. A smouldering framework, stuffed full of burning wood, encased each rock. A massive heat haze hung over the whole area. We were a good way back and I could feel the heat from here.

  From the corner of my eye, I could see Dr Bairstow looking around with an expression of mild anxiety. I didn’t blame him. The experiment was taking place next to the car park. We’re not idiots, however. The car park had been emptied immediately I’d given the go ahead and, as a further precaution, Dr Bairstow’s beloved Bentley – which traditionally does not fare well during this sort of thing – was parked a good half mile away in the village. In the Falconburg Arms car park to be precise.

  The horses had been removed to a safe distance away in the second paddock. Over the years, they’d displayed enormous reluctance to become involved in anything Professor Rapson related, and at the first sign of anything unusual happening they tended to be off and away, and we would be collecting them from all around Rushfordshire for days afterwards. For some reason, the police always seem to know they’re ours. And, as usual, the swans were roosting some thirty feet off the ground, so I was confident we’d covered everything.