The Ordeal of the Haunted Room Page 9

  He closed his eyes.

  ‘I’m afraid, sir, our actions have had the most enormous ramifications.’

  He did not groan because he was Dr Bairstow, but I could see it was close.

  I pressed on. ‘According to my information, Henry Harewood served with distinction in WW1. As did his son, Jamie, who became a major in the Glosters. Both of them survived the conflict. And, as you can see, Mrs Harewood wasn’t idle, either. She opened Harewood Hall as a nursing home for wounded soldiers and airmen. She became a competent and efficient nurse who almost certainly saved several of her patients’ lives. Her daughter, Jennifer Harewood, married one of them. And if you look, sir . . .’

  He opened his eyes.

  I twirled the data stack. ‘Jennifer’s daughter, Harriet, was parachuted into France in 1943.’

  He closed his eyes again – as if the axe might fall at any moment. ‘Again, Dr Maxwell – with this sort of impact on the timeline – how are any of you still alive?’

  I paused. Because now it was time for the biggie.

  ‘It gets even worse, sir. Harriet’s great-great-great-greatish granddaughter fought in the Civil Uprisings.’

  ‘Forgive my asking, Dr Maxwell, but how do you imagine this information is making things any better?’

  ‘I suspect you may be worrying unnecessarily, and as a conscientious employee, it is my duty to alleviate your anxiety, sir.’

  ‘Given your anticipated abbreviated life expectancy, Dr Maxwell, may I urge you to get to the point.’

  I beamed.

  ‘The thing is, sir . . .’

  He sighed. ‘Ah – another phrase that never bodes well. I am beginning to wonder if I was perhaps a trifle over-optimistic in authorising this month’s wages bill. It seems unlikely any of us will live long enough to collect it.’

  Markham spoke up. ‘She was a pilot, sir.’

  ‘My concern over whether we shall live long enough to get to the point has led me to lose track somewhat. Of whom are we speaking now?’

  ‘Harriet’s great-great-great-greatish granddaughter, sir.’

  ‘The pilot.’

  He nodded. ‘That’s the one, sir.’

  He sighed again. ‘And what of this pilot?’

  I looked out of the window. The setting sun streamed through the windows, making my eyes water. In my mind’s eye I saw it as Mrs Mack had described it. Coming fast and low, out of the sun, hanging in the sky, big and black in its own shimmering heat haze, rockets armed and ready, massive rotors chopping the Thames and flinging spray about as it hung over Barricade Bridge, waiting to end everything. The piloted, helmeted and anonymous. No one ever knew who she was. And then, unaccountably – pulling up and disappearing back into the sun. The moment that changed everything.

  I hit him with the punchline.

  ‘She flew Leviathans, sir. In the Civil Uprisings.’

  His office was suddenly very quiet.

  He sat for a moment, then turned and stared out of the window as I had done, perhaps seeing what I had seen, remembering as I remembered, and then reached out his hand and flattened the data stack.

  ‘It would seem, Dr Maxwell, that no good deed ever goes unrewarded.’

  ‘I like to think so, sir.’

  ‘In that case, I feel I may – cautiously – resume my plans for next week.’

  ‘If we are all spared, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, everyone. I think that will be all.’

  A Merry Christmas from St Mary’s and a peaceful and prosperous New Year.

  THE END

  Author’s Note

  I wrote this St Mary’s short story and then, about three months later, in the middle of the night, I had one of those moments. I got out of bed and firkled around my bookshelves for my ancient copy of Hag’s Nook – a wonderful detective story by John Dickson Carr. I couldn’t find it anywhere, which, since it’s a tiny flat, was annoying. I bought another copy, read it through and realised there are some echoes of his classic tale in my own.

  My first instinct was to pull the St Mary’s story and put the whole thing down to being a general disaster magnet. However, John Dickson Carr is a great literary hero of mine and so I’d like to present this year’s St Mary’s Christmas escapade as an homage to him and his amazing locked-room stories. (Also, as my agent, editor and daytime-self pointed out, the similarities between the two are nowhere near as great as I imagined at three o’clock in the morning . . .)

  Thanks to Nigel the Chemist, who was very helpful about the best way of killing someone in 1895 and getting away with it. And knew how long it would take. And knew all about writing your murderer’s name in blood. Another one who has to delete his browser history on a regular basis.

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks as always to everyone at Headline for their support and assistance. Special thanks to my editors, Frankie and Bea, for all their reassurance and hard work.

  Thanks to my agent, Hazel, who keeps me on the straight and narrow. If I know what’s good for me.

  Massive thanks to everyone who buys my books – you are hugely appreciated.

  We hope you enjoyed reading The Ordeal of the Haunted Room.

  Read on for a preview from the next instalment in Jodi Taylor’s much-loved CHRONICLES OF ST MARY’S series . . .

  I’d forgotten how cold it can be just before dawn. And quite dark, too. On the other hand, I’ve been clandestinely creeping around St Mary’s since the moment I arrived all those years ago. I know every twist and turn. Every creaking door. Every squeaky board. As long as Professor Rapson hadn’t carelessly left any half-constructed bear traps or acid baths around the place, I didn’t even need a torch.

  I ghosted around the gallery and down the stairs, carefully keeping to the edges to minimise the creaks, although the whole edifice does tend to groan like a clipper in a strong wind whether anyone was standing on it or not.

  The Great Hall was no problem. I could weave my way in and out of whiteboards, trestle tables, chairs, stools, piles of files, whatever, with my eyes closed. And frequently had.

  I passed silently through the vestibule. The front doors were already unbolted. Easing my way through, I paused to zip up my body warmer. The morning was cold, dank and silent. It was lighter outside, although, sensibly, even the birds weren’t up yet. Moisture beaded every surface. Tendrils of light fog drifted across from the lake. Perfect conditions for a discreet getaway.

  The car stood ready and waiting – a small family hatchback of an indeterminate grey colour. There must be millions of them around. You can’t avoid CCTV cameras completely, of course, but I would bet any money Leon had stowed a couple of alternative registration plates in the boot. I love that people think he’s so respectable.

  I skipped down the steps, my frosty breath billowing and making substantial contributions to the fog and general non-visibility around me. Actually, skipped is the wrong word. Skipped implies light-hearted, joyful, carefree and so on, and I wasn’t any of those. People do leave St Mary’s. Sometimes under quite happy circumstances. But not today. Today was not a happy day.

  Leon loomed up out of the fog. Very visible in his orange techie jumpsuit.

  I tilted my head to one side. ‘You do know this is a stealth assignment, don’t you? Short of attaching an SAR beacon, is there any way you could be more obvious?’

  He put his arm around me because I was just putting on a brave face and we both knew it. I asked him if everything was ready.

  He nodded. ‘It is.’

  I paused.

  He said, ‘It’s time, Max.’

  ‘I know,’ I said, staring at my feet. ‘I know. It’s just . . .’

  ‘I know,’ he said, rubbing my shoulder. ‘But the moment has come to say goodbye.’

  I nodded. No putting it off any longer. Leon shut the boot and I walked around the c
ar.

  The St Mary’s crew are off on their next adventure in

  ANOTHER TIME, ANOTHER PLACE

  Coming April 2021 . . .

  It’s time, Max.

  And so, a whole new chapter opens up . . .

  It’s long been known that if a thing can go wrong, it will. With knobs on, usually. Disasters start to pile up. A new colleague with no respect for the past and a great deal to prove. Historians lost in time. And – worst of all – Rosie Lee on her very first jump. Then there’s the small matter of Max’s dishonourable discharge.

  From Tudor England to the Tower of Babel – it’s all going horribly wrong.

  Jobless and homeless, Max receives an offer she can’t refuse. Another time, another place. A refuge, perhaps.

  She’s got that wrong, too.

  Available to pre-order

  THE CHRONICLES OF ST MARY’S SERIES GUIDE

  Don’t know where to start with Jodi Taylor’s CHRONICLES OF ST MARY’S series? Never fear! We know timelines are a tricky business, so we’ve created a go-to guide to help you navigate the series and make the most of your adventure with the tea-soaked disaster magnets of St Mary’s as they hurtle their way around History.

  JUST ONE DAMNED THING AFTER ANOTHER

  So tell me, Dr Maxwell, if the whole of History lay before you . . . where would you go? What would you like to witness?

  Recruited by the St Mary’s Institute of Historical Research, Madeleine Maxwell discovers the historians there don’t just study the past – they revisit it. But one wrong move and History will fight back – to the death. And she soon discovers it’s not just History she’s fighting . . .

  Jodi Taylor says . . .

  ‘I never meant to write a bestseller. I just wanted to see if I had the mental discipline to write a book. I have to say no one was more surprised than me that the answer was yes. The only thing that surprised me more was that it did so well. I’m continually amazed that historians and physicists don’t spit on me in the streets. Although give them time.’

  Available to download

  A SYMPHONY OF ECHOES

  Wherever the historians go, chaos is sure to follow . . .

  Dispatched to Victorian London to seek out Jack the Ripper, things go badly wrong when he finds the St Mary’s historians first. Stalked through the fog-shrouded streets of Whitechapel, Max is soon running for her life. Again.

  Jodi Taylor says . . .

  ‘This is the Jack the Ripper story! I frightened myself to death over this one. And it’s got dodos as well.’

  Available to download

  WHEN A CHILD IS BORN – a short story

  It’s Christmas Day 1066 and a team from St Mary’s is going to witness the coronation of William the Conqueror. Or so they think . . .

  Jodi Taylor says . . .

  ‘Christmas was coming and the decree came down from above. “It’s Christmas, Taylor – we need a short story. Don’t just sit there.” So I didn’t. I think my publishers would like me to point out I’m not usually so obedient. Not unless electrodes are involved.’

  Available to download

  A SECOND CHANCE

  I could have been a bomb-disposal expert, or a volunteer for the Mars mission, or a firefighter, something safe and sensible. But, no, I had to be an historian.

  It began well. A successful assignment to 17th-century Cambridge to meet Isaac Newton, and another to witness the historic events at The Gates of Grief. So far so good.

  But then came the long-awaited jump to the Trojan War that changed everything. And for Max, nothing will ever be the same again.

  Jodi Taylor says . . .

  ‘This one was fun. I really enjoyed writing this one. St Mary’s really goes through it. Heh heh heh.’

  Available to download

  ROMAN HOLIDAY – a short story

  Question: What sort of idiot installs his mistress in his wife’s house? Especially when that mistress is Cleopatra VII Thea Philopator, Queen of Egypt and the most notorious woman of her time?

  Answer: Julius Caesar – poised to become King of Rome. Or as good as.

  Question: At this potentially sensitive point in your political manoeuvrings, who are the last people you’d want crashing through the door, observing, recording, documenting . . .?

  I think we all know the answer to that one.

  Jodi Taylor says . . .

  ‘This is the embarrassing one. I wrote it because I couldn’t work out how to operate the door in my offspring’s flat, so I was trapped. All day. I wrote almost the whole story in one day. Ten thousand words, people! And everyone laughed at my predicament because children today have no respect for their elders.’

  Available to download

  A TRAIL THROUGH TIME

  Sometimes, surviving is all you have left.

  From a 17th-century Frost Fair to Ancient Egypt; from Pompeii to 8th-century Scandinavia; Max and Leon are pursued up and down the timeline, playing a dangerous game of hide-and-seek, until finally they’re forced to take refuge at St Mary’s where a new danger awaits them.

  Max’s happily ever after is going to have to wait a while . . .

  Jodi Taylor says . . .

  ‘I really didn’t think people would like this one but it’s turned out to be many people’s favourite so, like Jon Snow – I know nothing.’

  Available to download

  CHRISTMAS PRESENT – a short story

  It’s Christmas Eve at St Mary’s

  And all through the house

  Nothing is stirring . . .

  Except for Max, Peterson and Markham, sneaking out at midnight for an assignment that is very definitely off the books.

  Jodi Taylor says . . .

  ‘I was a bit worried because this story was supposed to be a Christmas story and it was all about Boudicca sacking Colchester, so I tried to keep the nasty bits to a minimum. It’s the one where Bashford waves to Boudicca because, well – why wouldn’t you?’

  Available to download

  NO TIME LIKE THE PAST

  A Fete Worse Than Death . . .

  The St Mary’s Institute of Historical Research has finally recovered from its wounds and it’s business as usual for those rascals in the History Department and Max must struggle to get History back on track.

  But first, they must get through the St Mary’s Fete – which is sure to end badly for everyone.

  Jodi Taylor says . . .

  ‘I wanted St Mary’s to have an open day. The phrase “A Fete worse than death” shot into my head – trust me, there’s plenty of room – and I just had to write it.’

  Available to download

  THE VERY FIRST DAMNED THING – a short story

  Ever wondered how the St Mary’s of the future came to be?

  Warning: this story may contain scenes about stolen furniture, a practical demonstration at the Stirrup Charge at Waterloo, students’ alcohol-ridden urine, a widowed urban guerrilla, a young man wearing exciting knitwear, and four naked security guards.

  Jodi Taylor says . . .

  ‘I think I’d written more than four or five books before I wrote this prequel. I don’t know why I was suddenly overwhelmed by a need to go back to the beginning but I did. Normally my overwhelming needs involve chocolate. I always say to people – don’t read this one first. Get a couple of books under your belt first otherwise some of it might not make sense. Which assumes the rest of it does . . .’

  Available to download

  WHAT COULD POSSIBLY GO WRONG?

  To do what I do – go where I go – see what I see – it’s a wonderful, unique, never-to-be-taken-for-granted privilege.

  With great privilege comes great responsibility, something Max knows only too well, and as newly appointed Chief Training Officer
at the St Mary’s Institute of Historical Research, it’s up to her to drum this guiding principle into her five new recruits.

  Expect a training programme that includes Joan of Arc, an illegal mammoth, a duplicitous Father of History, a bombed rat, Stone Age hunters and Dick the Turd.

  Jodi Taylor says . . .

  ‘My personal favourite. I’ve been a training officer. I’ve been in that particular hell. I’ve questioned my life choices, my sanity and the intelligence of trainees. On the other hand, there was the episode of the bombed rat.’

  Available to download

  SHIPS AND STINGS AND WEDDING RINGS – a short story

  It’s Christmas at St Mary’s and time for Max’s obligatory illegal jump. On this occasion, however, they’re right up against it. And as if that’s not enough, someone (Max) has inadvertently poisoned Mr Markham.

  Jodi Taylor says . . .

  ‘This is what happened when I was bored and there wasn’t anything on TV and I was reduced to reading the small print on a can of WD40.’

  Available to download

  LIES, DAMNED LIES, AND HISTORY

  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.

  Max has never been one for rules. They tend to happen to other people. But this time she’s gone too far. And everyone at St Mary’s is paying the price.