Ships and Stings and Wedding Rings Read Free

tradition? We steal a pod – usually Chief Farrell’s – make an illegal jump to put something right and everything ends happily. So far, we’re well on track, but there’s always the three of us. You, me, and Peterson.’
    I sighed. ‘We really shouldn’t involve him. He’s going to be Deputy Director. And he’s not fit enough yet.’
    Peterson had sustained a terrible wound in 15 th -century France. His arm was healed and he’d regained some movement – enough to come third in the Security Section’s Annual All Comers One-Handed Bra Unfastening Competition (or SSAACOHBUC for short), but if things went south, he might not be able to defend himself. I saw the scene again – Peterson sprawled on the floor, soaked in blood, dying under my hands …
    Markham said gently, ‘Surely it’s his decision to make, Max.’
    â€˜It’s not one we should ask him to make. We’d be putting him in a difficult position.’
    He shrugged. ‘It’s just you and me, then.’
    â€˜Just you and me. Do you know what you have to do?’
    He nodded.
    â€˜Right, we’ll meet in the paint store in … thirty minutes.’
    I raced around the building like a madwoman because I didn’t have time to be discreet. I strode into Wardrobe and requisitioned what we needed. Confidence is the key. I’m the Chief Operations Officer and head of the History Department. If I can’t march around helping myself to all the equipment needed for an illegal jump to save a colleague, preserve the reputation of St Mary’s, and protect the timeline, then who can?
    I deposited everything at the back of the paint store, safely concealed behind the tins of Sunshine Yellow, and went off to see what had happened to Markham. I found him in what the Security Section likes to refer to as their nerve centre, which was a fancy name for a small, windowless room with a kettle, seven mugs, two tins of biscuits, a calendar picturing two fluffy kittens sitting in a slipper, and the petty cash box lying open on a shelf and bulging with IOUs. Half a dozen monitors showed various views from around the building. A giant fuse box with a zigzag lightning bolt painted across it was attached to the wall.
    Markham was festooning strings of fairy lights around the security monitors. A cat’s cradle of wires connected them to each other and the fuse box.
    I opened my mouth to demand what the hell he thought he was playing at and then remembered to whom I was talking.
    â€˜Pretty,’ I said.
    â€˜You don’t know the half of it,’ he said. ‘When this is over I’m going to rig them to flash on and off in time to “White Christmas”. Now stand in the middle of the room and, for God’s sake, don’t touch anything metal. In fact, put your hands in your pockets.’
    â€˜Why?’
    He threw a switch. There was a white flash, followed by a bang, followed by the smell of burnt fish. I just had time to register that all the monitors had faded to black with only a little white dot in the centre, when all the lights went out. Then the fire alarms went off.
    Hat-trick.
    â€˜Deary, deary me,’ he said, in a voice of immense satisfaction. ‘I wonder how that could have happened.’
    In the distance, I could hear my husband Leon, the unit’s Chief Technical Officer, demanding to know which idiot was responsible for … the last part of the sentence was lost as a door closed somewhere.
    â€˜How long have we got?’
    â€˜Well, speaking from personal experience, evacuating St Mary’s is a bit like herding cats. No one will be able to find Professor Rapson. Mrs Mack won’t move without Vortigern.’ (Vortigern is her beloved kitchen cat.) ‘And he won’t move at all if he can help it. No one will be able to remember where the assembly point is. Someone will fall into the lake. All the historians will just