‘Because it relates to my death. You were there, in the cellar, when I had a brain haemorrhage.’ Grace spoke smoothly, as though relaying information she’d read many times. ‘I’ll survive hospital admission but I’ll never regain consciousness. The Conclave will return me to my home timeline and I’ll die there. In 2027.’
Ruby exhaled. Her first feeling was shame, for being flippant about Grace’s condition – in her thoughts, if not comments. Had Ruby been flippant in her comments, back at the hotel? Maybe she’d betrayed her attitude.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, unsure how to express condolences to someone on their own death.
‘Don’t worry about it.’ Grace gave a little shrug and shake of the head.
The coolness of her reaction was perplexing. Ruby was about to ask her if she was really all right, but Grace spoke first.
‘You don’t look how I imagined you,’ she said. Presumably she hadn’t met Ruby before – which would make her younger than the shoplifting Grace at Tate Modern.
‘I hope you’re not disappointed,’ Ruby said.
‘Oh, you.’ Grace’s cheek dimpled. ‘No, I wouldn’t say that.’
They were silent for a moment.
‘You were expecting a conversation,’ Grace said. ‘If you like you can ask me your questions. That seems fair.’
‘Thank you.’ Ruby’s expectations remained low. Grace had been too mysterious, too often.
‘What do you want to ask?’ Grace said.
Might as well go for the big guns. Ruby had nothing to lose.
‘The inquest, next February. Is it for Barbara?’
‘Good God, no. It’s for Margaret.’
‘Margaret? Margaret Norton?’ Ruby had been so sure Grace would skirt the issue, it startled her to get a clear answer.
‘That’s right. Listen, is this going to be a long chat?’
‘Are you in a rush?’
‘No.’ Grace smiled. ‘But there’s a bar around the corner with forty-four varieties of gin.’
*
Barbara had never visited the Conclave headquarters before. High arches of glass and granite spanned the foyer. With Breno at her feet, Barbara asked the uniformed man at the information desk if she could see Margaret Norton.
‘Do you have an appointment?’ the receptionist asked.
‘No. But she’ll want to hear what I have to say.’
‘I’m afraid you need to have an appointment. Her diary is booked up so far in advance—’
‘Let me talk to Margaret’s secretary.’
‘Madam—’
‘Just her secretary! I’m sure she’ll do an excellent job of sending me packing. What harm can it do?’
‘All right, but if I allow that, you must accept it when Dr Norton declines to see you. I’d rather our guards didn’t escort you from the building against your consent.’
‘If she won’t see me, I’ll go as meekly as a lamb.’
Barbara was directed to the fourth floor. From the lift Barbara ventured down a long corridor, her feet sinking into a thick honey-coloured carpet. The secretary was standing at a filing cabinet.
Predictably, he said Barbara couldn’t speak to Margaret without an appointment.
‘Her next availability is in six weeks,’ the secretary added.
‘That’s too long,’ Barbara said. ‘Please give her my name – Barbara Hereford. I wish to discuss strategies for recycling fuel.’
The secretary raised his eyebrows in recognition of the name, but replied, ‘She can’t be disturbed.’
‘Very well,’ Barbara said. ‘In that case I’ll be leaving. I spoke to a journalist only this afternoon; I’m sure I can ring him back and explain that Margaret is happy to waste taxpayers’ money.’
The secretary breathed a heavy sigh, pushed the drawer back into the filing cabinet, and slipped through an oak door. Low voices travelled through the wood. A moment later the secretary returned.
‘You’ve got five minutes,’ he said.
Barbara let Breno run ahead of her, into Margaret’s circular office. He waited by the captain’s chair, wagging his tail, until she caught up with him and sat down.
Margaret watched from behind her desk, one eyebrow raised. It was many decades since they’d seen each other in person, and Bee observed that Margaret’s style was unchanged. She still had the same smooth immovable hair and a discreetly expensive blazer. But her face, always haughty, had settled with age into a sneer.
‘Hello, Bee,’ she said. ‘What’s all this about journalists?’
‘That was to get me through the door. I knew if I rang or wrote you’d ignore me.’
‘Bee, of course I’ve ignored you. I couldn’t tell you anything you wanted to hear. You would never accept that I had to cut you off.’
‘I was perfectly aware that I’d been ousted, thank you. I’m not an idiot.’
‘But you kept trying to get back in. That couldn’t happen. You’d been a liability to the project. Stealing fuel was one thing, but you utterly shamed us on television. That was the worst of it. We looked terrible to the public. To the public, Bee.’
‘Did you all feel that way – that you were ashamed of me?’
‘When all’s said and done, it doesn’t matter how we feel about you – what matters is the Conclave’s public image. Everyone outside these four walls thinks time travellers are liable to lose our minds, because of your behaviour. We’ve been fighting the image you left us with for fifty years.’
‘What if we could change that?’
‘How?’
‘Give the public a new story. People love a reconciliation – let me come back, sane and ready to make my contribution.’
Margaret threw back her head and roared.
‘Oh, Barbara. You are the limit. I’ve just said you wouldn’t accept your time-travelling days were done! Stirring up people’s memories of the whole affair would be foolishness. Why would I give you a job?’
‘Because I have something to exchange – the findings of some independent research I’ve conducted. It could save you millions each year.’
Bee outlined her idea for recycling fuel. When she’d finished, Margaret looked thoughtful.
‘It’s an interesting proposal,’ she said. ‘But we’ll never adopt it.’
‘What? Why not?’
‘Vested interests, my dear. There wouldn’t be the political will for this kind of change, because too many of the individuals who say yay or nay to funding our missions also have a stake in the atroposium industry. We’d cause immense damage to their bottom line if we reduced our atroposium consumption on the scale you’re suggesting.’
Bee sagged. Her bargaining chip had been refused. What else could she say to convince the Conclave to let her in? All that remained was to beg. She stood and placed her hands on the desk.
‘Please, Margaret,’ she implored. ‘Let me time travel again. I’ll do anything – the most menial, out of the way job you have. ‘
She was inches from Margaret’s eyes, and Barbara thought she saw a glimmer of interest.
‘You’ll do anything?’ Margaret queried. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely.’
Margaret massaged her temples.
‘Very well,’ she said. ‘You can’t publicly rejoin us. That is out of the question. But we do occasionally want covert employees. First, you’d need to take a few preparatory tests. There are other people in your position, ones we had to let go but who have skills that are still of use.’
‘What do they do, these covert employees?’
‘One step at a time. Do you want to take the prep tests?’
‘Yes, definitely.’
‘You can meet me tonight. Not here. I’ll be at the toy museum in Rotherhithe. Come at eight o’clock on the dot. Don’t mention where you’re going to anyone.’
Barbara’s smile froze. The demands for secrecy made her uneasy.
Go home, Bee heard Ruby say. This is a trap.
But time travelling again was what Barbara wanted to do most, and Margaret said time travelling was on offer.
‘I won’t be late,’ Barbara said.
30
SEPTEMBER 2018
Odette
Odette took her seat in the small exam room. The candidates sat one behind the other, with Odette at the back. A draught from the door played on her bare ankles. The walls were marble, and when Elspeth spoke her voice echoed.
‘You have an hour to write your reflections and conclusions on this morning’s activity. I will notify you at half an hour, and five minutes, before your time is up.’
Behind Odette, the door whined open. Jim Plantagenet hastened past her.