My plan was to wait quietly, watch the great man walk past, either on his way in or out of his rooms, restrain Professor Penrose from accosting his idol, and then return him, safe and sound, to Dr Bairstow and St Mary’s for a celebratory drink.
Things didn’t turn out that way at all.
Eddie, who had been here before, pointed out the various buildings and their functions to pass the time. From there, it was only a small conversational step to discussing other and (according to Eddie) lesser colleges. Queens, for instance, founded by the Lancastrian queen, Margaret of Anjou, whose sharp tongue and high-level paranoia were two of the reasons for the Wars of the Roses.
Since Eddie was a Yorkist and I had Lancastrian leanings, we whiled away the time with a discussion that was brisk and not always to the point. I was busy slandering the entire Yorkist line when the door opened and a tall, thin figure slipped out. I’d been a little worried we might not know him, but, trust me, the Newton nose was a dead giveaway. He pulled the door to behind him, settled his papers more firmly under his arm, and stood for a moment, looking up at the sky. Given his habitual vagueness, he was probably trying to work out where he was.
Professor Penrose stiffened like a pointer scenting a game-bird and involuntarily took several steps forward.
The movement attracted the figure’s attention and he turned towards us. My first thought was that he was far too young to be our man. Mid-twenties at the latest, with a long pale face, a wide mouth, and a determined chin. A very modest wig hung down either side of his face – like spaniel’s ears.
I was completely taken by surprise. The three of us froze – Professor Penrose with his arm outstretched as if to shake his hand, me with my mirror, and Isaac Newton still clutching his thick sheaf of papers tied with ribbon.
We all stared at each other for a long moment.
Completely forgetting my careful briefing – this is why we don’t let civilians do this – Eddie stepped forward, saying, ‘My dear sir. This is an honour, a very great honour …’ and stopped as it became apparent his idol was ignoring him and looking at me.
Oh God, I shouldn’t be here. They probably had very strict rules about letting in women and I was about to be burned at the stake. Or stoned. Or flogged. Or impaled. Historian on a stick. I knew this would happen. This was why Peterson had originally been selected for this assignment. There was no doubt the sight of a woman within these hallowed halls of learning had seriously discomposed the great man who stood, open-mouthed, staring at me.
Confused, Eddie turned to look as well. ‘What …?’
I was conscious of the harsh sound of the crows again, ominous in the silent court. What sort of trouble were we in now?
The two of them stared at me and I still hadn’t a clue what was going on. Nothing new there, then. I actually looked down at myself to check I was correctly dressed. What was happening here?
Isaac Newton made a hoarse sound and stretched out a trembling hand. I still didn’t get it. He was obviously in the grip of some strong emotion, but what? Slowly, the truth dawned. It wasn’t me at all. It was the mirror. He was staring at the mirror. Why? Did they have some rule about mirrors? I know it sounds odd, but clump together large numbers of male academics unleavened by a little female intelligence and practicality, and all sorts of bizarre behaviour patterns and phobias can emerge.
‘Of course,’ he said and I was startled at the strong, rural burr in his voice. His appearance was quiet and gentlemanly and I suppose I’d expected his voice to be the same.
‘Of course,’ he said again and it was apparent he wasn’t talking to either of us. ‘A mirror.’
And before I knew it, he’d taken several long steps forward and snatched the mirror from me, turning it over in his hands.
‘Yes … yes … of course … replace the lens …’
He backed away, turned, and before I could stop him strode swiftly towards his rooms. With my mirror. Isaac Newton had stolen my bloody mirror!
Now we were in trouble. That was a modern mirror and there was no way I could leave it here. This was more important than Professor Penrose and certainly more important than me. I’d be breaking every rule in the book if I left that here. It’s not that as a mirror it was anything special, but you just can’t go littering the timeline with anomalous objects. History doesn’t like it. That’s History as in Kleio, daughter of Zeus and immortal Muse of History. Or, if you prefer, Mrs Partridge, PA to Dr Bairstow and pretty formidable in either incarnation. I’d have to lead a team to get it back. And if we couldn’t find it … or he’d already incorporated it into something important … like the bloody reflecting telescope … there would be hell to pay.
If I was going to get it back, it would have to be now, before he could re-enter his rooms. But I had Professor Penrose to think of as well. I couldn’t just go off and leave him to his own devices.