A Symphony of Echoes (The Chronicles of St Mary's, #2)

The first was that the alarm had been raised, but the queen had ordered no further action. Bothwell might or might not have been arrested, but no other culprit had been identified.

The second was that the alarm had been raised, but members of her court, scenting an opportunity, had ordered a cover-up. To safeguard the reputation of the queen they would say, but this night power would pass from her to them and henceforth she would be queen in name only. Again, Bothwell might or might not have been arrested.

The third was that the alarm had been raised and a methodical search was taking place for our party and would descend on us at any minute. A possibility that seemed less likely with every passing minute.

The fourth was that no alarm had been raised at all. She hadn’t done so in the original timeline – whether from shame or because he’d been monumentally a good shag was unclear. Dr Bairstow had once said to me, ‘History is lazy. History suffers from inertia.’ Suppose History now was influencing events to restore the timeline to as close to its original course as possible. Mary would not denounce him, but go on to marry him, lose her kingdom, and then her life just as she was supposed to do. As Darth Vader would have said, ‘It is her destiny.’

Which could mean we were hurtling to hell in a handcart with unnecessary haste.

‘Slow down,’ I said to Leon. ‘I don’t think they’re coming.’

He stopped and got his breath back.

Guthrie sat up and was spectacularly sick.

We trudged on in silence.

Unexpectedly, Farrell said, ‘Did you … bite him?’

I grinned in the dark. I might not have been allowed to do him any serious injury, but he’d carry that mark with him to the end of his days.

Guthrie heaved again and Farrell said, ‘Over the other side this time, Ian. The last lot went all over my boots.’

We approached the Port with caution. Not surprisingly, given the amount of rain falling, no one was in sight. That didn’t mean there was no one there.

‘Hold on,’ said Farrell. ‘Guard ahead.’

I tensed. Maybe the palace had sent out messengers who had somehow slipped past us in the night and were, even now, waiting for us in the dark shadows.

Wrong. A stout guard met us, wiping foam from his beard. I thought of Falstaff.

He was suspicious. Of course he was. He lived in his own small world and knew nothing of courtiers and queens and palaces, but he knew a suspicious bunch of reprobates when he saw them. Richly dressed nobles would never be out on a night like this. A woman doubly so. Richly dressed nobles, soaked to the skin, dishevelled, dirty, bleeding, one of them in a handcart – this was well above his pay grade and there was no chance he was going to let us through. And for us any delay could be fatal.

He shifted his weight, prior to turning his head and shouting for reinforcements. This was very, very bad.

We’re really not supposed to injure contemporaries. It’s a kind of prime directive. Whatever the risk to ourselves – we’re supposed to get by on cunning, running, and balls of steel. For me, it’s more of a prime suggestion. So far this year, I’d beheaded Jack the Ripper, killed Isabella Barclay, presided over an execution, and stood by while Guthrie and Markham took out four of Nineveh’s finest. And I’d bitten Clive Ronan, as well. I’d bloody well had enough.

I reached over, seized Guthrie’s stun gun from under his cloak and zapped the fat bastard.

Sorted.

No one said a word.

We were out of the gate and away.

I heard Peterson’s voice in my ear; his restraint only emphasised his anxiety.

‘What is going on? Where the hell are you?’

‘On our way,’ puffed Farrell.

We were heading uphill, the ground was wet and slippery, and my feet were numb with cold.

‘Can you show a light?’

We stared into the darkness. Above us and to the right, a light flashed three times and then shone a steady beam through the rain.

‘It’ll be quicker now without the cart,’ he said. ‘Guthrie, can you walk?’

‘No idea.’

‘Lean on me. Max, can you walk?’

‘Probably. Can I lean on you, too?’

He sighed. ‘Once again, the technical section is the last man standing.’

Guthrie said groggily, ‘Doesn’t the technical section just piss you off?’

‘Tell me about it.’

Leon took Guthrie and I took the torch. We stumbled through the dark, tripping and cursing. I made us stop occasionally to listen, but there was nothing and no one behind us. No one had raised the alarm. If they’d found the gate guard they’d assume he’d drunk too much or he’d had a funny turn. I suspected he’d come round, picked himself up, and gone inside for something to calm his nerves.

The tension eased. Even the rain was slowing.

‘So,’ said Leon, ‘tell me what happened. How did you manage it in the end?’