I told him what I’d done. It was easier in the dark where I couldn’t see his face. I tried to keep it detached and business-like, but he must have heard something in my voice.
We trudged on a few paces and then he said, ‘You’re cold and wet. It’s been a tough assignment. But, for us, it all happened hundreds of years ago. What you did was meant to happen. She could have screamed for help. She could have denounced him. She didn’t. Not originally and not on this night, either. I understand how you feel – she might have gone on to be a remarkable woman. But she made bad decisions and she had to live with them. And remember – she was no innocent. She was almost certainly implicated in the murder of her husband. And the poor wretches who died with him.’
I couldn’t see his face, but he’d flirted with her, charmed her, and gazed into her eyes …
‘What about you? If you’d played your cards right, we could have been calling you King Leon by now.’
‘I’ve found my queen.’
He waited for me to say, ‘Hey, you’re not talking to some daft Scottish bint now, you know,’ but, for some reason, I didn’t. I was tired, depressed, and not very proud of myself. I just wanted to sit somewhere and think about what I’d done.
We trudged a little further.
‘I was wondering,’ he said slowly, ‘if perhaps you would like to go somewhere for dinner. Tomorrow night. Like normal people do.’
I was roused from my little pit of self-pity. ‘You’re asking me out on a date? Now?’
‘No, of course not now. Tomorrow night. If you’re free, of course.’
Of course I was free. I was always bloody free.
I leaned around Guthrie. ‘I’ll have to check, but I think I am.’
‘Good. I’ll ring Joe Nelson and book a table.’
‘The Falconberg Arms? In the village?’
‘Well, no choice, really.’
‘What?’
‘No car,’ he said briefly.
I stopped dead.
They carried on for two or three steps before he realised he’d left me behind. Guthrie stared blearily from me to him and back again.
I was all set to have it out there and then and sod all the queen’s horses and all the queen’s men.
‘I don’t believe you. We’re fleeing for our lives in the rain-swept gloom of 16th century Scotland and you’re still banging on about your bloody stupid bloody car?’
‘Seriously?’ he said. ‘You think I’m not going to be referring to it at regular intervals for the rest of your life? That I’m not going to drag it into every argument we ever have? That I’m ever going to let you forget? There will be ‘Driving The Car Into The Lake’ anniversaries. I shall commission a special card from Hallmark. There will be celebration cakes. We may even get a telegram from the King.’
He paused. ‘Well?’
‘Seriously? I said. ‘You think where the car leads the owner can’t follow? Let’s see Dieter winch you out of the lake every Friday.’
‘OK. Better now?’
‘I think so.’
‘Come on, then.’
I thought I could hear Guthrie laughing.
We headed for the light, finally tumbling soaked, cold and exhausted into the pod.
Peterson was waiting for us. I could tell by the way he was complaining about the mess we were making that he had been anxious. Guthrie and I sank to the floor. Pools of water gathered around us.
I said, ‘Report.’
‘Everyone else has jumped. I’ve done the FOD plod. Rigorously, before you ask.’
The FOD plod – Foreign Object Drop – was our check we hadn’t inadvertently brought anything contemporary into the pod.
He passed me a towel. ‘What about Ronan?’
I groaned with frustration. ‘We had him and he got away. Again. Every time. Bastard!’
‘What happened about the queen? I gather you saw her?’
‘I left her and Bothwell together.’ No need to say any more. ‘Let’s go home.’
The world went white and there was a slight bump. That’s Peterson. He always bumps on landing.
He activated the decon lamp and we waited for the blue glow.
‘Leave your stuff,’ he said. ‘We can collect it later.’
I said, anxiously, ‘Can you see Number Five?’
‘Yes, I can see it from here. They’re waiting for us. We’re all back safe and sound.’
We always wait for each other. I insist on it. We always finish a mission together.
We stepped outside to cheers and applause. We were home. I could smell dust, hot electrics, and pods. Something warmed inside me. I looked up at Dr Bairstow, waiting alone on the gantry, smiled and nodded. He nodded slightly, twitched something that might have been a congratulatory smile – or not – and limped away.
I turned my attention to the rest of my team.
‘So,’ said Schiller, impatiently. ‘Were we successful?’
‘Are you kidding?’ I said. ‘We were bloody amazing!’
Helen and her team appeared, impatient and irritable at our non-arrival in Sick Bay.
Nurse Hunter expertly intercepted Markham, who was trying to slope off to the bar.
‘Why?’ he was saying, plaintively. ‘Do you know how awful 16th century beer is? I need something to take the taste away.’
She put her hands on her hips in mock horror.