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

‘Where?’ said Guthrie.

‘Watch.’

She put the plug in a basin and ran the hot water. Steam billowed, obscuring the mirror above. She turned off the tap and stepped back and there, plain as day, two rows of numbers.

We’ve all done it as children. You write on a mirror with a bar of soap, which remains invisible until the mirror steams up and reveals your secret writing. Peterson dragged his scratchpad from his knee pocket and typed them in.

I went to the door and looked out. On the left was the long corridor back to the main building. On the right was Hawking. Opposite was the door to the basement.

Interesting.

Guthrie was saying, ‘Some kind of message?’

Polly said, ‘The numbers are laid out like co-ordinates, although I don’t recognise them. I’d need to check them out.’

‘Not just at the moment, if you don’t mind, Miss Perkins,’ said the Boss. ‘There are other avenues I want to explore first. Thank you for bringing this to my attention. I will contact you shortly.’

She said, ‘Yes, sir,’ threw us all a curious look and went out. We stood in silence.

‘Major, your thoughts please.’

‘Well, sir, unlikely as it seems, I think Chief Farrell has been taken – snatched – and somehow, someone managed to scribble these numbers as a clue. If indeed they are co-ordinates, then we know where to look. It seems a little – easy.’

Silence.

Peterson nodded.

I walked to the door again and looked out. If I was snatching someone then this was the place I would be. But what were the odds they’d turn up here, in this location, on one of the few nights of the year when the Chief was pottering around in the basement?

So, suppose it wasn’t the Chief they were after. Then whom? Think about that later.

So, you have your man – a man, anyway – and this man, by some means, gets to write on the mirror. And no one notices? Or did they all politely give him some privacy so he could scribble these numbers? How likely is that?

Suppose the man is unconscious and requires medical attention? OK, so at a stretch of the imagination, they drag him back in here to mop up the blood. But in that case, he’s in no condition to be writing anything anywhere. I inspected the basins. They were all clean and sparkling and there were no wet towels in the bin and certainly no bloodstains.

So they grab a man, who just happens to be the Chief. How did they get here? A pod. It had to be. I already knew from Guthrie that no one had entered or left the building. It had to be a pod.

Where had they landed? Apart from Hawking itself, only the basement was big enough and private enough. So how did they know that? That was easy. Someone who was familiar with the layout of St Mary’s. And, if you followed that to its logical conclusion, then that someone may well have known the Chief would be here tonight as well. Someone from the future would have that knowledge. In which case, it was the Chief they wanted.

So, in – grab the Chief as soon as he’s alone – and out again. Minutes, maybe even seconds. And during that time, these co-ordinates were written on the mirror. Why? The answer to that was pretty obvious. Oh, God, we were in trouble again.

Last year, we’d come up against a renegade outfit from a future St Mary’s. Led by an embittered fanatic named Clive Ronan, we’d engaged them in the Cretaceous Period and then again in Alexandria. He’d come off worse in both encounters. Very much worse. He had no reason to love us.

Peterson said, ‘This isn’t right. There’s something wrong here.’

Guthrie nodded his agreement. ‘True, but I’d like to investigate those co-ordinates before I commit myself to any course of action.’

The Boss shifted his weight on his stick. ‘Dr Maxwell, your comments please.’

‘Well, sir, in a nutshell, it’s a set-up.’ There were nods of agreement. Everyone had come to that conclusion.

I stared at the floor, a thousand thoughts whirling through my head. One was uppermost. Willingly or not, Chief Farrell had gone back to the future.

I might never see him again.

Three hours later, and I was exhausted. Nevertheless, I couldn’t afford to show it. I could not afford to look in anything other than tip-top condition and fighting fit. I’d just repeated my plan for the second time and the storm of protest was, if anything, greater than the first time. Which was a shame. It was a good plan.

‘It’s a good plan,’ I said, defensively and off they went again. Although not all of them. Dr Bairstow said nothing, just looking out of the window. I sat quiet. Best to let them get on with it.

Finally, the Boss raised his hand. ‘Enough. Dr Maxwell, please remain behind. The rest of you, back here in one hour, if you would be so good.’