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

‘That seemed to go well,’ she said.

‘Yes, it was quite plain sailing really, although I’ve seen less ham on a pig. Are the press releases all prepared?’

She passed them over. ‘On behalf of this unit, Director, may I thank you?’

‘Not me,’ I said, skimming through them. ‘Dr Bairstow is the one to thank. He’s the one who actually reburied the sonnets for you to find. I just had the idea.’

‘Nevertheless, it’s a very generous gesture which will certainly solve our financial problems for more than the foreseeable future.’

‘Well, my St Mary’s still has The Play.’

Yes, we still had a more-than-dodgy Shakespeare play based on the life of Mary, Queen of Scots – or the Tartan Trollop, as I always thought of her – in which they executed Elizabeth by mistake. Something else I was going to have to sort that out when I got back.

Busy, busy.





Chapter Nine

We were off. On a proper team-building exercise, no less. Just like a real organisation.

St Mary’s on the move is a terrifying sight.

‘I’m not sure the world’s ready for this,’ said Guthrie, watching as they piled into the big transport pod, TB2. The cages were stacked along one side, with a pile of nets by the door and several sacks full of fruit that should have been eaten last week. It was a bit whiffy, but, with luck, not for long. Wisely, he, Tim, and Leon had elected to remain behind. Now it was my turn. I had Mrs Partridge to lend moral guidance and support.

We landed gently and they assembled in their teams. Historians in their blues, techies in orange, security in green and R&D in what they fondly imagined was woodland camouflage.

I had no idea how this was going to turn out. I’d considered (briefly) a paintball day. That’s what normal organisations do to promote team building. In reality, of course, it’s just an excuse to stick it to the bastards in Management. There was no way I was going to give this lot that opportunity, hence – The Great Dodo Hunt. We had arrived at Mauritius in 1666. In London, the Great Fire was raging and the Lord Mayor was saying dismissively that the blaze was so small a woman might piss it out. He probably wasn’t re-elected. Bet he got an earful from the missus as well.

I had sent Tim back to St Mary’s to accomplish two tasks. The first, burying the sonnets for us to find in this time, had gone remarkably well, considering it was St Mary’s. The second part was to bring Dieter’s Dodo House designs back with him. He, Ian and an increasingly mobile Leon had supervised the building of our rather nifty looking Dodo Research Centre, which had been knocked up alongside the stables, out of main view. Consisting of indoor and outdoor quarters and a sizeable run, complete with running water, we were confident it would appeal to even the most discerning dodo.

A quite accidental discovery last year had shown us that objects facing imminent destruction could be removed from their own timeline and relocated elsewhere. That was how we’d managed to save some of the Great Library of Alexandria. Now, we were going to have a shot at saving a few dodos. I had no idea how this would pan out – standard St Mary’s methodology – but the presence of Mrs Partridge, part-time PA and full-time Muse of History, was reassuring. We would not be jiggering the time continuum. Not this afternoon, anyway.

Since we’d been unable to complete the Flying Machine competition and to spice things up a bit, I had a small cup to award to the most successful team, and a huge wooden spoon and unit-wide ridicule for the losers. In the normal St Mary’s spirit of free and fair competition, all teams were now regarding each other balefully, waiting for the off. There would be tears before bedtime.

We’d decided on twelve birds, altogether. Any twelve. No one had any idea how to tell the sexes apart so we’d take anything we could get. The optimum male to female ratio was unimportant. Twelve neat cages stood ready. It was time.

I read them the guidelines again, making sure I included the long list of disqualifying acts. Deep down, I had no real expectation of seeing any dodos, let alone capturing any. Their date of extinction was around 1681 and, even by this date, they were very scarce. They might even be gone already. If we did catch a glimpse, we might be the last humans ever to do so.

Still, it kept the children out of mischief. Team building at its most bizarre.

‘Remember,’ I said, wondering when I’d turned into such a nag, ‘no harm is to come to any of these birds on pain of instant death and disqualification. They’re scarce, they’re stupid, and I don’t want the last one dying because someone even more stupid has sat on it. All right? Ladies and gentlemen, start your engines.’

They seized their nets and whatever dodo-capturing equipment they’d come up with and stood at the top of the ramp.