I wasn’t really listening. I looked up and she was standing quietly and watching. Every time something important happens at St Mary’s, Mrs Partridge is always there. Somewhere. Always.
I started to walk around the room. Taped to the wall was a big black plastic bag, half-full of rejected sheets. Without knowing why, I reached in and pulled out few.
‘Be careful,’ she warned. ‘Some of those will still be wet.’
‘What happened?’
‘Our usual printer is broken, so we had to use the old machine and we over-inked it. The first few hundred sheets were useless.’
This was important and I didn’t know why. I looked at the sheets I’d pulled out. Ink still glistened wetly in places. The printing was blobby. I turned it over. It had leaked through the paper to the back.
Bleed-through.
A hundred thoughts crashed through my mind.
I looked out at the rain. Rain. Dreams. Dreams that were real.
I looked over at Mrs Partridge, who was gathering her equipment and regarding me with the sort of expression usually reserved for a kitten who has just successfully used the litter tray. She stood expectantly by the door. I took the hint.
‘Don’t forget. 10.00 a.m. tomorrow.’
‘No,’ I mumbled. ‘I won’t forget,’ and wandered blindly down the corridor. I found myself at the top of the stairs more by good luck than good judgement. David was looking up at me. I went down to join him.
‘Can you get back to the office? Clear my desk. I don’t care where you hide it. Set up a recorder. Can you do that in twenty minutes?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK. I’ll be along in a minute.’
He set off and I wandered into the library, where it was quiet. This was going to be awkward, but I couldn’t help that. I activated my com.
‘Chief Farrell?’
‘Dr Maxwell?’ Puzzled but neutral.
‘Yes. I wonder, if you’re not too busy, could you spare me half an hour in my office? If it’s a problem, I can come to you, but I think it’s quieter in my office.’
There was a pause. I shifted from foot to foot, but said nothing.
‘Do I get a clue?’
‘We’re doing some work on Mary Stuart and I think you may have the answers to some questions.’
Another pause.
‘Me?’
‘Yes. Is it possible for you to come at once?’
And another pause.
‘Can you give me ten minutes?’
‘Yes,’ I said, and closing the link before he could change his mind, I sprinted to my office.
I don’t know what David had done with everything. For all I know he’d just opened the window and flung it all out into the rain. I didn’t care. I was conscious only of a burning sense of urgency.
I was waiting for him when he stood, somewhat warily, in the doorway. David had put up the red light outside the door. It made us look like a brothel, but it meant no one would come in. I stood up politely, but formally. Our earlier conversation might never have happened.
‘Chief Farrell, thank you for coming so quickly. I do apologise if I’ve disrupted your afternoon. There are some things I’d like to ask you, if you don’t mind. Please come in and sit down.’
We sat in the armchairs. I made sure I got the one near the radiator. Just listening to the rain outside made me feel cold. He regarded the little recorder with suspicion.
‘It’s nothing sinister, Chief. I just want to concentrate on what you have to say, rather than keep trying to remember things. If you have no objection, that is.’
He looked a little dubious. ‘This sounds important.’
‘Actually, I think it is. And, before you ask, I’m not sure why. I can only ask you to bear with me while I bumble around in the dark until I find what it is I don’t know I’m looking for.’
‘Sounds like typical History Department methodology to me. Very well, Dr Maxwell, do your worst.’
‘I’d like to ask you some questions about recent events. I’ll happily tell you what it’s about when it’s over, but not until then, if you don’t mind, because I don’t want to influence anything you say.’
He nodded, face closed. I knew that look.
‘When you were unconscious, you dreamed, right?’
He nodded again, arms folded, chin on chest.
‘Can you tell me what you dreamed?’
‘I’m not really sure. I can’t remember much of it now.’
‘But it was very vivid at the time, you said?’
He nodded.
‘Very real. More real than reality when you woke up?’
He nodded again, obviously unwilling to commit himself. This wasn’t going anywhere. I decided to revise my strategy. I dragged out a sheet of Mrs Partridge’s rejected printing and laid it on the table in front of him. He picked it up.
‘The new Archive list?’
‘Look on the back.’
He turned it over.
‘Messy.’
‘It’s called “bleed-through”.’