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

‘Why me?’ said he said. ‘Why not …?’ he paused, rummaging for someone else, anyone else – and coming up with no one. ‘Why me?’


‘It’s your own fault,’ I told him, with a certain malice. ‘You speak perfect French. She’s going to love you.’

Afterwards, I found David in my office having another coughing fit.

I passed him some water. He looked flushed and hot.

‘Everything all right?’

It took him some time to get his breath back and I could hear his chest straining.

‘Surely … I should be asking you that. You’re the one just back from the …very dodgy mission you … won’t tell anyone … about.’

‘Stop changing the subject,’ I said, recognising the signs. ‘Are you taking anything for that?’

‘Not … at the moment.’

‘Well, go along to Dr Foster and get yourself sorted out. I don’t want an office full of phlegm.’

‘Nice … to see you too. How did it go?’

‘Mission accomplished,’ I said, not really wanting to talk about it.

‘Congratulations,’ he said, obviously recognising the signs too. ‘You’ll be delighted … but not surprised to hear that your … staggeringly brilliant assistant is completely on top of things here, and absolutely nothing is outstanding. You may as well go back … to bed.’

‘When you next see this staggeringly brilliant young assistant please thank her for me and ask her if she’d like your job full-time?’

‘Very funny. Speaking of which, knock-knock …’

‘Shut up.’

Muttering and coughing, he brought over a pile of post.

‘Nothing here is urgent. I’ve drafted replies to everything… Just say the word and I’ll send it all off. Tea?’

‘Mm … yes, please,’ I said, thinking, in my innocence, we were about to do some work.

‘So how are you?’ he said.

‘I’m fine,’ I said, not really listening.

‘You look like crap.’

‘I’m fine,’ I said again, in my ‘change the subject’ voice.

He did. I wished he hadn’t.

‘So … how’s Chief Farrell?’

‘Fine.’

The silence made me look up.

‘That wasn’t what I meant.’

‘I know.’

More silence.

‘Have you looked at him recently?’

‘David, I’ve just spent the entire morning with him. Of course I’ve looked at him.’

‘No … really looked at him.’

‘You can’t go around peering closely at senior officers. It’s probably a chargeable offence.’

‘I’ll do you a deal.’

‘If it involves no more knock-knock jokes then I’ll take it.’

‘I’ll … go to Dr Foster if you’ll talk to Chief Farrell. You don’t have to have a mad reconciliation on the … spot. Just sit down and talk a little. You’ll feel better, trust me …’

I sighed, channelling hard-done-by Chief Operations Officer as hard as I could.

He started to cough again. Deliberately, I was sure.

‘OK, I will. I don’t know when, but I will. Do you want me to sign something to that effect? Now, get yourself to Sick Bay before I pick up the phone and make Sick Bay come to you. And that’s never pleasant.’

He backed out of the door, scraping the paint as he went. There was barely any left now and the whole jamb became even more gouged and gashed every time he passed through. It looked terrible. It still does. I’ve never let them paint over it. He disappeared and his coughing Dopplered down the corridor. There was a distant cry as he collided with someone.

I ran through the post – everything he’d done was spot-on – so I dropped it all back on his desk for onward dispatch. I made my own tea – again – and started on the Mary Stuart assignment.

I was soon engrossed. Hours passed and I never noticed. I never noticed that David didn’t come back.

Then the phone rang.

It was Helen and she wasted no time.

‘Max, get yourself down to Sick Bay. Now.’

I don’t think I even bothered replacing the receiver. I was out of the office and sprinting around the gallery at a speed I hadn’t achieved since I was a trainee. I went down the stairs three at a time. Astonished historians stood frozen as I raced past them. I crashed through the doors into the long corridor, shouting, ‘Get out of the way’, to anyone who didn’t move quickly enough. Someone had the sense to open the doors at the other end. I lifted my chin and sprinted. They’d sent the lift down, thank God. I don’t think I could have made the stairs. All the time I was thinking, Who? Who is it this time?

I stepped sideways through the lift doors when they were barely inches apart and ran to the nurses’ station. There was no one there.

I called, ‘Helen? Doctor Foster?’ and she appeared round the corner.

‘This way, Max.’ She strode off. To my surprise, we bypassed the wards and headed for the isolation room at the end. I’d been in there once when I’d come back from Nabataean Petra with what turned out to be nothing more than a cold. It was a small room, rather more nicely furnished than the wards since inmates tended to stay longer.