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

I sat forward abruptly. I needed efficient, dedicated, organised, adaptable, amenable, whatever, and she saddled me with Rosie Lee? She was rude, unhelpful, stubborn, and argumentative – the list just went on. I strongly suspected Mrs Partridge of taking the opportunity to dump an unpopular member of staff on me.

I had a vague memory of Miss Lee – small, dark, and vicious. I needed to think fast.

‘What about …?’ I said, cunningly. ‘What about Miss Lee going to work for Peterson? Everyone likes Peterson – even she will, and I’ll have his Mrs Shaw instead.’

This was a brilliant move. Mrs Shaw was lovely – and she brought him biscuits. Mrs Shaw I could live with. ‘I’m sure Miss Lee would benefit from being Peterson’s assistant.’

She looked at me pityingly.

‘Actually, Dr Maxwell, I’m giving you Miss Lee for your benefit – not hers.’

I wasn’t sure how that would work at all.

‘Thank you,’ I said sarcastically, but it just bounced off her.

Deliberately misinterpreting me, she inclined her head, smiled smugly, said, ‘You’re welcome,’ and departed. I’d lost another one. The score so far, Partridge 33 – Maxwell 0.

I sighed and began to sort through the chaos that was my in-tray. A small sound in the doorway made me look up. It was Medusa, dark hair curling around her head like so many snakes, giving me the evil eye. She had no little cardboard box full of plants, photos, personal possessions – just herself. She was neatly dressed but there was a quiet shabbiness about her. Her hair hadn’t been styled in months. She lifted a chin and radiated defiance. We stared at each other.

I remembered this was the girl whom nobody wanted. Shunted from department to department, lasting no longer than the initial month’s trial. No wonder she hadn’t brought anything with her – she wasn’t expecting to stay. She stood in the doorway, attitude oozing from every pore. I wondered if I was her last chance.

I kicked what I had been going to say into touch and said instead, ‘Miss Lee, you are very welcome. I’m glad to see you. Your desk is over here. Perhaps you’d like to take some time to have a look around the office and get your bearings. I believe Mr Sands was a methodical worker – it should all be quite straightforward. When you’ve got yourself sorted out, please could you look through my in-tray? I’d like you to prioritise this lot: stuff I need to do now, stuff that can wait, and stuff I can pass on to other people. I’ll leave you in peace, now. I’m down in the hall if you want me.’

Not bad, eh? I was impressed. She wasn’t. She stared long enough for me to register that entering the room was her choice and nothing to do with me in any way whatsoever and crossed to the desk.

‘There’s no chair.’

‘Well, there wouldn’t be, would there? David was in a wheelchair. He brought his own,’ was what I hadn’t meant to say. God, she did have a real knack for rubbing people up the wrong way. ‘Give Mr Strong a call and he’ll bring one up for you,’ and left the room before she ended up wearing the filing cabinet.

Mrs Partridge was pretending not to lurk near the stairs.

‘The body’s under the desk,’ I said as I passed, just to give her something to worry about.

Down in the hall, I ran into Peterson.

‘I was just coming to find you,’ he said. ‘Do you fancy a trip out?’

‘Maybe … What did you have in mind?’

‘Pathfinders,’ he said. ‘They’ve completed their last simulation. Time for the real deal. Would you care to join us?’

The Pathfinders are recently qualified trainees. They do what it says on the tin. They find the path. Sometimes, when we’re not sure of our dates, they don’t so much jump as hop, looking for the event in question, narrowing down the co-ordinates until we find what we’re looking for. They also maintain the Time Map. They don’t usually get involved in the more lively aspects of the job until they have a bit of experience under their belt.

I pushed thoughts of my Mary Stuart-covered desk to the back of my mind. ‘Anywhere in particular?’

‘Yes, actually. Do you remember, when we were at the other St Mary’s, we couldn’t find The Hanging Gardens of Babylon?’

‘No one’s ever found them. Or any trace of them.’

‘I think everyone’s been looking in the wrong place at the wrong time. There’s very strong evidence they may have actually been The Hanging Gardens of Nineveh. Fancy checking it out?’

‘Yes,’ I said, enthusiastic at the opportunity. And even more enthusiastic at the thought of leaving my emotionally tangled life behind me for a while, and enjoying something as simple and straightforward as running for my life while being pursued by a blood-crazed mob, or succumbing to some deadly plague in the dim and distant past.