Anyway, the two of them were galloping headlong across Mr Strong’s cherished South Lawn. Old Turk was going full tilt, bony head outstretched, snorting like a dragon, and obviously not intending to stop any time soon. His huge hooves threw great clods of turf up into the air. A distraught Mr Strong ran behind, calling down blood-curdling curses upon the pair of them, and waving his arms.
The thing that lifted this one from the realms of the comparatively normal (for St Mary’s, that is), was that Markham, not, in the scheme of things a natural horseman anyway, was facing backwards – a position that gave him absolutely no control over Turk whatsoever. He lay face down across his rump, grimly clutching his (Turk’s, I mean) tail with both hands and calling piteously for assistance. Being St Mary’s, no one moved, although as a tribute, one or two people did stop eating.
Turk, who liked having his tail pulled as little as any horse, increased his speed. Markham increased his wailing. Behind them, Mr Strong fell grimly silent. He was obviously in it for the long haul.
The trio Dopplered across the lawn and were last seen heading west where, presumably, they would all eventually fall into the sea. Or hit Ireland.
The Security section began to lay bets on whether any of them would ever be seen again.
Officer Ellis sat frozen, his mug of tea halfway between table and face.
‘What …?’
‘Parthians,’ I said, helpfully.
He refused to defrost so I tried again.
‘The Parthians. Great horsemen. Best known for their tactical retreats. They would apparently flee the battlefield and then, when the enemy chased after them, without slowing down at all, they’d turn themselves around on their horses, face backwards, and unleash a hail of arrows upon their luckless pursuers. Hence the expression, “Parthian shot”. Of course, for it to be effective, the riders had to have a level of skill possibly not possessed by our Mr Markham. And the cooperation of their horses as well, of course. Something definitely not possessed by our Mr Markham.’
He said, seemingly casual, ‘How did you know his name was Markham?’
‘Nurse Hunter’s boyfriend.’
‘Really? That pretty blonde girl?’
‘’Fraid so.’
‘Will they come back, do you think?’ he asked, craning his neck for a final, disbelieving glimpse.
‘Oh yes. Soon as he gets hungry,’ I said, and which one of them I was talking about was anyone’s guess.
After a while, the buzz of conversation started again, slowly at first, and then two minutes later, you couldn’t hear yourself think. Just another working day at St Mary’s.
It was easier to look out of the window, so I did. Like many things here, the grounds were similar but not identical. Beeches fringed the South Lawn rather than cedars, and they’d planted rose beds under the terrace, but otherwise, things were pretty much the same. Apart, of course, from the huge area of devastation around the lake. Most of the reed beds were just blackened stumps. The entire bank looked as if it had been on the wrong end of Lord Kitchener’s scorched earth policy. The jetty was just a memory. The sad remains of black-and-yellow safety tape fluttered in the breeze and there wasn’t a swan in sight. God knows where they were now. Still in the library, maybe? On the roof? India?
I was just finishing my lunch when Isabella Barclay made her entrance.
She’d once accused me of having stolen her life. That everything I had should have been hers. Well if that was the case, she certainly had it all back again. It was my turn to sit, sullen and resentful, watching her talking and laughing as she made her way across the dining room, exchanging insults and jokes with those around her. She’d certainly stepped into my empty shoes quickly enough.
I tried again to clear my mind of preconceptions.
She hadn’t come to eat. She had a folder in her hands. The dreaded St Mary’s paperwork. She’d come for me.
To put off the moment, I got up and made myself a pot of tea.
When I returned to the table, Ellis had gone.
Seemingly unaware of the deathly silence around us, she opened the folder.
I busied myself pouring my tea, using the time to decide what to say and do. I would have to say something. They all knew I could talk. If I said nothing, they would stick needles in me and I’d have no control over anything I said, or even remember afterwards what I’d said, and I couldn’t afford for that to happen.
I added sugar and stirred, desperately trying to see a way out of this, but the only thing in my head was a picture of Markham and Turk. That was typical of St Mary’s. Even though they were in the midst of a crisis, with their senior staff under house arrest, St Mary’s did things their own way. Maybe … so should I. Perhaps now was the time to go on the offensive. I could do that. For some reason, she’d chosen to do this in front of everyone. Was she trying to expose me in public? Of course she was. Perhaps it was time I sent a message.
She sat across from me, smiling pleasantly. I remembered her leaning over me in Sick Bay. I didn’t care what the rest of St Mary’s thought about her. She was trouble. She always had been. In every time. In every world.
‘I have a little paperwork to complete so if you could let me have a few details, please, just for our records …’