She let the sentence die away.
Well, I’d already screwed up once this morning. Let’s see if I could do it again. Maybe this was the time to declare myself. In fact – let’s really give them something to worry about. It occurred to me that if they concentrated on me, here at St Mary’s, maybe Leon would have a chance out there. Wherever he was. Whatever he was doing. I felt again the blast of hot air in my face. When he jumped away. When he left me …
Her voice brought me back. ‘Can I have your name, please?’
‘Maxwell.’
I didn’t raise my voice. People listen harder if you talk quietly.
Her hand jolted. I heard her swallow.
‘And your first name?’
‘Doctor.’
I was back at school again. Defying authority and digging myself a deeper hole with every word uttered. My own worst enemy and about to enjoy every minute.
‘Indeed?’ she said in polite disbelief. She looked me up and down, taking in my still very bedraggled appearance. I’m sure they all thought I was just some scruffy, ginger bint Leon had picked up from somewhere – which wasn’t that far from the truth when you think about it.
Somewhere, someone laughed. I grew very cold.
‘Well,’ she said, politely disbelieving. She was still smiling so everyone could see how nice she was, but her eyes were telling me a different story. ‘Let’s see if you are able to verify that statement, shall we? Perhaps you can give me some personal details. What about qualifications? Do you actually have any? At all?’
I took a deep breath and said in Latin, ‘Graduated from Thirsk University. L’Espec College – Northallerton campus. Doctorate in Ancient Civilisations. Post-graduate qualifications in Archaeology and Anthropology. Fluent in German, French, and Latin. Passable in Middle English and Greek. A smattering of Spanish, Italian, and Turkish. Fully qualified Field Medic with hospital experience. Reasonable with a quarterstaff, good with a bow, and bloody good with a handgun. Current in self-defence and side-saddle.’ I put down my cup. ‘I can make a weapon out of anything you care to put in front of me and should any proof be required, I’ll happily kill you with this teaspoon.’
My words rang around the room. I could hear whispers as people translated for those without Latin. I’d done everything except come right out and say I had been Chief Operations Officer. I knew Barclay didn’t speak Latin, but I was willing to bet she had a very good idea of what I’d just said. She kept her head, however, and rather than be seen to sit there, at a loss, she gathered up her paperwork and left the room.
I was shaking with rage. And fear. I sat quietly, staring out of the window, holding my tea with a trembling hand, wondering if I’d made things better or worse.
Gradually, the room emptied as everyone went back to work and I was alone.
What about me? Where should I go? Even my guard had left me. I pushed my chair back and slowly walked from the room.
I had no idea where I was going or what I was going to do when I got there.
Nothing new there then.
I made my way through the Hall. It was a familiar scene; groups of historians clustered around data tables or whiteboards, arguing, discussing, waving their arms. I caught snatches of conversation. Van Owen, who was probably in charge now, was saying, ‘My compliments to Professor Rapson. War budgies – yes. War goldfish – yes. War elephants? Not in a million years.’
Some things never change.
Something caught my eye and I came to a sudden halt, taking two steps backwards to stare at a whiteboard headed Battle of Shrewsbury – 1403.
I studied the bullet points listing the aims and objectives and tapped the board. ‘There’s a legend that the road nearby is named Featherbed Lane because that’s where the women dragged out their featherbeds for the wounded to rest on. You might want to check that out,’ and passed on before anyone could comment.
I made for the shelter of the library. I needed some peace and quiet before I fell apart altogether.
The high-ceilinged, sunny room was exactly as I remembered it. Apart from the strong chemical cleaning smell that was possibly not unrelated to the recent invasion by a dozen or so angry but loose-bowelled swans leaving ankle-deep calling cards with malicious intent.
Ignoring the siren call of Leick on Mesopotamia, I thought I would catch up on some old favourites. Since there weren’t any out there, I needed the comfort of familiar friends in here.
I pulled down Jane Eyre, Pride and Prejudice, a book of Sherlock Holmes short stories, the first Harry Potter, and finished off with Tom Holland’s Persian Fire. That should keep me quiet until teatime. I avoided Thomas Hardy because everyone should, and anyway, I was depressed enough. And Dickens. I’ve never liked Dickens. I laughed like mad when Little Nell died.