Markham locked all the doors and windows, set the security alarms and we went off for a nap. Because it’s not when you leave – it’s when you arrive that’s important. We could actually have gone off and enjoyed a three-week holiday in the Seychelles – well, I certainly would have – before setting out to foil yet another dastardly scheme, but I very much doubt Pennyroyal would have been happy to see that on this month’s expenses claim. I could hear him now: ‘You are not an MP, Dr Maxwell.’

  I climbed the stairs, enjoyed a long hot shower and fell into bed. Obviously if I was a heroine, I’d have lain awake fretting, but I’m not so I didn’t. Just for once I was asleep almost instantly. And I don’t think heroines snore.

  And I bet they don’t have to go to work on Monday, either.

  Scorched patches and burn holes aside, the brown dress still looked moderately respectable. Cooking over open fires meant many people’s clothes were covered in tiny holes and grease stains so I shouldn’t stand out too much in Jacobean England.

  I found a full black cloak in the costume room – because it would be November, after all – and tied a plain white scarf around my head. The previously despised mob cap went on over the top and I wore my own boots again. The effect wasn’t that bad.

  Markham would be unable to get by with his mid-calf tunic. Doublets, hose and trousers were now in – tunics were definitely out unless you were some sort of yokel from the country. Perfectly possible in his case but it would certainly draw attention in the centre of fashionable London. He was now a vision in knee-length trousers and muttering about it. There was no hose available so he’d gone with long socks which looked odd, but, believe me, he’s appeared in worse. A close-fitting jacket with a pointed waist and floppy hat completed his ensemble.

  ‘How do I look?’ he said, surveying himself in the mirror.

  I patted his arm to reassure him. ‘It’s not rose. Just keep remembering that.’

  We locked up and reset the security system.

  I was doubtful. ‘Should we leave a message? Tell them where we’ve gone?’

  He shook his head. ‘They know our schedule. Runnymede. Lincoln. House of Lords. They’ll find us somehow.’

  ‘If they can. This isn’t like them. Perhaps we should . . .’

  ‘If the worst really has happened, do you want to meet the people who were able to take down Pennyroyal and Smallhope?’

  ‘Good thought,’ I said, and we set off for the pod.

  I did everything I could to ensure a safe and accurate landing. Sadly, I failed across the board. Not only were we in the wrong time and the wrong place but whatever was wrong with me manifested itself in an unexpected but spectacular bout of projectile vomiting, after which I fell out of my seat.

  I lay on the floor. Here it came again. A great, greasy wave of disorientation. My eyes were closed but that didn’t help. I could still see. One London was superimposed over another over another over another like an image in a series of mirrors disappearing off into the distance and I was swept away.

  The Great Fire of 1666 exploded before my eyes in a roaring dance of orange and crimson flames. Everything was ablaze. The heat seared me. I could feel my skin crisp. At the same time, the icy waters of the Thames closed over my head. I couldn’t reach the surface no matter how hard I struggled. A giant weight was pulling me down into the dark depths as I ran and ran and ran. Dear God, how I ran. My footsteps echoed off the dank brick walls that hemmed me in. There was no way out. And all the time he was behind me. Above me. In front of me. Waiting for me. In fact – he’d never gone away.

  The alleyway ended in a brick wall. I turned to face him.

  He was exactly as I remembered. Man-shaped. A bloodless thing. His damp skin glistened. Like a huge white slug. His hands were as big as shovels, the thick, yellow nails still caked with Kal’s blood. And mine. His eyes were dark. They reflected nothing. His face was all wrong. The much too big mouth was halfway up his face. The chin was long, pointed and not symmetrical. His nose was set off to one side. I could smell bad earth and blood. My stomach clenched in fear. The Ripper was here and he had found me. Finally, he had found me.

  My face burned with sudden familiar pain. Almost forgotten scars throbbed. I’d always known this day would come. That one day he would find me again. That we would face each other and my nightmares would come true.

  And then he moved. Faster than sight. One minute he was lurking in the corner of my eye and the next he was right in front of me. I reached for my knife. I stabbed. I slashed. As hard and fast as I could. There was a sharp pain in my forearm, lancing all the way down through my wrist and into my thumb. My hand went numb. No matter how I struggled I just couldn’t hold on to the knife any longer. It fell from my hand. I heard it hit the floor. I was defenceless.

  I couldn’t get my arms free. I needed to get my arms free. I struggled but he was strong. I was crushed in his grip. I struggled again, kicking out, headbutting, biting, frantic in my efforts to break free and run. Run until I could no longer put one foot in front of the other.

  In the distance, I could hear Markham’s voice. He was talking. His voice was all around me. I tried to tell him he should get away. He kept talking over me. He should get out. While he still could. This thing was hideously dangerous. He knew that. Why was he still here?

  I heard my name. Was he calling me for help? I should respond. I stopped struggling and began to make out individual words.

  ‘It’s all right, Max. You’re here with me. You’re still in the pod. We’re on the floor. And one of my legs has gone to sleep because you’re not light and it hurts like hell. We’ll be talking about that later. You’re in London, 1605. You’re having a bit of a moment. Just breathe. Ground yourself. Find your centre and breathe. In and out. That’s fine. Just keep still and breathe. And don’t worry about my leg – it’ll probably be fine. It’s all right, Max. You’re safe. It’s all good.’

  A long white face swam in front of mine. I struggled in the water, enveloped in flames.

  ‘It’s me, Max. I’ve got you. You’re safe. You’re fine. I’m here. Keep still now. I don’t want to have to hurt you again.’

  Where was I? Where was I at this specific moment? My eyes said one thing, my brain another, my body something else. And then I was falling. I was upside down. I reached out, groping for something to hold on to, and a warm hand grabbed mine. ‘I’ve got you, Max. Steady now. Just breathe.’

  And then I was back. I was in Leon’s pod. Sitting on the floor. Markham had one arm clamping me to him and the other grasped my hand. Gradually, things sorted themselves. I was the right way up. I was here. I was Max. I wasn’t drowning or burning and the thing from my nightmares had gone. My head rested against Markham’s shoulder. I could smell the dry-cleaning chemicals on his jacket. Feel the rough material under my cheek. My heartbeat slowed. My thoughts unjangled themselves. I was aware of myself and my surroundings again.

  Slowly he let me go. I stayed on the floor because there was no going anywhere at the moment. I could barely function. I didn’t even want a cup of tea. Anything hitting my stomach was going to make the return trip at the speed of light. There was a pool of vomit on the floor which Markham cleared up. He was such a hero. I know this because he told me so. Three or four times.

  My knife was still on the floor. He picked it up and gave it back. ‘How’s your arm? Sorry about that but you were about to slit me from gut to gizzard. Good move, by the way. Did the major teach you that? Close your eyes for a moment and I’ll help you into your seat.’

  I did as I was told and muttered, ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Not a problem,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Although if you’d upchucked all over me then there would have been a row. We’re a long way from the nearest laundrette.’

  He bustled about, giving me the space I needed. Slowly, turning my head as little as possible, I scanned the console. Where things did not get any better.

  ‘We’re early,’ I said in despair. ‘Far, far too early. I was aiming for the second or third of November and it’s only the 26th October. That’s ten days to wait. The longer we stay here, the greater our chances of either being discovered by someone or offed by the Insight people. I’m not even sure we have enough supplies for ten days.’

  ‘Relax,’ he said soothingly. ‘You’ll think of something. In fact, you sit quietly and make a start with the thinking and I’ll have a firkle around the rations and find you something to eat. Soup, perhaps. Did you think to pack cheese?’

  I nodded.

  ‘OK, you sit tight and surround yourself with historian mystique. Or take a nap – it’s not always easy for us lesser mortals to tell the difference.’

  I’d printed out everything we needed at Home Farm, not wanting to run down the power by using the computer unnecessarily. Carefully I spread my maps and documents across the console and tried to reassemble all my scattered thoughts.

  Right. Concentrate. 1605. The old queen, Elizabeth, was dead and the first Scottish king of England, James I (or VI depending on which nation was claiming him), was the new kid on the block.

  He’d inherited a country still riven by religious dissent – and also the country that had murdered his mother, Mary Stuart. It seemed strange to think that I might have seen as much of his mother as he had. He was only thirteen months old when he was crowned king after her abdication.

  James came to the English throne in 1604. To be a Catholic in England at this time was to lead a restricted life. Public positions were closed to them. They were forbidden Mass. Attendance at Protestant churches was compulsory. On his succession, however, James seemed moderately well disposed towards his Catholic subjects and there was a general feeling of optimism.

  That didn’t last. Parliament re-enacted Elizabeth’s anti-Catholic legislation. There was great outrage at what was seen as James’s betrayal and the conspiracy was born.

  The leaders were Robert Catesby, a popular and charismatic young man, together with Thomas Percy, Francis Tresham and, of course, their explosives man, Guy Fawkes.

  In our modern times of massive security surrounding anything even remotely official, it seems strange that Thomas Percy was able to lease a house right next door to the Palace of Westminster. Large areas of the palace were open to the public. Ordinary people actually lived there, carried on their trades there, and generally wandered about as they pleased. Anything could be bought or sold at Westminster. Nothing really changes, does it?

  Guy Fawkes would live in Percy’s house in his role as John Johnson, Percy’s servant. To cover all his frequent comings and goings, he would put it about that Percy’s wife was joining her husband and the house was to be got ready for her.

  Catesby found himself a house on the south bank almost directly opposite the palace and was able, slowly, to amass at least thirty-six kegs of gunpowder.

  By yet another massive stroke of luck – they really must have thought God was on their side – a coal merchant was vacating the undercroft directly under the House of Lords. Again, Percy grabbed the lease and now the way was clear for Catesby to begin to ferry the gunpowder across the Thames. Every day he rowed himself across the river, bringing just a few barrels at a time. No one noticed one small rowing boat among the many hundreds of boats trading up and down the river every day.

  Estimates of the exact number of barrels vary but thirty-six seems a consistent number. Depending on their size, thirty-six barrels equals at least one ton of gunpowder and very probably a lot more.

  Had the conspirators succeeded, the effects of the explosion would have been massive. The undercroft walls were nine feet thick so the force of the blast would have been channelled upwards. Like a fireworks factory. The House of Lords was directly above. Everyone would have been killed and the building completely destroyed. Vapourised, probably. No one would have stood any chance of survival.

  And this was the fiendish bit – it wouldn’t have been just the king who was killed, but his two sons as well, including the future Charles I. Also present for the opening of Parliament would be the archbishops and bishops of the land, plus all the judges and peers of the realm, together with their assist­ants, clerks, recorders and advisors. Imagine this country – any country – with its entire ruling class wiped out in the same instant. Yes, tempting, I know, but think of the power vacuum. And then think what would move in to take its place.

  And not just the House of Lords. Westminster Hall and Westminster Abbey would have been destroyed. Along with all the surrounding buildings, taverns, shops, alleyways, houses, stables – everything. Together with the hundreds of ordinary people who lived in the area. Merchants, clergymen, labourers, tradesmen, shopkeepers, servants, families, ordinary members of the public who just happened to be passing at the time. Plus horses, dogs, cats, rats – everything.

  There would have been a vast smoking crater left behind which almost certainly would have filled with water as the River Thames rushed in. Those who had survived the blast and the subsequent inferno would drown.

  And that would have been only the beginning. With the usual tolerance shown by one religious group towards a different religious group, there would have been a massive Protestant backlash. Catholics – men, women and children – would have been dragged out of hiding and massacred on the spot. Hundreds, possibly thousands, of people would have been killed. There would have been decades and decades of bloody murder.

  It might have been at this point that one or two of the more thoughtful conspirators began to have second thoughts. Especially Francis Tresham, a close relative of Lord Monteagle who, as a member of the aristocracy, would certainly be attending the opening of Parliament on 5th November – that fateful day.

  What happens next is a mystery. On 4th November, a letter was delivered – anonymously – to Lord Monteagle at his house in Hoxton, warning him to stay away. The letter doesn’t specify why.

  Monteagle immediately took the letter to Sir Robert Cecil, the Secretary of State, who, despite being quite a bright bloke and in possession of an extremely sophisticated intelligence network, had no idea what was going on literally right under his nose.

  He raced to the king, who had just returned from a hunting trip, and at nearly midnight, the day before Parliament was due to be opened, the premises were searched. Not tremendously efficiently, it would seem, because they didn’t find the thirty-six barrels of gunpowder. Easily missed, I suppose. They did, however, discover an enormous amount of firewood, and fortunately this did arouse suspicion and the guards were sent back to search again.

  This time they found the barrels, together with poor old Guy Fawkes, cloaked and spurred, all ready to light the slow fuse and ride like the devil.

  That’s how close the gunpowder conspirators came. Either to success or utter catastrophe, depending on your point of view.

  The rest is History. The plot was smashed. Catesby’s plans to capture the Princess Elizabeth and set her up as a puppet monarch came to nothing. And probably never would have anyway since the lady later declared she would rather have died with her father and brothers than fall in with his schemes. In fact, the lady would probably have put a musket ball through him at the first opportunity.

  I was lost in thought when Markham thrust some soup at me. Wading through this lot and sorting it into chronological sequence had calmed my mind a little and I was feeling better. I took the soup, said thank you, and sat back to have a think.

  Insight would undoubtedly have access to the exact same information. Someone like me would have studied the evidence and looked for a weak spot. There’s always a weak spot that can be exploited. Somewhere you can point your finger and say, ‘If this doesn’t happen at the right time . . .’

  Or, ‘If he misses that rendezvous . . .’

  Or, ‘If this marriage doesn’t take place . . .’

  . . . then the whole of History will be changed. We’d just seen that with John at Runnymede and Nicola at Lincoln and now here in London. And the weak spot here was blindingly, glaringly obvious.

  The letter to Monteagle. Supposedly written by Francis Tresham although there’s no evidence.

  If that letter is never delivered then the plot will succeed. As simple as that. Cecil and the authorities were completely ignorant of the conspirators and their plans. The letter was the key. All Insight had to do was literally shoot the messenger, destroy the letter and nothing would ever have been the same again.

  And we’d arrived dangerously early. And dangerously in the wrong place. I’d aimed for further along the river and out of the immediate blast zone, but here we were right on top of things, actually within the precincts of Westminster itself. If I opened the door and it wasn’t too foggy then I could probably catch a glimpse of the House of Lords from here. Should we get this wrong, then it might not be just the king and Parliament blown to smithereens.

  I sighed. Nothing’s easy, is it?

  The only good thing about our current position was that we were on the right side of the river. In 1605 there was still only one way across the Thames and that was by London Bridge. There was a gate at the south end – the Stone Gate – where they displayed the parboiled heads of traitors, setting them on pikes as a gentle warning to anyone who might be contemplating anything treasonous. I really don’t know why pictures of the parboiled heads of traitors sprang into my mind at that particular moment, but if this all went tits up and they closed the bridge then at least we wouldn’t find ourselves stuck on the wrong side of the river and unable to return to the pod.

  ‘Because we’d be dead,’ said the part of my brain not currently occupied with the parboiled heads of traitors.

  For God’s sake, Maxwell – focus.

  The downside was that we were far, far too close to the danger zone and if the gunpowder went up, then so would the pod, and that explosion would take out the half of London that hadn’t been flattened in the original blast. And if anyone survived that, then the accompanying radiation would certainly finish them off.

 

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