No Time Like the Past Read Online Free PDF

whatever, but apart from the odd owl, we could hear nothing.
    Markham was fastidiously picking up the glass.
    ‘What are you doing?’
    He tossed the shards under a bush. ‘We don’t want some servant noticing a broken pane and raising the alarm.’
    ‘Oh. Good thinking.’
    ‘I offer a complete service,’ he said smugly.
    We pushed the curtain aside and clambered in, dropping silently to the floor. Risking a little light, Peterson flashed a tiny torch.
    We appeared to be in a small, wood-panelled room. I wondered if this was Sir Rupert’s study. Just faintly, I thought I could make out the smells of wood, leather, and tobacco. Like most rooms of the period, it wasn’t over-cluttered with furniture and what there was of it was dark and heavy. Markham crossed to the door, opened it a crack, and peered out. Peterson and I remained motionless.
    He watched and listened for what seemed a very long time then signalled us forwards. From now on, there would be no talking.
    We glided across the Great Hall, keeping to the shadows. There was no glass lantern in the roof. Massive hammer beams supported the high ceiling, but the smell was just the same – dust and damp stone. I listened to St Mary’s talking to itself in the darkness. Boards creaked. Timbers settled. Somewhere, a mouse skittered along the floor.
    The staircase was unfamiliar, being long and straight and running up the wall. The famous half-landing, the centre of St Mary’s life, had yet to be born. We eased our way around the gallery, silent apart from the swish of my skirts. From somewhere in the dark, I could hear the murmur of a woman’s voice. A high, childish voice answered. We veered silently away, past closed doors, heading for the narrow staircase in the corner. Our plan was to spend the night in the attics and that was all the plan we had. We had no idea what to do next. We’ve had missions fall apart around us – that happens all the time – but this was the first time we’d set out with no clear course of action. It was quite exciting, actually.
    The attics were tiny. We could barely stand up in our little room. Peterson flashed his torch and I stared in wonder at the treasure trove of broken household goods, unfashionable portraits, bric a brac … and it would all be gone in a day or two when the place went up in flames. We found a corner. Markham indicated he would take the first watch and I settled down to sleep.
    I had the last watch. I sat against the wall, watched the patterns of light travel across the floor as the sun rose, and then woke them for breakfast. We sat on the floor and munched a couple of those shitty high-energy biscuits they keep shoving in our ration packs and listened to the house stir. A door opened and a woman’s voice called outside. Someone must be in the hen house because I could hear chicken noises. Faintly, a child shouted and there were running footsteps on a wooden floor. They were up and about. Time to get cracking.
    We were just packing everything away when we heard the hoof beats. Someone was approaching – and at great speed. It had begun.
    ‘Bloody hell, he’s early,’ muttered Peterson. ‘Leave all this. We’ll come back for it later.’
    We crept down the stairs and oozed out onto the gallery, grateful, for once, for the bad lighting. Correctly guessing that everyone’s attention would be on the front door, we wriggled forwards. Lying on our stomachs and peering through the bannisters, we had an excellent view of the front doors below and most of the Hall. There was no vestibule. The front doors opened directly into the Great Hall. Whoever was there – whatever was about to happen – we would be able to see everything.
    Peterson and I are historians. We get caught up in what’s happening. That’s why we usually bring a member of the Security team with us. They watch our backs because we forget to. My attention was fixed on downstairs. I never thought to look behind us.
    Markham nudged me and