No Time Like the Past Read Online Free Page B

stepping back. ‘Return coordinates, too.’
    Arising out of an assignment last year, I’d made two recommendations to Dr Bairstow. The first was that there were no more open-ended assignments. Peterson and I had jumped to 14 th -century Southwark last year, and he’d carelessly picked up a touch of plague. ‘Just a twinge,’ as he was fond of saying, but I’d been unable to get him back to St Mary’s.
    Not normally a problem, they’d have sent out search parties soon enough, but in this case, being open-ended, we had no return date, so no one knew we were in trouble. By the time St Mary’s realised something was wrong, it could have been too late. So now, every assignment had a specific return date and time, and if we didn’t show up, they’d come looking for us.
    The second recommendation concerned contamination. We always decontaminate on our return from every mission. It had occurred to me – actually, I’d been sniffing around Peterson’s groin at the time, but never mind that – that our modern bugs could be as fatal to contemporaries as theirs were to us. Look at Cortéz and the South American natives. After some discussion, we now not only decontaminated on our return, but also when we left St Mary’s as well. As a further precaution – Peterson getting the plague had been a nasty shock for everyone, especially for him – the inside of the pod was painted in that special paint that kills bacteria when lit with fluorescent lights and a strip across the floor  ensured our shoes were treated as well.
    Markham shut the locker doors and said, ‘All done.’
    ‘That’s it,’ said Leon. ‘Good luck, everyone.’ He held out his hand as he spoke. We shook hands, just as we always did when others were present. His hand was warm and rough and firm. ‘Stay safe.’
    ‘You too,’ I said.
    He smiled for me alone and then exited the pod. The door closed behind him.
    I seated myself. ‘Whenever you’re ready, Tim,’ and felt the familiar tingle of anticipation.
    ‘Computer – initiate jump.’
    And the world went white.
    We stared at an unfamiliar St Mary’s.
    ‘It looks so small,’ said Markham, eventually, and he was right.
    This was not the St Mary’s we knew, with its flat roof and Virginia creeper, its sprawl of outbuildings, its car park, and neat grounds. This St Mary’s was square and blocky, with a steeply gabled roof from which protruded randomly placed chimneys which wouldn’t have been part of the original structure and must have been added on as required.
    There were no formal gardens as we knew them, just trees, bushes, an orchard and extensive vegetable garden. Sheep cropped the ancestor of Mr Strong’s beloved South Lawn. There was no drive leading to the house, just a wide grassy path, rutted with wagon tracks. The gates were high, wooden, and firmly shut. Most noticeably, there was no lake. A string of ponds had been built – by the monks, I guessed – to supplement their diet with the occasional carp. When Capability Brown or whoever got his hands on St Mary’s, they and the surrounding boggy area would be excavated to make the familiar lake.
    The silence was complete. I remembered what Dr Dowson had said about the monks drifting away. What was pleasant seclusion at our St Mary’s was remote and lonely at this one. Everything looked small, rural, and at the moment, very peaceful.
    That wouldn’t last. In a day or so, much of this St Mary’s would be gone.
    There was no one around. The shadows were long. The sun was setting.
    ‘Right,’ I said, turning from the screen. ‘Plan of action. We wait until it’s dark and then nip across the grass. Do not fall over the sheep. We’ll approach from the east, and see if we can get a window open. Then it’s up the stairs to the attics and find a place from which to observe events. Tomorrow is the day the Roundheads turn up.’
    ‘Are we likely to encounter any dogs?’ said Peterson.
    ‘Unlikely,’ said Markham. ‘Not if