‘In that case, ma’am . . .’ said Captain Farenden, with well-concealed relief, and closed the door behind him.
The two took stock of each other. Commander Hay was a small, slight woman. It’s not unusual to describe someone as being of indeterminate age but in this case, it was an accurate description. As a young officer, Marietta Hay had fought in the Time Wars and there had been an accident. Her pod had sustained serious damage and the door had blown off in mid-jump. The results had not been for the squeamish. One side of her face was now considerably older than the other. The rescue party had managed to get her out of the wreckage, but she had been the only survivor.
Patricia Farnborough was a large woman who strode the corridors of power with a firm tread. She wore her hair short, favoured dark suits, and her voice had been designed to be heard above the clamour of battle. The adversarial atmosphere of the House of Commons suited her perfectly.
‘Like one of those Valkyrie women coming at you,’ yet another colleague had said, recovering in the bar after a shattering three-minute interview.
The precise whereabouts of Mr Patricia Farnborough were currently unknown. And had been for some time. Unkind rumours postulated the theory that he had, at some point, been consumed during the mating process. Which, given the size of the Right Honourable lady, was entirely possible.
Mrs Farnborough seated herself and both women looked at each other in silence. Eventually, Commander Hay enquired politely how she might be of service.
‘I will not insult you by swearing you to secrecy.’
If Commander Hay thought she just had, she said nothing.
‘And before you ask, this is a private matter. Nothing to do with the government or politics. I should also make it clear I am not seeking any special treatment for my daughter. She has been foolish and must bear the consequences of her actions.’
‘I think,’ said Commander Hay, ‘I understand you. However, I must make things clear. This is the Time Police and I am their commander. Should I become aware of any unlawful actions . . . I am legally bound to proceed accordingly. Do you wish to reconsider?’
‘No. I understand.’
‘You understand also that anything said now cannot later be unsaid?’
‘I do. Thank you for the warning but it is unnecessary. I am here because I do wish you to proceed accordingly.’
‘Very well. Now that we have established the parameters, would you like to begin?’
Mrs Farnborough smoothed her skirt, clasped her hands on her lap and began.
‘I have a daughter. Imogen. She’s not . . . she’s not a bad girl. She’s just the typical product of her age and class. And she has been foolish.’
‘What has she done? Let me rephrase that: what has she done that involves my organisation?’
‘She and a friend were offered an opportunity and they took it.’
‘Could you be more specific?’
‘They were approached and offered the opportunity to travel.’
‘In Time, I am assuming. Please be clear, Mrs Farnborough. You are telling me your daughter and her friend have committed a crime. A serious crime.’
‘It’s worse than that.’
Commander Hay waited. As always, her face gave nothing away and she never hesitated to use that to her advantage.
‘She . . . what is the expression?’
‘Jumped?’
‘Yes – she jumped back in time . . .’ Mrs Farnborough stopped again.
‘Yes, it really is difficult to describe this sort of thing without sounding like a bad science fiction novel, isn’t it, but your expression is perfectly correct.’
Rather in the manner of one wanting to get the unpleasant part over with as quickly as possible, Mrs Farnborough said in a rush, ‘She has gone off somewhere . . . jumped . . . and she did not return. I would like to take shameless advantage of your organisation, Commander, and ask if you could find her and bring her back.’
Commander Hay pulled out her scratchpad, set it to record, and laid it on the desk between them. Mrs Farnborough stared out of the window and watched the Paris airship descending through the clouds.
Commander Hay gestured towards her scratchpad. ‘You understand, Mrs Farnborough, that from this moment on . . .’
‘I do, Commander. Please proceed.’
‘I have several questions.’
‘Please.’
‘How do you know that your daughter has engaged in illegal temporal activity?’
‘The friend – who has taken steps to ensure they cannot be identified – although I’m sure you would have no trouble tracking them down should you wish – has sent me the information. I suspect out of a spirit of revenge.’
‘I see. We’ll get to that in a minute. Firstly, do you know to where and when they jumped?’
‘I do.’
‘It would be enormously helpful if you had the actual co-ordinates?’
‘I do.’ Mrs Farnborough took out a sheet of paper, folded very small, and laid it on the desk at a point midway between them.
Commander Hay did not so much as glance at it. ‘And the location is . . . ?’
‘I have been led to believe . . . 17th-century England.’
‘Was this her own choice?’
‘The trip – planned by her friend – was to be a gift.’ She gripped her hands in her lap. ‘It was – the trip was supposed to incorporate – a proposal.’
‘Of marriage.’
‘Yes. The plan was to whisk Imogen away to somewhere exotic and, during the excitement of the . . .’
‘The jump . . .’
‘Yes, the jump . . . to propose marriage.’
‘The plan being that Imogen would be so thrilled and excited that she would fall into her friend’s arms and say yes.’
Mrs Farnborough nodded, remembered the recorder and said, ‘Yes.’
‘And what did actually happen?’
‘I don’t know all the details. The friend seemed disinclined to give them, but it would appear that events did not progress quite as planned.’ Mrs Farnborough swallowed. ‘This is the friend’s version of events, of course, but it would appear that no sooner had they finished their proposal than Imogen . . .’
She stopped.
‘Declined the honour?’
Mrs Farnborough closed her eyes briefly. ‘She said she’d rather die in a ditch than be married to anyone, and when the friend pointed out the honour they were doing her and how much the trip . . . jump had cost, she announced she couldn’t be bought and disappeared off into the crowds.’