‘That may not end well,’ said Matthew, frowning heavily. ‘Unaccompanied woman and all that. She won’t even have a maid with her.’
‘I doubt she’ll understand or be interested in the accepted forms of behaviour for women in the 17th century,’ said Luke. ‘I think we should be prepared for fireworks. And not the celebratory kind.’
‘Well, if it’s such a big night, then the place will be packed. Surely she won’t want to draw attention to herself?’ said Jane, without much optimism.
Luke, reading the data over her shoulder, shook his head. ‘Au contraire, Jane.’ He pointed at the screen. ‘Samuel Pepys was definitely there so probably the king was, as well. And if he’s there, then most of his court will be, too. And if that’s where all the attention and excitement is, then, trust me, that’s where Imogen will be. Simple.’
‘Why? Why was this night so important?’ She drew a breath to interrogate the AI.
‘For God’s sake, don’t do that,’ said Luke quickly. ‘You know what it’s like. Anyway, I know this one. During Cromwell’s reign and as part of Parliament’s ongoing attempts to render people’s lives as miserable as possible – nothing ever changes, does it? – in addition to banning happiness, Christmas, good food and extra-marital hugs – they also shut down the theatres. On his reinstatement, one of Charles’ first actions was to issue Letters Patent reopening them again. This is opening night.’
‘That’s right,’ said Jane, copying details from the screen into her trusty notebook. ‘The play is, apparently, The Humorous Lieutenant. Oh look – Nell Gwyn performed there.’
‘Who?’
‘You know – the Protestant whore.’
Luke blinked. ‘Jane – I’m astonished at you.’
‘No,’ said Jane, patiently. ‘Charles had many mistresses – often simultaneously – but at one point the leading contenders were Nell Gwyn and a French woman. Louise de Something. She was very unpopular – you know – Catholic – and the mob besieged what they thought was her coach. Only they got the wrong coach and Nell stuck her head out of the window shouting, “Fear not, good people, ’tis only the Protestant whore,” and they laughed and left her alone.’
Matthew and Luke exchanged glances. ‘You’re not turning into Officer North, are you, Jane?’
Officer North had joined the Time Police from St Mary’s, a small outfit just outside Rushford, where they would explain, until your ears began to bleed, that they didn’t do time travel – they investigated major historical events in contemporary time. How or why St Mary’s was allowed to continue was a constant mystery to the Time Police and it was the aim of nearly every officer to eradicate this pestilential organisation from the face of the earth. With extreme prejudice. While everyone agreed Officer North appeared relatively uncontaminated by St Mary’s, there were still deep suspicions over what was sometimes seen as her overattention to historical detail.
Jane ignored them. ‘Wouldn’t it be amazing to see Nell Gwyn?’
‘Possibly,’ said Ellis, attempting to return his team to the task in hand. ‘But mostly, I’d like you all to concentrate on identifying and retrieving Imogen Farnborough.’
Jane blushed again.
‘Can we go fully armed?’ asked Luke.
‘Are you yet fully qualified?’
‘Very nearly.’
‘Then you can very nearly go armed. Go and get yourselves kitted out. I’ll meet you in ten.’
By the time they’d kitted themselves out, the mechs had their pod ready and waiting for them in the Pod Bay.
For safety’s sake, this enormous structure had been built underground. A good part of it was actually under the River Thames itself. To minimise the risk of radiation in the event of pod failure was the cheerful explanation they’d been given during their basic training. Which, Luke reflected, seemed a very long time ago.
‘Aren’t you coming with us?’ he enquired of Major Ellis as he slapped a sonic on his sticky patch and hung his liquid string and baton off his utility belt. Only fully qualified officers went properly armed with proper weapons. The sort of stuff that could level a building and everything in it.
‘I’m not yet completely fit but I am here to ensure you understand the importance of returning with Ms Jones. Intact. Whatever she knows – we need to know too.’
‘Yes, yes, we know. Return with Ms Jones or don’t return at all. Like the Spartans and their shields.’
Major Ellis heaved a long-suffering sigh. ‘What are you talking about, Parrish?’
Luke assumed a muscular pose and deepened his voice. ‘“Spartan – come home with your shield or on it.” That sort of thing.’
‘Should I find, Trainee Parrish, that you have, at any point in this assignment, made any attempt to return on Ms Jones instead of with her, I shall lock you in a small room with her mother and abandon you there.’
Luke blinked. ‘I’m sure you’re not allowed to threaten junior ranks with . . .’
‘Just get in the bloody pod, Parrish.’
Inside the pod, Jane was at the console, laying in the coordinates, and Matthew was checking them over. None of the Time Police pods are discreet and anonymous. Their stated purpose is to spread shock and awe on the widest possible scale so that for anyone teetering on the verge of something temporally dubious, the sudden appearance of a small, featureless, black hut with no apparent doors or windows was never going to be good news. As a concession to the delicacy of this mission, however, this pod was smaller and slightly less shocking and aweing than usual.
Official procedure decreed that, on landing, officers would noisily emerge and give the buggers point five of a nanosecond to stop what they were doing, lay down their weapons and surrender themselves to the might and majesty of the Time Police. And there was always the unspoken implication that anyone taking the opportunity to shoot themselves dead, thus saving hard-working officers the strain and struggle of all that paperwork, would be greatly appreciated.
Those not achieving this point five of a nanosecond deadline would find themselves either crushed as Time Police boots thundered down the heavy-duty ramp, or zapped into pants-wetting unconsciousness prior to being removed for some quality time at TPHQ. Or just plain shot if those officers were in a particular hurry to be somewhere else. Like the bar, for instance.
Inside this particular pod, the console stood to the left of the door with lockers on the far side and with a row of seats bolted between them. The interior was clean, functional and smelled pleasantly of Apple Orchard.
Luke sniffed unappreciatively. ‘I’ve always felt that Bloody Aftermath or Pants-Filling Terror would be a more appropriate fragrance, don’t you?’