St Mary’s Incident Report: Bismarck Mission

Mission: As a sub-section of the overall mission (see Background below), determine the initial public opinion about Otto von Bismarck’s appointment as Minister President of Prussia.

Target Date: 23 Sept 1862

Target Location: Berlin, Prussia (later Berlin, Germany)

Mission Background:

Thirsk University has hypothesised that it is rarely apparent that politicians with major impacts on history will be so consequential in shaping that history when they are at early but defining moments in their careers. To investigate this hypothesis, Thirsk has commissioned a large series of short-duration jumps to observe public reaction to multiple politicians across a wide swathe of time and space. Examples include ancient politicians such as Themistocles in Athens, Julius Caesar in Rome, and Queen Amanirenas in Kush, as well as more recent politicians such as Abraham Lincoln in the USA.

In later Europe, politicians who were essential to the long run-up to WWI and its rather rapid spawning of WWII are particular targets of interest. Otto von Bismarck is one such figure, as his major role in the Unification of Germany and the subsequent events of the late 19^th century set the stage for the alliances and tensions that erupted in WWI. His appointment as Minister President of Prussia was arguably the first step leading to his later prominence.

Mission Personnel:

Lead and Report Author: Senior Historian Ms Sophia Scott

Security: Mr Leonard Stabili

Trainee: Mr Reynard Trausch

(sub-) Mission Outcome: FAILED. Mistakes were made, but let me make one thing perfectly clear: THIS WAS NOT MY FAULT.

(sub-) Mission Events:

I entered Pod Number 6 at St Mary’s with Mr Stabili and Mr Trausch. As part of his training, Mr Trausch was to lay out the coordinates of the jump, after which he was to wait for my review before initiating the jump. Instead, he laid in coordinates and then immediately called for the Pod to jump. I had been moving towards the console to check the coordinates when the world went white. When I recovered after a jarring landing, I saw we were in a dark alley with traces of snow on the ground. This was suspicious, of course, as Berlin generally will not have snow in September. In order to ascertain our actual location, we set the pod scanner to long range and did see people on the main street passing the mouth of the alley, wearing what seemed to be period appropriate clothing. I therefore had Mr Stabili cautiously lead the way to the street to gather more location information. We expected to hear German conversation as we slipped into the street but instead heard primarily French and a little Dutch. After a short walk, we found ourselves in front of a building labelled “Universiteit Gent,” definitively confirming that rather than being in Berlin, we were in Ghent, Belgium. We approached the main University building, as a newsstand was near the entrance. We were able to see the date on copies of the Gazette van Gend, which was 18 Feb 1862.

Thus, we had ascertained that we were 7 months too early and hundreds of kilometres from our planned location. We entered the building to warm up before returning to the pod, as by now a rather bitter winter wind was blowing snow around us. We spotted a sitting room with a fireplace down a short hallway off the lobby and moved in there to warm up.

Mr Stabili and I paused after entering as we saw a tall-backed chair by the fire that was occupied by a sleeping gentleman. Without waiting for direction from me (again, Senior Historian to his Trainee), Mr Trausch shook his coat (rather violently, it must be said), several articulated wooden snakes flew from a pocket, slid across the floor, and hit the shoes of the sleeper. He started awake, and when he saw he was not alone he rose to bow to us and said in French, “Please, Madam and Gentlemen, draw close to the fire, as I see that you are cold and wet. I am Professor Kekule.” He then noticed with sleepy bemusement the contorted snakes lying at his feet. His gaze sharpened, and he exclaimed, “But yes – the snake with its tail in its mouth: perhaps this is the structure I have been searching for!” With another hasty bow, he rushed from the room while excusing himself by saying, “I must draw this out before I forget!”

We stood in stunned silence for a minute before I rounded on Mr Trausch to inquire why he was carrying wooden snakes in his pocket, contrary to standard protocol requiring that only mission-essential items should be taken through time. Mr Trausch, rather than being appropriately abashed, appeared to be proud of his transgression. He explained that some of the Trainee Historians had decided to pull pranks on their jump teams by bringing along non-mission essential items and deploying them in a startling way. When I pointed out that this was prohibited, as such objects might affect past times, he sulked and gave the excuse that he originally was going to set the snakes in lockers and the toilet cubicle, a la the early 20^th c. film Snakes on a Plane.

Mr Stabili and I exchanged eye-rolls before hustling our errant trainee back to the pod (after I confiscated the snakes, of course), and returning to St Mary’s.

(sub-) Mission Negatives: Due to Mr Trausch’s impetuosity and failure to follow protocol, we travelled to the wrong coordinates, landing in Ghent, Belgium, 18 Feb 1862, rather than Berlin, Prussia, 23 Sept 1862. Therefore, we failed in our objective of ascertaining initial public reaction to Otto von Bismarck’s appointment as Minister President of Prussia.

(sub-) Mission Positives (?): We appear to have witnessed the moment Friedrick August Kekule actually realised that benzene could have a ring structure, as in a snake with its tail in its mouth. This settles a long-standing controversy, as his own accounts of this breakthrough were vague enough to raise questions about whether the Ouroboros analogy actually inspired him, and when it occurred. In another negative, however, evidently, this happened because of Mr Trausch’s juvenile impetuosity.

Recommendations to Avoid Further Such Incidents:

1. The current protocol of excluding Trainee Historians from jumps involving more sensitive events should be continued – vigilantly.

2. The Technical Section should lock the pod consoles so that a jump can only be initiated after the Senior Historian verbally verifies that the coordinates are correct.

3. Mr Trausch should undergo remedial training in proper observation of protocols.

4. The Trainees’ training schedule should incorporate increases in physical training to ensure they are too tired in their off time to promulgate juvenile pranks amongst themselves.

5. All trainees should be strip-searched outside the pod just before a mission to be sure they are not carrying contraband items.

Conclusion: We failed to ascertain the public response to Otto von Bismarck’s appointment as Minister President of Prussia. We did witness (and some might say, caused) Kekule’s famous recognition that the Ouroboros predicted the benzene ring structure. Finally, again, mistakes were made, but not by me, and let me make one thing perfectly clear: THIS WAS NOT MY FAULT.

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Incident report: Extra Terrestrial Temporal Disturbance 44 Alpha

(AKA Neil Armstrong’s Side Quest)

Filed by: Brent Bakerton, NASA astronaut, currently ‘visiting’ St Mary’s

Status: Alive, confused, and trying to locate that clucking sound…

Executive Summary

During a routine lunar survey mission, I discovered, what I now know to be, a St Mary’s ‘pod’. NASA ordered me to ignore it. I ignored NASA. Events escalated swiftly and my current list of felonies/accomplishments includes:

· Unauthorised integration of temporal technology into a NASA prototype

· Accidental time travel

· Interception of a Protectors of Planet Earth (POPE) mission attempting to prevent impact of Chicxulub asteroid

· An unexpected encounter with Neil Armstrong

· Destruction of a POPE vessel

· Unexpected arrival at St Mary’s

In my defence, I saved humanity, so feel that should count for something.

Also, none of this was my fault.

Discovery of the Temporal ‘Pod’

The events took place during my recent extended moon mission. It was Day 14 and I was scanning the Shackleton Crater for, what felt like, the 100^th time, when I noticed a pile of stones that appeared more organised than those around them.

I explored more closely.

It resembled an old stone hut, which was somewhat unexpected.

On venturing inside I noticed a teapot with “Property of St Mary’s – remove it and die” written on the bottom. I carefully replaced it.

On reporting the pod discovery to NASA I was instructed to:

· Lock it down

· Leave it alone

· Just walk away

I did none of those things which, in hindsight, was probably a bad move.

The ‘pod’ hummed like a beehive, plus I was bored – when you’ve seen one Earthrise, you’ve seen them all – so I identified the central temporal box (which carried none of the ‘do not remove’ warnings seen on the teapot) and removed it. My plan was to take it back to my capsule and ‘have a bit of a tinker’.

Integration into Capsule

You know what it’s like on a long mission. There’s no cable TV to while away the evening hours, so the temporal box was a welcome distraction. I decided to conduct my own series of experiments to see if it could be integrated into my capsule. Turns out it could, and all I needed was duct tape (no mission should leave Earth without it), a large hammer, and a sizeable dose of misplaced optimism.

The result was that I now had a spaceship that could also travel through time as well as space. A concept that was high in street cred and, admittedly, low in common sense.

I was on the moon, in a time travelling device, which meant that there really was only one date to aim for: July 20^th, 1969. If it helps, think of it less as ‘time travel’ and more as ‘historical research’.

Temporal Displacement Event

Leaping out from behind a rock and shouting ‘surprise!’ was clearly a bad idea, so I hid 50m or so away from the ‘Eagle’ and waited. Eventually Neil Armstrong appeared and, while the others were distracted talking about what a great golf course this place would make, I got his attention and gestured for him to join me.

Clearly, he was suspicious, but my NASA spacesuit helped, as did the large space capsule with NASA written in 4-foot-high letters along the side.

When I bought him aboard, he examined the capsule’s interior, frowned at the duct tape and told me it wasn’t regulation.

I told him that nothing about the situation was regulation, before informing him of just what the capsule could do, and did he want to try?

He did. So, in a way, you could blame him for what happened next.

He wanted to know what the big red button did, and just how far back we could go.

I did not feel qualified to argue.

He pressed it.

Our worlds went white.

Encounter with POPE Vessel

Who knew we could go back 66 million years? We certainly didn’t.

We also didn’t expect to encounter another vessel, but there it was.

We radioed them and they were, needless to say, astonished to see us.

They informed us that they were members of POPE – Protectors of Planet Earth. They described humanity as a disease that was destroying the planet and had, therefore, decided to divert the Chicxulub asteroid to prevent the extinction of the dinosaurs and, by extension, eradicate humanity.

I’ll be honest, that surprised us, as they sounded like the nice sorts of people you might bump into on a trip to the British Museum.

Neil and I regarded each other, realised we needed to do something, and started talking at the same time. A lot was said, but Neil Armstrong screeching “DOES THIS DAMNED THING NOT HAVE ANY MISSILES?!” in my face, particularly sticks in my mind.

We agreed to give the POPE vessel a gentle nudge.

Intervention Attempt

I checked that Mr Armstrong was firmly strapped into the co‑pilot seat (he refused to sit anywhere else), and we approached the POPE vessel.

The ‘nudge’ turned out to be a little stronger than anticipated. Neil said I rammed them “harder than the Kansas City Chief’s Linebacker”, but that feels harsh.

Either way, the collision destabilised both ships. We floated out towards space and watched in alarm as the POPE vessel ricocheted off Chicxulub, sending the asteroid spinning harmlessly away from Earth.

We panicked. If the asteroid never hit the earth, then humanity would never have existed, and we wouldn’t be here trying to save it. This was clearly a time p…

“Please look out the window!” shouted Neil. I did. And we both watched as the POPE vessel, now hopelessly out of control, plummeted down to meet its dinosaur destructing destiny.

Retrieval by St Mary’s

What happened next it somewhat of a blur. I recall a blue temporal field, someone shouting “what the hell have you done with my temporal box?!”, and the faint cluck of a chicken, as I came to, on the floor of what I now know to be St Mary’s.

I had apparently been rescued. Or kidnapped. It really was hard to tell.

A man with a cane stood over me and listed my offences, which apparently included theft of temporal technology, interference with a major historical event, and kidnapping Neil Armstrong.

I informed him that Neil came along quite willingly and enthusiastically. He did not believe me.

Mr Armstrong, meanwhile, was being given tea and biscuits by several historians who appeared utterly starstruck, until they were informed by the man with the cane that it was time to “put him back where he came from before someone misses him.”

Conclusions

I believe that there are five key learning points from this experience:

1. POPE represents a significant temporal threat to Earth.

2. St Mary’s really shouldn’t leave their pods lying around on the moon.

3. NASA needs to review its psych evaluations as they clearly missed my questionable decision making.

4. Neil Armstrong is more adventurous than previously thought.

5. This was not my fault. Well, not all of it, anyway.

Current Status

St Mary’s informs me that I’m “One of them now”. I am unsure if this is a good thing or not.

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The Fromage Foray

Director,

As requested here is my mission report.

Pod Crew:

Miss Clara Watson - Historian

Miss Jayne Arthur- Historian

Mister Victor Stones - Security

Mister Simon Montford Security

We didn’t mean to steal the Mona Lisa we were going to put it back, I honestly swear. This was not my fault!

Our assignment was to gather intelligence on the 1911 theft of the Mona Lisa from the Musee du Louvre. We were to watch, observe and record our findings to verify the perpetrators. You and the chancellor of the university had wagered a ladies agreement against the outcome of our mission. A vast amount of chocolate bars enough to fill an entire bath was at stake. Not to mention honour of St Marys.

We dutifully set about our research in the historical archives and planed our mission schedule. The jump was scheduled for 3 weeks after our initial briefing.

After a few pints in the bar. It was decided that we would practically test our theoretical hypothesis, solving how the Mona Lisa was stolen and return the painting before Mr Vincenzo Peruggia actually stole it. Thus maintaining St Marys status as top institution by proving he did not ‘stick it up eez jumpa!’ Using a scale replica of the Louvre, with the compliments of the R&D department. We were able to preform some alpha tests. Witnessing the security department portraying the museum staff members, bedecked in Breton shirts and berets was truly an inspiring sight of interdepartmental collaboration.

Our jump to early twentieth century France was spectacularly uneventful and we landed the pod in the correct location 24 hours before the theft. We were hidden in a courtyard near a long corridor that lead to the Salon Carré where the painting was displayed. All we had to do was wait there quietly until the museum closed.

It was during this time that Mr Stones returned from proliferating the museums cafeteria supplies and relieving them of an enormous cheese. One of those smelly round ones with the hard exterior and creamy centre. In fact it was a pretty posh one, wrapped in greaseproof paper and tied up with a piece of fancy green twine. Mr Stones was about to cut into the aforementioned cheese and place it in between two dry squares of white bread. The standard pod issue loaf that nobody ever eats. Miss Watson squealed in terror at the horrific scene! She expressed upon Mister Stones quite vehemently that brie must under no circumstances be eaten without a crispy french baguette. The type that sticks bits to the corners of your mouth and dusts your shirt in an avalanche of crumbs and if at all possible a small drizzle of honey. This was how I found myself on my way to the cafeteria to liberate an artisanal loaf.

It was on our return from the cafeteria, that we accidentally entered the wrong storeroom. There was a surprising amount of doors leading off the corridor. It then transpired that Mr Peruggia had arrived at the museum much earlier than anyone had anticipated, almost 24 hours earlier to be exact, because he was now standing in front of us in the cupboard. Or he would have been if it were not for Mr Stones ninja like security service skills which had rendered Mr Peruggia unconscious on his back, with an avalanche of crumbs dusting his smocked overalls.

‘Impressive’ I said turning to Mr Stones ‘All part of the service’ he grinned. ‘Now grab his legs, Miss Arthur and we will take him back to the pod.’ Nodding as I did so, I grappled with his lower limbs and we dragged him down the hallway. ‘What on earth have you done’ signed Mr Montford. Glaring at me unimpressed with our unexpected guest. ‘This was not my fault! I protested gesturing towards the unconscious figure ‘We were taken unawares by his lurking.’ After a brief historical debate, we agreed to wait for Mr P to regain to consciousness and awaited his accomplices. We waited, watch and observed…. But nothing happened.

‘Oh hell!’ I cried. With an hour to go before the musèe reopened. Right, no one is coming to take it. We had better do it ourselves, just like we practiced. Mr Montfort you stay here in the pod and supervise the cameras. Pod, open the doors please?’

Before long I was nose to nose with that intriguing smirk. I stepped to the side as Miss Watson took the painting off the wall, and we all slowly backed out of the room, before scrambling in to a nearby stairwell. Mr Montford hissed in our ears ‘Hurry up kids! ‘ I rolled my eyes at Miss Watson as we watched Mr Stones remove the small portrait from its frame using a little flat pallet knife he had found on Mr P’s person, when he had searched him back at the pod. He then tucked the painting under the smock overalls he had borrowed from wardrobe. All the staff at the Louvre wore them and those things were extremely roomy with all those fancy folds and pleats. Not very practical for cleaning in but just the thing for hiding a stolen painting underneath.

Miss Watson stood over the console and swiftly entered the co-ordinates to return Mr P to his home town two hours after the theft. ‘Did we really just do that?’ I asked as we bumped knuckles in celebration. ‘Yep, Mr Stones really did just stick it up eez jumpa!‘. Unfortunately we may have missed calculated and we over shot our landing by a year or so. But Director he was honestly fine and breathing, when we left him unconscious, balance up against a wall near the Uffizi museum in Florence. We even rolled up the Mona Lisa, wrapped it in the cheese wrapper and stuffed up his trouser leg as we didn’t want it to get creased.

And that is why we stole the Mona Lisa, why Mr Peruggia went to prison for a crime he didn’t commit and why you lost your bet with the chancellor of the university and now owe her a not insubstantial amount of Chocolate bars.

Yours Faithfully

Miss Arthur, Historian.

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THE BLASTED WIG

Incident Report/St. Mary’s IOHR

Who: Me, I mean, Addy (ok, Adele, but, really?) O’Neill. And oh yeah, I’m an intern and no one told me how to write this. Just saying.

What: Here’s the thing. I asked to intern because I was hoping to learn about America. I have family there. Haven’t heard from them in a while but was hoping…never mind. Had a hard time convincing St. Mary’s that it was worth letting me intern, but I am smart (you know my test scores, right?) and Thirsk really pushed it hard (still can’t figure that out, but ok). Right, so, to the point. I kept hoping I could go on a jump to America but then found out they put the kibosh on that. I guess they thought it was for obvious reasons but it’s a mystery to me, and you know, I’d like to see Chicago where my cousin Fred lives, these Great Lakes, and something about deep dish pizza…ok, ok. So, one night, at a social gathering at the pub (wink, wink), I suggested that maybe we could go to the Court of King George III when His Majesty was receiving John Adams as the first U.S. Minister from America. You know, sort of can’t go to America but maybe see America come here. I mean, c’mon, who wouldn’t want to be a fly on that court wall!? And viola! They agreed! This would be so cool! Turns out not so much, in more ways than one.

Where: The Court of King George III (like I said). Oh, wait, they said it was called something else, the Levee Room. Let me tell you that was no fun, waiting. The blokes in there really gave poor Mr. Adams the brushoff. He was sweating a bit, too, but I am sure for different reasons than me (bloody wool costume). I mean, this is one of the fellas that wrote that Declaration of Independence. I’d be sweating, too, if I’d said all those things about His Majesty and now I gotta stand in front of him.

When: It were Wednesday, on June 1, 1785, which is about two years after the Treaty of Paris was signed. The one that recognized America as an independent nation (hey, I have family there, I researched). I remember it was raining, and humid as hel – er, heck, which is probably why that wool get-up loaded me down.

How: Ok, I guess this is where I need to talk about the mission and what happened. But, so, like I am not going to say “what went wrong” because you know, this was so not my fault. No one told me how hot that damn page costume would be (though I am surprised I pulled off looking like a bloke so well). Or that bloody wig – itched right horrible! We were in the ante room next to the King’s private chamber doing pretty well at staying under the radar. We were lucky and got a spot right where we could see in the private chamber when Mr. Adams went in and out. That’s about as good as we were going to get. It was cool to watch his face when he went in, I could swear I saw him swallow several times. I wondered what he would look like coming out. I mean, everyone said it all went well, but I really wanted to see his face! So, we were waiting – it was a good thing I was stuck behind the team up against the wall because I was able to stay kind of hidden, but I could still see over their shoulders. Really, I don’t think anyone paid much attention to us. All those fancy gentlemen wanted to see Mr. Adams, and give him a what-for, though, you know, in silence. Rude, really. And then someone reached down to scratch a foot or something and that is when the usher saw me. He pointed right at me then curled his finger to signal me over. I had no choice but to go! Seriously! Maybe a page costume wasn’t the best idea, I dunno. Or maybe people should just stand still. But this was not my fault. I guess I could have waited out in the corridor with our illustrious team lead. I still would have been able to see John Adams, I think. I mean, now I wish I had. Because the next thing I know the usher leaned into me and whispered that I must go to the kitchens and retrieve a pitcher of wine for the gentlemen. And then he proceeded to firmly direct me out in the corridor! Where I took a few steps out of his sight and stopped. Cause, like, I didn’t know where the kitchen was! Thank God someone took pity on me and whispered where to go. I mean, maybe it was a little cool to be able to walk around St. James a little, but I could feel someone’s evil eye on me so I went to get what I needed and quickly headed back to the ante room. I was feeling proper stressed out now and the sweat was rolling down my face by the time I got back. I could barely see the door – thank the heavens it was open, I mean, a little breeze was better than nothing – and I started in, but then sweat dripped right out from under that blasted wig directly into my eyes and I couldn’t see nothing! Later, I was told my timing couldn’t have been worse, as it was just when Mr. Adams was coming back from meeting the King. And he was walking backwards! Some ancient ridiculous protocol no one told me about! I couldn’t see him at all cause of the bloody sweat. If that security bloke, who I guess was stationed at the door looking for me, hadn’t grabbed my coat, I would have run right into Mr. Adams’ backside! I will say that at least I didn’t spill the wine and I should get some credit for that. Crisis averted.

I get the feeling that the illustrious team lead will edit this before it goes to the big boss, but I wanted to get all the details I remember down in writing. I also am figuring they may re-think the whole intern idea. I respectfully request a second chance.

Adele (Addy) O’Neil

Intern (maybe the one and only)

St. Mary’s Institute of Historical Research

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Security Section Technical Report by Louisa (Lou) Natic

Napoleon and the Rampaging Rabbits, France 1807

I have been informed that it is my responsibility to record “this complete and utter shambles…” Also known as our jump to France 1807 to see exactly how, according to lead historian Stan Still, “a bunch of bunnies could foil one of the greatest military strategists of all time”. It was my first solo jump as a security officer, but I was confident everything would be absolutely fine. What could possibly go wrong?

Entering the pod, Still and Sharp took positions at the console. The techies finished their checks. Asking the Chief if we were fit for duty, he raised an eyebrow at me, stating the pod was ready, but he could not confirm the fitness of the crew. Rude. We settled in, then Sharp turned the funniest shade of green I had ever seen. Opening the door, she projectile vomited into Hawking. There was a loud sigh from Chief Sparks. Sharp mumbled about chicken last night, and something being wrong with it. Silence descended over Hawking as the Chief and I scanned the surrounding area for any signs of Mrs Salt, our ladle-wielding head of kitchen, but the coast was clear. I escorted Sharp to sick bay, recounted the event, suggesting she be quarantined for her (and everyone else’s) protection. The doctor agreed.

I had left Still to recruit a second historian. I returned to the pod to find Eileen Dover in the second chair, and because you can never have too many historians on a jump, Justin Case suspiciously loitering by the lockers. Asking why he was there, Still told me just in case. I knew who he was but let it go. Historians are weird.

As Still initiated the jump I realised three things.

Firstly, the kettle was out.

Secondly, Dover had a rubber chicken in her basket.

Thirdly, the pod was home to the biggest tarantula in the world. And it had decided to nest in my hair.

It was utter chaos. In my haste to rid myself of the gargantuan tarantula, the kettle had been knocked over, the basket overturned under the console, and Case was laughing his tits off at me “screaming like a girl.” Dover managed to extract the monstrosity from my hair, proclaiming it to be no bigger than a money spider. Still mopped up the console, declaring it to be “All Absolutely Fine” while ignoring the small wisps of smoke coming from it. Thankfully, we had landed where we wanted to be, a small, wooded copse at one edge of the field just before dawn. Now we waited. The historians declared it was time tea. Dover retrieved the basket, shoved the chicken back in, and pulled out the biscuits.

Chocolate Hobnobs,

God-tier biscuits.

It’s the only reason we keep the historians around.

Hours later, carts arrived carrying rabbit filled cages. Still activated the recorders. Case commented on reports putting the number of bunnies anywhere from a few hundred to thousands. No one else appeared so we went back to drinking tea. Still and Dover discussed the likelihood of Napoleon’s defeat by bunnies. Case snoozed on the floor. I contemplated why Dover had a rubber chicken while looking for the killer tarantula.

Napoleon arrived mid-afternoon. Stepping out of his imperial coach, he was in high spirits, laughing with his officers as they waited. Rifles were checked and drink flowed freely. The rabbits were being prepared for release. Case wanted to exit the Pod for a closer look, but Dover thought the risk from the rifles was too high. I agreed with Dover. As lead security officer, I had the final say but I had spotted the monstrous tarantula on the control panel so was a little distracted. Still ignored everything. Laying eyes on his idol in person had turned him into a teenage girl at a boy band concert. There was drool.

I feel it necessary to preface the next part of my report by saying:

This. Was. Not. My. Fault.

Things happened quickly. The tarantula appeared, watching me with beady eyes, smirking. I raised my mug, slamming it on the mighty beast who escaped. My mug shattered. There was a startled yelp of surprise from Case followed by an angry shout from Dover. My nemesis had been sat on the door open button. When I went in for the kill it released the door which Case had been pressed against, in an attempt to get as far away from Dover as he could, who was brandishing the rubber chicken at him. He fell through the door, caught hold of the chicken and pulled Dover down. Both were now outside. Still stifled a laugh, went to help them, but caught his foot on the basket, tumbling forwards on the pile, uttering “bollocks” before his voice was drowned out by Dover’s shriek of pain as he landed heavily on her knee. No one seemed to have heard us. Asserting my authority, I told them to be bloody quiet. Dover’s knee was already starting to swell as we helped her to a chair. She clutched the chicken to her breast and scowled. Taking advantage of the distraction, Case and Still got closer to the action. With Dover safe, I left to secure the other two reprobates. Sorry, historians.

We stood in awe. Thousands of bunnies enjoyed a lovely summer’s afternoon. History reported bunnies were released and immediately attacked. This was incorrect. Case had his recorder out, documenting the serenity of the scene. Still was taking close ups of Napoleon. I commented on the discrepancies, Still agreed. It was at that moment that pandemonium erupted around us. A sudden feeling of uneasiness coupled with nausea and dizziness descended on us. I had experienced this during training and knew it was the sonic dispersal alarm on the pod. We quickly retreated, instant relief as the door closed behind us. Dover sat, stroking the chicken in her arms. We turned off the sonic device, but the damage was done. Napoleon and his officers recovered quickly but thousands of bunnies were marauding. Laughter turned to shrieks and shouts as the bunnies appeared to organise themselves into two, attacking from each side. Napoleon tried to shoot at bunnies advancing his position but was soon overwhelmed, retreating to his carriage. The bunnies gave chase, and Corsican profanities emanated from his carriage alongside the occasional flying bunny. In the field, bunnies clambered over officers, who used anything they could find to beat off the ferocious attack. When only the victorious bunny regiment remained, we turned off the recording equipment, secured the pod and returned to St Mary’s.

In sick bay, Dover was found to have suffered a spider bite which had quickly become infected, accounting for her attraction to the rubber chicken. Once sedated, the Doctor was able to remove the chicken from her grasp, and its location is now a closely guarded secret.

It was never decided how the sonic device was activated. Dover claimed no memory of the event. I must conclude that it is possibly that Napoleon’s defeat at the paws of the rampaging rabbits could be attributed to St Mary’s.

However, I reiterate. This was not my fault

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A Globe(al) Catastrophe

TO: Dr Bairstow

FROM: Mr Fernsby

INCIDENT REPORT

For the record, this was not my fault. Unwilling to apportion blame, I do, however, believe our colleagues in R&D could exercise a tad more restraint before testing their…theories. If not for their attempt to recreate the Vesuvius eruption, Miss Bland and I would not have crossed paths; ergo, no security breach.

Attached is the transcript of events from my recorder with several explanatory asides.

Assuming the figure rushing toward me to be my associate and anxious to leave before the mayhem occurring in the Great Hall reached Hawking, I rushed her to the pod. Noting her attire, it occurred to me that standards in the Wardrobe Department had fallen somewhat in the absence of Mrs Enderby. Regrettably ignoring her many protestations, I initiated the jump. The world went white.

I exited the pod, gratified we were exactly where we should be, thanks to my meticulous calculations.

“Was there always a river here?”

“What?”

“And these buildings?”

“While acknowledging the rushed nature of our departure Miss Montgomery, surely you at least skimmed the data stack?”

“Bland.”

“Excuse me?”

“Ottolie Bland. And you are?”

“Not Eloise Montgomery?”

“No, I’m sure you’re not. I, however, am Fundraising Officer for the WI, that’s the Women’s Institute, here to see Dr Bairstow.”

“Oh no. No, no, no. Get back in the pod.”

“Pod? What’s a pod? Other than a seed case for peas, obviously.”

I propelled her back inside. “Stay here. Touch nothing. I’ll be back.”

“Absolutely not, Arnie. Aside from the ghastly smell, I have a scheduled appointment and it is rude to be late. As is not introducing oneself.”

What to do? Return to St Mary’s and rid myself of this turbulent priest, aka Fundraiser? But…I would lose my pet project. I would be blamed and ridiculed. I would forever be Fernsby of the WI and suffer cake-related wisecracks.

“Ignatius P Fernsby.”

“P?”

“I’m sorry?”

“P. I myself was not burdened with a middle name.”

“Patrick.”

I sighed. “You may accompany me, Miss Bland, on condition you say nothing and do exactly as instructed.”

“And my appointment?”

“I…will explain to Dr Bairstow.” Somehow.

“Then, lead on, Macduff.”

Appropriately, if unintentionally, she misquoted Shakespeare’s Macbeth.

We proceeded without further conversation until a high-pitched whistle pierced the air.

“What the…Is that you?”

“That would be my hearing aid.”

“Your…?”

“Hearing. Aid. The battery needs replacing.”

She removed the offending item. “I can still hear, just talk loudly and enunciate.”

Very shortly thereafter, I almost jumped out of my breeches when she let out a squeal.

“Is that…the Globe?”

“Um…”

“It looks remarkably accurate.”

“Um…”

“I’m very impressed that St Mary’s has constructed a replica of the original Globe Theatre and indeed of Southwark. Are you reenacting one of the great man’s plays? Which one? My favourite is The Taming of the Shrew.”

Obviously. Still, I fairly whooshed with relief. Reenactment! I just might get away with this. “Henry VIII.”

“Hmm, not his worst I suppose. Who are you playing?”

“I’m…observing.”

“So you’re dressed like a Renaissance-era peasant, why?”

I had no explanation.

“Oh, I see. Everyone’s in costume. How marvellous.”

Thank goodness one of us was thinking clearly. I hurried into the theatre, hoping her ruffled blouse and long skirt wouldn’t look too out of time.

Act 1 was already under way. Given her previous complaint, Miss Bland seemed surprisingly oblivious to the stench of the locals, which made the pod’s eau de cabbage seem more like potpourri. All was proceeding as expected. Until…

“Ooh, who’s playing Shakespeare? I mean the likeness isn’t that great, but it’s clearly meant to be him.” She took off.

Still recording, but needing to prevent her from interacting with the most famous man here, I hustled after her.

“Hello. Ottilie Bland. Great costume.”

“Well met, fair mistress. William Shakespeare at your command.” He bowed low, kissing her hand.

Oh dear God. His love of both flattery and women clearly overrode his shock at her bold approach. She actually giggled.

“I pray thou art enamoured of mine humble offering?”

“Oh indeed, sir. Tis most pleasing to mine ears.” At least now she was behaving in a way less likely to cause suspicion.

“I am right glad to hear it. Art thou here unaccompanied?”

Lecherous old fool. “Forsooth sir, she most surely is not. Pray excuse us.”

I led her back to our original position, wondering how the hell she could hear what he was saying.

“How the hell could you hear what he was saying?”

“Lip reading. Isn’t this fun? Do you do this sort of thing often?”

“More than you can possibly imagine. Do. Not. Move.”

She stuck her tongue out. I chose to ignore that as the cannon appeared.

“I’ve lost it!” She wailed.

“Not at all. You’re doing splendidly,” I murmured vaguely, eyes fixed on the stage. It was almost time.

“I must have dropped it.”

“Dropped it?”

“My hearing aid! I can’t leave it here.”

About that, she was 100% correct. Juggling the recorder while attempting to prevent the now-kneeling Miss Bland from being trampled by fellow theatregoers, I fervently wished hearing aids were still the size of ear trumpets.

“Thomas! Put that not to thy lips!”

Suspecting that that was the lost device, I nudged Miss Bland in the direction of the weary mother admonishing her bored son.

She barged her way through, much like Mr Markham on Pancake Tuesdays.

“Young man, hand that over immediately. It is not a mint humbug!”

The boy, understandably confused by these words, howled mightily. Again, much like Mr Markham on Pancake Tuesdays. His mother, affronted that this strangely attired foreigner would dare address her beloved angel in this manner, lunged forward. Miss Bland snatched the humbug, I mean hearing aid. I tackled the mother as she swung at Miss Bland. Recording ceased. The howling crescendoed. The crowd began pushing and shoving, if for no other reason than this act was a little tedious, boring even. As the fracas edged closer to the stage, the actor beside the cannon slipped, presumably distracted by the commotion. With an alarming bang worthy of R&D, the cannon misfired just as history, but sadly not I, recorded. Henry VIII strode majestically onstage. Courtiers bowed and scraped. Minstrels played tunelessly.

Someone yelled “FIRE!” Someone screamed. Me, as it turned out, as burning thatch landed on, and set fire to, my breeches. Thank goodness Mrs Enderby is on holiday. She would not be amused.

Grabbing a flagon of ale, Miss Bland doused the flames inching towards my…parts. Trying not to dwell on the potential damage I might have suffered without her unorthodox actions, we hot-footed it back to the pod. My pre-programmed return coordinates preventing the dreaded emergency extraction, the world went white.

CONCLUSION

Nurse Hunter’s examination detected a very mild head trauma incurred during a fainting spell, possibly brought on by fright after the controlled explosion in R&D, which explains Miss Bland’s hallucinations. Her assertion that the world went white (twice) and the absence of a replica of the Globe Theatre on our grounds substantiate this diagnosis.

The security breach has been successfully averted.

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It's not Snickers

It all started so well. The first 5 crews had been, made their observations, returned and reported before handing their pods on to the next. Of course, we could not have one crew tracking him because of the inability of humans to be twice in the same time free: machines – fine.

The plan was simple—observe Pheidippides’ run from Marathon to Athens, and see the aftermath.

We had plotted the likely route of the 26 miles, spotted places where a pod would not be noticed, and where our people could be innocent passers-by getting the hot news.

I am Frank Gatwa, Historian at the Institute of St Mary’s, where we investigate historical events in contemporary time. I was with Siobhàn Purashotoman of R&D who was keeping an eye on our equipment. I have long had Feelings for Siobhan, but have no idea if they are reciprocated. Maybe I was distracted by her beauty and presence. Security was provided by Simon Kazantzakis, returning to the land of his forebears for the first time.

Siobhan’ mixed heritage, of Sri Lankan and Irish, and my Welsh/Botswana means that we can pass off as almost any race, from southern African to Mediterranean and thus fit in anywhere without raising eyebrows.

Simon, of course, looks like he stepped off a frieze in the not-very British Museum.

In addition, we also had another ‘team member’ of whom we were unaware to start with. That’s how the trouble started. It really wasn’t my fault.

We had emerged near modern day Khalandri, not far from the city itself. It was weird to look towards the Acropolis, but not to see the Parthenon on top. We had calculated that we would be the last team but one to see the man on his run, and another, larger group would follow him on in to Athens to see what actually happened.

Previous teams had reported back on his progress. For a man who had spent the early part of the day fighting a battle, he had appeared to be spry and quite vigorous.

Team 1 had stayed near to the battlefield, partly to see him set off, but also to try to get an impression of actual casualty numbers.

Subsequent crews had been positioned at regular intervals along his route, getting an impression of his pace, and reactions of locals to his news.

One advantage of travelling through time is that a team could come back and spend several hours of our time briefing the next one, so they could time their pod arrival neatly. We were timing our arrivals to be there 30 or 40 minutes before Pheidippides was due, and recording all we could. We then planned to leave again 30 or 40 minutes after he had passed, so none of the locals could enquire where this new building had appeared from.

Siobhan , Simon and I had arrived about 30 minutes before he was expected, parked under an olive tree in a field, with a low wall between us and the road. We spent that time observing from within the pod. As his ETA approached, we opened the door and were aware of a black and tan streak across the floor and outside.

‘Oh, firetruck,’ exclaimed Simon ‘that was that psycho cat who hangs around the kitchen, wasn’t it? Vertigo, or whatever his name is’.

We caught sight of his tail disappearing over the wall towards the road. Several minutes of frantic searching was useless, until I caught sight of some movement in a patch of grass a few metres away. Our cat was plonked on top of another, in a position familiar to anyone who has observed mating moggies.

Simon hoicked me over the wall, and I rushed towards the loving couple.

I called back to the pod that I needed some cold water PDQ, to separate the pair.

Siobhan came running with a flask of water, which was rapidly deployed. Our cat lay there in a soggy, disappointed heap, but tried to escape.

I threw myself into the road and grabbed him.

It was at this point that I became aware of a hoplite heading straight for me, but with his head turned towards a family on a cart heading towards Marathon. He tripped on my flailing leg, and hit the road hard.

With his head.

Still trying to subdue an angry, sexually frustrated moggy, I assessed the situation.

We could not leave the cat behind, out of his own time, and we had the problem of the focus of the mission lying in a crumpled heap, apparently unconscious.

Simon had had the bright idea of grabbing a basket from the pod, with a blanket in it. These are often very useful in almost any time or place, for camouflage or concealing modern weapons.

He grabbed the cat and stuffed him in the basket, and held the blanket down as best he could.

‘Put him in the toilet, and be sure to shut the door’, I yelled, as he headed back to the pod.

Siobhàn joined me beside the fallen runner. Luckily, the family in the cart had passed, and gone around a corner.

We checked him over. Breathing, but very unconscious.

‘Bugger,’ said Siobhan.

‘Indeed’, I responded.

We considered various options. Take him back to St Mary’s for treatment, and bring him back?

The message had to be delivered to Athens in about the next hour or so.

A smile spread across Siobhàn’s face.

‘Take your kit off -you are about the same size as him. Get his gear on, and you have to do the last few miles. Simon is much too tall.’

‘But didn’t he proclaim the news and drop dead?’ I asked. ‘I am glad he was a messenger and soldier, not an athlete: I wouldn’t want to run that naked’

‘hmm,’ muttered Siobhan,’ you, as a Greek Athlete... I would like to see that’, and smiled.

She thought for a moment, and came up with a Brilliant Idea.

‘Listen, there are two more teams between here and the city centre. We can get them to form a gang, and recruit others as they pass. You collapse, and we whisk you away in the melee’

‘And him? What do we do with him?’ I asked.

‘Hmmm.... which was that island that that other crew encountered Herodotus? He can be dropped off there, and live out his life recounting war stories. Will anyone believe him? Herodotus was writing history decades after the event.’

For a plan that was made up in dire straits, on the spur of the moment, it worked a treat.

And that, dear reader, is how a lad from Brighton delivered the news χαρά! Κερδίζουμε (Joy! We win!) of victory to Athens.

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A Sticky Situation

Date: January 15, 1919

Location: Nevada (final state to ratify the amendment) BOSTON -T.F.

Purpose: observe the impact of a nationwide ban on alcohol

Waiver rationale: limited alternatives, since few countries have attempted such a foolish prohibition.

Reporting Historian: Susan Doherty (Tom Fengstrom remains on indefinite leave)

Summary:

My partner, Tom Fengstrom, changed the location, citing safety (Boston being “on the fringe,” rather than in the center, of America). This seemed to make sense at the time. I had no idea that his actual motivation for this entire jump was a passionate – and extremely well-hidden – obsession with American history. Much of which, apparently, happened in Boston.

We planned to visit a bar, to hear opinions about the looming threat. When Tom eagerly picked one founded in 1795, I just thought he was taking “well established” very literally. His enthusiastic comments about Daniel Webster and Paul Revere having drunk there seemed odd, but I thought he was just telling the staff that previous customers had shared positive reviews.

There were few patrons, none discussing the proposed law. We left, and Tom began to behave oddly. He stared slack-jawed at everything – not even trying to blend in. He even paused to stroke random buildings!

When Tom saw a decorative circle of paving stones, he exclaimed “the Massacre!” and threw himself to the ground, gibbering “This is where it all began.” Startled, I stumbled into a woman pushing a pram, jarring the pram and waking the child, who began to howl. The mother scooped up the crying baby and glared at me.

I started to apologize, but we were both distracted by Mr. Fengstrom rising from the ground, reaching towards her like a strangely reverent Nosferatu. He grabbed the monogrammed cloth wrapped around the infant and pulled it towards his face, as if to kiss the decorative JFK stitched into the corner. Apologizing profusely, I tried to drag him away, but he became almost hysterical, broke free, and ran off.

I finally overtook him near the harbor. The sight of a well-dressed woman chasing a gentleman was drawing unwelcomed attention. Between that and Mr. Fengstrom’s bizarre behavior, I did not behave as professionally as I typically would have. Instead, I grabbed Tom and slammed him against the wall.

Except it wasn’t a wall. It was a massive tank, bigger than most of the buildings nearby. At least fifteen meters tall, metal, and… sticky. It was painted brown, so they weren’t obvious, but the wall was covered with dripping rivulets of a thick, sticky substance. A few yards away, two children were scraping the wall, collecting the goop into tin cans.

When Tom struck the wall, I heard a deep, painful groan, and thought at first I had injured him. But the sound kept growing — a deep, rumbling moan unlike any a person ever made. Then it faded, only to be replaced by a new groan, from another section of the tank. We backed away, frightened, but the urchins laughed. “Don’t pay it no mind,” one said. “It always moans like that, ’specially right after a new load.” Not reassured, Tom and I hurried back towards the pod. We had gone just a few blocks when there was a series of loud bangs, as the walls behind us appeared to be hit by machine gun fire.

I have seen movies about organized crime during alcohol prohibition. It’s why we jumped to the day before the law passed, when American cities were not yet war zones. Clearly, this caution had failed. “It’s Al Capone!” I exclaimed.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Tom snapped. “Alfonse Capone ran the mob in Chicago, not Boston, and doesn’t take over from Johnny Torrio until 1925.” I began to suspect that my partner was far more invested in American History than I’d realized.

The groaning noise resumed, louder, and increasing to a roar. I looked back, and where we had stood just a few minutes before there now rose a wall of brown liquid, a tsunami of… something. Moving faster than any wave should, it crushed everything in its path. Houses were ripped from their foundations, the elevated train knocked over, vehicles flattened. We ran, and almost made it. Just a few yards from safety, the wave overtook us. It was only about a foot deep by this point, but this wasn’t the gentle slap of a shallow wave at the beach. The liquid was so heavy it knocked us down, and at that point…. It stopped being a liquid. We were toppled by a fast-flowing wave of liquid, and found ourselves embedded in a thick, sticky mass, like flies in amber.

The new R&D intern later explained this phenomenon to me. He’d filled a child’s pool with white liquid, slightly thicker than milk. He then climbed on a chair and jumped in, but landed on the surface as if on a solid piece of plaster. And then slowly sank. He explained that this was “Oobleck” – corn starch mixed with water to form a non-Newtonian fluid. Oobleck is a sheer-thickening fluid that becomes solid under pressure, while our tank must have been filled with a sheer-thinning fluid. The contents of the tank was thinned by the extreme force of the rupture, while the liquid in his pool solidified every time he tried to take a step. I left him to figure that out.

The tank had been poorly made years before to hold molasses – which was distilled into ethanol to make munitions for the War. It was well known to leak – they even painted it brown to hide this. It had made concerning noises for so long that people no longer found them concerning. Now the war was over, and the only other market for ethanol was about to be banned. So the owners were rushing to distill as much alcohol as they could, before Prohibition put them out of business. The tank was filled to capacity, which combined with recent temperature changes to create overwhelming pressure, causing it to explode. The force of the rupture shot rivets out like bullets, flung the metal plates in all directions, and caused the molasses to thin and flow extremely fast. Until it stopped moving, and returned to a viscous, near-solid substance.

Just to be clear: this was not my fault. Yes, I pushed Mr. Fengstrom roughly against an aging and poorly constructed tank, but there is no way my frustrated shove had any significant effect compared to the weight of 2.3 million gallons of molasses.

It took us hours to escape the last few yards of thickened molasses. People tried to help, but anyone stepping into the goop became another person needing rescue. Besides, others were in far more need of aid – 150 people were injured, and 21 died, many by suffocation. I realize that the wardrobe department was extremely distressed by the state of our clothing, but we were lucky to only lose our shoes.

And yes, the technical section was understandably upset to find every surface in the pod is now persistently sticky. But it barely smells like cabbage anymore! Judging from the reports of North Boston smelling like molasses for decades, that’s a benefit that might last.

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The Owain Glyndwr incident

Tidied up and scanned, the moment had arrived.

“Report!”

I stood in that upstairs room, my team behind me. Behind me, because they had all stepped back, the more to expose me to Senior Management. I shuffle my report, thinking

“Why do I have to read it out, they all have a copy.”

The answer, my inner voice told me, was so they could torture me over my mistakes.

“This was not my fault!”

“Tell that to Senior Management” the inner voice replied.

Breathing deeply I focused on the nice painting on the wall, the one of the sinking ship.

Mission:

As part if the wider investigation of the Welsh fight for independence 1400 – 1415, this Pathfinder jump was to identify Owain Glyndwr’s grave. Possible sites for investigation: Monnington Court, Kentchurch Court, Llanwdra and Kimbolton.

Context:

Owain Glyndwr has no known grave, he ended his days in secrecy. Of rumoured sites Monnington Court and Kentchurch Court are strong contenders as they were manors owned by John Scudamore the husband of Glyndwr’s daughter Alys.

Parameters:

To investigate Monnington Court in the Herefordshire March. Starting October 1414 jump forward monthly looking for signs of a funeral and/or recent burial. Establish dates for other jumps to follow up.

Team:

Frankonia Westland: Team Leader

Carlos Humphries: Pathfinder, welsh speaker

Ivor Pare: Security

Sallyann Gowersby: Pathfinder

Hester Trope: Pathfinder

Incident:

We proceeded with our monthly scans, reaching May 1415, with no evidence of a grave so far. Myself, Humphries and Pare exited the pod at dawn, just before 4am, a time planned to avoid notice. Gowersby and Trope remained to monitor, with instructions not to leave the pod. There was no obvious new grave, no coffin stood in the church. We were standing by the altar when a contemporary entered, an older man, a Grey Friar. Humphries quickly hid our recorder in his leather script and we knelt as if to pray. Our cover story was that we were pilgrims on our way to Shrewsbury. The Friar prayed with us, then Humphries and he exchanged a few words in Welsh. As we turned to take our leave the Friar leaned over, grabbed Humphries’ script and pushed a small wooden box into his hand.

This was serious, our recorder was in that script.

The Friar headed towards the door, beckoning for us to follow.

“What did he say” I whispered to Humphries

“I think he said we are going in the same direction, so we can travel together. He has a pack donkey, that’s where the script has gone. But we couldn’t understand each other very well.”

“But you were both speaking Welsh?”

“Yes, but modern Patagonian Welsh apparently isn’t much like mediaeval welsh. I had to say I was from Navarre like the Queen, he seemed to accept that.”

I think I might have rolled my eyes at that moment, but told them we needed to keep him in sight, I hoped we weren’t going all the way to Shrewsbury.”

Pare at that point asked what was in the box.

Humphries explained it was a reliquary. The Friar had said as pilgrims, we could carry it and receive the blessings of the saint while we travelled together.”

Pare opened the lid. Inside was a finger on golden tapestry. Not a nice finger, it was brown and shrivelled with a nasty yellow nail. Pare snapped the lid shut and told Humphries he was definitely carrying it.

I asked Humphries if he knew the identity of the saint but this seemed to be information lost in the linguistic confusion.

Outside the Friar eagerly started up the lane, leading the donkey. We had no option but to chase after our script. I told Trope and Gowersby on the com to hold tight and we followed the Friar. Humphries and he got over their linguistic difficulties and chatted away, Pare and I trudged along in silence. Two days later we reached the Benedictine monastery at Leominster, and were finally able to swap grim reliquary for script, say goodbye and head back to Monnington Court. We ran out of compo rations on the third day and Humphries and I had enormous blisters. Pare helpfully informed us that he always kept his own boots and was feeling fine.

Back in the pod, as we debriefed and finally had a cup of tea, Humphries dropped his bombshell.

He told us we could be pretty sure Owain Glyndwr was still alive in May 1415.

I asked why, and he informed me we had just walked all the way to Leominster with him.

As Team Leader I must formally protest that vital evidence was withheld from me, I disagree with Humphries who maintained that had I known I would have started acting weird and blown our cover.

Conclusions:

We can’t be sure that Owain Glyndwr stayed on in Leominster, however one suggested site for burial is Kimbolton church, owned by the Benedictines of Leominster. This will need investigating by another pathfinder team. We continued our monitoring of Monnington Court through to February 1416 but have gathered no conclusive proof of a burial.

Injuries:

Frankonia Westland: blisters

Carlos Humphries: blisters

Hester Trope: bruising, trampled by sheep

“Thank you Westland, a jump that has perhaps been more informative by accident than design” said the Boss. “A detailed write up please Humphries.”

“One last thing,” said one of the managers, “in your report you state Trope was trampled by sheep, when did that happen?”

“Gowersby and Trope can elaborate” I smiled, stepping back and folding my arms.

“It was a mission of mercy” said Gowersby, “whilst the team were away Trope noticed a sheep stuck on it’s back.”

“That is very bad” chipped in Trope “they can die.”

“So against your orders you left the pod?” asked the manager, enjoying herself I think.

“It was an emergency.” continued Gowersby. “I don’t like sheep, but Trope strode up like she knew what to do.”

“I did” said Trope indignantly.

“I think the sheep was just enjoying a rest, but Trope grabbed it’s fleece and pulled. It rolled over very suddenly, the momentum took Trope, so she fell and was suddenly under the sheep. It wasn’t happy, it got up and walked up and down on Trope a couple of times before gambolling off and joining it’s friends. They then formed a sit down protest outside the pod. We didn’t dare open the door in case they all piled in.

“What did you do?” asked the manager.

“We slept under the hedge” answered Gowersby.

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St Mary’s Institute for Historical Research Incident Report

Place visited: Lincoln Cathedral, Lincoln

Date and time: 16 January 1396, 10:30

Objective: To observe the wedding of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster and Lady Katherine Swynford, his long-term mistress. Observe and Record only; no interaction planned.

Personnel: S Hingis, Senior Historian

J Morris, Historian

C Fitzgerald, Trainee Historian

T Keighley, Security

Details of Incident:

We arrived as scheduled in a dark corner of the grounds of Lincoln Cathedral, and made our way to our assigned positions. Mr Morris and I were to join the crowd outside the main doors of the Cathedral, while Dr Hingis and Mr Keighley waited outside Lady Katherine’s house at the Chancery.

John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, was marrying his long-term mistress, Lady Katherine Swynford, by whom he had had four children. They had been separated for some years after the Peasants’ Revolt of 1381, although the separation appears to have been more form than reality, as Lady Katherine was often seen around the Court. Certainly, she bore him no more children, as far as is known – she may have had other children who did not live. However, in 1394, the Duke’s second wife, Constanza of Castile, died, and left the couple free to marry, despite the disapproval of many other nobles.

The groom arrived as scheduled; there was some booing from the crowd, but also some cheers. The bride arrived a few minutes later, also greeted with mixed boos and cheers, after which Mr Morris and I were joined by the other two. As they arrived, Ms Hingis tripped over an object lying on the ground. We thought at first that it was some kind of root vegetable, perhaps designed to be thrown by someone who objected to the Duke’s marriage, but who had then noticed all the Duke’s men-at-arms and decided not to proceed. But then I realised that it was in fact a “pot-de-fer”, or iron pot, a primitive gun. It was shaped like a vase, only made out of metal, and this one was lying on its side, with a length of cord hanging out its far end, and the end of the cord was smouldering.

I pointed this out to Mr Keighley, who proceeded to stamp on the end of the cord. Dr Hingis explained to him that it was a primitive bomb; gunpowder weapons were beginning to be used, although primarily for shock and awe, rather than to kill people.

We were not sure who would have placed this bomb, and who it was aimed at. Where it was, it would arguably have maimed or even killed one of us, but then, who would want to kill us? Neither the Duke nor his Duchess were popular, but there were more reliable methods of killing them, had someone been determined to do so. Our current hypothesis is that it was placed by an illegal time-traveller who thought they had a good reason for disrupting the wedding. However, there was no sign of anybody else who was not contemporary at that moment, so we reckoned it was down to us to deal with the immediate threat.

Without the fuse, the bomb had, as we thought, been rendered harmless. We debated what to do with it – I was all in favour of leaving it where it was, but the others thought we should move it. The question was, where to? Eventually we decided that Dr Hingis and I would visit the midden behind Lady Katherine’s house, and bury it there.

I queried whether this was wise, given the heat that the midden probably generated, and suggested we had better shake the gunpowder, if that is what it was, out of the container before burying it. However, I was overruled, and the container was duly buried in the midden.

However, it only took a very few moments for the heat of the midden to cause the gunpowder to become unstable and explode. Dr Hingis was in the throes of answering a call of nature, and the projectile contained in the vessel struck her on the left buttock. Fortunately, the wound was not deep, although we were and are very concerned about infection.

We were about to abort the mission and take Dr Hingis home so she could get the care she needed, but this had to be delayed because at that moment the Time Police turned up and arrested all of us, plus a couple of random contemporaries, on the grounds that we were disturbing the timeline.

The TP officers were disinclined to listen to our explanation that, on the contrary, we were keeping the timeline intact, as there were no reports of any explosions or disturbances as the wedding. Ignoring the fact that we were leaving a pod where it did not belong, they insisted on taking us all to their London headquarters. I am given to understand that one of their officers later returned the pod to St Mary’s, thus alerting you to our predicament.

I wish to thank you for bailing us out from TP HQ, and returning us to St Mary’s. I do hope and pray that Dr Hingis will soon recover from her injury. I also hope that you will agree that this was not was my fault.

(Signed) Catherine Fitzgerald, trainee historian

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Incident Report

To: Director, St Mary’s Institute for Historical Research

Filed by: Mrs Elspeth Tapp, History Department (on secondment from Catering)

Date of Filing: 20th March 2026

Mission Reference: SM-1666-IN-2

Mission Briefing

A simple observational jump to Woolsthorpe Manor, Lincolnshire 1666 was planned. Our primary goal was to establish surveillance on the household of the young Isaac Newton in order to discover something of his methods and habits. This was something of an annus mirabilis for Isaac - a forced retreat home from Cambridge because of the Plague had allowed him the freedom to explore his big ideas: in particular optics, the calculus, and the law of gravitation.

We had a secondary, less formal objective: could we witness and record The Apple Incident? If Isaac really was inspired by the fall of an apple, could we research this in contemporary time? Accordingly we planned a jump to the autumn of 1666, hoping to land a pod close to the orchard at Woolsthorpe.

My presence on the mission was two-fold: my background in catering might allow casual employment in the Manor kitchen as cover, plus I was considering a career change to the History Department.

For this, my first jump, I was to be accompanied by Dr Hamish McJohn from History.

Jump and Arrival

I’d been kitted out by Wardrobe as a scullery maid of the time. It wasn’t anticipated that Dr McJohn would leave the pod, so he was left to his own sartorial choices - as usual, (apart from his kilt and tartan on Burns Night and Hogmanay) this was a sweater and jeans.

With the coordinates laid in, we checked our stores and equipment. At the last moment, Hamish noticed we had only a few teabags - not enough for our proposed 3-day stake-out.

“I’ll just pop and get some, Ellie,” he said, stepping out of the pod. “Just don’t tell the computer to initiate the jump without me!” he joked.

At that moment, the computer bleeped, closed the pod doors on Hamish’s astonished figure and said “Jump initiated.”

I just had time to shout “Get back!” and see on the view-screen that Hamish had leaped a safe distance away from the pod.

The world went white.

This was not my fault, Director. I would recommend that adequate tea supplies be part of Technical’s standard checklist in future, and that the pod’s voice recognition systems be updated and retrained to better handle Scottish and other regional dialects.

Since I had set the coordinates myself with only a minimum of training and supervision I wasn’t completely confident as to how my landing would turn out. But in fact, with only a couple of minor thumps the pod materialised successfully.

The view-screen showed apple trees, and a large stone-built Manor House not too far beyond them. From present day photos at the Mission Briefing I identified this as Woolsthorpe Manor.

Deployment

Sensors in the pod indicated the date was right too, I was bang on target. There’d be no problem getting back to St Mary’s - I’d just have to set the stored coordinates and jump back. I was a little worried about the defective computer - if I left the pod, could it jump back without me? The best thing to do would be to abort the mission and return immediately.

I decided to continue the mission but to proceed with caution. I think this shows initiative and an awareness of the investment cost of every mission.

It was early morning on a pleasant autumn day. To fortify myself, I popped the kettle on and checked the tea caddy. There weren’t many teabags, but enough for just me. As I prepared to leave, I put the tea caddy just inside the door. This would prevent the door closing fully and ensure the pod would be unable to jump. I believe this shows initiative and an understanding of our health and safety directives.

Outside the pod I paused for a few minutes to record the scene. I walked up through the orchard to the kitchen door and knocked tentatively. After some bustling and mild cursing, I was greeted by what I believe was Hannah, Isaac’s mother, to judge from her clothing and manner. Behind her, peering from a doorway, was a gangly long-haired young man with a preoccupied air, squinting through a glass prism. Isaac himself.

“Aye?” she said.

I gulped and blurted something about looking for work. She didn’t look impressed at all.

“Now then, lass,” Hannah said, “thou’d best be looking elsewhere.” She ran a small household and had little need of extra staff, I realised. I’d have done better to try for a job to watch her sheep.

The Incident

I looked again at Isaac and realised he was unexpectedly holding something else on a thread - a pyramid-shaped teabag! He was muttering something about “refractive index” and looking bemused. Horrible thoughts about History went through my head. I had to avoid a Paradox at all costs. I quickly pushed past Hannah, grabbed the teabag from Isaac, and rushed back down the path as fast as I could.

Behind me, Isaac - evidently no great sprinter - tried to catch me. He wanted to have a good look at that squishy prism-shaped object!

I was looking back to see how close he was. I thought I should just make it to the pod and from there I could think what to do next. The door would still be open, so I could get aboard quickly. But looking back while running is something they tell us about in training. Don’t do it!

I ran into a tree with a bang that knocked the wind out of me. Struggling to the pod door, I risked another look and saw Isaac arrive at the same tree. An apple dropped with a soft thump at his feet. A dreamy look came into his eyes and he stopped… looked up, then looked back down at the apple and picked it up. He sat down on a log, obviously thinking hard, with all ideas of me gone from his head.

At the pod door, the tea caddy was open and some of my teabags were gone. Some magpies in a nearby tree looked very shifty.

I quickly got aboard, removed the tea caddy from the entrance and shouted “Door!”.

Extraction

From the view-screen I could see Isaac, still thoughtfully weighing the apple in his hands, walking slowly back to the house. Just about then, the Lincolnshire rain started to fall. I reckoned no teabags could survive that and I made my mind up. I’d end the mission there - no Pod Plod, no waiting around for my luck to run out. I successfully initiated the jump back to St Mary’s.

Assessment

Subject to review of the footage from my scullery maid’s cap camera and the pod’s own scanners, I believe we can account the mission at least a partial success, having witnessed and recorded Isaac Newton and the Apple Incident.

As to my own inadvertent role in causing an apple to fall, and potentially polluting the timeline with anachronistic groceries - I understand the gravity of the situation, but I do maintain it really wasn’t my fault.

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Lady Burton’s Bonfire

Report Filed by: Dr. Simon Phipps, Historian 2^nd Class, 18^th-19^th Century Division

Jump: Trieste, October 1890. Near the British Consulate in the Austro-Hungarian Empire.

Objective: Surreptitiously exchange as many of Sir Richard Francis Burton’s papers with replicas before his wife Lady Isabel Burton burns them after his death, with emphasis on preserving his “The Scented Garden” translation. Ship said papers to location in England for storage until able to be retrieved in present time.

Status: Eminently successful on my end, if one considers the end results. I was disappointed—though not greatly surprised, given the incompetence of the rest of my team—that events did not proceed according to my flawless plan.

Team:

Charlotte Robson—Probationary Historian.

Arthur Green—Junior Technical Support.

Three security persons—I can’t be bothered to remember their names, so I refer to them in my notes by hair color: Yellow, Ginger and None.

As this was my first jump as lead—in my considered opinion, a position long overdue for one of my evident abilities—I intended it to run smoothly and efficiently. I was disappointed, to say the least, when it did not go as I had planned.

We arrived in Trieste on 3 October 1890 and immediately settled into our lodgings. Ms. Robson and I were quite comfortable in our late Victorian attire, but I can hardly say the same about Green, who complained incessantly and vociferously about his collar. The loud and often profane opinions of our security detail I shall not lower myself to repeat.

Our cover was as brother and sister touring the continent with their manservants. We called on Lady Burton on the morning of 5 October, claiming to be distant relatives of her family, descendants of a Gerard cousin who married into an Arundell cadet line living in Ireland after the Gordon Riots. Lady Isobel welcomed us warmly, sat us down to tea and immediately wanted to discuss our lineage.

Things were going swimmingly until Sir Richard Burton arrived back from his usual two-hour morning perambulation and was summoned to meet us. At this time, my young colleague Rabson went into what can be called no other than a massive breach of professionalism in which she abandoned all scholarly decorum and entered such a paroxysm of girlish enthusiasm that I feared she might spontaneously combust. I had scarcely begun to introduce myself when Ms. Robson launched into a breathless litany of Sir Richard’s exploits with the fervor of a schoolgirl. She literally clasped her hands in front of her heaving bosom. It was embarrassing, to say the least, and I naturally feared our mission was over before it had well begun, but to my astonishment Sir Richard merely smiled indulgently at Rabson as though she were charming. I can only assume the final fever that took him had already begun.

Lady Burton invited us to dine with them two days hence. And luckily, Mr. Green, in his guise as our manservant, had made friends with two of the serving girls and had gained a great deal of knowledge about the running of the household.

Well before the time of Sir Richard’s sad passing, we were intimates in the household. Lady Burton relied heavily on Ms Robson and me, while Green was courting one of the Burton servants. Or perhaps two; Green’s romantic entanglements appeared to multiply at an alarming rate.

Our security detail were busily—I use the word advisedly—engaged in whatever preparations security details engage in. Not my department and certainly of no scholarly interest.

The beginning of my our troubles began on a day early in the last week of Sir Richard’s life. Rabson and I were walking with him on his usual promenade at Lady Burton’s request, her ladyship not being up to the task. Burton’s steps were slower than they had been and, after settling Rabson on a convenient bench, took a seat beside her. He pulled a small notebook from his pocket and began scrabbling for a pen in the same pocket. Then in several other pockets. With a sigh that sounded equal parts exasperation and exhaustion, Sir Richard went to replace the notebook. At this moment, Rabson dug into one of her skirt pockets and produced a modern felt-tip pen, one of those plastic disposable monstrosities. She handed it to Burton with what one can only describe as a giggle. He examined it with some interest, turning it over and about in his large, battered hands.

It took all my strength not to snatch it back, but one does not behave in such a manner towards a national treasure. “Ah, er, uh…a trifle from some mad inventor in the American Colonies,” I said, glaring at Rabson over Burton’s head.

A glare she either did not see or totally disregarded. I silently added this blatant breach of protocol to her myriad other sins on my first mission and took the pen gently from Burton’s hands. He gave me an odd look as he struggled to his feet.

Not much more than forty-eight hours later, Sir Richard was dead, and I confess to a sigh of relief that this mistake of Rabson’s would not now rebound onto my entirely innocent head.

And in the woman’s defence, a few days before Rabson had managed to exchange the original “The Scented Garden” manuscript for a forgery, sneaking it out of the Burton home in the same skirt pockets as she’d sneaked the fake in.

So, the primary goal of our mission was completed. Now onto the secondary part: the recovery of as many other of Sir Richard’s papers as possible from wholesale destruction. For this part, I called upon the expertise of our security detail. I feel compelled to admit that Yellow, Ginger and None stepped up and devised a cunning plan. They would station themselves in the shrubbery around the garden when Lady Burton created her bonfire and run out to snatch papers from the flames each time she returned to the house for another armful.

Quite a number of papers were saved, as the process continued a great while, as Lady Burton agonised over her act of blatant obliteration. And the resulting minor conflagrations in the hedges were easily put out. None’s hands will be usable in the near future, it is hoped. Ginger’s moustache was only in the preliminary stages, and he had enough freckles on his face to distract from the lack of eyebrows. Yellow, I’m happy to state, escaped almost unscathed.

Still, I must protest that their trip back to our lodgings at dawn, pushing two barrows heaped with singed-about-the-edges papers and notebooks, could have been more clandestine. I understand that the copious amounts of beer they had consumed were useful to quell the painful burns of Ginger and None, but Yellow’s excuse that his favourite boots had died a martyr’s death did not hold water. And I must categorically state that the addition of the goat to their party was excessive and caused questioning looks from the local constabulary.

The notebooks and manuscripts were shipped back to London the next day, and, after bidding Lady Burton adieu with our deepest commiserations, we returned from my first but no doubt not last successful mission.

Mistakes were made, I freely admit. But as is abundantly clear in my report, it was not my fault.

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St Mary’s Incident Report

Name: Debbie Stolton

Department & rank: Historian (Junior)

Incident date: 18/06/1875

Jump location: Dublin Ireland

Jump ref and Pod number: GB239087 Pod 5

Pod damaged Y/N - details on separate form: N (not that much anyway)

Mission briefing - To report on the whiskey fire in the Liberties, Dublin.

Report:

Ireland 1875 still part of the United Kingdom at this time. A political and religious thorn in the side of the British Establishment since the 1500s. Much like the History department’s relationship with the Director of St Mary’s, according to said Director. Our Head of Department always says a healthy resistance to authority is the sign of a strong society, but I’ve noticed she tends to say it quietly and out of his earshot.

Anyway, the mission! A fire started in the Liberties in a whiskey storehouse and then rapidly spread through the neighbourhood, causing damage and casualties. Our aim was to record the start of the fire, confirm the extent of the affected areas, and document any casualties.

Background:

The Liberties takes its name from the abbey of St Thomas which owned the land and had the freedom to do whatever it felt like it commercially, much like St Paul’s in London did. Fat Henry did his dissolution in Ireland just as on the mainland, and it was gifted to his mates, the Earls of Meath. Jump forward 250 years, and the area is mainly breweries and poor people. Apart from that famous stout, there was a lot of whisky being brewed. Highly flammable whiskey.

Start of incident: 18.00 Malones Malt House Chamber St.

We knew the alarm was raised at 20.00, so we wanted to see if the cause was visible to an innocent bystander. It was.

It was also caused by an innocent bystander. I’d just like to point out this was not my fault! The fact that history didn’t kill me or any of the squad proves that I was meant to be there and was part of the BIGGER PICTURE. It was destiny. Honest.

The pathfinders had researched the area and found an alley behind the warehouse with a good view of the windows into the main distillery and the gates. We got into position by 18.30, pod discreetly parked round the corner in a different alley, and waited. And waited. And waited.

By 19.30 nothing had happened, so I decided to take a closer look. Against security’s advice ( yes I know better now but…) I sidled up to the nearest window and took a peek through the window. I could just make out a desk covered in documents, and a man sat reading. The desk was surrounded by barrels in racks on each wall. Although it was still daylight outside, he had a candlestick on his desk, the windows were filthy, and it was hard to see through them. I was about to try to wipe away some of the accumulated filth when security crackled in my earpiece: ‘Do NOT touch anything. Observe and then run away, remember?’

I ducked down below the sill as the man stood up and walked out of the room. ‘I’m trying to see where the fire comes from, but there’s nothing obvious? It should be any minute now; it’s meant to be visible in 20 minutes. I can’t see anything, I’m going to open the window a crack.’

Bad idea. The window scraped up an inch, and it all went historian-shaped. The breeze blew the candle over onto the paperwork, and it smouldered into flame. The top page on the desk went up, then the next, then the next, and you get the picture. Paperwork flambe. I realised belatedly that it’s probably why the window was closed. Next thing, the desk was on fire, and I decided that standing next to what was likely to be several thousand gallons of boiling spirits wasn’t a good place to be. The man suddenly walked back into the room, saw the desk and shouted something,then turned and ran out the door.

19.50 ‘Fire! Fire! ‘ Our alarm was raised at last.Big hurray! Although slightly smaller, hurray because it was me that caused it.

Initial explosion and effects:

We strategically withdrew around the corner to the pod and watched and listened as the alarm went up. It was your typical poor area, overcrowded tenements side by side with tanneries and breweries, so fire was something to be feared. There was a smell of smoke, and you could hear the crackle. The police and soldiers were moving through the streets raising the alarms and ensuring everyone was safely away. Any minute now, I thought, and then Boom! There was a roar, and a huge cloud of smoke shot into the air. Not just smoke, I was nearly brained by an unexpected chamberpot that was amongst the office furniture falling from the sky.

The spirit was highly flammable, and clearly the explosion had broken some of the barrels. A trickle of spirit was running down the gutter past us, and as we watched, it got wider and stronger. There was a muffled boom behind us and the dribble was suddenly more like a hoseful, and then a small stream that was spreading out from the gutter. ‘That’s flammable’ muttered security and as if the universe was listening there was a whoosh and the road was on fire. And the stream grew deeper. It was now 2 foot wide and running the length of the road, a river of liquid fire down Mill St, lapping at doors and stables and hedges. And the people, well once they knew what it was they took advantage, on fire or not. Streams of whisky indeed, Mr McGowan. They were scooping it up in jugs and cups and hats and their bare hands. But this was the raw spirit before it was diluted for sale, much stronger than normal and a man fell over drinking as we watched. His friends carried him away.

Something about a figure watching caught my eye. Tall, better dressed than the majority of the locals, he stood out in the crowd. Of course, Trinity College Dublin’s most famous son: Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde. Wilde? He was absolutely livid. Someone had jostled him in their urgency to get at the free booze and had liberally splashed his trousers. He looked even further down his regal nose and strode away, cane swinging. Next stop Oxford and social scandal.

Aftermath

The whiskey burned itself out after a few hours.

Despite the fire destroying neighbouring buildings on 4 streets, the 13 reported deaths were all from alcohol poisoning. This low death toll was attributed to the police evacuation.

Of 5,000 barrels, only 61 were recovered undamaged. Not all were burnt; some were rolled away and hidden for future consumption.

Unfortunately, on returning to our pod, it had a scorch mark 6 inches high on all sides, having been quietly sat in a puddle of burning whiskey like the world’s biggest Christmas pudding. I have apologised to the Technical team.

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The Inadvertent Accessory of An Historical Events

Assignment: Observe and report on the Tsarist Russian autocracy of 1849 and the arrest and mock execution of Fyodor Dostoyevsky and the Petrashevsky Circle.

Submitted by: Tatiania Sassanella, Senior Historian and Mission Commander.

To wit: Our mission to Tsarist Russia was not accomplished and has been rescheduled.

Reason for Non-Successful Mission: Apparently, a strong magnetic storm rerouted our pod to 1849 New York, United States of America instead 1849 Tsarist Russia. Our pod’s navigation and coordinates system was damaged by the storm, and Technician First Class Basil Thorpe immediately began work to remedy our drift error by unplugging the entire console and attempting to correctly plug it back in. Mr Thorpe was unsuccessful, and there appears to be some additional confusion now as to which plugs go where. However, Mr Thorpe assured me that this was a minor issue and that the entire pod was not actually disabled, merely temporarily offline. He requested that the lot of us “clear off” so that he could remedy the situation without “a bunch of nosey idiots bothering me.”

Additional Circumstances: Knowing that idle historians are notoriously unpredictable and possibly dangerous, I led the crew on a reconnaissance mission of the area. It was my hope that we could report our observations of 1849 New York, and perhaps if we were in the vicinity, we could observe the Astor Place Riot, a class riot over Hamlet being too British of all things.

Unfortunately, the group made a beeline into the nearest pub instead. There, in the company of several locals, we spent a surprisingly delightful and convivial afternoon learning about the area and the quaint lives of the inhabitants. We did have a moment of tension with the innkeeper, Mr Jonas, as to the women of our group, but Senior Historian Bert Harrison and I were able to assure him that we were foreigners, not remotely British, from a country where women were allowed in pubs and were not women of dubious reputation. Still, he kept a close eye upon us.

During our sojourn, we discovered we were in the company of Mr Walter Hunt, a well-known inventor of the time. Mr Hunt was both clever, practical and loquacious, the last of which may have been the result of the several tankards of ale he consumed during our discussion. His many inventions were astounding. These included the streetcar gong, the sewing machine, a fountain pen, the repeating rifle, and more.

Regretfully at this point, Junior Historian Kari “Tweety” Partridge, who had clearly overstepped her alcohol consumption limit, began speaking excitedly and loudly with Mr Hunt about his newest idea, the invention the humble safety pin. Before I was able to intercede, Ms Partridge flipped the hem of her skirt and, to my horror, removed a present-day safety pin from her torn hem. I was aghast; however, Mr Hunt was ecstatic and, snatching said pin, ran out the door of the pub. This was not my fault.

Immediately, the entire mob of historians gleefully headed after him. Mr Jonas, our suspicious innkeeper, collared Mr Harrison, demanding payment for the remarkable amount of ale consumed by our group. I left Mr Harrison to settle the bill and headed after the rampant, inebriated historians and rapidly disappearing inventor. (I will take responsibility for the excessive pub bill, although I’m not entirely to blame for its cost. Please bill my account.)

Mr Hunt led us on a goose chase, but eventually Tweety Partridge herself tackled him and demanded he return her pin. After much argument, Mr Hunt did relinquish the pin. However, I believe the innkeeper, still dubious about the reputations of our female historians, called the local constabulary who felt that Ms. Partridge’s position (she had been bouncing up and down astride Mr. Hunt’s chest and demanding loudly that he “give me back my thingy.”) not to mention her obvious intoxication was grounds for arrest for lewd and unbecoming behavior.

Thankfully, Mr Harrison arrived and level-headedly and repeatedly explained to the constables that Ms Partridge was his precocious, high-spirited daughter, and he would see to her punishment for her disgraceful and unladylike behaviour. He and I then proceeded to gather the group together, and we all trudged back to the pod where Mr Thrope was just finishing the final adjustments to the now partially working navigation and coordinates system. I deemed it prudent to return to home base, aborting the mission so that a more detailed inspection and repair of the pod could be instigated.

Alas, Mr Hunt did use the image of Ms Partridge’s safety pin to invent his own similar pin, for which he is indeed recognised and has gone down in history as the inventor. I have written up a disciplinary slip noting Ms Partridge’s gross negligence for having an anachronistic safety pin on her person during the jump. She has since apologised profusely for her behaviour. However, I believe the nasty hangover she experienced and the rigorous exercise routine I required her to complete the next day went a long way to punishing her for her misdeeds.

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Report filed by: Kerensa Tonkin, Junior Historian, B.A., M.A. History, Falmouth University (NOT the University of Exeter, even though we have to share a campus with them)

Mission: Observe and report on the sighting of the Spanish Armada, Plymouth Hoe, 19^th July 1588.

Personnel present: K Tonkin, Junior Historian; N Gallear, Historian masquerading as husband for 16^th century propriety’s sake.

Urban legends are the bane of the historian’s life. I don’t know how many times I’ve had to explain to friends that Lady Godiva didn’t ride naked through the streets of Coventry, Mozart wasn’t poisoned by a jealous rival, and that Sir Francis Drake wasn’t playing bowls on Plymouth Hoe when the when the Spanish Armada was sighted.

There have been various claims to the origin of that story, from a Spanish nobleman boasting that the Armada was so effective at sneaking up on the English that it might have caught them playing bowls, to a report of ‘people dancing, bowling and merrymaking’ on the Hoe.

So Thirsk University had asked us to observe what did happen.

I would like to state for the record that I would much rather be at the Lizard in Cornwall watching out for the true first sighting of the Armada, but Junior Historians can’t be choosers.

I suppose I was still brooding on being sent to Devon instead of Cornwall as we entered the pod, because I raised the ultimate question. ‘So’, I said ‘Scones. Jam first or cream first?’

Gallear was busy laying in the coordinates. He shrugged distractedly. ‘Does it matter?’

You can go off people.

Before I could inform him that the correct answer is jam first, that science has proved that jam first tastes best, and that even Queen Elizabeth II used to put her jam on first, the world went white.

*

Obviously, we couldn’t land on the Hoe. The point of pods is to be inconspicuous and unobtrusive, and this cannot be achieved by materialising in the middle of an open space and possibly squashing several merry-making Elizabethan Plymothians in the process.

Instead, we landed in an alley in the Barbican and walked up to the Hoe in the sunshine.

We were not prepared for what we saw there.

Sir Francis Drake was playing bowls.

How he got away with it, I do not know. Bowls was made illegal by Henry VIII in 1541 because it distracted people from archery practice. Yes, the law didn’t apply to the wealthy (nothing changes), but even they were only allowed to play on private greens.

I couldn’t believe it. ‘What do we do now?’ I said. ‘We’ve got the chance to prove the legend is true and we can’t be here, or you’ll be arrested for non-practice of archery.’

Gallear pulled me to a stone structure that looked like a pod with a rounded roof.

‘Behind here.’

I shook my head. ‘This is a beacon. Sooner or later, someone will come to light it. And we’ll be seen.’

‘Then I’m just here for a bit of privacy with my lovely wife’

I glared at him. ‘Just try it. And we can’t see anything from behind here.’

Grinning, he drew a small box out of his pocket and pulled out the contents with a flourish. It looked like a cross between a telescope and a Meccano set that had mated with one of those articulated wooden snakes you can get for children.

‘What on earth is that?’

‘Little present from R&D. Retractable pericope that doubles as a recorder.’

‘Oh, God. Put it away before we get arrested for spying as well as archery avoidance and public lewdness.’

‘Do you want to see, or not?’

He pressed a button on the side of the box and the Meccano-snake thing slithered its way to just below the top of the beacon. A ridiculously complicated arrangement of mirrors allowed us to see the game in progress.

I don’t know much about bowls, but the players were obviously good, and seemed evenly matched.

We studied Drake’s opponent and the spectators, but neither of us recognised them; I will try to identify them before I report to Thirsk.

The sun beat down, and I could feel sweat trickling down my neck. Elizabethan clothing is not cool. I was just beginning to tire of watching the game when a man came racing across the Hoe looking even hotter and tireder than I was.

Captain Fleming. Bringing the news that the Armada had been spotted off the Isles of Scilly.

And Drake delivered his famous response, ‘Time enough to play the game and thrash the Spaniards afterwards.’

I won’t bore you with a description of the hours (days? weeks?) we spent watching the game. Even the thought that Sir Francis really did have very good legs couldn’t distract me for long. (I’ve since realised that ogling the Vice-Admiral of the Fleet while on assignment probably comes under the heading of unprofessional behaviour. Sorry about that.)

Eventually, the game drew to a close, and Drake lined up the deciding shot of the match.

What happened next was our fault.

Actually, no. I’m not taking responsibility for this. This was not my fault.

It was Gallear’s.

The only excuse I can think of is he must have been as bored as I was.

‘I reckon if I angle this out to sea, I’ll be able to spot the Spanish when they do turn up,’ he said. He twiddled a knob on the box and a mirror at the top of the contraption swivelled.

Drake screwed his eyes up suddenly as if something had momentarily blinded him.

And missed his shot.

The story of the match is well known, but nowhere does it say who won, and now we know why.

Sir Francis Drake hadn’t wanted his defeat recorded.

History is written by the victors – but just occasionally it’s suppressed by the loser, and an urban legend is born.

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Incident Report | Teddy Mountfield - Maintenance Dept.

Officially Sanctioned ‘Final Jump’.

Accompanied by Historian Ms Leibniz and Mr Bakewell from Security, we arrived exactly as planned, Paddington Recreation Ground, Maida Vale, London. 12 Noon on Wednesday, 1^st April 1953.

This should have allowed me to fulfil my lifelong dream of joining fellow keen runner Roger Bannister on one of his informal lunchtime training runs. I knew his life would be changing forever quite soon.

Our pod blended in well behind the main pavilion, being surrounded by numerous storage sheds and workshops.

Once Mr Bakewell gave the all clear, I slipped out of the door, enjoying the much loved scent of grass seed and petrol, around the side of the pavilion and straight over to the cinder track.

I jogged around a bit whilst keeping an eye out for Mr Bannister, but then I was distracted by the site of a large petrol lawnmower being prepared for use. We have a rather similar ancient machine back at St Mary’s, but ours is in bits in boxes. It was discovered when the Institute first moved in.

This one was an Atco with a 36” cut, almost new, with P.R.C. hand-painted in nice white lettering across its shiny green side panel. When the Groundsman turned up I just had to have a chat with him.

A little later, the lawnmower spluttered into life, and I rushed back to my team.

“He’s not here! That guy says he might be on nights?” I explained. “Perhaps we could try him at the hospital?”

“Scheitze!” exclaimed Leibniz, but I explained it was only a mile away, so with a consenting nod from Mr Bakewell, I changed my clothes and off we set.

The Casualty Department at St Mary’s Hospital, Paddington, was already busy and easy to enter. Leibniz and Bakewell found some chairs and joined many others waiting whilst I explored the rear of the building. A grizzled Porter, having a smoke by a delivery door, called me over.

“Ere, are you the man they was sending me from University College?”

“Yup! That’s me” I assured him, my fingers crossed behind my back.

“Right, grab a coat and make yerself useful. Check the clipboards behind main reception.”

The clipboards were hanging on a wall where he’d said. They held the rotas and schedules, including one listing the Housemen, or student doctors as we used to call them, who were on duty that evening. And there, near the top of the list, was my man. Bannister R.G. But before I could plan my next move, a nurse urged me to get straight along to casualty where I was needed urgently.

Hanging off the shoulders of two young police constables, enveloped in a heady atmosphere of alcohol fumes and stunning body odour, was a local ‘bag lady’, as they referred to her. She’d fallen and cut her head. They plonked her into the wheelchair I’d grabbed and I took her to the first cubicle as instructed by a tall Charge Nurse.

“Don’t go too far away. I imagine we’ll be needing your services a lot this evening!” she added with a kind smile.

The curtains were closed and the lady’s clothes were peeled from her body. Her things were carefully poked into the locker next to the bed and she was cleaned up ready to be examined by a doctor.

“Porter! Quick quick!” came the cry and I was pointed towards the ambulance bay.

A well-dressed lady had apparently been involved in a car accident on her way to a West End theatre. With no seat belts, she’d hit the dashboard hard and had a nasty cut on her forehead. I scooped her up and parked her in cubicle two. The tall Charge Nurse was chatting with one of the police constables, getting the details of our first patient.

“Cubicle One up to X-Ray please!” came the next command before I had time to breathe.

The X-rays would take a while to develop so I returned to casualty, just in time to collect cubicle two and run her up to X-Ray also. I could see from her notes that she was one Elizabeth Fox-Burton.

X-Ray had now finished with our ‘bag lady’ so I took her back down to Casualty, her notes being thrust at me as I pushed her back to her cubicle.

“Not there!! There!” barked a Sister who I hadn’t seen before, pointing at cubicle two with such conviction that she could probably alter the course of a glacier with that finger! I hesitated for just too long.

“You have Elizabeth, yes?” she exasperated, pointing at the notes I was holding. I looked down.

“Yes” I haltingly replied, as ‘bag-lady’ had now been identified as Elizabeth Withers.

“Then Cubicle Two and stop dawdling man! They’re waiting for you down in stores with my list. Chop Chop!”

She must know what she’s doing so into Cubicle Two I popped Ms Withers before heading off in the direction Sister had indicated the stores must be.

As I passed a small side room further down the corridor, the tall, friendly Charge Nurse who I’d seen before beckoned me in.

“Hello, you’re new here aren’t you?” she asked. “Cocoa?”, and she held out a mug.

As I stepped inside I noticed another nurse, and almost hiding in the corner, a young Houseman I recognised immediately.

“I’m hiding from that Sister” he joked. “Don’t give me away.”

The next twenty minutes were unforgettable as we all chatted and enjoyed a short break. The conversation somehow got onto running and Roger and myself ended up discussing the pros and cons of using graphite on running spikes in damp conditions. If you know, you know.

I shook Roger’s hand as I left, wished him good luck with his running and again set off to the stores. Meanwhile, back in Casualty, all hell was being unleashed.

Elizabeth Withers had actually enjoyed a lovely evening. She’d been patched up, washed, given tea and could now leave; and it just kept on getting better! In her bedside locker she’d discovered a beautiful evening gown, satin shoes and a fox fur cape. She had carefully dressed herself in her new attire and sauntered out of the building with a newly discovered air of regal haughtiness!

Elizabeth Fox-Burton on the other hand was discharged a little later with a bandaged head. In her locker she was horrified to discover a mass of filthy, stinking garments which could almost stand up on their own! She was absolutely furious.

This was not my fault. I’d placed the two Elizabeths exactly where I’d been instructed!

Matron was yelling for the nurses and porters she thought responsible to be found.

Mission accomplished, I deemed this the right time for us to quietly disappear into the darkening evening and home to our St Mary’s.

Footnote:

Upon my return I decided to take another look at the bits of our old lawn mower. I’m not sure if we should be concerned or not, but it is also an Atco 36”, and I could just about make out some very faded lettering painted on its side panel! P.R. something...

HISTORICAL CONTEXT

Much of this report is actually true. Lots of people were in big trouble regarding the mix-up with the ladies' clothes, and one of the young police constables had to return to the hospital several times over the next few days to further investigate the incident.

He returned again later, several times in fact, but now just to chat with the tall, friendly Charge Nurse. Finally, he asked her out. They went on to marry and, several years later, had three sons, including me.

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REPORT OF INCIDENT

FROM: Historian Trainee Dolores Ferngulley

TO: Head of Training Samantha McGillicutty

REF: Training Mission 12171950

TARGET: Stonehenge

CREW: Trainee 1^st Class Dolores Ferngulley – Team Leader

Trainee 2^nd Class Emily Birdwiggle – Pod Commander

Trainee 2^nd Class Fred Matthews – Observer

Trainee 2^nd Class Daphne Swint – Observer

Trainee 3^rd Class Elvis Smithers – Observer

First of all, I would like to stress that this was not my fault. I did everything I could to prevent the consequences from becoming worse than they already were.

As you know, this was my first unsupervised Jump as Team Leader. I chose Stonehenge, a mission I thought would be both educational and simple enough for some of our less-advanced Historian Trainees to handle safely. I hesitate to name names here but, honesty compels me to put forth Trainee Smithers as one of our least-advanced. Dare I say, not advanced at all.

On the day of the Jump I gathered our Team and gave a very uplifting and inspiring pre-briefing. I stressed we were to observe only. We were to stay in the pod if contemporaries were present. I kept an eye on Smithers for the reasons I have stated above. Coordinates would take us to the site in 1776 BC.

Trainee Birdwiggle was the intended “driver” for our Jump. She checked and double-checked her input very efficiently. We all took a moment to reflect on the “one small step” we were about to take for ourselves and the future of – well, the future and the past.

I gave Birdwiggle the command to go. As Birdwiggle touched the control, Smithers sneezed. A gigantic HONK that blasted him across the two feet between him and the control panel and into Birdwiggle’s lap. Smithers is not a tiny person and his hygiene leaves a bit to be desired even on his best days. Birdwiggle tried to shove Smithers away, and, in doing so – ever so slightly – altered the coordinates. The world went white.

Our “landing” was smooth. Smithers was still wiping his nose on his jumpsuit sleeve. Everyone else breathed a sigh of relief. Outside cameras revealed blue skies, green grass, a large bramble bush beside a dusty road, and, a startled horse in the process of removing a man in a blue campaign jacket and a tricorn hat from its back. The horse proceeded to take itself far away leaving the erstwhile rider struggling to extricate himself from the bramble.

I concluded we were not at Stonehenge. We were in 1776, yes, but not 1776 BC. Despite all protocols prohibiting us from being there, we were in 1776 North America – New York, to be exact. My heart sank as I realised the bramble victim might very well be George Washington, future President of the United States. There the great man stood, hat askew, horse disappearing in the distance, a look of mild confusion on his face, staring at a small gray building that had appeared from nowhere.

I told Birdwiggle to reset the coordinates, planning to “disappear” the pod as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, Birdwiggle had to wipe away Smither’s detritus before she could begin. I watched as the man who must be Washington righted his hat, dusted his pants, and marched up to the door of the pod. I grabbed Birdwiggle’s hand before she could send us and the future President off into the ether.

The furious pounding on the pod door left me with a dilemma – ignore Washington and hope he went away? Open the door and try to bluff my way through? Kill Smithers and toss body out into the arms of the Father of the American country? The pounding continued.

I made a command decision. Bluff it was. A frenzied search of the pod lockers produced a couple of blankets and a barbecue apron bearing a grinning pig. I wrapped one blanket around my shoulders, the other around my waist, and secured the outfit with the apron. I had no idea how I would explain the pig but needs must.

I opened the pod door and peered out.“ Good sir, what can I do for you on this Jul…(I just caught Birdwiggle’s whispered, “August”) …”August day?”

“Your hut almost killed me. You can’t be dropping out of the sky on unsuspecting people!” Washington stopped mid-sentence as he realised what he was saying.

“Dropping from the sky? No! We saw your animal take fright at a swan. Yes, a swan. We did see a giant swan dive toward you menacingly.” Washington must have had prior experience with swans. His face paled, and he glanced around quickly. “A swan, you say? Where?” then.. “How do you know my name?”

I assured him the swan was gone, avoiding addressing the more dangerous question. Behind me Smithers sneezed. “You have the swan in your hut! You are British spies!” “No sir. Of course not! We are loyal colonists supporting the very righteous cause of American independence. Semper Fi. Damn the torpedoes!” My knowledge of ancient American history was exhausted.

“That sound you heard was my brother, Elvis. We are the Smithers of just across the Michigan River from Las Vegas.” “I have never heard of a Smithers or a Michigan River or a Las Vegas. You are spies! Step out from that hut, all of you!”

I stepped out, intending to close the door before Washington could get a glimpse inside. Smithers stepped out behind me. “Sorry. It’s stuffy in that pod and it’s making my sinuses act up something awful. ‘Sup your Presidency? Nice day but lots of pollen.” Another magnificent HONK followed, leaving no doubt of its origin.

“Your brother, you say?” Smithers draped an arm across my shoulders and beamed. “Yep. She’s my older sister. Raised me from a baby after our poor mother died of the pox. Me and my brothers and sister back in the p..” I stomped firmly on Smither’s boot, bringing his monologue to a halt.

Washington took in Smither’s none-to-clean face, his dirty black jumpsuit, and scuffed loafers. He looked at my blanket-draped “Kiss the Cook” pig. “It must be the herring I had last evening. I knew there was something off about it.”

“Yes, yes,” I gabbled, “ Uh, pickled herring and guests smell after three days.” I took Washington by the arm and gently led him toward the bramble bush. “Let’s get you to a nice shady spot where you can rest.” Washington, who was becoming an alarming shade of white, did not argue. I sat him down near the bramble, patted his shoulder, and zapped him with a light dose of taser.

Smithers gaped. “You just zapped the Father of Our Country. You can’t do that.” “He’s not the Father of your country! Shut up and go for the pod, NOW!” was my only answer.

We reset the coordinates and returned to base without further incident. I have checked historical records and can find no mention of George Washington claiming to have been attacked by a swan. I did find that he developed a sudden aversion to pickled herring.

Respectfully submitted for your review.

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Boudicca's Breeze

St Mary’s Institute of Historical Research
Incident Report RB/60–2A

Filed by: Dr Isolde Hume, Department of Roman Britain
Location: Iceni territory, eastern Britannia
Date of Event: Approx. AD 60
Subject: Unauthorised introduction of powered groundskeeping equipment during observation of the Boudiccan uprising

Jump Directive Summary
Jump RB/60–2A was authorised as a brief observational visit to the Iceni uprising under Boudicca. The intention was to verify troop organisation shortly before the destruction of Camulodunum (modern Colchester) and to settle, once and for all, if Tacitus exaggerated the theatricality of the opening moments of the rebellion.
I’m pleased to say that for approximately ten minutes the mission proceeded in an orderly and historically productive fashion. After that, Boudicca briefly took possession of a leaf blower.
This was not my fault.

Background to the Equipment Issue
On the previous Saturday St Mary’s had been hosting its annual summer garden party, which traditionally begins as a polite gathering with light refreshments and ends with a wide variety of outcomes, yet to be categorised due to their extreme diversity. Which is why we always have the garden party at the weekend and allow an extra day to be certain we have entirely recovered our senses.

Cocktails were served. Many cocktails. A number of these were Purple Rains, which appear harmless until approximately the second glass, at which point they become responsible for several unwise decisions. They were followed in some cases by a Sea-Breeze or two, which are deceptively charming and capable of encouraging entirely unsuitable levels of confidence.
Croquet had been arranged on the lawn, which might have remained respectable had someone not decided it lacked spectacle.
In a manner somehow reminiscent of Alice and the Queen of Hearts, two of the grounds maintenance rechargeable leaf blowers were therefore brought out. Their original purpose, clearing stray leaves from the croquet area, was abandoned almost immediately. Instead they were used to propel a collection of inflatable flamingos across the grass in what was described as a “competitive flamingo propulsion exercise”.

The rules of this game appeared to involve: placing flamingos on the croquet lawn, directing powerful gusts of air toward them, shouting encouragement and occasionally diving to intercept competitors attempting sabotage.

The sight of half a dozen historians sprinting across the lawn while bright pink inflatable birds skidded about in unpredictable spirals was, I think, extremely memorable and unfortunately leads me to the next stage of this report.
During a brief and predictable sprinkling of summer rain the leaf blowers taken inside, left beside the jump room door and the competitors went to fetch more drinks.

Arrival
Our team entered the jump room on Monday morning, clear headed and ready for the jump. Our kit had been established early that morning and put inside the pod ready for departure. This included a cloth bag to contain a selection of weapons for trading or limited protection should it be required, but specifically for use to help us blend in should the need arise. When we arrived in Iceni territory we were immediately noticed and our possessions seized.
An Iceni warrior emptied the cloth bag and out came a leaf blower instead of a range of long swords and several pilum spears. He then handed it to a tall woman with red hair. This woman was Boudicca.

Escalation
Boudicca inspected the device with interest. One of the warriors suggested it might be a weapon. Shortly after this Boudicca pressed the trigger and managed to create a rather unseemly situation with one of her guards and his tunic. The reaction from the assembled warriors was immediate and enthusiastic.

The Events As They Occurred
Boudicca experimented toward a nearby group of men and the resulting gust removed one man’s helmet and sent it rolling down a slope which appeared to be greatly appreciated and she took the liberty of divesting them all of their headgear.
She then proceeded to use the blower to scatter ash from a fire, producing a dramatic cloud that drifted across the field like battlefield smoke.
Several men began referring to the device as “the wind spear.”
Recognising that this situation could still become dangerous we made the life preserving decision to withdraw whilst the assembly was distracted, rather than attempt to recover the leaf blower. Our intention, as far as we could discuss at the time, was to allow a second team to attempt recovery in a few days time which possibly the battery had died and perhaps the Warrior Queen might have lost interest.
Upon our immediate departure and return to St Mary’s we discovered that the Iceni continued preparing for the march without further assistance from modern groundskeeping technology. However, there are now a number of ancient art depictions of Boudicca with a round shield and something which looks suspiciously like a leaf blower in her hand, her hair streaming dramatically behind her. Additionally, the statue on the Victoria Embankment in London is now titled Boadicea, Her Majesty of the Wind Spear and her daughters.
For these reasons, I would advise that a secondary team is dispatched to retrieve said leaf redistribution device as soon as possible.

Responsibility
For the avoidance of doubt, this was definitely not my fault, though I should not like to hazard as guess at who might be, given the number of intoxicated residents and guests at St Mary’s. I neither participated in the flamingo race nor introduced the machine intentionally into Roman Britain.
My enquiries at this stage are somewhat impeded by the lack of reliable memory amongst all staff and residents, based primarily on the strength of the cocktails. The alcohol having been provided by the research and development team.

Recommendations
Groundskeeping equipment should not be used as competitive sporting apparatus during staff events.
Inflatable flamingo racing should be banned, particularly when powered by leaf blowers.
Cocktails should not be served to St Mary’s staff. In fact given our history I would recommend St Mary’s becomes a teetotal zone, for the protection and preservation of time itself and everyone’s sanity.

Filed with some weariness.
Dr Isolde Hume
Department of Roman Britain
St Mary’s Institute of Historical Research

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“Well, sir, this was not my fault,” Rebekah Moore says defensively, following a 4 minute rant by Dr. Cartwright, Chief Pathfinder at St. Mary’s Institute of Historical Research.

“It wasn’t mine!” objected fellow pathfinder, Cameron Hill.

“Yes it was! YOU went inside”

“Only because- “

“ENOUGH. Tell me what happened. From the beginning. So I might hopefully prevent the onslaught of another World War, the conclusion of which we will all certainly not survive long enough to observe,” Dr. Cartwright’s stare could kill.

Rebekah sighs, takes a deep breath, and begins…

It began when she and Hill landed in London outside Parliament in 1833. They were prepping for a minor assignment on the circumstances surrounding the 1832 Representation of the People Act. All was well… until they turned on the cameras.

Hill gasped and pointed at the image of the crowds passing outside the Parliament building. “Look! Is that…Alexis de Tocqueville!?”

“What, here? Where?”

“There!” Cameron pointed to a young man with black hair standing against the wall, talking animatedly to a young woman. “I’d recognise him anywhere. My dissertation was on his role in the June Days uprising in 1848 in France. He’s known to have visited England for a few weeks to study England’s parliamentary system! That must be Mary Mottley with him. She’s his wife…future wife. This is exciting! Let’s get a closer look!”

“We’re not supposed to leave the pod.”

“But this may be our only chance! Please!”

Against her better judgement, Moore agreed, and they cautiously exited the pod. Rebekah was thankful she had persuaded Mrs. Enderby to let them dress in period-appropriate clothing. She’d claimed it was to get in the right mental space. Mrs. Enderby was unconvinced, but knew no true historian could pass up an opportunity to explore, and they’d do less damage if they fit in.

Cameron took Rebekah’s arm and they began to wander down the street, apparently engaged in frivolous conversation, but heading closer to the Frenchman and his English fiancée.

Another couple, dressed in slightly outdated clothing, stood a little ways from Tocqueville speaking in quiet French to each other. They seemed to be arguing about something, and Cameron tried to ignore them, but they kept gesturing and blocking his view of de Tocqueville. He shot a judgemental frown at the man’s back, but stopped short when he heard the woman say “Il n’écrira pas La démocratie en Amérique avant deux ans.”

“Rebekah…” he hissed in her ear.

“What?”

“That couple just mentioned one of the books Tocqueville wrote.”

“So? They must know of him.”

“He hasn’t written it yet…”

“Oh.”

They exchanged glances. Cameron said, “They must be French historians! I wonder where they’re from, because the woman’s accent sounds strange.”

“Or when they’re from. They could be hundreds of years in our future! Wait…leave them alone!”

But Cameron was already moving towards the couple. He tapped on the man’s shoulder, and, simply oozing tact, said, “Bonjour, Venez-vous du futur?”

The man started. Then he tapped the brim of his hat and both of them turned and strolled quickly through the busy streets.

Cameron gazed dumbfoundedly after them. “What did I say?”

“Your social skills are exemplary.”

Cameron took off after them. Rebekah sighed. They should’ve stayed in the pod.

They followed the pair down four cobblestone streets until they finally caught up with them just as they entered what looked like an old wooden shed. Cameron jumped for the door and caught it just as it swung shut. He squeezed inside, and the door shut in Rebekah’s face.

“Wait! Cameron! COME OUT!” She banged on the door. Why was he always getting her into trouble?

Long minutes stretched by until the door finally reopened. Cameron called weakly from inside, “Ms. Moore, you may want to get in here.”

Rebekah walked inside. All around her was the vaguely familiar contents of a pod, but the console controls were all different, and it looked rather sparse with bare steel and plastic. There was a metal bunkbed screwed into the right wall, and lockers. A whiff of something faintly like tobacco.

But the strangest feature of the pod was the giant American flag hung on the back wall.

Rebekah’s mouth fell open. Americans? From the future? Here???

The woman was speaking English. She’d said something about being in the wrong place at the wrong time, but Rebekah missed most of it. Her mind was reeling. The borders of North America were closed to international time travel. They’d had that drilled into them since they arrived at St. Mary’s. No one went in or out, especially into the past. What were they doing here?

“We’re sorry we couldn’t chat outside. One must always be careful of inquisitive ears. My name is Leanna, and this is my colleague.”

“James Montgomery Jones.” the man said in a smooth drawl. “Welcome to our hopper!”

“I think that’s what they call their pod.” Cameron said. Rebekah looked like she’d encountered aliens. Or a ghost. Or an alien ghost.

“Would you like something to drink?” Leanna said, walking over to what looked like a minibar.

“Do you have tea?” Rebekah was able to say.

“Of course!” Leanna opened a small fridge and pulled out a large jug of brownish liquid.

“Umm… what is that?”

“It’s tea! Sweet tea, of course. James, would you get the cups?”

“You know what… I’m okay.”

“Suit yourself. Anyway, as we were telling your friend here, this was all a big accident. We didn’t mean to end up in England. Our hopper malfunctioned. We were trying to follow Alexis de Tocqueville to France, but we think our homing device failed. Or we made a mistake in the calculations.”

“Homing device…?

“You don’t track by biosignature?”

“Track what?”

“People.”

“What?”

“We’re with CID.”

“CID?”

“Chronological Intelligence Division. We’re a branch of the CIA. I’m Agent Leanna Brown, historical reconnaissance specialist. Mr. Jones is my partner, senior temporal political analyst. We’re breaking all kinds of laws by being here, but really, we intended to be in France.”

“CIA? Historical reconnaissance? Why are you here? We should call the Time Police!”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, honey,” James spoke again, but this time, he was leveling a gun in her direction.

…

“And that’s when she passed out,” finished Cameron.

“How did you get away?” Dr. Cartwright said in a strained voice.

“Oh they let us go!”

“Did they?”

“It was all a misunderstanding really. They were simply observing Alexis de Tocqueville. He’s a brilliant mind who wrote The Text on what made American democracy work, and since it’s failing so abysmally now, they were returning … ad fontes. They claimed to have ended up in England by mistake. They assured us they’re trying to solve an internal domestic problem, and are in no way trying to meddle in international affairs again.”

“So they say.” Dr. Cartwright frowned. “Tell me… how many stars were on their flag?”

“I counted 68, sir.”

“Bloody Bollocking-Hell.”

“Yes, sir.”

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Report filed by Dr Eva Cheer (History Dept)

Jump: Manningtree, 1647.

Objectives: determine the events of Matthew Hopkins’ demise which are as yet undetermined. (Request lodged to have them remain officially undetermined in the records.)

We took up residence in a farm not far from the centre of Manningtree three months before the return of Hopkins and established ourselves in the area as a family from Wales. Why Mr Katz had to say Wales when we met our neighbours I do not know. I cannot do a Welsh accent. Neither can he. Mr Lake, who had assumed the role of my brother travelling with my husband and I, decided at this point to adopt the persona of a man who was mute to save him the same embarrassment.

The first three months were boring. Which in my eyes meant everything was going well. Mr Katz on the other hand, decided that life needed a little more action, which is how the arranged cock fighting match came about. I take no responsibility for that man’s injuries and I honestly hope those peck marks scar. Serves him right for taking part in the cock fight against ten birds. I would like to record my reservations about Mr Katz’ sanity and the prudence of assigning him to security on outgoing missions. Not just because of his judgement, but also because he was so easily bested by ten cocks. I pray that this was hazing for my first mission as, on all previous missions I have been on as team member, whilst I have seen questionable behaviour, I have never had to deal with such sheer bloody-minded determination to ruin the mission. Also, can I state that the nickname going around St Mary’s of Eva Has-no-cheer is unprofessional and mean. I know the word unprofessional may be considered a badge of honour at St Mary’s but it is bringing back memories from high school which are quite painful.

I feel that you are probably wanting me to get to the point. I know as mission leader I assume full responsibility but I just want to state this was not my fault.

Matthew Hopkins returned to Manningtree, to the Thorne Inn that he bought three years previously. I had been worried about visiting the inn too often but Mr Katz put forth a worthy argument that we needed eyes on Hopkins as much as possible. I made friends with some of the serving girls who worked there but it was clear they were very uneasy about their employer’s return. None of them dared say a word against him for fear of accusations being levied against them. There were whispers around the area; in fact no-one seemed happy about his reappearance. Many had family members who had fallen foul of the witch trials Hopkins has instigated. We all heard stories of the delight he took in his work and how he covered his own misdeeds by accusing all women who crossed him. I’ll admit, it was hard to observe the man dispassionately. I knew my colleagues were similarly horrified by the man’s actions but to be a woman in his presence was quite honestly terrifying. More than once he passed me on the road and I admit shamefully I held my breath for fear of any perceived wrong.

Our mission dragged on. Hopkins finished writing his Discovery of Witches and Mr Lake was long past regretting his decision to live as a mute. (He most certainly made up for his silence in the evenings when we whiled away the hours playing I-Spy and charades by firelight.) As for Mr Katz and myself, we had been there long enough to divest ourselves of the Welsh accents and could say we had started to sound like we were natives. Thankfully Hopkins had never heard the accents; he would have thought we were talking in tongues straight away.

It was one of our charades evenings that precipitated the disastrous events. In our defence, we never expected Hopkins to be spying on us.

We were in the middle of charades when my colleagues decided to play a prank on me. Mr Katz was doing a convincing rendition of Norman Bates when he lunged for Mr Lake and stabbed him in the chest. The scream I let out could have woken the dead. I only stopped when I heard Mr Lake laughing as hard as Mr Katz. He threw the knife at me. Instinctively, I grabbed for it, yelping when the blade caught my palm. I waited for the pain to register but it never did. I was aware of the existence of lady prickers that worked with Hopkins but I did not expect my team to bring their own fake knives with retractable blades. I was just about to curse them when we saw Hopkins staring into our window his face white with shock.

All three of us trailed out after him. “Wench! You have the devil in you!”

“No, it’s not real. See!” (In hindsight, maybe I shouldn’t have waved a knife at him.)

“Begone, evil witch! I shall summon the magistrate!”

Deciding we had to stop him before we sparked a new wave of witch trials, we chased him through woods. Hopkins knew we were following and lay in wait for us. As we passed his position, he leapt out and grabbed me round the waist. He was a young man, nothing like the film at all, and he lifted me off the ground. “Confess!”

“Hopkins put her down!”

“She has bespelled you all! I heard how she speaks as if you are subservient!”

“That’s true.”

“I’m in charge!”

“Pete!”

“He speaks! Her foul magics rendered you mute! I shall prove it.” It took me a few seconds to realise where we were: the pond, which I would say is more like a lake. He was taking me for a swim. I was damned either way; swim and he would burn me at the stake, drown and I was just as dead.

The next few moments were a blur. According to Mr Katz, I did in fact sound possessed as I cursed Hopkins and called him all sorts of names that were not period accurate. Then, Mr Katz was flying towards us and we all went tumbling. We had been too close to the water and we plunged under the surface. Hopkins still had hold of my dress which was soaking with water and getting heavy. It was pitch black and I had no idea which way was up. Hopkins was still grabbing at me and I was wasting air trying to fight him.

I’m afraid I was overcome by panic and asphyxiation at this point. I barely remember Mr Katz grabbing my arm and pulling me to safety. My heel broke when climbing my way up the bank and not from being thrust into a part of Hopkins’ anatomy to escape, I swear.

We sat on the shore waiting for Hopkins to appear for an hour.

He never surfaced.

On the positive side, we know he wasn’t a witch. And we also know how he died. So all in all, mission successful.

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