And the Rest Is History(50)

Dr Bairstow’s office is on the first floor. We were about twenty feet up. I mention that because the view through the window generally consists of a rectangle of sky – sometimes blue but usually grey, because this is England after all – together with a few clouds and the occasional passing bird.

A small dachshund cartwheeled past. For a moment, I sat rigid with surprise, then I shot a glance at Dr Bairstow, mercifully absorbed in a topographical representation of Stamford Bridge and the disposition of Hardrada’s Viking forces.

Back at the window, another dog – breed unknown this time – sailed gracefully skywards, legs uppermost, and then disappeared again.

I just had time to thank the god of historians for ensuring Dr Bairstow usually sits with his back to the window when, with startling suddenness, a small Yorkshire terrier sailed through the open window, thudded onto his briefing table, bounced once and came to rest about two feet in front of him.

The two of them stared at each other, equally speechless. In Doctor Bairstow’s case, justifiable surprise rendered him thunderstruck – in the Yorkie’s case, I think death was the main contributing factor. It was very dead – its glassy eyes staring at Dr Bairstow in mute reproach.

Even Mrs Partridge seemed taken aback. Actually I was glad she was here because, traditionally, this sort of thing turns out to be my fault and, just for once, she could see I was absolutely blameless.

It takes a lot to shake Dr Bairstow. I think that being Director of St Mary’s for all these years has caused his awareness of shock, horror, surprise and disbelief to shut down in self-defence. Although looking at his face now, they might simply have been in hibernation, and were emerging, blinking, into the sunlight, rather in the manner of an irritable and very hungry bear after a long winter’s sleep. Seeking what they might devour, so to speak.

He turned to look at the window, just in time to see a small poodle describe a gentle parabola before disappearing from view.

Dr Bairstow and Mrs Partridge swivelled back in their chairs and fixed me with identical stares only slightly less reproachful than that of the dead dog lying on the briefing table in front of us.

I know my duty.

I sighed, stood up, and trudged towards the door.

Mrs Partridge cleared her throat, conveying a wordless world of menace.

I sighed again, trudged back and picked up the Yorkie, noticing, as I did so, that it had a tiny tartan collar with a sad little name disc attached. Colin. I tucked Colin under one arm, and went to investigate.

Markham was lurking in the gallery.

‘There you are,’ he said.

‘Why are you lurking?’

‘I’m waiting for you. I think I might be going mad.’

‘Why would there be any doubt?’

You’re not going to believe this, but I’ve just seen…’

‘A small dog fly past your window.’

‘Well, actually it was a cat, but thank God.’

‘Why?’

‘I thought I was becoming delusional.’

‘What do you mean, “becoming”?’

‘So I didn’t imagine it?’

‘No,’ I said wearily.

‘Seriously? Someone’s throwing dead cats around?’

I held up Colin. ‘Cats and dogs.’

He peered at me in puzzlement. ‘Why are you walking around with a dead dog?’

‘It’s the latest craze. For people who want a dog but don’t have the time to look after it properly. You get one of these instead.’ I flourished Colin. ‘You have all the benefits of a loving pet without it crapping on the kitchen floor and humping the furniture. Hunter wants one to replace you.’

He began to shuffle backwards. ‘Well, since you obviously have everything in hand…’

‘Well, since you’ve obviously just volunteered to assist me in my fact-finding assignment…’

He grinned and we set off to see what we could see.

Atherton and Sykes were running up the steps outside. Familiar pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place.

‘Oh, hello Max,’ said Sykes, cheerily. ‘And Mr Markham, too. You’ll never guess…’

‘Well, let me have a go. We’re in the middle of some dog-or cat-related catastrophe.’

She looked impressed. It never does any harm to remind my department of my omnipotence.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘We were talking to Bashford and a dog dropped out of the sky and knocked him out cold.’

I held up Colin the Yorkie. ‘Like this one?’

‘Oh, poor thing. Is it dead?’

‘It’s just flown through the window and landed on Dr Bairstow’s briefing table, so for its own sake, I hope so. Lead me to Mr Bashford.’

‘This way,’ said Sykes and we trotted off around the corner to find Bashford, lying like a stunned starfish beneath what looked like some sort of terrier.

Another dachshund and two tabby cats lay nearby.

‘Oh my God,’ said Markham in delight. ‘It’s raining cats and dogs.’

I ignored him because I’d wanted to say that.

‘Should we do something, do you think?’ said Sykes.

‘Well, yes, probably,’ said Markham.

They all looked at me.

I sighed and opened my com.