And the Rest Is History(52)

‘Well,’ said Atherton, slowly, ‘and it’s only a guess, of course, but I’m thinking Fuchsprellen.’

‘Ah,’ said Sykes, enlightened. ‘Yes, of course.’

Mystery solved, she and Atherton began to move away.

‘No, you don’t,’ said Dr Stone. ‘No one goes anywhere until … What was that word again?’

‘Fuchsprellen,’ I said, pronouncing carefully, and remembering, far too late, that Lingoss had actually mentioned 17th-century sports to me a day or so ago when we were discussing arrangements for Matthew. Speaking of whom … I looked around. ‘Where’s Matthew?’

He stepped out from behind her skirts, a small, grubby satellite emerging from the dark side of a purple planet, gazing big-eyed around him. In the interests of historical accuracy, he was kitted out in a linen shirt and a pair of breeches that were far too big for him. In the interests of Health and Safety, he was wearing a Roundhead helmet, which again, was far too big for him and kept falling over his nose. ‘Is Uncle Bashford all right?’

‘There is no correct answer to that question,’ said Sykes.

‘Yes,’ I said, frowning reprovingly at them all. ‘Uncle Bashford is fine. Isn’t he, doctor?’

‘He’s better than me, anyway,’ said Dr Stone. ‘What in heaven’s name is…’ he paused.

‘Careful,’ said Sykes, grinning. ‘Youngsters present.’

‘Fuchsprellen,’ said Atherton, showing off, although to be fair, in a department that contains Sykes and Bashford – to say nothing of Miss North – he doesn’t get many chances to hog the limelight.

Dr Stone looked bewildered.

‘Animal tossing,’ said Auntie Lingoss, who would be accounting for all this at some length later on. ‘An aristocratic pastime of the 17th and 18th centuries, hence the costume.’ She gestured at her only marginally accurate purple dress. ‘Usually takes place in the courtyard of your average north European castle. You lay your sling on the ground. You and your partner grasp each end. Someone releases the animal – usually a fox – to run over your sling. At the appropriate moment, you jerk the ends and if you’ve done it properly, the unfortunate animal is propelled some twenty-five feet or more through the air. European aristocrats thought it was an hilarious way to pass an afternoon, so we thought we’d give it a go. It’s actually more difficult than it looks and even though we made it easy by only using dead animals, it still took us a couple of goes to get it right.’

‘Would the animal be alive?’

‘When they did it – yes. Well, it was when it was tossed.’

‘And when it came down?’

‘Still alive. Until the moment of fatal impact, of course. Usually with the ground, but in this case, Mr Bashford.’

Too late, I remembered Professor Rapson’s mysterious invoice. I really had to pull myself together. Warning bells should have been tolling the instant Dr Bairstow mentioned it. ‘So you and Professor Rapson…?’

‘We’re the tossers, yes.’

‘And that’s why you and the professor wanted stuffed animals.’

She beamed at me. I felt as if I’d won a prize.

‘So what other animals did the professor get?’

‘Some cats. And a couple of dogs, and some ferrets. And … um…’

Enlightenment struck me in much the same manner as a small dog had struck the unfortunate Mr Bashford. ‘Aha, the Gangly Thingummy.’

‘Gavialis gangeticus. Yes.’

Mystery solved.

Dr Stone, assisting a still shaky Bashford to his feet, looked up and said apprehensively, ‘Wait, can we expect crocodiles to drop from the skies now?’

I was impressed he knew what a Gangly Thingummy was.

‘No,’ said Lingoss, pityingly. ‘Of course not. They’re about as aerodynamic as an oil tanker. We could barely get it off the ground.’

Time to break things up. ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Mr Bashford off to Sick Bay, please, and everyone who has not incurred Dr Bairstow’s extreme displeasure is dismissed – not so fast Miss Lingoss – to continue with your working day. Miss Lingoss, you wouldn’t like to pop in and explain a few things to Dr Bairstow, would you?’

‘Actually…’

‘Actually, that wasn’t a request.’

She sighed, picked up the terrier, tucked it under the other arm, and jogged off, her purple skirt swaying around her. Matthew trotted faithfully behind.

The medical team took themselves off, supporting a still groggy Bashford. We watched them go.

‘God,’ I said, suddenly aware of a gaping hole in my afternoon. ‘I need a drink.’

‘Good idea,’ said Markham.

So we went. And we took Colin with us.





Atherton briefed us on the Stamford Bridge assignment. He spoke with authority and to the point as he always did. Both Sykes and North sat quietly for him. The three of them had trained together. North was bossy and brilliant. Sykes was unconventional and brilliant, but he was their unofficial leader. I don’t how he’d managed it. I don’t think he consciously did anything. He was actually a very modest man, but somehow, the two of them deferred to his judgement. Their choice reflected credit on them as well. They could have done a lot worse.