And I was left with Matthew. We stared at each other. It had always been Leon he looked to. I wasn’t sure how he would react to me on my own.

‘Easy,’ said Hunter, to whom I had confided my fears. ‘Let him get him dirty, then clean him up at the end of the day. Give him something to eat and make sure he knows he’s safe when he goes to bed. That’s how I cope with Markham. Seems to work.’

It wasn’t easy to begin with. We’d discovered he had no concept of family life. He had no idea what bedtime was. Or why it should apply to him when he was wide awake and enjoying himself. Equally, he saw no reason why he should have to get up in the morning when he was fast asleep. He wasn’t yet brave enough to defy me, but there were a lot of hard looks. On the other hand, he’d almost stopped peeing in washbasins, so I had to be doing something right. In my darker moments, I wondered if that would be my sole contribution to his life.

We didn’t speak much. I resisted the temptation to gabble away – anything to fill up the silence. We had our routine and we stuck to it.

And then the nightmares started.

I don’t know if this sort of thing is hereditary. I had bad dreams as a child. I still do, occasionally. And so, apparently, did Matthew. I would make him a milky drink and sit with him until he slept again, but it kept happening and I wondered whether to mention it to Dr Stone.

One night, however, I had a bit of a brilliant idea. Before Matthew had been born, Leon had made a holo of the Time Map and rigged it to project around his bedroom. Every night, Matthew had lain in his cot and watched, wide eyed, as a mosaic of silver lines and coloured points swirled around him until he finally fell asleep. When he was taken, I’d put it away and forgotten all about it. Now I firkled around in a drawer until I found the plug-in that Leon had made.

The Time Map is mesmerisingly beautiful. Two shining, iridescent cones of light and swirling colour. There’s a vertical axis – the Timeline – and a horizontal axis which represents Space. The constantly changing point where they intersect is Here and Now. Everything above Now is the future, and below Now is the past. Lines radiate outwards from Now and these delineate the boundaries inside which we must work. This is how we plot historical events, their coordinates and their relationship with each other. Because, as I’ve already said, nothing happens in isolation. It was the prospect of working with the Time Map that had seduced Miss Lingoss away from the stern purpose of the History Department and straight into the clutches of those irresponsible catastrophe causers, Professor Rapson’s R&D section. Now I hoped it would make enough of an impression on Matthew to distract him from his nightmares.

He was sitting, as usual, bolt upright in bed, clutching his mug to his chest, his eyes scanning the room for whatever it was that had woken him up. He would never talk about his dreams.

I said, ‘Here, have a look at this,’ and switched it on.

Immediately, the bed was enveloped in a swirling vortex of light, shot through with a network of silver lines. He stared in amazement. I gently took his mug off him before he dropped it.

‘It’s the Time Map,’ I said casually, turning away. ‘You used to look at it for hours when you were a baby. Of course, I can switch it off if you’re too old for it now,’ and bent over to do so.

He made a faint sound of protest and I smiled to myself.

‘Shall I leave the door open in case you want me?’

I was talking to myself. He lay back on his pillows, quiet and still, all eyes.

I headed for the door, well pleased. Perhaps I wasn’t such a bad mother after all.

From that day onwards, things got a little better. Slowly, the nightmares became less frequent. I thought that eventually I would show him a few basic moves so he could learn how to manipulate the Time Map for himself.

So much for my simple plans. When I went in one morning, the Time Map was whizzing around the room like an hysterical elephant on greased roller skates. Huge lumps of it were out of place, or rearranged, or just not there any longer. It wasn’t a problem, this was only an old copy that Leon had put together to give our baby something to look at, but I hadn’t taught him to do this. He’d worked it out for himself.

I watched the conglomeration of silver lines and red blobs that had been our Troy assignment disassemble and reappear somewhere else. Surely he shouldn’t be able to do that? This was amazing. This was a Good Thing. Wasn’t it?

I felt some qualms at leaving him for our next assignment. Stamford Bridge. I know that if I’d gone to the Boss and asked to be excused boots for this one he would certainly have said yes, but Matthew had to get used to me disappearing at regular intervals. And, with luck, reappearing again.

I wasn’t too sure about leaving him in Sick Bay – the place held no good memories – but Auntie Lingoss stepped into the breach.

‘Auntie Lingoss?’ I said, disbelieving. She just laughed at me. Today’s hair was blue again. Apparently it was Matthew’s favourite colour. I pushed aside the worry that she knew that and I hadn’t.

‘Yes, I’ll keep an eye on him,’ she said cheerfully. ‘He’s got his normal sessions with everyone else. All I’ll have to do is make sure he eats his lunch.’

‘That’s not usually a problem.’

‘No, the problem is when he wants to eat everyone else’s. And all the furniture around him.’

‘Are you sure about this?’

‘Quite sure. If you’re not back by the end of the day, then he can help me with the research on 17^th-century animal sporting events I’m doing for the professor, so it will be educational as well.’

‘Thank you for not saying it really doesn’t matter whether I’m here or not.’

‘Oh no, he does talk about you sometimes.’

‘Really? What does he say?’

‘Well, you gained huge Brownie points with the Time Map.’

I tried not to smirk.

‘Oh, and he says you have good chimneys here.’

‘Is that good or bad?’

‘No idea.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Can I just ask – how’s Peterson?’

‘Not too bad, I think. Keeping busy. Why do you ask?’

‘Dottle wanted to know.’

I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.

As Leon had suggested, every night, after Matthew had gone to bed, at what was ten o’clock for me, I would switch off the light and the TV and sit on the windowsill to look out over the moonlit gardens and think of Leon. I would weave memories and plans together, making a tapestry of our life – what had been and what was to come. Escaping, for a short while, from the darkness of the here and now to make a bright new future that I hoped one day would come to pass. Although I wasn’t optimistic.

And then I would take a deep breath and drag myself back into this world again.

Two days before the Stamford Bridge assignment, I had an appointment with Dr Bairstow in his office, to take him through the schedule and discuss the mission parameters. It was an intensive session. I think it was all part of his ‘Let’s work Maxwell as hard as possible so she doesn’t notice her life is falling apart’ strategy. Anyway, I was bashing away at my scratchpad and completely immersed in what I was doing, so I don’t know what made me look up.

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.

‘Doctor. Yes. Good afternoon. I wonder if you could spare us a moment. Mr Bashford appears to have been involved in some sort of canine-related accident … No … As far as I can see he appears to be stunned rather than bitten … OK.’

I closed my com. ‘On his way.’

He was with us almost immediately, accompanied by Nurse Hunter. Like us, they looked down at Bashford and then looked up at the sky.

‘Where did that scruffy mongrel come from?’

‘History Department,’ said Markham, falling about at his own wit.

We ignored him again.

‘I know I am going to regret asking this,’ said Dr Stone, ‘but what, why, and how could this happen?

‘It was easy,’ said Atherton. ‘One minute he was talking to us and the next minute a dog fell on his head.’

‘Let me be more specific. Why would a dog drop out of the sky onto Bashford?’

We looked at each other. ‘Who else would it fall on?’ said Markham, reasonably.

‘What?’

‘Well, isn’t it obvious? If a dog is going to drop out of the sky and Bashford is even in the same county, then it’s going to fall on him, isn’t it?’

‘But … why are dogs and cats falling out of the sky in the first place?’

Hunter rolled her eyes and began to examine both bodies for signs of life.

‘One dead,’ she reported. ‘One not dead.’

Dr Stone dragged his eyes away, scanned the small crowd gathering around, presumably looking for the most intelligent person present and astonishingly picked me.

‘Did the dog bite him and then die? Because I could believe that.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Did it fall on him and then die?

‘No, I think it was dead when it got here.’

Nurse Hunter poked the stiff corpse. ‘Yes, it’s been dead for some time.’

I began to feel she should be paying more attention to her current patient rather than the ex-dog.

‘Is he all right?’

‘God, no. Dead as a doornail.’

‘I meant Mr Bashford.’

‘Hard to say, really. Define all right.’

Dr Stone appeared to recall his medical responsibilities.

‘Nurse, we’ll get him inside and take a proper look.’ He trailed away and looked up at the sky again, mystified.

I, on the other hand, was looking for the missing component I knew would be around here somewhere.

And here she came. Miss Lingoss trotted around the corner, peering left and right, obviously looking for something. She stopped when she saw us, and attempted unobtrusively to ooze back the way she had come. Given that today’s hair was black and white, that she was wearing an enormous hooped purple dress of vaguely 17^th-century European design, and was clutching what appeared to be a dead corgi under her arm, this seemed a fairly unrealistic ambition.

I beckoned her over.

‘Ah,’ she said, looking down at the two prone bodies. ‘There he is.’

It was unclear to which of them she was referring.

At our feet, Bashford stirred faintly.

‘He’s coming round,’ I said, prodding him gently with my foot. ‘Well done, doctor.’

‘I don’t think it was anything I did,’ he said. ‘I get the impression he’s done this sort of thing quite often. He’s probably got some sort of recovery routine that automatically kicks in as required.’

He bent over Bashford who had opened his eyes. ‘How are you feeling? Oh – no – sorry – old habits die hard. Let me try again. What the hell do you think you’re playing at, you moron?’

‘Much better,’ said Markham. ‘You’re really getting the hang of this, doc.’

‘Thank you.’ He regarded Bashford, now struggling to sit up. ‘Let’s get you back to Sick Bay, shall we?’

Bashford nodded fuzzily.

‘Do you know where you are?’

He nodded again, eyes rolling around like two marbles in a jar.

‘Do you know your name?’

Bashford squinted down at his name, stencilled on his top pocket. ‘Oh my God, I’m upside down.’

Dr Stone tried again. ‘Who’s the current Prime Minister?’

Silence.

‘Can you not remember or don’t you know?’

Bashford’s eyes travelled vaguely around, seeking inspiration.

‘Really? Not even the faintest idea?’

He shook his head. The doctor sighed. ‘Does anyone here have any conception of the world around them?’ He sat back on his heels. ‘Who’s the current PM? Anyone?’

There was a certain amount of foot shuffling.

‘Oh for heaven’s sake.’

‘This dog is stuffed,’ said Hunter, suddenly. ‘And so is this cat. Where did you get them?’

She stared at Lingoss, who stared monochromatically back again and said, ‘Job lot. Taxidermist selling up. Professor Rapson thought they might come in useful.’

‘They?’

‘Well, you know – he bought one or two things.’

‘Such as?’

‘Oh,’ she stared vaguely at the sky. ‘Um…’

Dr Stone began to repack his kit. ‘Never mind that now. To return to my original question. Why?’

‘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 17^th-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 17^th and 18^th 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.