“I think you will find Traveller Church is not disrupting the timeline at all,” said Nero. The fluffy white cat had not exactly voiced his disapproval of this endeavour, but he had heartily implied it through a great deal of dramatic flouncing, scratching and shedding in Oxford’s general direction. “She would not be there at all if she posed a threat to the timeline.”
“Yes, yes, Time is an all-knowing control freak, we bow to her whims,” said Monterey impatiently. “Moving on. We need three teams of two to hop on to the grounds simultaneously, from different positions. From there, each group will attempt discreetly to find out Cressida’s location.”
“That’s ambitious,” said Tunbridge, chin on hands. “Discretion isn’t our strong point.”
“It’s risky,” agreed Lovelace. Her eyes were bright, and her tail swished. “Three teams at once. Could get complicated.” Swish, swish.
That was when Ruthven realised that no one was going to be the voice of reason. No one was going to stand up and say: this is ridiculous, let’s pack it in now before someone gets hurt.
Not even him.
Ruthven had hidden himself away for years, pretending that it didn’t matter that he’d lost the best job in the world. Thanks to the Global Official Secrets Act, he was pretty much guaranteed some kind of time travel adjacent job for life. He didn’t have to be on the front line to feel special. He was lucky.
And, yet. If Ruthven was given free rein to choose One Last Time Hop before hanging up his spats, then 1964 and the filming of the Unaired Pilot Episode of Cramberleigh would have been high on his wishlist.
A few days ago he had been furious at the idea of being handed over to Professor Boswell as his new partner. But he had warmed up to the idea. It was actually pretty exciting…
“Ruthven,” said Oxford with a brilliant smile.
Ruthven jolted in his seat. He found himself captured by Oxford’s amused gaze. “Yes?” he ventured, without knowing to what he was agreeing.
“You’ve done the research, haven’t you?” said Oxford with confidence. “About when the pilot episode was filmed. To narrow down the possibilities for us.”
“Oh, yes.” Ruthven scrabbled for his tablet. “I’ve cross-referenced all known data about the Cramberleigh filming schedule for the pilot episode in 1964. There was a two-week block in late April which included five days with the actors in the grounds at Fenthorp Manor, one day in the nearby village for that scene in the post office, two days for the shots of the house and hedgerows and general scenery. Then a couple of days at Nottingham for a scene they didn’t end up including in the pilot at all.”
‘Not bad,” said Fenella, sounding impressed. “Which days in April were they filming at the manor?”
This was where things got rather less impressive. “No idea.”
“Which day did they film the greenhouse scene? The one with Cressida?”
Ruthven gave a helpless shrug. “Not recorded anywhere that I could find.”
Fenella batted those long eyelashes of hers, turning scornful. “So we could turn up on site and find that the whole crew have finished the job and sodded off to Nottingham?”
“It’s worse than that,” remarked a cheerful, round-faced person who sat on a stack of Monterey’s shiniest throw cushions. “It’s tricky to lock on to specific dates. The potential for witnesses futzes with the controls. Our best chance of successfully targeting the filming period exactly is to aim the time hoop at a point where we know they’re definitely not filming.”
Nero gave the newcomer a steely gaze. “I’m sorry, who are you?” he demanded.
“They’re Quant, I’m Khan,” volunteered another, similarly cheerful (but bearded) face. “We’re from Control.”
“You invited techies to this secret meeting?” Nero demanded of Monterey. He curled his lip. “Can they be trusted?”
“Don’t be such a snob,” said Oxford, dragging Nero into his lap and stroking his head. “We trust Control all the time. They’re the ones who get us where we’re going. We like Control.”
Nero sniffed, and allowed the petting. It stopped him snarking at everyone for five minutes.
“We’re not going to go around hopping through time hoops without a Control team,” said Monterey. “Anyway, it’s not a problem. We’ll hop into the first day of the location shoot and stay the full two weeks if we have to. Lie in wait.”
“I’m sorry, what?” said Tunbridge in alarm. “Stay in the past for two weeks straight? Are you insane?”
Most hops lasted four hours or less. Even when travellers were sent on long-haul missions, that meant no more than two days at a time. Missions requiring the development of relationships, connections and data-collection were staged over a series of connected time hops without spending unnecessary time wandering around the French Quarter trying to find accommodation, or figuring out the money.
“Will we be sleeping in hedgerows?” Lovelace said in distaste, staring at her partner. “Or worse, camping?” Her entire body shuddered.
“There will be a pub,” said Monterey airily. “It’s the twentieth century, there’s always a pub.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” said Ruthven, not realising he was agreeing with the most erratic person in the room until he said it out loud. “This is a television location shoot, pre-1990s,” he said as all eyes in the room went to him. “Drinking is a huge part of the culture. The local pub is our best chance to meet the cast and crew, that’s probably where they’re all staying. The only problem will be if they’ve booked up all the rooms.”
Professor Boswell cleared his throat. “Meeting the cast and crew of Cramberleigh is a priority, is it, young man?” he questioned in his low, rumbling voice.
Ruthven felt his cheeks grow hot. “I’m not hunting autographs, professor. Cressida is among the crew. If we don’t find her straight away, we need to figure out what name she’s using, so we can track her down. The pub is a better plan than hiding in the Fenthorp greenhouse for a fortnight and hoping the cameras eventually roll past.”
“Right,” said Monterey, moving swiftly on. “Let’s talk clothes — Fenella, I assume you have a plan for us.”
She arched her long neck at him. “Don’t you think you’d better select your teams first? Before we arrange fittings.”
Oxford and Monterey glanced at each other. They’d clearly discussed this between themselves already.
“Lovelace and I are the senior travelling team of the group,” Monterey began.
“Senior? Is that what we’re calling you?” drawled Nero.
Monterey pressed on. “We worked alongside Cressida. She’s our friend, and she trusts us. Speaking of which,” and Monterey glanced up at Professor Boswell, expecting him to chime in.
The marmalade tabby continued to glare down from atop the antique bookcase.
“Uh,” said Monterey. It was rare to see him lost for words. “Right. Boswell will partner with Ruthven.”
