“Jolly good,” said Oxford, warming the room with his smile as he met Ruthven’s gaze. “As it should be. Nero and I will be the third pair. Tunbridge…”
“Ptolemy and I will handle things here,” said Tunbridge, looking relieved at being left out of the adventure. “Someone will need to play interference with Melusine and the campus staff. Everyone knows you can’t lie to your mother.”
There was a brief pause in which everyone tried and failed to imagine Tunbridge lying to Melusine of Admin.
“I’ll help with that,” put in Ptolemy. The Russian Blue was draped across Tunbridge’s shoulders, absently kneading her with his claws.
“I should go,” blurted Fenella suddenly.
The room got a shade bit more awkward.
“Do you really think that’s a good…” Oxford started.
“I’m just as qualified as any of you. I might not have done as many hops, but I’m not lacking in practical experience.”1 Fenella turned her fierce expression on Monterey, and then up at Professor Boswell. “Cressida is my sister. I should be on this mission. I know her better than any of you. All I need is a cat.”
Crushing disappointment swept over Ruthven. This meant more to Fenella than it did to him. She was Cressida’s sister. Of course she should go.
No 1964 pub full of gaffers and key grips and British TV actors for him after all.
“No,” Monterey said flatly. “You’re too close to this, Fen. Ruthven has the research and production history in his head. That’s going to be more useful on the ground than your costume know-how.”
Before today, Ruthven hadn’t been 100% sure that Monterey knew his name.
“We’re all fans of Cramberleigh,” Fenella snapped, throwing her hands up. “He’s not special.”
“None taken,” muttered Ruthven.
Fenella glared at him. “I didn’t say no offence.”
“I noticed!”
Professor Boswell cleared his throat. Everyone stopped what they were doing to look up obediently.
Everyone in this room (apart from Monterey and Lovelace) had been students under Professor Boswell. They all had emotional scars from his Time Mechanics lectures and his strict marking protocol. The professor’s disapproving expression had a power over them that was hard to shake.
“What is the name of the makeup supervisor credited for the unaired pilot?” Boswell asked thoughtfully. “Head cameraman on locations? What was the name of the script editor’s wife and children?”
Fenella frowned. “Anyone can look those things up.”
Boswell peered at Ruthven. He had his most professorial face on, which gave the strong impression he was peering over vintage spectacles.
“Daphne Gold was the makeup supervisor,” said Ruthven, mildly embarrassed that he did not have to pause to think about the answers. He might have become some sort of doctor!lawyer!genius if he didn’t have a head full of Cramberleigh production notes. “Sidney Barrat — there were three cameramen working on the pilot, actually, no one was credited ‘head,’ but Sidney’s the one who wrote an autobiography with extensive reference to his Cramberleigh work, so he’s the best known, and he claimed he was working in a leadership position. And, um. There wasn’t a script editor until 1968, but Anthony Spooner was the story editor for the unaired pilot. Left due to creative differences, and he was replaced by Aldis Whitby the following year. Spooner’s wife’s name was Carol. No children. Whitby wasn’t married.”
There was a long, mildly horrified pause.
“Yep,” said Monterey, snapping his fingers. “That’s who I want in the pub with me when I try to meet these people. Good job, Ruthven. Sorry, Fencakes.”
After the meeting broke up, Ruthven sidled over to Fenella, who was being a surprisingly good sport about her rejection from the team.
“Sorry for taking your spot,” he muttered.
Fenella rolled her eyes at him. “Don’t be such a doormat, Ruthven. I was trying to steal your spot. It’s probably for the best. The first thing I’m going to do when I see Cressida is yell at her for two months straight. I’m the first to admit that might not be helpful to the mission.”
“Bold of you to assume Monterey won’t do exactly the same thing,” Ruthven said dryly.
Fenella gave him a small smile. “Now, turn around so I can get your measurements. I can’t believe I’ve never had a chance to dress you before!”
“Bags I a bowler hat,” Monterey called from across the room.
Fenella groaned. “No bowler hats, Monterey, certainly not in the country. I don’t care how many episodes of The Avengers you’ve seen.”
“Meet at the assignation spot at midnight,” Lovelace informed everyone. “Strict secrecy. Tell no one. Any advice for these youngsters from the elderly and wise, Boz?”
Professor Boswell gazed imperiously down from his high position, meeting the eyes of each of his former students, one after the other. This process took a while, and made everyone deeply uncomfortable. “What’s the most important thing to remember when you set off on a mission?” he demanded finally.
“Don’t be an Event,” Tunbridge, Ruthven and Oxford all chorused.
“Be fabulous wherever you are,” said Monterey at the same time. He laughed at Boswell’s disapproving glare. “Don’t pout, old man. You’re not the professor of me.”
1 All students were required to complete several short but comprehensive time hops with assorted feline supervisors before graduation. Fenella Church’s practical marks were in the top 10% of her year. It really was quite mysterious that she had missed out on being officially assigned a cat.
Sixteen
“I have it on good authority that this adventure is not technically against any rules.”
“All this rule breaking brings me out in hives,” admitted Tunbridge as they approached the rose garden. She, Ruthven and Ptolemy had come along early to help carry the gear required by Quant and Khan, the two rogue Control staff who were joining them for their secret mission.1 “What are we, Anachronauts?”
