Lies, Damned Lies, and History(2)

I’m not sure why I bothered asking. No one at St Mary’s is backward when coming forward to tell their side of the story. They all talked at once, of course, and it would have been sensible of them to have spent a little time first agreeing which was going to be the official version, but we got there in the end.

‘William Tell,’ said Roberts, and from that moment, everything was crystal clear. No reason why I shouldn’t have a little fun, though.

It would seem that an argument – sorry, academic discussion – had arisen over various myths and legends, and someone had dragged in William Tell. From there, it was only a short trip to the story of Tell shooting the apple off his son’s head. From there, it was an even shorter trip to the possibility of such a feat. From there, it was only a tiny step to them having a go themselves, and from there it was as inevitable as a politician cheating on his expenses claim that Markham would lose a body part.

Back in the 14th century, Switzerland was occupied by the Austrians. They set up a hat on a pole in the Altdorf marketplace and instructed the people to bow as they passed. William Tell refused. Tell was famous for his prowess with a crossbow and, displaying the sense of humour for which Austrians are renowned, they thought it would be a hilarious idea to place an apple on his son’s head and challenge him to shoot if off.

Which he did.

Apparently, various historians had scoffed at this, one thing had led to another, and the next minute, half of St Mary’s was outside with a crossbow and a bowl of fruit.

You do see where this is heading, don’t you?

‘Whose idea was this? I asked and the way no one looked at Miss Lingoss told me everything I wanted to know.

‘So why was the apple on Markham’s head and not Miss Lingoss’s?’

‘Oh come on, Max,’ said Sands. ‘Stick an apple on her head and you’d never see it again.’

True enough, I supposed.

‘Who shot the bolt?’ I demanded and, astonishingly, no one could remember.

I sighed and closed the book. The only reason we weren’t shut down years ago by the Health and Safety Executive is that we only have to file official paperwork if someone is actually carted off to hospital. Since we have our own very well equipped Sick Bay, we’re able to keep most things in-house. Although if anyone ever checks up on exactly how we manage to get through two Accident Books a month, we’re in serious trouble.

‘So what really happened?’ I said, putting the book away so they knew we were off the record.

‘He moved,’ said Bashford indignantly.

‘I did not,’ said Markham, even more indignantly.

‘For the love of God, I was only ten feet in front of you. I couldn’t possibly have missed. You moved.’

‘You couldn’t hit a bloody barn door,’ replied Markham with spirit. ‘I told you we should have used a pumpkin.’

I enquired exactly what the damage was.

‘Lost the top of my left ear,’ he said proudly. ‘I look like Spock. Not the baby guy. The other one.’

‘Actually,’ said Lingoss, whose fault all this probably was, ‘we should do the other one as well. So he’s balanced.’

‘It’ll take a lot more than snipping his ear to balance Markham,’ said Bashford, who obviously hadn’t forgiven him for the slur on his marksmanship.

‘You don’t think it’s spoiled my looks, do you?’ said Markham, anxiously.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing could.’

He brightened. ‘Thank you.’

I don’t think that was quite what Bashford had meant but, at that moment, Hunter appeared with a tray of instruments and a determined expression, and we all found good reasons to be somewhere else.

I had an excellent reason for being somewhere else. Dr Bairstow wished to see me. I suspected he was about to make a spirited attempt to reduce Markham’s salary on the grounds that he was paying full whack for someone with two good ears, and suddenly he had a security guard with only one and three quarters.

As I said, my name is Maxwell and I’m Chief Operations Officer here at St Mary’s, or the Institute of Historical Research at St Mary’s Priory, to give us our full title. We observe and document major historical events in contemporary time. Calling it time travel incurs Dr Bairstow’s displeasure and you really don’t want to do that, which was why, as I trotted towards his office, I spent the time deleting some facts and rearranging others, so that I could present him with a coherent and, above all, very nearly accurate account of the events that had led Markham to shed yet another body part.

I handed Mrs Partridge the Accident Book and she waved me through to his office.