by Dave Rudden
Jenny slipped her hand into Vastra’s. Her wife. Her beautiful, razor-sharp wife. Vastra’s Silurian tutors would have been terrified of her.
‘I just need us to face it together.’
‘Jenny, I’m sorry –’
Another explosion. Snow caught fire then peeled away to steam. Not responding must have been killing Strax.
‘Don’t be sorry,’ Jenny said. ‘Be smart. None of this makes sense. Someone goes to all the trouble of stealing a rare pendant – a pendant containing the key to the TARDIS, no less – and comes to our time just to let themselves get pickpocketed? And then doesn’t come looking for the pendant themselves?’
Vastra’s eyes narrowed.
‘Go on, my love,’ Jenny said, grinning. ‘Impress me.’
Then it clicked. It all just clicked. The worries clouding Vastra’s head vanished, and she saw what she had been missing with the clarity of a hunter sighting her prey.
We don’t run to the Doctor before we talk to each other.
It’s just a key.
‘Jenny,’ Vastra said, and kissed her firmly on the mouth. ‘You are a genius.’ And then she stood, cupping her mouth with her hands. ‘Sacristans!’ she yelled. ‘Sacristans of the Tomb of Tasha Lem!’
For a moment, there was nothing but the rasp of the storm and the clatter of reloading. Then the sword-wielding guardian padded through the dark, two of its six arms folded across its chest.
‘Confess?’ it trilled with the voice of an angel. ‘Confess?’
‘Not exactly,’ Vastra said. ‘You came here for the pendant of Tasha Lem, yes? That’s what you’re hunting?’
It cocked its head like a bird.
‘Would you like it back?’
‘How did you know they’d accept?’
It was the night before Christmas. They’d returned home to 13 Paternoster Row to find the back door open. Not only that, Madge and most of their provisions were gone. That was fine. The food was with someone who needed it, and that was the main thing.
‘They’re hunters,’ Vastra explained. ‘All they care about is their quarry. Had I not been so muddled with … Well. Had I been thinking more clearly, it would have occurred to me earlier.’
Strax frowned, placing plates of beans on toast down in front of Jenny and Vastra. ‘What would have occurred to you?’
‘Thank you, Strax,’ Vastra said. ‘A veritable holiday feast.’ Her blood was slowly unfreezing, though that had more to do with Jenny’s hand on hers than the central heating. ‘That calling the Doctor would have been the worst thing we could have done.’
‘Why?’ Jenny asked.
‘The key,’ Vastra explained. ‘He’s never really needed one, I suspect. And …’ Vastra paused, fork halfway to her mouth. She had briefly considered not sharing her deduction with Jenny and Strax. She didn’t want to scare them.
I just need us to face it together.
‘And keys are just keys, until you slip one into the correct lock.’ Her earlier humour had fallen away, and now she spoke in a low and quiet voice. ‘You said it yourself, my dear. A thief sharp enough to break into the best-defended tomb in the galaxy just lets themselves get pickpocketed? And then the key just ends up in the possession of one of the few people who could contact the Doctor? A person who could summon the Doctor?’
‘The TARDIS,’ Jenny whispered. ‘They were after the TARDIS.’
‘What good is a key without the thing it unlocks?’ Vastra said. ‘Poor Madge was nothing more than a pawn – putting the pendant in our hands and the Sacristans on our trail so that we might bring the Doctor and his TARDIS here. Returning it to its tomb means that it is once again under guard, and far away from the blue box it unlocks.’
‘So Madge is safe now then,’ Jenny said. ‘Good.’
‘Indeed,’ Vastra said. ‘Thus partially making up for her stealing our goose.’
Strax harrumphed.
‘Are you sure?’ Jenny asked, and there was just the slightest hint of uncertainty in her smile. ‘The shops are all closed. We’ll be on half rations until Boxing Day. It’s hardly an orthodox Christmas.’
Vastra looked around the dim little kitchen. When the snowstorm cleared there would no doubt be questions asked about certain property damage nearby. There was a skinny little urchin girl out probably trying to either eat or flog three people’s worth of Christmas dinner.
And, somewhere and somewhen beyond that, a mysterious foe had gone to quite a lot of trouble to use Vastra and her family as bait to steal a time machine.
Right now, though, it was warm, and they had food, and Vastra’s wife was holding her hand.
‘You’re right,’ Vastra said. ‘It’s perfect.’
AFTER
On a rooftop opposite 13 Paternoster Row, the individual known in this time and place as Madge sighed, laying her sniper rifle at her feet.
‘They’re not calling him,’ she said.
The reptile was smarter than she had imagined. Madge gave it less than a day before they found the listening device she’d secreted beneath the dining table. By that stage, of course, she would be long gone.
‘Good,’ the boy snapped. She had never seen him so angry. That made her feel better. Anger made you strong. ‘Researching the Time Lord’s allies is one thing, but actively baiting them? You’re risking everything.’
Today’s mask was iron – a lump of metal roughly hammered into a disc and strung with black leather. He threw hers to her, hard enough to rock her on her heels. As she settled it over her face, she felt ‘Madge’s’ features dissolve away. Maintaining a human face was an effort now. There were days when she could barely remember her real face at all.
‘I’ve told you,’ he said, voice softer now. ‘We don’t want the Time Lord’s wrath. Not when we’re this close. Not when …’
Not when there’s so little of us left.
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Have it your way.’
He was right, of course. Their goal was not petty theft, but something far greater. They could afford to be patient.
Soon, they would have all the time in the world.
10
Missing Habitas Frond
SCOTTISH CROWN JEWELS STOLEN
The Scottish Crown Jewels, known more formally as the Honours of Scotland, were stolen by an unknown group of thieves. The jewels, comprised of a crown, sword and sceptre, are usually kept on public display in Edinburgh Castle. Superintendent Horrinthal had this to say about the crime …
‘Excuse me, I believe you are in my seat.’
It was a day of firsts.
Normally, Habitas Frond, forty-six, of Prestongrath, Scotland, was not the kind of gentleman to complain about a stranger pinching his seat on the train. It happened often enough to Habitas Frond that he knew this about himself. It was as if seat-stealers could tell without ever having laid eyes on him that, upon finding someone in his assigned place, Habitas Frond would do nothing but awkwardly clear his throat, then go and stand somewhere else.
‘Madam,’ he said again, when the woman continued to stare out of the window. ‘Excuse me?’
Habitas was also not the kind of gentleman who would move a woman from his seat, in usual circumstances. Habitas Frond liked to believe himself a chivalrous sort, even towards a woman who had seen fit to ignore the reservation card slotted in the seat’s headrest and was now seeing fit to ignore him as well.
Then again, Habitas Frond thought, he had never been fired on Christmas Eve before today either.
A day of firsts indeed.
‘Madam!’
The woman wore a plum-coloured skirt and jacket, her hair a skewered bundle above a dark and lazy smile. A governess, perhaps, by the arctic starch of her collar and the prim little topper on her lap.
Slowly, very slowly, she turned away from the window to look at him.
Frond involuntarily took a step backwards.
The woman’s clothes said ‘governess’. Her smile said ‘snake’.
‘Missy
,’ she said. ‘My name is Missy.’
For God’s sake, Frond told himself. Get a hold of yourself.
It was the last service out of Edinburgh on Christmas Eve, 1909. Frond had tarried later than usual, but he had booked a seat ahead of time to make sure he would have space amid the early celebrators and late shoppers. Was he going to have to stand for the next hour? Was it not shameful enough that he would be arriving home to dear Elizabeth and little Ben with the news of his dismissal?
It’s Christmas. How much was one man supposed to take?
‘Missy? Missy what?’ he said, with what he considered to be a fair attempt at sternness.
‘Just Missy,’ she said, adder smile sharpening. ‘Like Hamlet. Or Cher. Can I help you?’
‘I believe,’ he said, clearing his throat, ‘that you are in my seat.’
A set of complicated expressions flickered across Missy’s face, like the rotating images of a nickelodeon, before settling on an innocent curiosity so complete that Frond began to believe he had imagined the dark grin preceding it.
‘Oh, how awful of me,’ she said, immediately gathering the bag at her feet and making to stand. ‘How could I –’
Frond flushed as people turned to look. ‘Oh, well, it’s not quite as bad as all that –’
‘No, no, what an awful transgression. I am mortified, Mr …’
‘Frond,’ said Frond. ‘Habitas Frond.’
That smile reappeared momentarily, like a nosy neighbour peeking through the curtains. ‘Of course it is. Marvellous name. Now now, sit! I’m sure this lovely lady –’ she indicated the small mushroom-shaped old woman in the single seat facing Frond’s – ‘won’t mind sharing her seat.’
‘I do indeed mind,’ the old woman croaked. ‘I booked this seat too, you know, and –’
Missy whispered something in the woman’s ear. It was hard to make out exactly the expression on a face comprised mostly of wrinkles and liver spots, but all of a sudden there seemed to be just enough room for Missy to perch beside her.
Missy adjusted her hairpins, giving Frond a dazzling smile. ‘All sorted, and no need to call your comrades in the constabulary. Isn’t that nice?’
‘Yes,’ Frond said, then frowned. ‘Wait. How did you know I was a policeman?’
‘Was’ being the operative word, he added morosely in his head.
‘Detective novels,’ Missy said. ‘My one and only weakness. And, though I do not claim to be any great talent at the art, observing people has become a hobby of mine. A little game I play with myself.’ She held a hand to her face, whispering as if imparting some great secret. ‘I can also see your hat in your bag.’
It felt good to laugh. ‘Well now, I think the department would be much improved by your presence!’ Frond said, then his smile faltered. ‘And, as of today, there is a new vacancy, I regret to say …’
‘Oh, Frond,’ Missy said, all trace of amusement gone. ‘Really? How awful! I did not mean to make fun –’
He waved her off. ‘You couldn’t have known, detective skills or not. I only received word this evening, and, in truth, the superintendent was probably right to let me go.’
‘I don’t believe that for one second,’ Missy said, patting him on the knee. ‘Why, if I quit every time I failed, I’d never get anything done. Have you considered, perhaps, that any of those moments you perceive as failures could be entirely the fault of others?’
Frond thought about the time he had hailed a carriage to get out of the rain, only to leave the hard-won confession of the Beresford Strangler behind him in the cab. He thought about his subsequent reassignment to the Edinburgh Constabulary’s new forensics lab, and the accidental combination of chemicals that had resulted in an evacuation of the entire street. He thought about his forgetfulness. He thought about his distractedness, and clumsiness, and his absolute lack of an eye for detail.
And then he thought about this most recent calamity, and how it put all others into the shade.
‘You are very kind,’ he said as the whistle wailed, and the engine throomed, and the 21:02 service began to depart. ‘But I’m afraid it’s true. You’ve seen the papers?’
Missy clutched her bag tight. ‘The theft of the jewels? Of course. Shocking.’
Frond sighed morosely. ‘Shocking indeed. And I’m afraid to say – all my fault.’
It occurred to Frond, midway through relating his sad tale, that the superintendent might not have appreciated Frond sharing the events of last night with a civilian. However, on reflection – and after four sips of brandy from the flask in Missy’s bag – he decided he hadn’t appreciated being fired, so they were probably even.
‘So there we were,’ he said, a little flushed in the cheeks. ‘Ten of us, the best the superintendent could grab from the night shift. The jewel thieves had gone to ground in the Infirmary Street Baths, and he said we hadn’t a moment to waste.’
Missy was rapt. ‘You must have been so excited!’
Frond mostly remembered being nauseous. His expertise as a detective did not lie in confronting cornered criminals. Were he being honest, he wasn’t entirely sure where his expertise did lie, but it certainly wasn’t standing in a freezing alleyway at midnight, torch in hand, desperately hoping that if the thieves did make a run for it, they did not make a run for it towards him.
‘Very excited,’ he repeated. ‘Yes. Unfortunately, the thieves were too canny, and as the surrounding constables stormed the baths, they managed to somehow slip away unnoticed.’
Missy tutted. ‘But that’s hardly your fault, is it?’
‘Ye-es,’ Frond said. It was a lovely conversation, and the brandy was just excellent, and he saw no point in ruining either by going into too much detail. ‘Well. I imagine the superintendent needed a scapegoat for his own failure. Yes. That’s it. I’m just a scapegoat! Superintendent Horrinthal likes to play the hard-bitten detective, stamping around crime scenes and chewing on those awful cigars, but really he is at the mercy of politics, the papers and public opinion.’
‘How very awful,’ Missy said, shaking her head. ‘Truly despicable. And, tell me, was there any evidence found at the scene? Any leads the police might be following?’
‘Hmm?’ He thought for a moment. Surely there had been … ‘Yes! I think there was. Truth be told, I was not paying much attention.’ His features hardened as he remembered Horrinthal castigating him so thoroughly that he had to tell himself it was the cigar smoke making his eyes prickle with tears. ‘Oh! This is something that could fit in one of your detective novels. A red leather glove was found at the scene. Flashy little thing. Other than that, I believe my … former colleagues are stumped.’
Missy nodded slowly. ‘I suppose that’s no longer your problem. You could nearly call it a relief.’ She looked up as the train began to slow in anticipation of the first stop. ‘This is me, I’m afraid. What a pity this was so brief! But lots to do, I’m afraid. Lots to see.’
‘Ah,’ Frond said, a little tipsy. ‘A gentleman friend, perhaps? If I am not being too presumptuous to ask.’
Once more, that nickelodeon flicker. ‘Not this time, I’m afraid. Though Scotland does remind me of him. Unfortunately, I fear he might never visit again, so caught up is he with affairs on Darillium.’ She said the last with not a little venom.
‘Darillium,’ Frond repeated. ‘I do not believe I have heard of it. Far East?’
‘Sort of east,’ she responded. ‘Little bit east. More up than anything else. Without him, I find myself just wandering, trying to find things that amuse me –’
Her next words were drowned out by a sudden shout from the conductor. There was some kind of kerfuffle on the platform outside – two men struggling with each other, their features lost in the shadows of the platform’s intermittent lights. Passengers were standing, wiping condensation off the windows, trying to get a better look.
The conductor shouted again. ‘Thief! Thief!’
The second of the men bolted down the platform, leaving the fi
rst man staggering in his wake. Frond flinched as Missy grabbed his shoulder.
‘Oh, this is perfect!’ she said.
‘It … it is?’
For a small woman, Missy really was surprisingly strong, her iron grip levering him out into the aisle. ‘Of course it is! A chance to prove your quality, Frond. Go. Go!’
He went. Frond hated running. He had the stamina of an ageing sheep and the crumpled posture of a half-glued envelope. It took him just a single step out into the cold air of the platform to realise that he hadn’t a chance of catching up.
And yet, something about the way Missy had looked at him galvanised his sagging frame, pushing him into a struggling, lopsided sprint.
A chance to prove your quality.
‘Hey!’ he shouted, immediately regretting it when the combination of exertion and empty lungs prompted him to splutter and wheeze. ‘Stop!’
The ruffian showed no sign of doing any such thing. He was nearly at the end of the platform now, slamming both hands on to the ticket barrier and fairly vaulting it in a single bound.
Oh, well, I’m not doing that, Frond thought, and gratefully began to slow, before realising that he had left his bag and briefcase on the train. He lumbered back the way he had come but it was too late. The train doors had closed and, just as he reached for the handle, the carriages lurched into movement. A frustrated moan escaped his lips. His presents!
My hat, he thought forlornly, and then turned to find Missy making her way down the platform towards him. She must have been right behind him as he departed the train.
‘Frond? Any luck?’
No, Frond thought. Not lately. It took him a moment to realise that she was talking about the thief, and then all Frond could do was shake his head.
Missy sighed. ‘Not to worry. I’ve taken a look at the corpse – from a distance, obviously. I know my crime-scene etiquette. I think –’
Frond held up his hand, suddenly very certain that he had missed a fairly important part of the conversation. ‘I’m so sorry, Missy. The what?’