Doctor Who: The Clockwise Man

by Richards, Justin

  'No, wait,' she called. 'I'm lost, can you help?'

  The door opened again, more cautiously this time. She could see the shape of the boy's head against the darkness inside. 'Who are you? Are you here for the party?'

  'I don't know about that. I'm looking for the library. I'm supposed to see my friend there for a drink before we leave.'

  The boy's head poked out into the light and he inspected her. 'I'm supposed to be asleep,' he said.

  'Well, just tell me the way back to the stairs, then. I'll find my way from there.' She took a step towards him, careful not to startle the boy. 'I'm Rose, nice to meet you.'

  The boy sniffed, and shuffled out into the corridor. 'Freddie,' he said.

  In the light she could see he was very pale. His eyes were the darkest thing about him – an almost deathly white face, fair hair that could do with a comb, and he was wearing pale blue striped pyjamas. The shape of his face was so like Anna's that it was obvious whose child he was. Rose might have laughed at the shuffling figure, but for the crutch. He had it crooked under his left arm and leaned on it as he shuffled forwards. She tried not to look at it, not to make him aware that she had noticed.

  'I can walk without it,' he said. 'But it's harder, when I'm tired.'

  Good one, Rose, she thought. 'Shouldn't you be in bed?' she said. 'Your mum and dad have guests.'

  'Mother and stepfather,' he corrected her. 'Like I said, they think I'm asleep, but I want to see who's coming. Sometimes they let me stay up.'

  'But not tonight.'

  He shook his head. 'They're in the library?'

  Rose nodded.

  'I'll show you the secret way,' Freddie said. He set off down the corridor, surprisingly quickly, hardly leaning on the crutch at all. 'Come on.'

  Rose was soon lost as Freddie led her down another passageway. This one was more narrow, the walls panelled with dark wood. He paused before several steps up to a small door.

  'Shhh.' Freddie put his finger to his lips. 'You'll have to be quiet. We can whisper, but we mustn't let them hear, or. . .'

  'Or your stepfather will give you a good thrashing?' Rose wondered. He had not seemed the type, but she could imagine Freddie did not want to anger Sir George.

  The boy's answer surprised her. 'He wouldn't dare,' he said quietly. Then he opened the door and stepped through.

  Rose followed and found herself on a narrow wooden gallery. Freddie was sitting on the floor, his crutch beside him. He had produced a small notebook and a stub of pencil and was scribbling away. He put his finger to his lips again as he caught sight of Rose, and motioned for her to sit down beside him on the bare wooden floor. Rose crouched down. She could already hear the sounds of voices from the room below, and now she saw that the gallery was high up above the library.

  Further along there were wooden shelves, packed with dusty books. Steep steps spiralled down into the main room. The library itself was as big as the drawing room, and every wall was covered with bookshelves. She only realised where the door was when a section of shelving swung open to allow Dickson to enter. He seemed to have recovered from his ordeal and was wearing clean white gloves. He carried a round silver tray with glasses on. Rose watched him walk stiffly across to where the Doctor and Sir George were standing with several other people.

  'Is that your friend?' Freddie whispered, pointing through the balusters.

  'The Doctor, yeah.' She leaned forward to see what he was writing.

  But Freddie snapped the notebook shut. 'Private,' he hissed.

  'Sorry Who are the others?'

  Freddie eased himself further forward so he could see more easily. Rose wondered if the people below would notice them, but the gallery was unlit and it was unlikely anyone would look up so high.

  'You know Mother and Father,' Freddie whispered, pointing them out.

  Rose nodded. 'Stepfather, you said.'

  'My real father died when I was two. Before we came here.'

  'I'm sorry,' Rose murmured, but the boy seemed not to hear.

  Freddie pointed to a large man, broad-shouldered and round-faced. He had a large bushy moustache that was as black as his hair, and he was wearing a smart, white military uniform. 'That's Colonel Oblonsky. He comes here a lot to see Father, and they talk in the study.' Freddie stifled a giggle. 'He salutes me and calls me sir.'

  Rose smiled with him. The colonel looked so serious it was hard to imagine him playing with the child. 'And those two?' She pointed to a frail-looking couple who were sitting on upright chairs at the reading table, talking to Freddie's mother. They both looked in their seventies – a thin-faced man who was completely bald, his scalp crinkled and blotchy, and a woman who was painfully thin with hair as white as cotton wool and a jutting nose and chin. The woman reminded Rose of the wicked witch in Disney's Snow White, though her expression was kindly.

  'They're cousins of Mother, or something. But I call them Uncle Alex and Aunt Nadia. They're very kind.'

  This left only one other person – a man who had been taking a drink from Dickson's tray. He went over to join Colonel Oblonsky, who greeted him warmly.

  'Lord Chitterington,' Freddie said. 'He works in the government. The British government,' he added, as if there might be any confusion. 'Father tells him off if he tries to play with me because he's too rough and I mustn't get hurt.'

  That seemed to be everyone. Colonel Oblonsky and Lord Chitterington were standing almost below the gallery now, and Rose leaned forward slightly in an attempt to hear what they were saying. They certainly seemed very earnest. But she could make out only a few words and phrases from the louder Oblonsky.

  'Did you talk with Reilly?' he was asking. 'Is he with us?'

  Lord Chitterington replied in a quiet voice that Rose could not hear, and Oblonsky muttered something back.

  But Rose was no longer listening. She had all but dismissed the other guests from her mind. Further under the gallery stood two more people. She caught barely a glimpse of them, except that Sir George had now excused himself from the Doctor and joined the two men. Their voices were clear, floating up through the gallery to where Rose and Freddie were sitting.

  'I trust you are not bored already with our company,' Sir George was saying.

  'Who are they?' Rose mouthed to Freddie, suddenly worried that the men below might hear her. Freddie shrugged and shook his head. Rose strained to hear, listening so intently she could just make out a clock ticking somewhere under the gallery.

  'Forgive me, Sir George,' one of the men replied. His voice was clear and without a noticeable accent. Upper class without being posh. English without a region. 'Major Aske and myself have had a long day. And you will appreciate that until we hear what you have to say I am not inclined to give away too much about my own plans and ambitions.'

  'Of course, sir. I quite understand.'

  The second man – Major Aske – said, 'But Repple is keen to offer what help he can to your noble cause. We can see, as you can, the similarity between your own plight and ours.'

  'Or rather, the boy's plight,' the first man – Repple – added. Rose saw Freddie frown at the words. Perhaps they were talking about a different boy.

  'You are very kind. And it is good of you to accept my invitation," Sir George said. 'Forgive me, sir, but I am not sure quite how you prefer to be addressed.'

  'Until I can use my proper title without fear or competition, I use none. Please address me simply as Repple.'

  The general sound of people talking seemed to increase, perhaps as the guests drank and felt more at ease. It made it difficult to catch anything other than the odd word here and there. Beside Rose, Freddie was yawning.

  'I think it's time to go,' Rose whispered. 'You need to get back to bed.'

  The boy looked for a moment as if he was about to protest. But then he yawned again, and that seemed to convince him and he nodded. Rose helped him to his feet and they crept quietly from the gallery and back down the narrow passage beyond.

  On the way ba
ck to his room, Freddie hardly seemed to use his crutch. 'Is your leg feeling better?' Rose asked.

  'It just gets tired,' he said, as if it was nothing. 'Mum likes me to use the crutch at home so I won't fall and hurt myself. I don't use it in public. That would look like weakness.'

  They were back at his room now. Freddie opened the door, and paused long enough to give Rose quick directions to the main stairs. He turned to go inside, then changed his mind and turned back.

  Thank you, Rose,' he said.

  She laughed. 'For what? You're helping me, remember?'

  He nodded, suddenly solemn. 'It was fun though, seeing the grown-ups.' He yawned again, then went inside the room. 'Goodbye.' The door closed quietly behind him.

  'They seemed like nice enough people,' Rose said. She had found her way to the library and the Doctor had introduced her to everyone Freddie had already pointed out. Rose was impressed he could remember all their names.

  Uncle Alex and Aunt Nadia, the Doctor introduced as Count Alexander and Countess Nadia Koznyshev. They spoke with heavy accents which Rose guessed were Russian. The two men under the gallery – Repple and Major Aske – were both tall and slim, and looked like soldiers, though they were dressed smartly in dark suits. Aske seemed younger, perhaps in his late twenties, with light brown hair and a smattering of freckles across his lean face. He stood very straight, with one hand permanently in his jacket pocket. Repple had a darker complexion – his hair was black as night, and his features were handsome and symmetrical. Rose found herself looking at him for longer than she should, to the Doctor's undisguised amusement.

  But there was something about the atmosphere in the library as the people waited for the last guest, something strained and slightly awkward. Rose had played the gooseberry often enough to know that it was the presence of herself and the Doctor that was the stifling factor. She got the impression that everyone else was waiting for them to leave so they could get on with whatever it was they really wanted to be doing.

  The mist was thickening as they made their way back down the street towards the yard where the TARD1S had landed. The gates were closed again, and to the Doctor's evident annoyance they were once more locked. He sighed and produced his sonic screwdriver from his coat pocket.

  'I don't know what they're up to,' he confessed, setting to work once more on the lock. 'But they're certainly hiding something.'

  'Something that got poor Dickson attacked?'

  The Doctor made a noncommittal sound and the lock clicked open. 'Sir George seemed to think so, only he wouldn't admit it.' He pushed open the gate and stared into the darkness of the yard.

  'Not that it matters to us, I guess,' Rose said. 'What do we do, sit around till morning or just move on?'

  'It might matter a lot,' the Doctor said. He made no attempt to enter the yard, just stood there in the gateway, staring in. He gave the gate a shove so that it swung open, allowing Rose to see into the yard as well.

  The empty yard.

  'Because,' the Doctor continued in the same matter-of-fact tone as the first rain began to fall, 'it might be whoever attacked Dickson that took the TARDIS.'

  TWO

  They spent what seemed like for ever pacing the damp streets. The air was so damp it was hard to tell if it was mist or drizzle. At first, Rose thought the Doctor had a definite plan, that he had some idea where to look for the TARDIS. But after following him down yet another street she realised he had no better idea than she did.

  'Think, think, think,' he hissed to himself as they stood on a nondescript street corner beside a postbox, its red the only colour in the grey-dark world.

  'Maybe someone just took a fancy to it,' Rose suggested.

  'Not likely. Big coincidence.'

  'So someone saw us arrive. Or knows what the TARDIS is.'

  'Maybe.' He wiggled his fingers encouragingly. 'More ideas, more clues.'

  'Someone attacked Dickson, right? We saved him. Maybe that naffed them off.'

  'Could be. More?'

  'Got to be connected, hasn't it?' she said.

  The Doctor nodded several times rapidly. 'Seems likely.'

  'And Sir George was afraid of someone or something. Thought it was a deliberate attack.'

  'Certainly deliberate. And motivated.'

  'So what now?'

  The Doctor licked a finger and stuck it in the air as if testing the strength and direction of the breeze. 'That way.' He pointed back the way they had come.

  'Sure?'

  'Positive.' He set off at a confident jog.

  'To the TARDIS?' It seemed to Rose that it was as good as found.

  But his response dampened her spirits as much as the increasing rain. 'Nah. Back to Sir George. That's the only connection – the only clue we've got.'

  'Hope you remember the way.'

  The light drizzle quickly turned to heavy rain, and they had to dance round the growing puddles. They arrived back at the house just as a large black car was drawing up. The driver was a blank silhouette against the light from the house. There was the outline of a woman sitting in the back.

  Dickson appeared as if by intuition, complete with unfurled umbrella which he put up as he hurried down the steps. His eyes widened slightly in well-disguised surprise as he saw the Doctor and Rose.

  'We decided to take up the offer of dinner after all,' the Doctor told him.

  'If it's still open,' Rose added.

  'I am sure it is, sir. Please, do go in. I shall be with you in a moment.' Dickson returned his professional attention to holding the umbrella over the woman from the back of the car as she stepped out on to the pavement.

  'He might have offered us the umbrella,' Rose complained, shaking the water out of her hair and brushing it off her cloak.

  'And let the paint run?'

  'What do you mean?'

  For an answer, the Doctor nodded at the woman now stepping into the hallway behind them. Dickson stood in the doorway behind her, putting down the umbrella.

  But Rose's attention was fixed on the woman. On her face. She looked as if she had stepped out of a masked ball. Her dress was pale, shimmering silk, blowing round her in the breeze from the open door. Her flame-red hair was allowed to cascade down to her bare shoulders. But her face was covered with a thin mask in the shape of a butterfly, so that only her mouth was visible. The mask was painted in bright colours – yellow, red, blue and green – and scattered with sequins. A delicate blue feather framed each side of it, contrasting with the red of her hair. Startlingly blue eyes looked out unblinkingly through almond-shaped holes.

  'How do you do?' she said, her voice soft and cloying as honey. '1 don't believe we have met.' She held out a hand to the Doctor, and Rose saw that her white glove reached up to her elbow. From the way she angled the back of her hand towards him, it was obvious the Doctor was expected to kiss it. But instead he took it gently and gave it a polite shake.

  'I'm the Doctor,' he said. 'And this is my friend Rose.' The woman nodded, any disappointment hidden behind the mask. 'Melissa Heart,' she said. She nodded slightly at Rose, an acknowledgement, no more. 'I assume that you, like me, are here for the conspiracy.'

  Despite the presence of Melissa Heart – apologising profusely for having missed dinner – it was a reduced company that sat in the dining room. Dinner had been cleared away, and they sat drinking pale wine from small multi-faceted glasses. The Doctor, Rose and Melissa sat in the spare chairs – recently vacated at the departure of the Koznyshevs and Lord Chitterington.

  At least there were fewer names to remember, Rose thought, even if there was nothing left to eat except a disappointingly small slice of apple pie.

  The Doctor had apologised to Sir George and accepted the renewed offer of dinner. Or at least dessert. He had explained that they had been 'let down' and lost their lodgings. Sir George immediately offered to let them stay at the house, but his wife gently pointed out that they already had guests and it might be rather crowded.

  'No problem,' the
Doctor said. 'We'll find a hotel or something.'

  'There are rooms at the Imperial Club,' Repple announced. 'I'm sure we can vouch for you there, at least for a day or two until you find alternative accommodation.'

  'I'm so glad that's settled,' Melissa Heart said, clapping her hands together in apparent delight. 'I have only just moved into my own house – Anthony Hubbard's old house, by the river, perhaps you know it? But, as I say, I have barely unpacked, so I'm afraid accommodation would be difficult.'

  The Doctor fielded the various obvious and polite questions that accompanied the arrival of the apple pie. They were in London for a few days to see the British Empire Exhibition. Yes, they were looking forward to it. Yes, they knew the city but had been out of town for a while. Travelling. The expressionless face of Melissa Heart – the Painted Lady, as Rose remembered someone had called her – watched the Doctor intently as he spoke, seeming to absorb his every word.

  'So,' the Doctor said as he poked his spoon at his pie, 'what's this conspiracy all about?'

  The sudden silence was broken by the sound of someone's involuntary gasp.

  'Don't want to talk about it?' The Doctor shrugged and nodded sympathetically. He stood up, took off his leather jacket, and hung it over the back of the chair. Then he sat down again. 'Tell you what, then – why don't I guess?'

  Rose looked round the table to see what reaction this provoked. Sir George was leaning back in his chair, if anything seeming slightly amused. His wife, by contrast, looked nervous and unsettled. Colonel Oblonsky had gone red and his lips quivered in anger. Aske, Repple and the Painted Lady were all equally impassive and unreadable.

  The Doctor sniffed. 'Or we can finish our pud and leave you to get on with it. Thanks for the nosh. I don't want to impose or intrude.'

  'How intriguing.' It was Melissa Heart who spoke. 'As a newcomer to this little group, I would be interested myself to hear the details. Interested also to see if what the Doctor has gleaned is anything approaching the truth.'