Doctor Who: The Clockwise Man

by Richards, Justin

  The lights were on and the doors were open back at the Imperial Club. The unflappable Crowther was in the foyer, examining the desk that the men had been trying to open. He nodded at Rose, not at all surprised to see her come in, hair slicked down by the rain.

  'There's tea in the Bastille Room, miss,' he said, as if serving tea at gone three in the morning was as natural as breathing.

  'What do you think they were after?' Rose asked.

  Crowther sniffed. 'Money, I expect, miss. Not that they would have found any.'

  'I thought they might be after something of Mr Pooter's,' Rose said.

  'Really, miss, why is that?'

  She shrugged. 'I heard he was back, that's all. I thought maybe he'd brought something valuable with him.'

  Crowther was shaking his head. 'I'm afraid you're mistaken. There is a trustees' meeting tomorrow, but Mr Pooter has not yet returned. I don't expect him until the meeting, late tomorrow morning. That is,' he corrected himself, 'late this morning.'

  'But I heard someone in his room. Above mine. Tonight. I'm sure.'

  Crowther was frowning now. 'That isn't possible, miss. Mr Pooter isn't here, and no one else would be in his rooms. I can assure you of that. Unless the intruders. . .'

  Rose shook her head. 'No, no, before that. Ages ago.' She shrugged. 'I must be wrong,' she said, though she knew she wasn't. Something to tell the Doctor, Rose decided.

  But when she arrived in the Bastille Room all thoughts of the noises from the room above were driven from her mind. The Doctor and Wyse were sitting with Aske and Repple and several other members of the club who looked as if they had dressed in haste when they heard the disturbance. Most of them were sipping tea and staring at each other through bleary eyes. Only the Doctor, Wyse and Repple seemed awake and alert. Aske was yawning.

  And on the sofa beside Wyse, stretched out so he could tickle it under the chin, was a black cat. It turned as Rose approached, watching her through its emerald eyes, the triangular patch of white fur on its front catching the glow of the firelight as it purred contentedly.

  SEVEN

  It was a crisp morning. The Doctor was able to blow long streams of mist from his mouth into the cold air. He took pleasure in stepping on last night's puddles, his feet breaking through the thin crust of ice and splashing into the water below. Once he misjudged it and his foot skidded on the ice without breaking the surface. He struggled to retain his balance, arms flailing like a windmill. He laughed long and loud, drawing the bemused attention of several other people hurrying through the cold of the morning.

  The Doctor and Rose had sat up most of the rest of the night with Wyse before Rose finally went to catch some more sleep after a bite of breakfast and a mouthful of coffee. Wyse, like the Doctor, seemed none the worse for having been up all night.

  'Often took the night watch in the trenches,' he confessed. 'The lads seemed to appreciate it.'

  'You were an officer?' the Doctor asked.

  'Lowly captain. Spent three years staring at mud and bloodshed. Got to the point where you couldn't tell one from the other, you know.'

  The Doctor nodded. 'I know,' he said quietly.

  'You in the war?' Wyse wanted to know.

  'Been in many wars. Far too many.'

  'Thought as much. You can tell. It's there in the eyes. And the attitude too. A sort of enthusiasm for life between the ennui. Like we can't quite believe we're still here, but we must make the most of it while we are.' He sighed and nodded at the chess set on the table between them. 'Best stick to chess. Far less dangerous.'

  'Usually,' the Doctor agreed with a smile.

  Life itself was taking on some of the more intriguing aspects of a game of chess, the Doctor decided as he made his way to Sir George's. The break-in the previous night would appear to have as little to do with the loss of the TARDIS as would the advance of an outlying pawn on the fate of a king. But there was a connection, he was sure. Just as the loss and return of his coat were something more than they seemed. You had to start somewhere, and the coat was as good a place as any.

  Besides, he liked a mystery.

  It was a respectable hour by the time he arrived. Dickson was, as ever, courteous and unflappable. He offered to take the Doctor's coat, but the Doctor smiled and kept it. 'Not that I think it might go missing again,' he assured Dickson. 'But I want to talk to young Freddie about it. Among other things.'

  'You don't think. . .' Dickson blurted uncharacteristically.

  The Doctor raised an eyebrow and cocked his head, inviting Dickson to continue. But the man cleared his throat, embarrassed, and said nothing more.

  'No, I don't,' the Doctor assured him. 'He's a good lad. I like him too. Thought he'd want to hear about the exhibition.'

  Dickson's mouth twitched in the ghost of a smile, as if acknowledging that he had been found out. 'He'll be pleased to see you, Doctor. He doesn't get a lot of visitors. Shall 1 inform Sir George that you are visiting?'

  The Doctor smiled back. 'Do. There are no secrets here.'

  Dickson left the Doctor in the drawing room as he went to find Freddie.

  'Unlike some places,' the Doctor went on, quietly, to himself.

  Freddie was excited to see the Doctor. He asked him all about the British Empire Exhibition. The Doctor was happy to describe their visit and went through a catalogue of what they had seen, rewarded by Freddie's evident interest. The boy asked endless questions, and the Doctor patiently answered them. Sir George put his head round the door at one point, listened to the conversation for a few moments, then smiled and nodded at the Doctor, and left them to it.

  After more than an hour, the Doctor finished his description. He held up his hand to curtail any more questions, and told Freddie, 'Now I've something I want to ask you.'

  Freddie was sitting sideways on a sofa, with his weak leg up on a cushion. 'Anything.'

  'Remember yesterday, when Rose and I came to see you, I asked you about my coat?'

  Freddie nodded.

  'You said "I saw her with it.'"

  'Yes. The Painted Lady. I saw her with your coat.'

  'I didn't realise what you were telling me. I'm sorry. I know she didn't come here yesterday so you must have meant during the dinner party. You were watching from the landing, weren't you?'

  Freddie nodded. He was biting his lower lip anxiously.

  'You're not in trouble,' the Doctor assured him. 'You could be a hero.'

  'A hero?'

  The Doctor grinned. 'I'm very attached to my coat. Tell me about it.'

  'I was watching, from the landing. Listening to everyone talking. I could hear voices from the dining room when the door was open. That was when I heard. . .' He paused, looked away. 'Then everyone was leaving. Rose saw me watching. I thought she would give me away, tell Father.'

  'Rose wouldn't do that,' the Doctor said gently.

  'I know. But I was still worried. Then, after Rose went, the lady in the mask was left alone. And she went back into the dining room. I was going to go back to bed, but I wanted to know what she was doing. She said she was leaving, then she stayed.'

  'Curious?'

  'Yes. She's mysterious. She needs investigating.'

  'You investigate lots of people?'

  'Loads. I have a notebook, 1 write down everything about them.'

  The Doctor smiled. 'Really? What've you written about me?'

  Freddie grinned. 'She wasn't gone long, the Painted Lady. She had your coat. 1 like your coat. It looks so comfortable and warm and. . . right.'

  'What did she do then?'

  'She went.'

  'Taking my coat, just like that?'

  Freddie nodded. 'She felt in the pockets first. She found something she was interested in. A silver rod or something.'

  This?' He held up the sonic screwdriver for Freddie to see.

  'Yes, that's it. She looked at it. She seemed interested.'

  'I bet.'

  'Then she heard someone coming. Dickson with the port, I t
hink. She left quickly. And I went back to bed.' He hesitated, then asked, 'Does that help? Is that what you wanted to hear?'

  The Doctor clicked his tongue. 'Yes and no,' he decided. 'It helps. It isn't what I wanted to hear.' He stood up and pulled his coat tight about him as if checking it still fitted. 'See you then,' he told Freddie. A thought occurred to him as he made to leave. The Doctor turned back, not surprised to find Freddie watching him attentively.

  'Do you want to try the coat on?' the Doctor asked. He could see the answer at once from the boy's expression, and he slipped off the jacket and held it out.

  It was miles too big of course. But Freddie pulled back the sleeves and grinned. 'Can I keep it?'

  The Doctor laughed. Afraid not. I'd get cold.' He waited for Freddie to hand back the coat. As he took it, while Freddie was still holding it, the Doctor looked into Freddie's eyes. 'Look after yourself,' he said, quietly. 'Leave me to investigate Melissa Heart, all right?'

  The boy let go of the coat, and turned away. 'All right.'

  It didn't surprise Rose that the Doctor had wandered off somewhere without leaving her a note or a message. Crowther was able to tell her simply that he had gone out early that morning.

  The head steward seemed preoccupied, and Rose recalled that he had told her there was a trustees' meeting late that morning and Mr Pooter was expected. That in turn reminded her of the noises she had heard from the room above the night before. Could it have been the intruders? Had they been on the top floor, perhaps even come in that way? There was no way of knowing, of course, unless the reclusive Mr Pooter returned to discover his rooms had been disturbed.

  She looked for Wyse to see if he knew where the Doctor had gone, or when he might be back. But there was no sign of him in the Bastille Room. Aske and Repple were talking quietly in a corner. She could hear Repple's righteous tones as he described how unjustly he had been deposed. Aske was doing his best to sympathise. They looked up as Rose approached, and both seemed relieved to see that it was her. But neither of them knew where the Doctor was.

  'Wyse may be out visiting,' Aske suggested. 'He plays chess against a friend every Wednesday.'

  'Is it Wednesday?' Rose asked. 'I lose track.'

  'He usually goes in the evening, though,' Repple pointed out. 'He could be anywhere. Sorry.'

  The only useful information they were able to impart was that the trustees' meeting was likely to take place in what they called the boardroom on the first floor. And because she had nothing better to do, Rose decided she might as well see if she could find where this was. She might also get a glimpse of the elusive Mr Pooter, she thought with a smile.

  It was immediately apparent which was the boardroom. There was a uniformed club steward standing outside, though whether on guard or waiting to attend to any orders for tea and biscuits it was impossible to tell. It did mean, though, that Rose wouldn't be listening at the door.

  Which was a shame, she thought. She was quite intrigued to see the mysterious Mr Pooter and there was the added incentive that they might well be talking about the circumstances of herself and the Doctor. Wyse had suggested he would sponsor their application to stay at the club, and with the Doctor showing no apparent signs of even looking for the TARDIS, having somewhere to stay seemed like a pretty good move.

  It had struck Rose that as much of the difference of London in the 1920s was to do with what was missing as what was changed. True, the cars and clothes and buildings were different. But there was no London Eye dominating the low-rise skyline. There was no loud music in the streets, little traffic noise, practically no planes. No road markings or personal stereos or T-shirt slogans. And inside the building she had realised that there were no fire-exit signs or smoke detectors.

  But there was a fire escape. A galvanised metal gantry on each floor at the back of the building, with precarious-looking metal steps to each level on the lower floors that became a distinctly treacherous-looking ladder as it reached more than halfway up the building. The gantry on the first floor was reached not from a fire door, but by climbing out of a window of one of the larger rooms – the boardroom. Which meant, Rose reasoned, that if she got on to the fire escape from the floor above, she could sneak down and perhaps get a look at the trustees through the window. Was it worth the effort, she wondered? What the heck, she'd nothing else to do.

  Halfway down, she was not sure this was a terrific idea. The stairway creaked and cracked under her weight. Was it her imagination, or was the whole thing swaying as she moved? How was it fixed to the building anyway – surely it couldn't be just that bolt sticking out of the crumbling stonework? But it was as far to go back now as it was to creep down to the metal balcony and edge along until she could see into the boardroom. If only the late morning sun hadn't been shining directly at the glass, she could have seen in from higher up, from where she was.

  She crept as close as she dared, leaning out so that the sunlight no longer glinted back in her eyes. Sure enough, she could see into the room from here. But it was rather a restricted view. The window was shut, so she could hear nothing. If she went any closer she might have a better view and might even catch a few words, but she then risked being seen. So she crouched down where she was and stared, disappointed, at the shoulders-to-waist view she had of several men in suits. The top of the table was clearly visible, with its array of papers, pens, notes, and resting hands. One of the hands drummed bored fingers on the polished surface. Another was bunched into a fist and crashed down to emphasise whatever point the speaker was making.

  The chair at the head of the table was pushed back. There were no papers or notes in front of the man sitting there, and because of how the chair was angled, Rose could see all of the man from the neck down. Immaculate pinstriped suit, dark socks and polished shoes. Mr Pooter, she presumed. Sitting incongruously in the man's lap was the cat. She could clearly see the distinctive white triangle of fur, and she couldn't help smiling at how the creature must have escaped from the river.

  Pooter was holding the cat with one hand, almost protectively. His other hand was bunched into a fist, and he rubbed his knuckles into the cat's head. The cat seemed unperturbed, and Rose could imagine it purring at the attention. Its ears stood upright and alert, its green eyes flicking back and forth as if it was listening to every word of the meeting.

  Realising she was going to learn nothing of interest, Rose took a careful, crouched step backwards, towards the steps up to the second floor. But not careful enough. Her foot scraped along the metal gantry, and the whole fire escape creaked ominously. She froze.

  Inside the room there was no noticeable reaction. Except from the cat. It had turned, Pooter's knuckles still ruffling the fur on its head. Now it was staring at the window. Its emerald lozenge eyes fixed on Rose's, just for an instant. Just long enough for her to know for certain that it had seen her. Then the cat turned away, dismissing her as inconsequential. Feeling stupid, disappointed and unsettled, Rose padded away.

  The Doctor was waiting for Rose in the foyer. He gave every impression of having been there for hours. He was peering with interest at a painting, tapping one foot impatiently. Rose guessed he had just nipped in ahead of her and that it was all an act. But she couldn't be sure.

  'There you are,' he said without looking as she crept up behind him.

  'Yeah. Where have you been?'

  'Saw Freddie.' Now the Doctor did turn. He grinned at her like a schoolboy. 'Thought I'd check to be sure before venturing into the lion's den. Lioness's den,' he corrected himself.

  'Check what?'

  Without really noticing, she had followed him out of the club and into the street. The Doctor licked his finger and held it in the air for a moment as he decided which way to go. 'That Melissa Heart took my coat. Deliberately.'

  'She's the lioness?'

  'Let's find out.'

  'How do we do that then?' She had to hurry to keep up.

  The Doctor was striding off at speed, with a sudden sense of purpose.
'We go and ask her. Keep up.'

  That'll surprise her.'

  'Doubt it.' He paused to get his bearings at a junction, then hurried across the road, waving absently at a horse that drew up sharply to avoid hitting them. 'She made a point of telling us where she lives. Twice.'

  'Invitation?'

  'Yep.'

  'She's expecting us?'

  'Probably wondering what's taking us so long. Probably thinks we're being a bit thick.'

  'Whereas in fact. . .' Rose muttered.

  'I like people to think I'm a bit thick,' the Doctor declared, to the amusement of a passing couple. 'Makes them careless and arrogant. Ready to explain their dastardly plan in words of one sill. . . silly. . .' He struggled to get his mouth round the word.

  'Syllable?'

  'That's it.'

  'I got English,' Rose told him.

  'Then tell me. . .' He stopped abruptly and turned to her, eyes dark and serious.

  'Yes?'

  'I've always wondered, why isn't phonetic spelled with an "F?,

  Rose stared back at him. 'I can teach you how to spell Doctor with an "F".'

  They carried on walking. After a while, Rose said, 'I saw Mr Pooter this morning.'

  'Oh? What's he look like?'

  'Dunno. Only saw him from the neck down. Smart, I s 'pose. Dapper. Suit. You know. Likes cats.'

  'Doesn't mean he's a bad person.'

  The Doctor stopped, looking up and down the street. They were beside the Thames. Rose could smell the river.

  'Yes,' the Doctor decided, and walked up the path to the nearest house. 'Here we are.' The bell pull was a long metal rod hanging down beside the front door. The Doctor gave it a tug, and somewhere deep inside the house they could hear the bell jangling.

  The door opened almost at once. Melissa Heart was standing there, her face a Pierrot split of black and white. A single white teardrop broke the varnished black of the left side of the mask. 'Why, Doctor, and Rose, this is unexpected,' she said without a hint of surprise. 'You do keep turning up. Like a bad wolf.'