by Doctor Who
The strange thing was I think he was almost relieved. He’d been waiting for a heart attack for years. He was just glad it happened on the way down.’
‘Poor Angela,’ said Martha.
‘Indeed. She took it very badly, I’m afraid. She was very much in love with Roger and completely devoted to him. She was convinced I’d persuaded him to come on the trip and blamed me for his death.
That’s about all there is to it.’
‘And she’s never forgiven you?’
‘Never forgiven herself, more like,’ Gaskin said gruffly. ‘Because she knows deep down that it was what Rog I’ wanted, and I think she’s cross with him – and feels guilty about feeling that way. We’ve hardly spoken since. That little exchange was the most we’ve said to one another in twenty-odd years.’
‘I’m really sorry,’ Martha said, without quite knowing what it was she was apologising for. She was supposed to be getting help for the Doctor. ‘Look, I’d better be going. . . ’
‘I’m only sorry that I can’t help you,’ he said, as he followed her towards the door. ‘I suggest you telephone for the police or the ambulance service at the earliest opportunity.’
He led the way out of the drawing room and Martha followed him.
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In the hallway was a low table in front of a mirror with a bowl of flowers and a telephone. ‘You can call from here if you wish.’
‘It’s OK, I’ve got my mobile.’ Martha felt totally deflated. She kept remembering the Doctor’s advice: if anything goes wrong – go and see Gaskin. There must have been a reason for him saying that.
Gaskin was giving her a quizzical look, seeing her hesitation. ‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’
She had to say something.
‘It’s the well. . .
there’s something
strange about it. You must know something, Mr Gaskin. You said yourself – there are stories about treasure and monsters.’
‘Neither of which I grant the slightest credence,’ said Gaskin. ‘As I said, they are simply stories my dear.’
The Doctor slid deeper into the darkness.
Whenever he tried to move himself, the white weed gripped him more tightly. As far as he could tell it was an involuntary reflex. He’d tried talking again, calling, shouting, even low-level telepathy, but there was no response. Nothing. Just a deep, black abyss full of this pale, grasping undergrowth.
Nevertheless, he was moving, due to some kind of peristaltic motion. Every so often the grip of the luminous roots shifted, and he was moved further down the gullet of the well. He only wondered what he was heading for and what would happen when he got there.
He wished he’d brought a book with him so he could have read while he waited – the dismal glow of the white weed was just about good enough.
It was getting very cold now, and he was starting to imagine things in the blackness – a glowing movement in the corner of his eye which disappeared when he looked, or the distant sound of whispering, or a thudding, alien heartbeat. He kept hearing that heartbeat, although it seemed to come and go. It was always distant, but there was a definite thud. . . thud. . . thud. . . coming from somewhere. It wasn’t a regular double beat like a human’s, or anything else that he recognised. It was slow and strangely irregular; it brought to mind a sick, diseased heart straining to ek out the last hours of life. Or was that just his 87
imagination?
Whatever it was, it was getting louder. Nearer.
With a sudden, unexpected gulp of the weeds around him, the Doctor was pushed down into a dark chamber. He tumbled out of the grasp of the weeds and hit something soft.
There was just room enough to stand up, but he had to be careful because the ground underfoot kept moving. His trainers fought to keep a grip on a blubbery surface coated with slime. Gingerly he dusted his suit down, removing the last traces of any weed that had got caught on his way down here.
‘Hello?’ His voice echoed dully but the only reply was an empty silence. ‘Anyone home?’
Then he became aware of something moving in the darkness –something slow and fluid, uncoiling in the darkness as if awakening from a deep sleep.
Then, slowly and ominously, a number of pale lights opened like eyes in the darkness. They stared balefully at the Doctor and he stared back.
The eyes watched him unblinkingly for several seconds. Then, for want of anything else to do, the Doctor tried his best and brightest smile and said, ‘Hello!’ again.
No response. The eyes stared. There were several, of various sizes, but the Doctor knew instinctively that t hey all belonged to the same creature. Just like he knew, instinctively, that behind the eyes there was not a shred of compassion or intelligence.
Just a cold, malevolent hatred.
Because now he knew what it was.
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Martha found Angela quietly fuming by the Land-Rover. ‘I told you coming here would be a complete waste of time,’ the old lady complained bitterly. She kicked at the gravel which covered Gaskin’s driveway. ‘That man’s got such a nerve. I hate him!’
Martha didn’t say anything. It seemed safer to remain diplomatic about the whole thing.
‘I suppose he was telling you all about Roger,’ Angela muttered. ‘His version of events at least.’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ Martha conceded. ‘But he can’t help us with the Doctor anyway.’
‘Rubbish. Of course he can.’ Abruptly Angela set off on foot, walking around the outside of the manor. With an anxious glance back at the front door, Martha hurried after her, boots crunching across the gravel. ‘He’s got all kinds of equipment back here,’ Angela said. ‘We’ll just go and help ourselves.’
‘We can’t do that,’ Martha protested, trying not to shout. ‘It’s tres-passing!’
But then they both stopped in their tracks. At the side of the house was a series of willow trees leading to a terrace overlooking the gardens at the rear. Martha was dimly aware of a series of beautiful lawns 89
and woodland stretching away behind the manor, but what grabbed her attention was much closer to hand.
Lying on the terrace was the body of a man.
Instinct took over and Martha ran towards him. Without touching him or turning him over, she quickly checked that he was still alive and breathing. ‘Hello?’
The man groaned and turned over.
‘Hell’s bells,’ exclaimed Angela. ‘It’s Nigel Carson. What the heck is he doing here?’
‘He’s fainted, or something,’ Martha said. She made sure his airway was clear and helped him into a comfortable position. ‘Nigel? Can you hear me? What’s happened?’
Suddenly the French windows opened onto the terrace and a black and white blur ran out, barking madly. Jess skidded around the little group, jumping back and forth. Gaskin followed the dog out of the house, his face like thunder. ‘What the devil’s going on, Jess? Great Scott, what are you two doing here? I thought you’d just left!’
Martha was helping Nigel to his feet. ‘We’ve just found this man collapsed on your patio,’ she said. ‘Can we take him inside?’
‘What? Yes, I suppose so. Jess, stop making that damned noise!’
‘Here,’ said Angela, helping Martha with Nigel. ‘Let me take him.’
Jess was still barking like she’d cornered a cat, but she wasn’t interested in Nigel Carson. There was something else, just under the trailing edge of the rhododendrons, that held her attention.
‘Jess!’ shouted Gaskin. ‘Inside!’
But the dog was having none of it. Martha knelt down beside her.
‘What is it? What have you found?’
Lying on the flagstone was a rock the size of a lemon. Martha picked it up while Gaskin grabbed his dog by the collar and hauled her back.
‘What’s this?’ Martha wondered, looking at the rock. It was heavy, but on closer examination it wasn’t actually a rock. The surface was translucent, but scored with hundreds of tiny l
ittle whirls like finger-prints. It felt warm in her hand.
‘Martha!’ called Angela. ‘You’d better come and see this.’
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She ran back into the conservatory, where Angela had sat Nigel Carson down in a wicker chair. He looked gaunt and grey, hair dishevelled and his eyes roaming wildly. Martha wondered if he was drunk, but Angela was pointing to his hands.
The palms and fingers were stained with blood.
‘I don’t know what he’s been doing,’ said Angela, ‘but I’d say we’ve caught him red-handed.’
Martha checked his hands. It wasn’t easy because they were clenching and unclenching, but she could see that the skin was peppered with tiny cuts. ‘The blood’s his,’ she told them. She turned to Gaskin, who was still struggling with Jess. ‘Can we have some warm water and clean towels? Any kind of First Aid kit you have would be a help.’
‘I’ll see what I can find,’ Gaskin said, pushing Jess back out into the garden and closing the doors. She continued to bark and fuss outside, but at least it was quieter. ‘I don’ know what’s got into her,’ Gaskin muttered.
Martha held up the stone. ‘It’s this. She doesn’t like it.’
‘What is it?’ wondered Angela.
Nigel suddenly reared up out of his seat and grabbed the stone out of Martha’s hands. ‘That’s mine!’ he yelled. ‘Give it to me!’
He sank back into the chair, hugging the thing to his chest.
‘Steady on,’ Angela said. ‘You’re not well, you know.’
Nigel appeared to be calming down. He took control of his breathing, and, still clutching the stone to his chest, sat up in the chair. It was as if he found the stone strangely comforting. ‘I’m all right, I’m all right. Leave me alone.’
‘Let me check you over first,’ offered Martha.
‘No, leave me alone. Just go.’
‘But what about your hands? They’re bleeding. Let me have a look, I’m a doctor – nearly.’
But when Martha reached out, Nigel twisted away from her, guarding the stone like a jealous child protecting his favourite toy.
‘What is that thing?’ Martha asked.
‘It’s mine!’
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‘It’s OK, I don’t want to take it off you. I just want to know what it is.’
Nigel reached into his trouser pocket with one hand and took out a clean handkerchief. He quickly wrapped the stone in the handkerchief and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. ‘It’s none of your business.’.
‘I really must apologise, ladies,’ said Gaskin, returning with an old tin marked with a red cross. ‘My guest is clearly not feeling himself.
But if you wouldn’t mind, I can look after things from here. You may go. Again.’
‘Your guest?’ Angela frowned. ‘Since when? Do you know who this is?’
‘Yes. His name is Nigel Carson. He’s. . . a personal friend of mine.
Now, if you wouldn’t mind. . . ’ Gaskin gestured towards the French windows, changed his mind and gestured towards an interior door, then seemed to lose his bearings entirely.
‘Henry, get them out of here,’ said Nigel, and it sounded like an order.
Gaskin frowned and put the First Aid tin down on a table. ‘Now see here, Nigel. . . ’
‘Wait a second,’ Martha interrupted, standing up. She pointed a finger at Nigel. ‘This man is supposed to be digging a tunnel to the bottom of the wishing well. What’s he doing here, with you?’
‘Oh my goodness,’ said Angela slowly. ‘It’s the Gaskin Tunnel, isn’t it?’
‘Gaskin Tunnel?’ Martha repeated.
‘Perhaps I’d better explain,’ said Gaskin.
Duncan Goode was sweating. He’d stripped down to his vest and was in the middle of his next swing of the pickaxe, when Ben Seddon cried out:
‘Wait!’
Put off his stroke, the pick twisted in Duncan’s grip as it struck something hard and he hurt his wrist badly. ‘Oww! What is it now?’
Ben shone his torch at the end of the tunnel, too excited to care about Duncan’s reaction. ‘Look! Look! I think we’re actually through!’
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Rubbing his sore hand, Duncan knelt down for a closer look. The pickaxe blade had penetrated the final inch of soil and struck stone.
No wonder he had sprained his wrist so badly. ‘It’s just another lump of rock,’ he said.
‘No, look,’ Ben insisted, pointing at a patch of mud next to the axe.
He brushed impatiently at the dirt and exposed a rough, sandy surface. ‘That’s not just rock, Duncan! It’s stone! Brick!’
‘What?’
‘I thought I saw it a moment ago, when you hit the last bit. Look.
It’s smooth, and look here. . . here’s the edge! It is a brick!’ Ben let out a whoop of delight. ‘It’s the well-shaft! We’ve dug right down to the shaft wall. This will be the treasure chamber, Dune! This is it!’
Duncan yelled and leapt in the air, almost cracking his head on the tunnel roof. Then he thrust an arm through Ben’s and they began to dance around in a little circle, skipping and shouting and laughing.
‘We’re rich! We’re rich! We’re rich beyond belief!’
After a minute they stopped and, using only their hands, scraped away the soil from the brickwork. Soon they could see the regular lines between the old stones where the shaft wall had been built. It curved away from t hem like a massive chimney breast.
‘Here, give me your knife,’ Duncan said. ‘If we can get a blade between these stones we might be able to prise one out.’
Ben took out a large clasp knife from his cargo pants, and Duncan unclipped the blade and began to work. ‘Once we get one brick out the others will be easy. There’s some of that funny-looking weed here, too. That’ll help – the bricks might have been loosened.’
‘Hurry up!’
Duncan wiggled the blade into one of the cracks and then paused.
‘What’s up?’ Ben asked.
‘We ought to wait for Nigel.’
‘Never mind him,’ Ben said. ‘He’s probably gone back to the pub anyway. Serves him right if he can’t be bothered to turn up for the climax.’
But Duncan still wasn’t happy. ‘I dunno, Ben. He didn’t look too well when he left.’
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‘We can’t stop now, Duncan!’ Ben snapped. ‘Just get the flaming brick out!’
‘Wait. This was all Nigel’s idea, remember,’ Duncan insisted. ‘We wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for him. We said we’d fetch him when we got through. He should be here with us to share it.’
Ben stared at him. ‘Listen, Duncan. I’ll tell you something: last night, in the pub, Nigel was talking to me while you were at the bar.
He said he didn’t trust you and wanted to cut you out of the deal.’
Duncan stared back. ‘You’re having me on.’
‘No, I’m not, it’s the truth.’
‘Why didn’t you say anything to me at the time?’
‘There wasn’t any point. Nigel was just annoyed, that’s all. You know what he’s like. I thought that once he’d calmed down I could convince him that you were OK and get everything back to normal.’
Duncan looked serious. ‘But why didn’t he trust me?’
‘He thought you’d told the barmaid or someone about what we were doing. And he didn’t like the way you were chatting up that girl, either. He thought you were going to compromise the operation somehow.’
Duncan sat down heavily on the ground, stunned. ‘I don’t believe it. I’ve been in on this right from the start, Ben, just like you. We went right through university with each other. Best of mates! I mean, Nigel may have found the Gaskin Tunnel but we’ve done everything else together – the research, the planning. . . all the hard work. Everything.’
‘I know.’
‘I mean, he always jokes about me being the hired muscle and all that,’ Duncan said quietly. ‘But I thought that’s all it was – a joke.’
> ‘You know he takes all this very seriously. And, let’s face it, he’s become a bit obsessed with all this.’
Duncan nodded and rubbed his face with a grimy hand, leaving streaks of mud behind. ‘I wonder how he is. He looked pretty rough when he left and he’s been gone quite a while.’
Ben shrugged. ‘I don’t really know. Does it matter now?’
‘Yes.’ Duncan sniffed and looked at Ben. ‘Because, whatever he said last night, this is still all Nigel’s idea. And he should be here.’
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Ben considered for a moment and then clapped a hand on Duncan’s shoulder. ‘You know your trouble, Dune? You’re too soft. Nigel doesn’t deserve a friend like you.’
‘So this is the famous Gaskin Tunnel,’ said Angela. ‘I honestly thought it was a myth!’
She, Martha, Nigel Carson and Henry Gaskin were all gathered around a brick archway set into a bank of earth at the rear of the manor.
An old wrought-iron gate, covered in rust, had been removed to reveal a low entrance just wide enough for a person to pass through. It was concealed from the terrace by a copse of silver birch trees.
Martha touched the crumbling brickwork, pulling absently at the moss clinging to the mortar. She could see a series of stone steps leading down into the darkness.
‘They started building it in 1902,’ Gaskin told them. ‘My ancestors, that is. Great-grandfather Rupert Gaskin, to be exact. He’d grown up here with the story of the highwayman’s treasure lost at the bottom of the old well in the village. Decided he should try and get hold of it one summer. Bit of a lark, I suppose.’
‘Digging a tunnel like this is more than a lark,’ said Martha. ‘Why didn’t he just go down the well?’
‘Two very good reasons: firstly, the well was in a state of disrepair even then, and it would have been a difficult and hazardous operation. Secondly, and most importantly, Rupert owed quite a lot of money – gambling debts mostly. He was desperate for capital.’
‘So he went on a treasure hunt?’ Martha sounded sceptical.
‘The idea of digging a secret tunnel down to the bottom of the well and making off with the treasure must have been quite exciting.’