Doctor Who: Players: 50th Anniversary Edition

by Dicks, Terrance

  ‘I am assured that Churchill and those like him will be suitably dealt with, my Fuehrer. Plans are already under way.’

  Hitler brooded for a moment, As always, when important decisions had to be taken, he was racked by doubts and fears. ‘It is a daring plan… and if it succeeds…’ He swallowed hard. ‘The members of this Consortium, Joachim, can they carry out their Plan successfully?’

  ‘I believe they can, my Fuehrer – with our help. But we must act soon. The next few weeks are vital. If the opportunity is lost, it will never return.’

  Caught up in von Ribbentrop’s enthusiasm, Adolf Hitler made up his mind.

  ‘Very well. We will back this Plan. Give these Consortium people any help they need to carry it out. The resources of the Reich are at your command. I wish you to take personal charge of this operation, Joachim.’

  ‘I shall be honoured, my Fuehrer, and most glad to do so. Fortunately, I am due to return to London to prepare to take up my appointment as your Ambassador. Under cover of that office I can assist the Consortium.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Hitler beamed. ‘You have done well, Joachim. Keep me informed.’

  ‘At your orders, my Fuehrer.’ Von Ribbentrop rose, gave the Nazi salute, and marched out.

  Left alone, Hitler considered further. With England as his ally, he need have no fear of European or American intervention. He had already re-occupied the Rhineland. Austria, Poland and Czechoslovakia would fall next, and then Russia. A German Empire of the East.

  Hitler sat back, dreaming of world conquest. Absently, he reached for another cream cake…

  Peri surveyed himself in her bedroom mirror.

  Now she was wearing a black coat and skirt, a grey silk blouse and a wide-brimmed hat. It was more comfortable than her 1899 outfit – the skirt was a lot shorter for a start – but she still felt strange and overdressed. God only knew what the Doctor would’ve chosen for her if she’d let him.

  She adjusted the angle of the hat-brim and went to find the Doctor.

  She found him in his study, a cosy oak-panelled book-lined room in which a coal fire burned perpetually in an old-fashioned grate. He was sitting behind a massive mahogany desk, cramming a variety of documents, papers and parchments into a big leather briefcase.

  Looking up, he gave Peri a nod of approval. ‘The glass of fashion and the mould of form,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks.’ Peri grinned. ‘You don’t look too bad yourself.’

  The Doctor was wearing a dark-blue three-piece suit with a faint pinstripe, a white shirt and regimental tie. On a side table she saw yellow kid gloves, a walking stick, and a grey Homburg hat with a black band. It struck her that the Doctor’s outfit wasn’t so different from his 1899 costume. As before, he looked both dignified and impressive in the dark formal clothes.

  Peri nodded towards the pile of papers. ‘What’s all this?’

  ‘We’ll be arriving in an age of bureaucracy and documentation,’ said the Doctor with a grimace. ‘And we may be staying a while this time. All this will help us to establish an identity.’ He shoved the last few papers into the briefcase and closed it with a snap. ‘Come along, Peri, we must be nearly there by now.’ With that, he jumped up and headed for the door.

  ‘Yes, but nearly where?’ muttered Peri.

  She followed him back to the control room.

  For once, the Doctor – and the TARDIS – had got it right. With a discreet murmuring and humming sound, the TARDIS materialised in a quiet corner of Green Park.

  The Doctor came out, Peri close behind him. He took a gold watch from his waistcoat pocket, opened the back and touched a control.

  The TARDIS disappeared.

  Peri looked alarmed. ‘Where’s it gone?’

  ‘She is now in a parking orbit in the space-time continuum.’ The Doctor smiled a little smugly. ‘I think it’s a bit early for her to blend in properly with the police boxes of the period, and we don’t want to have to go chasing after her again, do we?’

  ‘Can you get it – her – back?’

  ‘Of course! Providing the recall circuit works.’

  ‘And if it doesn’t?’

  ‘We’ll just have to settle down here.’ He sniffed dismissively. ‘There’s a war due in a few years. At least things won’t be boring!’

  ‘That’ll be World War Two? When the Germans dropped lots of bombs on London?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  Peri gave him a look. He was treating this like one big game. Peri remembered the bullets flying back in the veldt, the noise, the bodies. Perhaps the Doctor did, too – now he was smiling at her, apologetically.

  ‘Come along, Peri,’ he said.

  They strolled out of the park and walked along Piccadilly. Peri couldn’t help feeling a thrill at being here some thirty years before she was even born. Looking around, she had to admit they fitted in pretty well with the crowds moving along under the overcast sky.

  She thought how different things must be in this time.

  There was radio, of course and the cinema – but no television. No pop music, either, no raves, no clubbing – not as she knew it. There’d be night-clubs of course, and jazz and big band music… Then there was travel. You could fly to Paris and New York by now, if you were part of the jet set… Otherwise, it was long trips by boats… a more leisurely time.

  She was still mulling all this over when the Doctor came to an abrupt halt before a plain-fronted corner building with an ornately-carved entrance.

  ‘Why’ve we stopped?’ asked Peri.

  The Doctor pointed with his stick to the faded letters carved above the door.

  Peri tried to read them. ‘Chol… Cholm…’

  ‘Chumley’s,’ said the Doctor. ‘Spelt Cholmondeley’s, pronounced Chumley’s!’

  ‘Just another little Brit joke to confuse the Yanks, huh?’

  ‘I don’t suppose they’ve ever had a “Yank” in Cholmondeley’s,’ said, the Doctor. ‘You’ll be a first for them.’

  ‘What is the place anyway?’

  ‘It’s a bank – the bank in many ways.’ He smiled. ‘Not the biggest, but one of the oldest and by far the most prestigious.’

  Peri looked at the single word carved above the door. ‘Why doesn’t it say it’s a bank?’

  ‘Because,’ said the Doctor, ‘if you don’t know it’s a bank you’ve no business going in there.’

  ‘So why are we going in?’

  ‘To reclaim my family fortune of course.’ He gave her a mock-dignified look. ‘I shall expect a bit more respect from you, young lady. As it happens, I’m a very wealthy man!’

  The Doctor pushed open the heavy door and ushered Peri inside.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THE BANK

  THE DOOR OPENED to reveal a surprisingly large and luxurious hall with a high ceiling and a marble floor. There was a long mahogany counter, lots of highly polished brass and a hushed cathedral-like atmosphere. Peri sniffed. ‘What’s that smell?’

  ‘Money,’ said the Doctor. ‘Lots and lots of very old money!’

  Just then, a suave-looking type in morning-dress glided towards them. ‘May I be of assistance?’ he asked in languid tones.

  ‘Hope so,’ drawled the Doctor in tones more languid still. ‘Believe I have an account here.’

  The assistant’s eyebrows rose. ‘You – believe, sir?’

  ‘My great, great – forget quite how many greats – grandfather set it up years ago. Went off to South America and forgot all about it. Account’s never really been used.’

  ‘I see, sir. And this ancestor’s name, sir?’

  ‘Smith. Doctor John Smith.’

  ‘And your name?’

  ‘The same,’ said the Doctor blandly. ‘Family name, you see.’

  By now the assistant was looking distinctly sceptical. ‘And the year in which the account was set up, sir?’

  ‘Ah, hang on a minute.’ The Doctor made a great show of thinking hard, then snapped his fingers. ‘Got it! Year
they founded the bank!’

  The assistant’s eyebrows shot up even higher. ‘1816, sir?’

  ‘Sounds about right.’

  ‘You have – documentation?’

  ‘Lord, yes, masses of it.’

  The Doctor opened the leather briefcase and produced an enormous bundle of papers and parchments. The assistant drew a deep breath. ‘I think you’d better come and see Mr Cholmondeley. The manager, sir…’

  Half an hour later, the Doctor and Peri were sitting in a luxurious oak-panelled office sipping sherry.

  Mr Cholmondeley, a round Pickwickian type in gold-rimmed half-moon glasses, looked up from the Doctor’s pile of parchments.

  ‘Well, everything seems to be in order. The account was set up by a Doctor John Smith, for the use of himself and his direct descendants in perpetuity. Your proofs of identity are more than satisfactory. We are at your service, sir.’

  The Doctor nodded graciously.

  Mr Cholmondeley turned back to the Doctor and lowered his voice.

  ‘I don’t know if you realise, sir, but the balance of your account is now extremely large. There was a substantial deposit to begin with, of course, and with cumulative interest for 120 years…’

  He wrote something on a slip of paper with a gold pen and handed it to the Doctor.

  The Doctor glanced carelessly at it for a moment and then showed it to Peri. The figure seemed to have an awful lot of zeros on the end of it.

  ‘How much is that in dollars?’

  The Doctor laughed. ‘I know, I know! It probably seems like small change to you!’ He turned to the manager. ‘Miss Brown is the daughter of old Capability Brown, the American railway tycoon. I’m an old family friend, keeping an eye on her while she tours Europe.’

  ‘Indeed, sir?’ said the manager politely. ‘Well, tell me, how may the Bank be of service to you both?’

  The Doctor drew a deep breath. ‘I’ll need some ready cash, of course – five hundred should do for now. I’d like a cheque book… Oh, and we’d better open a drawing account for Miss Brown as well. And one more thing.’

  Cholmondeley smiled obsequiously. ‘You have only to name it, sir.’

  ‘The P&O Line lost all our luggage, it’s on the way to Penang or somewhere. Only got what we stand up in. We’ll need to buy some replacements till our stuff turns up… Meanwhile my ward and I need a hotel. Looks a bit off, y’know, turning up with no luggage and a young lady in tow. Wonder if you could vouch for us, until everything’s sorted out?’

  ‘A pleasure, sir.’ Cholmondeley rubbed his hands together. ‘Where would you like to stay?’

  ‘We passed a decent looking little place on the way. Just down the road, in Piccadilly. Think you could fix us up there?’

  ‘Many of our clients patronise the establishment you mention, sir. I shall… fix you up without delay.’ The manager raised his voice. ‘Miss Farquharson?’

  A severe-looking grey-haired woman appeared at the door. ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Miss Farquharson, get me the manager of the Ritz Hotel on the telephone, will you, please?’

  Peri and the Doctor were sipping champagne cocktails in the chandeliered sitting-room of the most luxurious hotel suite Peri had ever seen in her life. Somewhere below, the traffic of Piccadilly was muted to a low background murmur.

  ‘Well!’ said Peri. ‘I can’t believe this is happening, Doctor. All this opulence! How come you’ve got so much loot at this Cholthingummies place?’

  ‘Just chance, really. I’d dropped in to congratulate the Duke after Waterloo, and we had a bit of a night on the town. Went to some gambling den or other and I cleaned up at faro. I went to see Prinny down at Brighton the next day and told him the story. I didn’t have much use for the money at the time, and Prinny suggested I deposit it with some crony of his who’d just founded a bank.’ The Doctor laughed. ‘Knowing how dodgy Prinny’s finances were I was lucky not to lose the lot, but it seems to have worked out all right.’

  ‘Slow down,’ said Peri. ‘I need a cast list. The Duke? Prinny?’

  ‘Sorry. The Duke of Wellington and the Prince Regent.’

  ‘And all this happened a hundred years ago?’

  ‘One hundred and twenty to be precise. It’s one of the fringe benefits of being a Time Lord – the investment opportunities are enormous!’

  ‘But how come we’re going in for all this conspicuous consumption? I thought you didn’t approve of this sort of thing.’

  The Doctor looked a little embarrassed. ‘Because we want to enter London society in a hurry.’

  ‘Why?’

  The Doctor looked surprised. ‘To show you some of the elegance you’re after, of course.’

  ‘And to help you find the movers and shakers tinkering with history?’

  The Doctor winced. ‘If you insist!’

  ‘I thought you needed background and breeding and all that sort of thing to get into high society?’

  ‘Don’t you believe it, Peri. Money’s the key, always has been. Wealthy Americans have been sending their daughters over here for years. You’d be surprised how many ended up marrying into the aristocracy.’ He looked at her thoughtfully, much to Peri’s alarm.

  ‘You’re not expecting me to marry anyone?’

  ‘Oh, it won’t come to that,’ said the Doctor. Then he sniffed. ‘Well, probably not, anyway.’

  ‘So what is the great plan for introducing ourselves into society?’

  ‘The manager of Cholmondeley’s Bank and the manager of the Ritz know absolutely everybody between them. And then there’s their respective staff. It won’t take long for news to get round that a rich and mysterious stranger, and an even richer American heiress, have arrived in town.’

  ‘So we start networking, making a few social contacts?’

  ‘Not a bit of it. We sit back and let them come to us.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you can’t get into society if you let them see you want to get into society. They’ll only accept you if you make it clear you couldn’t care less!’

  Peri finished her cocktail, and looked round the luxurious suite. Then she sighed theatrically.

  ‘I guess I can handle staying here for a few days,’ she said.

  The Doctor looked pleased. ‘Just until I can hire a house, of course. We’ll rent somewhere furnished in a good part of town. Then there are servants to be hired… Oh, and we’ll both be needing several new outfits. It’ll mean a good deal of shopping, I’m afraid, especially for you…’

  Peri sighed again and stretched luxuriously. ‘In a good cause, Doctor, I’m prepared to make any sacrifice! How about another of these champagne cocktails?’

  The phone rang and a long white hand lifted the receiver from its stand.

  The deep voice said, ‘Yes?’

  ‘I am sorry to trouble you, Count, and indeed, the matter may be trivial…’ The voice from the phone was male, upper class, yet humble and deferential. ‘I was at the bank earlier and I overheard two of the cashiers gossiping. Some mystery customer has turned up and reactivated a dormant account. A very large account.’

  ‘Why do you tell me this?’

  ‘Because of the Alert. He gave his name as Smith, Doctor John Smith. Had a pretty American girl with him.’ The voice sniggered. ‘Said she was his ward… They took a two-bedroomed suite, keeping up appearances, I suppose.’

  ‘Thank you for letting me know.’

  The receiver was replaced, and, almost immediately, the telephone rang again.

  ‘Yes?’

  The voice had a strong French accent.

  ‘It’s Antoine, under-manager at the Ritz.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I thought it might interest you to know that we have two new customers, a man and a girl. They arrived without luggage but the manager seemed to be expecting them. They have taken one of the best suites and appear to have unlimited funds. The man’s name is –’

  The deep voice cut in. ‘Would the name be Smith, A
ntoine? Doctor John Smith? Accompanied by a Miss Brown, an attractive American girl?’

  There was a long silence before Antoine continued.

  ‘You know already.’ It was a statement, not a question.

  ‘Thank you for calling, Antoine.’

  ‘Do you wish me to take any further action?’

  ‘Not yet. Keep an eye on them. Let me know of any visitors, and inform me at once if they leave the hotel.’

  ‘That is all?’

  ‘That is all, for the moment.’ The knuckles of the long hand grew whiter as the man gripped the phone more tightly. ‘I intend to deal with them myself.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  EXPLOSION

  NEWS OF THE arrival of the wealthy Doctor Smith and his even wealthier American ward soon spread around fashionable London. They dined in the best and most expensive restaurants and took boxes at the opera and the theatre.

  They hired horses and went riding in Rotten Row, then hired a Rolls Royce and chauffeur, and paid brief visits to all the obvious tourist sights.

  It became known that the Doctor was looking for a house to rent. Only the most expensive and exclusive properties were being considered.

  He also wrote formal letters to several of the most exclusive clubs in London, presenting documents that gave him associate and travelling members’ rights.

  Curiosity rose to fever pitch when the Doctor, immaculate in top hat and tails, paid a call at Buckingham Palace and presented certain documents, credentials and letters of introduction.

  At the Palace the Doctor encountered a tall good-looking man with a weak chin. They were both kept waiting in the same ornate ante-room for a time. A suave young Foreign Office aide introduced them.

  ‘Herr von Ribbentrop, may I present Doctor Smith, Honorary Consul for the Republic of Santa Esmerelda? Doctor Smith, allow me to introduce Herr von Ribbentrop, the new German Ambassador.’

  The two men exchanged dignified bows.

  ‘Like yours, Herr von Ribbentrop’s is in a sense an informal visit,’ the aide went on, ‘since His Majesty has not yet been crowned. There will, of course, be formal presentation ceremonies for both of you after the Coronation.’