Doctor Who: Players: 50th Anniversary Edition

by Dicks, Terrance

  ‘Take that muck away,’ growled Churchill.’ Bring a bottle of champagne and three glasses – now!’

  The waiter scurried off.

  Now that he had started unburdening himself, Churchill seemed eager to go on. ‘To make matters worse, the King seems intent upon marrying the woman,’ he growled.

  ‘Why shouldn’t he?’ asked Peri. ‘If he loves her…’

  Churchill looked at her in outrage. ‘An American?’

  Peri frowned at him. ‘What’s wrong with Americans?’

  ‘I mean no disrespect, my dear,’ said Churchill hurriedly. ‘My own mother is American. And indeed if that were all, that obstacle might be overcome. But a foreign woman of dubious reputation, twice-divorced, to be Queen of England? Inconceivable!’

  ‘He’s right, you know, Peri,’ said the Doctor gently. ‘In years to come, things might be different. But right now, in 1936…’

  The waiter came back with the champagne. Churchill poured for them all and took a hearty swig.

  ‘The boy has always had everything he wanted,’ he muttered.’ He has been spoiled and cosseted since birth. He was the darling of the people as Prince of Wales. He cannot tolerate frustration or denial, and with his feelings for Mrs Simpson being what they are… I fear he is now meditating some desperate scheme.’

  The Doctor nodded, glancing around the busy scene. Suddenly, a glint of light caught his eye. He looked upwards and saw the reflection of sunlight on metal high in one of the trees.

  He threw himself at Peri and Churchill, sweeping them bodily out of the way.

  There was the boom of a heavy automatic…

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CONSPIRACY

  THE BRANCHES OF the tree shivered and crackled and something soft and heavy crashed to the ground. It was the body of a man in a greenish-brown tweed suit, still clutching a high-powered sporting rifle.

  The Doctor swung round and saw the massive figure of Dekker some way away, a big automatic still in his hands.

  The garden party crowd, stunned for a moment by the sound of the shot, began shouting and screaming and milling around. One or two elderly dowagers had hysterics, while large men in blue suits converged around the slight figure of the King and bustled him away.

  ‘Sound security procedure,’ muttered the Doctor approvingly. ‘If the target’s still unharmed, get him off the scene as soon as possible and sort things out later.’

  But was the King the target?

  The Doctor turned his attention to Peri and Churchill. ‘Sorry about the shove.’

  ‘No apologies are needed, sir,’ growled Churchill, gesturing towards the body. ‘The justification for your somewhat precipitate action lies there before us. Who is the large gentleman with the automatic, I wonder?’

  ‘My chauffeur,’ said the Doctor.

  ‘A private detective, here to keep an eye on us,’ said Peri.

  The Doctor saw Churchill’s baffled expression and said, ‘Well, as a matter of fact he’s both.’

  As they were talking, all three were instinctively heading for the body at the foot of the tree. So too was Dekker, although his progress was being impeded by several more men in blue suits who seemed to be trying to arrest him. One of them grabbed Dekker’s arm and tried to put it in an arm-lock. Another tried to take his gun. Dekker shook them off with an irritated shrug.

  ‘Can it, you guys, I’m on your side.’

  As the angry plain-clothes policemen closed in again, Churchill bore down on the struggling group, the Doctor and Peri close behind.

  ‘Desist!’ boomed Churchill. ‘This gentleman has done us a great service. We owe him gratitude, not harassment.’

  ‘He’s carrying a gun on palace grounds,’ protested one of the struggling blue suits.

  ‘So was the assassin now lying beneath the tree,’ thundered Churchill. ‘An assassin who seems to have eluded your security arrangements, Chief Inspector Harris. Had it not been for this gentleman’s prompt action, he might well have carried out his fell purpose.’

  ‘All the same, sir, we have to know who he is,’ said Harris, shooting a look at Dekker that was murderous in itself. ‘We’ll need a full statement.’

  ‘He is in my employ,’ said Churchill dismissively. ‘Which is to say, in the employ of government. That is all you need to know for the present. If necessary, I will make a statement later. Meanwhile, you had better make a search of the grounds to ensure that no more of these villains are lurking unseen. You may permit the guests to depart, but advise them not to speak of what has happened here today. And I want a full press embargo. Not one word of this is to appear in any newspaper. Now go!’

  Churchill might be out of office and out of favour, but the rasp of authority in his voice was unmistakable.

  The Chief Inspector went.

  Dekker looked at Churchill. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Churchill nodded towards the gun in Dekker’s hand. ‘A 1911 Model Army Colt point-45, if I’m not mistaken? Heavy, noisy and not too accurate – except in the hands of an expert marksman such as yourself. And a definite man-stopper.’

  ‘You know your guns, sir,’ said Dekker, holstering the automatic.

  They all went over to the body which was being guarded by more plain-clothes policemen. It lay face down, the exit wound forming a massive red-seeping hole between the shoulder blades.

  Peri shuddered and looked away.

  ‘Turn him over,’ muttered Churchill to one of the policemen.

  ‘Not supposed to move the body till the forensic people arrive, sir.’

  ‘We know who killed him,’ rumbled Churchill. ‘Our current concern is with who he is. Now, turn him over.’

  Two of the policemen turned the body over.

  Peri heard an intake of breath from the Doctor, and risked another look.

  The body’s front presented a less gory sight. The tweed coat had flapped open and the entrance wound made a patch of red on the dark green shirt, just over the heart.

  ‘Right through the pump,’ murmured Dekker. He caught sight of Churchill nodding approvingly, and felt impelled to add, ‘Sheer dumb luck. I was just depending on hitting him somewhere, knocking him outta the tree before he could use that rifle.’

  Churchill studied the rifle, still clutched in a death-grip. ‘A sporting Mannlicher. Old-fashioned, but still a fine gun.’

  The Doctor and Peri looked at each other. It wasn’t the wound that held their fascinated attention, but the dead man himself – thin and dark, with a pencil-line moustache. He looked Spanish, or perhaps South American.

  He was the man they had seen trying to assassinate Winston Churchill, thirty-seven years ago, in the Boer War.

  The same man, with the same gun.

  Churchill noticed their reaction. ‘This man is familiar to you?’

  Peri looked at the Doctor, wondering what to say. Slowly, the Doctor shook his head.

  ‘I’m not sure. For a moment I thought he looked like someone I’d seen before, long ago…’

  ‘We must endeavour to establish his identity,’ said Churchill. ‘We need to know his employers and his associates – and why they should wish to strike at the King.’

  ‘If it’s the King they’re after,’ said Peri.

  Churchill looked puzzled. ‘But surely –’

  ‘Mr Dekker, were you able to see who the man with the rifle was aiming at?’ asked the Doctor.

  Dekker shook his head. ‘From where I was standing it looked like any one of you would’ve been in his line of fire. And beyond you was the little fair guy with the crowd round him – the King, right? I guess he’d have been on the same eyeline too.’

  ‘Which takes us no further,’ said Churchill. ‘Surely His Majesty must have been the intended victim. Who else?’

  The Doctor said, ‘You, perhaps.’

  ‘My dear sir, I’m scarcely worth the trouble. A failed politician…’

  ‘Don’t be too sure,’ said Dekker. ‘You’re that Churchil
l guy, right?’

  Churchill’s eyes twinkled. ‘I am indeed that Churchill guy. And you, sir?’

  ‘Dekker. Tom Dekker.’

  The two shook hands.

  ‘I’ve been over here about a year now,’ Dekker went on. ‘I read your London Times to keep up with things here, to get to know the territory.’

  ‘You’ll be buying a bowler hat and a rolled umbrella next,’ said Peri.

  Dekker ignored her. ‘I’ve seen quite a few reports of your speeches, Mr Churchill, attacking Hitler and the Nazis. That Italian fatso too – Mussolini.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Strikes me these dictators are like the old gang bosses, back in Chicago. They’ve got big egos, they don’t mind killing and they don’t like being slanged in public.’

  Churchill nodded thoughtfully. ‘It is a possibility, I suppose. A remote one in my view, but a possibility all the same. What about you, Doctor? Is there any reason why someone should wish to put an end to your existence?’

  ‘I can’t think of one,’ said the Doctor.

  ‘Indeed? Then why did you find it necessary to hire the services of Mr Dekker?’

  The old boy didn’t miss much, thought the Doctor. Winston Churchill was a hard man to deceive.

  Peri said, ‘Someone put a bomb in our hotel room.’

  ‘Aha!’ said Churchill. He looked down at the body. ‘Our assassin has a Latin appearance, Doctor, and you did think he looked familiar. Can it be that the rather volatile politics of your South American homeland are involved?’

  ‘It’s a possibility,’ said the Doctor. ‘But like you I feel it is a remote one. I beg you to be careful, sir. I’m pretty convinced that rifle was aimed at you.’

  ‘And what of your bomb?’

  ‘Perhaps that’s an entirely different story.’

  ‘Or another part of the same wide-reaching conspiracy?’ Churchill studied the Doctor for a moment. ‘I have the feeling that you are not being entirely frank with me, Doctor.’ He smiled. ‘But then, to be honest, I am not being entirely frank with you. I propose a conference.’

  ‘By all means,’ said the Doctor. ‘When and where do you suggest?’

  ‘Not here,’ said Churchill. ‘Perhaps not in London at all. Tomorrow I am returning home to Chartwell. There at least we shall be safe from listening ears and prying eyes. Will you do me the honour of lunching with me there tomorrow? It is a pleasant spot, and the journey from London is not arduous.’

  The Doctor beamed. ‘With the greatest of pleasure.’

  ‘I will take your address and furnish you with directions and a map. And now, perhaps, I had better escort you all from the palace. The sooner you remove yourself from this place the better – particularly you, Mr Dekker. It will not suit your purposes or mine, Doctor, to have your party detained by our over-zealous constabulary…’

  Under Churchill’s protection, their Rolls was allowed to jump the exit queue. Soon Dekker was driving them back down the Mall.

  ‘Will they be able to hush everything up the way Churchill said?’ asked Peri. ‘I would have thought an attempt to kill the King would have been on every front page.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Dekker from the driving seat. ‘In Chicago they’d have the press and radio boys climbing all over them by now. And what about all those folks at the garden party? Bet your life they’re gonna talk.’

  ‘They’ll talk to their friends,’ said the Doctor. ‘London will be buzzing with rumours by now. Some of them may even talk to journalists. But nothing will appear in the newspapers. The British government still keeps the press on a pretty tight leash.’

  ‘I guess you’re right at that, Doctor,’ said Dekker.’ Look at all this business of the King and Wallis Simpson.’

  ‘What about it?’ asked Peri.

  ‘It’s been going on for what, four or five years now. Started back when he was the Prince of Wales. Wallis came over here with her husband, some rich American businessman.’

  Despite herself, Peri couldn’t help being fascinated by a bit of royal gossip. ‘Go on. What happened next?’

  ‘Seems the Prince was knocked out by Wallis as soon as they met. Pretty soon he’d ditched all his English upper-class dames and it was just her.’

  ‘What English dames?’

  ‘His other mistresses,’ said the Doctor.

  ‘Hold it,’ said Peri. ‘Are you telling me that the Prince of Wales had lots of mistresses, and everybody knew?’

  ‘Everybody in the know knew,’ said the Doctor. ‘Court circles, upper-class society…’

  ‘And nobody minded?’

  The Doctor shrugged a little sadly. ‘Why should they? Kings and princes have always had lots of mistresses, it goes with the job. I remember old Charles was always knee-deep in ladies.’

  ‘Charles?’

  ‘King Charles the Second…’ The Doctor glanced at Dekker and added hurriedly, ‘Well, according to the history books.’

  ‘And Joe Public?’ asked Peri. ‘What do they think about the King and Wallis?’

  ‘They don’t know anything about it.’

  ‘The press is that controlled?’

  ‘Not back home,’ said Dekker. ‘Papers back there are full of it.’

  ‘French ones, too,’ said the Doctor ‘Ever since the French decapitated their own royals, they’ve taken an obsessive interest in the English variety.’

  ‘Mind you,’ said Dekker, ‘I think the story’s gonna break pretty soon. Ever since Mrs Simpson’s divorce came through…’

  ‘What’s that got to do with it?’ asked Peri.

  ‘Nobody minded much about Wallis while she was still married,’ said the Doctor.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Peri. ‘It was OK for Wallis to be the King’s mistress because she was married?’

  ‘All his mistresses were married,’ said the Doctor, as if this was blindingly obvious. ‘Part of the convention.’

  ‘Besides,’ said Dekker, ‘while she was safely married to good old Simpson there was no chance of her marrying the King. Now that she’s free again, for the second time…’

  Peri nodded, remembering their earlier conversation with Churchill. ‘So now the government’s all stirred up,’ she said. ‘Well, I think it’s romantic.’

  The Doctor sighed, ‘The King’s attitude may be romantic, but it’s not realistic.’

  ‘What do you think he should do?’ challenged Peri.

  The Doctor shrugged. ‘Not for me to say.’

  ‘The lordly observer, huh,’ said Peri. ‘This society is too weird! It’s a mixture of social formality and rampant immorality!’

  Dekker took a sharp corner, feeding the wheel through his big hands.

  ‘What you gotta remember is, the people on top make their own rules to suit themselves,’ he said. ‘Same thing back in Chicago. If Big Al fancied some doll from the chorus line, he set her up in a fancy apartment somewhere. Same way as if he had to bribe a juror, or corrupt a cop, or rub out a rival mobster – he just went ahead and did it. Right and wrong don’t come into it!’

  By now they were outside the house in Hill Street. Rye, the butler, had seen the car arrive, and was waiting at the door to greet them.

  ‘You make a very good point, Mr Dekker,’ said the Doctor, as they got out of the car. ‘Ruling elites always think that laws, rules and regulations – morals even – are only for lesser mortals. That can be a very dangerous attitude.’

  With the Rolls parked, and out of his chauffeur’s uniform, Dekker joined Peri and the Doctor in the little sitting-room for drinks. He poured himself a bourbon, and the Doctor poured Peri a glass of the Duke’s claret.

  ‘I don’t know how you feel about things, Doctor Smith,’ said Dekker a little awkwardly. ‘Or how much money you want to spend. I’m not touting for business, but… well, in view of what’s going on, it might be better if I stuck around for a while.’

  ‘Please do, Mr Dekker,’ said the Doctor. ‘And take any other measures you feel are necessary.�
��

  Dekker nodded. ‘The alarm systems and other security measures are already in place, and I’ll keep up the outside surveillance.’

  ‘I didn’t see anybody,’ said Peri.

  ‘You’re not supposed to!’ said Dekker. ‘The thing is, Doctor, all this is going to cost you a bundle. The agency is good, but it ain’t cheap.’

  ‘Expense is no object,’ said the Doctor grandly. ‘Is it, Peri?’

  ‘Not when it comes to stopping mad tree-climbing assassins it isn’t!’

  Dekker nodded and sipped his bourbon. ‘That’s good to know!’

  It was pleasant in the little sitting-room and they were still chatting idly an hour later. Then they heard a knock at the door and low voices. Upon the Doctor’s command, Rye came into the room carrying two envelopes.

  ‘Two communications have arrived, sir.’

  One envelope was large, white and official looking with some kind of official seal. The other was smaller, violet in colour.

  ‘Looks like business and pleasure,’ said the Doctor, rubbing his hands together. ‘Business first!’ He opened the larger envelope and studied the contents.

  ‘An invitation to lunch at Chartwell tomorrow, complete with map.’ He passed the envelope to Dekker. ‘Good old Churchill, efficient as ever. Perhaps you’ll drive us down there, Mr Dekker?’

  ‘That is, if you can squeeze back into your chauffeur’s uniform?’ teased Peri.

  Dekker studied the map. ‘Sure thing.’

  The Doctor opened the second envelope which held a hand-written note on expensive notepaper.

  ‘Ah. This is just a little awkward…’

  He passed it to Peri. It was a note inviting them both to lunch next day at a flat in Bryanston Court. Peri read the ending aloud. ‘“Do please come, I have a most distinguished guest who is longing to meet you again…” Wow, Doctor, it’s from Wallis Simpson!’ She grinned at him. ‘What’s so awkward about it?’

  ‘Conflicting invitations,’ said the Doctor. ‘We’re going to have lunch with Churchill.’

  ‘You are,’ said Peri.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We’ll just have to divide our forces. You and Dekker drive down to Chartwell and talk politics with Winston, and I’ll take a taxi round to this Bryanston Court and get the latest scoop on the royal scandal from Wallis.’