Doctor Who: The Crimson Horror
Date: 2021-03-11 00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: kindle; fiction; sf; science fiction; doctor who
Publisher: Ebury Publishing
Rights: Novelisation copyright &#169; Mark Gatiss 2021

Mark Gatiss

DOCTOR WHO THE CRIMSON HORROR

Based on the BBC television adventure
The Crimson Horror by Mark Gatiss

Contents

1. Cover
2. Title Page
3. About the Author
4. Dedication
5. To my heirs
6. Prologue

7. Chapter the First ‘City of Dreadful Delights’

8. Chapter the Second ‘Mr Gideon Mortlock Presents Himself’

9. Chapter the Third ‘The Siren of Cripplegate’

10. Chapter the Fourth ‘A Study in Crimson’
11. Chapter the Fifth ‘Satanic Mills’
12. Chapter the Sixth ‘Sweets to the Sweet’
13. Chapter the Seventh ‘Diary of a Madman’

14. Chapter the Eighth ‘Through a Glass, Darkly’

15. Chapter the Ninth ‘Dame’s Rocket’

16. Copyright

1. Cover
2. Frontmatter
3. Table of Contents
4. Begin Reading

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About the Author

Mark Gatiss is a screenwriter, director, producer and actor. He is one member of The League of Gentlemen and has written for and acted in Doctor Who, Sherlock (the latter of which he co-created with Steven Moffat along with the acclaimed miniseries Dracula) and many others.

For Diana

“Be quiet. No weeping here. Your tears come from your eyes only; when mine come I’ll be alone”.

To my heirs –

I am all too conscious, as I assemble this rambling narrative, that it may prove altogether too fantastical for the reader to believe. If these pages do indeed come down to you, descendants of the Thursday line (in the confident and expectant hope that a young lady will one day accept my unworthy hand!) then I trust that you will look kindly on your ancestor and do not look upon these scribblings, instead, as pointing to any softening of the brain.

I have attempted, in a regrettably haphazard fashion, to collect into a coherent story the various accounts which began in 1893 with my unfortunate brother’s disappearance and ended in a sooty alleyway in Bradford – and the altogether more mysterious disappearance of a tall blue box. Together these journal entries, phonographic recordings, scribbled notes, eye-witness accounts and best guesses constitute what the yellow press came to call ‘The Crimson Horror’ – and its curious prequel.

There is much here that is unaccountable. Much that is baffling and strange. But though you may suspect your unfortunate relative to have been under the influence of Mr Wells’ scientific romances or, more perfidious even than sensational literature, to have been in the thrall of the Green Fairy, all that you are about to read is TRUE.

Even the sillier parts.

Jonas Thursday. Islington. 1895.

Prologue

To Madam Vastra, I am always the Woman.

Or at least I should bleeding well hope so. She has a bit of a wandering eye even beneath that heavy veil. A very beautiful, glittering reptilian eye, I might add – but a wandering one all the same.

The Crimson Horror! Blimey, yes. How could I ever forget it? I remember the case well, being as how it was the first time that the Mistress, that is Madam Vastra, entrusted me, that is Jenny Flint, with a delicate mission on me own. By then, see, she had enough faith in me to know I wouldn’t muck it up. Or hoped I wouldn’t at any rate.

Up until now, it had mostly been the three of us. Me, the Mistress and Strax but with the Mistress very much taking the lead. We’d been set up there at No. 13, Paternoster Row for quite a few years and a very cosy little situation it had become.

Madam was the lady of the house – though veiled when outside owing to, well, what she like to call her ‘striking visage’. Strax – who had a striking visage all his own – was cook and butler and made a very dapper example of the London slavvy, I must say, despite his great potato head. And me, I did for Madam Vastra – general housekeeping, laying the fire and whatnot. I also did other things – but that come rather more under the heading of pleasure than work.

When we wasn’t at home, we was off having adventures, Madam being what she privately billed herself as, the world’s only consulting reptile detective. Clients had been thin on the ground to start with but word had eventually got around that if you had some queer business that needed sorting, if the official channels and the police could provide no succour, then Madam Vastra was your woman. Or your late-Cretaceous reptilian life form whose people had been the original rulers of Earth, if you want to split hairs.

But the Crimson Horror was a matter quite unlike any other we investigated.

It really began with— oh hang on, though. No! There was another case. A case that come first! Back in 1888, before old Straxxy was with us. And we didn’t know it at the time but it was sort of connected. It was a strange business (as all the good ones are), involving some of the highest and some of the lowliest in the land. And it was the case where I first clapped me peepers on the Doctor, having only heard of him by repute, as it were. So, if you’ve a moment or two to spare and you’re tucked up in bed or by a nice blazing hearth with a glass or three of madeira, I’ll tell you all about it. I’ll fill in the bits what I wasn’t concerned with in a sort of authory way, like Conan Doyle does or Dickens did or that other one that Madam likes who was a lot odder and always poorly.

You game?

Chapter the First

‘City of Dreadful Delights’

Being the reminiscences of Miss Jenny Flint, lady’s maid of Paternoster Row, London.

The year ’88 furnished us with a series of cases of greater or lesser interest. (This is me, you see, coming over all Authory!) Spring brought us the matter of Miss Gregory’s Disgrace, and then the business of the Man with the Manganese Teeth while all through the summer we was hard at it on the curious affair of the Sentient Battenburg. After these exertions, Madam had been all for a little holiday in Margate when an evening stroll through the streets of Whitechapel changed everything.

Outside the Pomegranate Music Hall, or the ‘Old Pom’ as we always called it – a bustling, lop-sided dear of a place that occupied the corner of Newark Street and Stepney Way – posters was plastered all over the slimy brickwork. One such stood out above all –

‘CUPID’S FROLIC!’ – ‘A musical mixture.

With beautiful scenery and charming effects.’

“MISS FLORRIE BOOTH – the jolly jack tar.”

“With a little bit o’ scrimshaw in me hand”.

‘ALL-BRITANNIA APTITUDE CONTEST – at the Pomegranate Halls.

Every night at 8 under the stewardship of Mr Gideon Mortlock!’

By the merest chance, the Mistress and me happened to be walking past the Old Pom that night, strolling back towards the Underground, arm in arm, after we’d been to a meeting of the Fabians. We was full of excited chatter about the new world what we was going to help build, of the fairer and more just society that Britain would become – and of what a looker that Annie Besant was, who had been speaking with such passion at the town hall meeting. That was when we heard the cry that all people dread – unless you’re us. For this particular cry is often the call to adventure!

‘Murder! Oh Gawd, MURDER!!’

Madam turned to me and I could see her eyes gleam even through her heavy black veil. ‘Murder?’ she said.

I smiled, a little guiltily. ‘No doubt … ’orrible. Let’s have a gander. Could be a juicy one.’

Madam sighed theatrically and put a hand to her breast. ‘Ah me, there speaks the modern world.’ Then she hitched up her skirts and pulled me forward. ‘Come on then!’

The cry of ‘Murder!’ rang out again and we followed it to a small alleyway round the back of the Hall. A very young copper, with one of them smooth blushing faces that boys only ever have at that age, was standing in the shadows, his bulls-eye lamp held in one, gloved hand. A small crowd had gathered round him, including a toothless crone, who turned her wrinkled face away from whatever lurked there in the dark. And what the lamp light revealed was a corpse. A corpse without a head!

The copper looked at what his lamp revealed – turned and was nosily sick on the cobbles.

Madam and me was by his side in a moment. ‘My dear fellow,’ said Madam. ‘You do look peaky. Allow us to be of service.’ She turned to me. ‘Look after the officer, would you, my dear?’

‘Very kind of you, miss, I’m sure,’ said the lad ‘… but I’m quite recovered now.’

Nevertheless, I dutifully took him to one side, all caring and solicitous-like – so that Madam could have a good shufty at the body.

’I suppose his head must be around here somewhere,’ I heard Madam mutter, then she bent down and seemed to take something from the corpse’s loud, checked suit.

‘’Ere!’ said the copper. ‘You shouldn’t be interfering with—’

Madam prodded the corpse with her cane and blood fountained messily from the severed neck. The copper promptly spilled his guts again.

‘Well, good night, Officer,’ said Madam, turning away. ‘Hope you get your man.’ She winked at me – and I took the copper’s arm.

‘Come on, love,’ I said to the poor kid. ‘I’ll sort you out. You know, I thought you boys went round in pairs?’

‘Yes,’ he said, wiping his mouth. ‘Gerald usually does this with me but he’s poorly … ’

Ten minutes or so later, I met Madam on the street corner. ‘Well?’

For answer she unfolded her gloved hand, revealing a screw of bloodied paper. ‘Got this from the corpse’s pocket,’ she whispered.

I flattened it out. On it was scrawled a bold message:

‘MORTLOCK IS NOT WHAT HE SEEMS’

*

The next night found us at the Pom itself, having purchased two thruppenny tickets for the main event. The whole place was humming with life, a blur of light and colour and laughter and stray fights, like one of them pictures by Sickert, heaving with patrons, right up to the Gods, singing their lungs out, spitting and hawking and chucking peanuts across the aisles at each other. Drink was plentiful, guzzled down from flat brown bottles and a man with a sloshing tin-can roamed round the place crying ‘Portaaaaar! Portaaar!’ Lots of the crowd was waving home-made banners proclaiming ‘The best of luck to Mr Winthrop!’, ‘We love you, Anne!’, ‘Huzzah for the Boneless Wonder!’ and things like that. As the orchestra tuned up in the pit the crowd yelled, ‘Now then, you cat-gut scrapers! Let’s have a ha’p’orth of liveliness!’

On stage, as we come in, a Chinese knife-throwing act was taking a bow. There was whoops of appreciation and applause and as we pushed our way past the well-oiled patrons, the ruddy-faced, one-armed Chairman, Billy Skittles – the brass buttons on his old, red soldiering coat polished to buggery – staggered to his feet in his little box by the side of the stage and banged his gavel. Behind him was a painted back-drop proclaiming ‘THE ALL-BRITANNIA APTITUDE CONTEST’.

‘Pete and his Tongs, ladies and gentlemen! All the way from the H’imperial Palace at Peking! Via Camden Town, that is!’

The boozy crowd laughed.

‘Ave I seen anyfink so h’illustrious? Never in all my puff!’ continued Billy. ‘Not since the Battle of Inkerman! Inkerman where I lost this!’ Here he patted his empty sleeve. ‘Which ’as left me feeling … ’

‘ALL RIGHT DOWN ONE SIDE!’ joined in the crowd.

Old Billy beamed at this, then turned to the Royal Box (or what would have been the Royal Box had not the Old Pom been such a heinous dive). ‘Now then, and what did our wenerable judges make of them, eh?’

We all looked up. Seated in the box was three persons. One was a ginger Irishman. The second, a pretty but sort of expressionless woman on the wrong side of forty. The third was a dark-haired, glowering man with huge black moustaches.

‘Pete and ’is Tongs,’ continued Billy Skittles. ‘Mr O’Kane, sir?’

The Irishman rubbed his bristly red chin and grinned. ‘Oh I loved them. LOVED THEM! I’d say I loved them a hundred and fifty billion per cent. No, two hundred and fifty billion—’

‘Thank you!’ cried Billy, cutting him off. ‘Miss Polly?’

The woman seemed about to speak but her creaseless face remained unchanged. At last, she stuck two thumbs up. The crowd cheered. Madam and me joined in.

Then Billy turned to the last judge. ‘And finally … Mr Mortlock?’ Madam and me exchanged a glance.

But this cove remained silent. The crowd murmured expectantly as he stroked his luxuriant moustaches like a villain in a melodrama.

‘I’m afraid … ’

The audience groaned in despair.

‘… you won’t be … ’

Deeper groans!

‘… disappointed to learn … ’

Hope in our breasts!

‘… that you’re going through … ’

Deep joy!

‘… to the stage door … ’

No!

‘… to take a cab …’

Now we was baffled.

‘… to go around the block – and then join the others on stage in the final of the All-Britannia Aptitude Contest!’

Everyone cheered. We joined in. You couldn’t help getting swept up in it all, see.

Billy banged his gavel for a bit of hush and gripped his lapel. ‘Capital! Capital! Now then – really, listen – we his spoiling you – the time ’as come, my friends! Her what you has hall taken to your ’earts and then some! Have I seen ’er like? Not since Inkerman, where I got this ’ere stump, no indeed!’

The audience began to shush each other, thrilled with expectation. Billy Skittles cleared his throat and bellowed: ‘The Siren of Cripplegate herself. Miss … Anne … Dante!!’

At this pronouncement, silence fell like snow. And in that moment, a beautiful, crystal clear voice rose from nowhere. It was singing some opera or other and I turned to Madam, as I often do, for elucidation. ‘O Mio Bambino Caro,’ she breathed, closing her eyes in joy. The sound was simply incredible. Like listening to a frozen white waterfall tinkling into life. As pure and wonderful as you could possibly imagine.

And then the singer herself swept on-stage; a stunning brunette, with an impish look, dressed in a flowing white gown, what you might imagine on an angel. The whole theatre was filled with her fantastic, swooping voice as though she was spinning something delicate and fragile as lace in the air over our heads.

At last, she reached the end of her aria (that’s what Madam says such tunes is called) and the crowd went crazy. Stamping their feet and applauding like the Queen herself had come on, though her Majesty never got such a boisterous hat-tip as the crowd at the Old Pom gave, I’ll wager. Miss Dante looked very pleased, as well she might, and gave a neat little curtsey and a cheeky little smile before dashing off stage left.

‘What talent! What flair!’ cried Billy Skittles. ‘But will this hand-maiden of Terpsichore make it through to the grand final? Only our judges can decide … ’

I looked once again at the box where Mr O’Kane, Miss Dolly and Mr Mortlock was gazing down, like a jury at some weird Alice in Wonderland trial. Getting to their feet, the judges stood up and began to file out of the Royal Box. Evidently it was the interval.

‘But first, a little treat!’ cried Billy. ‘You loved ’em last year! You’ll love ’em all over again! I give you, last year’s winners: the sensational “Dee-Vertiss-Mont”!’

There was a blast of brass from the pit and a troop of strapping Acrobats began to tumble and roll onto the stage in a blur of pink tights and fleshings. Two trapeze-swings dropped from the flys.

Madam turned to me and whispered in my ear. ‘As arranged then, my dear? I’ll make my way backstage. You stay here and keep an eye on things.’

‘OK.’

Though what exactly I was meant to keep me eye on other than a lot of very athletic lads
in almost the altogether, I don’t know.

There was a drum roll and one of the Acrobats – a lithe boy with tumbling golden curls – jumped on board the first hanging swing, swooping dangerously back and forth across the stage.

He was then immediately joined by another one – a great big fella with curved moustaches like a circus strong man and thighs you’d be hard pushed to get both hands around – swinging in the opposite direction. We all gasped as the two Acrobats flung themselves from the safety of their swings, crossing in mid-air and then deftly landing on the opposite trapeze.

We’d only just recovered from this display when, suddenly, a woman screamed!

I looked up again. Someone had tumbled from the flys!

It was a fella by the look of it – and he landed heavily on a sand-bag, suspended from the end of a rope. I couldn’t make out much of him – just a tweedy jacket and narrow trousers but, at once, the rope he dangled on began to swing dangerously back and forth, like a huge pendulum.

The fella, whoever he was, clung on for dear life. Then there was a tearing sound as his boot caught on the sandbag and the contents began to drizzle out across the stage. Someone else shrieked at this new development. We all knew what it meant. As the sand ran out, so did the chump’s best means of staying on the rope!

The curly haired Acrobat then swung, literally, into action. Manoeuvring to hang by his feet, he sent his trapeze sailing towards the stranded fella – stretching out his muscly arms to catch him. He swooped towards the stranded chap, who kept one hand clinging to the rope then reached out the other towards the Acrobat.

Their fingers almost touched …

Almost.

We all gasped. This was even better than the acts what went before!

But they didn’t quite make it. The two fellas’ outstretched fingers remained tantalising inches apart. Curly Hair swung back the way he’d come and the audience groaned. More sand spilled to the stage. The fella’s grip on the rope slackened.

Now the second Acrobat did his stuff – but this time he gripped onto the trapeze with his hands and splayed out his massive long legs, the muscles bulging like cantaloupes in his pink tights, to catch the poor unfortunate who was hanging by a thread. Big Thighs opened and closed his lallies like a pair of scissors and nodded to the man, reassuringly, as if to say, ‘I’ll catch you!’

As the last of the sand tumbled out, the stranded fella carried the momentum of his rope towards Big Thighs – and hurled himself into the embrace of his saviour’s legs!

We all ‘ooohed’ and ‘aaahed’ as the fella and the Acrobat swung back and forth, the fella clinging onto his rescuer’s thighs in the sort of arrangement I’d only previously seen in private photographic displays.

Quick as a flash, Curly Hair called down to his tumbling pals on stage and, with whoops and hollers, they began to assemble themselves into a human pyramid! In the blink of an eye, they had formed a great, tottering mountain of biceps and straining calves. Curly Hair lowered himself from the trapeze and took his place at the top of the human pyramid, arms outstretched, ready to catch the dangling bloke above.

The crowd was totally hushed as, with perfect precision, Big Thighs let the fella slide gently down his legs – hand over hand – and onto the shoulders of his pal Curly Hair below.

For a moment, the fella stood there in triumph at the apex of the pyramid, grinning like an idiot, his glossy hair shining in the limelight. The crowed went crackers. Then his ankles began to wobble.

Curly Hair clasped his hand around the fella’s booted shins to steady him –

– but it was too late. The pyramid began to totter and, with a great cry, the daft bloke fell over the acrobats, landing with an ungainly thump on the stage.

A great press of people rushed forward onto the stage and Billy Skittles come out from his little box to usher us back.

‘Please! Please! Make room! Make room! This ain’t Balaclava!’ he protested.

I’d like to say the mob was concerned for the chap’s welfare but it was just as likely they wanted to see if he’d ended up a pile of brains and shattered cartilage on the bare boards.

The tweedy fella looked OK, if a bit winded. He was a very striking looking cove, with sparkling little eyes and a long face that put me in mind of a handsome horse. His dicky bow had come undone and he sat up, looking a bit dazed.

I went to help him up but suddenly another arm shot out in my place. It belonged to Madam, standing by my side, helping the stranger to his feet and lifting her veil just a fraction.

‘Doctor!’ she cried.

He peered at her and a huge grin split his face. ‘Vastra!’ The fella re-tied his bow tie and grinned. ‘This is a bit of luck!’

Disappointed that he had survived, the crowd began to melt away.

‘This,’ said Madam, laying a gentle hand on my arm, ‘is Miss Jenny Flint.’

The Doctor leapt to his feet and waved a long, bony hand at me. ‘Hello! Lovely to meet you!’ he said, then put his arm round Madam’s shoulder and under the gaggle of the remaining mob whispered, conspiratorial-like: ‘There’s something very funny going in this theatre.’

Chapter the Second

‘Mr Gideon Mortlock Presents Himself’

Madam had told me all about the Doctor of course. How he’d found her after she’d been disturbed from her slumbers by workmen digging a new extension to the Underground. How he’d convinced her that she really didn’t need to wreak revenge on us ‘upstart apes’ for taking away her world and that she might find life in London not too bad after all. And so it had proved, her taking to it like an ichthyosaur to water – so to speak. After that, they’d been in a number of scrapes together. I recall how, one summer evening, Madam had pulled out a great sheaf of papers from her travelling trunk and took me breathlessly through some of them. ‘The Affair of the Cringing Jesuit’. ‘The Matter of the Mahogany Wasp’. ‘The Curious Case of the Inconsequential Widow’. ‘Now there was an adventure!’ breathed Madam, the firelight sparkling in her eyes. ‘Six months of hard work from Scotland to Ecuador – and an alien consciousness at its evil heart!’

I couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy that this was all before my time. The Doctor’d been a great friend and mentor to Madam, that was clear, and I’d known he might show up again. I just wasn’t sure quite how I felt about it.

Anyways, the three of us met up again first thing next morning. I didn’t know where the Doctor was staying – Madam said something about a sort of travelling box he had which made me think of him living in a gypsy caravan – but we was all refreshed and ready for action when we sat down to a cuppa in a little Italian café off the Old Kent Road run by an old mate of mine, Sally Forth. Well, when I say mate, I mean we sort of knocked around together at school on account of both of us not having many friends. The other pupils seemed to know I was a bit different and they was quite cruel. And Sally was one of them kids that always ponged a bit (well, ponged even more than the rest of us) and was a bit away with the fairies so they was pretty merciless to her too. So we ended up becoming fast friends, as misfits of all complexions often do.

The Mistress, the Doctor and me had a table right by the window but there was two big, bosomy ladies with feathery hats right by us so we kept our chat on the down low.

‘Someone tried to kill me last night,’ said the Doctor.

‘Occupational hazard, surely?’ said Madam.

‘That’s true.’ The Doctor smiled and nodded at me. ‘Glad to see you’re settling in, Vastra. It’s always a good idea to make friends with the locals.’

‘So you was pushed from the flys?’ I whispered, trying to be discreet-like.

‘Yes. Long story. Well, longish. I came to the Pomegranate Halls looking for a man named Bob Blood. Not a nice man. Not nice at all. And with very bad taste in suits.’

Me and the Mistress looked at each other. ‘Checked suits?’ she said.

‘Yes. Why?’

‘We discovered a headless corpse round the back of the Pom!’ I breathed. ‘In a very loud suit!’

‘Could be him,’ mused the Doctor. ‘Though he doesn’t have a monopoly on sloppy tailoring.’

‘Why were you looking for him?’ asked Madam.

‘Well, you see I was at a loose end. Sort of. In the TARDIS. Started reading old back issues of the Illustrated London News, you know, just for fun. In the bath. Though that can be quite tricky. And I hate that feeling you get when your fingers go all wrinkly—’

‘Doctor.’

‘Yes. Sorry. Sorry. Anyway, I came across a few references to some very strange deaths. People with their heads blown clean off. It looked like there was a pattern. So I thought I might, you know, slip back in time and do a bit of sleuthing.’

‘Certainly bore fruit with Spring-Heeled Jack!’ cried Madam.

‘Yeah!’ enthused the Doctor. ‘And the Glass Submersible! Remember that one?’

They giggled – and I must own to feeling a bit left out again. It’s never easy when old pals meet up and reminisce. It’s like going to a party where you’re someone’s new lady-love. There’s all sorts of how d’you do-ing and don’t you look nice and glasses of pop but, after a while, you’re left in the corner on your lonesome, nursing a tumbler of gin and a bad case of the dumps.

‘People get their heads blown off all the time,’ I interjected, a bit sourly. ‘How’d you know they weren’t just topping themselves with shotguns?’

The Doctor smiled. A sort of dangerous, mischievous smile and his dark little eyes shone like raisins in dough. ’It’s the precision of it, Jenny – I may call you Jenny, mayn’t I?’

I nodded.

‘The heads appeared to have been sort of sliced off. Very cleanly. But not by any known weapon.’

‘Alien?’ queried Madam.

‘No reason to think so. Not this time. At least, not yet. This fellow Blood was a reporter. And he reckoned there was a connection between the deaths and the Pomegranate Halls. I arranged to meet him but he didn’t show up.’

Madam took something from her sleeve and flattened it on the table. It was the piece of blood-stained paper she’d found on the corpse.

The Doctor peered down at it. ‘“Mortlock is not what he seems.” What exactly do you know about the All-Britannia Aptitude Contest?’

‘Not much,’ I grinned. ‘But I know a woman who does!’ I turned to the mop-haired, dumpy gal behind the tea-bar. ‘’Ere, Sal! A word in your shell-like!’

Sally Forth, you see – a mass of greasy red curls and squashed up face like a Hallowe’en turnip – was what you might call an enthusiast. She had all this information stuffed in her bonce: railways timetables, tides, lunar cycles, who was doing what to whom and where. Not all of it useful, mind you, but if you needed some info in a hurry, if you needed to get the boat train to Deauville on a whim or find out whether the rozzers thought saucy Jack was at his work again, Sal was your gal. A regular Bradshaw she was – with a generous side helping of the News of the World. So I asked her what she knew of the ‘All-Britannia Aptitude Contest’.

‘Oh, I loves it!’ she trilled happily, plonking her rump down on a stool next to us. I’ve been every night ’cept last night. Missed it ’cos of work, but a pal of mine has recorded it.’

‘Recorded it?’ said Madam.

‘Yes, love. He works on the halls. A “Memory Man” he is. He can remember every last scrap of the show. Does all the voices and everything. Apparently there was this pillock what fell out of the flys right onto his—’

‘Yes, yes,’ said the Doctor quickly. ‘And what about the acts?’

‘“The Boneless Wonder” was my favourite, sir,’ said Sally mournfully. ‘But he got knocked out. Seems you can only wrap your legs round your head a few times before the public gets bored.’

‘They’re terribly fickle like that,’ said the Doctor.

‘And what about the singer?’ I asked. ‘Anne Dante?’

Sally winked at me. ‘I knew you’d be giving her the glad eye, Jen. A beauty she is! And that voice! Like sumfink sent from On High. It’s hers for the taking, I reckon.’

‘And the judges?’ said Madam.

Sally pulled a face and started to wrap one of her curls round her finger. ‘Rum lot. That Irishman is a bit silly. Polly Whatshername – Polly Wallydoodle – she used to be a singer – well, they say she’s always taking all sorts of pills and potions to keep the years at bay. Monkey glands, I shouldn’t wonder. And as for that Mortlock … ’

‘Yes?’ The Doctor’s forehead creased into frowns like tram lines.

‘People love to hate him. And he plays up to that, of course. But I dunno. I think there’s sumfink really queer about him. Diabolical.’

That night, outside the old Pom, a crowd of people was swarming around the stage door. It was a sea of shiny toppers and gaily turned out bonnets, and I was stationed among them, keeping a weather eye on it all. But three of the throng, pressed close to the railings, had a particularly unhealthy pallor and their crumpled apparel would give distress to the denizens of Savile Row.

‘Excuse me!’ said the first – a rotund man called Arthur, who had a big head like a baby’s and cross eyes, one looking at you, one looking for you – as the crowd surged forward. ‘Do you mind?’ he hissed. ‘The nerve of some people. Were they here all last week? No they bloomin’ well were not.’ Arthur pitched his voice up so as to be heard above the din. ‘We’ve loved Miss Dante right from the start! Not like you lot!’

Arthur and his friends, you see, was of that very particular breed who like to queue up outside of theatrical establishments in order to secure the scribbled signatures of their heroes. In his fat, crocodile-skinned book, Arthur had ’em all. Mr Tree. Miss Terry. Mr Irving. Miss Millward and Mr Terris. But all his current delight lay in the angelic form which was just that minute arriving in a hansom.

The crowd parted as the cab drew up. The door swung open and Anne Dante stepped gracefully down onto the street.

Flash! The air filled with powder and smoke as the press tried to grab pictures of the Siren herself. ‘Over here, Anne! Anne, darlin’! This way!’ they cried, struggling to reload their flash plates, spilling powder all over themselves and the pavement.

Arthur dashed up to her, autograph book in hand. ‘Superlative again last night, Miss Dante,’ he gabbled. ‘Could I be so bold as to ask for your signature for my … sister?’

But Anne smiled sweetly and simply breezed past him into the theatre without a word.

‘Oh,’ said Arthur. ‘She’ll be disappointed in that.’

He was resolved to wait for her exit, when she would no doubt be in a better humour and had gone so far as to take out a shooting stick to plant his rear on, when an idea occurred to him. He watched the stagehands, carrying props and crates, as they swept by, unchallenged, into the theatre. And he smiled.

*

Now I wasn’t there for this next bit and I’ve had to rely on what I was subsequently told, so this is me being ‘authory’ again. Wilkie Collins! That’s the cove. The sickly one what Madam likes so much. Anyways. You get the gist!

‘It says “Access All Areas”,’ said the Doctor.

He was in the vestibule of the Pom, deep in conversation with the stage-door keeper, who sat with long legs stretched out, in a cluttered little booth, pictures of the great and good of the Profession pinned to the walls. Piccolo, for that was the door keeper’s name, was an extremely tall, elderly Italian with close-cropped steely grey hair and an odd, high-pitched voice which had earned him his nickname. He peered myopically at a small square of blank paper which the Doctor had handed him and pulled a face.

‘But I know nothing of this,’ trilled Piccolo. ‘It is most unorthodox … All areas?’

‘Yeah. Listen, I don’t have time for this, mush,’ continued the Doctor. ‘I’ve got deadlines to meet. This pass has got me everywhere. A tête à tête with Barnum. Tea with Annie Oakley. A lock-in with Metallica.’ The Doctor held his breath, trusting that his special paper with a mind of its own would do its work.

At that moment, Anne Dante glid inside, like a great, slender lily, and Piccolo hastily opened the door for her.

‘Signora Dante!’ he piped. ‘And how are we today?’

For answer, Anne merely smiled and graciously inclined her head, like a Dowager agreeing that we shall have fog by teatime.

At last, Piccolo sighed and handed back the paper to the Doctor. ‘If you would care to wait here, signor, I shall pass word to Signor Mortlock.’

‘Thank you.’

Whilst he waited, the Doctor could see, through the half-open door, various acts, going through their elaborate routines, readying for the second half. There was a ventriloquist with a rather ghastly ginger-polled doll. A unicyclist with big red circles painted on his cheeks. And a woman dressed as a man in evening clothes who was belting the hell out of ‘Who Were You With Last Night?’

And then, unnoticed by any, a very large man with a head like a baby’s came inside, a crate of stuff with a stencil on the side, carried on one shoulder. With a furtive look round, Arthur went in.

At last, Piccolo returned and, with a wave from the lanky old Italian, the Doctor passed through, smiling pleasantly at the acts, and found himself, almost at once, in the wings of the theatre – a dark and sacred place, dense with scenery and fly ropes where generations of actors and performers had stood, guts flipping over, wondering why the devil they had agreed to do this silly thing in the first place.

On the stage, ringed in a great spot of yellow light, a big young girl with knickerbockers like concertinas and ribbons in her hair was struggling to spin a tin top. The huge audience – even bigger than the previous night – was giving her hell. Braying and booing and hurling food at her like sumfink from the last days of Rome.

‘I understand you wish to see me?’

The Doctor turned to be confronted by the saturnine figure of Gideon Mortlock, dressed top to toe in black, his dark eyes flashing in the limelight.

‘If that’s quite convenient,’ said the Doctor.

‘I rarely speak to representatives of Grub Street. But I can spare you … ’ He took out his watch. ‘… four minutes.’

He began to move off but the Doctor hung back a moment, looking at the girl on the stage and the distorted faces of the crowd who yelled at her. ‘The Mob in full cry,’ he murmured. ‘Never an edifying spectacle.’

Mortlock shrugged. ‘Bread and circuses, my friend.’

He led the Doctor into a small back room where the other two judges were grouped around a table, photographs spread before them.

Mortlock bent down and prodded one photograph with his finger, ‘Elimination,’ he said, stroking his moustaches.

‘You’re kidding! cried O’Kane. ‘I’d back him a billion per cent, a trillion per cent—’

‘You’re doing it again, Pat,’ said Polly Wallydoodle through tight lips.

‘Sorry.’

Mortlock rolled his eyes. ‘This gentleman is from the Pall Mall Gazette. If you’d excuse us?’

The pair got up to leave. The Doctor gripped O’Kane by the hand. ‘Mr O’Kane! Big fan, big fan. and you – !’ He turned to Dolly. ‘Nice to see you. I’ve got all your song-sheets!’

Polly seemed pleased but unable to smile. She went out.

‘I’m sorry I can’t spare you longer,’ said Mortlock after they were gone. ‘The contest resumes in – Wait a moment, it’s you!’

‘Pardon?’ said the Doctor.

‘It’s you,’ laughed Mortlock. ‘The pin-head who got himself all tangled up with the acrobats last night! Quite a show you put on for us. If it had been up to me, I’d put you through to the next round.’

The Doctor ran his hand through his hair. ‘Why does everyone keep banging on about – ! That was me, yeah. I like to soak up the atmosphere, you see, before I write an article. I wanted to glimpse with my own eyes this great human menagerie of yours! Got a little too close for comfort.’

‘I trust you’re quite recovered.’

‘Quite recovered, thank you.’ The Doctor took out a notebook and started scribbling.

‘A human menagerie?’ drawled Mortlock. ‘Is that how you regard the contest? I disagree. We’re just giving the public what they want.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘They love the drama of it, you see. The cut and thrust! Following an act right through from their humble beginnings to their ultimate glory! Their journeys. And some of them have very sad stories to relate.’

‘I don’t doubt it,’ said the Doctor. ‘Workhouse upbringings, mums who took strychnine to escape the horror of it all, that sort of thing?’

‘Precisely!’

‘But what’s in it for the winner?’ quizzed the Doctor. ‘A fortnight’s booking on the halls? A bottle of ginger pop?’

Mortlock frowned and gestured expansively with his big, meaty hands. ‘Surely you know? The grand final is to take place in front of the Prince of Wales!’

The Doctor whistled. ‘You don’t say? Old Bertie? There must be a pretty girl in it, then. Oh, of course, there is! The charming Miss Dante! She’s just his type. Who’s your money on?’

‘Oh, I really can’t say. You understand, I must be discreet! Though I have every confidence in Miss Dante. Every confidence.’

There was a tiny, musical chime.

Mortlock consulted his watch. ‘We’re back on. I’m afraid that’s all I have time for.’

‘Of course,’ said the Doctor, getting up. ‘One final thing. A colleague of mine. Fellow hack. Name of Bob Blood. He was found last night, not far from here – sans bonce.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Head sliced clean off. Know anything about that?’

Mortlock cocked a big black eyebrow. ‘How very tragic. But how can that possibly concern me?’

‘Your name was on his person,’ said the Doctor quietly.

Mortlock smiled and smoothed his moustaches. ‘I’m a very popular fellow. Now if you’ll excuse me.’ He gestured towards the door.

The Doctor looked him up and down with interest, nodded to himself and made his way out.

Mortlock sat down again and steepled his hairy fingers, his dark eyes glittering like jet.

*

Somewhere, across town, a meeting was taking place. It wasn’t the usual sort of meeting, not a grouping of town clerks discussing the creaking sewer system, nor a knot of twittering Christian do-gooders packaging up comestibles for the destitute of the East End.

No, this was something very different. A Conference of Crime!

The room – long and low-ceilinged and oppressive – was in almost total darkness and crowded with strange clutter. Everything from ammonites and Liebig Condensers to elephants’ feet what you stuck umbrellas in. Around the table, there was a hushed silence, broken only occasionally by a strange, low mechanical whirr.

At last, someone spoke. A woman’s voice, harsh, strident, Yorkshire-accented. ‘Are we ever going to get started?’

Again the strange, soft click and whirr.

The woman sighed and spoke again. ‘You actually have confidence in this hare-brained scheme of his?’

Then another voice, whispery as falling leaves. ‘I do.’

‘And how does it benefit us? How does it benefit C.A.B.A.L.?’

‘You know our credo.’

‘Of course.’

‘We sit in high places and fan discord.’

‘All well and good,’ grumbled the woman. ‘But this is just a scheme of petty revenge. We should be aiming at higher things.’

Another voice piped up from across the table; by its accent, Indian. ‘And you, madam? What plans do you have afoot?’

The woman smiled, though her smile was barely visible in the gloom of the stuffy room. ‘A variety,’ she said. ‘And one very pretty little possibility.’

*

In Anne’s dressing room, there came a delicate knock.

‘Miss Dante? Miss Dante.’ It was Arthur, the autograph man with the big baby’s head. ‘I do hope you’ll forgive this intrusion … ’

He creaked open the door, putting down the box of props which had gained him ingress.

The room was empty.

With an excited squeak, Arthur scurried inside as fast as his flabby body would allow, glancing quickly at the items on the dressing table: face powders, unguents, creams, a spray for the throat, something rare and expensive from Paris. And letters and photographs from admirers. A great many of them …

Arthur grabbed the nearest in his clumsy hands and read it over hungrily. ‘“To my own love. Yours always, Theodore.” Theodore? Who’s Theodore?’ He tossed it aside and grabbed another. ‘“To my darling Anne. From a devoted admirer.” “Devoted admirer”! Ha!’

Then he caught sight of a photograph of Anne Dante herself and scooped it up, lovingly, pressing it to his sweating face. ‘They don’t love you like I do, Anne,’ he sighed. ‘They’ll never know of the special bond we have between us, will they? A bond of love so pure, so chaste—’ Then his eyes alighted on something else. ‘Bleedin’ hell! Are those her knickers?’

Just as he was about to retrieve the frilly and thrilling somethings from near to the hat stand, he caught sight of a concealed door. Intrigued, he bent closer and slowly opened it – only to suddenly hear the swooping, mellifluous tones of his beloved’s voice!

Arthur smiled in bliss as he listened, rapt, to Anne, executing another beautiful aria. But the song rose higher and higher in pitch until, suddenly, Arthur began to look a little uncomfortable. Putting his shaking hands to his ears, he trembled as the note reached a terrible, piercing shriek of unearthly power! Blood began to fountain from his hairy ears and he fell back through the door in agony. Gasping and convulsing, he staggered out of the dressing room.

Then the shrieking note abruptly cut off.

Chapter the Third

‘The Siren of Cripplegate’

The next day saw the Doctor turning up in Paternoster Row. His first time, so Madam said.

He came in through the porch, wreathed in smiles, his bony hands knotted together and his eyes darting all around. ‘Ooh, yes. Lovely! Smashing dado. You’ve got this place very nice, I must say.’ He glanced at the various stuffed animal heads that lined the hallway. Relics of the previous owner, a Colonel of Dragoons, who had shot every living thing he could set his rheumy old eyes on. There was an empty space on the wall – above a lioness and adjacent to a warthog – and the Doctor wondered what might go there.

‘Jack the Ripper,’ said Madam, unsmiling. ‘Once I catch him. But to business.’

We took tea in the conservatory and set to, cudgelling our brains as how best to proceed.

The Doctor, to his credit, admitted that he had got next to nothing out of his interview with Mortlock and that he was no nearer fathoming what was going on. He sipped his tea and gazed into space, his long face etched with worry. ‘For a while I’ve been conscious,’ he said at last, ‘of some sort of organising power. A great spider at the centre of a web. Something that joins the dots. These strange decapitations – and a whole lot of other odd stuff – are somehow connected.’

‘You mean one person’s behind it all?’ asked Madam.

‘Or an organisation. A collection of brilliant criminal minds.’

‘With what end?’ said Madam, sounding a little afraid.

‘Chaos for chaos’s sake. Your world is at a tipping point. You can’t see it from where you are … ’ He glanced at us, a little shifty-like, his eyes suddenly looking as old as Time, then resumed his theme. ‘But what can seem ordered and stable one minute can suddenly change. Here we are. England in the late nineteenth century. Centre of a global empire. Top of the heap! But civilisations fall. Plates shift. I’ve seen it a hundred times. A thousand. Rome, Athens, the Tumescent Arrows of the Half-Light. The Great Catastrophe. Brexit. Everything seems sunny and rosy and then – wallop – a new Dark Age. And that’s what these people are dedicated to ushering in. Whatever this latest scheme is, it’s somehow connected to that singer, Anne Dante,’ he said, slurping his brew.

‘How do you make that out?’ I asked.

‘Gallifreyan intuition. Something like that. The question is, how do we get ourselves close enough to her to ask some questions?’ He got up and started pacing up and down in front of the hothouse flowers whose drooping heads crowded round us. ‘We could cause a distraction outside the theatre, then nip her off in a cab.’

‘Sound enough,’ said Madam.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Or—’

‘I could materialise the TARDIS around her on stage!’ cried the Doctor. ‘No –’ he concluded bitterly. ‘Too conspicuous. Blow pipe?’

‘What?’

‘Use a blow pipe dart to knock her out. Just for a bit. Long enough to get her back here. Strong cuppa. Two rounds of toast. Gentle interrogation … ’

‘Right,’ I sighed. ‘Or—’

‘Befriend her as a child! Easy! I can nip back in the TARDIS, make a huge impression on her when she’s just a nipper then reappear in her life and then it’ll be all bunting out, hail the conquering Doctor, all that. It’s worked before!’

‘Yes,’ I cried. ‘Or … ’

‘Or?’

‘Or we could just call on her at home.’

The Doctor’s face fell. ‘You’ve got her address?’

‘Took me five minutes,’ I said with a crafty smile. ‘Talked me way round that lanky Italian at the stage door and, when he wasn’t looking, I managed to crib her address from his little record book. And there’s a clue in her name.’

‘There is?’

‘The Cripplegate Siren, ain’t she?’

‘Oh well,’ said the Doctor a little huffily. ‘Yes. Yes, I suppose there’s that. Look – why don’t you two pop round and see her? See what you can glean. I’m gonna head back to the music hall and have another nosy around. Unofficially this time.’

‘I think that’s an excellent suggestion,’ said Madam, squeezing my hand. ‘Jenny. Where exactly in Cripplegate does the lady reside?’

*

Miss Dante may have been the darling of the Halls and hot favourite to win the contest, but her manor was a right dump. We took our own cab, clopping round to the address what I’d got from the door keeper, and shortly after we found ourselves outside a very unprepossessing tenement – what had obviously been built in a spirit of public philanthropy then abandoned in a spirit of private indifference.

I was driving the vehicle and glanced down at the address, which I held clutched in my hand. The hatch on top of the cab opened and Madam popped her head through. ‘You’re sure this is the place?’

‘Yeah,’ I said, looking up at the grimy pile. ‘Top floor.’

And the address was evidently well known locally, for quite a crowd was gathered outside.

We had all sorts of schemes and back-ups planned: posing as Christian Scientists bringing the Good News of Christ’s resurrection might get us over the threshold; travelling brush saleswomen bringing the latest in sweep and clean hardware might not. A fainting fit on the doorstep was always a good dodge. But in the end we was spared any such subterfuge when the lady herself suddenly appeared on the stairway, gliding down to ground level, her head held high and her hands daintily encased in a fur muffler.

The crowd surged around Anne, high as kites and a bit too close. Amid cries of ‘Anne! We love you!’ and ‘Anne, give us a kiss!’ poor Miss Dante began to look a bit scared. Gawping faces pressed in around her.

I was about to climb down to help her out when suddenly the door of the carriage swung open and Madam’s gloved hand emerged. ‘May I have the pleasure of escorting you out of here?’ Madam asked. ‘Sharpish?’

Anne smiled graciously again, took Madam’s hand and found herself pulled into the carriage.

There came a knock on the roof – my signal to get the hell out of there – and I whipped up the nag. To the crowd’s dismay, the carriage rattled rapidly away.

Now I couldn’t hear much from my station in the driver’s seat so I arched over and opened the hatch on the roof a crack so as to listen in.

The exquisite Anne sat opposite the veiled Mistress looking luminous and wonderfully composed. For a while, neither spoke.

‘I don’t make a habit of this,’ said Madam at last. Anne said nothing.

‘Plucking beautiful women from mobs, I mean.’

Still nothing.

‘Perhaps I should try it more often. I’m Madam Vastra, by the way.’

Still, reply came there none. Madam glanced out of the window. ‘Lovely evening.’

Anne just nodded.

‘You are protecting your voice, am I right? That’s why you don’t speak?’

A shy grin from the gal and downcast eyes, lashes a-flutter.

‘It is, if I may say,’ said Madam, ‘a thing of quite extraordinary beauty. Like its owner.’

Up in the driver’s seat, I went all hot and cold. I’ve told you about Madam’s wandering eye. I didn’t like the way this particular interrogation was going.

‘Now the question is,’ murmured Madam, ‘will this exquisite Sphinx allow me to take her to dinner?’

Dinner now, was it?! I fought down an urge to do some violence to the Cripplegate Siren.

‘I don’t know about you,’ purred Madam. ‘But I’m rather … ravenous.’

Anne Dante met Madam’s veiled gaze. Was she tempted? Suddenly she leaned forward, eyes shining.

‘SOZ!’ she boomed. ‘I have to be SOOOO careful. Me voice and that.’

Madam’s face fell. Miss Anne Dante had the voice of an Essex fish-wife. Up top, I burst out laughing.

The Siren continued. ‘Me manager says if I strain it, it could bugger up me chances in the contest so I have to keep me trap shut when I’m not on stage.’ And she laughed, like a braying donkey.

Madam winced. ‘You’re … you’re to sing in front of his Royal Highness, tonight, I understand. When you win the contest?’

‘If I win!’

‘Surely it’s a certainty.’

‘Is it ’ell!’ scoffed Anne. ‘I’m taking nothing for granted, me. All I’ve ever wanted was to be famous. Me Mum told me not to be daft ’cos I couldn’t sing for toffee but—’ She stopped dead and her beautiful face clouded. ‘Actually, you know what? You can just drop me here if you would.’

‘No, no, please,’ urged Madam. ‘Go on. I’m gripped.’

But Anne seemed suddenly to have lost her vim. ‘No. I’d better be sensible. Could you just drop us on the corner?’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it—’

But Anne rapped on the roof of the carriage and I pulled up. ‘Ta for the lift!’

Madam got out of the carriage first and helped Anne down. She took the gal’s hand and kissed it lightly. ‘Well, the very best of luck in the final, my dear.’

‘Cheers!’

‘You’re sure you’ll be all right?’

Anne grinned cheekily and winked. ‘I’m a big girl, love,’ she said and swept off into the night.

Madam stood outside the carriage and I just looked straight ahead – but could feel her eyes on me. She could probably tell I wasn’t best pleased by the thin line what my mouth had become.

‘My dear,’ she said. ‘What is the matter?’

‘Seems like a nice gal,’ I said primly.

‘Very nice – but did you hear her guttersnipe accent?’

‘What’s wrong with a guttersnipe accent?!’ I exploded, hardly able to contain myself. ‘Used to be very pleasant on your ear as I recall.’

Madam swung herself up onto the seat beside me. ‘Jenny, you don’t actually imagine—’

‘I’m imagining rather a lot right now, as it happens,’ I said smartly, folding my arms.

She shook her head and threw up her veil. ‘You silly sausage.’ (Her grasp of the vernacular had come on, I must admit.) ‘You know there’s no one except you.’

‘Do I?’

‘I was trying to gain her confidence.’

‘Well, you didn’t have to try so hard, did you?’

‘Jenny!’ she said, sternly. ‘We don’t have time for such foolishness. Tonight is the final. If the Doctor is right then matters are about to come to a head. We must concentrate all our endeavours on solving this mystery.’

‘Yeah, well.’ At last I turned to her. ‘I may have made a little breakthrough there, as it happens.’

‘Indeed?’

‘Some of us still remember how to do detective work.’

Her face fell and I suddenly felt a little guilty. So I gave her a little peck on the cheek, then reached into my skirts for a manila dossier secreted there. ‘Mr Gideon Mortlock, as the note on the body said, is not what he seems.’

*

In the foyer of the Pom, a proud-as-punch Billy Skittles was acting as Master of Ceremonies. All the nobs was there for the Grand Final, and surrounding the crumbing old building was a ring of coppers, sent in to protect the Royal personage – and his distinguished guests – who was, for one night only, deigning to descend to the grim levels of the hoi polloi.

‘His Royal Highness,’ yelled Billy, ‘the Grand Duke Moritz of Herzoslovakia!’ A middle-aged man with a big hooter and a ludicrous, feathered hat entered and bowed, his arm linked to that of his ugly wife. The crowd crammed into the entrance, eyes on stalks, all clapping like seals. The Duke was followed by an elderly man in flowing Roman purple.

‘His Eminence, Cardinal Mazzini!’ cried Billy. ‘Papal Ambassador to the Court of St James!’ The Cardinal and his entourage entered smoothly and vanished into the crowd.

‘Mr Henry Irving,’ cried Billy. The great thespian come in on his spindly legs, balancing his pince-nez on his nose and looking like he’d rather be somewhere else.

Outside, meanwhile, the Doctor was doing his best to penetrate the security. He marched boldly up to the nearest policeman and smiled in a friendly fashion. ‘Evening, officer, if you could just let me through.’

‘Sorry, sir,’ said the bobby – who was the fresh-faced young chap what we encountered the night we found the headless corpse, ‘but no one’s to be admitted on account of the Royal visit.’

‘Ah yes,’ said the Doctor. ‘That’s why I’m here.’ He flashed his clever paper – the one what’s blank but makes people see what they wants to see – but still the policeman shook his head. ‘Sorry, sir but I haven’t ever heard of the Ambassador to Peladon.’

The Doctor frowned, and waggled the paper about a bit, like he was trying to jostle a loose wire.

Suddenly, there was consternation and excitement behind him.

In the foyer, Billy Skittles cast an eye outside, then he puffed up his chest and declared: ‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen: His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales!’

There was a flurry of bowing and curtseying as the old boy himself stepped out of his carriage, Mrs Langtry on his arm, followed by what looked like half the Court. He was smoking a fat cigar and looking pleased with himself. He looked about with his fat-rimmed, blood-shot eyes then burst into a hearty laugh. ‘Doctor!’

The Doctor turned and grinned. ‘Bertie, you old dog. It’s been ages.’

The Prince nodded and patted his great tum. ‘Paris, wasn’t it? The Folies Bergère! Are you here to see the Contest?’

‘Yes,’ said the Doctor. ‘As a matter of fact I am. But I’m having a little trouble getting in.’

The Prince of Wales merely cocked a bushy grey eyebrow at the flush-faced copper and the little ring of policemen parted like the Red Sea.

Sometimes it pays to have pals in high places.

Making his excuses and promising to join old Bertie and Mrs L. in the box at the interval, the Doctor rapidly made his way backstage. The audience – all dolled up in their Sunday finery – was piling in, and the Doctor kept a weather eye on them as he picked his way through the coiled ropes and eternal clutter that was rammed into the old Pom’s wings.

Suddenly, he heard a low, faint cry – a sort of despairing moan – and, finding his way to the back wall of the theatre, came across Arthur, the baby-faced autograph hunter, his ears black with congealed blood! Like a wounded elephant, he had dragged himself into the shadows to breathe his last.

The Doctor crouched down and cradled Arthur’s head and the big man stirred and groaned pitiably.

‘It was … it was she … SHE!!’ gasped Arthur.

‘Don’t try to speak,’ murmured the Doctor.

‘What?’ croaked Arthur.

‘I said, don’t try to speak.’

Arthur cupped his bloodied ear and shook his head. ‘I can’t … can’t … ’

‘Ear drums blown,’ said the Doctor to himself, wincing. ‘Nasty.’

‘It was her voice!’ wailed Arthur. ‘Her siren song!’

‘Anne Dante?’

‘Pardon?’ said Arthur.

‘ANNE DANTE!’ yelled the Doctor.

Arthur nodded and his mouth turned down like Pagliacci’s. ‘The Siren of Cripplegate herself … ’ His heavy eyelids flickered. ‘I loved her. Loved her. But she has done for me!’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Eh?’

‘WHAT DO YOU MEAN?’ yelled the Doctor.

‘Her voice, my friend. Her true voice. It is … fatal!! I’ve never heard such a note. So pure! But deadly. Deadly!’

And, with one last rattling gasp, he expired.

‘A weapon?’ mused the Doctor. He looked grim. ‘Bob Blood’s shattered noggin! It wasn’t blown off, it was sung off!’

‘Well, well, well,’ said a familiar voice. ‘And what the deuce do we have here?’

Gideon Mortlock stepped from the shadows, a pistol in his hand!

‘I know what you’re up to, Mortlock!’ cried the Doctor. ‘Stop this madness now. Before it’s too late!’

Mortlock frowned. ‘Madness? It seems to me, sir, that you are the one exhibiting signs of derangement. You have trespassed backstage, endangered the lives of last year’s champions, posed mendaciously as a member of the press and now I find you crouched over a corpse!’ He glanced anxiously at his pocket watch. ‘There’s no time now. I shall fetch the police and they can deal with you. I have an appointment with the Prince of Wales.’

‘Of course!’ gasped the Doctor. ‘Bertie! It’s him you’re after!’

Mortlock shook his head and pulled something from his pocket. ‘Raving,’ he muttered – and cracked the Doctor over the head with a leather cosh.

*

Meanwhile, as the Mistress and me was speeding back to the Pom with all due expedition, Billy Skittles was rising in his place, ready for the biggest night of his life (the Crimean campaign excepted).

‘Your Royal Highness. Esteemed guests, my lords, ladies and gentlemen. Have I ’ad such a ’onour before?’ he bellowed from his usual place by the side of the stage. ‘Not since Inkerman, I ain’t, where I lost this ’ere arm and what ’as left me feelin’ … ’

‘ALL RIGHT DOWN ONE SIDE!’ chorused the crowd.

Billy beamed. ‘It is, then, a privilege to present the grand final of the All-Britannia Aptitude Contest. First up – a treat for those of you what ’as been following us all these weeks, please give a huge hand for Pete and His Tongs!’

*

When the Doctor finally come round, he found himself bound hand and foot to a rickety old cane chair. Distantly, he could hear Anne Dante beginning her final performance. ‘Un bel di vedremo’ from Madame Butterfly (so I gather from comparing notes with Madam, after.)

Vedi? È venuto!

Io non gli scendo incontro, Io no.

Her extraordinary warbling echoed through the corridors of the old Pom like the music of the spheres, enthralling everyone within earshot. But the Doctor had no time to listen. He shuffled the chair across the stone flagged floor to where a mottled old mirror had been propped against the wall.

He looked at his reflection a moment and contemplated the wild-eyed, wild-haired young fella in the dicky bow –

‘What’s seven years’ bad luck anyway? Out of thousands?’

– and nutted the mirror, shattering it into pieces. In moments, he had his boots on a large shard of glass, fixed it between his toe caps, and managed to toss it into the air. It landed neatly in his lap by his tied up hands, and he set to work.

*

Mi metto

Là sul ciglio del colle e aspetto, aspetto

Gran tempo e non mi pesa,

La lunga attesa

Anne Dante’s immaculate song rolled over the heads of the assembled throng and, as one, they closed their eyes in bliss, the music rising and falling, like the ebb and flow of a beautiful tide. The whole theatre – from the judges to Billy Skittles, the Cardinal and the Prince of Wales – with Mrs Langtry, Mortlock, O’Kane and Miss Polly next to him – sat spellbound.

Suddenly, as Anne headed towards a luscious crescendo, the Doctor sprang up in the wings like a jack-in-the-box. Before Anne knew what was happening, he had clattered across the stage, clamped his hand over her mouth and dragged her down to the boards!

Her beautiful singing was immediately silenced – but not the howls of protest which erupted from the crowd. Anne struggled to free herself from the Doctor’s grip but he held her firm and boldly addressed the crowd.

‘My apologies, ladies and gentlemen and –’ he winked – ‘your Maj.’

From the box, Mortlock shrieked. ‘Stop that man! Stop him! He’s a lunatic!’

‘No!’ yelled the Doctor. ‘Entirely sane – last time I looked. I’m doing this to prevent an attempt on the life of the Prince of Wales!’

A gasp like escaping steam ran around the theatre.

The Doctor looked down at the helpless Anne, her eyes bulging beneath the hand that firmly clamped her mouth shut. ‘Why, Miss Dante?’ he asked. ‘Why?’

Then a very queer thing happened. Unbelievably, the strains of the aria began again! I’m not up on my Italian but this is what the words meant:

Do you see it? He is coming!

I don’t go down to meet him, not I.

I stay upon the edge of the hill

And I wait a long time but

I do not grow weary of the long wait.

Anne Dante’s voice, unquestionably, soaring and seducing in high, swooping beauty!

The Doctor goggled at her, suddenly wondering if the remarkable young woman had added ventriloquism to her act. Then, as suddenly, the glorious singing stopped and was replaced by a voice. A curiously high-pitched voice, crackling from every corner of the theatre.

‘No, my friend,’ it hissed. ‘Miss Dante is merely my mouth-piece. The mouth-piece of my revenge!’

The Doctor, not for the first time, was somewhat nonplussed.

‘How long have I waited!’ came the voice, echoing round the theatre. ‘Planned! Trained! Just to get near to him once again!’

And suddenly someone else appeared on stage, cutting a strange and terrifying figure. A very, very tall gangly shape, its face covered in a weird, mask-like contraption, with a great horn, like the trumpet of a gramophone, projecting from the mouth. Then come the voice, squeaking through the apparatus. ‘For I am Piccolo!’ he cried. ‘Last of the Castrati!’

The old stage-door keeper! Unrecognisable save for his strange, spindly height and the weird contraption wrapped over his face like a chamois leather with eye holes.

A gasp ran round the auditorium.

The Prince of Wales turned to Mortlock, frowning. ‘This part of the act?’

‘The what?’ mumbled Anne from under the Doctor’s hand. ‘The last of the what?’

‘The Castrati!’ said the Doctor. ‘And that machine is clearly amplifying his voice. Amplifying it to dangerous levels. Last of the Castrati,’ he mused. ‘Oh, boll—’ Then he cried out as Anne bit into his hand!

She pulled away, but he grabbed at her arm. ‘Did you know about this?’ he demanded, sucking on his hand.

‘Nuffink! I swear,’ cried Anne. ‘All I wanted was to be famous!’

Piccolo, beneath his ghastly mask, crossed downstage. ‘And now, at last,’ he rasped. ‘I claim my vengeance! Vengeance on you … ’

In the audience, the Prince of Wales shifted uneasily in his chair.

But Piccolo fixed another with his unwavering gaze. ‘… Cardinal Mazzini!’

The Papal envoy looked up, understandably stunned.

And then Piccolo took a huge breath into his barrel-like chest – and began to sing.

It was the same, gorgeous voice everyone had thought was Anne’s. Sweet, intoxicating – but it instantly began to rise in pitch, becoming unpleasantly high, painful, horrible even. Waves of sound began to pummel the crowd and a little boy was sick into his mother’s lap. People began to clap their hands to their ears and shriek in agony. And then, inevitably, panic gripped them. The entire crowd in the theatre surged towards the exits – only to find the doors had been chained shut by the wily stage-door keeper!

Letting Anne go, the Doctor raced across the stage towards Piccolo, clamping his hands over his ears. But it was like he was battling a gale. The sheer force of the sound, thrumming through the auditorium, made the Doctor’s teeth rattle in his head. He fell to his knees and they cracked off the boards of the stage.

In the Royal Box, the Prince was suddenly swamped in his own opera cloak by his loyal equerry, desperately trying to shut out the sound. Close by, abandoned by his entourage, the Cardinal’s head was vibrating from side to side. Blood began to stream from his ears and nose.

The Doctor staggered to his feet, sonic screwdriver in hand – and suddenly a blanket of silence fell over the theatre. There was a great sigh of relief from the fleeing crowd. At which point, Madam dashed onto the stage. She had shut her lugholes off, using the same sort of reptile trick that protected her eyes with a secondary lid. She zigzagged across the stage and, swinging back her dainty leg, kicked Piccolo savagely in the crotch.

But the old man didn’t flinch. A pipsqueak laugh escaped from the strange mask. ‘They took my most precious assets long ago, my dear!’ he piped. ‘More years ago than I can count!’

‘Blimey!’ said the Doctor. ‘Is that was this is all about?’

‘Of course not!’ hissed the old man. ‘Evviva il coltello! Long live the knife! It was a blessing that took them away. A wonderful blessing! I was the greatest of the Castrati! The noblest of callings. The purest, most angelic sound known to man. None could match me. Until that ape Mazzini declared our sacred order must end!’

Then he kicked out his long leg and sent the sonic sailing into the stalls! At once, the blanketing silence cut out.

‘I took care of that horrible fat man in the disgusting suit,’ cried Piccolo. ‘He discovered my secret and tried to make me pay. Instead he paid! With his wretched little life! I sang at him. Sang until his silly head exploded! And now the fatal note, which I have laboured years – years – to perfect! The voice of God himself! It will be Mazzini’s undoing too! The undoing of you all!’

He steadied himself, inflated his huge chest and sang as he had never sung before. It was a single, pure note, unbearably sweet but somehow terrible. Rising, rising, rising in pitch like a true siren call. The Doctor howled in pain. Madam curled into a ball, pulling her coat over her head, the sound penetrating even her ancient, natural defences.

Which was when I entered, stage left, my scarf wrapped round my head like Marley’s ghost and brandishing a stirrup-pump fire-extinguisher!

Piccolo turned, still singing, and, in manic haste, I pumped up the instrument as he advanced on me. All at once, a jet of water shot out of the extinguisher into the horn that projected from the mouth of the mask contraption – and Piccolo spluttered and gasped for air.

Grabbing the opportunity, the Doctor reached out and grabbed Piccolo by his shins, knocking him off balance and slamming him to the stage. Then, for some reason, he started fiddling with his own boots!

Piccolo sat up and snarled at the Doctor, his voice distorted by the weird machine. The Doctor was still preoccupied, feverishly undoing his bootlaces.

Piccolo turned the blank sockets of his mask to the Doctor and squealed: ‘And now! Now it is your turn! You think anything can stop me? After all these years!’

He took a huge breath – and the Doctor leapt at him, stuffing one of his socks deep into the brass horn! Piccolo clutched at his mask but the respite from the deadly song was all the chance we needed. Madam unrolled herself, jumped onto Piccolo’s chest and flattened him. I grabbed at the mask-machine – and wrenched it off his head.

And suddenly, there he lay. A bewildered, sad old man, his steely hair wet with sweat, like a halo over his head. Then he fell back – and started to sob.

Getting his breath back, the Doctor clapped a hand on my shoulder. ‘Nice … one,’ he panted. ‘Nice one, Jenny.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ I said, then started to laugh.

‘What?’

‘You … you … um … ’

‘I know I did,’ said the Doctor. ‘There’s no need to say it.’

But I couldn’t help it. The relief, I daresay. I started to laugh and then I couldn’t stop. ‘You put a sock in it.’

I looked over at Madam and then at the crowd, who were sinking, exhausted, into their seats. The Cardinal was being attended to by his fellow Italians and looked pale but OK. The Prince of Wales emerged from beneath his opera cloak, peering about like a woodland creature. And Miss Anne Dante looked over at the judges and the esteemed personnel gathered in the Pom and yelled –

‘Does this mean I ain’t won?’

*

A right royal affair it was, the next morning at Paternoster Row, I can tell you. First the Doctor come round and we had a slap-up breakfast and generally clapped ourselves on the back. Then Scotland Yard arrived to tell us what a bang-up job we’d done and that old Piccolo was now languishing at Her Majesty’s Pleasure, awaiting interview. Then we was visited by what you might call an Illustrious Client, who thanked us, very effusive-like, for all the help we’d given in thwarting the assassination attempt which, though directed at Cardinal Mazzini, might well have taken his life too. And that of Mrs Langtry (though it was probably best if we didn’t mention that she’d been there).

Then a box of chocs come – from the Pope.

Finally, when I was tired of trooping back and forth to the front door and wishing we had a butler of some sort to do just that, Gideon Mortlock come a-calling.

I took his hat and he sat opposite the Doctor, me and Madam. ‘I trust I find you recovered?’ he said at last.

‘A little ringing in the ears,’ said the Doctor. ‘Otherwise, fine.’

‘Look,’ said Mortlock, clearing his throat. ‘This is a little … difficult, isn’t it? I’m more than aware that not only did you prevent a crime of the most appalling magnitude but you saved the Contest.’

‘Ah, yes. The Contest,’ said Madam. ‘What will happen in the absence of Miss Dante?’

‘We’re going to re-stage the final,’ said Mortlock. ‘And we’re putting the Boneless Wonder through as a wild card.’

‘Glad to hear it,’ cried the Doctor, grinning. ‘But there’s no need for all this treading on eggshells, Gideon. You see, we know your secret.’

Mortlock looked worried and stroked his moustaches.

‘Thanks to the tireless work of Miss Jenny Flint here –’ the Doctor looked over at me and winked, and I felt a sort of little glow on my cheeks – ‘we know all about you.’

Mortlock gulped.

The Doctor shook his head. ‘The orphanages you’ve endowed! The fallen women you’ve rescued! The endless, anonymous charity work in East End soup kitchens!’

Mortlock looked down at his boots. ‘It’s true! All of it! That “Mr Horrible” nonsense is just an act! For the sake of the Contest. The public lap it up! So I twiddle my moustaches and scowl at the contestants. And the more I do it, the more they love me. But, oh Lord, what a strain it is.’

‘Your secret’s safe with us, chum,’ I said.

‘It is?’ Mortlock’s dark eyes brightened.

‘Of course,’ said the Doctor. ‘Wouldn’t want to spoil everyone’s fun, would we?’

Mortlock stood – and warmly shook the Doctor’s hand.

And then the Doctor excused himself and said he was going to put the kettle on. But minutes went by and when we went into the kitchen we found him gone. And then we didn’t see him again for quite a while. Not till Demon’s Run and … Well you know all that, don’t you?

Somewhere, across town, in a darkened room, a report was being made. The reaction – a hushed silence interrupted only by a strange, low, mechanical whirr – was grim.

‘The man known as Piccolo now lies in Pentonville prison awaiting trial. Operation: Castrato must be regarded as a total failure.’

‘He knows too much,’ said the strident woman with the Yorkshire accent.

‘Agreed,’ said the whispery voice. ‘He sang with the voice of God – but now he must be silenced. Permanently.’

Click. Whirr. ‘See to it.’

‘Yes, sir.’

A deep sigh and then – ‘The Italian was thwarted by those women. You know the ones I mean. They have crossed our path before.’

‘Kill them, too,’ spat the woman.

‘Perhaps. But perhaps we should see how this develops. They may, in some strange way, prove useful.’

‘Useful?’

The whispery voice became a chuckle. ‘Chaos … assassination … bedlam and lies. C.A.B.A.L. is aptly named. We create a web of disinformation. A blurring of light and darkness. Until no one can be sure of the very ground beneath their feet. Let us wait. And see.’

The woman sighed impatiently. ‘Is that all for today? I have a train to catch. I have plans afoot myself.’

‘Care to elaborate?’ It was the Indian’s voice.

‘All in good time,’ said the woman. ‘Suffice to say that, in my travels I have recently come across something which might prove very useful. And which might very well alter the course of Human History.’

‘A bold claim,’ came the whispery voice. ‘I do not promise anything – yet.’

‘What is it, then?’ came the other voice. ‘Something from your chemical researches? Or from one of those little jaunts to the jungle which so preoccupy you.’

‘A little of both, perhaps. I have made the acquaintance of a new friend,’ she said, chuckling.

The whirr and click sounded again and a match was struck, briefly illumining a puckered mouth and a long white beard as a cigar was lit.

‘Well, well,’ whispered the owner of the beard. ‘We all look forward to hearing more, I’m sure.’ He lit the cigar and sucked on it hungrily. ‘You are always full of surprises … Mrs Gillyflower.’

Chapter the Fourth

‘A Study in Crimson’

The town was coffin-dark.

Soot lay on every surface, streaking the soft stone of grand municipal buildings, settling on rooftops like infernal snow, tumbling from the eyes of begrimed statues like malignant tears.

A pall of smoke hung over every mill and manufactory, shrouding the feeble sun which hung in the sky as sickly, green and wan as a cadaver’s face, as though viewed from some distant and impossibly alien world.

Then came the shriek of the whistle and workers began to pour through factory gates. A great seething, unwashed slab of Humanity – men, women, children – more bone than flesh, clad in blackened bonnets and coats, filth etched into every crease, every line of their sad and downcast faces. On they came, thin as charcoal sticks, heading for their meagre homes, work over for a few short, precious hours.

Two such workers were Abigail Blench and Sissy Roper. Backs aching, begrimed and beaten, they hauled their weary young bones over the cobbles.

Sissy stopped and turned to her friend. ‘Nay, Abigail, I’ve had it.’

‘Have you heck as like,’ rejoined Abigail.

‘I promise you!’ insisted Sissy. ‘I’m beggared if I’m breaking me back for them leeches any more.’

‘What choice do we have? Where else’ll we go?’

‘Where’d you think?’

They had stopped outside of a pair of massive iron gates. Sissy pressed her face to the bars, like a child gazing into a toyshop.

Abigail laughed, exposing teeth as black as her clogs. ‘You’re soft in the head, Sissy—’

Then she stopped in her tracks. What was this? Rising high over the whistle’s shrill cry – music. The thudding chords of a pipe organ and the plaintive sound of a hymn! One dreamt up by Bunyan in a distant time when old King Charles was on the throne of a sunnier, greener, kinder England. ‘He who would valiant be, ’gainst all disaster. Let him in constancy, follow the master!’

Sissy sighed – and looked to her right. The music was coming from an altogether different place. Visible through iron gates that gleamed with polish, stood a vast and well-kept community wrought in honey-coloured stone. A manufactory, yes, but one envisioned as a new Jerusalem. Brand new terraces of pleasant little cottages. A chapel. Municipal baths. And, rising over it all, a grand, astonishing red-brick chimney, though no smoke came from out of it. The name of this idyll? This model community? Why there it was, wrought in fine iron curlicues over the glittering gates: ‘Sweetville’!

‘Bed of roses, that place, so they say,’ murmured Sissy. ‘Double wages and a home for life.’

‘If you’re one of the lucky ones,’ complained Abigail. ‘And that’s not us.’

Unexpectedly, Sissy laughed and then began to sing. ‘It’s the same the whole world over, it’s the poor what gets the blame … !’ She gripped her friend by the arm. ‘I happen to believe, flower, that you make your own luck in this world!’

‘Still a factory, though, in’t it?’ said Abigail. ‘What’s so special about it?’

Sissy sighed again. ‘Paradise, that’s what it’s like in there, Abigail. Paradise. As I shall see, Monday week.’

‘You’ve not …?’

‘Aye!’ Sissy took out a letter, its pages softened with much re-reading. ‘They want to see me!’ So saying, she strode on, beaming with excitement.

Abigail Blench sighed. Perhaps one day it would be her turn. She trudged on.

*

‘There’s no discouragement, shall make him once relent … ’

It was a woman’s voice. A trifle cracked, a trifle tuneless no doubt but strong. And that was one thing none ever doubted about Mrs Winifred Gillyflower. She sat on a cushioned stool before the immense pipe organ, a vision in black bombazine, bony fingers scuttling like white crabs over the yellowing keys. Mrs Gillyflower’s perished-apple countenance was wreathed in smiles as she sang: ‘His first avowed intent – to be a pilgrim!’

The parlour suffocated in over-ornate decoration, from the heavy drapes to the floral wallpaper – covered in citations to Mrs Gillyflower’s scientific expertise – from the thick Turkey carpet to the menagerie of stuffed animals, watching her through sightless eyes, each imprisoned beneath a gleaming, freshly polished bell-jar. Here was the albino crow Mrs Gillyflower had bagged one wet Wednesday in the Peak District. Here was the Pine Martin with the vicious nip who had cost her the tip of one finger. Here was the Orang-u-tan – bought from a legless lascar and shipped in from far off Sumatra. He hung by a skinny orange-furred arm from a preserved branch, forever condemned to observe his mistress’s musical recitations through dusty glass.

Mrs Gillyflower ploughed on. ‘Who so beset him round with dismal stories,’ she warbled. ‘Do but themselves confound, his strength the more is!’ Her taloned fingers clacked at the ivory keys, building to a wheezing climax: ‘Then fancies flee away, I’ll fear not what men say, I’ll labour night and day … ’

Chitter, chitter, chitter.

Mrs Gillyflower’s hands paused over the keys.

Chitter, chitter, chitter.

A ream of thin ticker tape began to spill from the organ’s wooden innards.

She grabbed at the paper and held it close to her face, eyes beading under furrowed brows. There was a problem. A problem in the factory. A problem that needed … eliminating. With a sniff, Mrs Gillyflower rose from the stool, smoothed down her beaded black dress and swept from the room.

Mrs Gillyflower was redoubtable, oh yes indeed. A dreadnought. Implacable, determined, brilliant – and quite, quite mad …

*

Elsewhere in Sweetville, the top floor of the manufactory itself was a strange and frightening place. A place of clanking, shrieking industry – or the sound of it at least. The corridor was bathed in a strange and sickly red glow and here stood a handsome young couple. The woman was Effie – an innocent bound up in this hellish saga – the man Edmund Thursday.

‘Oh please, Edmund, please! By all that’s holy!’ Effie wrung her hands, as affecting as a Holman Hunt composition. ‘Do not leave me in this fearful place!’

Edmund closed his hands over hers. ‘You know what I saw, Effie. Now, if I have not returned in an hour, you must fetch the police. God only knows what has become of our friends.’

‘And the ’Grims? What if they try to prevent me? Edmund –’

She kissed him fiercely. Theirs was a passion forged in the flame of adversity. They had met whilst working for the Yorkshire Clarion: she an ambitious ‘New Woman’ with her sights set on a journalistic career; he a brave and noble soul, determined to find what lay at the heart of Sweetville!

Edmund pulled away, attempting a smile of reassurance. ‘Don’t fret, Effie, my dear. All will be well. But we must get to the bottom of this dark and queer business, no matter what the cost.’

Without another word, he strode off towards the far door. Inset in it was a glass portal, like one you might find on a passenger ship. Through it washed the same, vivid, unnatural red glow. Edmund paused on the threshold, turned back towards Effie – and winked.

Then he was gone through the door. There was a brief rise in the shriek and clamour of machinery – then Effie was alone.

But not for long.

She felt a tremor beneath her boots and then, from deep below, the clank and shudder of a lift. Effie looked round, left and right. There was nowhere to go. Nowhere save through the door where Edmund has lately passed. She was trapped!

With a dull thud, the lift arrived and then, with a shriek of protesting metal, the iron grille was dragged back. From it swarmed half a dozen women clad in puritan black. These were the Pilgrims. There was not a speck of colour on them, from their close-fitting bonnets to their trim bustles. And yet each was of surpassing beauty.

Save one.

At their head, like some monstrous Queen bee, stood Mrs Gillyflower, come to eliminate her little problem.

‘Mrs Gillyflower!’ breathed Effie. Her blue eyes darted about in fear.

‘We have come about your husband, my dear,’ said Mrs Gillyflower in regretful tones. ‘A tragedy.’

‘My husband?’

‘Your late husband,’ said Mrs Gillyflower.

‘There must be some mistake,’ cried Effie, thinking fast. How can they know of Edmund? How can they know where he’s gone? ‘My husband is quite well.’

Suddenly, from the door with the round glass portal came a terrible cry. The dreadful last scream of poor Edmund.

Mrs Gillyflower smiled a smile as wintry as frost on a coffin plate. ‘We are so very sorry for your loss.’

And the Pilgrims swept towards Effie like a pack of ravening wolves.

It is to be hoped that whatever terrible fate befell Effie and Edmund they were conscious of little at the end …

*

Narrative of Jonas Thursday, Esq.

It is here that yours truly enters the narrative. I, Jonas Thursday, brother to the ill-fated Edmund and in every respect his double save for the luxuriant moustaches which I have cultivated since my college days, largely to differentiate myself from my twin. There was little sibling rivalry between us, you understand – I was always inordinately fond of Edmund – rather it was to spare tiresome misunderstandings with tradespeople and our myopic vicar, Mr Plumchute, who could never tell us apart even in our perambulators.

I had followed my father into the City whereas Edmund took an altogether different path, into journalism. And it was following up a promising lead for his paper the Pall Mall Budget – and then the Yorkshire Clarion – that led him to Bradford and, latterly, myself in his footsteps. I knew little of what he was in pursuit of, only that he and that the young lady he spoke fondly of in his letters had disappeared. And then that Edmund had been reported deceased – with no cause of death listed. My mother was in despair and I was despatched to Bradford forthwith. With heavy heart, I dragged my weary feet to the Municipal Morgue – a chilly rectangle of hopelessness, its flaring gas jets throwing huge leaping shadows over the white tiled walls.

From somewhere outside came the shrill cry of a police whistle.

‘That’s the bobbies giving chase again. I don’t envy them, sir. Not on a night like this.’

The Attendant was small and crook-backed. His complexion and his breath spoke of an intimate association with cheap whisky. His name was Amos, and he stood poised over one of the cold stone slabs upon which lay a cadaver, covered in a rough, stained grey cloth.

‘Are you ready, flower?’

I stood close by, ’kerchief pressed to my mouth to mitigate against the dreadful stink of the charnel house.

‘“Mine eyes are glassy, cold and dim,”’ quoted Amos. ‘“Adieu, my dear, think no more of him.”’ Then, like some fearful conjuror, he drew back the cloth.

I almost fainted dead away. Alas, my poor dear brother!

Amos’s smile crumpled and he shook his head. ‘Hell fire!’ he breathed. ‘That’s put me right off me mash. Another one!’

I gazed upon the dreadful sight. Edmund’s face and hands were constricted in a rictus of terror, his waxen flesh giving off a weird, reddish glow. Like a bad lobster in a dark cellar.

‘Another?’

‘He’s not the first I’ve ’ad in ’ere looking like that,’ said Amos, rubbing his bristly chin. ‘The Crimson Horror! That’s what they’re calling it!’

I scowled and dabbed at my forehead where a cold sweat had appeared. ‘Please. I have no interest in the deplorable excesses of the penny-dreadfuls.’

‘Found ’im in’t canal, did they?’

‘Yes.’

‘Aye. Just like t’others. Bugger me. Not a lot left of him, is there? Scarcely worth scraping into a box. How long will you need?’

‘A few moments only.’

Amos seemed to recover quickly and sidled over to me, grinning once more. ‘Payment in advance, flower. Taking a big risk, you see, I am. They’d have my vitals for fiddle-strings if they knew I’d let you come to have a look at one of their precious stiffs.’

With trembling hand, I pressed a coin into his palm. ‘That “stiff” is my brother,’ I hissed. ‘I’ve come up from London to bring him home.’

‘Oh aye?’ Amos seemed already to have lost interest.

Hastily, I took the necessary items from my capacious bag and assembled the camera. If no one was able to tell me how Edmund had met his end, then I had a theory. It might have been scoffed at as mere gypsy superstition in some quarters but I was, in extremis, prepared to try anything. I arranged the cumbersome device so that the lens looked down balefully upon my brother’s agonised features. Huddled under the cloth, with the attendant looking on, I adjusted the lens, attempting, by degrees, to get closer and closer to Edmund’s dead, staring eyes.

Flash! The powder charge in my hand ignited, smoke drifted like gunpowder through the fetid air.

Flash! Closer still towards the still, sightless orb.

At length, I finished and began to pack away the camera.

Amos tapped the side of his booze-blossomed nose. ‘Shan’t ask any questions, flower. Now then. You look all in. Can I offer you a cup of tea. Or p’raps,’ he grinned again, exposing tombstone teeth, ‘summat stronger?’

*

Alas, I must report that all my efforts to interest the authorities in the strange case of my brother’s demise led nowhere. I was shuttled from pillar to post, from the local constabulary to the hospital for tropical diseases (some obscure foreign malady being the favoured cause of death). In vain did I protest that Edmund’s weird symptoms augured something far more mysterious and unsettling.

My return to London brought no respite from this catalogue of dismay. Scotland Yard – in the person of an asinine desk sergeant with a face like a boiled pudding – almost laughed in my face. After that, I worked my way through a list of private enquiry agents that seemed to comprise one set of squalid rooms after another. I had almost given up hope when a chance encounter in the Criterion bar changed everything.

I sat at the end of the long bar, drowning my sorrows in brandy when I felt a friendly hand clap me on the shoulder. I turned.

‘Why! It’s young Dimple!’ I cried at once.

‘Hullo, Thursday, old man. How the devil are you?’

Dimple and I had been at school together. In fact he had fagged for me, though he was always rather rotten at it. I came to regard unpressed trousers and the cremation of my muffins as de rigueur. But he was a stout chap and we soon became fast friends. I had seen little of him in some years but heard vaguely that he had drifted into publishing.

Seeing my somewhat ashen countenance, he made enquiries as to my health and I at once apprised him of my situation. Dimple looked grim and shook his head.

‘Poor old Edmund,’ he said at last. ‘And you’ve got nowhere with this … investigation of yours?’

‘Every door slammed, every hope vanished,’ I said, gazing mournfully into my glass.

Dimple’s face broadened into a smile. ‘Perhaps not every hope. I say!’ He shuffled forward on his stool and took my hand earnestly. ‘You must go and see Fetch!’

‘Fetch?’

‘Fetch! The oddest man in London! I’ve been working in the book trade these past few years and my editors are always in search of novelty. Table tapping, fish dropping from the skies, fairies in suburban gardens, that sort of thing. All rot, of course, but it keeps the wolf from the door. Or the Westminster bailiff at any rate. Well, within these rather queer circles I started to hear talk of a Dr Fetch – “Oh, Dr Fetch is your man … ” “Ask old Fetch, he’ll know … ” That sort of thing. At last, after protracted negotiations between myself and a whey-faced girl who seems to be his sort of amanuensis, I secured an interview.’

‘But who is this wonder?’ I enquired.

‘He lives in a tottering old pile in Rotherhithe. Crammed from cellar to eaves with all the most extraordinary junk you could conceive. He’s a valetudinarian. Lives with the shutters permanently down and scarcely moves from his chair. But I have a feeling that he might be just the chap you’re looking for!’

Armed with an introduction, after several frustrating weeks I found myself in a cab to Rotherhithe and an appointment at the house of Dr Fetch. The building itself looked to be Tudor, a great lowering pile of beam and wattle that loitered rather than stood by the river, a semi-permanent mist creeping around its timbers like a miasma.

I knocked at the ebony-black door, and the whey-faced girl gave me ingress. The place was black as night and, almost at once I tripped over something unmentionable.

‘Mind yerself,’ said the girl, mournfully. ‘The master is havin’ his luncheon, if you’d care to join him.’

I was ushered through into a large room, crammed with strange ephemera. In the meagre, pearly light that crept through the cracks in the shutters I could see everything from stuffed crocodiles to fossils and great piles of books of obvious antiquity.

Dr Fetch sat at the head of a large table, wreathed in shadow, and I was seated opposite him. A bowl of soup was plonked in front of me and, a little nervously I must admit, I began to eat.

All was silent save for a slurping sound from my neighbour and a curious mechanical whirring for which I could not account.

At length, my host spoke – a voice as dry and desiccated as fallen leaves.

‘How do you find it, sir?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘The soup, sir.’

‘Oh! Charming,’ I lied. ‘Charming.’

‘I prefer it thin,’ said Dr Fetch. ‘I hope that doesn’t give offence.’

‘Not a bit.’

He slurped on. ‘I find anything that requires excessive mastication most irksome. The consumption of food is such a dreary ritual. One wishes one didn’t have to bother. Don’t you agree?’

‘I’m not sure, sir. We are all creatures of appetite, are we not?’

Dr Fetch carefully lifted his spoon and then cried out as though scalded. The whey-faced girl rushed to attend him.

‘What is it? I ejaculated. ‘May I be of assistance?’

‘It’s nothing, nothing!’ he cried, pushing away the servant. ‘A mere splash on my shirtfront. And yet … I fear I must change. I have a peculiar horror of staining … ’

He scraped back his chair with a shriek of woodwork. ‘If you will excuse me.’

The servant opened the door, and he shuffled out. The door closed with a soft report and I sighed. This was getting me nowhere! Had Dimple sent me on a wild goose chase?

At length the door opened again and the girl appeared.

‘The master sends his apologies and begs that you join him in the withdrawing room for Hock and Seltzer.’

And so, at last, I laid eyes on my host. Illumined only by a shaded desk lamp, the little halo of orange showed a bent-backed old man, almost swallowed by a winged chair. He seemed more beard than flesh, great ropes of wispy white hair tumbling down his waistcoat almost down to his slippers. He glanced towards me and his blue spectacles flashed in the lamplight.

‘My apologies again, sir,’ he whispered. ‘But I have my ways. Cigar?’

I demurred.

‘You don’t mind if I –?’

I waved my hand and then was conscious once more of the curious mechanical sound. To my astonishment, Dr Fetch reached for a cigar box – daubed with phosphorescent paint so as to render it visible in the near darkness – and plucked a fat specimen from within. But the hand with which he did so was of surpassing oddness.

‘Ah yes,’ he said, holding his digits aloft. ‘A little memento of the days when I was of more athletic bent.’ His hand whirred and clicked as he waggled his fingers. ‘It is made from celluloid and steel and replaces the one I lost to a Nile crocodile back in ’56.’ He chuckled, exposing tiny yellow teeth. ‘Now then … ’ He lent forward in his chair. ‘I am Dr Fetch. Dr Brutus Marganus Porrex Cassivelaunus – um, Dennis – Fetch. I specialise in the unusual. The uncommon. The outré. Indeed, I have devoted my life to the exploration of all that lies on the margins, shall we say, of experience. I have delved into some very dark corners of the world, sir, and come back –’ he chuckled and lifted his mechanical hand again – ‘relatively intact. But, in a very long life, I cannot say I have ever heard of such symptoms as this … Crimson Horror … before. You have no theories of your own?’

‘None. I am at my wits’ end.’

‘I have consulted my indexes and come up short. And the police …?’

‘Seem intent on sweeping the whole matter under the carpet.’

‘Such is their way,’ murmured Dr Fetch. ‘I think, however, that I may be able to help you.’

‘You do!’ I cried, my heart leaping.

‘Not in my own person, you understand. I scarcely ever leave these precincts nowadays. But I know some … persons who might be ideal for this.’

I sighed inwardly. Was I to be passed about like a shilling parcel? ‘Go on.’

Dr Fetch’s celluloid hand clacked and hummed as he inhaled his fat cigar. ‘Just opposite St Paul’s there lives a private agent … ’

‘I have been through them all!’ I cried, dismayed.

‘Not this one. She – and her … helpmate – they are the last court of appeal, as it were.’

‘She?’

Dr Fetch drew on his cigar and a fog of smoke burst over his smiling face as white and nebulous as his endless beard.

*

Being the reminiscences of Miss Jenny Flint, lady’s maid of Paternoster Row, London.

It was a raw, nasty day outside, and London was smothered in one of those great, dense fogs that you read about in the Strand. Inside, though, it was quite different. We was in the hothouse that stood at the back of the property. Madam, myself and a Mr Thursday – a smart cove with great black moustaches that almost curled up to the edges of his nose. He sat there in a cane chair, with all of Madam’s rare orchids and exotic blooms towering over him and the sweat running down his face. This was four years on from the business at the Old Pom and we was settled in nicely to our abode, solving mysteries, as I’ve said, and generally having larks.

By this time, we’d been joined by Strax – of whom we was inordinately fond. He was a bit of a daft ha’p’orth, I must admit, and fond of making vague threats but a very loyal companion all the same. I could think of no one I’d rather have in my corner. It was like having a very solid mastiff always at your side. A very solid mastiff, with a great big head like a boulder and three fingers on each hand.

But Strax wasn’t in the hothouse just then. He was out the back tending to the horses. Or shovelling up their leavings, at any rate. Rank has its privileges, you know.

I bobbed a curtsey – just for form’s sake you understand – and offered Mr Thursday a glass of lemonade. He swallowed it like a gasping kiddie on a summer’s jaunt and thanked me, casting an uneasy little glance at the Mistress, who sat opposite in her peacock chair, the usual heavy veil over her face.

‘This city of fogs and chills,’ sighed Madam. ‘It gets into one’s bones, does it not? Sometimes, I long for escape. To feel the sun on my hide once more. To bask naked … ’

Mr Thursday looked even more ill at ease, if that was possible and cleared his throat.

Madam’s smile was visible even beneath the veil. ‘I hope I’m not making you uncomfortable.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘The heat. My doctors recommend it. I’m afraid I’m rather thin-skinned, am I not, Jenny?’ I could see her lovely eyes swivel in my direction. I allowed myself a little smile in return.

‘Why have you come to see us?’ she asked.

Mr Thursday cleared his throat. ‘I was told you undertake certain … assignments.’

‘We like to help folks out, yeah,’ I said. ‘When they get into bother.’

‘People say you are the last court of appeal,’ said Thursday.

Madam smiled. ‘People flatter.’

‘My brother has lately passed on. He was Edmund Thursday, the newspaper man?’

Madam turned swiftly to the point. ‘I read of your brother’s death, Mr Thursday. In Yorkshire, was it not? Another victim of the “Crimson Horror”?’

‘So it is claimed,’ nodded our visitor. ‘He was working on a story about this Sweetville place.’

I frowned. I’d heard of it. ‘They make matches, don’t they?’

‘Apparently.’ Now it was Thursday’s turn to frown. Perhaps he wasn’t expecting to make conversation with the maid. ‘An ideal community for happy, prosperous workers.’ His face twisted a little in contempt.

‘You don’t think so?’ I said.

‘From what Edmund intimated, despite the Utopian claims of its founder, all is not quite as it seems.’

We was all aware, of course, of the Bryant and May scandal of ’88 and what fate lay in store for many a poor worker in the match factories.

‘He had been working there – with a young lady – under an assumed identity.’

Madam cocked her head. ‘And how do you think your brother met his death, Mr Thursday?’

He put down his lemonade glass and wiped his moustaches with a gloved hand. ‘Tell me, Madam, do you know what an Optogram is?’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘A picture on a corpse’s eye. Very interested in photography, ain’t we, Ma’am?’

The Mistress laughed. ‘Very.’ She had a lovely laugh, like Christmas bells. ‘It’s a silly superstition, sir. The belief that the eye can retain an image of the last thing it sees.’

At this, Thursday reached into his frock coat and pulled out a large square of card. I could see at once that it was photographic paper. Looking over Madam’s shoulder, I realised it was the impression of an eye, seen very close to and that – impossibly – there was an image within it.

Some shadowy figure, arm outstretched.

Without thinking, Madam threw up her veil. ‘Good grief!’

Then she looked from the photograph to Mr Thursday who was gawping at her exposed features like a kiddie at a freak show.

Now I happen to think that my Mistress is a beauty, a rare and wonderful person with a surpassingly delightful phiz – but it has to be said that her green skin and pointed teeth are, perhaps an acquired taste.

Mr Thursday certainly seemed to think so as he pitched forward in a dead faint.

Madam Vastra sighed and rolled her eyes. ‘Apes.’

Whilst our visitor lay prone upon the couch – with Strax fanning his fevered brow – the Mistress and I took off to the darkroom. I’d made something of a hobby of photography and was pretty good, though I do say so meself. Though not many of my plates was suitable for publication, if you see what I mean. The darkroom was bathed in red, as ever. Little did I know how crimson-stained this whole adventure was to be!

I had made print after print off Mr Thursday’s Optogram and pegged them up over the chemical baths. ‘I’ve made it bigger and bigger but that don’t mean it’s very impressive.’

‘Story of my life,’ said Madam. She looked down the line at the pictures, the shadowy figure getting clearer and clearer in each.

I took out the last print from the bath and pegged it up. It was dripping wet – but the image was finally clear. I gave a low whistle. ‘Well, I’ll be blowed!’ I cried. ‘I think, Madam, that we’d better make plans to head north!’

Madam Vastra peered at the photograph and saw what I saw. The impossible image was a familiar face. A skinny blighter with a chiselled chin, his clawed hand held out, his eyes wide open in a sort of dumb horror.

THE DOCTOR!

Chapter the Fifth

‘Satanic Mills’

EXTRACT FROM DATA CORE – 7900 – XVL COMMANDER STRAX

Total obedience to the Edicts of Sontar has been essential to my being since my hatching. This is simply the way of all things. There was not much in the way of recreation for younglings as I recall (and nothing like the pointless and disgusting process here on this stupid planet which they call childhood. A protracted period of doing not very much, as far as I can see, except to play with miniature versions of themselves or throws stones at bottles on walls. And, occasionally, me.)

Obviously, being cloned, we were not little at all, springing fully formed from the Hatching Spheres and going straight into basic training beneath the harsh rays of the Sontar sun. Little or no allowance was made for the freshness and softness of our brains. I recall those days very well – as well I might since they were burnt into my memories as a permanent subroutine in order to avoid mission failure. Here, though, within the privacy of this data core (impossible to access by any other than myself and guarded by Shiravian pin-mines and a touch-sensitive phial of Spit-Adder venom so don’t try!) I will admit that I felt a little … afraid.

We were marched onto the parade ground, all six billion of us, (our armour rubbing hard against the soft new flesh of our cloned bodies) by the majestic towers of the Hall of the Fallen and the Brave. Our drill sergeant was something of a legend (or so we were told as we were less than two hours old at the time) and went by the name of General Oroxx. There is little point in describing him as he looked like all the rest of us – except for the massive scars which bisected his face like a cross, the result (our instruction coils told us) of the twin blasts of a Rutan attack force in the Dagmar Cluster which the General had repulsed. It had also cost him two of the three fingers on his left hand.

On that first day, he marched up and down before us (or rather an endless number of projections of him did. It’s quite hard to personally supervise six billion new warriors), scowling and muttering that he had never seen such a miserable bunch in all his hatched days and that we were a disgrace to the name of Sontar and would, in all probability, die ignoble deaths unworthy of our Mighty Ancestors. Those whose wide shoulder-armour we stood upon. However, if we strove hard and forgot all notions of personal ambition and – he hissed this word as though it were an oath – compassion then we might, just might be worthy of the name of Sontarans.

Then our probic vents were attached to the Edicts program and our endless, gruelling instruction began.

Eighteen minutes later we were sent into battle.

*

Being the reminiscences of Miss Jenny Flint, lady’s maid of Paternoster Row, London.

So, north we headed. I was all for the train – but we’ve had trouble like that before when a gust of wind blew Madam’s veil up and a King’s Cross porter got the horrors. A closed carriage it was then – and a fearfully bumpy and exhausting journey too.

‘According to my researches,’ said Madam once we was under way, ‘Sweetville’s proprietor Mrs Gillyflower – pretty name … ’ she mused with a little smile. ‘The flower itself is known as Dame’s rocket – do you know it?’

‘Can’t say as I do,’ I replied.

‘Anyway, she holds recruitment drives for her little community. But she is only interested in the fittest and the most beautiful.’

‘You may rely on me, Ma’am,’ said Strax, sitting opposite us in the carriage.

‘I was, in fact, speaking to Jenny,’ said Madam, a little puzzled.

Strax’s toad-face fell. ‘Jenny?’ he sighed. ‘If this weak and fleshy boy –’ he could never tell the difference between the sexes, see – ‘is to represent us, I strongly advise the issuing of scissor grenades, limbo vapour and triple-blast brain splitters.’

‘What for?’

Strax shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘Just generally. Remember … ’ And his voice fell into an awed sort of whisper, like he was talking of the Last Trump. ‘We are going to … the North!’

He went on to suggest a full-scale invasion of this hellish region using his fully worked-out scheme of aerial bombardment and Sontaran decimation canons, but Madam said that was overzealous. She applauded his industry, though, and allowed him some liquorice.

‘If our stratagem succeeds,’ she said at length, ‘Jenny will infiltrate deep into the black heart of this curious place.’

‘But how will she locate the Doctor?’ asked Strax sucking on a skinny, liquorice bootlace.

‘That’s easy,’ I chuckled. ‘To find him, I need only to ignore all keep out signs, go through every locked door … ’

‘… and run towards any form of danger that presents itself,’ completed Madam.

‘Business as usual then,’ nodded Strax. ‘Business as usual!’

We arrived in Bradford in the middle of the night and had to knock up the owner of the lodging house we’d rented. We always had to be discreet – as you can imagine – and it was me as always did the talking. Outside, plastered to the wall, amongst the advertisement for Gregory Powders and whatnot was this:

Tomorrow!

In person!

Mrs Winifred Gillyflower on the present moral decay and the coming

APOCALYPSE!

and then the address, a little chapel on the outskirts of the sooty old town. Soon we was fed and watered and laying plans for the morrow.

I was up sharpish and, after a plate of gammon and eggs I took myself off for my first appointment of the day.

The fog was even thicker than down in the Smoke, and it hung around the mucky stones of the old chapel like the skirts of a ghost. The chapel was old – you could see where the steps had been worn into curves by the passage of so much devotion – and crowded that morning as we all poured in to hear this Mrs Gillyflower talk. Being as how I was now an Investigator (official, like) I engaged the ‘congregation’ in conversation. My London twang raised many an eyebrow but I said how I was visiting a relative and had been drawn to see the famous Mrs G by the advertisements plastered all over the brickwork. Held in uncommon regard was Mrs Gillyflower. A paragon of virtue – said one local, pressing a hand to her more than ample bosom. A Saint of the North – said another, screwing his eyes shut in sincerity as though he was discussing a handmaiden of the Lord Himself. And then there was a gal called Abigail. A nervous type but keen. Not a bad-looking thing, I must admit – though with the worst set of teeth I’ve ever seen in a human mouth.

I sat next to Abigail as we filed into the pews till the chapel felt like it was bursting. There was an artist’s easel with a cloth covering it and a funny little vestibule with a ruched purple curtain encircling it. A platform had been hastily erected behind the pulpit and on it, upright as Bishops, sat a dozen or so people in black uniforms, somewhere between a subaltern’s tunic and a Sally Army rig. But it wasn’t at their duds that everyone was a-gawping. These was some of the bonniest boys and girls I’d ever clapped optics on. Not a hair was out of place, nor a chiselled cheekbone blemished. They was some of the finest physical specimens on God’s Green Earth – and they knew it (as that type always do).

Beauty is a weapon – and don’t let anyone tell you different.

These was Mrs Gillyflower’s ‘Pilgrims’ – or ’Grims as I came to know them.

At last, the congregation fell silent and a woman stepped out and began to climb the little steps to the pulpit. Mrs Gillyflower was of some age – perhaps seventy-odd – and had clearly once been a great beauty herself. But there was not a scrap of powder or paint on her pale face and her eyes gleamed at us with a strange force somewhere between malice and appetite. She adjusted her black bonnet and then leant her clawed hands on the edge of the pulpit.

‘Bradford!’ she cried, and the word rang through the hall like an accusation. ‘The gaudy fleshpots and gin-palaces of Bradford! Bradford.’ Her voice dropped low, as though in sorrow. ‘That Babylon for the Moderns! With its crystal light and its glitter, all a-swarm with the wretched ruins of humanity. Men and women crushed by the Devil’s juggernaut! Sinking ever further into a great wen of depravity and ordure! And moral turpitude can destroy the most delicate of lives. Believe me, I know.’ Her voice dropped again. ‘I know.’

She gave a little nod and one of the Pilgrims pulled on a tasselled cord. The curtain surrounding the little vestibule slid back with a sort of gentle ‘shush’ and revealed there was a young woman. A very lovely young woman in a pale cream dress, sitting on a chair next to a potted Aspidistra like some sort of tableau. There was a strong resemblance to Mrs G herself – the high cheekbones and the rosebud mouth – but this unfortunate creature, well …

‘My own daughter … ’ sighed Mrs Gillyflower.

The girl turned – and the congregation let out a gasp. A ragged and livid scar ran right over the poor creature’s face.

‘… blinded by my late husband in a drunken rage! Her once-beautiful eyes pale and white as mistletoe berries.’

There were cries of ‘Shame!’

And the lovely young woman got to her feet, her gaze zigzagging over us. I was sat close and could see the milky cloudiness in her eyes. She was blind all right and began to tap a white cane over the floor as she made her way, as though practised, towards the artist’s easel, taking up her place by it like a sightless sentinel.

Mrs Gillyflower turned her face away from her daughter and back to us. ‘And what, my friends, is your story? Will you be found wanting when the End of Days is come? When judgement rains down upon us all? Or will you be preserved against the coming Apocalypse?’

There were groans from the crowd, tears even, and one geezer looked like he was about to be struck down by the Almighty Himself as he shook his head back and forth.

Mrs Gillyflower held up her hand. ‘Do not despair! I offer a way out! There is a different path!’ She paused – and smiled. ‘Sweetville!’

The congregation murmured with excitement. This was the stuff! This what they’d come from far and wide – from Skelmanthorpe to West Bretton – to hear about. As if on cue, Mrs Gillyflower’s daughter reached out a delicate, gloved hand and groped for the cloth that covered the easel, pulling it back and revealing a picture. It was like something you might see in a Sunday school book. A sort of ideal place. There was a factory and a bandstand and neat rows of the prettiest little cottages you ever saw. And milling around it in their Sunday best – all toppers and bonnets and kiddies with hoops – happy, smiling workers.

‘Sweetville!’ repeated Mrs Gillyflower. ‘New housing! New schools! Order. Discipline. Could you be one of our Pilgrims? Are you clean of mind, limb and conscience? What do you say to it, my friends? Is it not comely? Is it not perfection itself?’

The congregation were agog now, some even on their feet. Almost as one they chanted: ‘Yes! Yes! YES!’

‘Then join us!’ yelled Mrs Gillyflower. ‘Join us in our shining city on the hill!’

At that, the chapel organ sprang – a bit wheezily – into life. It was ‘Jerusalem’ and each and every one of the congregation sang along with gusto as we surged forward to where the Pilgrims now stood, ready to sign up their eager new workforce. Mrs Gillyflower took her place at their head and, accompanied by a dolly blond boy Pilgrim, cast a beady eye over each name as it was scrawled in ink on the ledger. I watched her closely. Some people she smiled warmly towards and their names went in the right-hand column. Some – and I couldn’t help but notice they were the ones a little bit on the old side and one girl who was lame – went into the left. At last it was my turn. Mrs Gillyflower turned her gaze upon me and looked me up and down. I have to admit a sort of thrill went through me. There was a something about her. A kind of animal magnetism that it was hard to vouchsafe.

‘You wish to join us, my dear?’ she smiled.

‘If it’s all the same with you, Ma’am,’ I replied and my voice felt silly and quiet as if a mouse had squeaked.

‘Oh yes,’ she said and she smiled again. But it wasn’t a very nice smile. ‘You’ll do very nicely.’

‘Name?’ said the Pilgrim – all icy blue eyes and thick blond curls.

‘Jenny Flint,’ I replied.

He took up the dip and scratched my name – in the right-hand column.

I was in.

Deep within the bowels of the manufactory, gloomy and oppressive with heat and the dull throb of distant machinery, stood a spiral staircase, extending up and up into the eaves. On it, a white cane beat a tattoo – tap, tap, tap. Up the grilled metal stair on soft, kid-booted feet went Ada Gillyflower – tap, tap, tap – her blank white eyes darting from side to side. It was a route she knew well.

Tap, tap, tap went the cane. And the stair terminated at last at a green baize door, brass studded and with a curious hatch at its base, as though to allow ingress to a cat. Or perhaps some … other creature. Ada’s lace-gloved hand held a wooden bowl of grisly food – scraps not fit for a dog. Mutton bones and over-boiled potatoes swam in a puddle of gelatinous fat.

Ada’s hands fluttered over the hatch – and pushed the bowl through into the darkness beyond.

‘Did you think I’d forgotten you, dear Monster? Hm?’

She smiled fondly to herself then jumped back with a little cry as the door violently shook.

There was someone on the other side of that green baize door. Or something …

A hand – or was it a claw? – reached out from the hatch and grabbed the wooden bowl of slops. There was the clank of chains and, in the darkness of the room beyond, the faintest suggestion of a queer, crimson glow.

‘I shall return soon, Monster, never fear. Soon.’

Ada got to her feet and groped her way back to the spiral stair, her cane extended.

Tap, tap, tap.

*

Being the reminiscences of Miss Jenny Flint, lady’s maid of Paternoster Row, London.

I found myself with Abigail again soon after. The ’Grims lost no time in rounding up the favoured few and carting us – by chartered charabanc, no less – from the chapel to ‘Sweetville’ itself. We soon found ourselves in a plainly furnished waiting room – more like a corridor, and we scarcely fitted in, there was so many of us eager to join up. Abigail and me was right at the back – pushed tight up against a door marked ‘Mill – Strictly No Entry!’ – written in big, red gothic letters. You could hear the Mill’s machines shrieking and clanking away behind the door like a caged beast straining at its bonds.

Abigail squeezed my arm, her round face shining with the vim of it all. ‘I’m dead nervous aren’t you?’

I just shrugged.

‘They have to be sure, you see,’ she continued. ‘Only the best for Sweetville! I hope me teeth don’t let me down. If I stay in me old job any longer, I reckon I’ll rot.’

‘You been there that long?’

‘No, I mean I’ll really rot. It’s from the stuff they dip the matches in.’ She said the next word with some difficulty. ‘Phosphorus. It gets into your bones. Eats you away. Some of the older ones come off shift glowing in the dark!’

I tried to change the subject. ‘What’s up with your teeth anyway?’

Abigail pulled a face. ‘Like old pegs they are. Never been me best feature.’ She put up her plump little hand to cover her mouth. ‘I’ve not asked where you’re from. Not local, are you?’

‘Nah. Up from London.’

‘London!’ she said, and she sort of breathed it like it was a magic spell or something. ‘Different up here then I bet.’

‘Oh yeah.’ I looked up and down the row of applicants. ‘Like a bleedin’ horse-market. Do you know anyone who’s come to live here? In Sweetville, I mean?’

Abigail looked a bit unsure. ‘I … I had a pal who come here three month back. Sissy. She wrote to tell me how perfect it all were.’ Her face fell again. ‘Funny, though. I’ve not heard a peep from her since … Ooh. Hang on. We’re moving!’

And we were. Just a fraction, anyways. The line shuffled forward. I looked round. Everyone was far too busy looking ahead to notice what I might get up to. So I stepped to one side and quickly tried the door marked ‘Strictly No Entry’. It was locked, of course. I reached into my skirts and took out the soft black wallet I had concealed there. In a moment, I rolled it open on my knee. The thin metal objects inside gleamed in the gas light – skeleton keys!

Abigail looked down and gasped, knowing a nefarious scheme when she saw one. ‘What you doin’?’

‘Do us a favour. Cause a distraction.’

‘What?’

‘Swoon. Have a funny turn. Fit of the vapours!’

‘Are you crackers?’

‘Go on!’ I hissed, holding up a coin. ‘There’s a guinea in it for you.’

‘Done!’ cried the gal and grabbed the blunt from my hand in the wink of an eye. Then she started moaning and gasping and span on her heel like a top, eventually keeling over in the middle of the crowd so that people stood back. A few Christian souls bent down to aid her and, in the confusion, I had my skeleton keys into the lock, fiddled with it – click! – and was inside the forbidden area.

I shut the door quickly behind me, my heart banging in my ribs. Then I turned round.

The Mill was enormous with metal beams rising high into the ceiling and a lift in the corner. The sound of industry was utterly deafening. I don’t know quite what I expected to see. Rows of these fearsome machines you see in etchings, maybe, chomping and grinding and dipping.

But what I saw instead was that the noise was coming from great big brass things like gramophone horns, dozens of them, set into the stone floor!

Other than that – the Mill was completely empty!

Chapter the Sixth

‘Sweets to the Sweet’

Narrative of Jonas Thursday, Esq.

I returned to the streets of Bradford with heavy heart, conscious of the pall my brother’s death had thrown over my own existence. The narrow, filthy streets seemed of a piece with my mood as I threaded my way past soot-blackened washing that was strung across the low alleyways like sagging catgut. Eyes gleamed at me from darkened doorways. The eyes of children, though what was flesh and what rag was impossible to tell, so emaciated were they.

At length, I found myself outside a lodging house – of low and disreputable character, its paint and plaster as cracked and peeling as the face of a Tudor slattern. It was with some surprise, then, that I found the creaking door was opened by a butler.

‘Yes?’ The voice was like a bark. The butler, though short, was of enormous bulk, like some Greco-Roman wrestler squeezed into a tailcoat. I could see nothing of his face, but his starched shirt front strained tightly over his chest as though threatening, at any moment, to pop open.

‘I have travelled from London expressly to see Madam Vastra,’ I said. ‘If you’d be so kind as to announce me, my good man.’

‘Whom should I say is calling?’

I reached into my waistcoat and produced my card.

A hand reached out form the gloom to take it. A three-fingered hand. This was followed by the butler himself. I received a confused impression of a great, toad-like visage, the eyes small and mean-looking, the mouth a hideous gash. A monster! Another one!

And then, I fear, I rather let myself down. Just as when Madam Vastra raised her veil, I think I must have fainted. Certainly, a cold chill ran through me and large black spots blossomed before my eyes …

I became aware that I was lying down and that a cooling breeze was wafting over my face, though I kept my eyes closed. A voice sounded close by, that same, short, gruff bark. ‘It asked for permission to enter and then it fell over. What are we to make of it?’

‘I imagine Mr Thursday wants to know what progress we have made.’ Another voice, recognisably that of Madam Vastra. I risked a peek. She was sitting across from me, holding up the photograph I had brought to her. I was lying across the butler’s massive knee and he was fanning me with a rolled up copy of the Woman’s Realm. ‘The question is,’ Vastra continued. ‘How did the Doctor’s image come to be preserved on a dead man’s eye? It is a scientific impossibility.’

She glanced down at her pocket watch and scrutinised it with her glittering lizard eyes. ‘I wonder how Jenny is getting on.’

The butler leant forward excitedly, banging my head against the corner of a Morocco table.

‘If she hasn’t made contact by nightfall, I suggest a massive frontal assault on the factory, Madam! Casualties can be kept to perhaps as little as eighty per cent.’

‘I think there may be subtler ways of proceeding, Strax.’

The butler sank back and pulled my head closer to his lap with ill grace. ‘Suit yourself.’

*

EXTRACT FROM DATA CORE – 7900 – XVL COMMANDER STRAX

I had arrived on Earth after the battle of Demon’s Run in which I had initially believed myself to have died in glory and, in so doing, repaid my debt to the Doctor. Unfortunately I had discovered that my injuries actually amounted to a temporary loss of consciousness (or ‘fainting’ as the Hu-man boy Jenny had dared to call it). Accepting the invitation to join the lizard woman and her companion on an entirely temporary basis as I have said, I was not at all prepared for the strangeness of their world. This was a place called Eng-land, ruled over by a wo-man or Queen who was a very good height (my height) and adopted a dark uniform (though she was only ever to be seen being dragged along in a cart by horse-things, waving her claw, or on small pieces of adhesive paper which the Hu-mans wet with their tongues and stuck onto other pieces of paper that they put into red boxes on street corners). The inhabitants of Eng-land spent all day rushing back and forth in a great tide of dark costumes usually holding devices over their heads to shield them against the precipitation which is the main weather system of Eng-land. They seemed to give little thought to the Glory of War, except during conversations in their ‘hostelries’, when they were all for it, chattering at great length from their mouth-holes about ‘sticking it to the Prussians’ or ‘getting one over Fritz’. I was privy to these vital pieces of military tactics whilst working undercover as a cellar man during the Adventure of the Surgeon’s Elbow – one of the earliest cases in which I aided Madam Vastra and Jenny Flint. They were, it turned out, what was known as ‘detectives’. And they spent their time attempting to solve riddles and locking up a series of Hu-mans who had misbehaved. It was explained to me at some length that something called ‘due process’ must be followed and that I couldn’t just slaughter these miscreants and then feed them into my nourishment cluster to be boiled down into food.

Spoilsports.

One day, whilst I was cleansing food waste from the china dishes we use in the house or calculating various stratagems for the Glorification of the Sontaran Race, I forget which, I came across a small box of gelatinous pinkish stuff dusted with fine white powder. For a moment, I took it for a Rutan incursion and was about to blast its filthy worthlessness into the Seven Galaxies when I suddenly realised it was food. I examined the small round box and on it were words:

‘Turkish Delight’

With some trepidation, I picked up a piece of the strange substance and gobbled it up.

Unknown sensations prickled all over my pink tongue and I found that I was – for the first time since my hatching – licking my lips. This was good.

I poured the rest of the Turkish Delight into my throat and that tasted even better. I felt a surge of energy and an almost overwhelming desire to laugh. Not only did it taste good, it had revived my flagging spirits! Clearly, this was necessary to my future wellbeing.

Soon, on several reconnaissance missions to the ‘to-baccon-ists’ I discovered that Earth was filled with such wonders. Liquorice tablets, Pear drops, Aniseed twists, Fruit Gums, Cough Candy and – most precious of all, Sherbet Fancies.

All these became essential to my pre-mission routine. Except Parma violets. I can’t stand those.

Mrs Gillyflower’s dining room was no less overwhelming than her parlour – walls heavy with florid paper in curlicues of twisting unhealthiness. More bell jars were crammed onto every surface and their contents – marmosets, birds of paradise, kittens – glared back into the gas light with glassy eyes. At one end of a polished table sat Mrs Gillyflower, head bent low over her soup bowl, slurping unpleasantly. Her black dress glittered with jet embroidery, extending to the lacy piece which covered her throat.

In the middle was set a vacant chair and an empty place.

At the other end of the table, the graceful counter to her mother’s bent and sinister shape, sat Ada – dressed in cream and violet. With care she guided her heavy silver spoon to her ruby lips. The slightest mistake would send the soup tumbling down her chin and onto her dress. That would make Mama unhappy. And Sweetville was not a pleasant place when Mama was unhappy.

Serving them was another of the Pilgrims – a most handsome youth, green-eyed and slender – whose name was Abel. He poured wine for his mistress and water for her daughter.

‘I trust you had a pleasant day, Mama,’ said Ada.

‘Tolerable,’ grunted Mrs Gillyflower, her furred tongue flashing over her soup spoon.

‘Will Mr Sweet be joining us for dinner?’

Ada’s question hung in the air. Mrs Gillyflower caught Abel’s eye and he looked down, suddenly engrossed in the stuffed squirrel on the sideboard next to him.

‘Mr Sweet is rather tired tonight, I fear,’ said Mrs Gillyflower. ‘Perhaps tomorrow.’

‘Am I never to meet this silent partner of yours, Mama?’

‘All in good time.’

‘It seems to me that you are keeping him from me!’ cried Ada. ‘There is always some excuse, is there not? First, his travels had exhausted him. Then business took him to Leeds. Now—’

‘SILENCE!’ Mrs Gillyflower slammed her wrinkled hand onto the tablecloth and sent the salt cellar tumbling over. Ada froze in her chair, spoon halfway to her mouth.

‘You will become acquainted with Mr Sweet in good time, daughter. Until then, as in all things, obey me. Clear?’

Ada bowed her lovely head. ‘Yes, Mama.’

Mrs Gillyflower’s scowl transformed all at once into an apologetic smile as she looked towards the Pilgrim again and pointed to the fallen salt cellar. ‘And look what you’ve made me do!’

She took up a pinch of the spilled salt and tossed it over her shoulder, chuckling. ‘To keep the Devil at bay!’

Abel smiled back, indulgently and bent to clear the soup bowls.

As he did so, Mrs Gillyflower did a very extraordinary thing. Taking care not to be seen, she grabbed the silver cellar, pulled open her lace collar and began to pour a quantity of salt inside her dress.

Unseen by the Pilgrim and, of course by her daughter’s blank eyes, there was a strange, small shifting movement in Mrs Gillyflower’s bombazine. As though something were settling.

Breathing …

*

Being the reminiscences of Miss Jenny Flint, lady’s maid of Paternoster Row, London.

There was a noise from close by, so I threw myself behind the iron cage of the lift and watched as a group of ’Grims arrived. Strapping young fellas they was, real bobby-dazzlers. Enough to make a gal’s heart beat faster, if she hadn’t had other proclivities, if you takes my meaning. They marched through the huge, empty room and got into the lift, dragging back the iron grille and then rising up, up, up into the rafters. And they was carrying something. Strange glass vessels like you might store liquor in, or acid …

Once the lift come back down, empty, I got inside and it took me up into the top levels of the Mill – if that’s the right word now I knew the whole thing to be a kind of confidence trick. I dragged back the iron grille and stepped out into a corridor.

At one end there was a spiral staircase heading further up still. At the other a door with a round window in it – like you’d see on a ship – and there was light spilling through it, a sort of sickly red light. And the sound of thunking machinery. So I headed towards it. I tried the door – locked – and reached up on my tiptoes to try and peek through the glass but it was all steamed up. I felt for my skeleton keys when something brought me up short. There was another sound and I could make it out even with the thrum, thrum, thrum of the engines behind the door. It was the sound of someone breathing. But a terrible, ragged, lungless sort of sound it were. And it was coming from the spiral stair …

So I headed towards it. You might think that was a daft thing to do but I’d been sent there to do a job. My head was buzzing with questions and this was yet another mystery. I made my way slowly and carefully up the metal stair – the breathing getting louder all the time – till I got to the top where there was a door, this one green and studded with leather buttons. And there was a hatch at the bottom of it. I thought I’d try that first and pushed my fingers against it. It moved easily – well-oiled, thought I – and I peeked inside. But I could see nothing but an oblong of dark.

So I bent closer.

And closer still.

Then – I shrieked as a hand shot out from the hatch and grabbed me by the collar! A queer hand it was too, manacled at the wrist, bright red – and glowing! Glowing like a phosphorus match. Gathering my wits, I dragged the horrible hand off me and scuttled backwards on my rump, rubbing at my throat and thinking fast.

‘All right, mate!’ I cried. ‘You just stay calm now!’

The crimson hand disappeared through the hatch and the green door shook as whoever was on the other side thumped against it.

‘Stay calm, I said! Now, I could open this door. Would you like that?’

Silence.

‘I said—’

The door shook again.

‘Thought you might,’ I whispered. ‘But you and me has got to come to an arrangement, savvy?’

Another thump. It was like talking to a spirit at a séance. I’d been to one of them once, on a day trip to Wales, but didn’t reckon much to it. All squeeze boxes between the knees and old ladies swallowing pillowcases, if you asked me. But this – whatever was on the other side of this door was very real.

I took out my skeleton keys. They made a pleasing tinkling sound as I dangled them before the lock. ‘Now … you stand well back. Do you hear me? I don’t mean no harm to you. But you try anything funny and I’ll leave you here to rot. Is that understood?’

Another thump from the Beyond.

‘Righto.’ I got to work, scrabbling my little friends into the tumblers of the great brass lock.

In no time at all, it came free and creaked open at the touch of my hand. I remember a creak like that when Mum took us to see ‘Varney the Vampire’ when I was a nipper. The coffin lid groaned as the monster emerged from inside and all the crowd gasped and I had a little accident in me drawers.

‘You stay back now!’ I ordered as I stood on the threshold. There was a clanking of chains and I stepped inside. The red glow gave a sort of dismal light to the place but all I could make out was a wet stone floor and black, slimy straw. So I took out a box of lucifers and lit one.

And then I saw him. Terrible he looked, chained to the wall and manacled red hand and red foot. Clad in filthy long johns, hair plastered to his head, his face a ghastly crimson, his eyes and mouth wide open as if to say Help me, o, help me!

THE DOCTOR!

*

‘You’re in luck, flower. Most of them are six foot under now.’

Amos, the crook-backed mortuary man of recent memory grinned across the room at Madam Vastra. Her electric blue dress glittered like the reptilian skin she kept so discreetly hidden. Again, a heavy black veil covered her features.

‘I beg your pardon?’

Amos put a hand over his aproned chest as though taking an oath and solemnly quoted: ‘“For I am in the cold earth laid, in the tomb of blood I’ve made.”’ He sniffed and moved to the nearest gas-jet. ‘Under the ground, love.’

‘I see. Yes, of course.’

‘Or in the furnace. But I’ve kept, you know, a few bits and bobs for me collection.’

Beneath her veil, Vastra scowled. ‘Collection?’

There came the familiar whumph of igniting gas and the rest of the room – at the rear of the mortuary – was revealed. It resembled a cobwebby corner of one of the less reputable museums, or the forbidden area of a carnival. On every shelf, in every cranny stood specimen jars, each of them with something vaguely horribly floating about in formaldehyde. Here: a hand with six digits; there: the eyeballs of a lunatic; there: a two-headed baby, its body shrivelled and pathetic. But there were other items too. Evidence of terrible injury. Of the ravages of man-made calamity.

Limbs caught in looms. Scalped hair from carding machines. Decapitations, maimings – oh, what horrors!

Amos shook his head. ‘Them new manufactories can do ’orrible things to a person. ’Orrible. I’ve pickled things in ’ere that’d fair turn your ’air snowy as top of Buckden Pike.’

Vastra turned to him. ‘You know what I’m looking for.’

‘Aye. All the bits found in’t canal. The Crimson Horror!’

So saying, Amos wrenched back a filthy linen curtain revealing an oak chest, banded with iron strips. He threw it open, revealing an interior cushioned with faded blue silk and containing a variety of chemical jars. From these he selected one and handed it across to Madam Vastra, its contents gently sloshing from side to side – and glowing red!

Vastra held it close to her face and the crimson glow illumined her thick veil. ‘It hardly seems possible … ’ she breathed.

‘Eh?’

‘I think … I think I’ve seen these symptoms before.’

Amos shrugged. ‘Oh aye?’

‘A long time ago.’

‘Oh aye,’ he said again. ‘How long?’

Vastra swept round, her eyes shimmering even through the veil. ‘About sixty five million years!’

*

Being the reminiscences of Miss Jenny Flint, lady’s maid of Paternoster Row, London.

The Doctor opened his arms out towards me like a kiddie wanting its mum. As long as I’d known him (and her. Though that’s another story), the Doctor had always been what you might call on the front foot. Not full of hisself like some fellas I’ve known, but he just had this breezy sort of confidence that everything was gonna turn out for the best. And it was infectious. Because the Doctor believed it, you believed it too. And nine times out of ten, he was right. But this was different. I’d never seen him look so vulnerable, so lost, and my heart went out to him. His chains clanked as he moved and his limbs was stiff as boards.

‘Doctor … ’ I said, shaking my head.

His mouth just hung open and a terrible, mournful groan come out.

‘What’s happened to you? Can’t you speak?’

He managed to shake his head – a head as red as if it’d been boiled – and I moved towards him, holding out shaking fingers. I got close to his flesh, then pulled back, scared – I don’t mind admitting. Then I gathered my wits and touched his face. I shan’t forget that sensation in a hurry. Where I expected soft and yielding flesh, my fingers touched hardness, like the poor soul had been varnished. I put my knuckles together and actually rapped on the Doctor’s cheek! It was like he’d been changed into a toy soldier or an Aunt Sally in a funfair.

‘Right,’ I said and began at once to attack the padlock on his chains with my skeleton keys. ‘We’re getting out of here!’

In no time I had him free and started to drag him towards the door. He moved like an old man, or one of them wind-up toys, his arms and legs set and hard as rock. We was almost at the door when he pulled back and gestured with one rigid hand towards the corner of the cell, grunting like a mute. I saw at once what it was. His clothes: purple frockcoat, trews, boots, all in a pile. So I grabbed them and handed them to the Doctor. He clutched on to them as if his life depended on it.

Then we was down the spiral stair as fast as we could, me leading the Doctor like I was leading a blind man. I was making straight for the lift but the clanking of its gears told us there was someone on their way! We could either nip back up the stairs (and nipping wasn’t coming easily to the Doctor right then) or we could head through that door at the end of the corridor with the glass porthole. So I dragged the Doctor towards the door. It was agony for him, I’m sure, because of how much it must’ve hurt – but also for me because he was so slow! And every step his red feet took, the sound of the lift come closer and closer.

At last we got to the door, and I pushed it open just as the lift arrived. I shoved the Doctor through into the room beyond and looked back over my shoulder. It was Ada Gillyflower who’d come up in the lift and she tapped her white cane as she headed towards the spiral stair, a bowl of something clutched in her other hand.

But I had no time to concern myself with her.

*

Tap, tap, tap went Ada’s cane again as she reached the top of the spiral stair, another bowl of grisly vittles in her gloved hand. She smiled to herself and put out her other hand, tenderly, to the green baize door. ‘You’re all I have, Monster. But all will be well. Imperfect as we are, there be will room for us in the new Jerusalem!’

But something was different. The door gave to her touch – and creaked open. With a sense of rising panic, Ada made her way into the cell, her white cane sweeping in arcs over the flagged stone floor. At length it met metal – the clanking coils of the Doctor’s abandoned manacles. Ada’s beautiful face fell.

‘No … Noooo! Where are you, Monster? Where are you?’

She sank to her knees and held the chains close to her face. Hot tears sprang to her eyes and tumbled over her scarred cheeks. ‘My Monster,’ she sobbed. ‘My Monster … ’

Being the reminiscences of Miss Jenny Flint, lady’s maid of Paternoster Row, London.

I dashed through the doorway with the porthole and bumped straight into the Doctor who was just standing there, still as a statue and gazing around him.

We was in a huge great chamber, so full of steam that at first it was hard to make out anything save for that hellish red glow. But then things began to come clear and I took in the horrible sight before us. At the far end of the chamber was the iron-strutted base of the great Mill chimney and ’Grims was hard at work around it, swarming like black-coated bees, so I pulled the Doctor back against the wall so as not to be seen. Then I saw something else, dominating the middle of the room: a massive vat – like a witch’s cauldron – full of a strange, reddish stuff that plebbled and burped like infernal soup. Steam rose from it in a genie-column and it was sort of glowing. Glowing like the Doctor’s skin.

Over the vat was a huge metal arm, like a crane or a gallows. There was something hanging from it – and I shudder at the memory of the sight: about a dozen or so people, out cold, the lot of them, and hanging there like wooden splints in a match factory. And, like the splints, these poor beggars was going to be dipped!

I heard the Doctor groan as the metal arm lowered with a screeching sound and slowly lowered the unfortunates into the gloop like so many toffee-apples.

‘Oh my Gawd,’ I whispered and looked at the Doctor.

He slowly nodded his creaking head as if to answer my unspoken question. Yes. That’s what they did to me!

I grabbed his arm and tried to drag him back towards the door but he resisted. I might as well have tried to move a brick wall. He was pointing ahead – his arm like a signpost – and I saw a smaller room beyond another door. ‘What is it? You want to go there?’

He nodded feebly so I managed to drag him forward and into the smaller chamber, a room filled with rows of metal cases like coffins – only coffins with glass pipes sticking out from them. I shut the door behind us and the relief from the noise and clatter was wonderful.

The Doctor pointed towards the cases.

‘You want to go in there?’

Again, he groaned and nodded then staggered forward, clutching his coat. I looked round, keeping an eye out for the ’Grims and then pulled open the door of one of the coffin things. The Doctor practically fell inside and, his arm creaking like an old wooden joint, he dragged something from the pocket of the coat. I knew it of old. His sonic screwdriver! As I slammed the metal door of the cabinet on him, the round grille on the front lit up with a greenish glow and the glass tubes that covered it started to steam and bubble.

The whole arrangement began to rock and sway from side to side, like a pot with the lid too tight. I bent towards it, the strange green light and the whirr of the sonic screwdriver merging into a strange phantasmagoria. Something was cooking.

Then, of a sudden – bang!

The door of the machine flew open and the Doctor leapt out!

He was fully restored and fully dressed, looking just as he usually did – his great mass of dead straight hair falling forward into boot-button eyes that shone with mischief.

‘Missed me?’

‘Doctor!’ I cried, thrilled to bits.

‘Jenny,’ he replied. ‘Oh, Jennyennyjenny! Just when you think your favourite lock-picking Victorian chambermaid will never turn up! Jenny!!’ And he took me in his arms, bent me low like we was dancing and kissed me!

Now, I’m a respectable gal – most of the time – and even though I was very pleased to see my pal restored to life there’s a time and a place. ’Sides, I prefer to be asked.

So I clocked him one, right on the kisser.

He rubbed his jaw and grinned again. ‘You’ve no idea how good that feels! Right! Mrs Gillyflower! We’ve got to stop her! And then there’s Clara. Poor Clara. Where’s Clara?’

‘Clara?’

But he didn’t hang around. The Doctor never did. He was off, throwing open the door to the main chamber and disappearing into the steam.

I dashed after him. ‘Doctor, wait!’

‘Can’t,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Clara. Got to find.’

‘What happened to you? How long have you been like that?’

‘Days. Weeks. Dunno. Long story.’

He suddenly pulled up suddenly and I ran into him. He looked down at me and beamed.

‘I’ll keep it short!’

Chapter the Seventh

‘Diary of a Madman’

I’ve tried keeping one of these things before. Many times. Or I will. That’s the trouble with time travel. It can get confusing. And the pages are never really big enough and it still always seems to have ‘Grouse shooting begins’ or ‘Bank Holiday in Ireland’ rather awkwardly placed on the page so you have to write really small to cram everything in. Which is probably the Universe’s way of telling me I should get out more – or at least not get my diaries from WH Smith’s.

Yes, diaries! Confusing! And that’s before you’ve even factored in the Blinovitch Limitation Effect. Which I rarely do, to be honest. Have you read Blinovitch? No? No one has, really. It’s quite a dull book. He bangs on far more about his rough upbringing in the Urals and his dreadful father than about the contradictions of temporal mechanics. On the plus side, it does contain a really smashing recipe for dumplings. His father’s recipe in fact. Which is maybe one of the reasons Blinovitch decided against going back in time to kill him. Anyway, I digress. Which is another thing I do.

Clara fancied a little trip back to Victorian Britain. I have a fondness for that time. I love the clothes, the patter, the rank hypocrisy. It’s got the lot. And I’ve come at it from all angles – Cyber Kings and Gelth incursions and Giant Rats – well, perhaps the world isn’t quite prepared for that one.

But it’s a long old period if you go back to the very beginning (1837 – tight trousers, loud checks, splendid stovepipe hats) to the very end (1901 – morning dress, mourning jewellery, less splendid, smaller toppers) so choosing exactly when is quite a challenge.

‘What about Nelson?’ asked Clara as we sat having beans on toast in the Cloisters.

‘What about him?’

‘I wouldn’t mind meeting him.’

‘You said Victorian!’

‘Wasn’t he a Victorian?’

‘No! What do they teach in schools these days?’

Clara giggled, and her heart-shaped face crumpled up. ‘Search me.’

‘I mean we could go and see Nelson, no reason why not, but you did say Victorian and we need to have some parameters or we could just end up anywhere – again – and—’

‘OK! OK! Florence Nightingale! What about Florence Nightingale? She was definitely a Victorian.’

‘Strange woman,’ I mused. ‘Kept a pet owl in her apron, did you know that?’

Clara did not know that and didn’t seem keen to find and out more so we moved on.

Florence took us to Mary Seacole and then the Crimea seemed on the cards but we had specified Britain, so with a sigh Clara finally said, ‘All right, you choose!’ (Which is what I’d hoped she’d say in the first place.)

But it’s easier said than done isn’t it? I mean, with all that time and all those people to choose from. All those wonderful, weird, fascinating people! Humphrey Davey, Ada Lovelace, Mary Anning, Bram Stoker – but I digress! I’m doing it again.

So, in the end, after complex and logical reasoning I stuck a pin in a book and we settled on the Great Exhibition of 1851. I’d been before, of course and secretly hoped I wouldn’t run into myself as that might cause all sorts of problems (see Blinovitch, Chapters 3–48).

Now the TARDIS and I have come a long way together – literally and metaphorically (and meta-metaphorically), from the days when neither of us had a clue where we were going, to getting better at short hops, to that funny time when I fixed a Randomiser to the controls in order to avoid the machinations of the Black Guardian. (I managed to dodge him pretty successfully for ages until he popped up again with a stuffed bird on his head. Which I must admit was not what I was expecting.) And then there was that time when I was very fond of cricket (I mean really fond, to the extent that I practically lived in the clobber) when I really didn’t seem to have much luck getting the TARDIS where I wanted her to go. This was the cause of some consternation to my friends at the time, particularly one who, though I was very fond of her, seemed to find the idea of temporal-spatial adventure less enticing than holding down a rather ordinary job. This has been something of a bugbear throughout my travels. Those who embraced their new life with gusto and those who seemed to find it all a bit of a pain in the bum.

But of late I’ve been pretty much able to steer the old girl, barring the odd accident or Celestial Intervention. So it was some disappointment that, instead of landing the Ship in the middle of the Great Exhibition of 1851, we materialised in a very sooty alley in Bradford in 1893.

Clara – dressed up splendidly for the occasion – wrinkled her little nose. ‘You’re making a habit of this. Getting us lost.’

‘I resent that,’ I said. ‘I got you to see the dinosaurs, didn’t I? And you met David Bowie! And we saw the Mirror Falls of Paragonda.’

She had to agree all those things had happened. But she looked about her without much enthusiasm. After all, she knew the North. And this really was a grim bit.

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘The TARDIS is much better than it used to be. I once spent a helluva long time trying to get a gobby Australian to Heathrow airport.’

‘What for?’

‘Search me. Anyway—’

Then someone screamed. I looked at Clara and she looked at me. This was more like it! I squeezed her arm. ‘Brave heart, Clara!’

*

We ran from the alley and into a mist-shrouded street that ran alongside a canal. The water looked as thick and grey as the air, swirling around rusting perambulators and other discarded rubbish. The woman who’d screamed was being comforted by a man in a big cloth cap but she was still pointing towards something floating in the canal. Something very strange. There was an excitable knot of people gawping at it and a couple of policemen holding them back.

The most vocal was an excitable-looking young fellow who was pushing at the nearest policeman’s arm. ‘It’s another one, don’t you see? Another victim!’ he bellowed. ‘Why won’t any of you listen?’

I touched him on the arm. ‘We’ll listen.’

So we did. And quite a tale Mr Thursday had to tell. That was his name: Edmund Thursday. And he’d been sniffing around a strange story that had to do with a place called Sweetville and its proprietor.

‘Mrs Winifred Gillyflower,’ he said as we walked purposefully over the slimy cobbles. ‘An astonishing woman. A prize-winning chemist and mechanical engineer. So why … ’

‘Why has she decided to open up a match factory in her old home town?’ I agreed.

‘And there’s something very odd about that place,’ Thursday continued. ‘A mill which never actually seems to produce anything? A chimney that never blows smoke?’

At that, the three of us looked up at the great red-brick chimney that loomed over the gates to Sweetville. It was indeed soot-free, and not a wisp of anything rose from its tip.

Our next stop was the Municipal Morgue. We gazed down on the corpse that had been fished from the canal. A young woman, her expression fixed and dreadful. Her skin waxy and luminous red.

‘Same as the rest,’ breathed Thursday. ‘All dead from causes unknown and their flesh … glowing.’

Now I don’t know if you’ve had many dealings with morgues – most of you only visit once and not in the best of circumstances – but this was a particularly nasty specimen. And the same could be said of its chief denizen, who seemed to take an unhealthy relish in his job.

‘Like something manky in a coal cellar,’ he cried. ‘They keep turning up in’t canal. The Crimson Horror!’

‘Ooh! Good name,’ I grinned (couldn’t help myself). ‘That’s good, isn’t it? The Crimson Horror! Cool!’ Then I did my best to calm down and look serious. ‘Wonder what it is?’

I’d put on some cotton gloves as it seemed wise to avoid contact with whatever the Crimson Horror was. I whipped out a magnifying glass from my capacious pockets (great word ‘capacious’. Wonder where I picked that up?) and bent low to gaze into the dead woman’s eyes. I saw something there and let out a low whistle.

Clara’s bright eyes widened. ‘Well?’

‘Do you know the old Romany superstition, Clara? That the eye of a dead person retains an image of the last thing it sees?’

‘Nope.’ Her face cracked into a puckish grin that wasn’t quite suitable to the occasion. ‘Why don’t you tell me about it?’

‘If you insist.’

‘I’ve heard of such a thing,’ said our friend Thursday. ‘Tommy-rot, of course.’

I was outraged. ‘Tommy-rot? Tommy-rot? Not.’

‘Not?’

‘Not tommy-rot. Not if the chemical composition of the whole body has been massively corrupted.’

I beckoned to Clara and she took the magnifying glass and peered down. Then gasped. She saw what I saw. An image scorched into the dead woman’s eye! A black-bonneted woman, like some horrible ghoul.

I examined my gloved fingers. The white cloth was stained red where it had come into contact with the corpse’s waxy skin. ‘What is this stuff?’

Fortunately, we gained access to a laboratory close by. A factory laboratory where they concocted dyes for cotton and that sort of stuff. And by ‘gained access’, I mean we broke in. I did some quick tests, only occasionally resorting to using technology that wasn’t available in 1893. I do like a challenge.

‘Wow. Gosh,’ I said at last. ‘Wow! This is nasty. An organic poison. A sort of venom. And you think it’s connected to Sweetville?’

‘I do,’ said Thursday.

‘Well, then. We need a plan!’

Said plan found us only a very short time later standing opposite Mrs Gillyflower herself. Quite a woman, I have to say. Is imposing the right word? Maybe terrifying. Yes, terrifying that’s it. Swathed in black like a great greasy crow (I was put in mind again of the Black Guardian and his interesting taste in hats) and her eyes like little jet brooches, glittering with intelligence and malice. I’ve met some right terrors in my time – from Omega to the terrible Zodin – and I knew at once that Mrs G was a wrong ’un.

‘Doctor and Mrs Smith!’ she said with a grin. ‘Oh yes. I think you’ll do very nicely.’

We had assumed these clever aliases and I had mastered a pitch-perfect Bradford accent with which to sell the deception. ‘Grand. Smashing,’ I said. ‘The missus and I couldn’t be more chuffed, could we, love?’

For some reason Clara rolled her eyes.

*

Minutes later, we were out on the cobbles of Sweetville, an absolutely charming place, I must admit, all rows of neat and pretty houses with coloured bunting hanging from their doorways, like every day was a holiday. Clara and I walked arm in arm (which is what married couples do. I’ve read it in books) while Mrs Gillyflower sailed on ahead like a dreadnought at full steam.

‘Sweetville will provide you with everything you need. You will never have to worry about a thing. Ever again.’

I really should have noticed the relish with which she said that last bit.

Clara piped up. ‘May I ask a question, Mrs Gillyflower?’

‘Of course, my dear.’

‘The name. Sweetville. Why not name it after yourself? After all, it’s your creation.’

She had a point. I ran with it. ‘Gillyflowertown?’

Mrs Gillyflower laughed lightly.

‘Gillyflowerland!’ I continued. ‘You could have rollercoasters!’

Mrs Gillyflower bent her head. ‘It is named in tribute to my partner.’

‘Your late partner?’ I asked.

‘No. My … silent partner. Mr Sweet likes to keep himself to himself. Shall we press on?’

So we did. Mrs G led us up to the gaily-coloured door of one of the cottages. Was this where she intended Doctor and Mrs Smith to reside?

‘Who lives here?’

‘Oh, names don’t matter here, Doctor,’ she opined. ‘All you need to know is that we only recruit the brightest and the best.’

So saying she threw open the door.

Inside was what we were perhaps expecting to see: an idealised Victorian family. Father and Mother. Standing there as if posing for a photograph. All stiff as mannequins. Smiling. But this was no photographic grouping. They were glowing waxily red and, like Mrs Gillyflower’s stuffed birds, they were under the huge glass dome of a bell jar!

Clara and I turned to run (that’s always best in the circumstances. Run first, think of clever plan later) but we’d been outfoxed. Mrs Gillyflower slammed the front door behind us and, from out of the shadows, swarmed about a dozen of her Pilgrims.

Then everything went very dark.

*

I came to but couldn’t open my eyes. There was a terrible aching and all I could hear was the awful shrieking and clanking of machinery. My stomach lurched as I felt myself swinging forward. It was like being on a fairground ride. I tried to open my eyes but there was steam rising into my face and I couldn’t for the life of me focus. Then I felt myself dropping lower and lower and my feet – bare feet, I’d been stripped to my long johns – met some kind of warm, sticky ooze. Then I dropped further and could feel the stuff rising over my body as though I were being submerged in quicksand. At last I got my eyes open and suddenly saw all.

I was suspended by my arms from a sort of great crane. Clara was next to me, still out cold, and there were lots of others hanging by their arms like washing pegged to a line. They were all physically splendid young people, I have to say, and I obviously didn’t look out of place among them despite being actually, you know, ancient.

Around the great cauldron into which we were being lowered, black-uniformed Pilgrims swarmed like flies. We sank deeper and deeper into the ooze like a row of toy soldiers. My eyes were streaming but I could just make out a row of coffin-like boxes in the room beyond. This was some sort of preservation process – and that was the means of escape! I opened my mouth to cry out but then the crane dropped us again and my head went under and I could feel the ghastly red stuff flooding into me.

They say your life passes before you in these moments. Well, I’ve had quite a few of those but this was different. A sort of choking blackness and then my mind seemed to go … elsewhere. All I could think of was … the daisiest daisy …

*

When I came to, all I could see was a sort of vertical slit of light. I realised at last that it was the view through my own eyelid, gummed up with red stuff and very painful. I was lying in a heap with someone’s foot jammed against my cheek. I could just about make out the dippees (is that a word? Dippees? Not as good as ‘capacious’) who now stood like toy soldiers, stiff and immobile, their skin waxy and glowing faintly. Clara was among them – staring ahead, a rictus grin on her face.

Mrs Gillyflower strolled up and down before them like a general in a bustle, pleased as punch. ‘Like pretty maids all in a row!’ she enthused. ‘The process improves with every attempt! Mr Sweet is such a clever old thing.’

Mr Sweet again! Who was this silent partner of hers? Was he the brains behind the whole thing? These were the sort of questions that should have been raging through my brain had I not felt so completely poleaxed, paralysed and powerless.

Mrs Gillyflower turned a gimlet eye towards us, piled up as we were like logs in the corner. I think I was the only one still alive. Respiratory bypass, two hearts. You know the drill.

‘Into the canal with the rejects, Ada,’ she barked.

‘Yes, Mama.’

A new voice. And then, tapping its way over the cold floor on which my head rested, the tip of a white cane. I reached out a shaking, enfeebled red hand to the newcomer.

‘Mama—’ but the speaker cut herself off and bent down, her face coming close to mine, her gloved hands reaching towards me and detecting the signs of life. I didn’t know it then, but I had just met my saviour.

Chapter the Eighth

‘Through a Glass, Darkly’

Extract from the Phonographic record of Ada Gillyflower.

I was nine years old when it happened.

I have a confused recollection of being taken from my bed – head full of sleep – and pawing at my half-closed eyes. My little feet going down the steps to Mama’s laboratory – a journey I knew well. Then there was a loud noise – like a firework on Guy Fawkes Night – and then heat, terrible heat. And light. White. Bright, bright – and the last I would ever see.

But I also remember the light from before that. A kinder light. The light and the colour.

Summertime memories, when we lived in the South. Sunshine and gardenias, and once a spray of lilac that Mama laid in my perambulator. But this was a very long time ago and so, naturally, many of my memories have become blurred. I recall Papa coming home from a trip to the East – he was always away on trips – and beckoning me into his study. There on his big, heavy, dark desk was a box, all covered in strange writing. He pulled me up onto his knee and nodded towards the box, smiling beneath his big black beard. I put out my hands – I was perhaps six or seven – and I lifted the cardboard lid. It made a very satisfying, trumpety noise, I recall.

Inside, wrapped in tissue, lay a very pretty frock – sky blue with little yellow flowers embroidered around the hem. I had never been so happy in my little life.

I got down and held up the dress before me. And then I saw Mama standing in the study doorway. There was look on her face – a sort of thunderous frown – which she often had.

And then they began to row again. Because it is not just the sights I recall. It is the sounds.

The sounds of crashing crockery and raised voices and furious argument.

Yes, there was that familiar look of Mama’s. I imagine she has that look still, though, of course, I can no longer see it.

I had a private tutor – Professor Bywaters – who ensured my vowel sounds remained unpolluted by any egregious Northern flattening, and who became the closest thing I had to a friend. I was a lonely child. I was to become a lonely woman.

It was not long after that it happened – Mama told me all about it in the infirmary many weeks later when the bandages came off. Of how Papa had returned home, insensible with drink and taken out his rage on me, mixing together some of Mama’s chemical compounds into a calamitous mixture that exploded in my poor face. And it was not long after that that Papa ‘went before’. He had lately returned from the Belgian Congo and must have picked up some dreadful local malady, taking to his bed with sweats and brain fever and though Mama ministered to him daily – always making sure he drank the special cordial she prepared for him – he rapidly declined. He departed this veil of tears just after Michaelmas 1859 in ‘an appalling torrent of mucal excess’, as Mama told me the next morning over the kedgeree.

Then things became very different. We had always been an unusual household with Papa’s travelling and Mama’s scientific enthusiasms, but soon after the funeral Mama uprooted us and we moved to back to the North where she said there were ‘distinct possibilities’. Her chemical researches made her famous (‘a second Vera Popova’, said the Yorkshire Post) and she purchased the land necessary for the building of her ideal project after the former owner died in circumstances not dissimilar to my own poor father. There must have been something going around.

Professor Bywaters was replaced by an altogether harsher regime intended to school me in methods of navigating a world gone suddenly dark. Mama returned from a nocturnal expedition filled with a strange kind of enthusiasm. She had, she said, made the acquaintance of a new friend. A new friend who would, if we only managed things wisely, change our lives. And those of all our fellow beings. This new friend was a Mr Sweet. I said I looked forward to meeting him. And she gave a little laugh. It was not a pleasant sound.

The construction of Sweetville and with it Mama’s Grand Plan is not a matter for these cylinders.

And so it was, after yet another of the ghastly ‘dipping’ operations that I found myself charged with the disposal of those unfortunates who had not quite made the grade. And, in so doing and to my very great surprise, I found a friend.

I knelt down by the pile of corpses and stretched out my hand. There it was, the flutter of a heartbeat – and a strange echo? – beneath the stiffened cloth of male combinations. I leant closer and could hear his strained breathing, like the leathery lungs of a tubercular invalid. When I was sure that Mama and the Pilgrims had departed (I listened carefully for the sound of their footfalls to diminish), I helped my new friend to his feet. He was weak as a kitten.

‘Sometimes the preservation process goes wrong,’ I explained to him. ‘Only Mr Sweet knows why. And only Mama is allowed to talk to Mr Sweet.’

He didn’t reply. Was incapable of doing so, in fact. But I could feel the warmth of his presence by me. ‘But if you’re very good, you can stay here,’ I whispered. ‘You’ll be my secret.’

I put a finger to his lips. ‘My special Monster.’

And that’s what he became. My only friend. I talked to him and poured out my troubles and brought him food whenever I could. We were kindred spirits, you see.

‘You’re all I have, Monster,’ I told him. ‘But all will be well. Imperfect as we are, there be will room for us in the new Jerusalem!’

I was sad that I had to restrain him in that strange, small attic room above the factory. But what choice did I have? If he had escaped then Mama would certainly have put an end to him. I tried my best to make him secure. But then I imagine that is what the zookeeper feels when watching a beautiful jungle creature pacing and padding up and down its miserable enclosure.

At any rate, one day I made my way up the spiral stair only to find the door ajar, the chains undone and my precious Monster fled.

I was still there, weeping over the abandoned chains when I felt a chill presence enter the room. Mama.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ she hissed, taking in the scene and, I imagine, positing theories.

‘Oh Mama,’ I sobbed. ‘I have been foolish.’

‘Foolish?’

‘I have formed a … a sentimental attachment.’

My words were like scalding water thrown in her face. ‘An attachment? To whom?’

I sank into a position of supplication. ‘A young man. Unlike the others, he survived rejection. He must be strong. Worthy of salvation—’

I heard the clank of my monster’s manacles as Mama held them up. ‘Wrecker! Beserker!’ she spat. ‘You have loosed a Reject onto the outside world?’

‘I have disappointed you—’

‘My plans must be accelerated!’ cried Mama with a curious exultation in her voice. ‘Nothing must interfere with the Great Work!’

I put my hands together as though in prayer. ‘But please say there is still room for me in your new Eden, Mama! Promise me that!’

But Mama seemed not to hear me. ‘I will set my Pilgrims onto him.’

I reached out and grabbed at her skirts, desperate for some words of comfort. But Mama had no mind for such things.

‘Kindly do not paw and slobber at my crinolines. You know I can’t bear to look at sick people.’

A ragged cry escaped me. ‘Oh, Mama! Promise you will not abandon me! Promise me, Mama!’

But she reached down and disconnected my knotted hands from her silks. ‘Do you not yet understand that there can be no place for such as you? That only perfection is good enough for myself and for Mr Sweet?’

I heard her skirts swish over the cold stone floor as she made swiftly for the door. But she stopped briefly and turned back. ‘The bright day is done, child. And you are for the dark.’

*

Being the reminiscences of Miss Jenny Flint, lady’s maid of Paternoster Row, London.

‘Poor Edmund Thursday must have come looking for us,’ said the Doctor, ‘and then fallen into a vat of the pure venom. Or was pushed. Didn’t stand a chance.’

We was making our way down through the Mill now, the Doctor checking every nook and cranny. ‘I was sitting there one day, still chained to the wall, when Edmund came smashing through the door. Steaming with that red stuff. But there was nothing I could do.’

The very image I’d seen burned into the poor fella’s eye! That had been the beginning of this whole strange saga. But how was it to end?

‘What is that stuff, though?’ I asked the Doctor.

‘Deadly poison,’ he said gravely. ‘And Mrs Gillyflower’s dipping her Pilgrims in a dilute form to protect them. Preserve them. Process didn’t work on me. Maybe because I’m not human. I ended up on the reject pile.’

‘Preserve them against what, though?’

‘Well, according to her, the coming Apocalypse!’

I thought back to the chapel and that queer congregation of true believers. ‘“When the End of Days is come and judgement rains down upon us all … ”’

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

‘No. What did you say?’

‘Something Mrs Gillyflower said. One of her sermons.’

The Doctor looked thoughtful at that and rubbed his chin.

‘Madam will come looking for me,’ I said at last. ‘We’d best get on.’

‘Yes!’ he cried. ‘Gotta find Clara.’

‘But Doctor—!’

He’d already sprinted to the end of the corridor and had the door open.

‘Clara’s dead!’ I insisted. ‘Isn’t she?’

He paused on the threshold and glanced back at me.

‘It’s … complicated.’

*

EXTRACT FROM DATA CORE – 7900 – XVL COMMANDER STRAX

It was never easy battling the Rutans. What? I hear you say, they’re just big blobs of green slime like something you might find rolling from the filthy nasal hole of a Hu-man child, aren’t they? Well, yes and no. The Rutans, you see, have – and I hate to admit this – an advantage over we Sontarans. They can change their shape. Now I happen to think that the Sontaran shape is very pleasing. In fact, IT IS THE BEST SHAPE CONCEIVABLE throughout the universe. All universes. Even the little pocket ones where the laws of physics are suspended and strange things happen against a backdrop of black-and-white images of stately homes and topiary bushes. But the Rutans, via their damnable and useful ability to take on the shape of others, can blend in. This is a treacherous and cowardly thing to do. We were taught by General Oroxx that a warrior goes into battle clearly marked – if possible in bright blue armour – all guns blazing, hoping to take as many of the enemy with him before his own inevitable destruction. This was the creed I lived for. Until my disgrace.

But I shall not dwell on that.

For now, let me record that, on the fog-shrouded night in the pointless Earth conurbation of Bradford, I found myself disgraced again.

I was lost.

Following the instructions of the reptile creature Vastra (who dares to call herself my employer. It is merely useful for me to use her dwelling place as my temporary barracks, you understand. Once I have completed a full reconnaissance of Earth and its defences, I shall be off!), I piloted a carriage over the wet cobblestones. Pulling the carriage was the hideous, four-legged brown thing which I had learned to call a horse. A dumb animal which the primitive Hu-mans of this time nevertheless found useful in pulling them about, not having, incredibly at this stage of their evolution, mastered the fundamentals of internal combustion – or even matter transportation. I had covered my clothing in a cloak and scarf to conceal my dazzling beauty from the world.

I dragged at the leather straps which were attached to the horse-thing and sighed.

‘Lost! The shame of it. I must submit myself for dissolution at the great hatchery on Sontar. Where is Sweetville? Where?’ I glared at the horse-thing. ‘Horse! You have failed in your mission! Do you have any final words before your summary execution?’

The horse-thing just bowed its stupid head and munched on some straw.

‘The usual story,’ I spat in disgust. I took out my blaster, shaking my head. ‘Fourth one this week! And I’m not even hungry.’

Then, without warning (he was lucky I did not remove his head with my staser blast) a small Hu-man child stepped from the shadows. As grimy as the straw-strewn street he wiped his runny nasal hole (bringing back memories of the Rutans, you see) on a filthy sleeve and said: ‘Turn around when possible. Then, at the end of the road, turn right.’

I peered down at him. ‘What?’

‘Bear left for a quarter of a mile,’ said the urchin boy-thing. ‘And you will have reached your destination.’

I reached out my hand and pulled the boy onto the seat next to me, grateful for any help at this stage of the mission.

‘Thank you, Hu-man. What is your name?’

‘Thomas, sir,’ piped the boy. ‘Thomas Thomas.’

I whipped the horse-thing and wheeled the carriage round. ‘I think you will do well, Thomas Thomas.’

*

Being the reminiscences of Miss Jenny Flint, lady’s maid of Paternoster Row, London.

Out of the Mill we went, the Doctor and me and onto the pretty streets of Sweetville, though it was a foggy night and perishing cold. Each and every little workers’ cottage had a cheerful glow coming from its windows: a cosy hearth, a welcoming home.

But the Doctor ran up and down the street, hurling open the doors and peering inside.

‘Are we talking about the same person?’ I demanded. ‘About that Clara?’

I was confused, you see, to say the least, being as how the Clara I knew had met her end at the hands of the Great Intelligence and its monstrously wintry army some little time ago.fn1

The Doctor dashed into the nearest cottage then came shooting straight back out again, his hands flapping. ‘Couldn’t see much from where I was, but I think she survived the process. She must be here somewhere.’

‘But Clara died,’ I insisted. ‘The Ice Lady … ’

The Doctor threw open another cottage door, poked his head inside then looked back over his shoulder at me. ‘It’s complicated.’

With that, he tried the next door, disappeared inside … and this time, didn’t come out. So I followed him.

The cottage was everything you might expect. Idyllic, really, with its fireplace cluttered with blue china and ornaments, its sofa and chairs with their neat antimacassars as preventatives against a gentleman’s hair oil. A door led onto a staircase and another door to a neat little kitchen.

But the Doctor wasn’t looking at these little details. And neither was I.

Because almost filling the room was a massive glass jar, a bell jar, in fact, like you see in museums, usually with some unfortunate bird of paradise or monkey inside, stuffed and preserved. ’Cept inside this humungous thing weren’t no monkeys.

A very bonny young fella in frock coat and trews stood there, smiling, for all the world like he was posing for a photograph. And, seated next to him on a plump little chair – Clara! Just as I’d seen her on that previous adventure except, like the fella, her skin was sort of softly glowing.

Glowing red.

Pipes led from the bell jar to a strange lash-up of machinery with a mighty bellows wheezing up and down and obviously providing some sort of air to the waxy, grinning couple within.

The Doctor’s face was grim. He stood for a moment more, staring through the glass at his friend then, looking quickly round, he picked up a chair and hurled it at the jar.

The glass began to crack – fracturing like ice on a pond – spreading like crazy over the curved surface. In only a moment, we had knocked out the remains and removed enough to get inside. The Doctor scooped Clara up in his arms.

Managing her stiff body between us, we staggered back into the Mill and, miraculously without being seen, found our way back to the revivification machines. We got Clara into one of them boxes, and the Doctor’s sonic did its work. Soon the coffin-like thing was clattering and steaming, light pouring through the grille on its surface.

‘Reckon she can be revived?’ I asked. ‘Like you were?’

‘I hope so, Jenny. I hope so—’

He stopped, of a sudden, and turned round. I said we’d miraculously got back in without drawing attention? Well, our luck had just run out – and then some. From a high window I caught sight of Mrs Gillyflower gazing down, a strange half-smile on her phiz. Pilgrims was creeping out of every shadowy corner. Like Clara’s pal in the jar, they was, to a boy and gal, top-hole specimens, clear of eye and bonny of visage.

‘Oh. Great. Great,’ said the Doc. ‘Attack of the Supermodels!’ (Whatever that meant.) He sighed, and his nervous fingers fluttered before him. ‘Time for a plan.’

He took a step towards the ’Grims, but I pushed him back. ‘Nah, Doctor. This one’s on me.’ And so saying, I pulled at my frock and it came apart (just as Madam had designed it to), revealing the tight, black leather outfit that had proved far more handy and practical than running around solving mysteries with a bustle stuck to me bum.

The first of the ’Grims come rushing towards me but I made short work of him, hurling him over me shoulder using one of the jujitsu moves what I’d learned from a correspondence course. Then came the second, swinging his fists and – one, two, three! – I sent him hurtling into the corner.

‘That’s a plan!’ cried the Doctor, beaming.

But suddenly there was more of them, and this time they had nasty-looking leather coshes in their hands.

‘OK,’ said the Doctor. ‘Time for a new plan.’

Then I felt the first of the laser bolts shriek past my face – all white heat and singed air – and a section of the metal wall buckled like melting butter. The ’Grims scattered like ants.

‘Sontar-ha!’

It was old Straxy, of course, and about time too! He come racing inside, blasting away with his stumpy weapon and Madam behind him, Samurai sword raised and swinging over her head.

‘Quickly!’ she yelled. ‘Let’s go!’

‘No!’ cried the Doctor.

‘No, Ma’am!’ I yelled over the hiss and crackle of Strax’s gun. ‘We’re not escaping!’ I pointed to the revivification box. ‘We’ve got to help the Doctor with Clara!’

Madam frowned, puzzled, and the Doctor shrugged.

‘Long story!’

The laser fire sent the remainder of the ’Grims packing, and I saw Mrs Gillyflower turn away from the window in disgust.

Strax came bounding up to us, his piggy eyes shining. ‘What now, Madam? I could lay mimetic cluster mines—’

‘Strax—’ said Madam.

‘– and if we dug trenches and filled them with acid—’

‘Strax! You’re overexcited. Have you been eating Miss Jenny’s sherbet fancies again?’

The little fella sort of blushed and looked away. ‘No … ’

‘I knew it!’ I cried, having noticed my tin of sweeties diminishing by the day.

Madam pointed towards the way they’d come in. ‘Go outside and wait till I call for you.’

‘But Madam—’

‘Go!’

And off he sulked like a kicked puppy.

The Doctor took his turnip-sized fob watch from his waistcoat. ‘I think she’s about done.’

So saying, he creaked open the lid of the machine and, through the pall of steam, Clara’s pretty face was visible. She blinked, taking us all in.

Madam opened her mouth to speak, but the Doctor got there first. ‘I know who you think she is. But she isn’t. She can’t be.’

‘I was right, then,’ breathed Madam. ‘You and Clara have unfinished business.’

The Doctor bent his face close to Clara and smiled reassuringly. ‘Hello, stranger.’

‘Doctor?’ She coughed, unused to speaking. Unused to doing anything much for a while.

‘What’s … what’s going on?’

‘Haven’t you heard?’ said the Doctor with rather more excitement than was quite decent. ‘There’s trouble at t’mill!’ And then he was off again, like a jack-in-a-box-in-a-frockcoat, tearing down the corridor towards the lift.

I helped the pasty-faced Clara (if it was Clara) along as Madam Vastra struggled to keep up with the Doctor, her skirts swishing on the wooden floor.

‘I knew that I recognised the symptoms,’ she said. ‘The glowing red flesh. It’s unmistakable.’

‘It is?’ the Doctor said.

Clara was looking at me and a frown creased her pretty face. She swivelled her eyes towards Madam and her frown deepened. ‘H-hi,’ she managed.

‘Hello,’ I said.

‘Hello,’ said Madam. Then she returned to the Doctor who was busy summoning the lift from below. ‘My people once ruled this world, as well you know. But we did not rule it alone. Just as Humanity fights a daily battle against nature, so did we. And the greatest plague, our most virulent enemy was the repulsive red leech!’

‘Ooh! The Repulsive Red Leech!’ cooed the Doctor. Then his face fell a bit. ‘Nah. On balance, I think I prefer the Crimson Horror. What was it exactly?’

‘A tiny parasite. It infected our drinking water. And once in our systems, it secreted a fatal poison. Perhaps it survived all these millions of years, just as my people did.’

‘If it’s been hanging around, lurking in the shadows, maybe it’s evolved,’ mused the Doctor. ‘Or maybe it’s had help.’

‘Doctor.’ It was Clara, piping up at last, her voice still croaky and unused. ‘Doctor, I’ve been thinking. The chimney—’

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. Way past that now!’ he cried. ‘Yucky red parasite from the time of the dinosaurs pitches up in Victorian Yorkshire. Didn’t see that one coming!’

‘But the chimney—’ Clara insisted.

‘But what’s the connection to Mrs Gillyflower? “Judgement will rain down on us all … ”’ The Doctor looked round and it was like you could hear the cogs whirring in his brain. ‘An empty mill … ’ he whispered.

‘And a chimney,’ said Clara, grabbing him gently by his substantial chin and twisting his face round towards her, ‘that doesn’t blow smoke … ’

Both their faces turned to look up then the Doctor beamed. ‘Clever clogs.’

‘Missed me?’

‘Lots!’

‘I hate to break up this lovely reunion,’ I said, ‘but the lift’s here.’

And it took us down to the ground level of the strange Mill again where ’Grims was hard at work around the base of the chimney with its lattice of iron struts.

Madam peered towards it from round the edge the crates we was hiding behind. ‘The chimney?’

‘The chimney!’ cried the Doctor. ‘She’s going to poison the air!’

I was spying from my own spot. ‘How?’

And, like I’d cued it up, one of the ’Grims pulled down a big brass lever and lights come on, flooding the whole area and revealing something. Or the bottom of something at any rate. Coal-black and stained with rivulets of rust. A huge great thing, like a gigantic version of something from a pleasure garden – a rocket!

‘With that, I should think,’ muttered Clara.

A staircase ran alongside it, disappearing up into the inside of the chimney.

Two of the Pilgrims was stooped over a bulky shape, covered by a paisley cloth, for all the world like a basket of washing. But a moment later, they’d pulled back the cloth revealing a glass sphere, like a carboy, filled to the brim with a glowing crimson fluid. The venom!

‘All right, you lot,’ whispered the Doctor. ‘I’ve got a plan.’

*

Extract from the Phonographic record of Ada Gillyflower.

I found my way back into the Mill and lay there, sobbing. I must have presented a fearful sight, I regret to say, curled up in a ball like some pathetic child. But that’s how they came upon me.

‘Who’s there? Who is it?’ I cried, stifling my tears.

I heard the sound of footsteps approaching and flinched, a little afraid. Answer came there none, instead I felt my fingers taken in the warm hand of another, lifted and then pressed to a face. It was as good as a signature to me. A face I knew so well.

‘You. It’s you! My Monster. You’ve come back! But you’re—’

‘Warm. And alive. Thanks to you, Ada.’

It was a voice I had never heard before, yet I knew at once it was he. My Monster.

‘You saved me from your mother’s human rubbish tip,’ he continued. ‘I’m the Doctor.’

‘Doctor?’ It sounded strange, this new name. My Monster was a doctor? ‘Doctor … what?’

‘Just the Doctor,’ he said, and there was a smile in his voice. ‘Now, what’s wrong?’

I tried to answer, but my words came out as a ragged cry. ‘She does not want me, Monster! I am not to be chosen.’ I rubbed at my streaming nose and eyes. ‘Perhaps it was my own sin, the blackness in my heart, that my father saw in me. Perhaps that is why, in his drunken rage, he marked me! Like Cain! As ye sow, so must ye reap!’

‘No. No! That’s nonsense, Ada! Stupid, backwards nonsense and you know it!’ My Monster’s voice was firm but kind. So very kind. He took my face and cradled it. I could sense his gaze searching my face.

‘What is it?’

A new voice! A stranger’s voice!

‘Who is that?’ I asked.

‘I’m … I’m a friend,’ said the newcomer. ‘A friend of his. I’m Clara.’

‘Then you are fortunate indeed, Clara. It isn’t good to be alone.’

My Monster addressed me once more. ‘Listen, Ada. I need you to tell me something.’

‘I will help if I can.’

‘Who is Mr Sweet?’

It was the question I dreaded and could not answer. I hesitated and my lip trembled.

‘Ada?’

‘Oh, my dear Monster … ’

‘Please. Tell me.’

I shook my head and I could feel hot tears stream down my cheeks like molten lead. I had never met Mr Sweet, of course But I had terrible suspicions as to his identity. I had seen nothing but heard so much. Heard that strange, bleating sound like that of a suckling baby …

‘I cannot! I cannot betray Mama. Even now I cannot!’

‘Come with us, then,’ said my Monster. ‘There’s something you need to know.’

*

Mrs Gillyflower was at her organ once more, pounding away at ‘Jerusalem’ with a fervour which would embarrass even Wesley. Then, both literally and metaphorically, she pulled out all the stops! With a great clanking of gears, the keyboard of the organ rotated and flipped over revealing the brass levers, buttons and dials of some fiendish computing machine that could have sprung from the mind of Monsieur Verne! One detail remained familiar amongst the guts of this uncanny behemoth of infernal mechanics – a huge hourglass. Seizing it in her claw-like hands, Mrs Gillyflower up-ended it. The countdown had begun …

The great computational power of the machine encased within chattered and whirred as her nefarious plans grew in shape. Dials flickered and tiny lights flashed some secret code known only to their demented maker. Sand poured through the great hourglass.

In a mirror jutting from the side of the organ, Mrs Gillyflower spotted the Doctor and Clara as they walked with confidence into the room.

‘Won’t you come into my parlour?’ she trilled, pleased at her own little joke. ‘You do seem to keep turning up, young man. Like a bad penny.’

The Doctor looked levelly at her. ‘Force of habit.’

Mrs Gillyflower swung herself off the organ stool and crossed to a large deal table on which stood a Tantalus and several plates of fancies. ‘Can I offer you something? Tea? Seedcake? A glass of Amontillado?’

The Doctor shot her a sour look. ‘No thanks. We’ve had a skinful already, you might say.’

‘Ha! Very funny. I should be fascinated to know how you survived my dipping process. It will prove very valuable in the Great Work that lies ahead.’

‘Ah yes,’ said Clara. ‘The Great Work. And what exactly would that be?’

Mrs Gillyflower’s eyes flashed like garnets. ‘That would be telling, wouldn’t it?’

The Doctor, who was not backward in coming forwards, grinned good-naturedly. ‘I’m the Doctor, you’re nuts, and I’m going to stop you.’

Mrs Gillyflower shook her head sadly, as though taking pity on him. ‘I’m afraid,’ she said, pressing a wrinkled hand to her capacious bosom, ‘Mr Sweet and I cannot allow that.’

‘Oh yes. Mr Sweet.’

‘When do we get to meet him?’ chimed in Clara. ‘This silent partner of yours. Why’s he so shy?’

Mrs Gillyflower smiled a chilling smile. ‘Mr Sweet is always with us.’

Clara, as though expecting a grand entrance, looked about her. But no other soul entered the parlour. She took a step towards the imposing woman in black who towered before her.

‘Careful, Clara,’ warned the Doctor. ‘She’s dangerous. Like a cornered tigress.’

‘Flatterer,’ said Mrs Gillyflower. But then her forced smile fell and her face set hard as adamantine. ‘The process failed to work on you. Therefore you are a Reject. A dribbling, inconsequential nothing. And you must be eradicated! Like all who are unfit.’

‘All who are unfit. The old favourite. Only the perfect can survive! Everyone gorgeous and fit as a fiddle and probably blond and all absolutely, exactly the same.’

‘Paradise,’ breathed Mama.

‘Hell.’ The Doctor waved his bony hands in the air as though swatting away an inconsequential fly. ‘I’ve heard it all before, love. Change the wax cylinder.’

‘You dare to mock me?’

‘Yes! I dare!’ There was fury in the Doctor’s voice now, and self-righteous fury at that. ‘Would it be impolite to ask why you’re petrifying your workforce with diluted prehistoric leech-venom?’

A messianic glint crept into the woman’s eyes. ‘They are the future. Or, at least, the chosen few are. My loyal Pilgrims will have to accept their fate as … collateral damage. Mr Sweet and I cannot be responsible for everyone.’

The Doctor, his eyes darting from side to side, expecting an ambuscade of some sort at any moment, nodded. ‘You and your pal do seem to have a very close relationship.’

‘Oh yes, Doctor,’ chuckled Mrs Gillyflower. ‘Exceedingly close.’ So saying, she reached her hand to the high lace collar of her dress, there came a popping of hooks and eyes – ‘Symbiotic, you might say!’ – and she wrenched back the fabric.

What was revealed … Well, it is understandable that Clara let out an involuntary gasp of horror. For there, attached to Mrs Gillyflower’s throat, bristling with spindly legs, was a vile, leech-like creature, the size of a puppy. A sickly, glowing red, it had a rudimentary face like an unformed baby and protruding, black, glassy eyes. It turned its horrible little head towards the Doctor and Clara – and gurgled!

‘God, Doctor. What is it?’ Clara, who had seen a fair few queer things in her travels with the Doctor, could not keep the note of disgust from her voice as she watched Mrs Gillyflower feeding strips of wet liver to the thing that clung to her flesh.

‘A survivor, my dear!’ Mrs Gillyflower cried. ‘He has grown fat on the filth Humanity has pumped into the rivers. That’s where I found him.’

The Doctor eyed the hourglass warily. ‘Very enterprising.’

Mrs Gillyflower shrugged. ‘His needs are simple. A little meat. Perhaps a little blood. And in return he gives me his … nectar.’

Clara nodded, almost to herself. ‘The venom.’

‘It has taken some time to harvest … ’ Mrs Gillyflower let slip another sliver of liver into the creature’s throat. It gurgled contentedly like some monstrous infant. ‘But now I have enough for my purpose.’

The Doctor took a step forward and Mrs Gillyflower tensed, every sense alert as she reached for a huge brass lever on the organ and rammed it down.

‘Mrs Gillyflower!’ yelled the Doctor. ‘You have no idea what you’re dealing with! In the wrong hands that venom could wipe out all life on this planet!’

The formidable woman thrust her arms in front of her. ‘Do you know what these are …?’ She gave a gay little laugh. ‘The wrong hands!’

Chapter the Ninth

‘Dame’s Rocket’

EXTRACT FROM DATA CORE – 7900 – XVL COMMANDER STRAX

Madam Vastra’s words did sting. Ordinarily, I can quite easily manage on the protein-pulp exuded by the nourishment clusters in my battle armour. This ingenious device converts most raw material (Earth plants, horses and what have you) into the basics necessities required to sustain life. It is flavourless and colourless and entirely efficient. But it does not go down as well as Sherbet fancies.

And now, as I gazed up at the vast chimney that dominated Sweetville and it suddenly flared with light, from its base to its tip, I knew what I must do. Smoke began to billow from it at long last. Except it wasn’t smoke at all. It was steam …

Thomas Thomas, the urchin boy-thing who had been so useful to me, gazed up at the chimney in wonder, little knowing that, within, Mrs Gillyflower’s deadly missile was being prepared.

I looked on too, and with a more experienced eye …

Then I took out some sweeties, stuffed them into my gob and began to climb the chimney.

Suddenly, a shudder – the great chimney trembled! I almost lost my grip. For a long moment, I hung from one finger – then, with a grunt, slammed my body back against bricks and clambered on.

Far below, Thomas Thomas looked on in excited awe at my evident bravery and bellowed his encouragement.

‘Come on, potato man! You can do it!’

For which epithet I shall, of course, hunt him down and slaughter him.

*

Extract from the Phonographic record of Ada Gillyflower.

Out in the corridor, I waited, silently and almost holding my breath. The Doctor had told me I mustn’t make a sound. It was imperative that Mama not know I was close by. So I listened, my heart thumping in my breast, to the conversation in the next room.

‘You’ve forced me to advance the Great Work somewhat, Doctor,’ Mama said. ‘But my colossal scheme remains as it was. My rocket will explode high in the atmosphere, raining down Mr Sweet’s beneficence onto all Humanity.’

‘And wiping us all out!’ This was the Doctor’s friend. ‘You can’t!’

Then there was a long silence. I heard little except the chitter-chatter of Mama’s machines and the soft, horrid gurgling which I knew to be Mr Sweet.

Mama spoke again. ‘For some little time I worked with an organisation. We plotted and schemed our little schemes bringing delightful chaos to this world. But my ambition soon outgrew C.A.B.A.L. – what use have I for such pygmy notions? My ambitions are on a scale unprecedented by any human being! My new Adam and Eves will sleep for but a few months before stepping out into a golden dawn. Is it not beautiful, Doctor?’

But the Doctor did not reply. Something about his silence seemed to discomfit Mama. She cleared her throat in a way I found familiar from those (very rare occasions) on which she felt a trifle uncertain.

Then it came. And my heart felt as though it had leapt into my mouth. ‘Tell us about Ada, Mrs Gillyflower.’

‘What?’ Mama sounded thrown.

‘Your daughter,’ the Doctor persisted. ‘Tell us about your daughter.’

Mama gave a laugh, a cheerless, ghastly laugh that chilled my blood. ‘Ada? How can you speak of such trivia when my hour is at hand? The child is of no consequence.’

No consequence! The words cut me like a blade. All the years I had given to her. My very best years …

‘Is that why you experimented on her?’

I almost gasped – and clapped my hand over my mouth. I must not give myself away! But what devilry was this? Experimented?

‘I had a long time to study Ada’s face while she was caring for me,’ said the Doctor and his voice rang with authority. ‘You know why she’s blind? Why she’s actually blind?’

My mind raced. I could feel all my certainties, everything I had known and believed all my life tumble and shiver like sand through a glass.

‘Yes!’ yelled Mama. ‘Because my disgusting sot of a husband came at her with an explosive mixture! The drink had turned his wits—’

‘No. The signs are all there,’ continued the Doctor remorselessly. ‘The pattern of scarring. Chemical burns. But systematic. You used her as a guinea pig, didn’t you?’

‘Oh God,’ said the Doctor’s friend.

There was another silence and then Mama spoke, so quietly that I almost missed it. But I didn’t miss. And it landed like a blow to my heart.

‘Sometimes,’ she said, ‘sacrifices must be made … ’

‘Sacrifices?’ There was a snarl of contempt in the Doctor’s voice.

‘It was necessary!’ hissed Mama. ‘I had to know how much of the venom would produce an antitoxin. To immunise myself! Don’t you see? It was necessary—’

But she stopped dead in her tracks. Because I had left my hiding place and, in a flurry of skirts and clacking cane, was standing in the doorway.

I tried to be calm, to keep my voice steady, to not betray myself or my shattered nerves but all that came out was a pathetic and bleating: ‘Mama?’

I wish I could have read the expression on her face but, as ever, all was dark to me.

Except now there was a ray of light. The light of truth which my Monster had provided! But – oh – what a terrible truth it was.

‘Is it … is it true?’ I ventured.

‘Ada … ’ Mama’s voice trailed away.

And in that moment I knew all. ‘It is. It’s true.’ A big, fat tear began to roll, unbidden, down my burning cheek. ‘True. TRUE!’

I heard Mama’s footfall approaching me. ‘Listen to me, child.’

I began to shake my head silently, crushed beyond expression. Then I heard the Doctor’s gentle voice. ‘Ada—’

But gentleness was the last thing on my mind. I sniffed back those salt tears and lashed out with my cane, swishing it back and forth like the Reaper’s scythe!

‘HAG! You perfidious hag!’ I screamed at Mama. ‘You Virago! You Harpy! All these years I have helped you. Served you. Believed in you. Did it count for nothing? Nothing at all?’

I felt my cane connect with something and Mama let out a cry. It felt wonderful, wonderful I tell you, to finally give as good as she gave! I swung the cane again but then felt it grabbed by her strong hands and we wrestled for control. As we did so, I heard a flurry of activity close by and the Doctor’s voice.

‘Hang on, Clara, I’ve got the sonic screwdriver!’

‘Yeah?’ said the friend. ‘Well I’ve got a chair!’

Suddenly, there came a tremendous crash and a shrieking, protesting scream from Mama’s calculating engine. There was wave of heat and I heard the familiar crackle and sizzle of flame. Clara’s chair had evidently done its work.

Mama let out a great cry of anguish. ‘Noooooo!’

‘Yeah,’ said the Doctor. ‘Chairs work. I’m very pro-chairs.’ He sniffed. ‘Oh dear. I’m afraid your rocket isn’t going anywhere, Mrs G.’

I felt a great weariness come over me and my knees buckle. I sagged against the wallpaper and had to press my hand to it for support. My white stick clattered to the floor.

Mama heaved a great sigh. ‘It is finished.’

I heard the rustle of her skirts and then the soft pressure of her fingers, finding mine. ‘Oh, Ada … ’ she said, her voice cracking with feeling. ‘Come to me. Please. Come to me.’

So I stepped towards her, tentatively, my body still wracked with sobs and as tender and delicate as an open wound. But suddenly Mama’s arms were around me and I felt myself swept up and held tight – so tight. The embrace I had always craved and never gained.

‘My child,’ she whispered.

‘Mama, oh Mama … ’

‘Oh Ada. You have always been … ’ – Mama accepted me. She loved me. She really loved me! – ‘… so very useful!’ she concluded, her jaw snapping shut with grim finality.

There was a soft click right by my ear and I felt the cold muzzle of a pistol by my cheek.

‘No!’ cried my Monster/Doctor.

I felt Mama’s arm grasp me firmly by the throat and she swung me round to face the Doctor. ‘Now, if you’ll forgive us,’ she cried triumphantly, ‘we must be going. It’s long past Ada’s bedtime!’

She dragged me towards the door and kicked it open. I sagged in her embrace, exhausted and defeated.

‘Please, Mama.,’ I begged. ‘No more. No more … ’

But, with a snarl, Mama dragged me bodily through into the corridor beyond – and locked the door after us.

*

Clara rushed straight up the door but the Doctor intervened.

‘No. If we follow straight after her, she’ll shoot Ada on the spot.’

‘She wouldn’t!’

‘She would!’

‘Yeah, you’re right,’ said Clara. ‘She definitely would.’

The Doctor picked up a heavy chair and hurled it through the window! ‘Chairs are useful! Come on!’

Out on the Mill floor, like some death galleon in full sail, Mrs Gillyflower dragged her unfortunate daughter by the arm towards the base of the rocket.

‘Come, Ada!’ she snapped. ‘Don’t dawdle!’

Poor Ada. Pale and shattered, she sought release of any kind from this nightmare. ‘Please, Mama … ’

‘Mr Sweet and I still have an ace in our hand!’ crowed the mother, turning to a Pilgrim. It was Abel, the handsome lad who had attended at their dinner. ‘The venom has been loaded?’

‘Yes, Ma’am.’

Mrs Gillyflower nodded. ‘You have served me well, boy. Now, all of you, take your places.

Prepare for the Apocalypse!’

So saying, she hauled Ada towards the chimney and its spiral stair …

The Doctor and Clara emerged onto the Mill floor only moments later, swiftly hiding behind a wall of glittering machine parts, and watched as the remaining Pilgrims fled the scene. Once secure, they raced towards the base of the chimney, scything through the steam that billowed from the base of the rocket and smarted at their eyes. The Doctor peered up the staircase where he could see Mrs Gillyflower and Ada struggling towards the top. Inset in the black brickwork were a number of alcoves. Still clutching at her daughter, Mrs Gillyflower darted to the fuselage of the rocket and slipped her fingers into a concealed iron ring. Pulling on it revealed a hatch and, within, a brass handle – clearly of some import.

‘Let her go, Mrs Gillyflower!’ shouted the Doctor over the din of the rocket engines. ‘Let Ada go!’

Aiming the pistol at Ada, Mrs Gillyflower let out a rather deranged chuckle. ‘Secondary firing mechanism, Doctor! Mr Sweet and I are too smart for you, after all.’

‘Let your daughter go!’ yelled the Doctor.

Within his host’s lace collar, the odious Mr Sweet writhed and shifted like a worm. Briefly distracted, Mrs Gillyflower let go of Ada – and the girl pulled away, flopping in a heap of crinolines onto the iron stair. Without hesitation, her mother aimed the shining silver pistol at her daughter.

‘Get up! Get up!’

‘Shoot if you wish, Mama,’ cried Ada, exhaustedly. ‘It is of no matter. For you killed me a long time ago.’

Mrs Gillyflower glared at her and her hand shook as she tightened her finger on the trigger.

Below, the Doctor and Clara made a move forward. Mrs Gillyflower shifted her aim towards them.

Bang!

The pistol spoke with a fearful retort.

Bang!

Clara ducked down as Mrs Gillyflower fired again.

Bang!

Another bullet sang off the brickwork but the Doctor was on the march and, dashing between bullets, made a grab for Ada and pulled her to him.

Manic zeal glittered in Mrs Gillyflower’s eyes. Around her neck, the hideous Mr Sweet gurgled and shifted, his spindly, crayfish legs gripping the old woman’s flesh like a limpet.

And then Mrs Gillyflower began to sing, sing with all the gusto of a Wesleyan on a spring Sunday morn.

‘Then fancies flee away! I’ll fear not what men say. I’ll labour night and day … ’

She wrapped her fingers around the brass handle …

‘To … be … a … pilgrim!’

And dragged down the firing mechanism! The whole chimney – indeed the Mill itself – began to shake as though an earth tremor had come upon it.

Clara grabbed the Doctor and Ada and pulled them round the corner of the spiral stair, flattening tight to the brickwork.

The great black rocket began to rise, rise, rise into the night!

Mrs Gillyflower tucked herself into one of the alcoves, shielding herself from the flames, as the missile thundered upwards. She beamed in triumph, her complexion glowing crimson in the light from her terrible creation. Even Mr Sweet took note, his blackcurrant eyes like little points of fire as he craned his serpentine neck to watch.

Within moments, the rocket rose from its encasing chimney and shot into the night sky, leaving a fiery trail like a comet.

Cackling with joy, Mrs Gillyflower stroked the sticky flesh of her symbiotic friend. ‘Now, Mr Sweet, now the whole world will taste your lethal kiss!’

And then, amidst the dying fall of the rocket’s engines as it sailed heavenwards, the small, quiet voice of the Doctor: ‘I don’t think so.’

He was pointing one bony finger towards the other side of the chimney. Mrs Gillyflower turned. As the smoke cleared, two black-bonneted Pilgrims were revealed, framed there like widows at a drear funeral. But pulling back their bonnets they revealed themselves to be Miss Jenny Flint and Madam Vastra! And on the ledge next to them sat the carboy of glowing crimson venom – never loaded!

Mrs Gillyflower’s withered countenance fell, like a deflating linen wash-bag. Then a new, even madder and more dangerous glint appeared in her eye. She raised her pistol and pointed it at the carboy.

‘Very well, then. If I can’t take the world with me – you will have to do. Die! All of you … freaks! Die! Die! DIE!’

Her finger tightened on the trigger.

All of a sudden, there was Strax, upside down on a rope, dangling from the lip of the chimney like some circus aerialist, his strange alien gun raised!

‘Put down your weapon, Human fe-male!’ he barked.

‘Never!’

She raised her pistol – and Strax fired. A bolt like white lightning struck the stair at Mrs Gillyflower’s feet and she stumbled – fatally. In an instant she was falling down, down, down the empty chimney, landing at its base with a fearful crack and spayed there, arms akimbo, like some broken china doll.

Tap, tap, tap.

Cane in hand, Ada made her way from the bottom of the chimney stair towards the crumpled heap of skirts which was her mother. Behind her, the Doctor, Clara, Jenny, Madam Vastra and Strax slowly descended, keeping a respectful distance.

Mrs Gillyflower’s eyelids fluttered. And then the repulsive red leech began to disentangle itself from her neck, its horrible legs wrenching themselves from her flesh.

‘No! No … Mr Sweet? Where are you going?’ wailed Mrs Gillyflower. ‘You can’t leave me now, Mr Sweet? MR SWEET!’

Clara looked on in disgust. ‘What’s it doing?’

‘It knows she’s dying,’ said the Doctor, pityingly. ‘She’s no longer any use to it.’

The vile creature began to slither and click its way over the Mill floor, leaving a trail of sticky red slime.

Mrs Gillyflower held out a withered claw. ‘Ada? Ada … are you there?’

Exhausted and broken, her daughter shuffled forward and knelt down, bowing her lovely head. ‘I am here, Mama.’

The dying woman clasped her daughter’s hand, her breath coming in rasps. ‘Forgive me, child. Forgive me … ’

Ada moved nearer, ever nearer so she could whisper in her mother’s ear. Whisper forgiveness. Whisper that final word of reconciliation …

‘NEVER!’ she hissed.

And a small, crazed smile formed on Mrs Gillyflower’s lips. ‘That’s … my … girl … ’

With a final sigh, her eyes rolled up glassily in her head like a china doll’s – and she expired.

Suddenly, the night sky through the Mill window was brilliantly illuminated as Mrs Gillyflower’s rocket exploded. Harmlessly.

In the ensuing silence, all became aware of a skin-crawling, sucking sound as the red leech writhed disgustingly towards the shadows.

Ada looked up.

‘What will you do with that thing?’ queried Jenny, wrinkling her nose in disgust.

The Doctor shrugged. ‘Take it back to the Jurassic era, maybe. Out of harm’s way—’

Slam! With a cry, Ada brought her cane down onto Mr Sweet, her lip curled in fury. Feeling with her toe, she smashed again and again and again at the foul thing, crushing it into a sticky mass of cartilage and glutinous flesh. At last, panting with the effort, she tossed aside her white cane and sobbed.

The Doctor shrugged. ‘On the other hand … ’

*

Click. Whirr.

The man with the celluloid hand turned the page of the newspaper and peered myopically at its cramped print. Dr Fetch was unused to reading the Yorkshire Clarion but had made an exception for one, fascinating item. ‘Noted scientist perishes in mill accident.’

By the dim yellow glow of his lamp, Fetch noted with satisfaction that Mrs Gillyflower had departed this earthly realm. It seemed he had done right to set those dogged investigators on her trail. For it did not do to rebel against the power of his organisation. No, he would continue to thrive. To go on seeding the world with his heady brew of confusion and despair. No individual member could be bigger than C.A.B.A.L.

Click. Whirr.

He raised a glass of Madeira to his fallen comrade and then laid down the newspaper, his mind already spinning with the possibilities for new mischief …

*

Narrative of Jonas Thursday, Esq.

And, so, reader, our story comes to its end.

Dawn brought hard work as the Doctor supervised the reanimation of all the ‘dipped’ young people who had so foolishly followed the siren lure of Mrs Gillyflower’s promises of a new life. The coffin-like machines rattled and steamed as one after another took breath and stepped out into the sunlight. Or the closest that Bradford could offer.

One such was Abigail Blench, who took the Doctor’s proffered hand as he helped her from the device. She looked a little bewildered, glanced at Jenny who stood nearby and her face fell.

‘Was I rejected?’ she sighed unhappily. ‘Was it me teeth?’

*

Back in the sooty alley in Bradford where the strange box had first appeared, the Doctor stood on the threshold with Clara. Close by were Jenny, a heavily veiled Madam Vastra, a helmeted Strax – and Ada Gillyflower. After some little time in the unhealthy atmosphere of the place, the box’s paintwork was rather more black than blue.

Vastra was holding the carboy of deadly crimson venom. She handed it to Strax.

‘Another one for the vault!’ he said cheerfully.

‘Right!’ said the Doctor. ‘London. We were heading for London, weren’t we? Great Exhibition?’

‘Was there any particular reason?’ asked Clara.

‘No,’ said the Doctor, pulling a wounded face. ‘Thought you might … like it.’

‘Yeah. Maybe had enough Victorian values for a bit.’

The Doctor shrugged. ‘You’re the boss.’

‘Am I?’

‘No! Definitely not. Absolutely not. Go on, in, in, in!’ He ushered her inside the box, then turned to address the others. ‘I’d love to stay and clear up the mess but, you know … ’

Ada smiled tenderly. ‘I know, dear Monster. You have things to do.’

The Doctor stepped closer to Ada and took her hand. ‘And what about you?’

Ada’s sightless eyes were a little moist now, even as she seemed to look towards a new horizon. ‘Oh, there are many things a bright young lady can do to occupy her time.’ She pressed her hand onto the Doctor’s. ‘I shall step out of the darkness – and into the light.’

‘Good luck, Ada. I think you’ll be just … splendid.’

He kissed her on the cheek then turned to Vastra, Jenny and Strax.

‘Well, thanks a million you three. As ever. Have some Pontefract cakes on me. I love Pontefract cakes! Vastra –’ he tossed her a small, silvery object – ‘portable perception filter. Stick it in your ear. Can’t have you roaming around in a veil all your life. You too, Strax!’ He threw one to Strax.

‘Oh, Doctor!’ cried Madam Vastra. ‘I don’t know what to say!’

‘Ah! Superb!’ said Strax. ‘Perhaps I will one day put it to good use in tracking you down and killing you for the greater glory of Sontar.’

‘Yeah, said the Doctor. ‘Whatever. See you around, I shouldn’t wonder. Like Mrs G said. I do have a habit of turning up.’

He made for his Ship when Jenny put her hand on his sleeve. ‘But Doctor. That girl. Clara. You haven’t explained.’

‘No.’ He avoided her gaze and looked at his boots. ‘I haven’t.’ Then he gave a cheery wave and wiped his fingers over the sooty exterior of the blue/black box. ‘Look at the muck in here!’

And he slipped inside. There was long pause, a sort of thump and then wind began to whip up around the box. From within came a sort of strangulated, grating whine as though someone were dragging rusty chains over the cobbles.

At that very moment, dear Reader, I re-entered the narrative, having returned to Bradford to check on the progress of the investigation.

‘Ah! There you are,’ I cried, turning into the alleyway. ‘I called to see whether there had been any progress—’

And then the blue box – which looked as solid and real as you or I – chose that instant to vanish into thin air.

I blinked, nonplussed. And then a black, spotted veil seemed to rise before my eyes. A cold shiver ran through me and the next thing I knew I was lying prone on the filthy, straw-strewn ground, gazing up at Madam Vastra and her curious friends.

The lizard woman lifted her veil. The squat butler removed his helmet. And the maid with the little mole on her face winked at me.

I closed my eyes again.

On balance, it seemed the most sensible course of action.

THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING

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Ebury is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.

First published by BBC Books in 2021

Doctor Who is a BBC Wales production for BBC One.
Executive producers: Chris Chibnall and Matt Strevens

BBC, DOCTOR WHO, TARDIS and DALEK (word marks and logos) are trade marks of the British Broadcasting Corporation and are used under licence. BBC logo © BBC 1996. Doctor Who logo © BBC 2018. Dalek image © BBC/Terry Nation 1963. Licensed by BBC Studios.

Novelisation copyright © Mark Gatiss 2021
Original script copyright © Mark Gatiss 2013

The moral right of the author has been asserted

Cover Illustration: Antony Dry
Cover design: Two Associates
Editorial Director: Albert DePetrillo
Project Editor: Steve Cole
Production: Sian Pratley

ISBN: 978-1-473-53220-5

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Footnotes

Chapter the Eighth: ‘Through a Glass, Darkly’

1 See Doctor Who: The Snowmen.