NSA01 The Clockwise Man (Justin Richards) (v1.0) Page 3

  'They seemed like nice enough people,' Rose said. She had found her way to the library and the Doctor had introduced her to everyone Freddie had already pointed out. Rose was impressed he could remember al their names.

  Uncle Alex and Aunt Nadia, the Doctor introduced as Count Alexander and Countess Nadia Koznyshev. They spoke with heavy accents which Rose guessed were Russian. The two men under the gal ery – Repple and Major Aske – were both tal and slim, and looked like soldiers, though they were dressed smartly in dark suits.

  Aske seemed younger, perhaps in his late twenties, with light brown hair and a smattering of freckles across his lean face. He stood very straight, with one hand permanently in his jacket pocket. Repple had a darker complexion – his hair was black as night, and his features were handsome and symmetrical. Rose found herself looking at him for longer than she should, to the Doctor's undisguised amusement.

  But there was something about the atmosphere in the library as the people waited for the last guest, something strained and slightly awkward. Rose had played the gooseberry often enough to know that it was the presence of herself and the Doctor that was the stifling factor. She got the impression that everyone else was waiting for them to leave so they could get on with whatever it was they real y wanted to be doing.

  The mist was thickening as they made their way back down the street towards the yard where the TARDIS

  had landed. The gates were closed again, and to the Doctor's evident annoyance they were once more locked.

  He sighed and produced his sonic screwdriver from his coat pocket.

  'I don't know what they're up to,' he confessed, setting to work once more on the lock. 'But they're certainly hiding something.'

  'Something that got poor Dickson attacked?'

  The Doctor made a noncommittal sound and the lock clicked open. 'Sir George seemed to think so, only he wouldn't admit it.' He pushed open the gate and stared into the darkness of the yard.

  'Not that it matters to us, I guess,' Rose said. 'What do we do, sit around til morning or just move on?'

  'It might matter a lot,' the Doctor said. He made no attempt to enter the yard, just stood there in the gateway, staring in. He gave the gate a shove so that it swung open, al owing Rose to see into the yard as wel .

  The empty yard.

  'Because,' the Doctor continued in the same matter-of-fact tone as the first rain began to fal , 'it might be whoever attacked Dickson that took the TARDIS.'

  TWO

  They spent what seemed like for ever pacing the damp streets. The air was so damp it was hard to tel if it was mist or drizzle. At first, Rose thought the Doctor had a definite plan, that he had some idea where to look for the TARDIS. But after fol owing him down yet another street she realised he had no better idea than she did.

  'Think, think, think,' he hissed to himself as they stood on a nondescript street corner beside a postbox, its red the only colour in the grey-dark world.

  'Maybe someone just took a fancy to it,' Rose suggested.

  'Not likely. Big coincidence.'

  'So someone saw us arrive. Or knows what the TARDIS is.'

  'Maybe.' He wiggled his fingers encouragingly. 'More ideas, more clues.'

  'Someone attacked Dickson, right? We saved him. Maybe that naffed them off.'

  'Could be. More?'

  'Got to be connected, hasn't it?' she said.

  The Doctor nodded several times rapidly. 'Seems likely.'

  'And Sir George was afraid of someone or something. Thought it was a deliberate attack.'

  'Certainly deliberate. And motivated.'

  'So what now?'

  The Doctor licked a finger and stuck it in the air as if testing the strength and direction of the breeze. 'That way.' He pointed back the way they had come.

  'Sure?'

  'Positive.' He set off at a confident jog.

  'To the TARDIS?' It seemed to Rose that it was as good as found.

  But his response dampened her spirits as much as the increasing rain. 'Nah. Back to Sir George. That's the only connection – the only clue we've got.'

  'Hope you remember the way.'

  The light drizzle quickly turned to heavy rain, and they had to dance round the growing puddles. They arrived back at the house just as a large black car was drawing up. The driver was a blank silhouette against the light from the house. There was the outline of a woman sitting in the back.

  Dickson appeared as if by intuition, complete with unfurled umbrel a which he put up as he hurried down the steps. His eyes widened slightly in wel -disguised surprise as he saw the Doctor and Rose.

  'We decided to take up the offer of dinner after al ,' the Doctor told him.

  'If it's stil open,' Rose added.

  'I am sure it is, sir. Please, do go in. I shal be with you in a moment.' Dickson returned his professional attention to holding the umbrel a over the woman from the back of the car as she stepped out on to the pavement.

  'He might have offered us the umbrel a,' Rose complained, shaking the water out of her hair and brushing it off her cloak.

  'And let the paint run?'

  'What do you mean?'

  For an answer, the Doctor nodded at the woman now stepping into the hal way behind them. Dickson stood in the doorway behind her, putting down the umbrel a.

  But Rose's attention was fixed on the woman. On her face. She looked as if she had stepped out of a masked bal . Her dress was pale, shimmering silk, blowing round her in the breeze from the open door. Her flame-red hair was al owed to cascade down to her bare shoulders. But her face was covered with a thin mask in the shape of a butterfly, so that only her mouth was visible. The mask was painted in bright colours – yel ow, red, blue and green – and scattered with sequins. A delicate blue feather framed each side of it, contrasting with the red of her hair. Startlingly blue eyes looked out unblinkingly through almond-shaped holes.

  'How do you do?' she said, her voice soft and cloying as honey. 'I don't believe we have met.' She held out a hand to the Doctor, and Rose saw that her white glove reached up to her elbow. From the way she angled the back of her hand towards him, it was obvious the Doctor was expected to kiss it. But instead he took it gently and gave it a polite shake.

  'I'm the Doctor,' he said. 'And this is my friend Rose.'

  The woman nodded, any disappointment hidden behind the mask. 'Melissa Heart,' she said. She nodded slightly at Rose, an acknowledgement, no more. 'I assume that you, like me, are here for the conspiracy.'

  Despite the presence of Melissa Heart – apologising profusely for having missed dinner – it was a reduced company that sat in the dining room. Dinner had been cleared away, and they sat drinking pale wine from smal multi-faceted glasses. The Doctor, Rose and Melissa sat in the spare chairs – recently vacated at the departure of the Koznyshevs and Lord Chitterington.

  At least there were fewer names to remember, Rose thought, even if there was nothing left to eat except a disappointy smal slice of apple pie.

  The Doctor had apologised to Sir George and accepted the renewed offer of dinner. Or at least dessert. He had explained that they had been 'let down' and lost their lodgings. Sir George immediately offered to let them stay at the house, but his wife gently pointed out that they already had guests and it might be rather crowded.

  'No problem,' the Doctor said. 'We'l find a hotel or something.'

  'There are rooms at the Imperial Club,' Repple announced. 'I'm sure we can vouch for you there, at least for a day or two until you find alternative accommodation.'

  'I'm so glad that's settled,' Melissa Heart said, clapping her hands together in apparent delight. 'I have only just moved into my own house – Anthony Hubbard's old house, by the river, perhaps you know it? But, as I say, I have barely unpacked, so I'm afraid accommodation would be difficult.'

  The Doctor fielded the various obvious and polite questions that accompanied the arrival of the apple pie.

  They were in London for a few days to see the British Em
pire Exhibition. Yes, they were looking forward to it.

  Yes, they knew the city but had been out of town for a while. Travel ing. The expressionless face of Melissa Heart – the Painted Lady, as Rose remembered someone had cal ed her – watched the Doctor intently as he spoke, seeming to absorb his every word.

  'So,' the Doctor said as he poked his spoon at his pie, 'what's this conspiracy al about?'

  The sudden silence was broken by the sound of someone's involuntary gasp.

  'Don't want to talk about it?' The Doctor shrugged and nodded sympathetical y. He stood up, took off his leather jacket, and hung it over the back of the chair. Then he sat down again. 'Tel you what, then – why don't I guess?'

  Rose looked round the table to see what reaction this provoked. Sir George was leaning back in his chair, if anything seeming slightly amused. His wife, by contrast, looked nervous and unsettled. Colonel Oblonsky had gone red and his lips quivered in anger. Aske, Repple and the Painted Lady were al equal y impassive and unreadable.

  The Doctor sniffed. 'Or we can finish our pud and leave you to get on with it. Thanks for the nosh. I don't want to impose or intrude.'

  'How intriguing.' It was Melissa Heart who spoke. 'As a newcomer to this little group, I would be interested myself to hear the details. Interested also to see if what the Doctor has gleaned is anything approaching the truth.'

  'And how do we know he is not a Bolshevik agent?' Oblonsky roared, his anger final y getting the better of him. 'I say we throw him into the street.' He leaned heavily forwards, scattering cutlery. 'Once we have determined how much he knows and who he is working for.'

  'I'm no one's agent,' the Doctor said quietly.

  'Gentlemen, please.' Sir George stood up, tossing his napkin down on his side plate. But Oblonsky paid no attention, continuing to stare malevolently at the Doctor and Rose.

  It was Major Aske who calmed the situation. He cleared his throat, and said quietly, 'I doubt a Bolshevik agent, or any sort of agent, would be so bold as to invite himself to dinner and offer to explain your plans, Colonel.

  Repple and I are constantly alert to the possibility of spies, infiltrators, agents and assassins.'

  Repple held up his hand as Aske finished speaking. 'The Doctor is obviously none of these. He and his companion may be able to help. Let us keep an open mind.'

  Oblonsky leaned back, folding his arms, stil angry. 'I am yet to be convinced.'

  'Wel that's a start,' the Doctor said happily. He raised his glass in a mock toast, then sipped at the wine.

  'Mmm, 1917,' he declared.

  'Not even close,' Sir George said. 'It's a 1921 claret.'

  'I didn't mean the wine,' the Doctor said sternly. 'Though if I did I might tel you the grapes came from a smal vineyard just outside Briançon. No,' he went on quickly enough for Rose to guess he had made this up, 'I mean the Russian Revolution.'

  'It's not hard to guess,' Rose said, seeing their surprised faces. Not that she had actual y guessed until now.

  Not that she had a clue real y what he was on about. 'There are a lot of Russians here. The colonel, the Koznyshevs earlier.'

  'And Lady Anna,' the Doctor added.

  Anna nodded, her raised eyebrows the only hint of her surprise. 'I left in October 1917. With my husband and my young son.'

  'Your first husband,' Rose said, and was pleased to see the Doctor raise an eyebrow as Anna nodded.

  'I had met Sir George when he was at the British Embassy in Moscow. He was the only person I knew wel enough to ask for help when I got to London.' She reached across the table and took his hand.

  'So,' Rose said, keen to make the most of her success so far, 'we have some dispossessed Russians, and Repple here is a man who has lost his title and wants it back. You al want to kick out Lenin and co. and reclaim your lost lands, is that it?' She grinned, pleased with herself.

  The Painted Lady clapped her hands together in apparent admiration.

  'No,' Colonel Oblonsky said.

  'Oh.,

  'She's close though,' the Doctor said. He grinned at her. 'Not bad.'

  'Oh, cheers,' Rose muttered.

  'She is right about me,' Repple said. He got to his feet and looked round. Aske sighed and turned away. But Repple ignored him. 'I shal not rest until I have reclaimed my birthright. No, not in Russia. Until the coup that took power from me, until I was branded a criminal and sent into exile, I was the Elector – the king if you wil – of Dastaria. When I return, the people wil rise up and drive out the oppressors who have laid waste our homeland.'

  'Sir,' Aske said quietly, 'we shal triumph. But we must take it gently and slowly. Tread careful y. Capitalise on what support and al ies we have. Not draw unwanted attention.'

  'We must help our friends too,' Repple said. 'I am sorry that we can do little save lend our support and our name to your enterprise, my friends. But Dastaria shares a border with Russia. Your cause is a noble one. What help we can offer, we shal – even from exile.'

  'I fear it wil be little enough,' Aske said quietly.

  'It would seem,' Oblonsky said, 'that you have a way of eliciting information, Doctor. Perhaps you are not an agent of Lenin or Trotsky and their lackeys. But now you know it al .'

  The Doctor nodded. 'Almost al . For any chance of success so long after the revolution, you must have a trump card. Something you can use to ral y support. Enthuse the people.'

  'Go on,' Sir George prompted.

  'I think you intend to return to Russia with the heir to the throne.' He grinned suddenly. 'Am I right, or am I right?' The silence was confirmation enough. Al eyes were now on the Doctor.

  Except for Rose's. She looked round at the other diners, and to her surprise she saw that while Melissa Heart's mask was facing the Doctor, her eyes were angled towards Repple.

  'Now,' the Doctor went on, 'the colonel here could be the rightful Tsar of al the Russias. But he's more of a military man. Loyal soldier, yes? Succession doesn't include women for al sorts of il -informed medieval reasons. So, I suggest the Tsar is... Count Koznyshev, though he didn't fancy the pie.' He sat back like a conjuror awaiting applause. There was only silence. 'In the bal room?' he added hopeful y. 'With the Fabergé

  egg?'

  But Rose could see it now. An odd snatch of conversation, a strange comment, rose in her mind: 'He wouldn't dare.' She must have gasped out loud, because everyone had now turned towards her. 'It's Freddie, isn't it?' she said. 'Freddie is the rightful Tsar of Russia.'

  The rest of the story – details and loose ends – came out as they finished the meal. Anna – Anastasia – was a cousin of Tsar Nicholas II and also related to Queen Victoria. Her first husband had been a cousin of the late Tsarina. With the Tsar and his immediate family dead, together with countless other relatives, the ten-year-old Frederick was next in the line of succession.

  Colonel Oblonsky had been head of the Tsar's personal guard, and he seemed to blame himself for the success of the revolution. The Koznyshevs were loyal supporters of the Tsar. Lord Chitterington had been there to offer the clandestine support of the British government – support which he stressed would not extend to military intervention, but which might just run to financial help and diplomatic introductions.

  Repple again made it clear that he could offer little more than supportive words until he was restored to his own throne. Maybe he was hoping to return to Dastaria with the help and intervention of a restored Tsar. Even without knowing how history was destined to turn out, it seemed to Rose that the 'conspirators' could do little more than talk and plan.

  'Why are you here?' Rose asked Melissa Heart after the meal, as they headed towards the drawing room to continue their discussions.

  'Oh, my dear,' she said, 'it wil be such fun. And I have got to know so very many people since I came to London.'

  But fun or not, Melissa Heart declined to join the others in the drawing room. She made her apologies, and left them in the hal way. 'I can see myself out,' she assured Dickson, who was carryin
g through a tantalus containing two decanters of port.

  Rose lingered a moment in the hal way before fol owing the others. Melissa Heart watched her from behind her mask, as if waiting for Rose to leave before she did. The effect was unsettling. Rose turned to fol ow the Doctor into the drawing room.

  As she did so, she caught sight of something on the stairs – the faintest of movements from behind the balusters that ran along the landing. She paused, peering into the gloomy distance. A hand appeared, just for a moment, above the rail. It waved. Rose glanced at Melissa Heart to make sure she wasn't watching, then she waved quickly back.

  'Goodnight, Freddie,' Rose murmured as she turned to go.

  With Melissa gone, and Anna retired to bed, there was only Sir George, Colonel Oblonsky, Aske and Repple left with Rose and the Doctor in the drawing room.

  'I make no pretence that this wil be easy, gentlemen, Miss Tyler,' Oblonsky declared. His accented voice was slightly slurred by the wine and port. 'It wil be a long and difficult process and we are by no means ready to embark on a ful -scale reinvasion of the motherland.'

  Sir George nodded and clapped a friendly hand on the colonel's shoulder. 'We are under no il usions,' he agreed. 'I believe young Freddie wil have reached maturity before we can help him reclaim his birthright.'

  'They've no hope, have they, Doctor?' Rose said quietly as they stood at the other end of the room, admiring a dark portrait of a serious lady.

  'None,' he replied. He sounded genuinely sad. 'But it's good to dream. They're doing no harm.'

  'What about the attack on Dickson?'

  'Something else entirely, I think.' He frowned back at the woman in the picture. 'Dunno what, though.'

  At the other end of the room, Repple and Oblonsky were deep in serious conversation. Aske drew Sir George to one side, closer to the Doctor and Rose. She heard him say, 'I wonder, Sir George, if you could spare me a few moments alone. There is something I wish to speak to you about. It is...' He paused and glanced over at Repple and Oblonsky. 'It is somewhat delicate.'