Silhouette

by Justin Richards

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 by Justin Richards

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Broadway Books, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.

  www.crownpublishing.com

  Broadway Books and its logo, BDWY, are trademarks of Random House LLC.

  This edition published by arrangement with BBC Books, an imprint of Ebury Publishing, a division of the Random House Group Ltd.

  Doctor Who is a BBC Wales production for BBC One. Executive producers: Steven Moffat and Caroline Skinner.

  BBC, DOCTOR WHO, and TARDIS (word marks, logos, and devices) are trademarks of the British Broadcasting Corporation and are used under license.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request

  ISBN 978-0-8041-4088-1

  eBook ISBN 978-0-8041-4089-8

  Editorial director: Albert DePetrillo

  Series consultant: Justin Richards

  Project editor: Steve Tribe

  Cover design: Lee Binding © Woodlands Books Ltd 2014

  Production: Alex Goddard

  v3.1

  For Alison,

  as ever

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Marlowe Hapworth spent the majority of his last afternoon at the Frost Fair. There was a bite in the January air and he could feel the tingle of frost forming at the edges of his moustache. The snow crunched pleasantly beneath his feet. He laughed as a snowball whistled past his ear, waving encouragement to the urchin who had hurled it at a friend.

  He stood for a moment on the Embankment, watching the skaters on the frozen river describing curved shapes on the ice before the Palace of Westminster. He blew out a stream of misty breath, letting it hang in the air as he listened to the laughter and reflected on the joys of being young. How pleasant to be carefree, at least for a while. An afternoon away from his studies, and then back to work in the morning, Hapworth decided.

  Further along the river, he found the Frost Fair. It sprawled along the bank of the Thames and out onto the ice. Tents and stalls, sideshows and attractions. Hapworth hurled wooden balls at coconuts that he suspected were fixed to their poles. Not that he minded in the least. He watched a man on stilts, surefooted in the snow, juggling first with skittles and then with burning torches. He ate chestnuts so hot they scalded the roof of his mouth.

  And at the end of a line of stalls selling everything from carved wooden animals to muffins, from brittle toffee to lace kerchiefs, he found a sign pointing him to the Carnival of Curiosities. Set slightly apart from the rest of the Frost Fair, the ‘Carnival’ seemed to be a combination of circus, fair, and exhibition. Hapworth paid a penny for admission to the lad at the gate, and then wandered fascinated through the carnival.

  A strongman, stripped to the waist, his upper body covered in tattoos juggled with medicine balls laughing all the while. A gypsy woman sat at a table, peering into a crystal ball. Various tents advertised their contents as ‘The Amazing Bearded Woman’, ‘A Genuine Wolf Boy’, ‘Never-Creatures – animals not of Nature’ and other intriguing and enticing attractions. He paid more pennies to laugh and cringe and marvel at them all.

  Most fascinating was the Shadowplay. From his time in India and the Far East, Hapworth had an appreciation of the art of shadow puppets. He experienced a moment’s apprehension as he stepped inside the large tent – would this be a pale imitation of the artistry he remembered, an inept aping of the skills he had so admired in his younger days? He took his seat between a snotty-nosed girl and man who reeked of ale and was already snoring. But after a few moments, he noticed neither of them …

  The ringing was so sustained and insistent that Carlisle assumed it must be either a creditor or a constable. It was therefore with some surprise that he found his master standing on the doorstep. Carlisle had rarely seen Mr Hapworth so distracted. He stood silhouetted against the pale glow of the snow-reflected moonlight, breathless and agitated.

  ‘Thank you,’ he muttered as he pushed past Carlisle and into the hallway.

  ‘Are you quite well, sir?’ the manservant felt compelled to ask.

  ‘Well? Oh yes. But I have seen …’ Hapworth shook his head. ‘Things you could not countenance. What to do?’ he wondered. ‘Whatever to do?’

  Hapworth lapsed into silence, standing at the foot of the stairs, as if uncertain whether to proceed up or not.

  ‘There are some messages, sir,’ Carlisle ventured, hoping to break Hapworth out of his unsettling reverie.

  ‘Messages,’ his master echoed. ‘Yes, of course. A message. I must send a message at once and tell her what I have witnessed.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Pen and ink.’ Hapworth nodded vehemently. ‘In my study. I shall set down exactly what has happened this afternoon, and then you must bear the epistle. At once.’

  ‘Of course, sir. May I ask to whom this message must be delivered?’

  Hapworth was already hurrying through to his study. Carlisle followed him into the large room. Each wall was lined with bookcases from floor to ceiling, interrupted only by a large window on one wall and the gas lamps that jutted out from between the shelves and cast a gentle luminance across the room. In the middle of the room was a large globe. To one side, Hapworth’s desk. On the other, a small table bearing a decanter and glasses. Hapworth made straight for the desk, pulling a sheet of writing paper from a tray and setting it squarely on the blotter before reaching into a drawer for pen and ink.

  ‘Sir,’ Carlisle prompted. ‘The letter you wish me to deliver? Who is it for?’

  Hapworth glanced up. His eyes were shadowed, his cheeks hollow, his fingers trembling as he held the pen. ‘Why, to the Great Detective, of course. To Madame Vastra.’

  Carlisle shivered despite himself. He had been to Paternoster Row before. Hapworth was acquainted with Madame Vastra, and she had called upon his learning and knowledge on several occasions. Carlisle found the veiled woman cold and not a little unsettling.

  ‘Now I must set this down at once,’ Hapworth insisted. ‘Leave me. I shall ring for you when I am done.’

  As he spoke, Hapworth put down his pen and got to his feet, following Carlisle to the door. As soon as the manservant was out in the hall, Hapworth pulled the door shut. A moment later, Carlisle heard the scrape of the key turning in the lock. Only then did it occur to Carlisle that his master was utterly terrified.

  Inside the study, Hapworth closed and barred the shutters on the window, then drew the curtains across. He took a moment to adjust the gas, turning up the lamps as he fought to get his nerves under control.

  At his desk, he paused before sitting. He shrugged out of his coat and draped it across the globe. The last flecks of snow had melted, but a tiny patch o
f white was visible. Something poking out of the coat pocket. Hapworth lifted the coat to reach inside, and drew out the ticket he had been given when he entered the Carnival of Curiosities. It was damp and stained. As he pulled it from the coat pocket, several other, smaller pieces of paper came with it and scattered across the polished wooden floorboards. He bent to pick them up.

  Three pieces of paper, snow white, each folded into the shape of a stylised bird. It was expertly done, all the more impressive as the birds were so small – only a couple of inches across. Hapworth dropped the paper birds, together with the Carnival ticket, beside the ornate letter-opener on his desk and sat down, gathering his thoughts before committing them to the paper in front of him.

  A faint breeze ruffled the folded paper, giving the illusion for a moment that the wings of the birds were stirring into life. Hapworth glanced across at the window – only to see that, of course, it was closed, the shutters and curtains drawn. He frowned.

  Outside the door, Carlisle waited, unsure quite what to do. He had no idea how long Mr Hapworth would be, but equally he did not want to venture too far away. His master might need him at any moment.

  The scream echoed round the hallway, barely muffled by the heavy study door. It seemed to go on for ever, before it was choked off into a rasp of pain.

  ‘Sir?’ Carlisle called. ‘Mr Hapworth?’

  The door was still locked. Carlisle put his shoulder to it, and with a strength borne of fear and urgency he managed to break it open on his third attempt. He stumbled into the room, accompanied by the sound of splintering wood as the doorframe gave way.

  Hapworth was still at his desk, but sprawled forward across it, his body twisted onto its side. One hand was stretched out desperately across the surface, fingers curled into a gnarled claw. His eyes were open, staring wide, fearful, and lifeless at Carlisle standing in the shattered doorway.

  On the paper before him, Hapworth had written just two words: ‘Madame Vastra’. The paper was flecked with red.

  Carlisle looked round, appalled. But apart from him and Hapworth’s body, the room was empty. The window was locked and shuttered. He had broken through the only door to get inside.

  Blood continued to seep out from the sharp metal letter-opener that jutted from between Hapworth’s shoulder blades. It dripped to the desk, soaked up by the crimson-stained blotter.

  Chapter

  1

  The pub was crowded. People stood so close together that they were almost on each other’s toes, except for at one end of the bar, where two stocky figures stood alone. There seemed to be an unspoken understanding that no one else should get too close to them.

  Everything about Rick Bellamy was angry. His face was a permanent scowl, his hands – except when lifting his pint glass – knotted into fists, his stance pugilistic and intimidating. His tone was no exception.

  ‘A penny!’ He spat the word across the bar in front of him. ‘Well, I thought, there must be something good in here, then. But no, it was just the usual rubbish for the punters. More stalls and sideshows and the like. Freaks and exhibits. Oh, interesting enough I s’pose. But a penny. Carnival of Curiosities? More like a rip-off.’

  ‘Your anger does you credit,’ Bellamy’s companion said. ‘I imagine you laid waste the entire area and demanded restitution.’

  Bellamy drained his glass and slammed it down on the bar. ‘Well no, actually,’ he admitted. ‘Though I did give them a piece of my mind. Told them what I thought. Made it clear how angry it made me. Then I put it down to experience and came here for a drink. You ready for another one, Mr Strax?’

  ‘Allow me.’ Mr Strax finished his own pint. Rather than set down the empty glass, he crushed it casually between his large fingers until it exploded into a satisfying spray of shards and fragments. ‘Boy!’ he called across the bar. ‘Two more pints.’

  The serving girl sighed, left the customer she was serving, and pulled the beers.

  ‘You not working tonight, Mr Strax?’ Bellamy asked as they waited for their drinks.

  ‘My mistress was called away. I declined to join her. A swift strategic assessment suggested you would be here.’

  ‘I appreciate the company,’ Bellamy said, though his face was still clinging to its irate frown.

  ‘And I find your perpetual ire refreshing. Most humans keep their wrath hidden away. We could have a fight later,’ Strax added hopefully.

  ‘Not tonight. I’ve had a few too many, I fancy. And I’ve a bare-knuckle match tomorrow afternoon. Come and watch if you like. Blackfriars.’

  ‘Ah, sport!’ Strax nodded. Since he had no neck to speak of, this involved moving most of his upper body. ‘I may indeed. How many of these black friars will you kill?’

  The pub was considerably less crowded by the time Strax and Bellamy finished their conversation. Strax, as he had said, found Bellamy a refreshing change from most humans in that his anger spilled out in every word and expression, every movement and action. Strax had never told Bellamy that he was not actually human himself, but was in fact a cloned warrior of the far superior Sontaran race temporarily working as manservant to a prehistoric lizard woman. But if he had, Bellamy would probably have nodded, swigged his drink, and complained about the state of the East End. Or the incompetence of the government. Or his poverty and current inability to find gainful employment. Or the price of the beer. The notion of friendship was alien to both of them, but if they had to enumerate their friends, then each would have been on the rather short list produced by the other.

  In Bellamy’s case, Strax might well have been the only name to feature.

  ‘Maybe see you at Blackfriars tomorrow,’ Bellamy said as they parted company outside the tavern.

  ‘It is certainly a possibility,’ Strax agreed. He slapped Bellamy on the back, making the big man stumble. Bellamy was a good head taller than Strax, and almost as broad – one of the few humans who could sustain a fight with Strax for more than a few seconds. ‘I have fought against Headless Monks,’ Strax told him, ‘so a few black friars will pose little problem. We should meet beforehand to discuss a suitable strategy.’

  ‘Whatever,’ Bellamy agreed. ‘G’night then.’ He made a half-hearted attempt to return the slap on the back, which Strax barely noticed though it would have felled most people.

  Strax watched Bellamy disappear into the distance, becoming little more than a shadow beneath the glow of the gas lamps. Then he turned and headed back towards Paternoster Row. There was snow in the air again, a few flakes lazily drifting down to land on his dark jacket. But Strax didn’t mind the cold. His mind was already on the tasks he needed to perform when he got back. The surveillance systems would need to be primed. His personal blaster rifle could do with de-ionising and recharging. He would check the locks on the windows and doors for any sign of attempted entry. And there was the washing-up to do.

  The cold of the night cleared Bellamy’s head as he walked. The snow was getting heavier, starting to settle on the pavement and across his broad shoulders. The streets were quiet, but this being London they were rarely deserted. A late cab hurried past, the horse’s hooves and the iron-clad wheels clattering on the cobbles. A woman with her face painted thick flashed a gap-toothed grin at Bellamy from the entrance to a narrow alleyway. He ignored her.

  Further along, passing along the side of a large industrial building, the light from a gas lamp cast the shadow of a figure against the side wall of another narrow alley. The figure raised its hand and beckoned. Bellamy ignored this figure too.

  Except …

  He stopped, and turned back. He could see the shadow on the wall. He could see the lamp casting the light. But – whose shadow was it? There was no one there.

  The shadow beckoned again, insistent. Then, as if assuming Bellamy would follow, it turned and walked down the alleyway. Still he could see no one, could hear no footsteps. He looked round to see if anyone else had remarked the shadow, but the street was empty. His face contorted into an even angrier
expression, Bellamy gave in to his curiosity.

  The alley was dark. But he could see the shadow, cast against the wall further along the narrow passageway. It hesitated, turned back, beckoned him onwards again. Whoever this joker was, he’d not find it so funny when Bellamy caught up with him. He’d tell the fellow what he thought about conjuring tricks like this, and in no uncertain terms.

  Bellamy picked up his pace, striding swiftly after the shadow. The alley turned abruptly, running past the doors of a large building – an abandoned warehouse or factory. This part of the passageway was suffused with a pale yellow glow. There was a lamp at the end, where it emerged again onto a main street. Snowflakes twisted and danced through the light before settling on the cold ground. There was no sign of the shadow, or whoever had cast it.

  Bellamy gave a grunt of anger, and turned to retrace his steps. As he turned, a man stepped out of the doorway of the large building, making Bellamy gasp in sudden surprise. It wasn’t the figure that had cast the shadow, of that Bellamy was sure. This man was thinner, almost gaunt. Deep-set eyes and hollow cheeks. A narrow beak of a nose. And the long frock coat he wore was a distinctive shape, to say nothing of the black top hat. A swathe of dark material hung from the back of the hat. He might not have cast the shadow, but the man looked as if he had coalesced out of the darkness. Even his gloves were so black that they seemed to absorb light as he raised his hand in greeting.

  ‘You want to be careful, creeping about like that,’ Bellamy said. ‘Here, did you see another bloke come this way?’ he wondered.

  ‘Only you.’ The man’s voice was deep and sonorous. His grim expression did not change.

  ‘You look like you’re on your way to a funeral,’ Bellamy said.

  Still the man’s expression did not alter. ‘And who says the illiterate have no sense of irony?’

  Bellamy felt the anger rising in him. ‘The what? Are you insulting me?’ He took a step forward, fist raised.

  A few moments later, the tall man dressed all in black walked slowly away down the alley. He paused for a moment, body braced as if he was about to sneeze. His expressionless face twisted into a sudden and extreme snarl of pure rage. Just for a second, then the anger faded again and the man’s face settled back into its previous, neutral appearance.