Doctor Who: The Clockwise Man

by Richards, Justin

  Table of Contents

  Title

  Other Titles in the Series

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter ONE

  Chapter TWO

  Chapter THREE

  Chapter FOUR

  Chapter FIVE

  Chapter SIX

  Chapter SEVEN

  Chapter EIGHT

  Chapter NINE

  Chapter TEN

  Chapter ELEVEN

  Chapter TWELVE

  Chapter THIRTEEN

  Chapter FOURTEEN

  Chapter FIFTEEN

  Chapter SIXTEEN

  Chapter SEVENTEEN

  Chapter EIGHTEEN

  Chapter NINETEEN

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also available from BBC Books Monsters and Villains

  DOCTOR • WHO

  The Clockwise Man

  Collect all the exciting new Doctor Who adventures:

  THE MONSTERS INSIDE

  By Stephen Cole

  WINNER TAKES ALL

  By Jacqueline Rayner

  DOCTOR • WHO

  The

  Clockwise Man

  BY JUSTIN RICHARDS

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  ISBN 9781409047186

  Version 1.0

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  10 9 8

  Published in 2005 by BBC Books, an imprint of Ebury Publishing

  Ebury Publishing is a division of the Random House Group

  © Justin Richards 2005

  Justin Richards has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  Original series broadcast on BBC television

  Format ©BBC 1963

  'Doctor Who', 'TARDIS' and the Doctor Who logo are trademarks of the British Broadcasting Corporation and are used under licence.

  This electronic book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009

  Addresses for companies within the Random House Group can be found at www.randomhouse.co.uk

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 9781409047186

  Version 1.0

  Commissioning Editors: Shirley Patton/Stuart Cooper

  Creative Director: Justin Richards

  Editor: Stephen Cole

  Doctor Who is a BBC Wales production for BBC ONE

  Executive Producers: Russell T Davies, Julie Gardner and Mal Young

  Producer: Phil Collinson

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and

  incidents are either a product of the author's imagination or

  used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living

  or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Henry Steadman © BBC 2005

  For Julian and Christian – and everyone else now

  discovering or rediscovering the amazing worlds of

  Doctor Who

  ONE

  The air was cold with a smell of damp and smog. Rose pulled the cloak tight about her and ran over to the Doctor. He was inspecting a large wooden gate, his sonic screwdriver poised over the lock, glowing busily.

  'Breaking and exiting?' Rose suggested. Her breath misted the air as she spoke.

  The Doctor did not look up. 'Someone's in trouble – can't you hear?'

  Now that he said it, she could. In among the noise of the city – the clatter of distant wheels on cobbles, the far-off sounds of people shouting and calling, the melancholy hoot of a boat on the Thames. . . Over and above that she could hear the muffled cries of someone in pain, or fear.

  The sonic screwdriver hummed, and the lock clicked open. The Doctor was already kicking at the heavy gate, sending it flying back as he hurtled through.

  Fifty feet away, startled in the pale glow of a street lamp, a man was fighting for his life. His assailant was forcing him backwards, its hands round the man's neck as it bore down on him. A dark shape behind the struggling figures – all silhouette and no detail. The vague notion of a third figure disappearing back into the shadows.

  The Doctor crashed shoulder-first into the attacker. Hold broken, the figure stepped back. The Doctor collapsed, clutching his shoulder, then pulled himself back to his feet. The attacker paused in the deepest shadows, deciding whether to take on the Doctor as well as its first victim.

  'Doctor!' Rose ran towards them. Her appearance seemed to decide it, and the dark figure turned and marched stiffly away. Watching the figure, trying to make out some feature in the dim light, Rose caught her foot on the kerb and went sprawling. She put out her hands to save herself, feeling the rough surface of the pavement cutting into them, rubbing away the skin. She came to rest in an undignified heap close to the man who had been attacked.

  He was lying gasping on the ground, rubbing at his throat. He was wearing white gloves, but now they were stained and dirty. The Doctor leaned over and loosened the man's collar. 'Has he gone?' he asked without looking at Rose.

  'Yeah. I scared him off.' She got to her feet, shrugging the cloak back over her shoulders and examining her hands – grazed, sore and covered in mud. Typical.

  'I'm glad someone did.' The Doctor straightened up and rubbed his shoulder again. 'It was like running into a brick wall.'

  Rose stooped to help the man on the ground. He was breathing more easily now and struggling to sit up. 'Thank you,' he croaked. 'I'm obliged.'

  'You're alive,' the Doctor said. He put his hand under the man's elbow and helped him up.

  'Who was that?' Rose asked. 'Why did he attack you?'

  'I have no idea, miss. I heard a noise, saw lights. I came to see what it was and. . .' He shrugged, still rubbing at his neck.

  'Here, let's see.' The Doctor led him a few steps down the pavement so they were directly under the street light. He gestured for the man to raise his head. 'It's all right, I'm a doctor.'

  'Just not a medical one,' Rose pointed out, earning a glare. 'So, is he OK?'

  'Dickson, miss.'

  'Mr Dickson will be fine,' the Doctor said. 'Lucky we got here when we did, though. Where do you live?'

  'I am in service, sir, at the house over there.' Dickson pointed to a large town house further down the street. Rose could see that the side door was open and light was spilling out down the steps.

  'Then let's get you back there.' The Doctor stepped away, looking Dickson up and down. He frowned and reached for the man's hand, lifted it gently in his own to examine it in the light. Apparently satisfied, he smiled, let the hand go, gestured for Dickson to lead the way. He took Dickson's arm to help him.

  'What is it?' Rose asked quietly.

  'You keep your gloves clean, Mr Dickson?'

  'Of course, sir.' He still sounded hoarse, his voice scraping in his throat. 'Why?'

  'Just they're a bi
t grubby now, after your little adventure. Another mystery.'

  'To go with "who?" and "why?",' Rose said.

  'To go with the fact that the marks on Mr Dickson's neck look like they were made by a metal implement, not fingers,' the Doctor said. 'And that his gloves are stained with oil.'

  From the darkest part of the shadowy evening, two figures watched the Doctor and Rose help Dickson back to the house. One of them gave a sigh of disappointment.

  The other had no breath with which to sigh.

  After the third attempt, Sir George Harding gave up. 'Give me a hand with this, would you, Anna?'

  His wife was smiling back at him in the mirror, amused by his clumsiness. 'You are all fingers and thumbs,' she said softly, as she reached round to sort out the mess he had made of his bow tie. Her accent made her voice sound even softer. He held still while she tied a perfect bow. Then she turned him slowly round and stepped back to inspect her work. She nodded. 'Yes, my dear. You will do.'

  'Good. They'll be here soon. Surprised Oblonsky hasn't arrived already, actually. He's always early, drat him. Must be the military training.'

  The doorbell sounded insistently from downstairs.

  'You see? That'll be him now. Playing Wagner on the bell.'

  'Tchaikovsky, more likely,' Anna said. 'Dickson will look after him until we are ready.'

  Sir George nodded. 'Yes, good man, Dickson.' He reached for his jacket. 'Where's Freddie?'

  'In bed. And I don't want you going in and disturbing him. Dilys has only just got him settled, and you know you only excite the child.'

  'Me?' Sir George was scandalised. 'Never!'

  'We have to keep him calm. Calm and safe.' She turned away, but he could still see her sad face reflected in the mirror. 'You know that.'

  'Of course I do.' He put his hand on her trembling shoulder. 'The boy will be all right. We mustn't fuss too much, you know.'

  She reached up, put her hand over his without turning, nodded without smiling. If she was about to reply, she was interrupted by the urgent knock at the door, then the frightened call: 'Sir, madam! Can you come, please? Only it's Mr Dickson, he's been hurt. There's a lady and gentleman. . .'

  The Doctor insisted on taking Dickson to the front door and ringing the bell. No point, he said, in dragging him through the servants' quarters. 'If in doubt, go to the top.'

  The woman who eventually opened the door looked about sixteen, little more than a kid. She was wearing an apron, wiping her hands on it. 'Mr Dickson, sir!' she exclaimed.

  'He'll be fine,' the Doctor assured her, helping Dickson into the extensive hallway.

  'Could you inform Sir George,' Dickson croaked.

  The girl nodded silently, looking pale as she saw the red marks on Dickson's neck. She turned and ran up the stairs, holding up apron and skirts. The stairs turned halfway up, and Rose could see the girl on the galleried landing, flickering behind the balusters as she ran.

  'Let's put you in here,' the Doctor said, leading Dickson through to a large room.

  Dickson tried to pull away. 'But that's the drawing room, sir.'

  'I don't mind.'

  'And I don't draw,' Rose told him.

  It was a large, square room with a high ceiling. Dark oil portraits leaned in from several walls, the severe expressions of the subjects making the place seem even darker. Three long sofas dominated the centre of the room, arranged in front of a huge fireplace. The logs on the fire crackled and smoked.

  The Doctor helped Dickson to the nearest sofa and sat him down. 'Let's get a proper look at those bruises.'

  'I'll be fine. sir,' Dickson protested. 'I should get to work. We are expecting guests.'

  'Guests can wait,' Rose told him.

  'Indeed they can, young lady.'

  She turned quickly, surprised by the voice from behind her. A man was standing in the doorway. He looked to be in his fifties, hair grey and thinning, slicked back over his pale scalp. He was wearing a suit that was just too small. Rose doubted the jacket would do up. His whole appearance was slightly down at heel and dishevelled except for his perfect bow tie. But his face was round and kindly. His eyes sparkled with interest and friendliness, though this changed to concern as he looked past Rose and saw Dickson slumped on the sofa. He hurried across, mumbling an 'excuse me', as he passed Rose. She followed him to the sofa and stood behind it as he leaned over Dickson.

  'I'll be fine, sir,' Dickson croaked. The doorbell rang, and he struggled to get up.

  But the newcomer gently pushed him back into the sofa. 'Nonsense, man. You sit there for a bit. Let us sort you out. Dilys can answer the door.' He raised his voice and shouted across towards the open door: 'Put them in the library, Dilys.'

  'This gentleman and the lady helped me, sir,' Dickson said. 'I was. . . attacked.' He seemed to surprise himself with the word, as if it had not occurred to him until now what had really happened.

  'Who by?' the man – Sir George, Rose assumed – demanded.

  Dickson was shaking his head. 'Not sure, sir. Didn't see. But they were asking questions, or someone was. Someone else who was there, I think.'

  'Questions?'

  'About tonight. About the guests.'

  Sir George reached out to the arm of the sofa and lowered himself carefully down beside his manservant. 'They have found us,' he said, so quietly that Rose could only just hear him. She looked at the Doctor, and saw that he had heard too.

  'These people rescued me,' Dickson said.

  Sir George was staring off into space. But Dickson's words seemed to bring him back to reality. 'I am indebted, sir, madam.' He nodded. "Very much indebted. I thank you.' He stood up, squared his shoulders and solemnly offered the Doctor his hand. 'Sir George Harding. I apologise if you have been inconvenienced.'

  'No problem,' the Doctor assured him, shaking his hand.

  Rose nipped round the sofa and took Sir George's hand when the Doctor was done with it. 'Rose Tyler,' she said, smiling at him. 'And this is the Doctor.'

  'A medical man?'

  'Not really,' the Doctor admitted. 'But I know a thing or two.' He sucked in his cheeks. 'You were expecting this?'

  'No,' Sir George said at once. 'Well, no more than anyone else. There have been several. . . incidents locally in the last few months. Those of us with any small wealth or possessions always fear the worst.'

  The Doctor nodded, as if he completely understood. 'But some more than others, perhaps.'

  'They're expecting guests,' Rose reminded him. 'We should leave them to it. If Mr Dickson's OK.'

  'I'll be fine, miss, thank you,' he croaked.

  'We have a fairly full table,' Sir George said, 'but the least I can do under the circumstances is offer you some dinner.' He seemed genuinely eager for them to stay. 'Shouldn't be too much of a squeeze and cook always provides far more than we need.'

  Thank you, Sir George,' the Doctor said. 'But I'm sure we'd be in the way.'

  'As you wish.'

  'Another time, p'raps,' Rose said.

  'Well, let me offer you a drink at least.'

  'In the library?' the Doctor asked.

  'Does it matter where?'

  'Of course. I love books.'

  Rose cleared her throat. 'I'd love a drink too,' she said. 'But, maybe I can wash my hands?'

  The Doctor was at once concerned as she showed them her palms – muddy and scraped, lines of dried blood tracing out the scratches from where she had fallen. 'Is it still bleeding? I can cauterise the wounds with my sonic –'

  'No, thanks,' she said quickly. 'I'll be fine. I just need to wash the mud off and clean up a bit. That's all.'

  Sir George took a step backwards, looking pale. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'The sight of blood. I know it's not much, but just the thought of it. . .' He sighed and forced a smile. 'Forgive me. So long as there's no real harm done.'

  'I'll show Miss Tyler to the guest bathroom,' Dickson said. Sir George looked dubious, but Dickson got to his feet, determined. 'It is the least that I c
an do, sir.'

  'Very well.' Sir George smiled at Rose. 'Join us as soon as you wish.' His smile broadened as he looked past Rose towards the door. 'Ah, my dear. Let me introduce Miss Tyler and Doctor umm. . .' He glanced at the Doctor, but got no help. 'And the Doctor,' he finished.

  A woman had come in. She looked much younger than Sir George, though Rose guessed she was older than she seemed. She was tall and slim, elegantly dressed ready for dinner. Her hair was fixed up elaborately, grey streaked with the last vestiges of blonde.

  'My wife, Anna,' Sir George said, and his affection for her was evident in his voice.

  'Everyone is here, George, if you are ready to join us,' Anna said. Rose could see the lines of worry etched round the woman's eyes, though she was smiling now. 'Or almost everyone.'

  'Knew Oblonsky would be here on time,' Sir George mumbled. 'So who are we waiting for? That Repple fellow and his companion?'

  'No, Mr Repple is here. We're just waiting for the Painted Lady.'

  Everything in the bathroom was big and chunky. Even the taps on the large square washbasin were large silver affairs with ears sticking out of the top. But the water ran hot, and once the stinging from the soap – a big, chunky bar of soap – had subsided, the water was soothing. Rose spent several minutes with her hands plunged into the warm water, watching her face blur and fade as the mirror over the basin misted to grey.

  Dickson had taken her cloak, and she was feeling less worried about her pale green dress now that she had seen what Sir George's wife, Anna, was wearing. And no one had remarked on her clothes, one way or another. So maybe the Doctor was right and they would simply blend in, despite his own unorthodox approach.

  Leaving the bathroom, Rose started down the corridor back towards the stairs. At least, she realised as she made her way past several closed doors, she thought this was the way back to the stairs. Surely the bathroom had been on their left. Or had it? She paused, trying to remember. There was a bend in the corridor ahead of her. Did she recall that? Maybe the stairs were just the other side of the turn.

  But they were not. Back the other way then, she decided. She felt a pang of unreasonable guilt as one of the doors close to her swung open. A face peered out from the darkness beyond. A boy of about ten, with fair hair. His eyes widened as he caught sight of Rose, and the door began to swing shut again.