CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE CHATEAU
FOR A MOMENT, the three men stood silently by the wrecked car with its dead driver. Mist swirled eerily around them, and the dark wood with its unknown dangers loomed close behind.
Lieutenant Carstairs was staring at the Major with a mixture of amazement and awe. ‘You’re Churchill, sir? Winston Churchill?’
Churchill couldn’t help but be flattered by the young soldier’s tone of respect. ‘I am.’
‘We heard you were coming out here, sir,’ said Carstairs. ‘We could hardly believe it.’
The Doctor too was staring at Churchill in astonishment. ‘Winston Churchill? What the devil are you doing out here – and in uniform?’ he said, almost indignantly. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be, what is it, First Lord of the Admiralty?’
‘I was, Doctor, until recently. Can it be you have not heard of my downfall?’
‘I’ve been travelling,’ said the Doctor hurriedly. ‘Outer Mongolia, very little news reached…’ He waved a finger. ‘Though now that you mention it, I did hear something…,’ He racked his brain for his memories of twentieth-century history. ‘You came a cropper over that Dardanelles business, didn’t you?’
‘Really, Doctor,’ said Carstairs, embarrassed.
Winston Churchill was quite unperturbed. ‘I did indeed “come a cropper”, Doctor, over my plan to attack Turkey via the Dardanelles. The plan failed, and I was blamed for its failure. My political enemies, of whom there are many, seized the opportunity to combine against me. I was dismissed from the Admiralty and given no further say in the conduct of the war.’
‘I see. So you gave up polities, rejoined your regiment and came out here!’
‘Exactly so. The wisest decision I ever made!’
The Doctor nodded, thoughtfully. ‘Is it, now?’ Churchill was now about forty, no longer a young man. For years he had led a life of privilege, comfort and luxury. He could have stayed in the safety of Westminster, seen out the war as an MP. Instead he had chosen to come to France and fight in the trenches.
‘I feel released from a great burden of care,’ Churchill was saying. ‘But the soldiers who died in the Dardanelles will haunt me for the rest of my life. Now – well, I may still have to risk men’s lives, but at least I can risk my own alongside them!’
‘Well, there’s no need to risk it unnecessarily, Major Churchill,’ said the Doctor, bringing things back to earth. ‘May I suggest we should all be on our way?’
‘Quite so, Doctor.’
Churchill surveyed his wrecked staff car. ‘Can this vehicle be righted and set in motion again?’
Carstairs went over and examined it. ‘Looks like the petrol tank’s shot to pieces. I’m afraid you’ll have to join us in the ambulance, sir…’
‘And my unfortunate driver?’
‘His body’s jammed in the wreckage, sir. We’ll have to leave him.’
Churchill frowned. ‘He served me faithfully, if only briefly. His is yet one more death upon my conscience. I do not care to leave his body to decay in this evil place.’
He went to the back of the car and heaved out two huge leather suitcases. ‘Let me take those to the ambulance for you, sir,’ said Carstairs, hefting them away.
‘We shall provide my poor driver with a funeral pyre fit for a hero,’ said Churchill.
Waving the Doctor back, he raised his revolver and fired deliberately into the shattered petrol tank.
The car exploded into flames, and for a moment Winston Churchill stood gazing into the blaze. Then he holstered his revolver.
‘Come, Doctor,’ he said, simply. Then he turned and trudged heavily away.
Once more the ambulance trundled on through the misshapen landscape. Introduced to their distinguished new passenger, Lady Jennifer had been delighted to take him on board. Particularly since, as is so often the way with English aristocrats, they were distantly related…
The front seat was long enough for three, but it wouldn’t take four, especially when the fourth was someone of Churchill’s considerable bulk. Carstairs had offered Churchill his place in the front, but the Major had been more than willing to travel inside. The curtain had been drawn back so they could all talk.
‘I think the General plans to offer you the position of his Chief Aide de Camp,’ Carstairs was saying.
They could hear Churchill’s voice rumbling behind them, and the smell of cigar smoke wafted over them. ‘I did not come to France to skulk in the safety of Headquarters,’ he said heatedly.
‘What do you want to do, sir?’
‘In due course I shall ask General French to give me command of a Brigade. But first I must serve at the front and gain some experience of trench warfare.’
‘The General was saying he wished he knew the precise time of your arrival,’ said Carstairs. ‘He wanted to send a car to meet you at Boulogne.’
There was a puzzled silence from the back of the ambulance.
‘But he did know,’ said Churchill. ‘The car was sent.’
‘There was a car waiting for you at Boulogne, sir?’
‘Yes indeed. It was the vehicle in which I was travelling when we met.’
Carstairs shook his head. ‘That’s very strange.’
‘I can tell you something even stranger,’ said the Doctor, frowning. ‘Just before he died, your driver said, “Mutti”.’
Lady Jennifer said, ‘But that’s German – German for “mother” – well, more like “mummy” actually.’ She paused. ‘A dying man always goes back to his native tongue,’ she said in a hushed tone. ‘I’ve looked after enough French – and German – wounded to know that.’
‘Precisely,’ said the Doctor.
‘What are you suggesting?’ rumbled Churchill.
‘A great man once said, “Never take the first cab that offers – nor yet the second.”’
‘Which great man?’
‘Sherlock Holmes of course!’
‘You believe the car was some kind of trap, Doctor? An attempt to kidnap me?’
‘Well, if the driver was German… He drove you here, remember – straight into an ambush.’
‘But the poor fellow was killed!’
‘An accident, perhaps,’ said the Doctor. ‘Or more likely they just didn’t care. After all, he’d served his turn by then – and dead men don’t talk.’
‘I hope you’re wrong about all this, Doctor,’ said Lieutenant Carstairs. ‘But in case you’re not – I think the sooner we get Major Churchill safely to St Omer the better.’
‘That may be easier said than done,’ said Lady Jennifer. ‘I don’t know if you’ve noticed but it’s getting darker and foggier all the time. I still don’t know if we’re on the right road – and there’s no sign at all of a – I say, hang on. There’s one now!’
‘One what?’ asked Carstairs.
‘A signpost! It seems to be pointing off to the right. I’ll drive up to it.’
She drove up to the white post. Its single pointing finger was shrouded in mist.
Carstairs jumped down and studied it. After a moment he climbed back into the cab.
‘It points up that narrow lane to the right. And it says, “Au Chateau”.’
‘Au Chateau,’ said Churchill thoughtfully. ‘What a graceful, musical phrase that is! And do you know the German for “To the castle”?’ He paused. ‘It is, “Zum Schloss”! Grace versus brutality! In those two phrases, my friends, is summed up the character of the two opposing nations!’
Lady Jennifer was in no mood for linguistic discussions. ‘Is there any mention of what chateau?’ she asked impatiently. ‘Any kind of place name to give us our bearings?’
‘Sorry, not a thing,’ said Carstairs. ‘Just those two words – “Au Chateau”.’
Lady Jennifer looked around the crowded ambulance. ‘Then I think we’d better go up there and ask where we are!’ she said. ‘Especially with our distinguished passenger on board. After all, I might be driving Major Churchill straight towa
rds enemy lines. What does everyone think?’
‘Might as well give it a try,’ said Carstairs.
‘Major Churchill? You’re senior officer here.’
‘To be honest, Lady Jennifer, I should be loath to fall into enemy hands on my first day in France. It would end my glorious military career before it had begun!’ His eyes glinted in the gloom. ‘And it occurs to me that if the owner of the chateau is hospitable, there may be a warm fire, a good meal and a decent bottle of champagne awaiting us. I’m for the chateau! What do you think, Doctor?’
‘I think that signpost looks surprisingly new.’
Churchill frowned. ‘You suspect another trap?’
The Doctor sighed, ruefully. ‘It’s always possible.’
‘I take it you are against going to this chateau, Doctor?’
‘No, I don’t think so, all things considered,’ said the Doctor thoughtfully. ‘We can’t go blundering on through night and fog forever.’ His expression hardened, becoming almost sly. ‘Besides, you can sometimes turn a trap to advantage, once you know it’s a trap…’
‘Well, that seems to make it unanimous,’ said Lady Jennifer. She swung the wheel and drove up the narrow lane. It was long and winding, with high hedges on either side. Even with the ambulance headlights on full, it was hard to see anything but the few feet of road ahead.
It was all the more surprising, therefore, when the lane opened out onto a patch of gravel and they saw before them a huge pair of ornately decorated iron gates, giving onto a long gravel drive. At the end of the drive stood the chateau, a vast affair of towers and turrets, silhouetted starkly against the darkening sky.
They drove slowly up the drive and stopped on the broad stretch of gravel before the steps. The Doctor and his companions got out of the ambulance and assembled on the bottom step.
Churchill peered up at the chateau. ‘Welcome to Castle Dracula!’ he said. ‘You are familiar with Mr Bram Stoker’s celebrated romance, Doctor?’
‘I used to be familiar with Count Dracula himself,’ said the Doctor, apparently quite serious. ‘A charming fellow – so long as you managed to avoid him at mealtimes.’
‘Garlic with your stakes, everyone?’ chortled Churchill. Nobody laughed.
Smiling broadly, Churchill led the way, marching up the stone steps to the massive door. He was just raising a fist to hammer at it when it swung open of its own accord.
On the other side stood a dark shadowy male figure holding a candelabra in which burned several tall candles, their flames guttering in the night wind.
Before Churchill could speak he said, ‘Come in, sir! Come in!’ He raised the candelabra. ‘And you, madam, and you, gentlemen. The Count is expecting you…’
CHAPTER TWELVE
GALA EVENING
THEY FOLLOWED THE man with the candelabra into a vast stone-flagged hall lit by blazing torches in wall-brackets.
By their light, he was revealed as a slim white-haired figure in the formal black uniform of a major-domo.
At the rear of the hall, a vast staircase led upwards to shadowy darkness. In front of it a row of maids and footmen stood motionless, waiting.
‘Your rooms are prepared if you would care to change for dinner, lady and gentlemen,’ said the major-domo. ‘The Count and his lady invite you to meet them for cocktails in the library one hour from now.’
‘My luggage is in our – conveyance,’ said Churchill. ‘But as for my companions, I fear…’
‘Do not trouble yourself, sir,’ said the major-domo smoothly. ‘Everything is provided. If you will all come this way?’
They began climbing the great staircase, escorted by maids and footmen. Lady Jennifer and Carstairs went first, with Churchill and the Doctor bringing up the rear.
‘You’re taking all this very calmly,’ muttered the Doctor, as he and Churchill climbed the stairs. ‘Or is this sort of thing routine for you?’
Churchill chuckled. ‘Scarcely, Doctor. It is true that I was born at Blenheim Palace, but that was only because my mother insisted on attending a shooting party there whilst in the last stages of an extremely delicate condition. Mind you, there are those who say she did it deliberately, to ensure a suitably impressive birthplace for me!’
They were led along an upper corridor and shown into a series of luxurious bedrooms.
In the Doctor’s room a fire blazed in the grate and a large porcelain hip-bath stood on the rug before it. Into it, relays of maids were pouring hot water from a series of jugs. Warming by the fire was a huge pile of white linen towels and on the four-poster bed a complete set of evening dress clothes, with all accessories, was carefully laid out. Intriguingly, it seemed to be exactly his size.
Combs and brushes, sponges, soaps, lotions and all kinds of elaborate toiletries were arranged on a nearby dressing table.
The footman bowed and waved a hand, indicating the contents of the room. ‘If you require anything further, sir, or if the maids and myself can be of any service to you…’
‘No thank you,’ said the Doctor firmly. ‘I’m quite capable of washing and dressing myself, thank you!’ He shooed the servants out of the room. ‘All this bowing and scraping,’ he muttered. ‘Ridiculous.’
Once alone, the Doctor began a thorough search of the room. He looked under the bed, in cupboards and behind the curtains. He tried the window, and, as he expected, found it locked.
When he’d finished his search he stood gazing into the fire for a moment. Then he started taking off his coat…
An hour later, the Doctor, looking unusually elegant and somewhat uncomfortable in white tie and tails, came hurrying out of his room. A waiting footman escorted him to the library.
The Doctor was the last to arrive. It had taken him some time to transfer all the contents of his pockets, some of which came as a surprise even to him. He found Carstairs, Lady Jennifer and Winston Churchill assembled before yet another blazing fire, in a handsome book-lined room. In a corner, a footman stood beside a well-stocked drinks trolley.
‘Ah, there you are, Doctor,’ boomed Churchill. ‘We are drinking champagne. Will you join us? It’s a very decent Veuve Clicquot ’97.’
Sipping his champagne, the Doctor studied his companions. Lieutenant Carstairs was also dressed in white tie and tails, while Lady Jennifer wore a yellow satin evening gown. Most splendid of all was Churchill, who wore an elaborate dark-blue uniform with a high gold-laced collar and a scarlet-lined cloak.
He saw the Doctor studying him and smiled. ‘How do I look, Doctor?’
‘Like something out of a Viennese operetta, frankly.’ The Doctor frowned. ‘I keep expecting you to lead us in a rousing chorus.’
Lieutenant Carstairs looked shocked, but Churchill only laughed and drained his glass.
‘An excellent idea, Doctor. I suggest the drinking song from The Student Prince!’
There was the pop of a champagne cork and a footman came forward to refill their glasses. When the footman withdrew, Churchill said quietly, ‘This comic opera outfit, as you call it, Doctor, is the full mess kit of my regiment. It was waiting for me on my bed, correct in every detail, and a perfect fit. As was my favourite brand of champagne, and my favourite Romeo y Julietta cigars.’
The Doctor nodded. ‘You, sir, were expected.’
‘What about the rest of us?’ asked Carstairs.
‘For us, a supply of standard evening wear in assorted sizes would take care of things. What about you, Lady Jennifer, what did you find waiting for you?’
‘An assortment of evening gowns, stockings and various – undergarments.’
‘Did all of it fit? Was all of it suitable in style?’
‘Well… no. But it was all of the highest quality and there was plenty to choose from.’
‘Clear enough, then,’ said the Doctor. ‘Our unknown hosts were catering specifically for Major Churchill and for an unspecified number of male and female companions.’
‘You mean they bought all these things just to be prep
ared?’ asked Lady Jennifer. ‘It must have cost them a fortune.’
‘Oh, nothing compared to the money that’s been spent on this chateau,’ said the Doctor, pushing his hands into his pockets and muttering in annoyance at their lack of volume.
Lieutenant Carstairs looked puzzled. ‘Over the years, you mean?’
The Doctor shook his head. ‘Over the last few days. Not long ago, this chateau was derelict. Soon after we’re gone it will be derelict again.’
There was a stunned pause.
‘How can you tell, Doctor?’ asked Lady Jennifer, at last.
‘Oh, by looking about, poking into a corner or two. All the furnishing’s brand new, but the chateau itself is ancient. It’s been cleaned from top to bottom during the last few days. Some of the stonework in my room is still damp! They must have moved in an army of workers and servants.’
‘But who?’ demanded Churchill. ‘And why?’
‘That’s what I hope to find out this evening,’ said the Doctor. ‘But I can tell you this. We’re dealing with someone with virtually unlimited financial resources. Someone prepared to spend an entire fortune simply on a whim. This chateau, this whole evening, is no more than an elaborate practical joke!’
Footmen opened the double doors to the library, and two people were revealed on the threshold. One was a man of about sixty, with a high, forehead and hooded grey eyes. He wore immaculate evening dress, and leaned upon an ivory-handled stick. Beside him stood an extraordinarily beautiful woman with a cloud of black hair and, unusually for her dark colouring, deep blue eyes. She wore an elaborate red silk evening gown. A diamond necklace blazed around her long, slender neck, and there were more diamonds in her hair.
The man came forward. ‘Good evening,’ he said. ‘I am Count Ludwig Kroner. This lady is the Countess Malika Treszka. We are your hosts.’ The voice was deep and cultured, with no trace of accent. ‘It is a great honour to welcome you here, Major Churchill. We have been expecting you. Your companions however come as a surprise – a most pleasant one, of course. Won’t you introduce them?’
‘With the greatest of pleasure,’ said Churchill. Accustomed to the very highest of society all his life, he spoke with an assured formality equal to that of his host.
Doctor Who: Players: 50th Anniversary Edition Page 8
