Doctor Who_ Grave Matter Part 10

Ancient Jim, the Doctor decided, might have been more appropriate. His face was deeply lined and stained brown by the elements. His hair was reduced to a flimsy tangle of grey wisps, and his beard was Bernard Shaw white.

The Doctor introduced himself and settled down on the quay next to the old man. 'Mrs Tattleshall says you might be able to lend me a boat,' he hazarded.

The old man nodded. 'A boat, is it?' He chewed his pipe as he considered.

'A boat,' the Doctor agreed. 'Vessel. Embarkation.'

'Mmm. What for?'

'To get to Sheldon's Folly.'

Jim laughed, a cracked and rasping sound. 'That's obvious,' he said. 'Nowhere else really to go.'

'The other islands?' the Doctor suggested.

'Hardly. No, when I say what for what for, I mean what will you give me in return?'

'Ah.' The Doctor understood. 'I'm not sure what I have to offer. A jelly baby maybe? Use of my best yo-yo perhaps?

Peace and quiet when I'm gone?'

Jim considered this, his pipe moving slowly from side to side in his mouth. 'Not if that Tattleshall woman comes back,'

he said at last.

'Ah, now there I can make no guarantees.'

Old Jim removed his pipe for long enough to say: 'Talked her poor husband to death. She's looking for her next victim now, I reckon.' He clamped the pipe back in. 'You want to watch out,' he said round it.

'I think we both do.'

Jim nodded. 'True enough.'

'She said something about noises,' the Doctor said.

'Goings-on, lights. Said they're a rum lot.'

'At Sheldon's Folly?'

The Doctor nodded.

'Spect they are.'

'She said she wouldn't go over there if you paid her,' the Doctor went on. 'Well, not you personally. Or me for that matter. But you know what I mean.'

'I do, lad.' He removed his pipe and pointed the stem at the Doctor before he had time to remark that he was not used to being addressed as 'lad'. He wiggled the pipe as he spoke.

'They did use to pay her. When the house was empty. Before young Mr Christopher came back. Cleaning and the like.'

'Ah.' This was making some sense. 'And now that Mr Sheldon is back in residence, he has dispensed with her excellent, albeit garrulous, services?'

'That's it. Sour grapes, if you ask me.' He removed the pipe again and pointed at a smudged dark area on the horizon.

'That's Sheldon's Folly. You can take that rowing boat.' He moved the pipe to indicate the small wooden rowing boat he meant. It was tied up to the quayside nearby. A pair of oars was lying down the middle across the low bench seat.

'Thank you,' the Doctor said.

Old Jim nodded. 'It's nice to talk once in a while.'

'Though not to Mrs Tattleshall.'

'That's right. Bring her back safe,' he said. 'The boat, I mean. About an hour if you keep a steady rhythm. Quicker back 'cos of the tide.'

'Thank you,' the Doctor said again, getting to his feet.

'Just one thing.'

'Yes?'

'It's nice to talk once in a while.' he repeated.

The Doctor nodded. 'I've enjoyed it,' he said. 'Let's do it again, shall we? Another day, another time.'

The old man was nodding too. 'Yes,' he said quietly. 'I'd like that.'

The Doctor realised he had learned something else about Old Jim as he arrived at the island. Either the old man was an optimist, or his arms were rather better used to rowing than the Doctor's were. It had taken him an hour and a half, and the autumn sun was low in the sky now. Soon the evening would begin to close in.

The Doctor tied up the rowing boat next to a motor launch at a small wooden jetty which projected from the craggy sh.o.r.e. He spent a few moments staring longingly and jealously at the launch while trying to ma.s.sage some feeling back into his arms. Then he set off down the jetty and started along the pathway that led from it and wound its way through a thinly wooded area and, he a.s.sumed, up to the house.

The house, when he caught sight of it through the trees, was a ramshackle, sprawling affair. It seemed to be a mixture of Gothic and Queen Anne, as if the two styles had been thrown haphazardly together and then finished off years later by a builder who was a devotee of H. P. Lovecraft. The windows were different shapes and at different levels. None of the walls seemed to meet at right angles. The roof rose and dipped as if on a whim. The Doctor stood and stared at the house for a good while, angling and tilting his head as he tried to make aesthetic sense of it all.

When he eventually gave up, he thrust his hands into his pockets and set off towards it. Whistling. As he approached, he could see there were barns and outbuildings, even a coach house, behind and to the side of the main house. They also demonstrated a lack of coherent design or overall style.

The path did not bring the Doctor straight to the front door of the house. It meandered across the front lawn before arriving at the side of the house and then leading past several downstairs windows to arrive at last at the front door. As he pa.s.sed each window the Doctor made a point of looking inside. The first room seemed to be empty and in darkness.

The next window gave into a large drawing room. The Doctor could see a fire burning in the grate, and gas lamps flickering on the walls. He paused, and now he could see there were people in the room.

By instinct more than anything else, the Doctor stepped back into the shadow of the brickwork beside the window. The frame did not fit too well into the mullion, and he could hear voices from inside seeping out through the tiny gaps. He peered carefully round the edge of the window as he listened.

He thought he recognised one of the voices.

'Thank goodness you found him when you did,' a man's voice said. 'He could have done himself all kinds of damage.'

The Doctor could see the speaker, sitting perched on the edge of a large armchair. He smiled with satisfaction as he recognised Dr Dave Madsen.

'Damage?' Another man's voice. A large, deep voice.

Amused.

'I don't mean physical damage,' Madsen responded. There was a trace of annoyance in his voice. 'Anyway, he's in good enough health now. Considering.'

'Excellent.' There was a movement of shadows in the room, and the Doctor could make out a large man walking across to the armchair. He paused in front of it, and handed something to Madsen. A gla.s.s, by the look of it. The Doctor peered closer, angling himself so that the sun was not reflected from the part of the window he was trying to see through.

It was a gla.s.s, Madsen took it and sipped at the drink. The large man had a drink too. Both the same, by the look of it.

Both whisky, from the distant colour.

'I, er, I need more material,' the large man said as Madsen sipped at his drink.

Madsen spluttered in response. 'What, already?'

'As soon as you think it can be done.'

Madsen leaned back in his chair. He was silent for a while.

'I suppose,' he said, and paused. 'I suppose it can't do him any more harm now.'

'I suppose not. The arm, perhaps?'

'The left arm should be all right.' Madsen struggled out of the chair and put his empty gla.s.s down on a table. 'I can remove it for you now if you want. While I'm here. Again.'

The Doctor stepped away from the window as the two men left the room. He had not liked the sound of that. He sucked in his cheeks and tapped his fingertips together as he decided what to do. He didn't really know what was going on here.

Was the big man Sheldon? And who or what had they been talking about? He turned and walked in the opposite direction from the front door. He needed a few minutes to think, and a look round the buildings would not do any harm.

The double wooden doors to the coach house were open, he saw, as he got close. Inside the dark archway, the Doctor could make out the large spidery form of a helicopter. Its wing tips dipped over the main body. It was painted a glossy black that merged with the shadows and darkness inside the building.

The Doctor continued his tour round the outside of the house, but he saw nothing else of much interest. There was a stable block and he could see horses poking their curious heads over half-doors. He heard dogs barking from another more distant building, though he did not investigate further.

His timing was excellent, he reflected, as he approached the front door again. As he watched, it opened and Madsen came out accompanied by a tall thin man dressed in the formal dark suit of a butler.

'House call?' the Doctor asked politely.

Madsen was surprised to see him, and did nothing to disguise the fact. 'After a fashion,' he said. 'What the devil are you doing here?'

'Paying my respects,' the Doctor said. 'To Mr Sheldon.'

'Sheldon?' Madsen frowned. 'I'm not sure...' His voice tailed off.

'Mr Sheldon is away, sir,' the tall man said. 'May I be of any a.s.sistance?'

'I don't know,' the Doctor said. He stepped up to the man and stared into his thin face. 'Who are you?'

'Rogers, sir.' He did not blink. 'Who shall I say called?'

'I'm the Doctor.'

'Just the Doctor?'

'Well, I'm not sure I like the way you say just,' the Doctor told him.

Before Rogers could respond, a voice came from the doorway behind them. A woman's voice. 'Who is it, Rogers?'

'The Doctor, Miss Spillsbury,' Rogers told her.

'He's visiting the islands,' Madsen explained.

'Just popped by to say h.e.l.lo,' the Doctor offered. 'See how you all are. That sort of thing.'

'Really?' The woman seemed amused at the thought.

'Then you had better come in and see Mr Packwood.' She looked back at Rogers. 'While Rogers returns Dr Madsen to the main island.'

She introduced herself as Janet Spillsbury as she led the Doctor into the drawing room he had seen earlier through the window. She was tall and slim with collar-length black hair that curled in on itself at the ends. She was dressed in a matching navy blue skirt and jacket. Businesslike, the Doctor decided. Mindful of her appearance even here on the tiny island. A professional lady in her thirties. But what profession?

Before he could inquire, the large man he had seen through the window strode into the room. He took the Doctor in with an amused glance and extended his hand. It was a pudgy paw of a hand, fleshy like the rest of him. He was not fat, but everything about him was at the closest approach to being fat. He was broad and jowly with a slightly bulbous nose. His suit jacket looked as if it might almost b.u.t.ton across his chest. 'Logan Packwood,' he announced in a deep booming voice as he pumped the Doctor's hand up and down vigorously. His face seemed almost to split open along craggy lines as he smiled.

'Delighted,' the Doctor said as he pulled his hand free and sat himself down. 'I was hoping to meet Mr Sheldon. I've heard so much about him.'

He watched as the man and woman exchanged looks.

'I'm afraid that won't be possible,' Packwood said slowly.

'Mr Sheldon is not available right now.'

'Oh dear, and I was so looking forward to a chat,' the Doctor said sadly. 'Poorly, is he? Under the weather?

Suffering? Only I saw Dr Madsen outside...' he let his voice tail off.

'Rogers has already told you,' Janet Spillsbury said slowly, 'that Mr Sheldon isn't here.'

The Doctor smiled. 'So he has. My mistake.'

'Indeed,' Packwood agreed. 'Can I offer you a drink?' It sounded more like a threat than an invitation.

'Not while I'm on duty,' the Doctor told him.

Packwood's hand froze midway towards a decanter. 'On duty?' There was the merest hint of nerves in his voice.

'Mmm?' The Doctor seemed surprised at the reaction.