Doctor Who_ Empire of Death - BBC Worldwide [12]
‘An asylum?' Martha asked, a bony fist clutching at the cloth of her dress.
'Of sorts. It is an annexe to an establishment called the Lock. The main building takes in women whose condition is unsuitable for asylums, while the annexe is for disturbed children. I have heard good work is being done there.
'Kirkhope gently stroked the hair on the boy's head, hoping to soothe away whatever was troubling his young mind. 'It would be best for your family if you did not speak of what you have witnessed here. There is no need to worry the other members of the community. I will simply say young James almost drowned and is being kept here to recover - the truth is always best in such cases. In the meantime you must talk to other parents, make sure no other child visits the falls.'
'Was it the curse? Is that what has taken my boy?' Mr Lees asked.
'Perhaps. All such superstitions have a grain of truth hidden within them. Whatever ails the child, we will find no more answers to it tonight. I bid you both return home and try to get what rest you can. You may visit James in the morning and we shall see what fresh hope a new dawn may bring.'
Mr Lees nodded and led his reluctant wife from the room.
Dr Kirkhope closed and bolted the door after them before turning back to the stricken child. He pulled open a drawer and removed several lengths of leather strapping, each with a metal clasp at either end. The physician methodically bound the boy to the bench, the clasps clipping into hooks set on either side of it. Satisfied the child could not escape, Kirkhope whispered into James's ear.
'I don't comprehend how you know what you do, but you can never speak of it again. If I have to see you locked away for life, you will stay silent. Do you understand me?'
James did not speak, his face contorted with fear.
Dr Kirkhope blew out the candles and retreated to his nearby bedroom where an unsettled sleep awaited, full of nightmares about the sins of his past.
Chapter One
February 14, 1863
General George Doulton found the atmosphere in Windsor stifling after a lifetime in active service. Unlike many of his contemporaries the general had not bought his commissions, he had earned them on bloody battlegrounds and foreign fields. Born the son of a parson, Doulton had begun his military career with the 7th Dragoon Guards before transferring into HM 22nd Foot as a captain. He had seen action during the conquests of Sind and Meanee before being promoted to major-general at the outbreak of the Crimean War. Doulton believed himself well liked by the men under his command and they proved him right, following him into the most unforgiving of conflicts and administering one hell of a towelling to the Russians. His weary and wounded body was invalided home in 1855, to receive a promotion to general. But Doulton firmly believed he belonged at war.
Life during peacetime was no life at all for a soldier.
Having to remain at court in this funereal atmosphere was more like a living death. Raised voices and colourful expletives were forbidden, let alone the clash of bullets and bayonets. Doulton longed for action, his spirit sorely tried by these past weary weeks. He had come to Windsor to receive the Queen's thanks for his past services, but she had been taken by his manner, saying it was reminiscent of her late, much missed husband. So Doulton found himself trapped in this graveyard of ghouls, everyone hanging on Her Majesty's words.
The woman needed to be brought out of herself, that was all. Mourning the loss of a loved one was all very well, but the Queen seemed to wallow in her own misery, Doulton told himself. He would never express such sentiments out loud, his loyalty to the throne was implacable, but how he hungered for relief from this place. When the strangers arrived, it was a blessing of sorts. But the general was still uneasy about their presence. Assassins had tried and, happily,