Doctor Who_ Empire of Death - BBC Worldwide [16]
'We have despatched a contingent of troops to investigate and guard this site. We expect a report from our expeditionary force shortly What else?'
'The rest is... difficult, Your Majesty.' James stared down at the elaborately stitched rug on the floor of the chamber. `How so, Master Lees?'
'I communicate best during a séance. If you would be willing to take part in such an endeavour, I might hope to tell you more.'
This suggestion created a flurry of looks and glances among the others in the room, but the Queen did not flinch.
'Where does one suggest we hold this - séance?'
'Wherever you feel closest to your dearly departed.' James replied without hesitation. 'It is not for me to stipulate such a location, you know it best yourself.'
Victoria pursed her lips. 'Our husband rests in the beloved Mausoleum at Frogmore - we visit him there daily. Would that be a suitable place?'
'Undoubtedly. The hours of twilight are best for contacting the spirit world.'
'So be it,' the Queen announced. 'Tonight we will adjourn to the Mausoleum and a séance shall be held. But we must warn you -' With this Victoria fixed a steely gaze upon the Baroness's face - 'no word of what occurs in that place may ever be spoken of nor written. No other living soul can ever know what happens there. Is that perfectly clear?'
Luckner dropped into another curtsy, avoiding the monarch's eyes. The Queen turned away and strode back to her chair. 'You may go. We shall summon you at the appointed hour.' Victoria sat down and returned to her correspondence. Sir Henry Ponsonby slipped forwards unobtrusively and began guiding the visitors out. Within moments they were back in the antechamber, alone again.
The Baroness let out a relieved gasp. She smiled at the young man, for once the emotion genuine on her face. 'Well done! That went better than I could have imagined.'
James just stared at her, his features sour and pinched.
His voice suddenly took on a menace and timbre unlike any it had displayed before. 'You fool! You almost destroyed my hopes with your incompetent bumbling! Never - never -
interrupt me again. Do I make myself clear?'
Luckner stepped back in surprise. 'Yes, y-yes - of course!'
Then the moment passed, as if a cloud had moved over the young man's face. He collapsed to the floor in a crumpled heap, blood trickling from his nostrils.
Sergeant Charles Otto Vollmer looked down in wonder at the valley. He had travelled to foreign lands and seen vistas both remarkable and terrifying, but he had never laid eyes upon such an unlikely sight. Below was an incongruous assemblage of buildings, clustered in parallel arcs beside the River Clyde. Nearest the water's edge the four tallest buildings stood end to end in a row - probably the cotton mills, Vollmer thought. Each structure was five storeys high, with sandstone walls of two different hues and the dark grey slate roofs characteristic of this region in Scotland. Further back from the river were two parallel rows of tenement blocks, homes for the people of this community. The sergeant could see the lines of washing hung out between the windows.
Perhaps the most remarkable aspect of this working village was how new everything looked. It appeared to have been purpose-built within the last hundred years and well looked after, unlike the haphazard homes and cobbled streets of Whitechapel in East London where Vollmer had been brought up. There a dense pall of smoke hung in the air, always accompanied by the stench of human excrement sluicing down the gutters. By comparison this place smelled clean and fresh, a brisk breeze hurrying up the sides of the valley from the river. The steep hills were thick with leafless trees, the harsh winter having denuded much of the surrounding forest. February was not a month the sergeant would have chosen to