Doctor Who_ Ghost Light - Marc Platt [3]
Ace considered whether ‘nearly there’ referred to miles, light years, minutes or centuries. She guessed what he was waiting for and plumped for an easier option. ‘Don’t you ever take your hat off, Professor?’
The familiar grating crescendo of the TARDIS’s dematerialization procedure broke in upon them, culminating in the heavy bass-drum thud which announced their arrival.
Spared from having to answer Ace’s question, the Doctor leaned across the console to flick on the scanner switch. He stopped for a second and regarded Ace instead.
‘I think it’s time to put your powers of observation to the test.’
‘OK.’
Ace was game for this. She switched on the scanner before the Doctor could stop her and turned to look at whatever image the screen would show. When the TARDIS slid them into a new location, the first glimpse was always exciting.
The scanner showed a pale, delicate, cream-coloured image of what appeared to be nothing at all. The Doctor smiled and tried to look as if this was what he had expected. He had done the right thing asking for Ace’s opinion. Now it was her problem.
2
Gabriel Chase
There were always duties to perform: the smooth running of any large house required them out of necessity. Gabriel Chase was no exception to that rule, but there were also the unavoidable chores — tasks which no simple maidservant could undertake without supervision.
The lift clanked to a halt. Mrs Pritchard slammed aside the metal gate and pushed open the doors to reveal a darkened tunnel. She held her china lamp aloft and moved forward, a maid following to heel with a covered silver tray.
The lamp illuminated the circular brickwork of the tunnel, revealing the daubed images of strange and long-dead creatures that were scattered along the curved walls.
They meant nothing to the housekeeper. The same light danced on the intricate black beading on the stiff black bodice above her heavy black skirt. It glittered on the mass of keys on the ring at her hip. She had only to see to the upkeep and running of the house and to cater for the whims of her master. Her eyes were dead to the world. If there was any vestige of emotion in her drained, grey face, it was a grim pride in her work and in her staff; for anything else there was simple contempt. She had her duties to perform.
They emerged from the mouth of the tunnel into a dimly lit room which was circled by dark, velvet curtains and an array of stuffed birds, each mounted on an ornate pedestal. The air hummed with a low, pulsing drone.
Mrs Pritchard halted at a desk that was scattered with papers and guarded by a malevolent-looking stuffed crow.
She selected one of a row of brass buttons and pressed it.
The furthest of the curtains immediately swished upwards to reveal a brick portal with a sturdy bolted door set into the granite wall. Mrs Pritchard approached the door and stared through a spyhole into the darkness inside.
‘I have brought your dinner and a copy of The Times.’
There was a muffled rustling from inside the dungeon.
Mrs Pritchard used a hooked stick to slide up a panel at the base of the door. She nodded to the maid who lowered the tray to the floor and removed the polished cover.
Underneath was a china plate of chopped fruit and vegetables, a glass of red wine and an ironed edition of The Times.
The dungeon fell silent.
The maid was sliding the tray through the gap in the door when it was suddenly snatched from her grasp. She darted back in fright, but Mrs Pritchard controlled her own startled composure enough to slam down the panel on the cell’s occupant and its scream of outrage.
Mrs Pritchard pushed to the back of her mind the questions with which she refused to plague herself. The screams from behind the door continued, accompanied by the sounds of breaking glass and china. She did not pause to consider the imprisoned