Doctor Who_ Ghost Light - Marc Platt [48]
‘I think we should get out of here,’ she said quietly.
‘Nonsense young lady, that thing’s not dangerous,’
blustered Mackenzie and he pulled away another dust sheet. Mrs Pritchard, the night housekeeper, sat there immobile in gaunt black, her eyes lifeless and staring.
‘Lady Margaret!’ he exclaimed.
‘Lady!’ echoed Ace.
‘Sir George Pritchard’s wife,’ he confirmed. But the figure looked so gaunt and tired; hardly the proud and handsome woman he had spoken with that morning. Only that morning was like a distant memory.
Ace angrily snatched away the final sheet to reveal the pale little figure kneeling on the floor beside the housekeeper.
‘Gwendoline. She’s their daughter, isn’t she?’
‘What’s happening in this house?’ demanded Mackenzie. Suddenly he had three dead bodies and was thrice as confused.
Ace wanted to touch Gwendoline’s cold face, but could not bring herself near it. ‘They’re just his toys! Josiah’s toys!’ she choked and crossed the room away from the horrific tableau.
Set aside from the three figures there was a large rectangular shape draped in another sheet. Ace read the brass plaque at its base: Homo Victorianus Ineptus, and turned back; she did not want to see.
Mackenzie, who had followed her, pulled back the cloth.
In a glass case, crouching in dried grass with one hairy hand resting on a branch and the other holding a half-peeled banana, was the Reverend Ernest Matthews.
Champion of mankind’s supremacy over nature, enemy of Darwinism, he was devolved in cruel mockery of his belief.
His preserved body was displayed as a startled, sad-eyed ape.
Mackenzie backed away; Ace thought she would throw up. Instead, they heard the distant chimes of the clock.
Mackenzie looked at his watch, which had stopped; surely, however, it was not already six o’clock.
From their places, Gwendoline and Mrs Pritchard were rising like predators.
‘Get out!’ yelled Ace, but Gwendoline caught her by the arm and they fought like wildcats.
‘Let go of her, madam!’ shouted Mackenzie, producing a gun, but Mrs Pritchard’s arm scythed out and sent him tumbling back against the seated husk. Its leathery arms, still full of vigour, clamped around him and he lost his weapon.
Undeterred, he yelled, ‘I am a police officer! You will do what I tell you! Reinforcements are on the way!’
Ace had managed to push Gwendoline away against her mother, but as she turned to run, she saw a new horror emerging from the TARDIS. It was Josiah Samuel Smith; his face was fresh and ruddy, his hair a lush auburn colour and his clothes immaculate. He smirked and his eyes twinkled evilly.
Ace dashed in a frenzy for the window. ‘Stitch this, Dracula!’ she shouted and released the blind. It snapped up, catching the monster in the last rays of the setting sun.
He flung his arms wide in triumph. ‘I no longer need to crouch in the shadows, young lady!’ he crowed.
In despair Ace ran at him, but Mrs Pritchard caught her hair and dragged her back. Ace slashed at Josiah’s face with her fingers, but was held fast.
‘You’re no gentleman,’ she told him. ‘Scratch the Victorian veneer and something nasty’ll come crawling out!’
He grabbed her by the chin, forcing her to look him in the eye. She could still hear the distant clock chiming far beyond its allotted span.
‘Your beloved Doctor thinks to get the better of me,’ he hissed. ‘But I’ll see him squirming yet! Bring her!’ he ordered Mrs Pritchard.
He headed away down the stairs followed by his housekeeper, his ward and their prisoner. Trapped in the chair, the inspector struggled to escape.
Sensing the emergent focus of energy beneath the house, the Doctor knew he could wait no longer. He had hoped to find Ace in the hall, but instead he saw Nimrod waiting by the lift gates. The Neanderthal had not seen Ace and seemed unconcerned; he had determined to seek the truth from the Burning One. Nimrod’s personal enlightenment was not top of the Doctor’s list at that moment, but he advised the manservant to stick around; it would save him a trip.