Doctor Who_ Ghost Light - Marc Platt [6]
‘It’s a surprise,’ he said.
From somewhere in the depths of the house, he heard the jangling of a doorbell.
Ernest Matthews stood on the doorstep of Gabriel Chase, tugging hard on the bell pull. He regarded the weathered statue of the avenging angel that stood guard beside the steps, its sword raised in defiant warning. Ivy had begun to twine its spreading wings — a crumbling image of mortality.
He heard footsteps approaching from inside the house.
The front door swung inwards.
Ernest marched through the portal, ignoring the scrutiny of the housekeeper.
‘Tell your master that the Reverend Ernest Matthews has arrived,’ he said.
Removing his hat and coat, he perused the hall he had entered. It was high and airy, dominated by a carved wooden staircase and a magnificent window of stained glass. The panelled walls were hung with animal trophies and tapestries which depicted hunting scenes. This was the house of a rich man — a family home passed down over generations — not the house of a quack pseudo-scientist whose writings displayed scant grasp of literary or scientific style, or even the basic rules of grammar.
Ernest’s coat was suddenly removed from his grasp. He turned to stare at the housekeeper beside him. Ernest rarely had time for servants, but this one, who in normal circumstances would have been a cheerful soul, was plainly flustered by his arrival. Great heavens, he thought. How she dithered with his coat and hat, juggling them with the straw bonnet she already held.
‘Well?’ he snapped. ‘This house is Gabriel Chase, is it not? The residence of Josiah Samuel Smith?’
The wretched woman’s plump cheeks flushed even redder. ‘Yes, sir. But excuse me, sir, as I understood, you would not be arriving until this evening.’
There were two other servants nearby. They were huddled in a corner, whispering anxiously: simple country girls wearing coloured shawls as if they were wrapped against the sudden chill of the descending dusk outside.
The housekeeper glanced again at the ornate grandfather clock at the side of the hall: its hands pointed at eight minutes to six.
‘Madam,’ insisted Ernest, ‘my patience has already been sorely tried by the interminable train journey from Oxford.’
‘Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir. Only we don’t get many visitors, you see.’
‘Apparently not.’ He fixed her with his most condescending smile. ‘Now kindly inform Mr Smith, if he is at home to visitors, that I have answered his summons and am waiting.’
At last he seemed to be making the woman understand.
With a deal of nervous bobbing and glancing back at the clock, she led him across the hall and through doors into the comfort of the parlour.
The two girls watched him go; knowing glances passed between them. The gas-lamps in the house had already been lit and they knew it would be dark before they reached the village. Hurry up, Mrs Grose they thought.
The deep tick of the clock marked its inexorable march towards six o’clock.
The Doctor had his feet up and his head was buried in a well-thumbed copy of Darwin’s Journal of the Beagle — a leather-bound first edition.
While the Doctor refreshed himself on some of the details of Darwin’s formative years, Ace was back on course with her assessment. She was steadily unloading the contents of a cupboard, rummaging through the brown glass bottles of chemicals: alum, borax...
‘Let me guess,’ interrupted the Doctor, breaking into her flow of thought. ‘Beaver oil, salt... Boring, aren’t they?’
‘Yeah, nothing volatile or explosive.’ She paused for a moment, unaware that she had been talking out loud. She sometimes had an uncomfortable feeling that the Doctor was inside her head.
‘They’re all preservative agents in the art of taxidermy.’
‘Ugh, gross!’ Ace hurriedly shoved back a