Doctor Who_ Ghost Light - Marc Platt [8]
There had been no immediate response, but a month later, during a brief visit to London, he believed that he had glimpsed Smith.
Against his better judgment, he had been taken by a colleague to see the Royal Italian Opera at Covent Garden.
The Egyptian melodramas of Signor Verdi’s Aida were of little interest to him — a shamelessly decadent affair —
but he had been intrigued by a young girl in the box opposite. She sat so still that she looked like a statue with pale skin and eyes which even at a distance were of piercing blue. Behind her, in the shadows at the rear of the box, was a dark figure which emerged only as the house lights dimmed. It hovered at the girl’s shoulder during the performance but withdrew when the lights rose between the acts. Ernest had asked a flunkey about the identity of the figures. He was told that the box belonged to a Mr Josiah Smith and that the young girl accompanying him was his ward, whom he had been heard to refer to as Gwendoline.
Now the image of this sweet child was once again before Ernest in the photograph. His righteous temper freshly fuelled, Ernest sought out the servants’ bell and began to ring for immediate attention.
The Doctor’s lectures rarely lasted long. Ace sulkily fingered the crinoline of a china doll, while he held forth on the whys and wherefores of Victorian society.
Unfortunately, this time he was warming to his subject.
‘Now that you’ve so successfully drawn attention to our presence, there’s only one thing for it.’
‘Go and introduce ourselves properly?’ muttered Ace.
‘The Victorians are sticklers for formal etiquette. Their lives are bound by it. We’ll have to leave the house immediately.’
Ace immediately worked out the Doctor’s perverse logic. ‘Don’t tell me: so we can knock on the front door and get invited back in again.’ She wondered whether it would have been easier to land the TARDIS outside in the first place.
The Doctor paused for a moment. He was certain that the brass telescope had been directed towards the window: now it pointed at him. He nonchalantly swung the instrument on its pivot so that it faced outward and watched as it swivelled back of its own accord, this time to point at Ace.
‘Doctor, this isn’t a haunted house, is it?’ asked Ace.
The Doctor cast a sideways glance at Ace. She had not noticed the telescope; this was purely a sudden coincidental thought, although she was looking very uncomfortable about it.
‘I told you I’ve got this thing about haunted houses.’
‘Did you tell me that?’ he asked innocently.
‘Yes.’
‘How many have you been in?’
‘One was enough — never again.’
Something creaked behind her, or snorted, or neighed.
The rocking horse, its eyes glinting, was slowly tipping back and forth of its own volition. Something had knocked it, thought Ace, that was all. A linnet in a cage turned its head with tiny clicking movements to look at her. Its wings fluttered and it started to twitter. It was just a toy, wasn’t it?
From the depths of the house, they heard the deep bass notes of a grandfather clock begin to toll the hour.
3
Uncharted Territory
At the first stroke of six, wooden panels in the hall slid open to reveal the occupants of the stone alcoves behind them. Maids, as much a fabric of the house as the stones themselves, moved out into the soft light of the gas-lamps.
They wore long skirts, starched aprons and prim caps; their thin grey faces had forgotten when they last saw the sunlight. Out they moved, swishing across the tiled hall floor and up the stairs.
The ponderous clock reached its third stroke. In the darkened study, white gloved hands touched the shoulder of a girl who sat motionless, staring into the fire.
‘I think you should go and greet our guests, my dear,’
whispered the voice.
The girl smiled gently, rose from her chair and glided from the room.
The sixth and final stroke from the clock lingered like the last gleam of the setting sun before it faded into the shadowy recesses of the house.