Doctor Who_ Last of the Gaderene - Mark Gatiss [29]
‘Come along, Jo,’ said the Doctor brightly. ‘We’ve arrived.’
Jo yawned. ‘Culverton?’
‘Culverton.’ He glanced round again at the serene village, still bathed in the rosy glow of the sunset. ‘Seems quiet enough.’
Chapter Twelve
Friends in High Places
The Chief of Staff, who rejoiced in the name of Jocelyn Strangeways, slammed down the telephone with uncontained fury.
A stout, ruddy-cheeked man, he was a soldier, like his father and grandfather before him and his father before that.
He even sported the same enormous moustache that bristled so marvellously on the faces of his forebears.
Their portraits bore down on him from the walls of his book-lined study, splendid in their old uniforms, against a backdrop of the Sudan or India or the Transvaal.
Strangeways tried not to look at them. They seemed to have accusing expressions on their faces.
Damn it all, he was supposed to be in charge! What was the Prime Minister thinking about, cutting the country’s defences back to the bone? A little friendly chitchat between the Yanks and the Chinese didn’t suddenly make the world a safe place. It was imperative that Britain maintain a strong armed response.
Strangeways examined the tumbler of whisky in his hand then drained it in one go.
It was bad enough having to swallow his pride about these defence cuts, but to have to answer to that arrogant puppy Cochrane! Now the beggar wasn’t even returning his phone calls.
There was a soft click somewhere close by.
Strangeways looked round but could see nothing unusual.
Struggling to his feet, he reknotted the cord of his dressing gown and marched swiftly from the room, trying to shrug off the impression that his illustrious ancestors were laughing at him.
The knocker on the old front door of Whistler’s cottage was matt black and shaped like a dolphin.
The Doctor lifted it with one hand and rapped twice, firmly. He looked around, breathed deeply and smiled to himself, relishing the scents of the warm summer night.
Jo stood close by. When there was no response after a full minute, she crept across the flowerbeds and peered through the window, shielding her eyes with the palm of her hand.
‘Any sign of life?’ asked the Doctor.
Jo shook her head.
The Doctor stepped back from the door and craned his neck to look at the upper storey.
He knocked again, then frowned. ‘Funny.’
Jo joined him. ‘The Brigadier did say he’d been in touch with the Wing Commander didn’t he?’
The Doctor nodded. ‘Yes. He’s supposed to be expecting us.’
‘Well, maybe he’s just popped out –’
She broke off abruptly as the porch light came on and the door creaked cautiously open.
‘Yes?’ Mrs Toovey sounded anxious and not a little suspicious.
The Doctor stepped forward. ‘Good evening, madam. I’m the Doctor, this is Jo Grant. We’re here to see Wing Commander Whistler.’
The old woman breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Oh yes. I’ve been expecting you.’
She opened the door fully to let them inside. ‘I didn’t hear the door. I was in the garden.’
Jo nodded and smiled. ‘That’s all right. It’s a lovely night.’
As she stepped over the threshold, the Doctor held back.
He was looking towards the village green. Jo followed the direction of his gaze and made out the figure of a man walking slowly around the bench and staring down at the ground as though he’d lost something.
The Doctor indicated Mrs Toovey. ‘You go on, Jo. I won’t be a moment.’
He set off with long strides towards the green and soon saw the man more clearly. He was about thirty-five and dressed in an unironed linen suit and sandals. He had a pleasant but slightly vacuous look to him and a none-too-clean dog collar to complete the ensemble. The Doctor acknowledged the vicar with a cheery wave. ‘Beautiful evening isn’t it?’
The vicar nodded but he seemed troubled. ‘Beautiful.’
He held out his hand. ‘Stephen Darnell,’ he muttered.
‘I’m the Doctor. Is there something the matter?’ The Doctor looked down at the ground. The neatly cut grass had been churned up by heavy tyres, quite ruining the pretty verge.
The vicar pointed to the damage and then