Doctor Who_ The Algebra of Ice - Lloyd Rose [14]
‘Glad to help,’ said Ethan, feeling rather like Watson when Holmes took one of his innocuous remarks and solved a complete case with it.
‘Should have seen it myself,’ the Doctor muttered, putting the photographs in his pocket. ‘Is it migraine?’
‘What?’ Ethan felt even more like Watson.
‘Is your headache migraine?’
‘Oh. No. Well, perhaps. It’s on one side of my head like migraine, but the doctors aren’t really certain.’
‘Look at me,’ said the Doctor gently.
Without knowing exactly why, Ethan did. The blue of the Doctor’s eyes was dark yet brilliant, like deep ocean under a high sun. Ethan stared into them in fascination. There was something wrong in there. No, not wrong exactly, but. . .
‘How do you feel?’ said the Doctor.
Ethan realised his head was clear. Also that he was afraid. ‘What are you?’
‘I’m a friend. It’s U who’s turned out to be the problem.’ The Doctor got up and raised his hat. ‘Thank you for your help. I won’t be bothering you again.’
And he was out the door. Ethan heard him trot lightly down the stairs. ‘Hang on!’ he called. ‘What –’ But he stopped. He wasn’t sure exactly what he wanted to ask. He looked around the room. The chocolate pot was no longer there.
Somehow, he knew it wasn’t in the kitchen either.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘Amberglass,’ said Clisby. ‘Good man.’
After several polite routings, the Doctor had found himself in the office of a middle-aged man with large glasses and a receding hairline. Like everyone else the Doctor had met in the last hour, the man had a public-school accent.
‘Bit high-strung,’ Clisby went on. ‘Jewish, you know. Brilliant people, but sometimes overbalanced in the brains department. Can make them unstable.
Need less imagination.’
The Doctor thought that Clisby certainly didn’t have to worry about being overbalanced in the brains department. Or having too much imagination either.
‘What exactly is his diagnosis?’
‘Well,’ Clisby consulted the files on his desk. ‘Wandering, if you take my meaning. Some doctors say schizophrenic. Some say dissociative personality disorder. One chap thought migraine. They tell me it’s not that unusual, not being able to pin these things down. Mind’s a mystery, what?’
‘Yes, indeed.’
Clisby paged through the files. ‘Grammar school – a good one, though. Up to Cambridge at 17. I’m an Oxford man myself, but there’s no denying they have an edge in maths and that sort of thing.’ Clisby’s tone was faintly condescend-ing. Obviously a humanities man, the Doctor thought, wondering how he had ever got through Oxford.
‘Anything unusual in his background?’
‘Bland as porridge. Both parents deceased – cancer. Father was a solicitor. Brother in Scarborough, accountant. First breakdown at. . . ’ he thumbed through the papers. ‘Ah, here it is. Yes, first breakdown at 19. Could have been academic pressure. Did you know Oxbridge leads the country in suicides per capita?’
The Doctor said no, he hadn’t known.
‘Came to work for us when he was 22. Most of them are that young. Burn out early, mathematicians. Had an “episode” – funny word for it – 18 months later. Hospitalised for three weeks. Then right as rain for two years. Some problems recently. Authorised him to work from home.’
Chapter Four
33
‘What sort of problems?’
‘Report says headaches and hallucinations. Didn’t handle it myself. Glad he’s not American – probably come in with a howitzer.’ Clisby chuckled. The Doctor gave a strained smile. ‘Now, what was that other information you wanted? Oh yes.’ He picked up another file. ‘ “U” working on entropy. That must have been Pat Unwin. Not a strong character, our Pat.’
‘Where did he study?’
‘Warwick. Should have warned us. Still, a triple first at Oxford. He was a damn fine mathematician and we’d have kept him on if he hadn’t gone alcoholic on us.’
‘I understand you’re generally tolerant of. . . that sort of thing.’
‘Within reason. Very high-strung a lot of these chaps. Have to make al-lowances. But as soon as they become unusual, we ship them off to a doctor or a rest home with an AA program. Unwin wasn