Doctor Who_ The Bodysnatchers - Mark Morris [19]
The smell of disinfectant hit them immediately, though it seemed to conceal an altogether more unpleasant odour that may simply have been the pervasive stench of the surrounding streets.The interior of the place, consisting - the Doctor recalled - of one large room partitioned into smaller sections by the use of screens, was basic, clinical. Both walls and floor were tiled, the walls in gleaming white, the floor in a muddy brown. There was a minimum of furniture, and that which the place did contain was battered and roughly hewn. In the first 'room', little more than a reception area, a red-faced constable, whose moustache was trimmed a little closer than most of his colleagues', was sitting behind a desk on which a candle burned, writing laboriously in an enormous leather-bound ledger. As the Doctor and Litefoot entered, he jumped up, his chair juddering backwards over the tiles with a screech.The Doctor half expected him to salute, but he didn't.
'Good morning, Professor. Sir,' he said, nodding at the Doctor. 'You're here for the postmortem, I take it.'
'Good morning, Constable Butler. We are indeed,' Litefoot said, already stripping off his coat and hat.
'A mysterious one, this, sir,' Butler said. Looking pointedly at the Doctor, he added,'I'm afraid it's not for the squeamish.'
The Doctor looked at the constable with a deadpan expression. For a moment Butler had the unsettling notion that the cool blue eyes of the young man, whom he had assumed to be one of the professor's students, were boring into his mind.
Then the Doctor blinked and said gently,'There's no need to worry, Constable. Your wife will recover.'
Butler flinched, startled. A chill passed through him. 'I beg your pardon, sir?'
'She's been ill, hasn't she? You've been putting on a brave face for her sake, but you've been more worried than you'll dare admit to yourself.' He grinned suddenly and clapped the policeman on the shoulder.'But cheer up, Constable. Any day now you'll see a marked improvement in her condition. By this time next week she'll be back to her old self. Now, how about leading us to the body?'
'Er... yes, sir.This way,' Butler said, bemused. His mind was brimming with questions, but something about the odd young gentleman's manner prevented him from asking them. Everything the fellow had said was true.
His wife,Abigail, had been ill, and he had been more concerned than he had led anyone to believe. Although astounded, even a little frightened, by the young man's proclamation, Butler found that his overwhelming feeling was one of relief. For some reason, he felt greatly reassured by the man's words, felt as though he could believe them without question.
Dazedly he led the way behind the screens into the inner 'room'. This was the mortuary proper, harsh flares of light from the profusion of gas lamps and strategically placed candles bouncing off the tiled walls. Along one wall were a sink, a set of glass-fronted cabinets containing medical textbooks and large bottles of different-coloured chemicals, and a bench cluttered with a tangle of test tubes, vials and ampoules. A number of metal trays covered with white linen cloths on which a variety of surgical instruments had been carefully laid out awaited Litefoot on a small table. The mortuary slab itself was little more than a large wooden table in the middle of the room which was regularly scrubbed. A sheeted form, which appeared disconcertingly diminished, lay on the slab. A mop and bucket lolled against the wall in the corner, the mop-head stained an ominous pink.
Stripped down to his shirtsleeves, Litefoot donned an apron and a pair of protective oversleeves which stretched from his cuffs to his elbows.
Watched by the Doctor, who stood silently at his shoulder, hands clasped behind his back, the professor reached out and peeled the sheet