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The body under the sheet had appeared diminished because a good half of it was missing. Its legs were gone, and its left arm. Indeed, most of the left side of its torso and what it had once contained was simply no longer there.

It was as if the man were a fruit out of which an enormous bite had been taken, or a bag which had been punctured, freeing its slippery contents.

Because of the loss of blood, the flesh of what remained of the body was fishbelly-white. Furthermore, the face was bloated with water, squeezing the features into slits. All the same, the Doctor recognised the man immediately.

'Is this the chap you told me about, Doctor?' Litefoot asked.

'Yes,' the Doctor said quietly. He had told Litefoot a little more than he had told the police, had told him that after hearing the man scream the two of them had seen 'something big but indistinguishable' through the fog.

'An animal, do you mean?' Litefoot had asked, a little incredulously.

'Perhaps. I don't know,' the Doctor had lied, flashing a warning glance at Sam.'It was too dark and murky to tell, and it had gone by the time we got there.'

Now Litefoot said, once again adopting that faintly incredulous tone, 'The fellow looks as though he's been devoured by an alligator!'

'Oh, something far bigger than that,' the Doctor replied almost airily. He gestured at the ragged stumps that were all that remained of the man's limbs. 'Look at the way the flesh and bone have been sheared through. The teeth of a creature able to do that would have to be... what? A foot long?'

'Good Lord,' Litefoot said faintly. 'What are you suggesting, Doctor?'Then his eyes widened.'You're surely not intimating that that old rogue Magnus Greel is up to his tricks again? Perhaps this time he's using his devilry on alligators rather than rats.'

The Doctor shook his head, speaking almost soothingly.'No, no, this is nothing to do with genetic disruption.' He lapsed into silence, staring thoughtfully at the body. 'Well, if you're certain...' Litefoot ventured. 'Nothing is certain, Professor.' Turning to Constable Butler, who had been standing with his back to the screens in a respectful silence, the Doctor asked, 'Do we know who this man is, Constable?'

'Yes, sir,' Butler said, producing and consulting a notebook. 'The deceased's name is Thomas Daniel Donahue, of no fixed abode. Until recently Mr Donahue had been residing at number forty-two Market Street, Whitechapel. Seems he fell on hard times after losing his job at Seers's bottle factory -'

The Doctor held up a hand, his blue eyes suddenly intense, staring straight ahead. 'The devil himself. Back there at the factory,' he murmured.'Eyes glowing like lanterns.'

'Beg your pardon, Doctor?' asked Litefoot, perplexed.

'Something Mr Donahue said when we met. Where is this factory, Constable?'

***

The ear-splitting roar of machinery was a sound that filled the heads and lives of factory workers around the country. It was a sound they could never escape from, for even in their sleep the echoes went on and on, permeating their dreams. For many, the sound was almost a physical burden; it weighed them down, bowed their heads, slumped their shoulders. Many were pummelled into deafness by it, and a not inconsiderable number even driven insane. For the factory owners, the businessmen and the politicians, this, however, was the roar of progress.

Their workers were the fuel for the great machine that powered the British Empire, and as such should surely be nothing but proud of the fact, proud to be part of the most powerful and prosperous nation in the world. After alighting from his cab, having first absent-mindedly tried to pay the driver in a Delphonian coinage known as dur'alloi, the Doctor walked through the wide-open gates of Seers's Superior Bottles and across the cobbled, deserted courtyard. The factory, built of red brick now blackened by grime, consisted of several massive, dour buildings inset with rows of small