Doctor Who_ The Devil Goblins From Neptune - Keith Topping [17]
The Doctor found himself wondering what the man had used to fix the painting's various elements into place - and what that work must have cost the club. A shade under half a million, perhaps - and it had been placed in the foyer, just next to the series of hat stands that serviced the club's occasional guests. The Doctor had once slipped into the Progressive Club's kitchens - their canapés were rightly famous throughout the capital - and had noticed an original Van Gogh just above the cavernous refrigerator. Moments later, he'd been thrown out by the burly French chef, but this insight into the opulence that underpinned the club's social activism had stayed with him.
The Doctor strode briskly towards the reception. Bertram was there, as usual - the Doctor had never known the man take a day off - and he smiled as he took the Doctor's cloak.
'Good day to you, sir. Trust you are well?'
'Indeed, old chap.'
'Uneventful journey?' Bertram rotated the signing-in book to face the Doctor. It was leather-bound and covered the last thirty years of the club's existence. Its contents were both irreplaceable - there was no other record of the members, their election to high office within the club's bizarre hierarchy, and their unpaid fees - and probably subject to the Official Secrets Act. Twenty-one grey-suited valets patrolled the club at any one time, and the two permanently stationed in the foyer were there not just to observe those who came and went but also to guard the precious book.
'Reasonably,' said the Doctor, signing in with a flourish.
'Bessie's had a prang. I had to come by train.'
'Bad show' Bertram nodded. 'Delayed arrival?'
'We were ten minutes late into Victoria.'
'Cow on the line at Hurstpierpoint?'
'Something like that' The Doctor smiled. 'Then I noticed someone following me on the Underground. Damned man stood out like a sore thumb. Probably the Brigadier's idea of heightened security.'
'Lose him at Green Park, did you, sir?'
'That's right. I dived through the doors just as they were closing, left him standing on the platform. You should have seen his face.'
'A veritable picture, I imagine? the Doctor took one last glance at the book before Bertram whisked it away. 'I notice Viscount Rose is here today.'
'You'll find Mr Gillingham-West in the Kean Bar on the third floor.'
'Thank you, Bertram.'
Not at all, sir.'
'Anything else I should know?'
All eastern rooms on the top floor are operating a policy of strict silence.'
'Oh dear.' said the Doctor. He'd once seen a man expelled for clearing his throat in a room where the strict silence rule was in force.
And the second floor is largely closed, sir.'
'Redecorating?'
'That's the official reason.' said Bertram, with the merest hint of a smile. 'And I'd probably avoid the banqueting hall if I were you, sir. There's some sort of competition going on in there.'
'Competition?'
'Competition, sir. Paper aeroplane, longest flight thereof.'
'Longest, as in distance?'
'Indeed, sir. My money is on the clerics?
'Really?'
'Yes, sir. Rest blotto. Sending out for more champagne even as we speak'
'Which reminds me - I'll have a bottle of your best vintage Krug, up on the third floor?
'Consider it done, sir.'
The Doctor nodded at the valet positioned just outside the lifts, but decided on the stairs. The carpet underfoot was rich and deep; the brass banister impeccably polished.
Despite the Progressive Club's name, and its committed principles, many of which the Doctor shared, it was almost comforting to see the old place so firmly keeping at least one foot in the past. On the second floor the Doctor noticed thick red ropes closing off many of the rooms. He couldn't detect any drilling or hammering. Redecorating indeed.
The third-floor corridor was comparatively modest, the decor more nineteenth century than eighteenth. Closed doors of stout oak let through laughter