Doctor Who_ The Gallifrey Chronicles - Lance Parkin [11]
The fountain was still playing, though. A beggar was sitting at it, dipping a cup into its trough for a drink. A small statue of Ceres looked over the scene.
‘No,’ said Fitz, apparently cheerfully. ‘You do that, we’ll follow the old washerwoman.’
The Doctor looked at him suspiciously. ‘Not like you to turn down wine, women and song. Wait, are you. . . ?’
Without warning, he grabbed Fitz’s head and stared into his eyes, as though he was trying to get a look at his brain.
‘Gerroff!’ Fitz complained, shaking him away. ‘No, I admit it’s not like me.
But on this occasion – I mean. . . you’re OK going instead?’
The Doctor nodded, and checked his toga one last time. ‘Needs must. Good luck, the pair of you.’
He hurried off and disappeared between two columns of the colonnade.
It was a pleasant Italian evening, so a little too warm for Fitz and Trix.
‘I’m very proud of you,’ Trix told Fitz as they made their way back to the villa they’d cased earlier that afternoon.
‘You owe me, that’s all I’m saying.’
Trix kissed him on the cheek. ‘I’ll repay you with interest.’ He blushed in a very endearing way.
‘So, what do you think’s up?’
‘That face-grabbing was a clue,’ Fitz said. ‘Someone’s in disguise. And we’re in history, so I’m guessing the baddy is trying to alter the time line or something like that. Mount Vesuvius is probably involved too.’
25
Trix smiled sweetly. ‘Mount Vesuvius? Fiver?’
‘As ever.’
They took up a position at the back of the villa.
‘You’re thirty-five quid down so far,’ she pointed out, ‘after seven bets.’
‘I’m due for a change of luck, then.’
‘Look!’
Trix pulled Fitz out of sight as one of the back doors opened. An old crone shuffled out, carrying a basket of clothes and linen that was almost the same size as she was. Trix and Fitz followed her a little way to where she had a mule tethered. With a bit of difficulty, the old woman attached the basket to the mule’s saddle. She slapped its shoulder and it clip-clopped away, with the old woman half-guiding it, half-led by it.
Trix followed, slipping from shadow to shadow. Fitz wasn’t far behind.
‘I’m getting too old for this,’ he said.
‘Oh come on, it’s fun.’
‘Hey, I’m not denying that.’
The washerwoman was a hundred yards away and about to disappear down an alleyway with her mule. They hurried to catch up with her.
They were back in the marketplace. The old woman was unloading her basket, and looked befuddled by the attention she was getting from Trix and Fitz. The mule was drinking from the trough of the fountain, presumably taking the opportunity before the washing went in.
‘Get her!’ Trix shouted.
Fitz grabbed the washerwoman’s arms, and held her in place.
The woman didn’t say a word; she just looked shocked.
‘I know your secret,’ Trix said, confronting her. ‘You’re no washerwoman.
You’re a spy.’
‘She’s not a washerwoman?’ Fitz asked, one eye on the basket of washing.
Trix grabbed the washerwoman’s face. ‘She is not even a she, Fitz. This is a man, one with an obviously false nose.’
The nose stayed in place, despite Trix’s best efforts. The washerwoman yelped and whined, finally slapping Trix hard on the face and running off.
‘Damn. She looked so butch. You’d think I would know a disguise when I saw one. Could have sworn it.’
‘No,’ said the mule, ‘you were on the right track.’
They watched as the mule stood on its hind legs and started to shift form, gradually settling into a smooth bipedal shape not wholly unlike a mule’s, but with smooth grey skin like a dolphin’s. It had glowing red eyes and wore a distinctly fascistic black uniform.
‘Christ on a bike!’ Fitz exclaimed.
‘So, you are time-travellers.’
26
‘No,’ lied Fitz, badly.
‘Then could you explain how you know the name of a deity who is not yet born and a mode of transport that has yet to be invented?’
‘Yeah, well, OK, we’re time-travellers. We’re one step ahead of you, and we’re here to foil your plan.’
The alien gave a braying chuckle. ‘You don’t have a clue what I’m planning.’
‘Are you going to trigger Mount Vesuvius?’ Trix asked mischievously.
The