Doctor Who_ The Roundheads - Mark Gatiss [0]
MARK GATISS
Published by BBC Books
an imprint of BBC Worldwide Publishing BBC Worldwide Ltd, Woodlands, 80 Wood Lane London W12 OTT
First published 1997
Copyright © Mark Gatiss 1997
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Original series broadcast on the BBC
Format © BBC 1963
Doctor Who and TARDlS are trademarks of the BBC
ISBN 0 563 40576 7
Imaging by Black Sheep, copyright © BBC 1997
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Mackays of Chatham Cover printed by Belmont Press Ltd, Northampton For David Miller
With all that goes without saying
Thanks to all my friends and family for their love and support, this time, particularly:
Terry - for everyday things from an uncommon man; David - for sowing the seeds of doom; and the League of Gentlemen - for ever Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
‘I had six oxen the other day
And then the Roundheads got away.
A mischief on them speed.
I had six horses in the hole
And them the Cavaliers stole.
I think on this we are agreed.’
PROLOGUE
She passed the lovely old Tower on her way to the museum.
It was a glorious day, hot and sunny with a genuinely cloudless sky as blue as a cornflower. There weren’t many people about at this hour and she enjoyed the unexpected calm of the place, the sound of the city creaking into life, the soft spray of water on the pavement and the distant drone of aeroplanes.
She smiled and craned her neck to look at the Tower’s gleaming metal-and-glass structure, which shone dazzlingly. It was more like a rocket than a public building.
With a laugh, she realised that she still thought of the thing as quite new – the cutting edge of modern achievement, forged from the ‘white heat of technology’ and swinging London’s trendiest landmark.
It wasn’t of course. They’d changed its name and they didn’t even allow anyone to go up it any more, not even to that funny revolving restaurant that made all its diners feel slightly sick.
The Tower held all kinds of associations for her, but she put them to the back of her mind as she made her way through the narrow streets of Fitzrovia towards the impressive, columned portico of the museum.
She chatted to the security guards, who were feeling the heat in their dark uniforms and cotton gloves, and then stepped into the cool interior with some relief.
After a brief look around to get her bearings, she began to push through the crowds of tourists and ascend the stairs.
The display she was looking for was on the fourth floor: a brand-new section of glass cabinets containing a variety of costumes and armour. She glanced at them as she passed – the plain women’s dresses with their white collars, the men’s tunics in puritan black, the chunky pewter breastplates and lobster-like helmets.
Somewhere a clock was ticking loudly. She seemed to hear every second, reverberating through her.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
As though time itself were calling out to her. Calling her back.
She found what she was looking for in a dark room, its walls smelling of fresh plaster, its temperature cooled to the point of chilliness. In a small case, set back from the wall, a series of objects had been arranged. There were letters and documents, yellowed and brittle with age. Several rows of silver coins and medals had been arranged in neat rows alongside them and there were a number of beautiful miniatures, painted on lockets and, in one case, on the inside of a watch the size and shape of a tangerine.
The miniatures showed the face of a fine-featured aristocratic man and those of a coarser, rather fierce-looking individual with the bearing of a brusque farmer.
She glanced at them and smiled sadly. Then another object caught her eye and a little thrill of emotion passed through her body.
It was a locket, like the others, but it showed a portrait of a very handsome man, his hair flowing down to his shoulders, his blue eyes bright and amused,