Doctor Who_ The Roundheads - Mark Gatiss [100]
‘Tell me the truth, Doctor. How did you come to be here and what connection do you have with this Royalist spy?’
The Doctor sighed and held out his hands in a gesture of supplication. ‘She’s not a spy. She’s our travelling companion.
The one I told you about. There’s another one, too. We simply... arrived here in London and got caught up in this mess.’
Thurloe tapped his finger against his chin. ‘And you did not seek to release the King?’
‘Of course not,’ snapped Polly. ‘I was duped into it by the men I told you about.’
Thurloe nodded. ‘This... Christopher Whyte. My men can find no record of him.’
Polly pulled a helpless face. ‘What about the other one?
The older man?’
Thurloe shook his head. ‘You furnished us with a description, but no name. I cannot act upon such flimsy evidence. Though I do have my suspicions.’
‘Well, regardless of that,’ concluded the Doctor, ‘you must see that we are innocent of any crime. I mean, if it hadn’t been for the saltpetre man we’d never even have been arrested.’
Thurloe’s ears pricked up. ‘Saltpetre man? What are you talking about?’
Jamie gave a short laugh. ‘Och, you dinnae want to bother about that, Mr Thurloe. Just a smelly old fool with ideas above his station.’
Thurloe advanced on Jamie, his eyes full of interest. ‘What was this fellow’s name?’
‘Scrope,’ said the Doctor. ‘Nathaniel Scrope.’
Thurloe clapped his gloved hands together. ‘You know Scrope? Why did you not say so before?’ He gave a huge and unexpected grin. ‘How come you to know him?’
‘Actually,’ said the Doctor humbly, ‘we saved his life.’
Thurloe began to pace up and down. ‘Then he will vouch for you. This changes everything, Doctor.’
The Doctor was astonished. ‘It does?’
Thurloe nodded vigorously. ‘Scrope is my best agent.’
The man known as Richard Godley sank down into a chair and threw off his hat with a contented sigh. How nice it would be throw off his alias with such ease. But in these mad, topsy-turvy times it was imperative that he remain incognito.
Godley. Rupert. Sometimes he forgot himself, just as he forgot why he had set out on this insane expedition. Why did he have to place his fate in the hands of barbarians like Stanislaus?
Rupert shuddered as he remembered their experience in Amsterdam. First, the visit to the odious, skeletal van Leeuwenhoek and then, after Rupert had suggested they forget their cares for a few hours, where had the Pole taken them? To the vile House of Correction!
There, for a price, visitors could watch the poor, imprisoned wretches undergoing all manner of unthinkable tortures.
For a man of Rupert’s healthy, athletic sensibilities such base sadism was sickening. He had watched in horror as two boys had been thrown into a flooded cellar, the water rising so rapidly that it was around their waists in minutes. Furiously, they had laboured at two pumps. Rupert had asked the point of this and Stanislaus had smiled his evil smile. ‘They must pump it out or drown,’ he had said simply, turning to lay a bet on the outcome.
With a shake of his handsome head, Rupert attempted to wipe the memory away. He looked around the dank room and drummed his fingers on the table.
He did not think much of the surroundings in which he found himself – how different from his old life in the glorious city of Prague – but it was a relief at least to be back on dry land, even in such a grim hole as this Thames-side warehouse.
There was food and wine on the table and Rupert ate ravenously, tossing morsels to his pet monkey, which the little creature chomped and chewed with vigour, its bright eyes darting from side to side.
There was a knock at the door.
‘Come!’ called Rupert.
Christopher Whyte came quickly inside, closing the door behind him. He looked Rupert up and down before bowing.
‘Your Highness,’ he said.
Rupert smiled. ‘It’s Whyte, isn’t it? I have had a full report of your excellent conduct in this matter, sir. Believe me, when this business is settled you will be handsomely rewarded.’
Whyte gave another modest bow. ‘Was there anything else, sir?’
Rupert ran