Doctor Who_ The Roundheads - Mark Gatiss [110]
The Doctor raised an eyebrow. ‘Dart?’
The Dutchman smiled, his yellowy teeth showing. ‘Yes, a dart. You do not think such a weapon fires a musket ball?’
Frowning, the Doctor looked more closely at the gun. It didn’t really resemble a musket – it was more like an airgun.
The doctor clicked his fingers. ‘I see! And the dart... the dart would be dipped in poison would it?’
Van Leeuwenhoek shook with silent mirth. ‘You think me so crude, little man?’
The Doctor frowned, thinking hard. If he could delay the Dutchman long enough...
Something suddenly flashed in his mind like a signpost.
Something about –
‘Got it!’ cried the Doctor. ‘Anton van Leeuwenhoek! The microscope man!’
The Dutchman shook his head. ‘My brother. I am Gustavus. But his... samples have come in very useful.’
The Doctor looked at him appalled. ‘What have you got on those darts?’
Van Leeuwenhoek shrugged. ‘Oh, just a little something.
Something from a pustule.’
‘Plague?’ gasped the Doctor.
Van Leeuwenhoek nodded excitedly and slapped the barrel of the gun. ‘I will cut down this Cromwell of yours and he will expire before the week is out. None shall even know he has been hit! The sights here act as a guide.’
The Doctor looked. There was indeed a kind of sight screwed into the long iron barrel.
‘Mm,’ he said. ‘I’m familiar with the principle. However primitive.’
‘Primitive!’ snorted van Leeuwenhoek. He swung his head round to face the lattice wall. ‘We shall see!’ Raising the gun, he rested the barrel on the stonework and took aim, his eye squinting, his finger poised to squeeze the trigger.
The Doctor moved forward but stopped as he heard another gun being cocked. To his amazement, the Dutchman had a pistol in his other hand, which was aimed squarely at the Doctor’s chest.
‘Oh dear,’ said the Doctor. ‘Do you really think you can shoot him with one hand?’
Van Leeuwenhoek bit his lip in frustration. ‘I can. I am the best in the world, sir. And rest assured, you will follow Cromwell into the void.’
He aimed and his long, thin finger squeezed at the trigger of the air-musket.
Ben leapt from behind the partition like an angry tiger and hurled himself on to van Leeuwenhoek’s back. The musket fell and clattered to the floor.
Ben and van Leeuwenhoek rolled together and the Doctor stepped neatly over them to retrieve the musket.
Desperately, the Dutchman tried to raise the pistol and press it against Ben’s temple. Ben jerked his head out of the way but still the cold barrel bore down on him, van Leeuwenhoek clenching his teeth together in pure, vengeful hatred.
Ben tried to wriggle out of the way but the Dutchman’s claw-like hand was fixed around his throat. The other was on the pistol, ready to fire.
‘Excuse me,’ said the Doctor, stepping in neatly and smashing the pistol from van Leeuwenhoek’s hand with the butt of the musket.
It flew across the corridor and crashed against the wall, discharging its deadly ball with a loud crack.
Ben threw himself on to the Dutchman’s chest and forced him backwards into a narrow niche in the wall. He punched him twice in the face and, with a sigh, the assassin slid down the wall and collapsed.
The Doctor grimaced and helped Ben to his feet before gingerly kicking the musket into the corner. ‘Better get that thing and its nasty bugs out of the way as soon as possible.’
He glanced down at van Leeuwenhoek, crumpled in the stone niche like a smashed statue.
‘Nothing like a handy Parliamentary recess,’ he said with a grin.
In the chamber below, all heads turned as the sound of the pistol shot reverberated through the building. Jamie, who was standing at Cromwell’s side, ducked instinctively but the general did not flinch.
A murmur began to grow among the assembled MPs but Cromwell held up his hand. ‘The crack of doom, gentlemen. It sounds for Charles Stuart.’
Pleased with his bon mot, Cromwell sat down and folded his arms, a smile of satisfaction