Doctor Who_ The Roundheads - Mark Gatiss [44]
Winter’s voice dropped to a low grumble. ‘Aye, I know him.’
Ben leaned forward, intrigued, blinking as the light of the tavern glinted off Winter’s artificial nose. ‘Tell me more.’
Jamie was smiling peacefully, sound asleep, his head sunk in a fat, feathery pillow, when the Doctor shook his shoulder.
‘Eh? What?’ muttered Jamie, waking. ‘What is it?’
The Doctor was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding a candlestick in his hand. The wispy light gave his face an almost supernatural glow.
‘Jamie,’ he whispered urgently. ‘The book. Have you got it?’
Jamie groaned. ‘What? Och, Doctor, can’t it wait till morning?’
The Doctor shook his head. ‘No, no. You don’t understand. I don’t want to look at it. I can’t find it.’
Jamie shrugged and sank back on to the bed. ‘Well, you had it last. Don’t fret. You probably dropped it somewhere.’
The Doctor shook him again, somewhat crossly. ‘Oh, Jamie, don’t you understand? If I have lost it somewhere, the consequences could be terrible.’
‘I’ll get you another one.’
The Doctor jumped up, frustrated. ‘It’s not the book itself.
It’s what it represents. Can’t you see? If someone gets hold of it they’ll know what’s going to happen for the next twenty years!’
Jamie sat up and leaned on his elbow. ‘Oh,’ he mumbled.
‘I see what you mean.’
The Doctor sat down again glumly. ‘Quite apart from the fact that it was published almost three hundred years in the future! Why did I ever pick up the stupid thing?’
He crossed his arms and thrust out his lower lip sulkily.
Jamie thought for a moment. ‘So what can we do?’
‘I have absolutely no idea. Not until we get out of here, anyway.’
Jamie nodded, turned over again, and plumped his pillow.
‘Aye. Right. So why don’t you just forget about it until the morning and get some sleep?’
The Doctor shook his head. ‘No, no. I’m far too worried about the book. And Ben and Polly.’
Jamie’s voice was muffled by the pillow. ‘They’ll be all right. They’ll have gone back to the TARDIS and, when we didn’t turn up, they’ll have found somewhere to spend the night.’
The Doctor’s face looked grave in the light of the candle.
‘I hope so, Jamie. I hope so.’
He brandished a piece of paper which he’d torn from his diary. ‘I’ve written down descriptions of them. I thought perhaps we could persuade Cromwell to instigate some sort of search. Perhaps we could...’
He trailed off and wrinkled his nose. ‘Can you smell something?’
Jamie sat up straight and sniffed. ‘Aye... It’s like... it’s like
–’
They both turned at a noise from outside the windows. The smell was stronger here and the Doctor wrenched back the curtain to peer out into the gardens below.
It was a frosty night and a bone-white moon illuminated the snow-covered grounds of the building.
The Doctor managed to open the diamond-patterned window and poke his head out. He smiled as the smell intensified and he caught sight of a familiar figure, shuffling through drifts, a lantern in one hand and an ominous sack slung over his shoulder.
‘Mr Scrope!’ hissed the Doctor.
The wizened old man looked up in surprise and then waved to the Doctor. ‘Hello to thee!’ he called. ‘I heard you was about.’
The Doctor frowned. ‘What are you doing here?’
Scrope crunched his way through the drifts so that he was directly below the high window, some three storeys up.
‘I said I had state business, didn’t I?’ he muttered, sounding rather affronted.
The Doctor noticed the sack on his shoulder and nodded.
‘Oh yes. Yes, of course.’
‘Well, then, state business brings me to Parliament’s precincts and to you. How’re they treating you?’
Jamie came to the window and covered his nose, grateful that the semi-darkness hid him. ‘You know they’ve got us locked up in here?’
Scrope cackled. ‘I hear you’re a wizard, lad. Is that true?’
The Doctor set his candle down on the sill. ‘Look, Mr Scrope, could we ask you a favour?’
Scrope set down his sack, which made an unpleasant squelching sound as it hit the snow. ‘Ask away, friend. I’m still in your debt.’
The Doctor chewed his lip thoughtfully. ‘A gentleman such as yourself must