Doctor Who_ The Roundheads - Mark Gatiss [57]
Jamie nodded. ‘And he wants us to predict how things’ll come out? Aye, well, that’s easy enough.’
‘No, no, no,’ muttered the Doctor. ‘He sees right through us, I’m sure. The point is, Cromwell might well believe that you’re the McCrimmon of Culloden. And that could prove very useful to Mr Thurloe.’
Jamie frowned. ‘How?’
‘Well, I’ll explain. But first we must find that book. Apart from everything else, we need to get our facts straight. Now, let me see, it’s Christmas 1648. What happens next, I wonder?’
What happened next was that a key turned in the lock and a guard entered the room. He looked at the Doctor and Jamie and then stepped back, ushering in the slight, unprepossessmg figure of Richard Cromwell.
He blinked repeatedly as though the grey morning light disagreed with him, then turned and waved the guard out.
He stood in silence for a long moment and the Doctor decided to take the initiative.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Can we help you?’
Richard looked at him with real fear, his mouth trembling.
‘My name is Richard Cromwell,’ he said, glancing at Jamie out of the comer of his eye. ‘And I shall die a hopeless failure in 1712.’
The Doctor fiddled with his hands.
‘Oh dear,’ he said.
Someone was crying, Polly could tell. In her mind’s eye, she saw it as a little girl on a garden swing, fists screwed up close to her eyes, bawling her little heart out. Hot tears ran over her plump little cheeks and splashed on to her little summer dress.
Polly heard the poor thing sobbing and moved to help.
She opened her eyes and found that she was reaching out into empty space.
Blinking, she began to reorientate herself and found that the sobbing was real. She turned over in bed. Frances was gone. But the sound of her crying was distinctly audible from downstairs.
Polly frowned concernedly and jumped out of bed.
Hastily, she put on her green dress, petticoats, and soft leather shoes. A little white mobcap had been laid out too and she swiftly clapped it on to her head and tucked her hair inside it.
Satisfied that she now looked every inch a Stuart girl, she moved to the door and tried to open it. It wouldn’t budge.
Frowning, Polly tried again. This time she rammed her shoulder against the woodwork in case the door was jammed.
But it refused to open.
With a little huff of irritation, she began to hammer on the door with the heel of her palm. There was no response and she could still hear Frances’s sobs coming through the floor below. There was another sound too, a sort of comforting cooing which Polly took to be Frances’s mother. What on earth could have happened to make her so upset?
She raised her hand to bang again when there was a scrabbling sound in the lock and the door swung open.
Christopher Whyte was framed in the doorway, the key dangling from his gloved hand.
‘A trifle more respectable than when last we met, eh Polly?’ he said saucily.
Suddenly Polly didn’t like his attitude and regretted having given him permission to use her first name like that. She snatched the key from him.
‘Am I a prisoner?’
Whyte held up his hands. ‘Nay, lady. It’s for your own protection. An inn is no place for one such as yourself to sleep.
Your slumbers may have been... disturbed.’
Polly sighed. ‘Are you going to take me to see my friends now?’
Whyte smiled happily. ‘Yes. Yes, of course. We’ll begin the ride at once. I have horses outside.’
Polly picked up her mud-splashed cloak and swung it over shoulders. ‘Right. I’ll just say goodbye to Frances and we can be on our way.’
Whyte shook his head and moved to bar the way down the stairs. ‘No. They’re isn’t time.’
Polly looked at him oddly. ‘It’ll only take a minute. I think she’s upset.’
‘Yes. She is. There’s been some bad news. A death in the family,’ said Whyte quickly.
Polly’s face fell. ‘Oh, how awful. Who?’
Whyte looked momentarily flummoxed. ‘It was her brother. Yes. Her brother, I’m afraid.’
Polly made a little sympathetic cluck and shook her head.
‘Poor girl. And I suppose they all want to be left alone?’
Whyte nodded