Doctor Who_ The Roundheads - Mark Gatiss [78]
Cromwell sat forward eagerly and looked over at Jamie.
‘What say you, McCrimmon? Is not this Doctor of yours quite an extraordinary fellow?’
Jamie glanced ruefully at his companion. ‘Aye. He is that.
Ask him to do the one where he makes the two visitors vanish, will ye?’
Fortunately, Cromwell didn’t hear this as Thurloe came gliding into the room.
‘Ah, John,’ cried Cromwell happily. ‘Come see what this Doctor can do. ’Tis a fine distraction from...’
He tailed off as he saw how ghastly pale Thurloe appeared. He clapped his aid on the shoulder. ‘What is it?’
Thurloe shot a quick glance at the Doctor and Jamie, then bent to whisper in Cromwell’s ear.
Quietly, the Doctor put away his seashell and stepped away from the chair, keeping his gaze fixed on Cromwell the whole time.
Jamie swivelled round to face him. ‘What’s happened, Doctor?’
The Doctor shook his head and crossed his hands over his chest. ‘I don’t know, Jamie. But I don’t like the look of this one bit.’
Cromwell’s hard, flushed countenance’ suddenly drained as though transfused with milk. He shifted away from Thurloe and sank back into his chair.
‘What?’ he muttered to himself. Then, again, increasingly louder. ‘What? What?’
Blood surged back into his cheeks until he turned almost purple with rage, his bulbous nose wobbling like a great red beacon.
Thurloe bowed his head. ‘I’m afraid ’tis true, General.’
Cromwell seemed almost physically afflicted. He pulled himself forward by the arms of the chair but seemed not to have the strength to rise. His eyes stared blankly at the floor for several long moments before fixing themselves on Jamie.
At first he seemed to stare right through the boy, but then he focused more clearly on him. Jamie’s hair stood on end.
The general’s lip began to curl upward and his breath came in short, stabbing, furious bursts. ‘You did not predict this, my Scotch Cassandra!’ he screamed across the room.
The Doctor cleared his throat. ‘Predict what, General?’ he inquired mildly.
Cromwell seemed about to speak but sank back into his chair, chewing feverishly at his knuckles.
Thurloe turned to the Doctor. ‘The King has escaped,’ he said simply.
‘I beg your pardon?’ said the Doctor, genuinely astonished.
Cromwell found his voice and shook his fist at his guests.
‘Aye! Escaped! Spirited out of Hurst Castle this very evening as though the walls were made of butter!’
He staggered to his feet and advanced menacingly on the little man. ‘You fill my head with talk of flying engines but fail to warn me of this great peril at my very door!’
The Doctor recoiled from the general’s wrath and his dreadful breath. ‘I explained that the McCrimmon’s powers of prediction are not... er, predictable. He sees all possible eventualities. It is up to others to interpret what he sees.’
‘Very convenient,’ muttered Thurloe, glaring at them with renewed suspicion.
Cromwell swung back to Thurloe and stood with his arms behind his back, his head sunk upon his breast. ‘What are we to do, John?’
‘I have search parties scouring the city, sir...’
Cromwell held up his hand. ‘But it must be kept secret. It must! If Charles escapes abroad there will be another war!’
Thurloe nodded. ‘Indeed, General. Only a few commanders know what has occurred. Their men are instructed to seek out an impostor who resembles Charles Stuart and is attempting to stir insurrection among the people.’
Cromwell nodded and allowed himself a little smile.
‘You’ve done well, John. But we cannot waste more time.
Bring Thomas Culpeper to me. I would seek his counsel too.
We must find the King!’
He was about to stomp