Doctor Who_ Wolfsbane - Jac Rayner [8]
Slightly uncomfortable in yesterday‟s clothes, and still dabbing at his chin with his pocket handkerchief, Harry finally ventured downstairs. He was not a nervous chap as a rule, but was slightly wary about meeting the house‟s occupants - he hoped that they did not think him a murderer as the villagers had done, or a ghoul, hanging around bereaved households. He hoped that the Doctor was there.
It wasn‟t the Doctor, of course. Not his Doctor. He‟d wondered, at first - well, how many people calling themselves
“the Doctor” could there be, ones who turned up in the middle of mysterious deaths, anyway? And he knew that the Doctor could change himself, somehow, so he became someone totally different. This Doctor wasn‟t the one that Sarah liked to call „her‟ Doctor - wrong hair, height, age, everything. But he could be an earlier Doctor, one still travelling here, there and everywhere, long before he‟d met Harry, or Sarah, or knew anything about UNIT. So he‟d tested him. Talked about the Navy. His ship was called the TARDIS, he‟d said, eyeballing the Doctor hard as he did so.
No reaction.
He‟d just come back from a place called Skaro, he said, did the Doctor know it at all?
No, the Doctor had (politely) never heard of it. Cairo, yes, Skaro, no.
Which seemed to clinch it, really. Luckily, as Harry had run out of things which could be casually dropped into conversation.
Anyway, whether this new doctor was the Doctor or not (which he obviously wasn‟t), the point was that he had, to Harry‟s mind, still got a certain Doctorishness about him, which Harry would find comforting to have nearby at this uncertain time.
No one was obvious when Harry reached the ground floor, but sounds travelled up the hall towards him - the chink of a cup, a brief snatch of conversation - and he headed towards them. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door wide and crossed the threshold.
It was a dining room, and two women were dining. One was a lady of around fifty, her greying hair worn long and loose in a youthful style which did not make her look young. She was wearing - and even Harry, who knew little about ladies‟
fashions of the early twentieth century, thought it odd - an ankle-length dress of embroidered maroon velvet. The other woman was younger, and although she was sat over the far side of the table and so half hidden, seemed dressed in rather a more conventional style; her white blouse had ruffles down the front and was fastened at the neck with a cameo brooch.
It was this woman who rose to her feet as Harry murmured a few syllables of apology.
„Lieutenant Sullivan, I presume.‟ Her voice was low and had a distinct Germanic accent, although she seemed careful to shape every word in an English manner.
Harry nodded.
„Let me introduce to you Lady Hester Stanton, whose house you are in.‟
Harry put out a hand to the elder woman. „Delighted,‟ he said. „So sorry to impose like this.‟
„Nonsense,‟ said Lady Hester. „The Doctor told us what sterling work you did, attempting to save young Lucinda. He was quite right to bring you here - after all, when you had missed your ship in our service, how could we be anything other than delighted to have you here?‟
Missed his ship? The Doctor had obviously decided to embroider the truth. Give Harry a rather more plausible excuse. Or was it Lady Hester making assumptions?
„Anyway, you must stay as long as you like,‟ the lady continued.
„Very good of you,‟ Harry said. „But mustn‟t intrude - house of mourning and all that. Er... has Mr Stanton arrived home yet?‟ For when he and the Doctor had turned up on the doorstep last night, George Stanton had not been home. The Doctor had instructed the butler not to wake up the ladies of the household, but obviously they had been informed by now
- although they were taking it remarkably calmly.