The Ghosts of N-Space - Barry Letts [61]
The Doctor seemed more despondent than she’d ever known him. Well, serve him right. Let him stew for a bit.
Oh yes. One more thing…
‘Does catamite mean what I think it does?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Ah,’ said Sarah.
They were sitting in the semi-darkness of an underground chamber which Sarah guessed would become Umberto’s (or more strictly, Mario’s) wine cellar. The only 214
light came from a brick-sized opening high up the wall near the ceiling. When they came in she’d had to dodge thick cobwebs which hung down like noisome stalactites; and the stink of the years caught at her throat.
Silence.
‘I suppose there’s a good reason why you’re not using your fancy screwdriver contraption to open the door.’
‘There is. It only works on locks. This door is barred and bolted.’
‘I thought that might be it.’
More silence.
‘So what do we do now?’
‘There’s nothing we can do but wait.’
‘Where have I heard that before?’ said Sarah bitterly.
As the hours crawled by, Sarah’s anger subsided, to give way to a sort of resignation. Yes, that was the word, she decided. It certainly wasn’t acceptance, but there wasn’t a lot of point in giving yourself indigestion over something that couldn’t be changed.
Indigestion? Huh! Chance would have been a fine thing.
It was hunger as much as anything which was making her so ratty, she decided. In the normal course of events, those servants who waited on table would have their food afterwards; what with one thing and another, the moment 215
for bringing up the question had never seemed to come; and the so-called breakfast on board the TARDIS seemed days ago. But it wasn’t really fair to take it out on the Doc.
She listened to the faint striking of the tower clock and automatically counted its chimes… nine, ten, eleven. Only an hour to go.
The Doctor had obviously had the same thought. ‘It’s remarkable how accurate they manage to keep that clock, he said. They must check it every day against a sundial. In fact, it’s remarkable that they have a clock at all. It can only have been put in very recently – even after they built the tower and the extension at the back of the keep.’
‘How do you know it’s accurate?’ said Sarah indignantly. ‘Did you bring a watch with you, after all?’
The Doctor shook his head and smiled wryly. ‘If you want to know the time, ask a Time Lord,’ he said.
How could he joke at a time like this? All their efforts had gone for nothing; and there was nothing they could do about it.
Maximilian had won.
216
Seventeen
Guido Verconti finished writing the letter: ‘…and begs your blessing and forgiveness. Your loving son…’, and signed his name. He put down his quill and sanded the wet ink; and as he read over what he had written, the tears at last began to flow.
Images sprang up in his mind, images from the long lost time when the child could dream his days away Without a care, cradled in his mother’s devotion and his father’s pride; and he wept for them all.
But Jack Smith had said the truth of it. To live a lie, was that the way he said it? Aye, to be a lie; that’s what he said; like a rogue at a goose fair who played a part the better to cozen you of your purse. Would that redeem his sin, the cruelty of his absence for these many years? And yet….
He’d left his father celebrating still, in the privacy of his chamber, long after the end of the feast in honour of the prodigal, on the promise of his return to share the last of the flagon. His mother had long since retired, quite worn out by the hours of joy – and the years of sorrow, to which he would now be adding another lifetime of grief.
He sealed the letter and addressed it to his mother with a heavy heart; knowing that there was no other way; 217
wishing that he could live his life again. But would he choose a different course?
He lifted his head and listened as the clock chimed eleven. Most of the castle would be asleep by now. Before he faced his father with the truth,