Doctor Who: The Reign of Terror (10 page)

'Gaoler!' he shouted. He listened to
the dying echoes and then repeated his call, hoping that he would not
get any response. Again the echoes quickly died in the jellified air.

Standing on tiptoe, Ian reached through
the grille and poked blindly around the outside of the lock with the
key. Eventually he managed to insert it, almost dropping it as he did
so. Bathed in sweat, he paused and took a deep breath before twisting
it sharply. The lock opened with a click fit to wake the dead. Ian
opened the door and crept out of the cell. He closed and locked the
door again as quietly as he could and pocketed the key. Then he set
off warily along the vault, keeping close to the wall in the shadows.
Reaching the gaoler's alcove, he saw that there was nobody there.
Beyond the alcove he saw the steps leading to
the courtyard and to freedom.

As he started to edge along the wall
towards the steps he suddenly stumbled over a large bundle lying in
the dark. It was the gaoler's unconscious body.

Bending down, Ian noticed the empty
cognac bottle still clutched in his hand and smiled. 'Pleasant dreams
... ' he murmured in English, scarcely able to believe his good
luck so far. He ran lightly to the end of the vault and then up the
stairs, hoping against hope that the guards would be in a similar
condition to the gaoler.

As Ian ran out into the courtyard, a
tall dark figure emerged from one of the narrow passages leading off
the vault. It walked slowly across to the alcove and stood over the
gaoler's motionless form. A trickle of dried blood which Ian had not
noticed lay on the flagstones. It came from a crusted wound on the
side of the gaoler's head. Lemaitre frowned and wiped the silver
handle on his cane with fastidious thoroughness in case there should
be any lingering trace of blood on it. Then he stared after the
fleeing prisoner, his eyes glittering in the torchlight.

'So, my dear Mr Chesterton,' he said
quietly. 'Did Webster give you a message for James Stirling, or did
he not? And I wonder where you will go now ... We shall no doubt
find out ... '

Exhausted and bewildered after their
rapid and furtive flight across the Seine and through a maze of
streets, Barbara and Susan were ushered into a modest but stylish
house whose windows were shrouded behind closed shutters. They were
pushed gently but firmly into a dark room where they stood holding
each other's hands in silent apprehension, unsure what their
kidnappers intended. Jules quickly lit the candles in two large
candelabra standing on a polished dining table and the room
immediately took on a safe and welcoming appearance. It had a marble
fireplace, a sofa and several comfortable easy chairs, besides the
wooden chairs around the table. On the panelled walls hung fine oil
paintings and heavy brocade curtains were drawn across the long
windows.

A young lady appeared and led them to
the sofa. She had a pale oval face and was dressed in a long-sleeved
frock with lace bodice and cuffs. Over her long ringlets of chestnut
hair she wore a frilly mobcap.

'Thank you ... I'm beginning to feel
better already,' Susan murmured, sinking into the soft cushions.

Jules frowned with concern. 'We've
closed up most of the house and sent away the servants,' he told
Barbara. 'It's safer like this.'

The young lady smiled distantly at
Barbara. 'I will bring you some hot soup,' she said, turning to Jean.
'Will you help me Jean?'

When they had left the room, Jules
spread his hands in a typically French gesture of apology.
'It is not exactly a palace, but you are most welcome ... and safe
here.'

Barbara began to relax a little. 'We
cannot even begin to thank you ... ' she said slowly in
painstakingly correct French. 'Without your brave rescue we ... '

Jules spread his hands again. 'Please,
I insist that you do not even mention it. That is one of my rules,'
he replied kindly but firmly.

Barbara nodded. 'But we do not even
know your name.' Jules looked suddenly very serious. 'We have
another rule here,' he told her. 'Christian names only. The less we
know about one another the less we can betray under torture. So
permit me: I am Jules.'

The door opened and Jean and the young
lady entered carrying trays of soup, bread and wine.

'And this is my sister Danielle, and my
friend Jean.'

Barbara introduced herself and Susan.
Danielle and Jean nodded and bowed.

Jean helped Susan up to the table and
they all sat down. Susan and Barbara looked much calmer now and a
little colour had returned to Susan's pallid cheeks. They both fell
on the thick wholesome soup and the crusty bread with famished
enthusiasm.

'After you have eaten you must rest,'
Jules advised. 'Tomorrow we shall arrange for you to be smuggled out
of France.'

Susan paused, with her silver spoon
half-way to her mouth. 'But we cannot leave France. Not yet.'

Jules glanced at Jean and frowned. 'Why
ever not?'

'Barbara, tell him about Grandfather,'
Susan said, swallowing her spoonful hungrily.

Barbara turned to Jules, almost guilty
that she and Susan were safe. 'Yes Jules, we must find the Doctor.
And Ian ... Ian is still in the Conciergerie!' she blurted out in a
rush.

Unknown to them, the Doctor was at that
moment only a few streets away, but of course he also was totally
ignorant of their whereabouts. Keeping in the shadows, he walked
warily along the darkening streets his eyes darting this way and
that, muttering incessantly under his breath as if he were engaged in some tortuous argument with
an invisible companion. Earlier, passing the Place de le Revolution,
he had paused a moment to contemplate the tall macabre silhouette of
the guillotine shrouded in its sinister black drapery. Then, with a
shudder, he had pressed on with renewed urgency in search of his
granddaughter and her friends.

Suddenly he stopped at a corner to peer
into a dimly-lit shop window. It was a small, cramped tailor's shop
filled with bales of cloth, dummies clad in partly finished garments,
and a few rails with finished garments hanging on display. Glancing
round to make sure he wasn't being followed, the Doctor went
cautiously inside and shut the door.

The tailor looked up sharply from his
cutting table strewn with patterns and pieces of fabric. He was a
wiry little man with receding hair and a pinched face, wearing a long
waistcoat to the knees, rolled-up shirtsleeves and rather threadbare
breeches and stockings. 'Good evening, Citizen ... ' he said,
hastening fawningly across the cluttered shop.

The Doctor nodded and grunted.

'I was just about to close my humble
establishment for the night,' the tailor said in his nasal whine,
'but if I can be of service ... '

'Yes, yes. Quite possibly ... '
replied the Doctor, examining the garments on the rails with
exaggerated care.

'Did you see the executions today,
Citizen?' the tailor ventured after a pause.

The Doctor shifted the outfits along
the rail with the end of his stick, squinting critically at each one.
'No, Citizen, I did not.'

The tailor watched his customer warily.
'I missed them too, I'm afraid. Most unusual for me,' he added, as
though anxious to demonstrate his loyalty to the People's cause.
'Citizen Robespierre is doing a fine job, don't you think, ferreting
out traitors and the like?'

The Doctor turned and nodded
emphatically. 'Certainly. Yes, the First Deputy is a splendid
fellow,' he agreed, fixing the tailor with cold grey eyes. 'I gather
that you take an interest in the enemies of the Revolution.'

The tailor hesitated, unsure of the
stranger's drift. Then he shrugged. 'I consider it my duty to keep my
eyes open, Citizen,' he replied smugly.

'Then perhaps you could confirm that
newly arrested suspects are taken to the ... to the Conciergerie?'

The tailor smiled faintly, deciding
from the stranger's ignorance and his peculiar clothes that he must
be from the provinces. 'That is correct, Citizen. As a matter of fact
you can just see the prison from the end of the street.'

The Doctor grunted absently and moved
along to examine a different selection of clothes.

'A wise choice, Citizen ... ' the
tailor encouraged him, moving to join the Doctor. 'There is no finer
attire in all Paris.'

The Doctor looked neither enthusiatic
nor disinterested. 'Oh, I was thinking of a new outfit,' he muttered
vaguely. 'Something along these lines perhaps.' He fingered the
collar of a smart black coat.

The tailor turned up his nose and
stared at the Doctor's dusty garments with frank distaste. 'It would
certainly be more suitable than what you are wearing at the moment,'
he said acidly.

The Doctor happened to notice a display
of impressive sashes and rosettes in the window. 'They are very
fine,' he remarked pointing to the largest sashes.

'Yes, Citizen. They signify the office
of Provincial Officer ... '

The Doctor waved his hand impatiently.
'Yes, yes, yes. I'm quite aware of that.' He paused for a moment and
then turned and threw back his head. 'In fact that is the position
that I myself occupy,' he declared imperiously, flourishing his
walking stick and gazing down his nose.

Blinking in awe, the tailor clasped his
hands together and squirmed with embarrassment. 'I had no idea,
Citizen ... I apologise most humbly ... ' he stammered in
confusion.

The Doctor smiled frostily. 'No matter,
I accept your apology,' he snapped. He picked out one of the sashes
and took it over to the smart black coat on the rack. 'I should like
to try this on.'

'Certainly, Citizen.'

The Doctor removed his own coat, handed
it to the tailor and then slipped on the new coat.

'The quality is unmatched, Citizen,'
the tailor claimed, brushing the shoulders with his hand. 'And in
comparison the price is ... '

'The price is neither here nor there,'
the Doctor brusquely interrupted, 'because I have no money.'

The tailor's smug face fell a mile. 'No
money, Citizen?' he exclaimed in a faint voice, his jaw dropping
open.

'However, I am sure that a satisfactory
exchange can be arranged,' the Doctor added, smiling impudently.

The tailor wrinkled his nose in disgust
at the Doctor's old frock-coat. 'Exchange?' he echoed. 'For this?'

'What's wrong with it?' the Doctor
demanded.

The tailor shrugged unhappily. 'Well,
it's ... it's little better than a fancy dress outfit ... ' he
protested.

'Fancy dressV the Doctor exploded, his
eyes blazing and his mouth turning abruptly down at the corners.
'You'll never see another coat like it!'

The tailor nodded miserably. 'You're
telling me!' he muttered under his breath.

'Am I correct to assume that you are
not interested?'

The tailor peered at the shabby
frock-coat. 'You must understand there is no call for this kind of .
. . ' he mumbled, desperate not to lose a customer.

'Have you ever had a similar coat in
your shop?' the Doctor challenged him.

'Never.'

The Doctor grinned in triumph. 'Then
perhaps that is why there has been no call!' he concluded, slipping
the sash over his shoulder and admiring the effect in a tarnished old
mirror.

Cringing in defeat, the tailor
investigated the frock-coat and its lining. 'Well, it's good
heavyweight material I grant you,' he admitted in a conciliatory
tone. 'And perhaps with a few alterations ... ' He glanced up
eagerly. 'You are offering to exchange your complete attire,
Citizen?'

The Doctor smiled affably. 'Yes, of
course,' he agreed, wishing that he had stolen a few of the foreman's
gold livres himself. A little ready cash would have
made things a lot easier for him now.

Still the seedy little tailor
hesitated. 'I shall need something else too,' he whined, his eyes
lighting on the Doctor's right hand. 'Like that ring for example.'

The Doctor's face hardened into a look
of point blank refusal. He examined the ring, turning it round and
round on his finger. Finally he tugged it off and proffered it to the
tailor. The tailor shot out his grasping little claw, but before he
could snatch it the Doctor closed his hand over it. 'You can have the
ring provided that you supply me with parchment and writing materials
into the bargain,' he insisted.

A suspicious glint came into the
tailor's eye, but he nodded eagerly.

'Then we have a bargain, Citizen.' The
Doctor handed over the ring.

The tailor grabbed it and studied it
closely, while the Doctor hurriedly proceeded to change into his new
outfit, unaware of the suspicions he had aroused.

Barbara's and Susan's spirits had
rallied after the simple but nourishing meal and a glass or two of
wine.

'I do feel better after that,' Susan
sighed, sitting back in her chair and smiling at Jules, Jean and
Danielle in turn.

'Let me help,' Barbara said, rising as
Danielle collected the plates.

'No, Barbara. You need to rest,'
Danielle insisted. 'Jean and I can manage.'

As Danielle and Jean carried out the
trays, Jules lit a pipe and studied the two young fugitives in the
candlelight. In his square-cut tailcoat, high cravat, breeches and
stockings, he looked almost aristocratic. 'Now, you both agreed to
tell me your story,' he prompted gently.

'What about the map?' Susan reminded
him.

Jules smiled and fetched a map from a
cabinet drawer. He spread it out on the table in front of them and
Barbara and Susan pored over it in silence for a few minutes. The map
showed the north-western suburbs of Paris and the countryside
immediately surrounding them.

'This could be the forest here,'
Barbara suggested eventually, pointing to an extensive patch of green
shading.