Silhouette (13 page)

‘So who is this Empath?’ Jenny said. ‘Another
carnival performer?’

‘Empath is the key to everything. Empath is vital to how I shall make a fortune with the most powerful weapon ever devised.’

‘What weapon?’ Vastra asked.

But Milton was already turning to leave. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘allow me to keep some secrets.’ He picked up the chair and replaced it in the alcove. ‘Even if those secrets do pertain to the end of the world.’

There was no sign of Billie Matherson at Harriman’s Wharf, though they did manage to find the warehouse where the flour he had delivered was being stored. Several dozen large hessian sacks of flour were waiting at the kerbside to be carried into the warehouse and stored away.

‘We’re expecting him back with another load at least. Maybe two,’ the warehouse foreman told the Doctor. ‘But knowing Billie, he won’t be in a hurry.’

‘So you’ve no idea how long he’ll be?’ the Doctor asked.

‘Afraid not. You’re welcome to wait. You can lend a hand shifting some of this flour.’

‘Why don’t I stay here,’ Clara suggested, ‘and you and Strax check whether he’s got back to the mill on Waverly Street?’

‘Leave you here in the docks,’ the Doctor said, ‘to help these nice strong young men shift hundred-weight sacks of flour round the place watched by
passing sailors who’ve just arrived after months starved of female company at sea?’

Clara nodded. ‘Like I said – why doesn’t Strax stay here and help shift the flour and you and I can check out the mill on Waverly Street?’

Strax seemed to think this was an excellent stratagem, and they agreed that if the Doctor and Clara didn’t return within an hour he should meet them back at the Carnival of Curiosities.

It seemed to take a long time to get to Waverly Street, not least because while the Doctor insisted he knew the way the route he took seemed rather convoluted and circular. Clara could have sworn they crossed the same street several times at different points.

‘Isn’t the shortest distance between two points a straight line?’ she joked as they finally arrived at Waverly Street.

The Doctor looked at her sympathetically. ‘This planet is a sphere, or very nearly, and the whole of space-time is warped. That’s before we take gravitational and magnetic forces into account. There’s no such thing as a straight line.’

‘No such thing as a straight answer,’ Clara muttered.

There was no sign of Billie Matherson at the mill either. Like the workers at the warehouse, they were expecting him back, but had no real idea when.

‘You stay here in case he turns up,’ the Doctor told Clara. ‘I’ll head back to the warehouse and see if I can
spot him along the way. He’s probably stopped off for a cup of tea or something.’

‘How do you know you’ll be following the same route as Matherson?’ Clara asked.

‘He’ll want to be as quick as possible. I’ll go in a straight line.’

‘I could throttle you sometimes, you know that, don’t you.’

The Doctor sniffed, unimpressed. ‘Respiratory by-pass system,’ he told her. ‘Wouldn’t do you any good. If I’m not back in an hour—’

‘I know, meet you at the Carnival.’

‘Right. And if Young Billie Matherson turns up here, come and find me.’

‘In a straight line.’

He nodded. ‘And every teashop and hostelry along it. He’s probably stopped for a late lunch.’

‘Lunch,’ Clara said as the Doctor turned and left. ‘Yes, I remember lunch.’

The air was crisp and the sun was struggling through the cloud and smog. It was as pleasant an afternoon as one could wish for in Victorian London, the Doctor thought. While he made his way back towards the docks, he kept his eye out for a goods cart being driven by young Billie Matherson, who the warehouse foreman had described as a short bald man in his fifties. Well, that was certainly ‘young’ by
the Doctor’s own standards.

He also turned his mind to thinking through what they had discovered so far, and what Milton might be up to – whoever he really was … Having evaded both Strax and Clara for a while, it was a welcome change to have some peace and quiet to think. He was definitely not in the mood to be distracted.

‘Ah, young man,’ a voice called out to him. An elderly gentleman was hurrying towards the Doctor, brandishing a walking stick. His white hair receded from a high forehead and spilled over the collar at the back of his neck. He was dressed in typically Victorian style in a dark jacket and checked trousers with a thin black cravat.

‘What?’ the Doctor demanded impatiently as the man reached him.

‘I wonder if you can help me,’ the man said, his voice assertive yet slightly fussy. He brought his hand up to his chin and waggled his fingers alarmingly as he spoke. ‘I am rather new to this city, a stranger in a strange land, you might say. Yes, yes, you might indeed. As are you, I surmise.’ He stared at the Doctor intently. ‘Hmm?’

‘No,’ the Doctor told him.

The man blinked. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘No, I can’t help you.’ Was that a bit rude? Probably, the Doctor decided. So he forced an unconvincing smile. ‘Good day.’ Then he walked briskly on.

A few minutes later, he was accosted again. A rather scruffy gentleman this time, clad in a jacket that seemed several sizes too big and to have been slept in. He was shorter than the Doctor with dark, unruly hair. The Doctor got the full benefit of the top of the man’s head, which was lowered so that he could not see where he was going. As a result, he walked right into the Doctor, leaping back in surprise.

‘Oh, I do beg your pardon. People really should look where they’re going.’ The man frowned, then smiled, dark eyebrows arching upwards. ‘I know you, don’t I? No,’ he went on quickly, index finger pressed thoughtfully into the corner of his mouth. ‘Don’t tell me – I never forget a face. Though actually, no. Sorry, no – I think you’re wrong. We don’t know each other at all, do we? You must have mistaken me for someone else.’

He dusted the palm of his hand down the front of his jacket before holding it out politely.

The Doctor ignored it and pushed past with a loud sigh. ‘We haven’t met before,’ he confirmed. ‘And we’re not about to meet now.’

‘Oh. Oh well, that is a pity …’ The man watched the Doctor hurry on. If the Doctor had glanced back, he might have seen the man’s face – and his attire – fade and shimmer. His features slowly blanking out.

Several streets further on and it was the Doctor who bumped into a stranger rather than the other
way around. To be fair, he reflected, the man had stepped out of a side street right in front of him.

‘Good grief, man,’ the gentleman announced. ‘Is no one in this entire city capable of walking in a straight line?’ The man drew himself up to his full, rather impressive height and glared at the Doctor. ‘I wouldn’t have thought I was exactly hard to miss.’

He was right – dressed like that in a ruffled shirt, purple velvet smoking jacket, and scarlet-lined cape. He stood with his hands on his hips regarding the Doctor from beneath an impressive bouffant of white hair.

‘I didn’t miss you,’ the Doctor told the man shortly. ‘I rather think that’s the point.’ He walked on quickly while the man spluttered angrily behind him.

The Doctor did his best to ignore the equally tall figure who kept pace with him along Jephson Street. He was not at all sure he wanted to be seen with someone who could believe that a battered hat jammed down over a madness of brown curls and an improbably long scarf displayed any sort of style.

As they reached the corner of the street, the man pulled a paper bag from his coat pocket and offered it to the Doctor. His eyes bulged alarmingly above tombstone teeth and asked in a sonorous tone: ‘Would you care for a Worthington’s Superior Peppermint? They’re really rather good. Go on,’ he urged, ‘try one.’

‘Thank you,’ the Doctor acknowledged, pausing
to rummage in the bag and retrieve a sweet. He unwrapped it and popped it in his mouth. ‘Yes,’ he agreed, doing his best to articulate round the large mint. ‘Very good. Very minty. Bye.’ He quickened his pace.

Right from the start Affinity knew the Doctor would be a problem. In most cases, the best initial approach was to adopt and adapt an aspect of the personality of his target. So with Jenny, a young man in service was an obvious starting point. Madame Vastra was simple – another of her own species, just as alone and confused and struggling to hide it and to compensate.

But the way the Doctor saw himself was different from anyone else Affinity had encountered. He had no idea why, but the Doctor seemed to have multiple images of himself lodged in his mind. And, having deployed variations of those aspects of the Doctor’s personality, Affinity was finding that the Doctor did not seem to like himself very much.

The Doctor barely even seemed to notice the young fair-haired man in pale coat and light striped trousers. The next aspect that Affinity employed was harder to ignore. But the Doctor turned on the large man in the garish coat, looked him up and down with an air of vague disgust, and announced:

‘No. Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested.’

‘Selling?’ Affinity echoed. ‘Selling?! I am not
selling
anything.’

‘Good,’ the Doctor told him, and walked on.

By the time Clara found him, the Doctor was rather fed up with other people. The latest person to accost him was a young man in a tweed jacket and mismatched bow tie, with a flop of hair that looked as if it was about to detach itself from his head and go solo. He finally got the message that the Doctor was just not interested in striking up any sort of conversation and stepped aside as Clara walked up.

‘What are you doing here?’ the Doctor demanded, still irritable.

‘Yeah, pleased to see you too,’ she told him. ‘This guy arrived at the mill and said he’d just seen Billie Matherson having a pint and pie at the Old Goose on Lanchester Street. Thought we should nip along and catch him there.’

‘Good thought,’ the Doctor agreed. ‘Any idea …?’

‘That way. I got directions.’

‘Come on then.’ The Doctor paused to glare at the young bow-tied man still hovering nearby, then set off briskly in the direction Clara had pointed. ‘How did you catch up with me?’ he wondered. ‘You must have fairly sprinted along.’

‘Don’t sound so surprised. I can run,’ she told him. ‘Though actually I took a cab. Dropped me off just over there.’

Behind them, the young man with the errant hair wiped his hand over his face, blanking it out. He needed to find Empath, and tell him where Billie Matherson was to be found.

‘You’ve just missed him,’ the landlord said. ‘Left in a hurry by the look of it.’ He pointed over to a nearby table where a half-eaten pie sat next to a half-drunk pint of beer.

‘Any idea where he went?’ Clara asked.

The landlord shrugged. ‘He went off with that undertaker. Leastways, I think he was an undertaker. Bad news, I expect.’

‘Bad news almost certainly,’ the Doctor told him.

Outside the pub, the Doctor grabbed hold of the nearest person. It happened to be a girl selling matches. She gave a yelp of surprise.

‘Bald man and an undertaker,’ he snapped. ‘Did you see them? Where did they go?’

‘Please,’ Clara added over the Doctor’s shoulder.

‘Buy some matches?’ the girl said nervously.

‘Love to,’ the Doctor told her. ‘I’m a big fan of matches. Even the sort that burn for a bit then go out.’

‘What other sort is there?’ Clara wondered, but the Doctor ignored her.

‘So tell us where they went, and I’ll buy some matches. Promise.’

The girl nodded towards an alleyway. ‘Down that
way. Behind the pub. Dunno why, there’s only the back yard there.’ She handed the Doctor a box of matches. ‘Three farthings to you, guv.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘That sounds a bit steep.’

She rattled the matches.

‘But under the circumstances, let’s call it half a crown.’ He took the matches and handed her a large silver coin in return. ‘Keep the change.’

The Doctor and Clara headed down the alleyway. It was just wide enough for a drayman’s cart, leading to the back of the pub. The Doctor was ahead of Clara as they reached the double gates into the yard. One gate was standing slightly open, and he pushed through. A moment later, he was back out again.

‘What?’ Clara said. ‘Not there?’

The Doctor put his finger to his lips. ‘Not a good time,’ he whispered. ‘We’re too late.’

He gestured for Clara to join him peering cautiously through the gap between the two gates. She could see what must be Billie Matherson, staring back at them from the other side of the yard. But he was
ancient
. His body seemed to be wasting away as she watched, the skin on his face sagging, drying, withering …

Standing in front of Matherson, his hand stretched out and holding the man’s shoulder, was the undertaker the landlord had mentioned. If he was an undertaker. He was dressed entirely in black, dark silk hanging from the back of his top hat.

The Doctor pulled Clara aside as the undertaker turned. She caught just the briefest glimpse of his face – a sudden snarl of anger subsiding to a calmer, more neutral expression. Then the Doctor bundled her into the shadows at the side of the alleyway. Moments later, the dark figure stepped through the gap between the gates and set off down the alleyway.

‘Matherson,’ Clara gasped. ‘We have to help him.’ The Doctor turned her away from the yard. ‘Too late for that. We need to get after the man that killed him.’

‘Shouldn’t we stay here? Raise the alarm?’

‘And get stuck with an awful lot of explaining to do?’

‘But what happened?’ Clara demanded as they hurried back along the alley.

‘I’m not sure. But I have a few nasty suspicions.’

‘Is he really an undertaker?’

‘He deals in death, that’s for certain. I’ve met a few rather bizarre characters this afternoon, an undertaker giving free samples is just another one to add to the collection.’

With his distinctive clothing, the man wasn’t hard to follow. He seemed to be heading back towards the river.

‘Perhaps he’s going to the Frost Fair,’ Clara suggested.