R

uth wiped up the spilt ale from the bar.  The landlady’s effort hardly noticed.  The once proud varnish was so stained with decades of slopped drinks and tainted with the yellowish hue of tobacco, that it would have taken a great deal more than a damp cloth to make any marked improvement.  However, since it was the only drinking establishment for the best part of ten miles, the clientele didn’t tend to care much about its appearance. 

 

She swept her eyes across the room, attempting to ignore the presence directly in front of her.  The presence of Jack Golby.  Business was good for late afternoon.  Mostly wasters and drunks, but who better to add to her profits?  Drunks by their very nature bought more. They were her bread and butter.  The only real problem was when they ran out of coins. Unfortunately, this was exactly the current state of The Rose and Crown regular Mr Golby. The middle aged man’s bloodshot eyes and rough stubble would have scared most people, but not Ruth.  Although she was small and round, she hadn’t run a public house for twenty years without toughening up.  Once again Jack spoke in his slightly slurred speech.

 

‘I arst yur civil enough, didn’t I?’

 

With a sigh, Ruth explained yet again to the drunk, trying her best to be polite and keep her famous temper from flaring.  ‘I’m sorry Jack.  No money, no draught.  I’m not a charity.’

 

Jack’s face flashed with anger.  ‘I’m no charity case, either,’ he mumbled, ‘Gus thought yur put a little sumthing on the slate, that’s all.’

 

Gloomily he tottered towards the door, and nearly collided with a scruffy looking stranger.  As he grumbled apologies, the magic words that he longed to hear were uttered.

 

‘May I offer you a drink?’

 

Staggering slightly, Jack raised himself to his full lanky height.  Giving a curt nod of the head, he addressed the little man.

 

‘Yur a gent, that’s for sure.  Pint o’ scrumpy would be grand.’

 

‘It would be my pleasure,’ said the stranger, ‘Allow me to introduce myself first.  I’m the Doctor, a traveller in these parts.’

 

‘A travelling doctor,’ mused Jack, ‘What a fine idea.  Illness travels, so why not doctors?  Yur could look at my bunion.  Been playing me up all summer.  Gone black it has.’

 

‘Um… I’ll get the drinks,’ said the small crumpled man quickly, ‘Sit yourself down.’

 

The Doctor strode purposely towards the bar, and flashed Ruth a beaming smile.  Giving him the polite but frosty look she reserved for strangers, the landlady poured two pints of scrumpy.  Whilst she did so, he fished in his cavernous pockets and brought out a handful of currency.  A Draconian fifty-credit piece slipped through his fingers, rolled across the beer stained carpet, and down a crack in the floorboards.  Ignoring the loss, the Doctor carefully picked out the correct coins and paid for the drinks.  Tipping the fee in to the register, Ruth fortunately failed to notice that the date on one particular penny piece read 1848 and supported an image of Queen Victoria.

 

The Doctor carried the two glasses of cider to the bench that Jack had chosen.  The man was face down on the table, apparently unconscious.  The Time Lord sighed inwardly.  He supposed it was his fault for choosing the first person he met.  The effect of alcohol on the human body loosened the tongue, and could help prevent awkward curiosity.  These were the very reasons he had chosen to talk to Jack.  However, he had forgotten the other side to the demon drink.  A comatose man would tell him nothing. 

 

Setting the glasses down, the Doctor scanned the dingy room.  His eyes had already begun the process of searching for another possible interviewee, when he became aware of movement by his side.  In one fluid movement, Jack’s grubby hand grasped one pint of scrumpy and brought the glass swiftly to his lips of his newly righted head.  One massive gulp later, and a third of the drink had disappeared.

 

‘Jest resting me eyes,’ slurred the drunk, ‘Ave I told ya, yur a real gent?’

 

Feeling a little unsure of whether it was wise or not, the Doctor nevertheless sank down on to the seat opposite Jack.  Aware that the drunk was waiting for him to also take a swig of scrumpy, the time traveller picked up his glass and swiftly downed half of the cloudy orange liquid.  To Jack’s obvious admiration, he didn’t even flinch.  The Doctor took his new drinking partner’s approval as his cue.

 

‘I was wondering if you could tell me about the recent happening with Mr Sawkins.’

 

‘Oh no job for yur there… no… he don’t need a doctor.  Dead and buried old Tom is.  He wasn’t a gent though, not like yur.  He couldn’t handle scrumpy like yur either.’

 

‘May I ask what happened to him?’ 

 

‘Attacked, but nobody knows what did it.  Some say that perhaps it was an animal, but what animal does that to people.  Henry Wright died in a horrible way an’ all, come ter think of it.  The very same night.’  Pausing to collect his inebriated thoughts together, Jack took another noisy slurp of cider before continuing.  He dropped his voice to a drunken whisper.  It was the sort of whisper that everyone in the pub could hear.  ‘I heard Tom was found early one morning all ripped apart in the graveyard.  The Devil killed ‘im and claimed his soul.  It’s as clear as day that’s what happened.  And as for Henry.  He was pecked to death I’m told.  By the Old Nick’s ravens.  Buried fast afterwards an’ all.  Just in case the Devil came back.’

 

‘I’m sure it wasn’t anything quite so supernatural,’ said the Doctor flippantly.

 

‘Well, it’s what I ‘eard!’ retorted Jack, ‘Pity really.  Tom was a drinking buddy o’ mine. Generous with the booze, but no gent of course… not like yur.  Many a night we’d knock back gin, and e’d leer at the women.  Especially at Sally, but she didn't like ‘im at all.  Found ‘im creepy she did.  But so long as the drink flowed, I didn’t care.’ 

 

‘Do you happen to know his employer?’

 

‘Oh no.  He ‘ad no job.  Blasted Corn Laws put paid to that.  Same boat as me he was. Labourer all me life and then no job no more,’ said Tom before adding as an after thought, ‘Sometimes wondered where he got his readies from though, but as he bought the drinks… who cares?’

 

‘So you don’t know why he was at the graveyard?’

 

‘Nah!’ said the drunk.

 

Suddenly Jack raised himself to his feet.  He waved his empty glass in the air, and staggered towards the nearest group of drinkers. Hitting the glass heavily on their table, he pointed towards the Doctor.  His voice rose aggressively, making a demand.

 

‘Buy this ‘ere gent a drink, why don't yur?  A gent that’s what he is, so buy ‘im a drink.’

 

* * * *

 

Jamie halted his trudge up the path, pausing to allow Victoria to catch up.  The Highlander was restless.  He had just spent a boring twenty minutes in the TARDIS, waiting for the girl to change.  She was now dressed, as any proper Victorian Miss should, in a thick overskirt, an underskirt and God knows how many layers of petticoats.  The lad was saddened to see Victoria’s homely body covered by layers of cloth.  He always considered himself a red-blooded male, and took pleasure in admiring the female form.  Added to that, the costume took up an inordinate amount of room, and Jamie seemed to be forever tripping over it. 

 

Once they had left the refuge of the TARDIS, the pair had set off towards the church spire that could be seen in the distance.  Jamie had taken to walking ahead, and Victoria had trouble keeping pace with him.  He told himself that the haste was to avoid falling over the damn skirts, but if he was honest he was annoyed that he had been unable to accompany the Doctor to the village pub.  He was always fond of a cool glass of ale, and the Highlander knew that if there was to be any trouble, the Doctor would always walk into the middle of it. He would need the help of fearless Jamie, the router of Redcoats. 

 

At last Victoria reached Jamie’s side, moaning about the mud that had embedded itself on her dress.  Immediately Jamie set off again, leaving the young woman to grudgingly follow. The church loomed closer and Jamie soon became aware that stone slabs had replaced the mud path.  Looking down at his feet, he saw that they were in fact gravestones. Monuments to the remains of influential village ancestors.  Their ornate carvings had been worn down by generations of passing feet.  Now it was close enough to see properly, the church itself was no less impressive.  It was built of thick white stone, and set with imposing stained-glass windows portraying various saints and martyrs.  To the back soared a bell tower, topped with a sharp spire.  To Jamie’s eyes, much of the building’s design seemed to owe more to a fortress than a place of worship.  The top of each wall was set with battlements, and the huge double doors were made of thick oak.  Unlike a fortress however, these doors were wide open to welcome repentant sinners.  Glad to reach their destination, the time travellers entered the building.

 

‘Hello, is there anybody in?’

 

Victoria’s refined voice echoed around the church.  For a while there was no answer, and then the sound of scuttling feet was clearly heard.  The curious flabby head of the vicar popped out of a side door.  On seeing Jamie and Victoria, he entered the main church and waddled towards them.

 

‘Afternoon to you. Reverend Cunningham at your service,’ he puffed, when he was close enough for them to hear.

 

‘Good afternoon,’ said Victoria primly, ‘I wonder if you could help us?’

 

‘Aye, we’re after some information,’ added Jamie.

 

‘Wedding is it?’ 

 

The vicar motioned for the pair to sit on the front pew.  They both sat themselves on to the wooden seats, whilst Reverend Cunningham pulled up a stool and lowered his fat body onto it.

 

‘Um… well that’s not really the reason we’re here,’ stumbled Jamie.  He could feel his face flushing at the vicar’s proposal. 

 

‘Actually we wanted to find out about a recent funeral,’ said Victoria, smiling at Jamie’s embarrassment.

 

‘And whom might the deceased be?’

 

‘Tom Sawkins.’

 

The moment he heard the name Reverend Cunningham’s features grew stern.  Abruptly, he launched in to a rant that was almost a sermon of hell and damnation.

 

‘A Christian burial was given to that sinner,’ he spat, ‘But his soul is forever damned to the fire. He who would desecrate the grave of a good honest god fearing man would never be allowed into the arms of our Lord. Furthermore…’ 

 

On seeing Jamie and Victoria’s astonished faces, the Reverend halted in mid-sentence.

 

‘I regret my outburst,’ he said almost grudgingly, ‘The person you spoke of was a stray from God.  During the dead of night he dug up Mr Edgar Wells - a good Christian who is sorely missed.  Who knows what witchcraft the bounder wanted poor Mr Well’s body for, but for his sins the good Lord struck him down.  He was buried yesterday under the grace of Almighty, but no forgiveness will be given forth.  He will burn in hell.’ 

 

‘Surely, the whole point of Christianity is that he can be granted forgiveness, whatever he has done?’ said Victoria, unable to help herself.

 

The Reverend paused to look at the young woman.  There was an awkward pause, before he addressed her.  ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be talking of such things in front of a lady.  Do beg my forgiveness.  I do hope he wasn't a relative.  Now what is it you want to know?’

 

For the next ten minutes Jamie and Victoria listened to the story of the untimely death of Mr Tom Sawkins, grave robber.  Presently the call of ale reasserted itself, and the time travellers made their excuses.  The Doctor would be waiting, and they had already been longer than expected. 

 

 * * * *

 

The last drops of moisture were wrenched from the master’s finest breeches.  Carefully Zara laid the garment onto the pile of damp washing and placed a shirt in the mangle.  Her ebony fingers turned the handle and water trickled out in to the bowl below.  She knew she should pay close attention to the task in hand.  One false move and she could catch her fingers in the cogs, or even worse rip the master’s clothes.  Nevertheless, so mundane was the chore that the young slave girl let her mind stray. 

 

No longer was she in Britain, but transported miraculously back to Hispaniola.  She was playing under the hot Caribbean sun with her mama and papa.  But their faces were losing clarity.  The country she had spent the first years of her life was becoming a dim memory, but she was loath to let it slip away.  Already she was unsure if her visions of her homeland were conjured from her own experiences, or from the stories told to her by her grandfather. In many ways she considered herself lucky, for at least she had the company of one family member.  If Toussaint wasn’t with her then she knew she’d just curl up and die. 

 

Toussaint was old now.  How old she wasn’t sure, but his wise black face was covered in lines and once vibrant hair streaked with white.  Perhaps he had aged prematurely due to the wrenching away of his freedom.  He must have looked so striking when he was young. She recalled that Toussaint never thought of Hispaniola as his native land.  To him Kongo was home.  The white man had snatched him when he was young, and transported his youthful body to Hispaniola.  It was here that Zara had been born.  It would always be home to her.  She heard distant rumours that the slaves had been freed there, but even if that was true it was too late for her.  For five years now, more than half her life, she had been in this wet and cold country.  How she longed to be back in Hispaniola with her mama and papa.

 

Suddenly she heard an ominous ripping sound.  Her brain snapped back to reality, and in panic she wrenched at the shirt.  The sound amplified as yet more stitches gave away. Desperately, she yanked free the shirt cuff that had become entangled in the cogs.  The cloth was shredded.  The master’s garment was ruined.  If only it had been her fingers.

 

* * * *

 

A shower of rain splattered down on to the cobblestones outside The Rose and Crown.  The Doctor pulled up the collar of his coat, to prevent vagrant drops trickling down his back. Typical English weather, he thought to himself.  He supposed it could be worse though.  The rain of Ortonean would strip the humanoid body to the bone within seconds.  Even that grisly death seemed preferable to another look at Jack Golby’s bunion.  The rain stopped as suddenly as it had started, and the sun crept through the clouds.  If only England’s weather patterns were more like the Eye of Orion or Metebelis 3, he thought.  Now Metebelis 3 was a place he’d love to visit.  One of these days he’d have to pilot the TARDIS to the famous blue planet.  Jamie and Victoria would adore it.  

 

The clatter of horse and trap caused the Time Lord to turn.  It halted outside the public house and a well-dressed man got out.  He had a refined face, but held an air of pompousness. Before the stranger disappeared into The Rose and Crown, their gazes met for a very brief moment.  Then he was gone.  The reverberation of horse hooves and spinning wheels faded in to the distance, while the trap continued on its journey.  The Doctor was about to follow the stranger in to the pub, when he saw Jamie and Victoria trudging towards him.

 

‘Och Doctor,’ said Jamie when he was within earshot, ‘Trust you to get the good jobs while we get the yon mad priest.’

 

‘I’m sure you young people found out some very important information for me, haven’t you?’ said the Doctor diplomatically, ‘What have you unearthed?’

 

Jamie eagerly recounted the details of Reverend Cunningham’s tale.  The Doctor nodded, and often put forward a remark that indicated that he already knew most of the story.  One detail interested the Time Lord greatly though - the name of the grave that Tom Sawkins was robbing when his life abruptly ended. 

 

‘Can we go for a wee dram now?’ asked Jamie, when he had finished his tale.

 

The memory of Jack’s bunion filled the Time Lord’s head.  He would rather wrestle a Yeti than see that sight again.  All thoughts of the well-dressed man were instantly forgotten, driven away by the blackened foot of an eighteenth century drunk.  Before he could think of a reasonable excuse not to enter the pub, a young couple approached arm in arm.  They were dressed in cheap looking clothes, smeared with dirt.  To the Doctor’s experienced eye, their attire betrayed their jobs in the nearby textile factory.  Realising that they were blocking the lovers’ path, the time travellers moved to one side.  When the girl gave him a smile of thanks, the Doctor took it as an invitation. 

 

‘Good afternoon,’ he said in his most polite manner, ‘I don’t suppose you could direct us to the dwelling of Mrs Sawkins?’

 

‘Oh, her late husband was a friend of yours, wasn’t he Andrew?  Um… she lives in Milburn Road.  If you take a right down Clarke Street, it’s opposite the mill.  Number two.’

 

‘Come on Sally.  We’re late,’ said the man, evidently annoyed at being delayed.

 

The Doctor watched the lovers continue their journey down the street, before turning to Jamie. 

 

‘I’m afraid there’s no time for a drink.  We’ve got some more visiting to do.’

 

Disregarding the Highlander’s disappointed expression, the Doctor immediately set off up the road, leaving his companions to follow.  They were almost out of sight when the well-dressed stranger left the public house.  He appeared unsure for a moment, and then broke in to a grin when he saw the travellers in the far distance.  As they turned the corner in to Clarke Street, he strode purposefully after them.

 

* * * *

 

Number two Milburn Road was a terraced house along a narrow street.  There was no garden.  The front door merely opened straight in to the cobblestoned street.  It was modest accommodation, built to supply the mill directly opposite with the workers it required.  The Doctor walked up to the door and rapped lightly on the flaking green paint.  There was no reply, so the summons was repeated slightly louder.  This time it appeared that somebody had heard the knock, and the sound of a heavy bolt being withdrawn filtered in to the street. Gradually the door opened, and a timid woman’s face poked out.

 

‘Mrs Sawkins?’

 

‘Yes, that’s right,’ said the woman, looking at the Doctor’s baggy clothes suspiciously. ‘If you’re here to see my husband, I’m afraid he’s passed on.’

 

‘Actually its you we want to see,’ said Victoria.

 

‘Oh, hello Ma’am,’ said Mrs Sawkins, opening the door fully at last, ‘I didn’t notice you there. I don’t often have visitors, especially from members of the gentry, but you’re welcome to come in if you wish.’

 

They were led in to a small but cosy living room, and ushered to make themselves comfortable.  The Doctor sank in to a snug armchair, but he found it impossible to feel at home.  He couldn’t help but notice that Mrs Sawkins kept giving both him and Jamie strange hostile glances.  In between looks she fussed about, bolting the door before she came to join them.  When she too sat down, the Doctor saw a faded bruise around her right eye and a matching mark above the cheek.  The telltale signs of a heavy punch.  They were almost healed, and must have been a week or so old.  Thinking it best to ignore the evidence of Tom’s final act of wife beating, the Doctor got straight down to business.  The sooner he was away from this unfriendly atmosphere the better.

 

‘I know this might be distressing for you, but we would like to ask a few questions about Tom.’

 

‘Don’t you go listening to idle gossip,’ replied Mrs Sawkins guardedly, ‘My Tom was a good man.  Nobody knew him like I did.  He may have been firm, but he was a good husband.’

 

‘Of course he was,’ interjected Victoria, ‘We just want to know about his employers.’

 

‘I’m sorry,’ said Mrs Sawkins, ‘I think you must have been mislead.  My Tom was unemployed.  It was hard to make ends meet, but we managed.  I brought in all the money from my job at the mill.  I would be there now, but with all that happened recently I found it impossible to go in.  And when I went today, I found that they had laid me off.  Replaced for going to my husbands funeral!’

 

‘That’s awful!’  sympathised Victoria.

 

‘Seven years faithful service, then I’m out of the door without a by or leave!’

 

‘If Tom had no job,’ said the Doctor, ‘Then how do you explain all the money he spent at the pub?’

 

‘No, no you’ve got it all wrong,’ said Mrs Sawkins with a frown.  Clearly she didn’t mind talking with Victoria, but she had taken a dislike to the men.  Realising that she would have to elaborate or have the question repeated the woman tried to explain, ‘People bought him drinks.  He was a very popular fellow.  He used to go to the Rose and Crown to give me spare time to do the chores.  He often told me he would love it if I could go with him, but it would have been asking too much of peoples’ generosity to buy extra drink for me as well. And I couldn’t really sit there without one, could I?  He sometimes did odd jobs for some of his buddies in return, but they were out of the kindness of his heart.  Bless him.  Sometimes had him out at all hours.’

 

‘Did they help with the funeral?’ asked Victoria.

 

‘Oh no.  Henry Wright’s family helped me with that,’ replied Mrs Sawkins, giving Victoria a wistful smile and turning her back on the Doctor. ‘They had lost Henry tragically the same night.  We got a good package from the funeral parlour, and arrangements were underway before I could even blink.  Something to do with old Henry wishing to be reunited next to his dear departed wife as soon as possible.  The service was beautiful.’

 

The two women chatted together, making the Doctor feel more and more left out.  Almost every question he asked was treated with suspicion, and only Victoria was able to put the woman fully at ease.  Jamie never spoke a word.  Eventually the Doctor was able to excuse himself, saying that they must get on.  Rising from his chair he strode to the door.  The others followed.

 

‘Pop in any time dear,’ said Mrs Sawkins to Victoria as she let them out in to the street.  She didn’t even acknowledge the Doctor or Jamie’s farewells. 

 

The travellers heard the sound of the bolt being drawn behind them.  Relieved to be out of the house, the Doctor pondered his next move.   The afternoon was up, and he still had no idea who sanctioned the body snatching.  He hated to admit it, but he was running out of ideas.  While Jamie and Victoria waited patiently for him, he again felt ill at ease.  But it was different from the awkwardness he suffered in the presence of Mrs Sawkins.  She was in mourning for a husband that must have abused her for many years.  Her reaction was no doubt understandable, if a little denting to his Time Lord ego.  This feeling was different.  It was the familiar sensation of being watched.  Through the corner of his eye, the Doctor noticed the well-dressed stranger standing in the shadows at the side of the mill.  He was inspecting them intently.  Realising that it could be the break he was searching for, the Doctor looked directly at the stranger.  For a split second their gazes met for the second time, and a mutual understanding was reached.  Motioning for his companions to remain where they were, the Doctor cautiously went to meet him.

 

‘My name is Oscar,’ said the well-dressed man in a low voice.  He was obviously anxious that nobody would overhear.  The restrained voice continued, ‘I wish to talk to you on behalf of some very important people in this area.  I believe you were asking about Tom’s employers?’  The Doctor simply nodded, and Oscar’s voice became almost a whisper. ‘Since his death there has been an opening for the right sort of person.  Would you be interested in taking over his job?  The rate is seven pounds ten shillings per item.’

 

They spoke together in hushed voices, discussing rates and delivery, and then shook hands.  By the time the Doctor returned to Jamie and Victoria’s side, Oscar had melted in to the shadows.

 

‘I’ve been told we can rent a horse and cart from the farmer we met earlier,’ said the Doctor mysteriously to his fellow travellers.  ‘I’m afraid that we won’t be able to have that drink today, Jamie.  Pity.  I was so looking forward to it, but we’ve got a job to prepare for.  Come on.  We mustn’t dawdle.’