T

 he arthritis in Toussaint’s legs protested at his crouched position on the corridor floor.  The old slave’s joints throbbed, and already he could feel the bones locking in to place.  Gritting his teeth against the discomfort, he scrubbed at the bloodstains on the hall carpet.  Gradually they faded, and disappeared.  His task done, delicately he rose from his hands d knees, ignoring the pain in his legs.  The old man had no wish to be discovered by his masters stuck on all fours like an animal.  The white man already had enough idiotic beliefs that Toussaint and his kin were little more than beasts.  It was better to put up with the discomfort than give them any more ammunition.  But what if the arthritis overcame him, and he could no longer work?  It was not so much concern for himself, but he feared for his granddaughter’s safety if he was no longer able to help her.  He would prey to the spirits again tonight. Perhaps they would bless him with the removal of the disease, or strike down the white man’s so called civilisation. 

 

He was about to go in to the garden, to vent his frustration on the weeds clogging up the flowerbeds that circled the pond, when he heard quiet sobbing emanating from the kitchen.  It was a sound that was unfortunately more familiar than it should be - the sound of Zara’s distress.  After a brief glance over his shoulder, to ensure that he was not spotted shirking his duties, the old slave slipped in to the kitchen.  He found the young girl sitting at the table, with streaks of tears glistening on her ebony cheeks.  About her were the dirty breakfast dishes, which by now should have been scrubbed, dried and put away.  When the kitchen door closed with a bang, she looked towards him like a startled rabbit.

 

‘Calm down little one, its only me,’ he soothed. 

 

Although his granddaughter attempted to conceal it from him, Toussaint saw her problem immediately.  There was no hiding the swollen hand, now becoming a rainbow of blue and purple.  Wetting a cloth, he bathed the injury with practised ease.  Gradually her sobbing subsided, and she clung to him for comfort.

 

‘I ripped one of the master’s shirts,’ she said in to his muscular chest.

 

Toussaint said nothing, but inwardly seethed with anger.  Hurting a little girl as retribution for a piece of ripped clothing was as low as a dog on the street. Letting go of her, he spied the remains of the kedgeree in one of the silver platters.  Knowing it was against the rules of the house, the old slave took a large spoonful and fed it in to Zara’s willing mouth.  He knew from previous rule breaking that kedgeree was one of Cook’s special talents, and he felt sure that Zara had earned a small taste.

 

‘There are guests this morning,’ said Zara, cheering up after the good food, ‘A lady and two men.  They seemed nice.’

 

‘Did they stop you from being hurt?’

 

‘No, but…’

 

‘Then they weren’t nice,’ dismissed Toussaint, ‘Come, we must do the dishes before Cook returns to the kitchen.’

 

Hurriedly, the pair took the crockery to the sink and began to scrub.  

 

* * * *

 

The Doctor was in his element, nosing about amongst the scientific instruments.  Laboratories, even those of such a primitive time, were always of great interest to him.  He supposed it was in his blood.  After the commotion with the slave girl had died down, the scientists had insisted he looked at their work.  He had happily agreed, and left his companions to amuse themselves in the drawing room.  In truth, the Time Lord wanted to see if there was any evidence of unnatural tinkering with nature that may account for the bizarre deaths that plagued the village.  Until he had done so, he felt it best not to air his opinions on slavery, but he made a mental note to take Wallace down a peg or two at the earliest opportunity.

 

The laboratory itself was simply a converted library.  All the bookcases had been stripped out, and replaced with a series of expensive looking wooden desks.  On top of these were positioned numerous test tubes, medical instruments and a whole host of highly noxious smelling chemicals.  Here and there lay the evidence of recent spillages, eating away into the fine varnish.   A twentieth century dealer of antiques would have had a heart attack if he saw this wanton destruction of some of the finest Georgian furniture.  Dominating the middle of the room was a six-foot long slab, which was so ingrained with blood that it was obviously used for dissection.  Next to the mortuary table lay the three sacks, containing the wares that the time travellers had brought hours earlier. Stedman muttered to himself that he ought to move them later.

 

Ever since the Doctor had entered the lab with his hosts an hour ago, things had felt terribly wrong.  However, nothing had pointed towards unnatural experimentation.  In fact, he was now convinced that the scientists had nothing to do with the deaths of the unfortunate souls.  It was something else that troubled him.  Something that he had not expected.

 

On arrival Wallace had wasted no time in formalities.  He immediately reeled off various theories and proven facts that he had discovered during his long hours of study.  Like a hyperactive child, he jumped from one thread of research to another, and then back again.  The Doctor was shown reams of notes and formulae, and countless slides of dissected organs.  All the while Stedman stood by, looking a little awkward but also brimming with contagious excitement.  It was transparent that Wallace was the true genius in the partnership, and Stedman was basking in his brilliance. 

 

All the research involved the workings of the human body, from the heart to the nervous system.  Many of the theories and processes that the scientist had put together would have labelled him insane, a hack, a heretic, and perhaps names even nastier by the scientific circles present in the eighteenth century.  But the work was faultless, and well ahead of its time.  It was this advanced nature that caused the Doctor’s unease.  On one occasion, Wallace had put forward a hypothesis that all organic life was based on the cell.  The Doctor had nodded politely, and changed the subject.  He was well aware that this theory was not supposed to be discovered until the Victorian age. 

 

Every area of anatomy was touched on, but much of the research was on the biological set up of the brain.  It was here that the most startling work was achieved.  Armed with little more than a scalpel and a primitive microscope, Wallace had taken never before used methods to discover information that was not, according to the Doctor’s knowledge of the timeline, discovered until the later half of the twentieth century.  The techniques themselves were not invented until the twenty-first. 

 

By the time Wallace had run out of steam, and announced his intention to catch up on his missed nights sleep, the Doctor was extremely worried.  Why had he never heard of such a brilliant scientist?  Had the timeline been changed some way?  His immediate notion was that somebody or something was aiding them, for its own devices.  In the Doctor’s experience, alien life forms had various reasons to alter the timeline, but the changes were always to do with power, invasion or technological advances.  Why would an alien species speed up research on the understanding of the human body?  The Doctor himself had interest in the field, but only out of curiosity.  The information did little else but pinpoint the copious physical differences between the human and Gallifrian forms.  There had to be another reason. 

 

Idly the Doctor plucked from one desk a short, vertical tube of metal, with a rubber length of tubing rammed into a hole at the base.  He studied it carefully, before turning to Stedman.

 

‘Congratulations, you’ve discovered the Bunsen Burner decades too early.’

 

‘You’re mistaken, that’s a Stedman Gas Flamer,’ said the scientist in a somewhat confused voice, ‘I’ve been meaning to patent it.’

 

The Doctor smiled and nodded.  And then, as he lowered the Stedman Gas Flamer back onto the workbench, it struck him.  Everything in the laboratory was as it seemed.  Wallace was a genius with a skewed perspective on life and an arrogant disposition, while Stedman was a quiet capable inventor with the money to fund their experiments.   But the world will never hear of them.  They would never publish their work.  The Doctor’s intuition told him that Wallace at least was to die, and all his work destroyed.  With the deaths in the village, it seemed perceivable that he may fall foul to the same fate.  To prevent it would break the laws of time.  If he intervened it could cause chaos, possibly even effect the future of the whole universe.  It was one of the great perils of time travel.  Grimly, the Doctor pushed the thoughts out of his mind.  He would do what was right when necessary.  In the meantime he had other fish to fry.

 

‘So this attitude that Wallace has about the little slave girl… that she is, you know, inferior.  Tell me, do you also believe that she doesn’t feel pain like everyone else?’

 

The scientist hesitated briefly before replying.  ‘Well not really… I’ve seen her tears, and I suppose that’s an obvious sign that she does feel in the same way. The same nerves at least.  I would be happier if Wallace wasn’t so rough with Zara, but…’

 

The Doctor finished his sentence for him.  ‘… You lack the courage to intervene.’ 

 

Stedman nodded uncomfortably, but the scientist’s embarrassment was not going to deter the time traveller.

 

‘Why have you got them at all?’ quizzed the Doctor further, ‘It’s simply wrong.  I remember distinctly talking to Elizabeth I about it.  “England is too pure an air for slaves to breathe in,” I think she said.  Missed the point a bit, but that’s Queens I suppose.  Mind you, it didn’t stop the British Empire plundering Africa.  But I do recall talking to good old William Wilberforce, and he agreed fully with me… but of course that hasn’t happened yet.’

 

‘What do you mean talking to Queen Elizabeth?  That was hundreds of years ago.  And what hasn’t happened yet?’ said a very confused Stedman.

 

‘Oh dear, I mean reading of course.  Silly me,’ fumbled the Doctor, ‘Anyway you seem like a fine upstanding chap, so where has… what’s her name?  Zara, come from?’

 

‘Well, as you heard at breakfast, I received a large inheritance,’ said Stedman, ‘I’m afraid that for generations my family made a fortune in the worldwide transportation of slaves to cotton plantations.  Especially to the Americas.  On retirement, my father thought nothing of bringing a couple back to England to tend to his needs.  When he passed on, I carried the responsibility of ownership.  I’m not sure of your problem.  After all…’

 

‘… Who would care about a couple of slaves?  Well I do!’ interrupted the Doctor.  He paused before continuing.  ‘So there are two of them.’

 

‘Zara and her grandfather Toussaint.’

 

‘You should set them free,’ said the Doctor firmly, ‘They may even wish to stay and work for you.  And if it means you have to spend less money on research to pay their wages, then so be it.  No scientific advancement is worth anybody’s freedom.’

 

‘But Wallace…’

 

‘Has there been anything in Wallace’s experiments that proves that Zara really is inferior?  A darker skin can hardly count.’  Stedman shook his head, and the Doctor continued his argument.  ‘What if I told you I had two hearts. Hypothetically of course.  Would you say that gave me more of a right to live in peace and harmony than yourself?  Of course not!  It’s the person that counts, not his or her number of organs, coarseness of hair or colour of skin.’

 

‘You make a convincing argument,’ said Stedman, ‘I must admit that in all our research, it has shown that under the skin we are all the same.’

 

‘So you’ll let them go?’

 

The scientist nodded and mumbled, ‘Tomorrow.  I’ll set them free tomorrow.’

 

 * * * *

 

Jamie couldn’t resist it any longer, and reached out for another scone. Guarding himself for a remark from Victoria on his greediness, the Scott smeared the cake with strawberry jam and sank his teeth in.  The flavour was heaven.  It was hard to find food suited to his human taste buds on the many alien worlds that the time travellers visited.  Often what was on offer was unappetising in either appearance or taste.  The food machine in the TARDIS itself satisfied the need for nutrients, but the strange bars it dispensed were not what Jamie would refer to as real food.  It was only on Earth that he felt satisfied by his meals.  He held the impression that Victoria felt the same, but she was far too much of a lady to mention it.  The cakes thoughtfully provided mid-morning by Oscar were very welcome, although Victoria would probably tell him that they were not very good for his waistline. 

 

The expected tease never came.  Victoria had her nose buried in a large leather bound book that she had discovered on the coffee table.  Wiping the crumbs from his chin, Jamie glanced at the grandfather clock positioned at the far end of the room.  It was eleven-thirty.  The Doctor had been gone for hours.  With nothing else to do, Jamie stood up and wandered around the drawing room for the umpteenth time.  Like much of the mansion, it was obviously rarely used and lavishly decorated, no doubt utilised in the past to entertain local dignitaries.  For much of the morning, the travellers had been seated in two massive armchairs set near an impressive bay window.  To their right stood a grand piano, sadly unlikely to have been used as a musical instrument for many years.  Jamie felt positive that neither scientist would find time to play it, and Oscar seemed too pompous and self absorbed to play in front of his masters. 

 

Dominating the room was a portrait of an imposing elderly man, who held a striking resemblance to Stedman.  Jamie surmised that this was Stedman’s late father.  With his snobbish expression, Jamie took an immediate dislike to the man.  He reminded him of the Redcoat officers who down trod his people in their search for Bonnie Prince Charlie.  Jamie looked away in disgust.  The rich decor appeared decadent to the rebellious Jacobite.  It was a far cry from his roots in the Highlands of Scotland.  Houses of this sort always made him feel angry that so many others lived in poverty, whilst others had far too much.  The anger made him restless.  It was so typical of the Doctor to disappear like this.

 

‘How much longer do’ya think he’s gonna be?’ he asked Victoria.

 

‘I’m sure he won’t be much longer,’ said the girl, looking up from her book, ‘You know, this is fascinating.  You aught to read it too.  It’s all about graphology - the science of handwriting.  I can tell you what your character is like, just by studying your writing.’

 

‘Och, that nay sounds like proper science.’

 

‘Maybe not, but it is fascinating,’ said Victoria, ‘One of my father’s friends mentioned the idea to me years ago.  I would love to see if it really works.’

 

‘There’s better ways of getting to know someone, other than looking at their writing.  Anyway, what if they can’t write?’ 

 

‘Oh, don’t be a grouch,’ chided Victoria, as she turned yet another page.

 

Before Jamie said anything that he may regret later, the drawing room door opened.  Their travelling companion’s lined face, topped with his unkempt shock of hair, darted around the doorframe.

 

‘Ah, I hope you have had a pleasant morning,’ said the Doctor, ‘Now we’ve got a lot to do, so follow me.’

 

The head rapidly disappeared.  Jamie paused to grab a scone, before quickly following the Doctor in to the corridor.  It was about time he had something to do, other than watch Victoria read.  

 

‘First of all we must return that horse and cart, or the farmer will think we’ve stolen it,’ continued the Doctor, ‘Stedman’s given me an extra half crown to smooth over our late return.  That’s bound to ensure there are no hard feelings.  And I need to return to the TARDIS for some bits and pieces.’  The Time Lord paused, furrowing his brow. ‘Where’s Victoria?’

 

Jamie realised that the young girl hadn’t followed him in to the hall.  Probably still engrossed in her book, he thought.  Seconds later, they heard the sound of footfall as she ran to catch up.

 

‘I’m sorry, Doctor.  I wanted to finish the page.’

 

‘No harm done my dear.  It’s a lovely day.  Shall we see if we can rustle up some sandwiches?  We can have a picnic.’

 

‘What about the deaths in the village?’ said Jamie, ‘Aren’t we supposed to be investigating them?’

 

‘Of course we are, but what’s the harm in a picnic?  I like picnics.’

 

* * * * 

 

Toussaint wrestled to pull yet another weed from the ground.  Its roots held on vainly to the soil, but in the end succumbed to the might of the human’s muscles.  His task done, the slave looked at the crushed plant.  It was a pretty thing.  Why was it labelled as a weed?  Surely it was the same as any other plant.  The fact that it wasn’t edible, and didn’t have the intricate petals of the daffodil or sweet smell of the rose, hardly gave it less right to exist.  He sighed, and threw it in to the wheelbarrow along with its comrades.  He would add the vegetation to the compost heap later.  Now he needed to rest. 

 

Toussaint sank to the grass, feeling the hot mid-day sun beat down on his face. The warmth on his skin caused him to relax, and forget his troubles.  The bright light shone through his closed eyelids, causing shapes to dance in front of him.  The closer he moved towards slumber, the clearer and more distinct the shapes became.  Soon they were tribal dancers from his homeland.  Experiences that were all but forgotten, and now incorporated into the religious beliefs taught to him by the elders in Hispaniola.  He hoped that he kept the faith in the right manner and Gran Met, the creator of the world, was happy with the way he passed on his knowledge to his granddaughter.  Sleep grew ever closer, but he knew that he would be in severe trouble if Wallace caught him in this position.  But Wallace was himself in bed, so perhaps he could snatch a short snooze after all.  The dancers convinced him to take the risk, and soon all thoughts of work evaporated from his mind.  Toussaint had no idea how long he had lain on the grass when the voices roused him.  First of all they were distant, but they were getting ever closer.

 

‘Graphology!  Well I never!  Well if you want to study it the best place is supposed to be the Triadic University, but I must warn you that it is absolute cobblers.  They read my writing and told me that I was argumentative, arrogant and self-absorbed.  Me arrogant indeed!’

 

Instinct took over.  Still in the process of waking, Toussaint leapt to his feet. The sudden change in position caused his head to spin drastically.  In panic he looked for the gardening fork and wheelbarrow, but his vision was so blurred that he almost tripped over them.  Realising that he was making a bad situation worse, the old man forced himself to remain still.  Gradually his head became clearer, and his vision returned to normal.  In front of him stood three strangers.  By their appearance, he guessed that they were the guests that Zara had met earlier.  One of them was addressing him.

 

‘No need to get up for us old chap.  Perfect weather for a snooze.  In fact I might have one myself later on.  I take it you’re Toussaint.’

 

The slave heard his own voice reply automatically, ‘Yes sir.’

 

‘Oh, no need for such formalities,’ said the stranger, ‘Allow me to introduce myself.  I’m the Doctor, and this here is Jamie and Victoria.’

 

Toussaint looked at the guests for a sign of their displeasure, unsure whether or not he was in trouble.  If they expected him to beg for their silence, he was determined not to give them the satisfaction.  He would take whatever punishment was offered, and stand tall and proud.  The Doctor’s next words drove these thoughts of honour from his head.

 

‘Well I’ve got some good news for you.  I’ve been having a chat with good old Stedman, and he’s agreed to set you free tomorrow.  And Zara too.  What do you think of that?’

 

‘They’re going to let me go home?’ stuttered Toussaint.

 

‘If you want too, I’m sure that can be arranged,’ said the Doctor, ‘He was hoping you’ll stay on as a paid employee, but if you want to leave there would be no one to stop you.’

 

‘Thank you sir,’ said Toussaint, before stooping down to pick up the fork. 

 

Casually throwing it on to the barrow, he began to wheel it down the garden path away from the strangers.  At the far end, he halted by a large mountain of rotting grass and vegetation.  Driving the fork into the barrow, the slave commenced the task of pitching the weeds on to the compost heap.  Halfway through, Toussaint glanced over his shoulder and watched the Doctor and companions disappear over the horizon.  All this time he had kept a straight face, but resentment was brimming over.  It was obvious to even the most blinded cripple that his masters would not let him go.  The white man hated the black and would never pay him to work, but instead force from him whatever he desired.  This so-called Doctor was teasing him.  Mocking him.  No doubt he was laughing at his little joke right now.  How dare he make fun of him in such a cruel way!   

 

The garden fork was ploughed yet again in to the barrow, but this time with renewed vigour. Tonight he, Toussaint, would do the ceremony again.  He would talk to the spirits and ask their advice.  If he did enough praying, then perhaps the Loa would show him how to free all his kin from the shackles of the white man.  Then he would make this mocking Doctor eat his evil words.