Doctor Who: Black Orchid (15 page)

‘I’m convinced that this room,’ began the Doctor as he opened the door, ‘was occupied by a man called Raymond Digby... now dead, as you will see.’ He looked about the room with surprised eyes. All evidence of recent habitation had been removed. There were no books or magazines. The bed had been stripped to its mattress and dust sheets covered the other items of furniture. The wardrobe door, from which had hung the short white coat, was now closed.

The Doctor looked at Lady Cranleigh who stared directly ahead of her with complete lack of interest in the room or its contents. The Doctor walked to the wardrobe and opened it. Empty. He knew it would be empty even before he opened the doors, for the mystery of Cranleigh Hall had moved into the sinister area of conspiracy.

‘Doesn’t look very lived-in to me,’ observed Sir Robert.

He looked at Lady Cranleigh who answered his unspoken question with quiet dignity.

‘I’ve not been in this room for years,’ she said. ‘I can’t remember the last time.’

In spite of himself the Doctor felt a grudging admiration for this, his latest opponent: this woman whose strength he’d seriously underestimated. He wondered how she would cope with the impact of his ultimate revelation.

With a courtly gesture he invited her to lead the way from the room. In the corridor she stopped, awaiting the Doctor’s next move.

The Doctor advanced on the next secret panel followed by the others. Again his fingers were instantly on target and the rear of the cupboard in the parallel corridor slid back with the noiseless ease of recent use. The Doctor lost no time in moving through to the adjoining corridor and along it to the cupboard at the far end. He waited for the others to join him and then, with his eyes on Lady Cranleigh, indicated the door handle. ‘The body’s behind this door.’

Lady Cranleigh looked at Sir Robert who, after a moment’s hesitation, stepped forward to grasp the handle.

He moved back swinging the door with him and exposing the interior of the cupboard to the evening sunlight filtering through the skylights.

With instant realisation the Doctor saw that he had been outwitted. In place of Digby’s body was a large doll; a small girl dressed in the fashion of a generation earlier.

Lady Cranleigh was in no hurry to press home her advantage. She looked directly at the Doctor’s discomforture, her fine features enigmatic.

‘My father gave me that when I was six,’ she said serenely.

8

Lord Cranleigh held the still trembling Ann tightly in his arms, his mind in turmoil. He desperately wanted to be with the others in the annexe, to learn the identity of the body there, but Ann was too terrified for him to leave her and too vulnerable because of her blissful ignorance of Cranleigh Hall’s closely guarded secret.

‘Oh, Charles, Charles,’ she sobbed, ‘why couldn’t you have told me before? All this time! And to have found out like that! How could you?’

‘There, darling,’ he murmured protectively,

‘everything’s going to be all right. Everything was for the best. It was the way mother wanted it, and the way George wanted it. We didn’t want to frighten you.’

‘That poor creature!’

‘Was he ill?’ Cranleigh’s eyes were haunted as he waited for her answer.

‘Ill? I don’t know... he was so... so...’ She broke down again and Cranleigh’s arms tightened about her. He waited for her sobs to ease and then said very gently, ‘You haven’t told me how you got into that room.’

‘I don’t know. I suppose it was that man... that Doctor...

who took me.’

‘No,’ contradicted Cranleigh, ‘He had no reason to.’

‘Then I don’t know. Oh, Charles!’ The young nobleman’s sorrowing face was furrowed with painful thought. What he’d just learned from his fraught fiancée pointed the finger of suspicion away from the Doctor but then, at whom? There was a gap in what he knew that needed desperately to be filled and there was an imposed limit on what he could learn from the suffering girl in his arms. Perhaps he could find out more about this mysterious Doctor elsewhere. He gently detached himself from Ann.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Just to make a telephone call.’

‘Don’t leave me!’

‘There’s no need for that, my dear. Come with me!’

With a comforting arm about her he guided her across the hall and into the book-lined study where he consulted a directory and picked up the ear piece of the telephone.

‘Sit down,’ he said gently. ‘This won’t take long,’ and then into the mouthpiece, ‘London Bridge 2000, please.’

Ann sat forward on the edge of a deep leather arm chair like a frightened bird poised for flight while Cranleigh waited to be connected with Guy’s Hospital in London. He announced his identity to a distant, distorted voice and asked to speak to Doctor Handicombe. Very soon he was listening to a warm apology from the doctor who had only just heard that the colleague he’d sent as a replacement for the Cranleigh XI had caught the wrong connection and had finished up in Glasgow. He was deeply sorry and hoped the day hadn’t been disastrous. With mixed feelings Cranleigh passed on the news of the resounding victory to be answered by the distant voice declaring diagnostically that it was an ill wind that blew nobody any good. The disturbed nobleman hung up the ear piece no better informed about the identity of his mysterious visitor and still trying to piece together the frightening fragments of the day. What progressively bothered him was this Doctor’s lack of motive for attacking Ann, his talk of a body and his silence about what had terrified Ann in the annexe. Ann searched Cranleigh’s taut face. ‘What did he say?’ she asked anxiously.

‘Nothing of any help.’

Ann tried to control her trembling lips and tears again brimmed in her eyes. Cranleigh moved quickly to comfort her with encircling arms.

Sir Robert Muir watched the Doctor change out of his incriminating costume with the detachment of the senior police officer performing an unpleasant duty. He had insisted on being present for the obvious reason that, left alone, his prime suspect would undoubtedly abscond.

The man had proved himself an intelligent and skilful athlete and he was taking no chances.

The Doctor picked up his tail coat and looked across at the secret panel by the bed now obdurately closed. ‘I suppose it’s no use telling you that a panel over there was open and that I went through it and it closed behind me?’

‘No,’ was the laconic answer.

‘And that I was away from here for some time and that anyone could have come in and taken that.’ The Doctor pointed to the Pierrot costume on the bed.

‘And brought it back again?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know who.’ The Doctor couldn’t help ponder how unimaginative policemen were. Or perhaps it was a case of saturation with preposterous alibis and lurid red herrings. In either case his prospects didn’t look good and were not likely to improve unless new evidence came to light, like a very dead body. Lady Cranleigh was a force to be reckoned with. His worst fears were endorsed by an officially urbane Chief Constable. ‘You’ve made some very wild statements entirely without substantiation. And now, if you’re quite ready, we’ll go below and wait for Sergeant Markham.’

Dittar Latoni, Chief of the Utubi, looked up from his book in response to the light tapping on the stout door. He glanced over his shoulder at his charge, still unconscious on the bed, the hideous features softened by the warm glow of the setting sun slanting through the barred window. The Indian put down his book, rose from the desk, and took the heavy key from his pocket with which to open the door.

He saw, without surprise, the erect figure of Lady Cranleigh on the landing and slipped through the door to join her. The dowager Marchioness gripped the Indian’s arm.

‘Thank you, Dittar,’ she said warmly, ‘You have done well. But now, if we’re to save your friend, we must do better.’

‘I’m getting a bit fed up with this,’ muttered Adric.

‘Join the club,’ said Tegan with feeling, looking at the unfortunate Henry who was mounting reluctant guard of them in the drawing room. ‘But we wait for the Doctor.’

‘But where is he?’ asked Nyssa plaintively.

‘Perhaps
he’s
the accident.’ Adric’s tone was sepulchral as he put an empty plate down on a nearby table.

‘Think yourself lucky it’s not you,’ added Tegan drily.

‘You could go pop at any minute.’

Adric was on the point of expostulation when the Doctor appeared in the custody of Sir Robert. Tegan rose to meet them. ‘Oh, you’re all right,’ she said with relief.

‘I’m not all right,’ responded the Doctor. ‘I’ve been arrested.’

‘Arrested?’ echoed Tegan.

‘And charged with murder.’

‘Murder?’

‘And it’s very nearly as bad to have everything I say repeated,’ complained the Doctor irritably.

‘Don’t be silly!’ said Nyssa.

‘And I’m not being silly!’ snapped the Doctor.

‘I don’t mean you. I mean the whole situation is silly.’

‘Tell that to Sir Robert!’ said the Doctor, as before.

‘And that goes for the three of us,’ added Tegan.

She looked squarely at Sir Robert. ‘The Doctor’s quite incapable of any such act. A pig would find it easier to fly than the Doctor to murder anyone.’

‘Yes!’ agreed Nyssa hotly.

‘Yes!’ said Adric with vigour.

The Doctor was warmed by his companions’ emphatic loyalty. He was even able to manage a small smile. As for Sir Robert there was an area of his heart that wanted to believe the declarations but his mind had to be involved here, and involved professionally, and facts were facts.

‘Your friend has failed to give a good account of himself,’ he said sombrely, ‘and in the circumstances that leaves me with no alternative but to take him into custody for questioning.’

‘Why can’t you question him here?’ asked Tegan crossly.

Lady Cranleigh entered from the hall followed by two uniformed policemen. Sergeant Markham was a ruddy-faced country-man approaching middle-age and of bucolic proportions, and the young constable was clearly overawed by the situation and the surroundings.

‘Enquiries will have to be made,’ answered Sir Robert,

‘concerning background and identity. Let’s hope that the truth of this tragic matter will emerge in the course of those enquiries.’

‘Let’s hope so indeed,’ agreed the Doctor with feeling, his eyes on Lady Cranleigh who returned his look boldly with no hint of shame. Sir Robert turned to the policemen.

‘Ah, Markham. I expected you earlier.’

‘... I was over at Chiddleton, Sir Robert,’ said the Sergeant. ‘Young Cooper in trouble again. Poaching. I had to sort that out. Doctor Hathaway’s taking a look at the body,’ he added with confidential relish.

‘Good! I’m arresting this gentleman, Sergeant, on suspicion of murder.’

‘Very good, sir.’

The young constable looked at his superior in anticipation of an order. For a moment it looked as though the Sergeant would lick his lips. No charge of murder had been brought hereabouts in living memory. Sir Robert turned back to the Doctor. ‘And I must warn you, sir, that anything you say will be taken down and may be given in evidence.’

‘Very kind of you,’ said the Doctor watching both policemen search diligently for notebook and pencil, ‘but I prefer to say nothing for the moment.’ Sir Robert looked pointedly at the Sergeant and both policemen dutifully noted the accused’s statement. The Sergeant then put away his notebook and produced a pair of handcuffs. The Doctor looked directly at the unrepentant Lady Cranleigh and held out his wrists.

‘I hardly think that will be necessary,’ said Sir Robert uncomfortably, ‘but I shall prefer the charge personally at the station, Sergeant.’

‘Very good, Sir Robert.’

‘The Doctor may be saying nothing,’ announced Tegan stepping forward purposefully, ‘but I have something to say.’ The policemen felt for their notebooks.

‘If you arrest him you must also arrest the three of us.’

‘No,’ said the Doctor quickly.

‘Yes,’ said Tegan severely.

Sir Robert blinked and looked at the Doctor’s companions in turn, ‘On what charge?’

‘The same charge. We’re his accomplices.’

‘Accomplices?’

‘Or would it be better to call us accessories?’ There was no doubt about the determination in Tegan’s eyes and Sir Robert had to consider that her statement, in front of witnesses, was tantamount to a confession. ‘Very well,’ he said. He turned to the policemen and the portly Sergeant looked discomforted. ‘Transportation’s going to be a bit difficult, Sir Robert,’ he ventured.

‘No, it isn’t,’ declared Lady Cranleigh without hesitation. ‘The Rolls is at your disposal, Sergeant Markham, and so is Tanner.’

‘Thank you, milady.’

From the moment of Tegan’s intervention the Doctor’s eyes hadn’t left Lady Cranleigh. He now knew that she must know the identity of the murderer and was protecting him. He also knew that she must be a woman of conscience and, therefore, susceptible to the horror of injustice and the suffering of the innocent. He was convinced it was but a matter of time before her resolve was undermined by finer feelings, but what still troubled him was his inability to reason the motive for her course of action. He wasn’t to know, that in this case, desperation was the enemy of logic.

As it was the dowager Marchioness returned the Doctor’s penetrating look imperturbably.

Sir Robert indicated to Markham that it was time to leave and the Sergeant responded not uncheerfully, ‘Come along, there, please.’

The Doctor stopped in front of his erstwhile hostess with the intention of bringing more moral pressure to bear.

He smiled charmingly and said quietly and without irony,

‘Thank you, Lady Cranleigh, for a delightfully unexpected day.’

Lady Cranleigh’s fine-boned features remained inscrutable.

The Rolls-Royce bowled sedately along evening-shaded lanes towards the police station in Upper Cranleigh, followed respectfully by the 1923 bull-nosed Morris-Cowley that did duty for a police car. The Sergeant had elected to drive the suspects and had promoted his junior to share the Rolls with Sir Robert and Doctor Hathaway, a local general practioner and part-time police surgeon who had confirmed that James, the footman, had died from a broken neck that was not, in his considered opinion, the result of an accident. The elderly medico kept his own counsel and his eyes on the road ahead doing his best not to feel self-conscious about sharing the Cranleigh Rolls with a uniformed policeman and a Chief Constable attired as an eighteen-century buck.