Doctor Who_ Toy Soldiers Part 4

She shook her head. It didn't make sense. It didn't make sense at all.

The coachman was saying, '... one of the wedding guests. I remember the top hat, and I thought, "He's going to be late." But I could hardly offer him a lift!'

'And this was just after you saw the firework?' asked Forrester.

'It must have been; he was on the corner of the street by the de Mouvilles' house.'

Forrester nodded. Amalie noticed that Cwej was no longer writing anything in his notebook, but was leaning back, looking over his shoulder out of the window.

They've found what they came for, she thought. She watched as they dismissed the coachman and stood up, then as Forrester walked over to her.

'You will be able to find her?' she asked, before the American woman could speak.

Dark eyes met hers. 'I hope so.'

Helpless, Amalie felt the tears start. 'You'll let me know?

You'll come back and tell me, whatever happens?'

Forrester nodded, extended a hand. 'It's a deal.'

Something in her voice convinced Amalie. Whatever James said, she thought, there were some people who could be trusted, regardless of the colour of their skin or the country of their birth. She took the extended hand, let Forrester shake it. 'Thank you,' she said to her. 'Thank you from the bottom of my heart.' Then she hugged the woman; but to her surprise encountered something hard, like metal or wood, beneath the woollen sweater. She withdrew, puzzled.

'Bullet-proof vest,' said Forrester, grinning. 'You never know who you're going to meet in this business.' She turned and walked to the door. Cwej followed her. In the doorway she looked over her shoulder, said, 'Well, thanks for your help, everyone.'

Henri started to say something, but the pair were gone.

Amalie put her face to the window and watched them down the street. They were running, which for some reason didn't surprise her.

She knew that she was going to have to stay in Septangy until they came back. She decided to ask Claude about rooms at the auberge auberge for the time being. Henri would invite her to stay, of course, and also Nadienne and Jean-Pierre, when they came to live in Larochepot after their honeymoon. for the time being. Henri would invite her to stay, of course, and also Nadienne and Jean-Pierre, when they came to live in Larochepot after their honeymoon.

But she didn't want that. She wanted to sit at this window, in this bar, with a gla.s.s of armagnac in her hand, and watch the street, and wait.

Until they came back. Until they told her what had happened to Gabrielle.

Until they told her why she would never see her daughter again.

In a quiet orchard a few kilometres from Septangy, the rain dripped from the trees on to a dull blue box. From a distance, it might have been mistaken for a disused agricultural implement: an upended seed hopper, perhaps. Closer to, the English word POLICE could be seen printed on it, in neat white lettering along the top, followed by other, smaller words.

A woman jogged through the orchard, just as the light was fading. She wore false leather springerboots, which might have been mistaken by a twentieth-century person for leather riding boots. She wore laserproofed trousers, which to any twentieth-century person would just have looked s.h.i.+ny and rather baggy. She wore a red woollen sweater, which looked as if it was of authentic 1914 manufacture, though it wasn't, and it had a few unusual energy sources beneath it which would make that fact quite clear to a properly trained observer.

The young man watching from the shadows, though strictly speaking of the twentieth century himself, was a properly trained observer. He knew there was something different about the woman, and about the blue box.

Something dangerous. Something which threatened everything that he now believed in.

The woman stopped by the blue box, waited, looking anxiously around her. After a moment a tall young man jogged up beside her. His costume - a formal morning suit - looked more authentic than hers, but the watcher was not fooled.

He waited. After several minutes, during which the woman and the man joshed each other in the manner of comrades-in-arms everywhere, a door opened in the blue box, and a man came out. He was a short man, wearing a white suit and s.h.i.+ny two-tone brogues. He carried an umbrella - black and white, with a bright red handle in the shape of a question mark. But he didn't bother to open it, despite the steady rain.

The woman gestured back the way she had come, perhaps suggesting that the man follow her. Her companion, the tall man, evidently agreed with her, and even started to lead the way.

But the small man shook his head and prodded the ground with his umbrella. He was speaking with emphasis, loud enough for the watcher to hear occasional words: 'unalterable' and 'return' were the two which were repeated most often. There was also a name: Bernice. The watcher made a note of it, in case it came in useful.

Eventually, the woman and the tall man seemed to give in, and walked through the open door of the box. The strange-looking man glanced around the orchard, squinting directly towards the bushes where the watcher was hidden, then - after a pause - he shook his head and followed them through the door. There didn't seem to be enough s.p.a.ce in the box for the three of them, but the watcher had some idea about why that might be.

After another short interval, the light on the top of the box flashed, and, with a loud roaring noise, it slowly disappeared.

Any twentieth-century person ought to have thought it impossible. But the young man watching wasn't concerned with the apparent impossibilities. He was only concerned with the facts. He slithered out of the low hedge where he had been concealed and briefly ma.s.saged his chilled limbs to get the circulation back into them. Then walked to the middle of the orchard and examined the squashed gra.s.s where the blue box had stood.

The teddy-bear badge on his lapel s.h.i.+mmered, the two green eyes glowed like tiny stars. The young man glanced once more around the orchard.

Then, with a flicker of rainbow light, he vanished.

Chapter 3.

25 September 1919

'Bernice Summerfield? I can't say that I've heard the name.'

Mrs Charlotte Sutton looked up from her book and saw two blurry figures through her reading spectacles, one of them recognizable as her daughter Carrie, the other less distinct, the white blob of a face above a yellow dress, a stranger.

'Oh, I'm sorry my dear,' she said quickly. 'I didn't realize you were actually standing there.'

'Don't mention it,' said the stranger. 'There are days when I haven't heard of me either.'

'You wouldn't have heard of her, Mother,' said Carrie blithely. 'Benny and I only met just today.'

Mrs Sutton raised her spectacles so that she could see the newcomer more clearly. She seemed a smart enough woman, slim and flat-chested in the current fas.h.i.+on. Her black hair was cut short - very short indeed, it was barely visible under her yellow cloche hat. Her face wore a warm smile with just a trace of diffidence as she stepped forward and extended a hand. Mrs Sutton took it, felt her own hand gripped firmly and briskly shaken. A confident woman, then; modern, but not that young - perhaps a little over thirty. Her hands were ringless, Mrs Sutton noticed. No husband, no fiance lost in the war then. Or perhaps she was simply trying to put it all behind her.

Mrs Sutton became aware that Carrie was still speaking.

She spoke rapidly and at length, as usual, her eyes roving all around the place as if looking for a target for her stray words.

Mrs Sutton had long ago learned to listen only to those parts of her daughter's conversation which were likely to be relevant, or at least interesting.

'... is really quite an expert on the subject of spiritualism,'

Carrie was now saying. 'She's attended seances in London and Paris! She's had such fantastic experiences, you wouldn't believe them all! Go on, tell her about it, Benny.'

'Benny' smiled slightly. 'It's certainly been interesting,'

she said, but didn't elaborate.

Mrs Sutton decided that she was going to rather like this person. She put her book down on the arm of her chair and stood up. 'You are attending our seance this evening, then, with Madame Segovie?'

The younger woman inclined her head. 'I was hoping that I could - that is, if I won't be intruding. Your daughter tells me that you haven't attended a seance before, and I realize that it's a private matter.'

'Nonsense, Miss Summerfield! I would not have excluded a new friend of my daughter's from a family gathering when my son and my husband were still alive, and now that they're dead I don't see that it makes any difference.'

Again Miss Summerfield inclined her head and smiled.

'Thanks,' she said simply, then hesitated, as if there were something more but she wasn't quite sure whether she should say it.

Mrs Sutton looked down into the fireplace for a moment, then asked quietly, 'Is there someone whom you are trying to - that is, should I ask Madame Segovie -?'

Miss Summerfield shook her head. An expression of sadness crossed her face, quickly suppressed and turned into an ironic smile. 'I don't think Madame Segovie could find the people I'm looking for, Mrs Sutton.'

'Oh, I'm sure Madame Segovie could find anyone!'

exclaimed Carrie. She was standing by the window, one curtain in her hand, staring out at the damp November garden. 'She's such an expert, Benny - she knows all the best operators. And she doesn't make a fuss about it like some of them do. You know, all that ectoplasm. She says she doesn't need it. She's ever so clever! Why, last week at Mrs Fox's she found Charles and Daddy for me - and even Uncle Neville, and he's been dead for years! And Charles spoke to me, too, though he had to use Madame Segovie's voice.'

Mrs Sutton met Miss Summerfield's eyes, and they both gave the tiniest of smiles. Mrs Sutton felt better: the younger woman, for all her 'fantastic experiences', was clearly sceptical, and that might be no bad thing tonight.

'Well, you must stay for afternoon tea, then, Miss Summerfield,' she said.

'Thanks, I'd love it,' said the younger woman. 'I'll be much better prepared to meet the dead after a slice of madeira cake and a cup of Earl Grey.'

Manda came down to tea, which pleased Mrs Sutton. Her younger daughter had been looking pale and ill for the last few days, and had spent most of her time in bed, refusing to attend school. She still looked pale in her red dress, and she carried her ridiculous old teddy bear, Frederick, as if he would somehow defend her from growing up. Mrs Sutton occasionally thought of telling Manda that she was sixteen now, not a little girl any more, and too old to bring teddy bears to the tea table; but the girl had lost a brother and a father within a few months. She needed her defences, and Mrs Sutton wasn't about to take them away from her.

Manda plonked Frederick in the empty chair, as she always did, then sat down next to Benny who was already nibbling a slice of chocolate cake. Carrie, on her other side, was chattering to her young man, Roger, who had also been invited to tea and seance. He sat there in his bank clerk's suit, looking rather bored. Ginny, the maid, hovered in the background, in case anyone wanted more tea.

'Do you think they're all fakes?' asked Manda of Benny, suddenly and rather loudly, adding as if by way of apology, 'Carrie says you've been to an awful lot of seances.'

Benny glanced up at Mrs Sutton, who smiled slightly and raised her cup of tea to her lips, as an indication that the younger woman didn't have to worry about offending her and could say what she liked.

'Well, I don't think I can say that they're all fakes,' she said. 'Because I haven't seen them all. I think it's best to approach each session with an open mind.'

Manda nodded solemnly. 'Carrie believes all of it, don't you, Carrie?'

'I'm sorry, Manda? Oh - seances - yes, I think it's wonderful. Madame Segovie is ever so clever. Why, last week she spoke to - '

'Mummy doesn't believe it, do you, Mummy?' interrupted Manda.

Mrs Sutton thought about it for a moment, looked at Benny, who studiously concentrated on her slice of cake.

Carefully she said: 'I believe that Charles and Daddy are in the care of G.o.d. But whether Madame Segovie can speak to them whilst they are in His care, well, that's another matter. Like Miss Summerfield, I'm prepared to keep an open mind.'

'Quite,' said Roger. 'I agree, Mrs Sutton.'

Mrs Sutton glanced at him; he seemed perfectly sincere.

Was he still trying to impress her, as a potential son-inlaw?

She had thought he was getting tired of Carrie - most young men did after a few weeks. But perhaps his dull conventionality and her fluttering distractedness made a good combination at some level. Perhaps this time it would last.

Mrs Sutton hoped it would. Carrie would be happier married.

And there were so few young men left, after the war.

'I don't think you should keep an open mind at all,'

Manda was saying. 'Not when anyone can see she's a fake.'

She turned to Benny again. 'She kicks the table. I've seen her do it. She did it at Mrs Fox's last week, but n.o.body believed me when I told them.'

Benny grinned. 'Perhaps she just gets frustrated when the spirits don't want to talk to her.' She smiled and gestured at the teddy bear. 'May we be introduced?'

Mrs Sutton knew a change of subject when she heard one, and was duly grateful. Manda submitted gracefully enough, introducing Frederick and letting Benny shake paws.

Benny asked how old he was, which Mrs Sutton thought a rather ingenious question, since it led to more - whether he had a birthday, what presents he got, and so on. Manda was thoroughly distracted, and even began to get a little colour in her cheeks.

The child shouldn't be so morbid, thought Mrs Sutton.

But then she had been so fond of Charles, so shocked by his death just when she had been expecting him home any week - and then, when she had at last begun to recover from that, she had been the one to find her father's body, purple-faced, sprawled across the floor in the living-room.

Mrs Sutton could still hear her shouting, crying as she sat at the bottom of the stairs that dreadful night. 'There isn't any G.o.d! G.o.d wouldn't do this to us!'