Doctor Who: The Mark of the Rani Read Free Page B

seemed to be wrong at the bath house as the tired but cheery Tim Bass, a scarf jauntily wound about his forehead, paid the old crone.
    ‘We’re not last, Granma. T’others’ll be along when emptied Tobys.’
    Ushering the three miners inside, she looked again in the direction the dray took... then peered along the street in the opposite direction. A moment’s consideration...
    before following Tim Bass in.
    What was she looking for? And why? The expression on her wrinkled face boded more than idle curiosity.
    The answer did not come until the door slammed firmly shut. A floppy-brimmed hat was cast onto the mud. Wisps of discarded straw floated on the breeze. From the shelter of an adjacent alley came the scarecrow. Gone were the ragged labourer’s jacket, tattered trousers and dirt-stained shirt. Now he wore a black velvet frock-coat with a silver encrusted collar and velvet trousers to match. His hair was carefully combed, his black beard and moustache elegantly trimmed. For this was the Master, the Doctor’s implacable enemy.
    Fastidiously brushing the last vestiges of chaff from his sleeve, he gazed at the bath house. A sardonic smile stretched his lips at the sound of the bolt being thrust home.
     
    ‘Primitive. An insult.’ The smile faded. ‘But first things first. I’ve a death to arrange.’ He strode purpose-fully off in pursuit of the Doctor.
    ‘What’ve they got in there? Coal, or diamonds?’ Peri’s remark was justified. A guard, flintlock pistol tucked in his belt, was at the pit entrance. Straining at the leash, fangs bared, his dog snarled a challenge to all intruders.
    ‘Machinery, Peri. More specifically, George Stephenson.
    And he’s–’
    ‘You told me. One of the architects of the Industrial Revolution.’
    ‘And I didn’t exaggerate. Without his genius, your precious twentieth century would be a much sorrier place.’
    The pit gave the impression of being a fortress protected by strategically positioned armed sentries.
    ‘We have to get past, Peri.’
    ‘Easier said... That dog doesn’t look as though it’s been fed today!’
    In typical fashion, deciding to brazen his way in, and giving his pink lapel a confident tug, the Doctor strutted forward.
    ‘Oy! Where dost think tha’s going?’ The guard lengthened the leash and the dog leapt ferociously, jaws snapping.
    ‘To see George Stephenson. Can you tell me where he’ll be?’
    The Doctor’s bluff cut no ice with the guard. It would be jeopardising his job to disobey orders. And there could be little doubt what they were!
    ‘No-one gets in here without a pass.’
    ‘My dear man, a pass? I am a VIP.’ Autocratic as ever.
    But useless.
    ‘If tha be here for t’meeting, tha’d have special pass.’
    Meeting? The Doctor’s curiosity was aroused. What meeting could the man be blathering about?
    Resignedly accepting that once launched on a course of action the Doctor was unstoppable, Peri adopted the role of mediator. ‘We’ve been travelling. The pass obviously never reached us.’
    The guard remained obdurate. ‘Then tha’s name will be on’t list.’ He consulted a clipboard which the Doctor instantly commandeered. ‘James Watt, Thomas Telford, Michael Faraday, Humphrey Davy,’ he read aloud. ‘Good heavens, Peri, d’vou recognise these names?’
    Peri did. She’d learned about them in school. All of them. This was a period in England when genius seemed to bloom. ‘I’m not totally illiterate! What’s the noun for a collection of geniuses? A bevy?’
    ‘An inspiration, perhaps? I don’t know. But I do know the men who will be at this meeting transformed history.’
    The guard had had enough of their nonsense. He snatched the sheet. ‘Is tha name on’t list?’
    ‘An oversight.’
    ‘Oh, aye. A genius too, art tha?’
    ‘Indeed I am.’ Modesty was not one of the Doctor’s virtues. ‘I’m also an inventor.’ He waggled the tracer under the guard’s nose. The dog growled.
    More afraid of the