Doctor Who: The Massacre Read Free

looked to his right at the imposing square building that stood on its own not far from the Seine.
    ‘The Louvre, the King’s council chamber and the first important covered market in France,’ he observed. ‘It’s worth a visit.’ Then he paused briefly.
    ‘Yes?’ Steven asked.
    ‘No new bridge to the island yet. That’s why it was called le Pont Neuf , he added, ‘and started in 1578 by the King, Henri III.’
    ‘So that puts us in the decade 67 to 77,’ Steven remarked, smiling as the Doctor mopped his brow, ‘on a midsummer’s day.’
    ‘A draught of chilled white wine wouldn’t be amiss,’ the Doctor replied, ‘and there’s bound to be several inns on the far side of the bridge.’
    Once again they made their way among the bustling throng, being pushed and squeezed to one side as a coach with a liveried driver and a coat-of-arms emblazoned on its doors forced a path through to the island. But once on the other side of the river the crowd dispersed among the streets leading away from the bridge.
    ‘There’s one,’ Steven said as he pointed to a sign with the name Auberge du Pont Romain hanging on the wall of a building with benches and tables outside where people stood or sat, drinking and chatting. ‘Why the Roman Bridge Inn?’ he asked.
    ‘Because the Romans built the original bridge,’ the Doctor replied, ‘though they didn’t put up any houses.
    They’re relatively recent, late fifteenth, early sixteerith century.’
    ‘You seem to know French history like the back of your hand, Doctor,’ Steven sounded slightly irked.
    ‘This period intrigues me,’ the Doctor said enigmatically as they went inside.
    The main room of the inn took up the entire ground floor of the building. In opposing walls were several leaded windows with tables of varying sizes with benches or chairs spaced out across the floor. In front of the third wall stood the wooden bar behind which were casks of wine sitting on their sides in cradles, each one tapped. Set in the other wall was a wide fireplace with a mantle, in the centre of which hung a centurion’s helmet with Roman spears and sheathed stabbing swords on either side. The ceiling was low with heavy beams and in one corner a staircase led to the rooms above. Almost all of the customers were outside with only a few grouped around the bar over which presided an aging, tall, cadaverous, balding landlord in black breeches, hose, blouse and apron, who only spoke in half-whispers.
    ‘Your pleasure, gentlemen?’ he murmured as the Doctor and Steven approached the bar. The Doctor glanced briefly at Steven before replying.
    ‘Two goblets of a light white burgundy, as chilled as is possible,’ the Doctor replied.
    ‘That’ll be from the cask in the cellar,’ the landlord muttered, ‘as cool a place as you will find on these hot-headed August days. The lad will fetch some up,’ he added and turned to the eleven-year-old boy who was dressed identically to his master. After a brief whispered order the boy lifted the trapdoor in one corner of the bar floor and disappeared from view.
    ‘Now we have the month,’ Steven remarked while the Doctor studied the group of young men who sat around a table. Everything about them, except for one, exuded social position and money, their clothes, their knee boots, their swords, their rosetted or feathered hats and, above all, their nonchalant air.
    The Doctor grunted, ‘Young bloods, they’re always the same anywhere, anytime.’
    ‘Not him,’ Steven pointed to the odd man out whose clothes and attitude were less flamboyant than the others.
    ‘He’s employed by one of them, possibly as a secretary, and, what’s more, I don’t think he’s French,’ the Doctor replied, ‘he doesn’t look it. More German, I’d say.’
    One of the young men looked at his companions. ‘Are your glasses charged, my friends?’ he asked and without waiting for a reply called to the landlord for another carafe of wine. ‘We’ll make a