A Whimsical Adventure - Part One
Title: A Whimsical Adventure
Characters: Nine, Rose, Lord Peter Wimsey
Author’s Notes: Written for the Hearts in Time Summer Adventure Ficathon. This tale takes, as its inspiration, the Peter Wimsey short story “The Image in the Mirror” by Dorothy L. Sayers. The short story is one of the few Wimsey tales I am not familiar with, but its premise is a fascinating one and, to avoid ruining the story, will be revealed at the end. The synopsis was just my starting point - everything that follows is my own invention.
Disclaimer: I do not own the BBC, Dr Who (sob) or Lord Peter Wimsey (sniff). No profit is made or intended from this story.
Part One
The TARDIS materialised on the smart street corner, her arrival fluttering the leaves of the trees augmenting the neat road, but finding nothing else to displace. This was an elegant address and litter was not permitted to linger on its pavements. Indeed, had it been able, the path would have tutted disapprovingly at the somewhat shabby blue box and would have positively recoiled from its occupants.
‘Where are we then?’
The treatment of the vowels betrayed that the feminine voice, though sweet, did not belong in this neighbourhood. The northern lilt of the male voice that, after a pause, responded, was even more out of place.
‘1931. London. Piccadilly.’
‘Cool.’
The door to the box swung inwards and, moments later, a small foot clad in a dainty shoe slipped onto the pavement. A well-turned ankle and shapely calf followed until, revealed in her well-turned out glory, was a petit blonde young woman. Her hair was neatly curled and contained beneath a cloche hat in a light pink felt that matched her shoes and bolero and harmonized with the subtle hue of her pleated, flared, skirt and delicately ruffled blouse. Despite the incongruity of her accent, she was the epitome of a fashionable and elegant young lady of independent means.
‘It’s dead posh,’ she observed.
As the young lady moved away from the box, a black booted, tall, imposing figure followed her. He sniffed at his surroundings with an air of displeasure, before turning his attention to his companion, his face softening into gentler lines.
‘Yeah. Toff’s neighbourhood.’
The young lady grinned and looped her arm through his, creating an incongruous picture.
‘So, what we here for then? Some nob lost his teddy?’
‘No idea. Want to go exploring?’
The girl grinned. ‘If I must!’
‘Fantastic!’
**********
Lord Peter Wimsey settled himself on the comfortable bar chair and accepted the luncheon menu from the dour waiter. He had intended to eat at home, but Bunter had informed him Cook was under the weather. That had left him either with his club, but Freddy was out of town and he was loath to cross London without the prospect of agreeable company, or with a suitable local establishment. Ease inclined him to the locality, the superb wine cellar inclined him to the Ritz Hotel. Sipping his Consommé Polonais, he decided that a light lunch was in order and that a terrine de Foie Gras, followed by devilled Sole would do him very well. He had no plans for the afternoon, however, and determined to reside for a little longer in the languid comfort of the antechamber, perusing his paper in peace, before moving to the dining room.
He was in the process of unfolding his paper when he was distracted by a swell of scandalised murmuring. Glancing up, he discovered a peculiar couple were making their way across the floor to the Maître de. The man was dressed in a most uncouth manner, much like a navvy, and yet his comportment was wholly confident. Whoever he was, he was manifestly not what he appeared. His feminine companion attested to that fact as clearly as the man’s arrogant stride - she was an exquisite example of her sex and dressed in what he judged to be entirely the latest fashion.
‘Good afternoon, sir.’ The hesitation was slight, but Lord Peter’s well honed ear caught it as, he suspected, had the prominent ear of the man to whom it had been addressed.
‘Hello! Two for lunch, please.’
Lord Peter was struck once more by the supreme confidence of the strangely attired man - it was not the confidence of misplaced pride or inflated self-worth, but an inbred certainty that, on the most instinctual level, provoked deference in those who heard it. Even the eldest sons of the oldest families in England failed to deliver requests with such certainty of obedience. Lord Peter folded his paper neatly, resting it across his knees, and directed his full attention at the couple before the Maître de.
‘Does sir have a reservation?’
‘Sir doesn’t need one. Got a table here whenever I want it, me.’
Lord Peter blinked as, in an aside to his companion, the gentleman appeared to refer to an infestation of Macra spawn.
‘I am afraid that we have a strict dress code. Perhaps if sir were to return with a suit and tie, one might be able to accommodate him, but…’
‘This is what I wear.’
‘Doctor, couldn’t we…?’
‘No! Told you, Rose, I don’t change. Wearing my best jumper, aren’t I? Honestly, you apes and your obsession with clothes! Must come from all that time you spent naked in trees.’
‘Doctor!’
‘Really, sir, I must insist…’
‘No, you really mustn’t.’ The tone was final and made Lord Peter sit up straighter even from a distance. As the master of ceremonies struggled to recover his courage, the gentleman produced what looked like a leather bill case and proffered it assertively. ‘Here, look, see - that’s me, this here is Rose, my plus one, and we have a table.’
In the face of the bill case, the Maître de’s demeanour shifted instantly, though almost imperceptibly, since he was a superbly trained specimen of his species. With a considerable deference that suggested nothing less than awe, he made a further half-hearted attempt to address the guest’s appalling breach of the dress code, muttering about ties and dress suits. It was to no avail. Lips twitching, Lord Peter acted on impulse and, with a spry motion his previous sprawl belied, he leapt up and made his way to the Maître de’s station.
‘What ho, Edward!’
The master of ceremonies’ face lit up, relief writ in the line of his shoulders, as Lord Peter drew level with the difficult guests.
‘Lord Wimsey!’
‘Could not help but overhear, what? Wondered if these fine people might like to join me in the private room, if the dining room is packed for luncheon?’ Lord Peter turned his attention to the towering figure of the strange gentleman and his petit and delightful escort. ‘Might that be agreeable to you?’
‘That would be lovely, thank you!’ It was the young lady who answered him, earning a somewhat irritated, if indulgent, glance from her male friend.
‘Capital! The Wimborne Room, Edward?’ With a solemn nod, the Maître de confirmed Lord Peter’s assumption and gestured for a waiter to escort them hence.
Deciding that lunch out was turning into a fine piece of entertainment, Lord Peter let his new guests precede him and prepared himself for the admirable aid to digestion that unsolicited adventure always promised to offer.
*************
Rose grinned, squeezing the Doctor’s hand excitedly as the waiter retreated, leaving them and their unexpected ally alone with their menus. There might be a singular absence of threat or menace, but right at this moment she couldn’t care less - they were at the Ritz, about to have a fancy lunch and she was loving it. She hadn’t thought that they would get in, not with the Doctor looking like - well, not posh - but he’d whipped out his physic paper and that Lord had appeared and voila, they were being ushered to a private room like they were royalty or something. She didn’t know what the paper had declared them to be, but whatever it was, it transcended the instinctive rejection the Doctor’s appearance prompted.
Still, she reckoned things might have got a bit more awkward if it hadn’t been for the small, thin, sandy haired man who had intervened. The Doctor had been building up to being awkward, getting that stubborn look about his jaw that never augured well, and she suspected that Lord Wimsey’s arrival had prevented some shouting and, quite possibly, a bit of arm waving too.
Of course, the Doctor didn’t seem nearly as pleased as she was. In fact, he looked a bit put out - for a man who flew about in an impossible blue box and saved the Universe before breakfast, he really didn’t like his thunder being stolen. Positively sulky about not getting to show off, he was. With a grin, she reached for his hand, drawing his brooding attention back to her and her total delight in the present situation.
Lord Peter watched, intrigued, as his guests settled into their seats, watched as they shifted closer to one another, as their eyes met and their hands entwined briefly atop the tablecloth. He felt a tug within him, a thud of hollowness; Harriet persisted in her refusal and, in observing this couple, what he was denied seemed all the more potent. They were so closely matched, so superbly in sync, like a fine wine with a well cooked meal, each enhanced by the other, the subtleties, the brilliance, of the one only truly revealed by its marriage with the other.
His sigh drew the attention of the young woman who, self-consciously, abandoned her companion’s hand and turned to him.
‘Hello! I’m Rose and this is the Doctor.’
Lord Peter smiled benignly. ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance. I am Peter, Peter Wimsey. Might I enquire, sir, a doctor of what?’
‘Just Doctor.’
‘Ah. How original! My parents were similarly minded, though at least they had the grace to not give my Christian name as Death!’
Rose snorted indelicately, ‘Death?’
‘Indeed. Lord Peter Death Bredon Wimsey at your service my dear. Beastly, isn’t is?’
Rose nodded. ‘So you’re a real Lord then?’
‘I regret so - but please, do not judge me too harshly. Young ladies, these days, I know are not at impressed by such lineage, but in my defence, I am only the second son.’
The Doctor frowned. ‘Wimsey. Wimsey. Ah, I remember, Gerald de Wimsey - nice bloke. Funny. Met him at the Siege of Acre. You don’t look a bit like him!’
With the impeccable manners of a gentleman used to polite, aristocratic, society, Lord Peter chose to ignore the Doctor’s strange assertion to be personally acquainted with his twelve century ancestor. With a gentle smile - the same one he reserved for his batty great aunt - he focused instead on that which etiquette sanctioned him to comment.
‘It is my long neck, what? We Wimsey’s would never have survived all those frightful monarchical head choppings had my forebears been similarly constructed. The sense of humour, though, I will lay a claim too - it is in the blood. The family motto is As My Wimsey Takes Me, and I am not in the least ashamed to say, we frequently do!’
Rose giggled kindly and Lord Peter gazed at her benevolently, his grey eyes soft. Harriet, he thought, would not laugh with him. At him, maybe, but with him, not. With a sigh, he forced himself to return his attention to his lunch guests - there was no purpose to be had in maudlin introspection.
‘Yeah, well, very interesting. That your paper? Mind if I borrow it?’ Without waiting for an answer, the Doctor reached across and plucked Lord Peter’s newspaper from its resting place at the edge of the table.
‘Doctor!’ Rose slapped the Doctor’s arm and shrugged at Lord Peter apologetically. ‘Sorry. He’s a stranger to manners, I’m afraid.’
Lord Peter, however, was no longer paying Rose any regard. Instead, his gaze was arrested by the article adorning the lower half of the front page.
‘Hullo!’ exclaimed the Lord Peter reading the paper, ‘that’s uncommonly ripe, I must say!’
The Doctor lowered the paper and glared over the top of it. ‘I’m borrowing it. You can have it back in a minute.’
‘I don’t think he’s talking about you, Doctor!’ Rose scolded. ‘Lord Wimsey, what is it?’
‘Do call me Peter, my dear. Silly name, I know, but we always have a Peter, after the third duke. Still, one has to make the best of it.’
The Doctor cleared his throat meaningfully.
‘I digress. Terribly remise about coming to the point - it’s a flaw, I’m afraid. I beg your pardon, it’s just I have had rather a shock. You see, that man there, I met him and I fear now I may have underestimated his yarn!’
The Doctor flipped the paper over and turned his attention to the article in question.
‘Gruesome Murderer arrested,’ the article declared.
Frowning, the Doctor read the text aloud.
‘Mr Edward Cornwall is today in custody after a daring arrest in the East End late last night. Mr Cornwall is suspected of perpetrating the three murders that horrified the quiet village of Belchamp Otton, near Sudbury. A witness to the last murder positively identified Mr Cornwall as the assailant, resulting in Mr Cornwall going on the run. He was run to ground in the East End, his clothes, by eye witness accounts, still caked in the blood of his last victim. Police are to be congratulated on the swift apprehension of this cold blooded killer.’ The Doctor put paper down in front of him and looked up at Lord Peter. ‘You met him?’
‘Yes. I was travelling to stay with a chum at his country house and stopped off at a local inn for the night. Cornwall accosted me there. He was an uncommonly strange fellow, quite beside himself. Took me for a father confessor or some such, no doubt. Nothing more tiresome than a bore over dinner. Puts a man off his food, a confounded nuisance. But, as Bunter would say, noblesse oblige.’
The Doctor huffed impatiently. ‘Gonna skirt round that point until pudding, are you?’
Lord Wimsey adjusted his monocle, but retained his impeccable manners. ‘Ah. Terribly indecorous of me to digress, I do apologise.’ Leaning forward slightly, he plucked the newspaper from before the Doctor hands and lay it flat on the table, contemplating the grainy photograph that had so arrested his attention. He tapped the photo thoughtfully, recalling his meeting with the accused man.
‘He spoke to me on account of my reading matter - Mr Well’s, as it happens. It was a fantastical tale about a man blown into an alternate fourth dimension from which he returned inverted - all his organs rearranged. Seems Cornwall had himself read the story and was convinced that the self same thing had happened to him! He was quite persistent, but it sounded so unlikely.’
At the word dimension, the Doctor sat up a little straighter and his eyes darkened. It was Rose, however, who questioned Lord Peter.
‘What made him think he’d been sucked into another dimension?’
Lord Peter shook his head slowly, his expression incredulous at the memory. ‘He insisted his organs were the wrong way round. Said he was left handed, where he used to be right. I confess I paid him little mind. At any rate, it seemed to me he confused his authors - he claimed he was suffering black outs and feared he was committing terrible crimes, and that is Stevenson’s Hyde, not Wells at all!’ Lord Wimsey hummed regretfully, his grey eyes guilt filled. ‘He’d been too much at the sherry and I am pained to admit I dismissed him from my thoughts, but now, I see, it would appear that I was at fault!’
‘You couldn’t have known!’ Rose exclaimed softly, reaching out instinctively to cover Lord Peter’s hand, where it rested over the photo of Edward Cornwall. Lord Wimsey looked at Rose was some little surprise, before smiling beatifically.
‘Thank you! Your charity does my heart good, but it can not absolve me. He was a fellow veteran and I should have paid more heed.’ For a moment, Lord Peter’s face fell into pained lines and Rose was struck by how little like the hedonistic aristocrat he suddenly appeared. His eyes reminded her of the Doctor’s, filled with memory and sorrow, until he blinked and settled his face into a more leisurely arrangement.
The Doctor observed him closely. ‘Did he strike you as a murderer?’ he asked baldly.
Lord Wimsey contemplated the Doctor seriously, before shaking his head slightly. ‘No, no he did not.’
‘Good enough. I’ve heard of you. Not quite as stupid as the rest of your lot. Seen the odd murder in your time. Solved a few.’
‘I have had occasion to render some small assistance to the police.’
‘No need to be coy about it!’ the Doctor snapped. ‘Famous, he is, Rose. Amateur sleuth as well as man about town. Not as brilliant as old Sherlock, but not bad.’
‘For a human?’ Rose hazarded and the Doctor grinned.
‘Yeah. But not to worry, we’re on the case now. So, your Lordship, what do you think?’
Lord Peter, who had being trying to make sense of his lunch guests’ strange conversation, blinked and determined that, as with conversations with his indomitable mother, it was best to ignore that which was beyond one and concentrate on the small fragments of good sense one could discern.
‘I think, perhaps, that it is from Stevenson we should draw our inspiration.’
‘A twin?’ the Doctor asked.
‘A twin,’ Lord Peter confirmed. ‘There have been experiments with salamander eggs, demonstrating that mirror image twins are a veritable fact.’
‘Claptrap!’ the Doctor opinioned loudly, sending the waiter, who was returning to take their order, scuttling back into the shady recesses of the room, much to the disappointment of Rose’s stomach.
‘Can’t it happen?’ Rose asked.
The Doctor rolled his eyes. ‘Of course it can happen, Rose! Situs inversus, it's called - the organs of the chest and abdomen are arranged in a perfect mirror image reversal of the normal position. It’s incredibly rare, though, and one thing it doesn’t do? Doesn’t cause blackouts or homicidal mania!’
‘So not an evil twin, then?’ Rose queried softly.
‘Oi, didn’t say that, did I?’
‘If I might ask, sir, what is it you are suggesting?’
Rose smirked at Lord Peter’s polite, but rather mordant, enquiry, her smile broadening to a full blown grin at the Doctor’s expression as he realised his intended rant on the stupidity of humans had been forestalled.
‘Don’t know yet! Lots of things it could be. But whatever it is, the answer isn’t in fiction. We need facts, not that sci-fi nonsense!’
‘You are with me on this lark, then? Golly decent of you, I must say. Might I suggest we engage in repast and discuss our plan of action?’
‘We?’ the Doctor began.
‘Lovely!’ agreed Rose, casting the Doctor a quelling glare. The Doctor subsided with a grunt and something that sounded like ‘human metabolisms’. Lord Peter smiled and gestured for the waiter. He felt he had quite earned his terrine and was inclined to push the boat out and stretch himself to a dessert and a brandy. If one was to have an adventure, it was much better born on a full stomach.
Part Two
Characters: Nine, Rose, Lord Peter Wimsey
Author’s Notes: Written for the Hearts in Time Summer Adventure Ficathon. This tale takes, as its inspiration, the Peter Wimsey short story “The Image in the Mirror” by Dorothy L. Sayers. The short story is one of the few Wimsey tales I am not familiar with, but its premise is a fascinating one and, to avoid ruining the story, will be revealed at the end. The synopsis was just my starting point - everything that follows is my own invention.
Disclaimer: I do not own the BBC, Dr Who (sob) or Lord Peter Wimsey (sniff). No profit is made or intended from this story.
Part One
The TARDIS materialised on the smart street corner, her arrival fluttering the leaves of the trees augmenting the neat road, but finding nothing else to displace. This was an elegant address and litter was not permitted to linger on its pavements. Indeed, had it been able, the path would have tutted disapprovingly at the somewhat shabby blue box and would have positively recoiled from its occupants.
‘Where are we then?’
The treatment of the vowels betrayed that the feminine voice, though sweet, did not belong in this neighbourhood. The northern lilt of the male voice that, after a pause, responded, was even more out of place.
‘1931. London. Piccadilly.’
‘Cool.’
The door to the box swung inwards and, moments later, a small foot clad in a dainty shoe slipped onto the pavement. A well-turned ankle and shapely calf followed until, revealed in her well-turned out glory, was a petit blonde young woman. Her hair was neatly curled and contained beneath a cloche hat in a light pink felt that matched her shoes and bolero and harmonized with the subtle hue of her pleated, flared, skirt and delicately ruffled blouse. Despite the incongruity of her accent, she was the epitome of a fashionable and elegant young lady of independent means.
‘It’s dead posh,’ she observed.
As the young lady moved away from the box, a black booted, tall, imposing figure followed her. He sniffed at his surroundings with an air of displeasure, before turning his attention to his companion, his face softening into gentler lines.
‘Yeah. Toff’s neighbourhood.’
The young lady grinned and looped her arm through his, creating an incongruous picture.
‘So, what we here for then? Some nob lost his teddy?’
‘No idea. Want to go exploring?’
The girl grinned. ‘If I must!’
‘Fantastic!’
**********
Lord Peter Wimsey settled himself on the comfortable bar chair and accepted the luncheon menu from the dour waiter. He had intended to eat at home, but Bunter had informed him Cook was under the weather. That had left him either with his club, but Freddy was out of town and he was loath to cross London without the prospect of agreeable company, or with a suitable local establishment. Ease inclined him to the locality, the superb wine cellar inclined him to the Ritz Hotel. Sipping his Consommé Polonais, he decided that a light lunch was in order and that a terrine de Foie Gras, followed by devilled Sole would do him very well. He had no plans for the afternoon, however, and determined to reside for a little longer in the languid comfort of the antechamber, perusing his paper in peace, before moving to the dining room.
He was in the process of unfolding his paper when he was distracted by a swell of scandalised murmuring. Glancing up, he discovered a peculiar couple were making their way across the floor to the Maître de. The man was dressed in a most uncouth manner, much like a navvy, and yet his comportment was wholly confident. Whoever he was, he was manifestly not what he appeared. His feminine companion attested to that fact as clearly as the man’s arrogant stride - she was an exquisite example of her sex and dressed in what he judged to be entirely the latest fashion.
‘Good afternoon, sir.’ The hesitation was slight, but Lord Peter’s well honed ear caught it as, he suspected, had the prominent ear of the man to whom it had been addressed.
‘Hello! Two for lunch, please.’
Lord Peter was struck once more by the supreme confidence of the strangely attired man - it was not the confidence of misplaced pride or inflated self-worth, but an inbred certainty that, on the most instinctual level, provoked deference in those who heard it. Even the eldest sons of the oldest families in England failed to deliver requests with such certainty of obedience. Lord Peter folded his paper neatly, resting it across his knees, and directed his full attention at the couple before the Maître de.
‘Does sir have a reservation?’
‘Sir doesn’t need one. Got a table here whenever I want it, me.’
Lord Peter blinked as, in an aside to his companion, the gentleman appeared to refer to an infestation of Macra spawn.
‘I am afraid that we have a strict dress code. Perhaps if sir were to return with a suit and tie, one might be able to accommodate him, but…’
‘This is what I wear.’
‘Doctor, couldn’t we…?’
‘No! Told you, Rose, I don’t change. Wearing my best jumper, aren’t I? Honestly, you apes and your obsession with clothes! Must come from all that time you spent naked in trees.’
‘Doctor!’
‘Really, sir, I must insist…’
‘No, you really mustn’t.’ The tone was final and made Lord Peter sit up straighter even from a distance. As the master of ceremonies struggled to recover his courage, the gentleman produced what looked like a leather bill case and proffered it assertively. ‘Here, look, see - that’s me, this here is Rose, my plus one, and we have a table.’
In the face of the bill case, the Maître de’s demeanour shifted instantly, though almost imperceptibly, since he was a superbly trained specimen of his species. With a considerable deference that suggested nothing less than awe, he made a further half-hearted attempt to address the guest’s appalling breach of the dress code, muttering about ties and dress suits. It was to no avail. Lips twitching, Lord Peter acted on impulse and, with a spry motion his previous sprawl belied, he leapt up and made his way to the Maître de’s station.
‘What ho, Edward!’
The master of ceremonies’ face lit up, relief writ in the line of his shoulders, as Lord Peter drew level with the difficult guests.
‘Lord Wimsey!’
‘Could not help but overhear, what? Wondered if these fine people might like to join me in the private room, if the dining room is packed for luncheon?’ Lord Peter turned his attention to the towering figure of the strange gentleman and his petit and delightful escort. ‘Might that be agreeable to you?’
‘That would be lovely, thank you!’ It was the young lady who answered him, earning a somewhat irritated, if indulgent, glance from her male friend.
‘Capital! The Wimborne Room, Edward?’ With a solemn nod, the Maître de confirmed Lord Peter’s assumption and gestured for a waiter to escort them hence.
Deciding that lunch out was turning into a fine piece of entertainment, Lord Peter let his new guests precede him and prepared himself for the admirable aid to digestion that unsolicited adventure always promised to offer.
*************
Rose grinned, squeezing the Doctor’s hand excitedly as the waiter retreated, leaving them and their unexpected ally alone with their menus. There might be a singular absence of threat or menace, but right at this moment she couldn’t care less - they were at the Ritz, about to have a fancy lunch and she was loving it. She hadn’t thought that they would get in, not with the Doctor looking like - well, not posh - but he’d whipped out his physic paper and that Lord had appeared and voila, they were being ushered to a private room like they were royalty or something. She didn’t know what the paper had declared them to be, but whatever it was, it transcended the instinctive rejection the Doctor’s appearance prompted.
Still, she reckoned things might have got a bit more awkward if it hadn’t been for the small, thin, sandy haired man who had intervened. The Doctor had been building up to being awkward, getting that stubborn look about his jaw that never augured well, and she suspected that Lord Wimsey’s arrival had prevented some shouting and, quite possibly, a bit of arm waving too.
Of course, the Doctor didn’t seem nearly as pleased as she was. In fact, he looked a bit put out - for a man who flew about in an impossible blue box and saved the Universe before breakfast, he really didn’t like his thunder being stolen. Positively sulky about not getting to show off, he was. With a grin, she reached for his hand, drawing his brooding attention back to her and her total delight in the present situation.
Lord Peter watched, intrigued, as his guests settled into their seats, watched as they shifted closer to one another, as their eyes met and their hands entwined briefly atop the tablecloth. He felt a tug within him, a thud of hollowness; Harriet persisted in her refusal and, in observing this couple, what he was denied seemed all the more potent. They were so closely matched, so superbly in sync, like a fine wine with a well cooked meal, each enhanced by the other, the subtleties, the brilliance, of the one only truly revealed by its marriage with the other.
His sigh drew the attention of the young woman who, self-consciously, abandoned her companion’s hand and turned to him.
‘Hello! I’m Rose and this is the Doctor.’
Lord Peter smiled benignly. ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance. I am Peter, Peter Wimsey. Might I enquire, sir, a doctor of what?’
‘Just Doctor.’
‘Ah. How original! My parents were similarly minded, though at least they had the grace to not give my Christian name as Death!’
Rose snorted indelicately, ‘Death?’
‘Indeed. Lord Peter Death Bredon Wimsey at your service my dear. Beastly, isn’t is?’
Rose nodded. ‘So you’re a real Lord then?’
‘I regret so - but please, do not judge me too harshly. Young ladies, these days, I know are not at impressed by such lineage, but in my defence, I am only the second son.’
The Doctor frowned. ‘Wimsey. Wimsey. Ah, I remember, Gerald de Wimsey - nice bloke. Funny. Met him at the Siege of Acre. You don’t look a bit like him!’
With the impeccable manners of a gentleman used to polite, aristocratic, society, Lord Peter chose to ignore the Doctor’s strange assertion to be personally acquainted with his twelve century ancestor. With a gentle smile - the same one he reserved for his batty great aunt - he focused instead on that which etiquette sanctioned him to comment.
‘It is my long neck, what? We Wimsey’s would never have survived all those frightful monarchical head choppings had my forebears been similarly constructed. The sense of humour, though, I will lay a claim too - it is in the blood. The family motto is As My Wimsey Takes Me, and I am not in the least ashamed to say, we frequently do!’
Rose giggled kindly and Lord Peter gazed at her benevolently, his grey eyes soft. Harriet, he thought, would not laugh with him. At him, maybe, but with him, not. With a sigh, he forced himself to return his attention to his lunch guests - there was no purpose to be had in maudlin introspection.
‘Yeah, well, very interesting. That your paper? Mind if I borrow it?’ Without waiting for an answer, the Doctor reached across and plucked Lord Peter’s newspaper from its resting place at the edge of the table.
‘Doctor!’ Rose slapped the Doctor’s arm and shrugged at Lord Peter apologetically. ‘Sorry. He’s a stranger to manners, I’m afraid.’
Lord Peter, however, was no longer paying Rose any regard. Instead, his gaze was arrested by the article adorning the lower half of the front page.
‘Hullo!’ exclaimed the Lord Peter reading the paper, ‘that’s uncommonly ripe, I must say!’
The Doctor lowered the paper and glared over the top of it. ‘I’m borrowing it. You can have it back in a minute.’
‘I don’t think he’s talking about you, Doctor!’ Rose scolded. ‘Lord Wimsey, what is it?’
‘Do call me Peter, my dear. Silly name, I know, but we always have a Peter, after the third duke. Still, one has to make the best of it.’
The Doctor cleared his throat meaningfully.
‘I digress. Terribly remise about coming to the point - it’s a flaw, I’m afraid. I beg your pardon, it’s just I have had rather a shock. You see, that man there, I met him and I fear now I may have underestimated his yarn!’
The Doctor flipped the paper over and turned his attention to the article in question.
‘Gruesome Murderer arrested,’ the article declared.
Frowning, the Doctor read the text aloud.
‘Mr Edward Cornwall is today in custody after a daring arrest in the East End late last night. Mr Cornwall is suspected of perpetrating the three murders that horrified the quiet village of Belchamp Otton, near Sudbury. A witness to the last murder positively identified Mr Cornwall as the assailant, resulting in Mr Cornwall going on the run. He was run to ground in the East End, his clothes, by eye witness accounts, still caked in the blood of his last victim. Police are to be congratulated on the swift apprehension of this cold blooded killer.’ The Doctor put paper down in front of him and looked up at Lord Peter. ‘You met him?’
‘Yes. I was travelling to stay with a chum at his country house and stopped off at a local inn for the night. Cornwall accosted me there. He was an uncommonly strange fellow, quite beside himself. Took me for a father confessor or some such, no doubt. Nothing more tiresome than a bore over dinner. Puts a man off his food, a confounded nuisance. But, as Bunter would say, noblesse oblige.’
The Doctor huffed impatiently. ‘Gonna skirt round that point until pudding, are you?’
Lord Wimsey adjusted his monocle, but retained his impeccable manners. ‘Ah. Terribly indecorous of me to digress, I do apologise.’ Leaning forward slightly, he plucked the newspaper from before the Doctor hands and lay it flat on the table, contemplating the grainy photograph that had so arrested his attention. He tapped the photo thoughtfully, recalling his meeting with the accused man.
‘He spoke to me on account of my reading matter - Mr Well’s, as it happens. It was a fantastical tale about a man blown into an alternate fourth dimension from which he returned inverted - all his organs rearranged. Seems Cornwall had himself read the story and was convinced that the self same thing had happened to him! He was quite persistent, but it sounded so unlikely.’
At the word dimension, the Doctor sat up a little straighter and his eyes darkened. It was Rose, however, who questioned Lord Peter.
‘What made him think he’d been sucked into another dimension?’
Lord Peter shook his head slowly, his expression incredulous at the memory. ‘He insisted his organs were the wrong way round. Said he was left handed, where he used to be right. I confess I paid him little mind. At any rate, it seemed to me he confused his authors - he claimed he was suffering black outs and feared he was committing terrible crimes, and that is Stevenson’s Hyde, not Wells at all!’ Lord Wimsey hummed regretfully, his grey eyes guilt filled. ‘He’d been too much at the sherry and I am pained to admit I dismissed him from my thoughts, but now, I see, it would appear that I was at fault!’
‘You couldn’t have known!’ Rose exclaimed softly, reaching out instinctively to cover Lord Peter’s hand, where it rested over the photo of Edward Cornwall. Lord Wimsey looked at Rose was some little surprise, before smiling beatifically.
‘Thank you! Your charity does my heart good, but it can not absolve me. He was a fellow veteran and I should have paid more heed.’ For a moment, Lord Peter’s face fell into pained lines and Rose was struck by how little like the hedonistic aristocrat he suddenly appeared. His eyes reminded her of the Doctor’s, filled with memory and sorrow, until he blinked and settled his face into a more leisurely arrangement.
The Doctor observed him closely. ‘Did he strike you as a murderer?’ he asked baldly.
Lord Wimsey contemplated the Doctor seriously, before shaking his head slightly. ‘No, no he did not.’
‘Good enough. I’ve heard of you. Not quite as stupid as the rest of your lot. Seen the odd murder in your time. Solved a few.’
‘I have had occasion to render some small assistance to the police.’
‘No need to be coy about it!’ the Doctor snapped. ‘Famous, he is, Rose. Amateur sleuth as well as man about town. Not as brilliant as old Sherlock, but not bad.’
‘For a human?’ Rose hazarded and the Doctor grinned.
‘Yeah. But not to worry, we’re on the case now. So, your Lordship, what do you think?’
Lord Peter, who had being trying to make sense of his lunch guests’ strange conversation, blinked and determined that, as with conversations with his indomitable mother, it was best to ignore that which was beyond one and concentrate on the small fragments of good sense one could discern.
‘I think, perhaps, that it is from Stevenson we should draw our inspiration.’
‘A twin?’ the Doctor asked.
‘A twin,’ Lord Peter confirmed. ‘There have been experiments with salamander eggs, demonstrating that mirror image twins are a veritable fact.’
‘Claptrap!’ the Doctor opinioned loudly, sending the waiter, who was returning to take their order, scuttling back into the shady recesses of the room, much to the disappointment of Rose’s stomach.
‘Can’t it happen?’ Rose asked.
The Doctor rolled his eyes. ‘Of course it can happen, Rose! Situs inversus, it's called - the organs of the chest and abdomen are arranged in a perfect mirror image reversal of the normal position. It’s incredibly rare, though, and one thing it doesn’t do? Doesn’t cause blackouts or homicidal mania!’
‘So not an evil twin, then?’ Rose queried softly.
‘Oi, didn’t say that, did I?’
‘If I might ask, sir, what is it you are suggesting?’
Rose smirked at Lord Peter’s polite, but rather mordant, enquiry, her smile broadening to a full blown grin at the Doctor’s expression as he realised his intended rant on the stupidity of humans had been forestalled.
‘Don’t know yet! Lots of things it could be. But whatever it is, the answer isn’t in fiction. We need facts, not that sci-fi nonsense!’
‘You are with me on this lark, then? Golly decent of you, I must say. Might I suggest we engage in repast and discuss our plan of action?’
‘We?’ the Doctor began.
‘Lovely!’ agreed Rose, casting the Doctor a quelling glare. The Doctor subsided with a grunt and something that sounded like ‘human metabolisms’. Lord Peter smiled and gestured for the waiter. He felt he had quite earned his terrine and was inclined to push the boat out and stretch himself to a dessert and a brandy. If one was to have an adventure, it was much better born on a full stomach.
Part Two