fanfic | doctor who | the haymarket precedent (M) - chapter 2/5
Title: The Haymarket Precedent 2/5 (this chapter: 4,185)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Series: Interaction Locations
Characters: Rose Tyler, the Doctor (eighth)
Rating: M - violence|romance|adult concepts
Spoilers: This is a sequel to The Sky On Fire and also has potential spoilers for DW series 4, EDAs and Big Finish Audios
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Betas: No betas ... urk.
Teaspoon: As with most of my fic, this series can also be read on A Teaspoon and an Open Mind, if you prefer.
The Haymarket Precedent - Backstage Antics
This time, when Rose stepped out of the TARDIS, the fresh mildness of an English summer evening did little to lift her spirits. No joy had come of selecting her light cotton dress, or the awkward poses necessary to lace and button herself into it alone. All it did was serve to remind her how different things had been the last time they were in Westminster, nearly six months ago, local time. For them, a little more than a week had passed, and yet so much had happened. Trust betrayed and faith broken.
When the Doctor stepped clear of the doors this time, he didn't take her hand. Instead, he glanced at her coolly and tilted his head towards the nearby street. They'd landed in the gardens again.
Rose clasped her hands in front of her and walked with bowed head. To an observer of the period, she no doubt looked suitably modest. Inside she was tumultuous mess. In her pocket, the cool weight of a sonic screwdriver tapped against her thigh in time with the sway of her steps. The feeling brought fresh tears to her eyes. She blinked them away angrily.
The Doctor hailed a cab and pointedly opened the door for her. She took his proffered hand to negotiate the folding steps. It supported hers like an inanimate object. She caught his eyes on her as she ducked inside and he smiled easily - a smooth impersonation of the way they were together.
He gave the driver directions and settled in beside her. Rose toyed with the worn trim that lined the window. "We don't have to stay," she said quietly. "If you don't want to."
He raised his eyebrows. "You made a dinner appointment."
"I know, but ... we're already six months late."
He just tilted his head at her, the picture of indifference. He gave her no opening, no softening, no opportunity to explore the dangerous territory that now lay between them.
She swallowed and looked at the floor "I just want things to be normal."
"The way they used to be?" He smiled sadly and glanced out the window. "I'm afraid that's one law of time even I can't break. There's no going back." His expression had lost some of its indifference, but it was far from warm. "There's no going back for any of us."
Rose felt her cheeks burn, having picked up on his double meaning easily enough. "So what do we do now?"
The silence held for a few moments. The sound of horseshoes striking cobbles and the squeak and grind of wheels filled the air. Eventually he reached out and rested a light hand on her knee. She covered it quickly with her own and their eyes met.
"We do what we've always done, you and I," he said softly. "We move forwards."
-:-
John Baldwin Buckstone was understandably surprised when the butler, Johns, announced who had come to call. "Strike me down," he exclaimed as the Doctor and Rose handed in their hats and smiled in greeting. "Only six months late for supper!"
"Yes, I'm sorry John. Something ... pressing came up," the Doctor smiled apologetically. "Sometimes there's just no getting away from it."
"You know, sometimes I really do wish you could tell me exactly what you do for the government, Doctor. It's all quite mysterious!"
"Unintentionally so," he assured their host. "John, you remember Rose Tyler?"
"Naturally," he smiled and offered a hand.
This time, Rose merely shook it firmly and released it. "Mr. Buckstone."
"Dame Tyler," he countered, a twinkle in his eye.
"Rose, please." He raised an eyebrow so she continued hurriedly. "Any friend of the Doctor's is a friend of mine."
"Admirable policy," Buckstone nodded. "Although, I'm afraid you've come at rather a bad time." He glanced at the wall clock and frowned. "I have to be at the theatre by half six for a meeting with the director."
The Doctor, painfully aware of the awkwardness between him and his traveling companion, smiled ingratiatingly. "I don't suppose we could come with you? A little sneak peak? Rose is quite the theatre buff."
Buckstone turned to Rose. "Really? Have you attended anything recently?"
"Eastenders?" she quipped, catching her tongue between her teeth.
"Can't say I spend much time down the East End." Baldwin shook his head, all together missing the Doctor's hastily smothered grin. "By all means, do come along. Actually, I'm rather glad you asked. There have been some very strange happenings at the Haymarket of late, very strange indeed."
"Strange how?" the Doctor probed.
"Oh, a man of your profession would know more about it than I, assuredly. Can't say I'm not glad to see you though. Quite fortuitous, actually. I'm having trouble retaining staff since you left. The performers themselves tend to take it in their stride, being used to the superstitions and quirks of theatrical living. However, I can't run a theatre with no ushers or ticketing, can I?"
"No, no you can't." The Doctor glanced at Rose then back to John. "We'd be delighted to attend your rehearsal."
-:-
For the second time that evening, Rose found herself bundled into a carriage. It was a much nicer one than the hired cab, but it had the drawback of now containing three people, which provided her no space to escape from the newly-awkward intimacy of leaning against the Doctor. Buckstone held up his end of the conversation admirably, giving them a thorough run down of the strange goings on at the Haymarket over the last six months.
Rose stared straight ahead, nodding in agreement to things she hardly heard. The Doctor's angry voice still rang in her ears. She oscillated between regret and indignation, never sure which would win out, but positive that somewhere down the line there would be an argument that put their last one to shame.
The Doctor spent most of the trip with his face turned away from her and his shoulder and knee bumping against her whenever the carriage turned a corner. Eventually, when Buckstone fell silent, absorbed in his own worry, Rose glanced sideways only to find him already looking at her.
"I am sorry ... sort of," she whispered, hoping he'd understand her partial concession.
He pressed his lips together and shook his head. She didn't know if was rejection or acceptance until he took her hand. She curled her fingers around his and felt the heaviness in her chest begin to lighten. That argument was still brewing, but at least they'd enter into it as friends, not opponents.
"Here we are!" Buckstone exclaimed, startling his companions out of their preoccupation. "I'll have to leave you in the capable hands of my cousin Timothy, but I'm sure he can find you something to eat."
"It's fine, really," Rose said dismissively, trying to think of some way to explain the fact that they'd only hours ago had breakfast.
Buckstone offered them a sheepish grin. "Yes, I'm sure you're accustomed to doing without sustenance for extended periods, but there's no need to live like savages when surrounded by civilisation." Buckstone's eyes clouded over and he paused mid-step. "Wasn't it you who told me that, Doctor?"
Rose felt his hand spasm around her own. For a split second she caught a glimpse - John Buckstone surrounded by Dalek fire, his bloody hands gripping a rifle as if his life depended on it and the Doctor's voice, strained in desperation, arguing for an alternative plan of action ...
"Probably." He forced a polite smile and let Rose's hand fall to surreptitiously wipe the sudden perspiration from his palms. "It sounds like something I would say."
No longer caught up in a memory that didn't exist, Buckstone clapped him on the shoulder and laughed. "I'd be careful about professing ownership of words that may not be your own. Rumour can just as easily be negative as positive."
"You sound as though you're speaking from experience."
"Well, as a matter of fact, I am."
Fear or discomfort flickered across his face, the unadulterated emotion he'd shown all day. It sparked Rose's interest.
"It's all tied up with the letters and the hearsay, do you follow?"
The Doctor tilted his head and Rose put her hands on her hips.
"No, of course you don't, you've been in Peru." Buckstone sighed. "And because I'm talking utter gibberish. Please, come inside, welcome to the Haymarket Theatre. Ignore the stares. Everybody thinks you're dead, you see."
The Doctor straightened slightly in surprise. "Oh," he said. "Of course they do." He opened his mouth and closed it again, goldfish-like. "Why do they?"
"Because cousin John murdered you, of course," came a new voice. "After that hullabaloo in the middle of the street, and what with a dinner appointment you missed and nobody in the government being able to verify your existence Doctor Smith, let alone your current location, well ..." the newcomer flashed a dazzling smile. "Naturally all the family assumed John had finally given way to his murderous tendencies."
"All the family," griped Buckstone. "All of London, more like."
Rose compared their faces and came to a new conclusion. "You must be John's cousin - the one we were supposed to have dinner with."
He looked impressed. "Sharp as a tack, isn't she?" Then, as an aside to the Doctor, "I can see why you keep her around."
"Yes, sorry," Buckstone floundered. "Doctor, Rose, this is Timothy Mallory, my cousin."
As they shook hands, Rose felt slightly overwhelmed by his presence. If Buckstone had a little charm, Mallory positively glowed with it. His hair was dark where Buckstone's was sandy, his eyes strikingly green in the same aristocratically pale face. She found herself repelled by and drawn to him simultaneously, without being able to identify the reason.
"Tim, since you're no doubt going to delight in regaling them with fictional tales of my wrongdoing, please see if you can't be useful and find them something consumable while you're about it." Buckstone bowed perfunctorily, obviously unsettled. "Sorry to leave so abruptly."
"Josephine was looking for you," Timothy said casually.
Buckstone's face darkened. "You didn't bring her here, of all places?"
"Well why not?" He glanced around the foyer as though surprised. "You've clearly been exonerated and I'm hardly inclined to murder your friends here, having only just met them."
"You know how I feel about those letters. There's more to this than the rumour that started it. Until the Doctor and Rose have investigated, she's not safe here."
"Oh, poppycock!" Timothy frowned and waved a dismissive hand. "Some disenchanted stage hand finds himself a pen and paper then suddenly you've got a deviant on your hands, honestly John ..."
"Why," coughed the Doctor rather forcefully, "don't we just start at the beginning?"
"Yes." Rose counted the points off on her fingers. "Accusations of murder, mystery letters, problems with the theatre staff and Josephine ... who's Josephine?"
"Josephine is my sister," Timothy smiled, then pointed at Buckstone, "and his fiance. So I suppose it's more accurate to say we're cousins-soon-to-be-brothers."
Rose found his attempt at humour annoying, but the smile that accompanied it softened her irritation. She realised the Doctor was looking at her, giving her the opportunity to take the lead. His expression was gently humourous as he left their path in her hands. It made her feel like part of a team again, rather than someone he simply tolerated for the sake of a worn promise, given in the aftermath of a terrible war. Some of the old excitement began to stir, masking the confusion and bitterness she'd rediscovered in Cardiff.
She turned to Timothy. "You know, I think I'm hungry after all."
Buckstone reiterated his need to speak to his director, so the Doctor fell in with him and they paired off like professionals. Get both sides of the story - compare notes later. As they passed each other, shoulder to shoulder, the two of them shared a conspiratorial smile. Bolstered by the unexpected camaraderie, Rose rested her hand lightly on Timothy's proffered arm and started to let herself believe there was a way back from where she'd just been.
Timothy Mallory was a good talker, but he also seemed to like the sound of his own voice. While leading her on a short tour of the theatre, he hijacked a busy stage boy and sent him in search of canapes. Because, of course, the boy had nothing better to do. She almost rolled her eyes.
She oo-ed and ah-ed at the appropriate points and tried not to grimace at the clear class distinctions made between the cheaper seats and the more luxurious sections. The rabble stood or came to the rehearsals for little to no charge. The well to do come at night, stuffed full of rich foods and wrapped in exotic fabrics in order to see and be seen at this newly fashionable venue.
"You weren't born into title, where you Miss Tyler?"
She popped another morsel into her mouth, despite the dryness in her throat, well aware that with the Doctor, you never knew where your next meal was coming from. "No, I wasn't. I earned it." She watched his reaction carefully, but he gave little away.
"Naturally. In service to the Empire, no doubt." He smiled and it transformed him. "John is ever so vague about you two. Can't you please tell me a little of your adventures?"
She hastily chewed a pastry confection, trying not to choke on the slivered almonds. "Can't, sorry," she mumbled. "Official Secrets Act."
"Never heard of it."
She swallowed heavily. "It's that secret."
He laughed happily. "I won't press you to break a vow on my account, but do tell me what you did to earn your title. My sister Josephine has been desperate to know ever since she first saw you."
"We've only been here an hour!"
"She's been waiting nearly six months," Timothy countered. "That day in Westminster, she was in the carriage with John. Very improper, mind you, and I've had words with her about it. She's spoken of it often, especially of how John could not possibly have murdered you, seeing as he was so pleased to see you. Plus, of course, had you been murdered she would never learn the tale behind the title. Jo will be ever so pinked I heard it first!"
Once again, she wondered how much of what he said was artless and how much was designed to shock or tease. Despite his obvious good opinion of himself, there was something strangely attractive about Buckstone's cousin, with his sharp green gaze and easy smile. Rose caught herself before she grinned in return, reminding herself that there was a mystery to solve.
Mallory offered her another canape from his fingers. Unsure of the etiquette or potential implications, she refused and took another sip of lemonade to cover the awkwardness.
"So, Miss Tyler ... the story?" he leaned against the sideboard and crossed his legs at the ankle.
"Don't get too comfortable, it's not a long one. The Doctor and I retrieved a stolen jewel. Simple as that, really." Rose laughed inwardly ... so long as you leave out the werewolf and ninja monks ...
"A stolen jewel? At great personal peril?" His eyes sparkled as he popped a gherkin into his mouth.
Despite herself, Rose felt a smile creeping onto her face. "There was some peril, yeah."
"Don't tell Josephine," he advised, chewing happily. "She'll have nightmares for weeks."
Rose let the silence stretch a little, confident of her ability to judge when she'd put him off balance enough to answer more frankly than he might otherwise have intended. It was a technique perfected during times she'd rather not think about, when she'd done things she'd rather not recall.
When she had him shifting awkwardly and eyeing his watch she caught him off guard with a bright smile. "So," she began, startling him. "What seems to be the problem with the theatre?"
-:-
The Doctor pored over a collection of handwritten notes while Buckstone had a loud and rather expressive discussion with his director and set dresser. Even without being told, it was plain to see that they were in chronological order. The early efforts were mildly threatening. Vague enough to be only faintly disturbing. By the time he'd got to the fifth letter, he was positive they were dealing with a very real and present threat.
I know what you did ... I will make you pay ... no-one is safe ... they will all disappear ...
A hand settled on his shoulder and it was all he could do not to yelp. Buckstone's anxious face appeared in his line of sight. "So what do you make of it, Doctor?"
"I think you were right to be worried," he sighed. "There's more to this than letters though."
"Yes, the disappearances." Buckstone rubbed his face wearily.
"Disappearances ... plural?"
"That's right. First it was one of the stage hands, Stephen Harrod: a young boy, about sixteen. He was always going on about joining the navy, so I didn't think much of it. But then Nancy Furst went missing."
"Nancy Furst?"
"One of London's more talented up and coming young actresses. She had the lead in my next play and was over the moon about it. She wouldn't simply up and leave, not with her name on the bill like that." He massaged the bridge of his nose, clearly distressed. "Nancy was young, maybe twenty, but she grew up on the docks, so you couldn't put anything over her. She said her father works in the shipyards. They're a good, clean, Christian family, and whatever my cousin might have to say about the working classes, young girls from families like that don't simply wander off into the night in search of some glorious pipe dream. Girls like Nancy learn their lines, lock their dressing room doors and send half their pay home to their mother."
"She sounds like a lovely young woman."
"Yes," said Buckstone wearily. "She was."
Very faintly, but unmistakably, there came the sound of a scream.
-:-
Mallory hadn't been too keen on questioning the dancers and Rose could immediately see why. Many of them seemed to be on first name terms with him. They peeped out of the dressing room, exposing only half their faces and a sliver of cleavage. Those who were part of the first act and already done for the day lounged in doorways and smoked with the enjoyment of the truly ignorant.
Rose spoke to anyone who would listen, but most waved her off quickly, giving a hasty excuse, fear in their eyes. Finally, she spotted an older looking blonde wearing slightly more clothing than the rest of them. She held a narrow cigarillo between two painted fingernails, but didn't seem to be actively smoking it.
"Can you spare a minute?" Rose asked, expecting the usual brush off.
"Why not?" came the heavily accented reply.
Rose paused processing the inflection. It reminded her of a young international recruit they'd pulled into the TUA when he'd reported for duty at UNIT HQ, babbling about a war hardly anyone remembered. "Ukranian?"
The dancer smirked. "You're very good. Most people here think I am Russian." She transferred the cigarillo to her glossy painted lips and took a delicate puff. "My name is Katerina. The English call me Kate but my friends call me Katie."
"Rose Tyler, and this is ..."
"Yes, I know Mr. Mallory." A flick of ash on to the floor and a bitter kind of smile. "He helps his cousin with the running of the theatre."
"Katie, can I talk to you about the missing dancer?"
"You want to talk about Nancy?"
"If you don't mind?" Rose tried not to look desperate.
She shrugged. "I didn't kill her. It makes no difference to me."
"In that case ..."
"But I will not talk in front of the gentleman." Katerina turned the title into an epithet. "Some of what I have to say should stay between women."
Timothy tried to hide his anger behind a mask of total disregard, but didn't quite succeed. "Try not to get lost. It's a big theatre."
The two women watched him saunter back towards the front of house areas, witnessing the almost palpable relaxation that spread amongst the cast in his wake.
Rose pursed her lips. "He's not popular?"
"Quite the opposite," Katerina sighed. "With the young girls he is very popular."
"I see."
Rose found herself the subject of a keen appraisal. She flicked her butt to the floor and ground it into the boards. "Do you?" she asked, but there was a smile in her voice. "I think perhaps you do."
By mutual accord, the two women walked slowly down the hall, unconsciously making it harder for any one person to overhear enough of their conversation to make sense of it.
"After Stephen disappeared, the letters became more frequent." Katerina pulled a lazy hand through her long, naturally blonde hair and Rose tried not to be jealous.
"Stephen?"
"Sweet Stephen Harrod - one of the stage hands. He was barely a man. All bravado and boasting, but inside he was gentle. Respectful. This is more than I could say about many of the other men who work here."
Rose had the uncomfortable feeling they were talking about Timothy Mallory again. "And he disappeared?"
"Yes. Not long after you and your Doctor disappeared." She smiled wryly. "But of course, you didn't really disappear and Mr. Buckstone didn't really kill you, so maybe Stephen is alive and well somewhere."
Rose ducked under a handful of ropes and pulleys to follow Katerina out onto the dimly lit stage. "Why did everyone automatically assume Mr. Buckstone was the killer?"
"Well, mostly because his fiance received the first letter the very next day after you were reported missing."
"Josephine?" Rose stopped dead. "Josephine Mallory? She's the one receiving the letters?"
Her reply died unspoken as the Haymarket was suddenly plunged into darkness. There was a whistling sigh and then the boards of the stage flexed and the air vibrated around them in a deafening explosion of sound. Rose coughed, her lungs filled with dust, hands flung out for balance. Someone screamed. She was fairly sure it wasn't her.
-:-
The Doctor ran down a flight of stairs and into the pitch blackness of the dressing rooms. Muffled sounds of panic and reassurance seemed louder than normal in the absence of sight. He floundered on ahead, reassured by the sound of Buckstone's noisy progress behind him.
There was another scream. He put on an extra burst of speed, praying the shifting currents of air weren't lying to him or leading him astray. There was the coolness of a large open space and the smell of dust and velvet ahead. He collided with someone slim and short, righted himself and tripped up the steps to the demi-stage just as the lights flickered, died and flickered again.
In a parody of old-style cinematography, he saw Rose, her hands outstretched. He saw the splinters of wood and twisted boards beneath the massive sandbag that had come free of the rigging and crashed down catastrophically. He also saw the other half of the pair, falling from on high. He wasn't going to be fast enough ...
He saw Rose's eyes widen in fear, then felt something twist inside him and he gasped, burning from the inside as time seemed to slow. The air in his lungs sat like lead, his vision rippled like water, but he was still enough of a Time Lord for the impossible to become possible. He forced himself to vault the rail, his arm around her waist, and threw them both across the debris strewn stage.
Time snapped back like an angry rubber band, with none of the ease or finesse he used to associate with that little trick. The second sandbag struck the boards, showering them with sawdust and sand. They coughed and spluttered as the air started to clear. In the flickering strobe lighting, they could see Katerina crumple to the floor, her svelte frame almost boneless; graceful even in collapse.
Rose pushed him away and crawled around the massive holes in the floor. Katerina was on her knees, her stockings torn, her silk wrap askew. Rose touched her shoulder tentatively, unable to tell if she was hurt or just shocked. Numbly, Katerina reached inside her robe and withdrew a small, folded piece of paper.
"I thought it was a prank," she whispered, her Ukranian accent more pronounced in her distress. "A simple campaign of fear and coincidence. I never thought ..."
Rose gently slid the note free of her trembling hands and, sensing the Doctor crouched beside her, tilted it towards the flickering lights.
You have everything and I have nothing. That will change ...
They looked up to see John Buckstone towering over them, his face twisted in frustration and fear. "I told Josephine to bring them to me ... only to me!"
TBC ...
Fandom: Doctor Who
Series: Interaction Locations
Characters: Rose Tyler, the Doctor (eighth)
Rating: M - violence|romance|adult concepts
Spoilers: This is a sequel to The Sky On Fire and also has potential spoilers for DW series 4, EDAs and Big Finish Audios
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Betas: No betas ... urk.
Teaspoon: As with most of my fic, this series can also be read on A Teaspoon and an Open Mind, if you prefer.
The Haymarket Precedent - Backstage Antics
This time, when Rose stepped out of the TARDIS, the fresh mildness of an English summer evening did little to lift her spirits. No joy had come of selecting her light cotton dress, or the awkward poses necessary to lace and button herself into it alone. All it did was serve to remind her how different things had been the last time they were in Westminster, nearly six months ago, local time. For them, a little more than a week had passed, and yet so much had happened. Trust betrayed and faith broken.
When the Doctor stepped clear of the doors this time, he didn't take her hand. Instead, he glanced at her coolly and tilted his head towards the nearby street. They'd landed in the gardens again.
Rose clasped her hands in front of her and walked with bowed head. To an observer of the period, she no doubt looked suitably modest. Inside she was tumultuous mess. In her pocket, the cool weight of a sonic screwdriver tapped against her thigh in time with the sway of her steps. The feeling brought fresh tears to her eyes. She blinked them away angrily.
The Doctor hailed a cab and pointedly opened the door for her. She took his proffered hand to negotiate the folding steps. It supported hers like an inanimate object. She caught his eyes on her as she ducked inside and he smiled easily - a smooth impersonation of the way they were together.
He gave the driver directions and settled in beside her. Rose toyed with the worn trim that lined the window. "We don't have to stay," she said quietly. "If you don't want to."
He raised his eyebrows. "You made a dinner appointment."
"I know, but ... we're already six months late."
He just tilted his head at her, the picture of indifference. He gave her no opening, no softening, no opportunity to explore the dangerous territory that now lay between them.
She swallowed and looked at the floor "I just want things to be normal."
"The way they used to be?" He smiled sadly and glanced out the window. "I'm afraid that's one law of time even I can't break. There's no going back." His expression had lost some of its indifference, but it was far from warm. "There's no going back for any of us."
Rose felt her cheeks burn, having picked up on his double meaning easily enough. "So what do we do now?"
The silence held for a few moments. The sound of horseshoes striking cobbles and the squeak and grind of wheels filled the air. Eventually he reached out and rested a light hand on her knee. She covered it quickly with her own and their eyes met.
"We do what we've always done, you and I," he said softly. "We move forwards."
-:-
John Baldwin Buckstone was understandably surprised when the butler, Johns, announced who had come to call. "Strike me down," he exclaimed as the Doctor and Rose handed in their hats and smiled in greeting. "Only six months late for supper!"
"Yes, I'm sorry John. Something ... pressing came up," the Doctor smiled apologetically. "Sometimes there's just no getting away from it."
"You know, sometimes I really do wish you could tell me exactly what you do for the government, Doctor. It's all quite mysterious!"
"Unintentionally so," he assured their host. "John, you remember Rose Tyler?"
"Naturally," he smiled and offered a hand.
This time, Rose merely shook it firmly and released it. "Mr. Buckstone."
"Dame Tyler," he countered, a twinkle in his eye.
"Rose, please." He raised an eyebrow so she continued hurriedly. "Any friend of the Doctor's is a friend of mine."
"Admirable policy," Buckstone nodded. "Although, I'm afraid you've come at rather a bad time." He glanced at the wall clock and frowned. "I have to be at the theatre by half six for a meeting with the director."
The Doctor, painfully aware of the awkwardness between him and his traveling companion, smiled ingratiatingly. "I don't suppose we could come with you? A little sneak peak? Rose is quite the theatre buff."
Buckstone turned to Rose. "Really? Have you attended anything recently?"
"Eastenders?" she quipped, catching her tongue between her teeth.
"Can't say I spend much time down the East End." Baldwin shook his head, all together missing the Doctor's hastily smothered grin. "By all means, do come along. Actually, I'm rather glad you asked. There have been some very strange happenings at the Haymarket of late, very strange indeed."
"Strange how?" the Doctor probed.
"Oh, a man of your profession would know more about it than I, assuredly. Can't say I'm not glad to see you though. Quite fortuitous, actually. I'm having trouble retaining staff since you left. The performers themselves tend to take it in their stride, being used to the superstitions and quirks of theatrical living. However, I can't run a theatre with no ushers or ticketing, can I?"
"No, no you can't." The Doctor glanced at Rose then back to John. "We'd be delighted to attend your rehearsal."
-:-
For the second time that evening, Rose found herself bundled into a carriage. It was a much nicer one than the hired cab, but it had the drawback of now containing three people, which provided her no space to escape from the newly-awkward intimacy of leaning against the Doctor. Buckstone held up his end of the conversation admirably, giving them a thorough run down of the strange goings on at the Haymarket over the last six months.
Rose stared straight ahead, nodding in agreement to things she hardly heard. The Doctor's angry voice still rang in her ears. She oscillated between regret and indignation, never sure which would win out, but positive that somewhere down the line there would be an argument that put their last one to shame.
The Doctor spent most of the trip with his face turned away from her and his shoulder and knee bumping against her whenever the carriage turned a corner. Eventually, when Buckstone fell silent, absorbed in his own worry, Rose glanced sideways only to find him already looking at her.
"I am sorry ... sort of," she whispered, hoping he'd understand her partial concession.
He pressed his lips together and shook his head. She didn't know if was rejection or acceptance until he took her hand. She curled her fingers around his and felt the heaviness in her chest begin to lighten. That argument was still brewing, but at least they'd enter into it as friends, not opponents.
"Here we are!" Buckstone exclaimed, startling his companions out of their preoccupation. "I'll have to leave you in the capable hands of my cousin Timothy, but I'm sure he can find you something to eat."
"It's fine, really," Rose said dismissively, trying to think of some way to explain the fact that they'd only hours ago had breakfast.
Buckstone offered them a sheepish grin. "Yes, I'm sure you're accustomed to doing without sustenance for extended periods, but there's no need to live like savages when surrounded by civilisation." Buckstone's eyes clouded over and he paused mid-step. "Wasn't it you who told me that, Doctor?"
Rose felt his hand spasm around her own. For a split second she caught a glimpse - John Buckstone surrounded by Dalek fire, his bloody hands gripping a rifle as if his life depended on it and the Doctor's voice, strained in desperation, arguing for an alternative plan of action ...
"Probably." He forced a polite smile and let Rose's hand fall to surreptitiously wipe the sudden perspiration from his palms. "It sounds like something I would say."
No longer caught up in a memory that didn't exist, Buckstone clapped him on the shoulder and laughed. "I'd be careful about professing ownership of words that may not be your own. Rumour can just as easily be negative as positive."
"You sound as though you're speaking from experience."
"Well, as a matter of fact, I am."
Fear or discomfort flickered across his face, the unadulterated emotion he'd shown all day. It sparked Rose's interest.
"It's all tied up with the letters and the hearsay, do you follow?"
The Doctor tilted his head and Rose put her hands on her hips.
"No, of course you don't, you've been in Peru." Buckstone sighed. "And because I'm talking utter gibberish. Please, come inside, welcome to the Haymarket Theatre. Ignore the stares. Everybody thinks you're dead, you see."
The Doctor straightened slightly in surprise. "Oh," he said. "Of course they do." He opened his mouth and closed it again, goldfish-like. "Why do they?"
"Because cousin John murdered you, of course," came a new voice. "After that hullabaloo in the middle of the street, and what with a dinner appointment you missed and nobody in the government being able to verify your existence Doctor Smith, let alone your current location, well ..." the newcomer flashed a dazzling smile. "Naturally all the family assumed John had finally given way to his murderous tendencies."
"All the family," griped Buckstone. "All of London, more like."
Rose compared their faces and came to a new conclusion. "You must be John's cousin - the one we were supposed to have dinner with."
He looked impressed. "Sharp as a tack, isn't she?" Then, as an aside to the Doctor, "I can see why you keep her around."
"Yes, sorry," Buckstone floundered. "Doctor, Rose, this is Timothy Mallory, my cousin."
As they shook hands, Rose felt slightly overwhelmed by his presence. If Buckstone had a little charm, Mallory positively glowed with it. His hair was dark where Buckstone's was sandy, his eyes strikingly green in the same aristocratically pale face. She found herself repelled by and drawn to him simultaneously, without being able to identify the reason.
"Tim, since you're no doubt going to delight in regaling them with fictional tales of my wrongdoing, please see if you can't be useful and find them something consumable while you're about it." Buckstone bowed perfunctorily, obviously unsettled. "Sorry to leave so abruptly."
"Josephine was looking for you," Timothy said casually.
Buckstone's face darkened. "You didn't bring her here, of all places?"
"Well why not?" He glanced around the foyer as though surprised. "You've clearly been exonerated and I'm hardly inclined to murder your friends here, having only just met them."
"You know how I feel about those letters. There's more to this than the rumour that started it. Until the Doctor and Rose have investigated, she's not safe here."
"Oh, poppycock!" Timothy frowned and waved a dismissive hand. "Some disenchanted stage hand finds himself a pen and paper then suddenly you've got a deviant on your hands, honestly John ..."
"Why," coughed the Doctor rather forcefully, "don't we just start at the beginning?"
"Yes." Rose counted the points off on her fingers. "Accusations of murder, mystery letters, problems with the theatre staff and Josephine ... who's Josephine?"
"Josephine is my sister," Timothy smiled, then pointed at Buckstone, "and his fiance. So I suppose it's more accurate to say we're cousins-soon-to-be-brothers."
Rose found his attempt at humour annoying, but the smile that accompanied it softened her irritation. She realised the Doctor was looking at her, giving her the opportunity to take the lead. His expression was gently humourous as he left their path in her hands. It made her feel like part of a team again, rather than someone he simply tolerated for the sake of a worn promise, given in the aftermath of a terrible war. Some of the old excitement began to stir, masking the confusion and bitterness she'd rediscovered in Cardiff.
She turned to Timothy. "You know, I think I'm hungry after all."
Buckstone reiterated his need to speak to his director, so the Doctor fell in with him and they paired off like professionals. Get both sides of the story - compare notes later. As they passed each other, shoulder to shoulder, the two of them shared a conspiratorial smile. Bolstered by the unexpected camaraderie, Rose rested her hand lightly on Timothy's proffered arm and started to let herself believe there was a way back from where she'd just been.
Timothy Mallory was a good talker, but he also seemed to like the sound of his own voice. While leading her on a short tour of the theatre, he hijacked a busy stage boy and sent him in search of canapes. Because, of course, the boy had nothing better to do. She almost rolled her eyes.
She oo-ed and ah-ed at the appropriate points and tried not to grimace at the clear class distinctions made between the cheaper seats and the more luxurious sections. The rabble stood or came to the rehearsals for little to no charge. The well to do come at night, stuffed full of rich foods and wrapped in exotic fabrics in order to see and be seen at this newly fashionable venue.
"You weren't born into title, where you Miss Tyler?"
She popped another morsel into her mouth, despite the dryness in her throat, well aware that with the Doctor, you never knew where your next meal was coming from. "No, I wasn't. I earned it." She watched his reaction carefully, but he gave little away.
"Naturally. In service to the Empire, no doubt." He smiled and it transformed him. "John is ever so vague about you two. Can't you please tell me a little of your adventures?"
She hastily chewed a pastry confection, trying not to choke on the slivered almonds. "Can't, sorry," she mumbled. "Official Secrets Act."
"Never heard of it."
She swallowed heavily. "It's that secret."
He laughed happily. "I won't press you to break a vow on my account, but do tell me what you did to earn your title. My sister Josephine has been desperate to know ever since she first saw you."
"We've only been here an hour!"
"She's been waiting nearly six months," Timothy countered. "That day in Westminster, she was in the carriage with John. Very improper, mind you, and I've had words with her about it. She's spoken of it often, especially of how John could not possibly have murdered you, seeing as he was so pleased to see you. Plus, of course, had you been murdered she would never learn the tale behind the title. Jo will be ever so pinked I heard it first!"
Once again, she wondered how much of what he said was artless and how much was designed to shock or tease. Despite his obvious good opinion of himself, there was something strangely attractive about Buckstone's cousin, with his sharp green gaze and easy smile. Rose caught herself before she grinned in return, reminding herself that there was a mystery to solve.
Mallory offered her another canape from his fingers. Unsure of the etiquette or potential implications, she refused and took another sip of lemonade to cover the awkwardness.
"So, Miss Tyler ... the story?" he leaned against the sideboard and crossed his legs at the ankle.
"Don't get too comfortable, it's not a long one. The Doctor and I retrieved a stolen jewel. Simple as that, really." Rose laughed inwardly ... so long as you leave out the werewolf and ninja monks ...
"A stolen jewel? At great personal peril?" His eyes sparkled as he popped a gherkin into his mouth.
Despite herself, Rose felt a smile creeping onto her face. "There was some peril, yeah."
"Don't tell Josephine," he advised, chewing happily. "She'll have nightmares for weeks."
Rose let the silence stretch a little, confident of her ability to judge when she'd put him off balance enough to answer more frankly than he might otherwise have intended. It was a technique perfected during times she'd rather not think about, when she'd done things she'd rather not recall.
When she had him shifting awkwardly and eyeing his watch she caught him off guard with a bright smile. "So," she began, startling him. "What seems to be the problem with the theatre?"
-:-
The Doctor pored over a collection of handwritten notes while Buckstone had a loud and rather expressive discussion with his director and set dresser. Even without being told, it was plain to see that they were in chronological order. The early efforts were mildly threatening. Vague enough to be only faintly disturbing. By the time he'd got to the fifth letter, he was positive they were dealing with a very real and present threat.
I know what you did ... I will make you pay ... no-one is safe ... they will all disappear ...
A hand settled on his shoulder and it was all he could do not to yelp. Buckstone's anxious face appeared in his line of sight. "So what do you make of it, Doctor?"
"I think you were right to be worried," he sighed. "There's more to this than letters though."
"Yes, the disappearances." Buckstone rubbed his face wearily.
"Disappearances ... plural?"
"That's right. First it was one of the stage hands, Stephen Harrod: a young boy, about sixteen. He was always going on about joining the navy, so I didn't think much of it. But then Nancy Furst went missing."
"Nancy Furst?"
"One of London's more talented up and coming young actresses. She had the lead in my next play and was over the moon about it. She wouldn't simply up and leave, not with her name on the bill like that." He massaged the bridge of his nose, clearly distressed. "Nancy was young, maybe twenty, but she grew up on the docks, so you couldn't put anything over her. She said her father works in the shipyards. They're a good, clean, Christian family, and whatever my cousin might have to say about the working classes, young girls from families like that don't simply wander off into the night in search of some glorious pipe dream. Girls like Nancy learn their lines, lock their dressing room doors and send half their pay home to their mother."
"She sounds like a lovely young woman."
"Yes," said Buckstone wearily. "She was."
Very faintly, but unmistakably, there came the sound of a scream.
-:-
Mallory hadn't been too keen on questioning the dancers and Rose could immediately see why. Many of them seemed to be on first name terms with him. They peeped out of the dressing room, exposing only half their faces and a sliver of cleavage. Those who were part of the first act and already done for the day lounged in doorways and smoked with the enjoyment of the truly ignorant.
Rose spoke to anyone who would listen, but most waved her off quickly, giving a hasty excuse, fear in their eyes. Finally, she spotted an older looking blonde wearing slightly more clothing than the rest of them. She held a narrow cigarillo between two painted fingernails, but didn't seem to be actively smoking it.
"Can you spare a minute?" Rose asked, expecting the usual brush off.
"Why not?" came the heavily accented reply.
Rose paused processing the inflection. It reminded her of a young international recruit they'd pulled into the TUA when he'd reported for duty at UNIT HQ, babbling about a war hardly anyone remembered. "Ukranian?"
The dancer smirked. "You're very good. Most people here think I am Russian." She transferred the cigarillo to her glossy painted lips and took a delicate puff. "My name is Katerina. The English call me Kate but my friends call me Katie."
"Rose Tyler, and this is ..."
"Yes, I know Mr. Mallory." A flick of ash on to the floor and a bitter kind of smile. "He helps his cousin with the running of the theatre."
"Katie, can I talk to you about the missing dancer?"
"You want to talk about Nancy?"
"If you don't mind?" Rose tried not to look desperate.
She shrugged. "I didn't kill her. It makes no difference to me."
"In that case ..."
"But I will not talk in front of the gentleman." Katerina turned the title into an epithet. "Some of what I have to say should stay between women."
Timothy tried to hide his anger behind a mask of total disregard, but didn't quite succeed. "Try not to get lost. It's a big theatre."
The two women watched him saunter back towards the front of house areas, witnessing the almost palpable relaxation that spread amongst the cast in his wake.
Rose pursed her lips. "He's not popular?"
"Quite the opposite," Katerina sighed. "With the young girls he is very popular."
"I see."
Rose found herself the subject of a keen appraisal. She flicked her butt to the floor and ground it into the boards. "Do you?" she asked, but there was a smile in her voice. "I think perhaps you do."
By mutual accord, the two women walked slowly down the hall, unconsciously making it harder for any one person to overhear enough of their conversation to make sense of it.
"After Stephen disappeared, the letters became more frequent." Katerina pulled a lazy hand through her long, naturally blonde hair and Rose tried not to be jealous.
"Stephen?"
"Sweet Stephen Harrod - one of the stage hands. He was barely a man. All bravado and boasting, but inside he was gentle. Respectful. This is more than I could say about many of the other men who work here."
Rose had the uncomfortable feeling they were talking about Timothy Mallory again. "And he disappeared?"
"Yes. Not long after you and your Doctor disappeared." She smiled wryly. "But of course, you didn't really disappear and Mr. Buckstone didn't really kill you, so maybe Stephen is alive and well somewhere."
Rose ducked under a handful of ropes and pulleys to follow Katerina out onto the dimly lit stage. "Why did everyone automatically assume Mr. Buckstone was the killer?"
"Well, mostly because his fiance received the first letter the very next day after you were reported missing."
"Josephine?" Rose stopped dead. "Josephine Mallory? She's the one receiving the letters?"
Her reply died unspoken as the Haymarket was suddenly plunged into darkness. There was a whistling sigh and then the boards of the stage flexed and the air vibrated around them in a deafening explosion of sound. Rose coughed, her lungs filled with dust, hands flung out for balance. Someone screamed. She was fairly sure it wasn't her.
-:-
The Doctor ran down a flight of stairs and into the pitch blackness of the dressing rooms. Muffled sounds of panic and reassurance seemed louder than normal in the absence of sight. He floundered on ahead, reassured by the sound of Buckstone's noisy progress behind him.
There was another scream. He put on an extra burst of speed, praying the shifting currents of air weren't lying to him or leading him astray. There was the coolness of a large open space and the smell of dust and velvet ahead. He collided with someone slim and short, righted himself and tripped up the steps to the demi-stage just as the lights flickered, died and flickered again.
In a parody of old-style cinematography, he saw Rose, her hands outstretched. He saw the splinters of wood and twisted boards beneath the massive sandbag that had come free of the rigging and crashed down catastrophically. He also saw the other half of the pair, falling from on high. He wasn't going to be fast enough ...
He saw Rose's eyes widen in fear, then felt something twist inside him and he gasped, burning from the inside as time seemed to slow. The air in his lungs sat like lead, his vision rippled like water, but he was still enough of a Time Lord for the impossible to become possible. He forced himself to vault the rail, his arm around her waist, and threw them both across the debris strewn stage.
Time snapped back like an angry rubber band, with none of the ease or finesse he used to associate with that little trick. The second sandbag struck the boards, showering them with sawdust and sand. They coughed and spluttered as the air started to clear. In the flickering strobe lighting, they could see Katerina crumple to the floor, her svelte frame almost boneless; graceful even in collapse.
Rose pushed him away and crawled around the massive holes in the floor. Katerina was on her knees, her stockings torn, her silk wrap askew. Rose touched her shoulder tentatively, unable to tell if she was hurt or just shocked. Numbly, Katerina reached inside her robe and withdrew a small, folded piece of paper.
"I thought it was a prank," she whispered, her Ukranian accent more pronounced in her distress. "A simple campaign of fear and coincidence. I never thought ..."
Rose gently slid the note free of her trembling hands and, sensing the Doctor crouched beside her, tilted it towards the flickering lights.
You have everything and I have nothing. That will change ...
They looked up to see John Buckstone towering over them, his face twisted in frustration and fear. "I told Josephine to bring them to me ... only to me!"
TBC ...