The landlord looked up irritably from his glass cleaning as the door flew open, admitting a freezing gale of cold winter air which rattled the glasses & bottles behind the bar and made the fire flicker & billow in the tiny corner of the dingy public house. The icy blast was followed by a bulky figure wrapped in a long black overcoat. It struggled momentarily to close the door and hurried up to the bar. Its voice was muffled by the scarf covering its face which was further obscured by the dark fedora jammed down over its head.
"Brandy ... a large one!"
The man knocked it back & gestured for another, but the landlord held the bottle back and rose a bushy eyebrow. The man hesitated then pulled a purse from its coat and tossed some coins onto the counter. Satisfied, the landlord scooped the cold change up and poured another drink. The man took it over to the table by the fire, where three other heavily wrapped figures sat in the flickering fire light. They were the only other people in the place. One of them leaned forward at the man's approach.
"Sefton?"
"Yes, Max. It is I." The man dropped heavily into a chair and heaved it closer to the table. The others leaned forward conspiratorially. He took another gulp of his drink and shuddered. "Damn this weather ... do you really think she will be out on a night like this?"
The smaller of the three nodded. "Positively. She never misses her visit to this hospital at Christmas. My source at the palace was definite about that." He looked around but the landlord was still sullenly absorbed in his glass cleaning. "You have the guns?" Sefton nodded. "Let me see!" he said excitedly.
Sefton reached deep inside his coat and struggled something wrapped in cloth free. He'd paid good money for these. Now the 'Black Hand Gang' would really make a name for itself! He smiled as the others crowded forward, in awe as he slowly unwrapped four pistols, their dull grey metal glinting in the firelight. Carrying the pistols made him feel invincible.
They all nodded and one called Max leaned forward, eyes gleaming fanatically in the firelight, and hissed sibilantly: "Perfect! Then tonight, the Queen of England shall die!"
Their glasses chinked together as they toasted the success of their evil mission ...
The door crashed open again and three more people, an old man in a thick opera cape and flowing white hair beneath an astrakhan hat, a young woman with short dark hair in a voluminous furry coat, and a tall young man in a sheepskin jacket stumbled in from the gale, melting snow dripping from their clothing. The old man and the girl went to the bar while the young man struggled the door shut.
The old man pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped at his face. "Goodness me! What a night! What a night!" The young man joined them at the bar and looked around at the dingy, draughty interior with dismay and shuddered.
"The Pear Tree ... what a dump! It's only just warmer in here!"
"Stop complaining, Steven! At least you're out of that blizzard!" She rubbed her numb hands together and cast an envious glance at the group of men huddled drinking and murmuring quietly round the table by the fire. They were the only other people in the place, save the sallow-looking barman. She shivered. Did those men have to hog the fire so much?
Steven blew on his frozen fingers and snapped irritably. "We wouldn't have to come here in the first place if not for you, Dodo! How anyone can cause so much trouble making toast ..."
The old man patted their shoulders and tut-tutted them. "Dear me! Such a lot of fuss over a little smoke!" Steven started to protest but the old man held up a finger. "Not another word on the subject! Now, Dodo wasn't to know that that toaster was broken. And the TARDIS smoke filters will soon clear the air. This simply allows us the chance to sample a little Victorian hospitality." At that he turned and cleared his throat to attract the barman, who had been ignoring them. He still ignored them. The old man cleared his throat again, louder. Still no response. Dodo laughed.
"Let me, Doctor!" She banged hard on the counter and shouted "Shop!" Visibly reluctant, the barman dragged himself from his polishing and came over to serve them.
"Victorian hospitality, huh?" said Steven sarcastically.
The barman raised a bushy eyebrow but said nothing.
Three brandies were ordered and paid for. "Just what the Doctor ordered, hmmm?" chortled the old man. Steven & Dodo both made faces at the joke, and made bigger faces at the taste of the brandy. Even the Doctor blanched at the aroma. "Hmmm, hardly Napoleon's finest ... oh well, chin-chin."
As he rose his glass to drink more he was jostled by one of the men by the fire who had come over for more drinks and got most of his brandy down his chest. The Doctor spluttered indignantly but the other man ignored him, intent only on getting more drink. Steven slammed his glass down.
"Hey you ..." The man ignored him as well and turned his full attention on the reluctant barman, snapping his fingers impatiently. Steven made to step forward but Dodo laid a restraining hand on his arm.
"Don't, Steven ... I don't like the look of him or his friends."
Steven looked round at the other three men by the fire, both looking in his direction. All had pushed their chairs back from the table, poised as if to stand up suddenly. The Doctor glanced at them, dabbed at his soaking cape with his handkerchief and nodded, turning back to the bar.
"She's right, my boy ... they're not worth the trouble. We'll merely finish our drinks and be on our way. I've had worse spilt on me."
The man strode back to his table with a menacing glance at Steven, deliberately bumping his shoulder against Stevens', pushing him into the bar. The Doctor laid a restraining hand on his arm and clicked his tongue at him warningly. He turned back to the bar for another drink to replace the one he'd lost - purely medicinal, of course - when his foot struck something on the floor, sending it clattering against the bar. Dodo bent to pick it up and gasped.
"Doctor, look! A bullet!"
The Doctor examined the cartridge closely. "Hmmm, yes ...we were right not to tangle with that man after all. I thought I felt a firearm when he barged past me so rudely. It must have dropped from his pocket!"
"But why has he got a gun? This is Victorian London, not Tombstone!" whispered Steven.
The Doctor tapped his lip. "Why indeed ... look! They're leaving!"
The men stood, buttoning up their heavy overcoats and walking over to the door. The three time travellers pretended to be absorbed in their drinks as they passed. The man who'd bumped into the Doctor was the last to leave, and he gave them a lingering glance full of menace before vanishing into the night. The Doctor put his glass down and snatched up his stick.
"Come along, we'll follow at a safe distance, see what they're up to ... no good, I'm sure!"
The door banged shut behind them and the barman sighed with relief.
"Merry Christmas to you an' all!" he muttered sourly, and went back to his endless cleaning ...
The trio followed the four men outside, keeping to the many shadows in the storm-tossed empty streets, but the increasingly worsening conditions and the self-absorbed concentration of the men made secrecy easy, though once or twice they had to duck back when one of them turned to look over his shoulder. After a while the four men halted outside a large gate in front of a large, imposing building with bright light burning in every window. The Doctor blinked through the blizzard and suddenly clutched at Steven's shoulder.
"Good gracious! It's the Royal Coach! I think these men mean to kill a member of the Royal Family!"
Dodo gasped. "Assassins! But why?"
The Doctor shook his head sadly. "The climax of the 19th century was marked by many such attacks on royal personages ... remember your history, child, that's how your First World War started!" He looked around him fiercely. "We must stop them ... but how?"
Sefton pulled the pistols from his pocket and handed them out along with the ammunition. He swore when he realised he was one cartridge short, but he figured that 23 bullets between the four of them ought to be enough.
"She's coming out!" Max whispered. They cocked their pistols. Sefton's stomach churned with excitement at the thought of fulfilling his anarchist ambition. The Black Hand Gang would be in all the papers, and he would be a hero to anarchist causes world-wide! There she was ... the hated symbol of Imperialism! Getting into her nice cosy coach ... well, that won't protect her. The vehicle started off, the coachman flicking his whip across the horses backs. He rose his weapon, the others following suit ...
Something stingingly cold smashed into his face, blinding him. With a yelp he staggered back, finger squeezing involuntarily at the trigger. The pistol bucked in his hand, but the shot went miles wide of its target. There was a musical tinkle of breaking glass. Someone close by was shouting.
"Your Majesty! Your Majesty! Stop the coach! Assassins! Assassins!"
More shouting and screaming. He wiped the snow from his eyes and something else hit him and he realised it was a snowball. He and his companions were being pelted with them from across the street where two figures were scooping up great handfuls and throwing it with all their might. In front of the Queen's carriage, an old man was standing in front of the horses, waving a stick. From seemingly nowhere people were running and shouting, policemen and soldiers among them. Max, ducking another snowball, wavered his pistol from the snowball throwers to the Queen's carriage, then dropped the weapon and took off into the night. The others followed suit. Cursing them, he turned his pistol on the snowball throwers and ran forward firing blindly, the mindless fury at having his plans dashed removing all thought of escape from his mind. They dived to the ground, bullets whining off the wall behind them. He would be revenged!
Then Sefton felt a heavy blow across his back and pitched face forward into the snow. He lay writhing, temporarily paralysed, aware only of the agony, until rough hands rolled him over and he looked up at the ring of faces that surrounded him. One of them spoke:
"This one ain't goin' anywhere ... our lads will get the rest. They won't get far neither."
Another chuckled. "As far as the rope will let 'em drop! Hey, did anyone see where that old man who stopped the carriage and knocked this geezer down went? There's someone back there who'd like to wish him a very merry Christmas!"
"I'd like to meet the two chucking the snowballs ... never would have thought snow would have been so useful, eh?"
The old man from the bar and his two friends? Sefton groaned loudly and passed out ...
***
Steven wrinkled his nose at the burnt smell that still lingered in the TARDIS. "You can still smell it!" he complained.
The Doctor sniffed loudly and shook his head, hanging up his cape and putting his stick away. He'd shown that ruffian!
"Oh, a little burnt toast won't hurt you! Would you rather return to the delights of the Pear Tree, perhaps, hmmm?"
Dodo butted in: "Doctor, why couldn't we stay and see Queen Victoria? I bet she would have been dead grateful! Dinner at the palace, meet the family ... you could probably get knighted!"
He cleared his throat, embarrassed. "Dear me, dear me, no. We've had enough fun for one day. And as for meeting Queen Victoria, well ..." he flicked a switch and smiled. "We will, we will ... one day!"
Chortling to himself, he set the controls for a new destination.
