Silhouette (8 page)

At the other end of the Frost Fair, Jenny was still talking to Jim. She really should get back to asking about Milton, Jenny thought. But Jim was pleasant company and they seemed to have a lot in common
as well as similar interests and sense of humour.

As if realising what she was thinking, Jim said: ‘I should let you be on your way. I’m sorry if I’ve detained you.’

‘Detained me?’

‘Weren’t you just leaving when I arrived?’

‘Oh no.’ Jenny smiled. ‘Thought I saw a friend, that’s all. I’ve things to do here at the fair for a while yet.’

‘I’m surprised you could see anything in this,’ Jim joked, though in fact the smog was clearing a little. ‘But if you are here for the duration, perhaps I shall see you later.’

‘Yes,’ Jenny said. ‘Perhaps you will.’

He touched the brim of his hat. ‘Then I shall look forward to that. Good day to you.’

Jenny watched him disappear into the crowds. She should get to work, or Clara would be wondering where she’d got to.

The morning’s investigations for Strax consisted of retracing the last known movements of the murder victims. He visited the areas where they had last been seen alive, and calculated the most direct route from this location to where their bodies had been found.

He visited each of the locations and traversed each of the routes, questioning anyone he met along the way. Most people seemed happy to tell him they
knew nothing and had seen no one, and he only had to resort to threats of torture and extreme pain in a very few cases.

For the most part, the information he gathered was useless, and tempered with qualifications ranging from ‘But I could be wrong’ to ‘Or was that on the Thursday?’ But something that chimed with Strax’s own experience was that several of the people he spoke to mentioned a dark figure dressed rather in the manner of an undertaker in the vicinity of the actual death at about the same time as the victim must have expired.

Was this man connected to the murders, Strax wondered. He himself had seen him – if it was indeed the same person. But that was a while after Bellamy had died and the body been removed. Perhaps he was merely an undertaker appearing where his work took him. His business, after all, was with the dead …

But even so, and with little else to occupy his time, Strax decided to return to the location of Bellamy’s demise and his own encounter with the undertaker. He marched purposefully through the smog, his mood darkening as he reflected on his lack of progress. ‘Weakling fool!’ he spat as he shoved a passer-by off the pavement. A carriage veered off to one side to avoid the sprawling man, and narrowly missed a cab coming the other way. The horses whinnied in alarm. Strax walked on, oblivious.

The area where Bellamy had been found was almost deserted. The perfect place for a murder, Strax reflected, though the fact it was so quiet meant there were few suitable candidates to hand. He located the narrow passageway and walked slowly along, examining the ground as he went for any clues. Mostly, there was snow turning slowly to a grey slush that looked like the smog made solid.

He had almost reached the end of the alleyway when he heard the noise coming from within the large building on one side of the alley. Many human sounds, Strax found it hard to interpret. But the sound of fear – screaming – was one that he recognised immediately. It was not particularly in Strax’s nature to go to the help of those in distress. But if there was a battle or fight in progress, then he was more than happy to get involved. From the screams, it sounded like it was quite a good one. He licked his thin, bloodless lips and searched for a point of entry.

The nearest doors were set in an alcove and locked. But they were only made of wood – a rather primitive construction. So Strax lowered his shoulder and ran at them. The doors burst open and he found himself inside a large area devoid of walls or upper floors. On the other side of the expansive space it looked as if a miniature snowstorm was attacking a small human.

As he approached, two things became clear to Strax. One was that the snow was actually paper, folded into
stylised shapes. The second was that the small human appeared to be the Doctor’s friend Clara.

‘Retreat at once, wood-pulp scum!’ Strax ordered, charging into battle. As he got closer, he saw that there was a large hole gaping in the floor. The paper-creatures had been trying to drive Clara into it, he surmised. So he put his head down and charged into the blizzard of paper, grabbing Clara and dragging her clear.

The paper creatures followed. More than a distraction, Strax found they were actually quite violent and persistent. He could feel tiny, but painful blows on the probic vent at the back of his neck. If they flew into that and clogged it up …

‘Strax – is that you?’ Clara said.

‘You are injured,’ Strax told her, though to be fair she probably knew that. Her exposed flesh was scratched and bleeding in the most honourable manner – she had clearly put up a brave fight and Strax felt a sudden rush of pride on her behalf.

‘We have to get out of here,’ she said.

‘Retreat?’ Maybe she wasn’t so brave after all. ‘Never!’

‘You can’t kill paper!’ Clara insisted as she waved her hands, swatting desperately at the creatures that continued to fly at her.

‘Ah, a challenge?’

‘It’s not a challenge, it’s called common sense.’

Strax grunted, crushing a paper bird in his fist. ‘Never heard of it.’

He marched back towards the door, pulling Clara with him. But the swirling paper kept pace with them.

‘When I tell you, drop to the ground,’ Strax told Clara.

‘Why?’

‘So that you don’t get obliterated. Unless you are ready to die with honour?’

‘Not yet,’ Clara admitted. ‘So when are you likely—’

‘Get down!’ Strax roared.

Clara dropped like a stone, landing heavily and painfully on the solid floor. Nothing happened. She looked up, to see Strax staring down at her, his features obscured by the constant attack of the paper birds.

‘Good,’ he said, ‘That was a test. Next time we do it for real.’

Clara got to her feet, snatching at the paper flying in her face and tangled in her hair. ‘Oh joy.’

‘Get down!’ Strax yelled again. Again, she dropped.

This time, Strax dived aside. For a moment, the swirling mass of paper was above them, confused and disoriented at the loss of its prey. A moment in which Strax hurled something small, round and metallic into the swarming birds. It exploded, a brilliant white light bursting out. Paper burst into flames, and fell smoking to the ground. The air was suddenly alive
with sparks and fire. Several of the birds fluttered away, fire eating through their wings and bodies until they collapsed to the ground, blackened and charred.

‘An incendiary pod,’ Strax explained, lifting Clara to her feet. ‘You all right, boy?’

Clara sat on the remains of a wooden crate in the corner of the factory. Strax had produced a battlefield first-aid kit, which included some antiseptic wipes. They stung but Strax assured her they would hasten the healing process as well as sterilising her cuts and scratches.

‘You got anything else useful in there?’ Clara asked.

‘Field dressings. Self-assembly inflatable replacement limbs. Spare ammunition, of course. Emergency rations. I even have some dehydrated water,’ he added proudly.

‘How does that work?’

‘You just add water, and …’ Strax frowned. ‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘Maybe it’s not as useful as I thought.’

‘Thank you, Strax.’

‘For the water?’

‘For being here and for saving my life. What were those things? They looked like the origami birds we found.’

‘Drones,’ Strax decided. ‘Programmed to follow a simple instruction set and devoid of any built-in weaponry. Primitive, but effective.’

Clara smiled. It hurt. ‘So why were you here, anyway? Were you looking for me? Following me?’

‘I was engaged on investigation and reconnaissance. An information-gathering mission. This is the area where Mr Bellamy died.’

‘Right,’ Clara said slowly. ‘Ah, was he the man who was murdered? Jenny said you were investigating the death of a friend.’

‘There have been several deaths,’ Strax told her. ‘Unexplained but similar. But what brings you here?’

‘Oh we were following someone from the Frost Fair. Guy called Milton – you know him?’

Strax shook his head, most of his upper body turning with it. ‘A target for surveillance?’

‘Yes. And he owns this place, apparently. Not that he’s doing much with it.’

‘Apart from setting traps. This was an ambush.’

‘You think he knew I was coming?’

Strax considered. ‘It may be a defence mechanism. Not targeted at an individual, but a simple blanket deterrent. This Frost Fair …’

‘What of it?’

‘Bellamy said he had visited such a place. The night he died. He also spoke of a Curious Carnivore.’

‘The Carnival of Curiosities?’

‘As I said.’

‘Another coincidence,’ Clara said. ‘Or not.’ She got to her feet. Her head was swimming but she was
feeling a lot better now. Her face and hands were stinging less already. ‘We should find the Doctor and tell him what’s happened here. And about your friend Bellamy.’

‘You sense a connection?’

‘And then some. Come on.’

The dusty light from the high windows cast foreshortened shadows of Strax and Clara across the factory floor as they made their way back to the doors that Strax had smashed open.

‘We’ll tell the Doctor and Vastra about the keypad on the other doors too,’ Clara said as they left. ‘Agreed,’ Strax said, following. ‘What keypad?’

As they moved out of the factory, Clara’s shadow hesitated on the threshold. It waited until she and Strax had gone, then moved quickly back the way it had come. Up the wall, to the window, and then through and down the side of the building – a dark silhouette against the pale light on the outer brickwork …

The shadow crept up the side of a carriage waiting at the end of Alberneath Avenue. It slipped in through the carriage window. Inside, Orestes Milton leaned forward, hands clasped over the silver top of his cane, chin resting on the hands. He watched the shadow on the seat opposite for a moment.

‘Is it done?’ he asked.

The shadow shook its head.

Angrily, Milton lifted his cane and jabbed it into the seat, shattering the shadow into tiny fragments of darkness that shimmered and faded to nothing. He took a deep breath, then rapped his cane twice on the roof of the carriage.

In the driver’s seat, a woman wrapped in a scarlet cloak lifted the reins and encouraged the horses into motion. The hood of her cloak was pulled up over her head, so that her face was nothing but shadows.

Returning from his perambulation, the Doctor was disappointed to find the Shadowplay tent still seemed to be deserted and closed up. The board outside still advised that the next performance would be in the afternoon, but failed to give a specific time. If he continued to wait for Silhouette to return, he could be here for a while.

‘You’d think she’d need to do some setting up,’ he said, to no one in particular. ‘And surely she’s got to make a living.’ But maybe, he thought as he looked round to check he was unobserved, the Shadowplay was not the woman’s most important or lucrative occupation. Whatever the case, she wasn’t here now, and there was no one watching.

So the Doctor undid the ties that held the tent door closed, folded back the heavy cloth, and slipped inside.

It was surprisingly dark in the tent. But the fabric needed to be heavy and thick, the Doctor realised, to
keep out any extraneous light. The darker it was, the better the shadow puppets would show up against the illuminated backdrop. He took his sonic screwdriver from his jacket pocket, and switched it on, navigating through the tent by its glow.

The place seemed much bigger without an audience, its edges cast into darkness. The low benches did nothing to break up the space. But the Doctor was more interested in the area behind the screen. There was a narrow space between the limelight that cast the glow and the screen itself. Sufficient for the puppeteers to stand – there had to be more than just the woman, the Doctor reasoned. At one point in the show there had been several figures, birds, the sun, clouds, and a dragon. Unless she had a few extra limbs she kept concealed beneath her cloak. It was possible, but on balance, he doubted that was the case.

Behind the lights was an opening in the tent wall. Beyond, was another area like a second smaller tent appended to the main one. This was more like it, the Doctor decided as he entered. Some light filtered through beneath the fabric of the walls, but he still needed the glow from the sonic screwdriver to see well enough.

The puppets were laid out on a long trestle table covered with a red cloth. Shapes cut from card. White against the scarlet. He was reminded of the young woman’s pale face framed by the red hood of her
cloak. The Doctor picked up one of the figures – an old man, complete with ragged beard. It was cleverly done. A character portrayed entirely by its outline. No detail, no texture – just the shape itself.

He was putting it carefully back with its fellows when a thought occurred to him. He picked it up again, examining the edges of the shape. Curious … He moved along the table, examining each of the puppet shapes in turn. That couldn’t be right. These must be just templates, shapes from which the actual puppets were cut.

In which case, where were the puppets themselves? He looked round but there were not many places they could be. A small cupboard turned out to be home to blank card, paper, and chalk for the board outside. He lifted the edge of the cloth and peered under the table, shining the sonic screwdriver along, to reveal just the wooden boards laid on the bare ground beneath. His frown deepened. He was missing something obvious. Unless, of course, he wasn’t …

Maybe she had taken the puppets with her. Or they were stored somewhere else. Except, he had walked all round the tent earlier and there was nowhere else. Plus it wasn’t just the puppets. There must be thread to hang them from, and poles to elevate the threads since there was no raised area for the puppeteers to stand. And these cut-out shapes could not be the actual puppets because they were solid, with no holes
to attach the threads, or any evidence of thread being fixed or glued to them.