TWO

The two travellers ate their stew and drank their wine, not unaware of the stares and whispering they were drawing, but that happened almost everywhere they went. Their style of dress was odd in most time periods and on most planets – staring and wondering was par for the course. Secretly, Martha wondered if the stares weren't at least in part due to the mixture of their skin colours. In Victorian England, any form of uptight conservatism could not be ruled out.

"I'm thinking we should take the room here and stay in it tonight, instead of in the TARDIS," the Doctor asked, still chewing.

She chuckled. "That's right. This lot thinks we're married so it's okay!" As she said those last three words, her eyebrows rose and her voice dropped in an exaggerated, mocking fashion. "But the TARDIS would be more private."

By contrast, his voice went up an octave as he asked, "Are you ashamed of me?" Of course, it wasn't a real question, he was just teasing, wanted to watch her stammer a bit.

But she was not so easily flustered. She cocked one eyebrow. "No, but this is a rickety building, no doubt the walls are thin, and I'm just afraid all the panting and moaning might scandalise these nice people and keep them awake all night."

Now, it was he who was at a loss for words. He cleared his throat and shifted in his chair under her unwavering gaze. He'd known what she meant when she'd said the TARDIS would be more private, but to hear those words actually come out of her mouth so easily... well, it was a bit different. And kind of exciting.

Finally, he was able to say, "Yes, well, be that as it may, we've been brought here for some reason. If we want to find out what that reason is, I think we need to talk to some folks, and what better place to do that?"

"No one's talking to us now," she pointed out.

"Well, it's the middle of the afternoon," he said, his words combating another mouthful. "Let the sun go down, build a fire, get some ale in these gents and they'll be singing like Ella Fitzgerald before too long."

"All right, then," she shrugged. "But don't blame me when the floorboards cave." She winked at him.

"Would you stop that, please?" he hissed, leaning across the table, but he was smiling. She touched his cheek playfully and laughed with him.

The barman wandered over. "Whenever you're ready, you can to up to your room," he said. He laid a key on the table. "It's up the stairs, second door on the right. You'll leave the key at the bar if you go anywhere."

"Thanks," Martha said, taking the key.

He started to walk away, and then turned back. "Haven't you got any baggage?"

"Of course we have," the Doctor said. "We've paid the carriage driver to sit with it while we have our lunch."

"Mmm," the barman said, walking away.

When he was out of earshot, the Doctor whispered, "When we're finished here, you go up to the room and I'll go back to the TARDIS and get some of our things."

"How long are we going to be here?" she whispered back, a bit worried now.

"No idea."

They finished, and Martha went upstairs to the room that was second on the right, and opened it easily with the key. The space was very simple; wooden on all six sides, a simple four-poster bed barely large enough for two, a table with a washbasin and two chairs. The only decoration was a cross on one of the walls and some unpretentious white curtains, now nearly yellow. Clearly, the building they were in was quite old, even in 1852, and the floor creaked with every move made. In fact, she could hear creaking all over, as people moved about. She wasn't particularly fond of this situation, but at least she got to stay here with the Doctor. And not just awkwardly sharing sleeping space as they had in Shakespeare's time.

She sighed, sat down on the bed and gazed outside. Nothing to do now but wait.

Phillip found himself running once more, back the way he had come. He was glad that he ran everywhere – it was good practise for emergencies like today. He burst through the door of the Voyager's Repose and stopped. He cast his eyes worriedly about the room. "Where is he?"

"Who?" asked the barman.

"That doctor," Phillip said, his voice rising in frustration. "The stranger who was dressed funny and came in with the black woman. He was here a few minutes ago, where is he?"

"They finished their meal. I reckon they must have gone up to get their room."

"Which one is it?"

"Number five, but..."

"Thanks!" Phillip called out, and he had disappeared up the stairs before the barman could stop him.

Martha was still sitting, contemplating the street outside, when she heard the rap at the door. She furrowed her brow, and silently decided to use the cross on the wall as a club if the need arose. She argued with herself about whether or not to open the door at all, when the voice of a child came through the wooden door. He sounded distressed, as though he might cry at any moment.

"Doctor? My name is Phillip and I need help. Please open the door!"

Martha pulled the door open and regarded Phillip. "Hello," she said.

"Hello, ma'am," he said, hesitantly. He had never spoken to anyone of her colour before – was it proper to call her ma'am?

"My name is Martha," she said. "And you're Phillip?"

"Yes, ma'am," he answered. "I'm looking for the Doctor."

"Well, he's not here at the moment," she told him. "Why don't you tell me what's wrong?" She stepped aside to let him in.

He looked at her wide-eyed, with a childish scepticism. Finally, he stepped across the threshold into the room, and Martha closed the door. "You can sit down," she said, gesturing to a chair.

"No, thank you ma'am," he insisted. "I can't stay."

"All right, then," she said. "What's the problem?"

He looked at her with that same scepticism, and Martha kept silent. She could see that he didn't quite trust her yet, and she supposed that was smart of him. She waited for him to speak, and just smiled, trying to put him at ease. Children should not be rushed, not when they are frightened.

After a long minute, the boy finally opened his mouth. "Are you his wife?"

She sighed. Here it was – someone had asked her outright. "Well, for the purposes of this discussion."

He cocked his head to the side. "Is that a yes, then?"

She nodded.

"All right," he said, taking a huge deep breath, then exhaling. He began to recite the speech he had memorised months ago, but which he hadn't used since at least Easter. "Sister Micheline, head of the infirmary of Saint Anthony's convent, requests the services of the Doctor. There is a patient whose condition is unknown and thus far, no physician, nor nurse nor priest has proved able to cure her."

Martha perked up. "Well, if that's all it is, then I can help you," she said, standing. "Show me the way."

The boy stood still. "You?"

"Yeah," she smiled. "I'm a doctor too." In her head, she finished the thought: well, almost.

"You?" he repeated.

"Yes, it's true."

"But you're a woman."

"That's also true."

"And you're black."

"Again, true. But I'm not from around here, Phillip. Things are different where I come from – I'm a doctor, I promise you. I might be able to help the patient if you'll show me the way."

Phillip envisioned what Sister Micheline might say. He knew that she wouldn't believe that this Martha was a doctor – he wasn't quite sure he believed it himself. But she would very likely be cross with him if he failed to bring back to the convent a person who was offering to help.

He nodded at Martha, and walked out of the room. She followed.

Phillip wished he could run, but he knew that it was improper for a woman to run, so in deference to Martha, he moved quickly but stayed at a walking pace.

"What are the patient's symptoms?" Martha asked as they walked. Phillip looked at her, confused. "Is there coughing, a rash, bleeding, what?"

"I'm not sure ma'am," Phillip told her, still walking briskly. "Sister Micheline will not let me see her. All I know is that it's nothing anyone has ever seen, since every doctor in London has been in, and none of them can tell what's wrong."

In about five minutes, Martha found herself in the cloisters of Saint Anthony's convent being eyed carefully by two passing nuns. She wished them a good afternoon.

Phillip led her into a dark hallway, then into a long room lit only by a large fire. A nun sat near it, scrubbing.

"Sister," Phillip said, his voice echoing against the stone walls. "I've brought help."

Sister Micheline got to her feet and approached. She looked Martha up and down, and then asked, "Where's the Doctor?"

Phillip looked up at Martha with worried eyes. "My name is Martha," she said. "I am a doctor myself."

Sister Micheline looked at her with very much the same look as Phillip had given a few minutes before, except the nun's gaze held a much more adult distrust. "How could that be?"

"It doesn't matter," Martha told her. "Phillip tells me that all of the London doctors haven't known what to do. Wouldn't you welcome an outsider's perspective? Maybe I've seen things they haven't."

"Do you have some sort of a credential that you could show me?" Sister Micheline asked, fingering her rosary.

"I'm afraid I don't. Sister Micheline, you don't have to believe that I'm a doctor. But can you believe that I've had medical training, much as you have?"

"I suppose."

"And can you believe that I'd like to try to help you?"

"Yes."

"Then will you let me?"

A pause, and then, "Follow me."

Martha glanced at Phillip, who waved weakly as she moved away. She waved back, remembering that Phillip is not allowed to be near the patient.

They went out into the open air, and Martha followed the nun into a livery stable. She stopped in her tracks at the door. "Wait, you're keeping her in a stable?"

"We didn't have a choice," Sister Micheline said. "We know it's not... ideal, but she was upsetting the entire convent."

"So you just shuffle her out here where you keep the animals?"

"There are no animals in here," the sister told her. "It's only her, and we've tried to make her comfortable."

A bit angry now, Martha proceeded. Sister Micheline opened a stall gate and gestured inside.

To her credit, the stall was swept clean and cleared of hay. Wooden planks had been laid over the dirt, and an old rug had been laid over that. On a little night table, there was a stack of books and a couple of lit candles. Martha ran her hands over the books.

"Someone reads to her, tells her stories each day," Sister Micheline said softly. "And we never have her in the dark – we always keep her candles lit."

Martha felt a little pang of guilt for having judged the situation so quickly. Clearly, they were taking care of the patient, even though they had exiled her. She decided there must be something incredibly upsetting about this patient's condition, otherwise, this wouldn't be happening.

On the cot, a young woman lay huddled, facing the wall. She was wearing a brown smock of some kind, and her hair was caked with oil and dust and plastered to her head. Her breathing was fast and erratic and if her calves and ankles were any indication, she was severely malnourished.

"What's her name?" Martha asked.

"We don't know," Sister Micheline replied. "A citizen found her lying naked and shivering, covered in filth, in an alley on the Isle of Dogs one night about eight months ago. He reported it to us, and we wrapped her in a blanket and brought her back here – not without a good deal of effort, mind you – and that's when we set about trying to bring her round. We've gotten nothing from her, not even a name. No one in London has reported a daughter or wife missing, no one has been able to identify sketches of her. It seems she's come from no-where. So we've been calling her Jane – Jane Doe."

"What do you feed her?"

"She won't eat," the nun answered. "Or rather, we cannot get her to be aware of food in front of her, and when we've tried to feed her, she... resists. The only thing she will take easily is sugar water, which we give her twice a day. When the Monsignor is here on Thursdays, he holds her down and some of the nuns force-feed her vegetables and cheese, but that is the only way she will take food."

"Does she bathe?"

"The novices bathe her twice a month," Sister Micheline said. "But she resists that as well. It's quite an undertaking. Sometimes it takes all day."

"And she hasn't said a word, ever?"

"No – nothing in English, or any language I've ever heard. The only sounds she makes are... wild, like growling."

"Growling?"

"Yes," Sister Micheline replied. Martha glanced at her and she was crossing herself, and, Martha saw, crying a bit.

It looked and sounded to Martha like a pretty severe dissociative disorder, but there were a number of them, and she couldn't be certain without her books. One thing was clear: the girl had been through some horrible trauma. Martha thought back to her psychiatric rotation. She'd seen many victims of violence and abuse come and go through the psychiatric ward, and had learned to spot the signs. Based on the evidence – she was found naked in an alley, she resisted being bathed or touched, she had self-destructive tendencies – Martha guessed that the girl had probably been unstable to begin with, but had also probably been raped, and maybe not just once. But again, Martha could not be certain without running tests and examining the girl in a way that these nuns would most certainly find improper.

"Has anyone done a gynaecological exam?"

"Of course not," Sister Micheline sniffed. "What would be the point of that?"

"All right," Martha said softly, more to herself than anyone. She sat down on the edge of the cot. "Jane?"

There was no response. Obviously, Jane was not her name, but what was Martha supposed to call her, Hey Girl?

"I'm here to help you," she said in a soothing tone. "I will not hurt you, I promise."

She reached out and touched the girl's shoulder softly.

As she did, the girl's body jolted violently. Like a wild animal, she snarled and bared her teeth while retreating further into the corner. Suddenly, the girl's feet met Martha's rib cage with brutal force, and Martha found herself on the floor, gasping for breath.