ULTRA SHORT CHAPTER AHEAD ;~;
I deleted the last chapter because the boredom would have killed me. I was going to do "Waters of Mars," but there were some consistency issues I had to consider, so we're doing a more fun episode! I'm thrilled to write this, so enjoy!
W'P
P.S. I would want Gemma Arterton to be cast for the Poet in this incarnation, maybe Eva Green too but I like Gemma's face. :3
"There comes a point in a relationship when you realize that you trust someone enough to let them keep their secrets." -Robert Brault
-o-
"Upwards and onwards, Alistair!" The Poet wrenched a lever down in her TARDIS and tapped her fingers across buttons like a piano. "'The game's afoot: Follow your spirit, and upon this charge cry—'"
"'God for Harry, England and Saint George!'" She and Alistair finished the verse together and laughed.
"So, where to now?" The ginger asked and kicked his feet up on the console only to get them smacked back down as she jogged around. "Hawaii? Australia? Mars? The Horsehead Nebula?"
"Mars! Let's do Mars. It's lovely this time of time." The Poet flipped a couple switches and pulled the launch. "Lovely. Now, maybe if I…" She dialed in a few commands, took three measured steps to her left, clapped her hands once, and executed a complicated procedure of twisting key-like things, pressing buttons and honked a horn.
The TARDIS suddenly jerked and sent them tumbling. The engines roared below their feet. Alarmed, the Poet hurriedly pumped the loose launch lever up and down. "Poet, what's happening?!" Alistair held onto his seat for all he was worth, shielding his face from a bang of sparks from the centre console.
"I miscalculated!" She cried back. "Hold on, we're jumping a time track!"
"No way!" Alistair laughed nervously, waving a hand for balance as he stood. "We've jumped time tracks before. What—gah!" He dodged her dashing past to try and regulate things. "This is not just jumping a track!"
"It's a really bad one!" The Poet slammed her palm on a big button and turned a crank. "More like…three tracks! Three tracks, and a bicycling path, and two lanes of a freeway."
The machine shuddered to a stop. All was quiet for a few seconds. Alistair broke the silence by sighing deeply. The Poet let out a short laugh and brushed her hair back. She dashed up the stairs to the door and peeked out.
"Er, yes, well…" The Poet slowly closed the door and looked back at Alistair. "I may have missed the mark by several hundred…thousand miles…"
The human sighed and put his space suit back on its hook. "Oh, and Mars would have been really excellent, too."
"Chin up, this is just as lovely." The Poet skipped through the console room and up to her wardrobe. "Time for a costume change! Go for circa 1920, Donovan."
"Circa 1920?" He called up to her. Shuffling in the room over told her he was changing regardless. "You really missed the mark this time, Poet."
"Oh, hush," She scoffed, braiding her hair to pin it around her head like a dark brown snake. Her blue dress was the same colour as her everyday one, but in the style of a flapper's dress. The necklace was already part of her outfit. She placed a veiled hat on her head and pulled the black fishnet over her eyes. "We're going to a party, so behave."
"I hope there's champagne," Alistair muttered. He emerged from his dressing room in a classic suit and jacket, complete with beige fedora to clash spectacularly with his ginger hair and what could now probably be considered a beard. As he straightened his jacket, a thought seemed to occur to him. "Poet, how are we getting in?"
"Oh, you know me. I've a way with words. Let's hop on, then." She beamed at him, and they trotted down to the door.
The TARDIS had changed into a fountain of polished white marble. There were little carvings of angels and pepper pots, a tall, slender figure with no face and a crown, a square with a little lump inside, and all manner of other strange things. A bowtie held an inexplicably high position, inside a rectangle. The Poet and Alistair climbed out of the crystal water, but were impossibly dry.
The Time Lady flicked out her sonic and scanned around. She tested the air and knelt to touch the grass. "I'd guess…1926. My gut says December, but…"
"If this is December, sign me up." Alistair said appraisingly.
The weather was indeed fantastic, balmy and fine. The sun shone down on them as they stood in the yard of a large manor, almost a mansion. They seemed to have appeared right in the middle of the party, but no one looked twice at the sudden fountain. Perception filters really are brilliant, the Poet mused to herself. No one was outside yet, so she presumed they were all inside to be announced into the yard.
"Let's introduce ourselves, shall we?" She suggested, and they walked briskly off to the house.
They slipped in the back door and were confronted by a mix of characters. Both men and woman stood about, clearly waiting for the party to begin. Most, if not all of them, had drinks in their hands.
A man who looked like a butler stalked up to them. "Excuse me, who are you? How did you get in?"
"I'm the Poet, and this is Sir Alistair Donovan of…London." She nodded at them and, taking an almost literal page from the Doctor's book, pulled a piece of psychic paper from her pocket. "Don't worry, we were invited."
The butler examined the blank paper. "Very well, Miss…Poet. Right this way. The guests will be taking cocktails in the garden."
"Brilliant!" The Poet practically radiated good cheer. This was the kind of thing she loved to do. Going different places, seeing the sights, taking in time. She loved the Doctor to death, but sometimes it was good to just lay back and relax.
"May I announce the Colonel Hugh Curbishley, the Honourable Roger Curbishley." The butler introduced the first two guests into the yard, a young man pushing an older man in a wheelchair. There was a few minutes' pause.
"Oh, I think we're next." The Poet said, and they were.
"Lady Poet and Sir Alistair Donovan." The butler announced. They walked out into the sunny garden, which to the Poet's sensitive nose smelled lightly of mint and lemons. The serving staff were all already out there, as well as the Curbishleys and the lady of the house. A skinny man in a smart suit and a rusty-haired woman in a period dress stood outside as well. They were all gathered in a group, talking and watching the new arrivals.
"Hello there!" The Poet greeted. "I'm the Poet and this is Alistair."
"Nice to meet you, I'm the Doctor and this is Donna." The suited man held out his hand and the Poet, already halfway to shaking it, quickly pulled back.
"Oh, the Doctor, quite, um…" She cleared her throat and stepped back. "Charmed."
"Excuse me," Lady Eddison butted in. "You two do have invitations, don't you?"
"Oh, yes, we've been planning for ages, ever since we got the invitation." The Poet flashed her the "invitation" as quickly as she could. "Don't you recall, we met at that art gallery the other month."
"Ah, yes, so nice to see you again, Poet." Lady Eddison said warmly, though a little distantly, like she was just saying that to stall her until she could remember if they'd ever actually met.
"A drink, madam? Sir?" A footman asked them.
"Your most alcoholic wine, good sir." Alistair said, with exaggerated class.
"A lemonade, thank you." The Poet said quickly. She quickly made sure she wasn't holding the psychic paper or screwdriver for whatever reason.
"Miss Robina Redmond." The butler announced. A young woman with dark hair strutted in, confident to a fault.
"She's the absolute hit of the social season. A must. Miss Redmond." Eddison said to the four of them now there.
"Spiffing to meet you at last, my lady." The girl greeted.
The next guest was announced, a blond reverend named Arnold Golightly. He had a soft-around-the-edges, almost childlike face. "Ah, Reverend, how are you?" Eddison greeted friendlily. "I heard about the church last Thursday night, those ruffians breaking in."
"You apprehended them, I hear." Hugh Curbishly added.
"As the Christian fathers taught me, we must forgive them their trespasses. Quite literally." Golightly said humbly.
"Some of these young boys deserve a decent thrashing." Roger Curbishly said.
"Couldn't agree more, sir." The footman from earlier agreed, and the two passed each other a suggestive glance. Alistair coughed on his wine, and the Poet patted him on the back.
"Typical," Donna muttered, looking between the three of them. "All the decent men are on the other bus."
"Or Time Lords." The Doctor added quietly. It was the Poet's turn to choke on her drink. He passed her an odd look, suspicious, but said nothing.
Seeing an opportunity, Alistair pulled the Poet aside, his eyes still watering. "Excuse me, Poet, but what the hell is going on?" He wheezed.
"We jumped a time track," She replied, keeping her voice so low it was hard to hear. "That's a younger Doctor. He doesn't know me yet."
"But you're Time Lords. Can't you, I don't know, smell each other?"
"Smell each other? Why would anybody want to do that?"
"…"
"Oh, you mean if we would be able to tell just at this distance?"
"Yes, of course that's what I mean! Jesus, Poet…"
"No, no. At one time we could, but it's been years and years. It's gotten a lot harder to do that with only two of us. Although, if I touched him, even through clothing he would know right away who I was. So let's try to avoid that."
"Wait. When we got to Alfava Metraxis, and met the Doctor there, it was the first time you had met, right? So, what happens now? Won't all of history be changed by you two now knowing each other centuries before meeting or something?"
"Not exactly. Or maybe, yes. I'm not sure. Right now I'm making it up as I go along. But we're both Time Lords…at the end of this, I could probably…"
The Poet stopped talking as the gathered guests began to applaud politely. A blond woman, with a small face and pointed nose—though she was not unattractive—entered the garden. "Oh, no. Please don't. Thank you, Lady Eddison. Honestly, there's no need." She strode over to Donna and shook her hand. "Agatha Christie."
"What about her?" Donna asked, the dear.
"That's me."
"No!" Donna gasped. "You're kidding!"
"Agatha Christie!" The Doctor jumped in and shook her hand. "I was just talking about you the other day. I said, "I bet she's brilliant." I'm the Doctor and this is Donna. Oh, I love your stuff! What a mind! You fool me every time. Well…almost every time. Well…once or twice. Well…once. But it was a good once."
"You make a rather unusual couple." Agatha commented. They immediately and quickly denied any such implications, getting a knowing smirk from her. "Obviously not—no wedding ring."
"Oh, you don't miss a trick." The Doctor grinned.
"They, on the other hand," The author turned to the Poet and Alistair. "Are."
"I'm the Poet and this is Alistair, and no, we're not married, but Agatha Christie, what a thrill!" The Poet exclaimed, shaking her hand. "Honestly, you're brilliant."
"Ah, I see now," Agatha observed, looking between the delicate silver diamond on the Poet's finger and the modest gold band on Alistair's. "The rings don't match."
"Isn't she brilliant?" The Poet gushed, turning to grin at Alistair. "Fantastic!"
"Oh, stop." Agatha waved her humbly off. "But I must say, you have very unique eyes! Is it genetic or artificial?"
It took the Poet a second to remember that her eyes were two different colours. "Oh! Ah, yes, I suppose you could say it's genetic. Long story, very long story, and rather boring to boot."
"You'll have to tell me some day." Agatha smiled politely.
Lady Eddison plucked over to them, looking equally happy at her special guest. "Mrs Christie, I'm so glad you could come. I'm one of your greatest followers. I've read all six of your books. Uh, is, uh, Mr Christie not joining us?"
"Is he needed? Can't a woman make her own way in the world?" Agatha replied, a tad coldly.
"Don't give my wife ideas." Hugh chuckled from his wheelchair.
Alistair turned to the Poet and gave her a little elbow to the ribs, grinning. "Agatha Christie, huh? Not bad."
"Ha ha, right!" They high-fived. "Not bad at all, Donovan! And Mars is boring anyway." In the corner of her eye, she saw the Doctor looking at a newspaper with Donna. "What's that, then?"
The Doctor looked up. "Oh, it's nothing much. Just checking the headline, you know."
The Poet glanced at the date of the paper, and nodded slightly. "Right." She turned back to Alistair, who raised a ginger brow.
"What was that about?" He asked, throwing back what remained of his wine.
"Today is the day Agatha Christie disappears." The Poet whispered. "It's all very strange. She will be missing for ten days. Her car is found by the side of the lake. At the end of ten days, she appears outside a hotel in Harrogut. She doesn't remember it, or claims she doesn't, and never speaks of it again."
"Huh!"
A small woman in maid's clothes came running from the house, screaming, and interrupted their conversation. "The professor! The library! Murder! Murder!"
The Doctor and Poet were off in a flash. They fumbled through the complicated, shiny, wooden halls of extravagant decorations and candelabras. The library was on the second story. It was a small room by comparison, though the walls were crowded with books both large and small. A fireplace was dying in the hearth. At the centre of the room, in the middle of the rug, was a man's body. He was older, facedown, sprawled out awkwardly as though he had only fallen and had not yet gotten up. A piece of lead piping was on the floor next to him.
They entered the library first, followed by their companions and Lady Eddison, and then the butler, Greeves. "Oh, my goodness." The latter stated.
"Fan-bloody-tastic." Alistair muttered sourly.
The Doctor knelt by the body and inspected it. "Bashed on the head. Blunt instrument." He tapped the professor's watch. "Watch broke as he fell, time of death was quarter past four."
He stood and moved away to shuffle through the many papers on the late man's desk. The Poet knelt where he had been and scanned it very quickly, so fast that the Doctor didn't have time to look back before it was back in her pocket. Alistair squatted next to her and lowered his voice.
"Poet, let's get out now." He whispered. "I don't like this."
"It's murder, Donovan, you're not supposed to like it." She muttered back.
"And this is the Doctor." He hissed. "Wherever he goes, trouble follows, and right now I like the other Doctor's kind of trouble more. You fancy him, he fancies you, I like him, and people aren't being murdered."
"Lower your voice." The Poet said quickly, with a glance at the Doctor. "You would be surprised what Time Lords can hear when they try."
At that time, the rest of the guests tried pushing their way through into the library. They both stood to talk with the others who were in the room. "We should call the police." Agatha said shakily.
"You don't have to." The Doctor took his psychic paper from his pocket. "Chief Inspector Smith from Scotland Yard. Miss Noble is the plucky young girl who helps me out."
"I'm the Doctor's associate." The Poet jerked a thumb at him. She couldn't show her own police rank, though she very much liked doing it. Women weren't police officers in 1926. "And Sir Donovan is my sarcastic companion."
"I say!" Lady Eddison gasped.
"Mrs Christie is right." The Doctor went on, with a raised-eyebrow glance at the Poet. "Go to the sitting room. I—we will question each of you in turn."
"Come along." Agatha ushered everyone out. "Do as the Doctor says. Keep the room undisturbed." The room emptied but for the two Time Lords and their companions.
"My associate?" The Doctor asked.
"Oh my, yes." The Poet said, but didn't really want to answer the question directly. "Yes, why not. You seem the sociable sort. Donovan and I are charismatic to a fault."
He gave her an odd look, that suspicious one again, but didn't dig any deeper. His eyebrow was raised so high it was almost in his hairline. He lay down on the floor, on his stomach, to investigate the body further. Donna started talking to him about being "the plucky young girl" who helps him out, and the Poet looked over the scene with her arms crossed.
"What are you thinking?" Alistair asked, edging over to her.
"My sonic turned something up." She replied quietly.
"Oh yeah? What's that?" He was still holding his wine glass.
"Whatever it was, it was morphic."
"Morphic? So, not human, then?"
"Oh, not human by a long shot. Not even a few planets close to human."
"So the killer is an alien."
"Yeah." She watched the Doctor pick a glob of something from a crack in the floor.
"Where are they? Is there a Silurian hiding in the shrubbery? I mean, we would notice an alien walking around."
"'Course we would, that's the point. This one's clever, it's hiding in human form. Could be any one of them out there."
"That narrows it down. This really takes the cake, though, as far as murder mysteries go. Don't look at me like that. Here we are, in 1920-whatever, with Agatha Christie on the day she goes missing, with an alien killer on the loose, and the two lead investigators are the last two Time Lords in existence. Honestly!"