Chapter 3

The Doctor took in the 15th century ambience. It was a cosmopolitan mixture of people and costumes. Two rough-looking dock workers, three gentlemen, a pair of European Immigrants. He got strong reactions of curiosity regarding his appearance.

The Doctor button-holed one of the roughnecks. "Pardon me. I am searching for two individuals with a Slitheen."

The two men gave him a blank look.

"I beg your pardon – an alien."

The two roughnecks looked at each other and laughed. The Doctor's accent struck them as inordinately funny.

"Scotsman," said one to the other.

The partner laughed and the two ruffians kept going. The Doctor cocked his head in reaction, glanced around some more, spotted a section of hand-written newsletter with some crumpled rubbish along a wall. He bent and picked it up, straightening the page to read it.

The paper was the Avvisi and the headline read CHOLERA OUTBREAK-HUNDREDS DIE. The date: AUGUST 13, 1483.

"Could you help out an old miner?" A beggar in his sixties, unsteady on his feet, stepped up to the Doctor. "I fell down a shaft." He indicated a stiff leg. "And got blown up in a tunnel."

"That's unfortunate."

"Most unfortunate. I require large quantities of whiskey as a linament." The man gave a dry cough and slumped for a moment against the Doctor. He took a deep ragged breath to collect himself.

"I'm sorry but I have no whiskey to give you."

"I'll take a farthing."

"I'm sorry. But I have no form of legal tender."

The beggar considered the Doctor for a moment. "We're both in the same boat, eh? This is my corner. Go find your own."

The Doctor took advantage of the moment. "I would be happy to do so. However, I'm presently in need of information."

"Best handout is a young man with his lady. You give him a chance to impress her by bein' generous. But stay clear of the sailors – likely as not, you'll get a fist across the jaw for your trouble."

"Thank you for the advice, but I am trying to find two individuals with an alien."

The beggar scowled, pointing. "An alien? You're an odd fellow, aren't you? Best not be too particular about who you're requesting funds from…" The beggar started to cough violently.

"You require medical attention. I'll find a doctor."

"No. It's too late for that." The beggar struggled off after another passerby. "Help an old miner…"

The Doctor dropped the newsletter where he found it, glancing around the street.

At the entrance of an inn, a porter was loading a suitcase into a horsedrawn carriage as the suitcase owner stood by. The man handed some coins to the porter, then got into the carriage. The porter closed the door after him, and the carriage was driven off.

The Doctor headed over toward him, as the porter stepped over to two men who were standing at a doorway nearby. The porter handed the coins over to one of them. "Put in on Gentleman Jim. K.O. in the fifth."

The man nodded. The porter headed for the inn entrance – the Doctor was waiting for him. "I require temporary lodging."

The porter reacted to the Doctor's clothes. "Looks like the missus booted you out in the middle of the night."

The Doctor thought for a moment – the light went on in his eyes. "I understand the source of your misperception." Indicating his clothes… "But this is not sleepware. And my…missus didn't kick me out."

The porter was staring at him doubtfully.

The Doctor grabbed at a cover story. "I'm a Scottsman."

The porter shrugged. "Everybody's from somewhere. That doesn't matter at this inn. It's sixpence a day or four shillings a week."

"I have no money."

"Now that matter…"

"I'm capable of performing a significant range of tasks – both mental and physical. Perhaps your inn could offer me… a job."

"Well, I don't know. We got a maid we're pretty happy with. The cook's decent. The dishwasher's drunk all day but at least he shows up on time. And then there's me – I do everything else." He shrugged. "Sorry."

Suddenly, a man stepped out of the inn behind them, putting his hat on, looking down in the dumps as he stepped past them.

"Lady Luck not with you, tonight, Mister Lane?"

The man shot him a hard look, then sullenly continued on his way.

The porter laughed to the Doctor. "Hasn't made checkmate in five weeks."

The Doctor's head jerked to attention. "Chess?"

There was a knock on the door of the Chess Room. No response. A beat and the door opened, revealing the Doctor, who stepped inside. He looked up, and saw what he came for.

A chess table, where the tension was palpable. No one had even glanced in the Doctor's direction.

Four men were at the chess table: A sophisticated gambler in gentleman clothes, including a black vest. A burly, mean-looking seaman in appropriate costume. A farmer wearing urban clothing, including a bowler hat. A slightly chubby, local businessman.

The Gambler and the Farmer were engaged in the game, with considerable piles of silver and gold coins in front of each.

They were at the end of a game. Frustrated, the businessman stood up. The Gambler knocked over his own King. "Concede."

The Seaman studied the impassive Farmer – the Farmer was unreadable. "Go to Blazes!" He angrily tossed down his money. The Farmer silently collected the money in the pot.

There was a silent, tense beat of impending violence.

The Gambler was all smiles and conciliatory, but there was a threat behind it that the physically more imposing seaman couldn't ignore.

"The devil take you all…" He crossed his arms together, steaming. The Gambler gathered all the pieces together and began to place them back where they belonged as the Seaman glanced up in surprise at an interloper. "What in hell do you want?"

The Doctor was standing nearby, having waited patiently for the game to end. "I would like to join your game."

Everyone gave him the once-over, a little taken aback by his appearance. The Farmer alone was completely unruffled.

The Seaman made an unfriendly scowl toward the Doctor. "Don't like foreigners, personally."

The Doctor cocked his head, now more secure in his role as foreign visitor. "I'm a Scotsman."

The Gambler perked up at this, not quite believing it. "O. 'S ann à Dùn Èideann a tha mo phàrantan. Rugadh mi ann an Obar Dheathain."

The Doctor reacted to this unexpected response, taken momentarily for a loss. "Mar sin tha sinn cha mhòr bràithrean. Tha mi toilichte coinneachadh riut."

The Gambler laughed, surprised at the answer, then indicated an empty chair. "Please sir."

The Doctor sat down as the Gambler exchanged glances with his cohorts – "we've got a live one here." The Gambler finished replacing the pieces.

"The game is chess. The ante is fourpence."

The Doctor confidently removed his mobile phone from his pocket and placed it in the centre of the table.

Everyone eyed the shining device.

"Family heirloom?"

"In a manner of speaking. It is an aluminium composite of magnesium, titanium..."

The Seaman picked it up and bit into it.

"Carbon-seventy, and..."

"Gold."

The Doctor nodded. "Gold."

The Seaman put it back down.

"I'll give you three shillings for it."

"I accept."

The Gambler took the phone and pushed a few of his winnings over to the Doctor.

The Doctor turned his attention to the chess board.

The door of a modest room unlocked and opened. The porter entered, holding out an arm as if to present the room, and the Doctor stepped inside. There was a single bed, a desk, and a window.

The Time Lord was now wearing the Farmer's bowler hat and the Gambler's black vest. He had cleaned up big at the chess table.

"Did you see the looks on their faces? I did everything I could not to laugh."

"To whom are you referring?"

"Francesc de Castellvi de Vic and Bernat Fenollar. Those two are chess champions. Oh sure, they play it easy at first so they don't scare off the marks, but give them enough time and they will bleed a man dry – especially an out-of-towner."

"What was the source of your jocular reaction?"

The kid looked blank.

"What was it you found humorous?"

"Do you not see? They had you pegged for a sap. Those clothes you have on, the way you speak – it is like you were born yesterday. You sure had them fooled."

"It was not my intention to deceive."

The porter looked at the Doctor's innocent face. The porter couldn't decide whether the Doctor was telling the truth or not. He shrugged. "Have it your way. This is the place. Breakfast is from six to eight. Checkout is at noon when you are ready to leave."

"Thank you."

The porter stood there waiting – the classic tip situation, but the Doctor didn't get it. The porter held out his hand. The Doctor shook it. "It has been a pleasure." The Doctor let go of his hand and stepped toward the window to glance outside.

The porter cleared his throat.

The Doctor turned. "It would be advisable to monitor that cough. I have read that there is currently an epidemic of cholera in London."

The young man was impatient. Annoyed at having to go through this to get a tip. "Never felt better."

The Doctor still didn't get it. The porter again stuck out his hand, palm raised. The Doctor stared at it, considered the situation, and finally understood. "Of course. The gratuity."

The porter gave him an impatient grin of acknowledgement. The Doctor pulled out a big bag of coins from his pocket – the chess winnings – and pulled out a gold coin, handing it to the porter. "Thank you for your assistance."

The porter took the coin, amazed. "A noble!" The kid stared dumbstruck at the Doctor.

"You are welcome."

The porter stepped into the doorway, then turned back to the Doctor. "If there is anything you need – it can get lonely in London. You might want some company. I can introduce you to Lillian."

The Doctor considered this for a moment. "I have no need for companionship. However, I do require some... supplies." The Doctor stepped over to the desk and picked up a pen, dipping it into an inkpot and writing onto a piece of paper.

"Anything you, need, I can get it for you wholesale... I can get it for you less than wholesale if you don't ask me where it came from..."

The Doctor handed him the piece of paper. The porter stared at it, a bit puzzled by what he saw. "What do you need all these things for?"

"I am an inventor..."

"You don't say... well this is going to take a while. I will need to go right across town. And it is not going to be cheap."

The Doctor took a few more coins out of his bag and handed them to the young man. "You may retain the surplus for yourself."

"Done." The porter was out the door like a shot, slamming it behind him.

The Doctor went to the desk and sat down. He took the pen and another piece of paper and began to sketch a complicated circuit diagram...

The porter was shooting along the street, clutching the Doctor's list in hand, smiling with enthusiasm over the money and the assignment. He approached an alley. He didn't stop (or even hear) the muffled moan as he passed by...

"Help out an old miner..."

The porter continued on his way.

The beggar was propped up against some wooden boxes and other junk in the alley. He was in really bad shape, head rolling to the side, eyes half-closed, mumbling to himself, dying... "Fell down a shaft.. old miner... help me... help me out..."

A shadow fell over the hold man, and even in his extreme state, he seemed to feel the darkness intrude upon his heart. His eyes struggled open.

A couple were standing in front of him. Both the man and the woman were tall, handsome, elegantly dressed, aristocratic. But their faces were cold and expressionless. The man held a cane with an elaborately carved Slitheen's head. The woman carried a valise, almost like a doctor's bag. They stared at the beggar, as if waiting...

The beggar's face filled with horror at the apparition. "No..." He tried to struggle off his back, but there was no strength left in his body. "No..." He collapsed, eyes closing for the last time...

The couple watched impassively. Then the woman raised the valise, aiming it at the dying man. The valise glowed with a weird lighting effect, and extended a field out toward the man's body, enveloping him for a moment, then withdrawing back into the valise, which stopped glowing. The couple turned and left. The old miner was now cold and dead.