She moved cautiously towards the tall doorway leading off the chamber.

Dorothee ignored the instruction and headed for the boarded-up window. She squinted though a crack in the wood, but it was black as night outside. Romana was wrong. They weren't underground at all.

The heavy air in the House smelt of oil. Somehow, the bizarre treetrunk architecture didn't surprise her. It was the Doctor's House after all. The dust-laden place could have been mistaken for derelict, but for the lamps that burnt along the wal s. She went to join Leela, who was peering into the depths of a shadowy pa.s.sage.

'The Gallifreyans are sad people,' Leela said. 'There are no true children on their world.'

'Oh, the Loom business,' said Dorothee. 'I never understood that. I mean, if you're born, surely you're born as a kid.'

Leela shook her head. 'They are all born from the Family Loom as full-grown adults. They are like children at first and have to learn like children. Andred calls that time brainbuffing. He says the things they live with in the House are deliberately big, so that they feel as if they have been small.'

'Hang on,' said Dorothee. 'So you're not a Time Lady at all.'

Leela had begun to prowl around the room, studying the ancient weaponry, guns and swords, that hung from the walls. 'My tribe live on a world far from here in both s.p.a.ce and time.' She hiked up her robe, climbed on to a chair and pulled an angular knife down from its harness.

'Tribe?' grinned Dorothee.

The chair squirmed, there was no other word for it. Leela jumped clear and landed, catlike, next to Dorothee.

'And be careful of the furniture,' she warned, hefting the knife in her hand. 'It can be as fierce or cunning as any beast in the forest.'

They both froze at the sound of sc.r.a.ping footsteps.

They simultaneously pulled each other behind a large cabinet as something very tall stalked into the room.

Chris watched the Doctor trying to leave the library. Every time the Time Lord got near the door, the tables and chairs jostled viciously into his path.

142.

The Doctor said nothing. Chris couldn't exactly read him like a book. Instead, he was a captive audience as about a dozen intertwining texts were forcibly jacked into his head. Maybe he was getting used to it; he was beginning to separate the threads and focus on any one at a time.

'Suppose I did come back to murder Quences and then wiped my own memory. Would that account for all this twitchiness? Do I or could I ever have had a doppelganger Cousin? No, no, no. The Loom always weaves at twitchiness? Do I or could I ever have had a doppelganger Cousin? No, no, no. The Loom always weaves at random on the basic template. You can never choose what you look like. The chances of a double are infinitely random on the basic template. You can never choose what you look like. The chances of a double are infinitely remote.' remote.'

This was against a background of thoughts that included the reciting of a historical text in what sounded like pigbin Orculqui, singing along with some sort of operatic heroine, pomming along with a honky-tonk jazz band, rehearsing a speech on the cultural dynamics of the planet Blue Profundis in the twin-sunned Sappho System and a list of ingredients for home-made trumpberry wine.

'Arkhew never said it was me. Perhaps Arkhew recognized the murderer as someone else. Perhaps he went and confronted them and then got spiked.' confronted them and then got spiked.'

Chris said, 'How could Arkhew recognize someone else when the murderer looked like you? Who else was there?'

' Is there no privacy? Is there no privacy? ' complained the Doctor's thoughts, but out loud, he said, 'Innocet saw someone leaving the room.' ' complained the Doctor's thoughts, but out loud, he said, 'Innocet saw someone leaving the room.'

'She said it was was you,' said Chris. 'Unless you think she had a hand in killing Quences.' you,' said Chris. 'Unless you think she had a hand in killing Quences.'

'I can't read her mind.'

'But she can read yours through me.'

The Doctor gave up talking altogether. 'Why does she carry her guilt around in a long plait on her back? I don't 'Why does she carry her guilt around in a long plait on her back? I don't know what she would have done if she thought Quences threatened the House. It's an extreme situation. And then know what she would have done if she thought Quences threatened the House. It's an extreme situation. And then there's Glospin.' there's Glospin.'

'He was at death's door, remember?' interrupted Chris. 'But I'd give a month's credit to nail it on him. And what about Satthralope?'

'Will you stop interrogating me as if I'm the number-one suspect?'

'You are, Doctor,' apologized Chris. 'Both for Quences's murder and Arkhew's.'

'I've been framed! / Nothing of the sort!' / Nothing of the sort!'

Chris shrugged. 'If this was Overcity, you'd be wired up in the termination cell by now.'

The Doctor tried to reach the door by ducking under the table, but it deliberately crouched to block his path. One of its clawed feet grabbed the tail of his jacket.

'Satthralope couldn't kill Quences,' he said, struggling to free his clothing. 'No matter how much they've always loathed each other.' With a furious twist, he slid out of his sleeves, leaving the jacket still in the grip of the table's claw. He sat back on the floor exasperated. 'Don't forget she's already lied to the House about his death. And done it so convincingly, she believes it herself.'

'They're going to find out he's dead sooner or later.'

'Sooner,' said the Doctor glumly. 'She plans to wake him herself. I wonder who'll be more traumatized.'

Chris edged slowly towards the door. The furniture ignored him. 'I'm off to make a few enquiries. I just got an idea from something you were thinking.'

The Doctor slapped the side of his head. 'Which was?'

143.

Chris smiled and thought, 'Where there's a wil , there's a way. . . out.' 'Where there's a wil , there's a way. . . out.'

'Ah,' said the Doctor. He watched him go and then turned his attention to rescuing his jacket from the crouching table.

'It took my shopping,' said Dorothee. 'What the freak was it?'

They had watched the tall, wooden creature from behind the big cabinet. Leela had held Dorothee back, while she stroked a carved panel on the furniture. Like distracting a dog, thought Dorothee.

The tall thing had no head. Just a splintered neck, around which hung a mirror on a chain. It had discovered the bike and carried off the plastic M&S bags.

'It was a Drudge,' said Leela. 'One of the House's servants.'

'I hate staff with att.i.tude,' said Dorothee. She found Leela's a.s.sumption of the role of leader a bit gal ing. 'We'd better get moving if we're going to find the Doctor.'

'Wait,' Leela said. She crouched and touched and sniffed at one of the white tree trunks set in the wall. 'This House of Lungbarrow is sickly. I can smell it.'

'No kidding. The place is actually alive?'

Leela started to undo her long robe. 'And if the House is sick, then the sickness pa.s.ses to the furniture and the servants too. They are all part of the House.'

She discarded the robe completely. Underneath, she wore minimal, roughly st.i.tched, leather garments. Her body was sinewy and taut, finely toned; not an elegant society lady at al or even a Gal ifreyan grisette. She slid her knife into an empty sheath on her belt.

Dead tribal, thought the Ace bit of Dorothee. She was impressed. She glanced at herself in a big ornate mirror.

The shadowy face that stared back looked a wreck. But it was her own face, moulded by her own battles and cares. Not cold. Not accusing or questioning. Both Ace and and Dorothee. Dorothee.

She let Leela lead the way along the pa.s.sage until they reached a neglected hall. At one end, something glimmered inside a dusty gla.s.s booth. A ghost in a scarlet uniform - half materialized.

'It's him,' said Leela, squinting through the gla.s.s. 'It must be Redred, Andred's missing Cousin.'

Dorothee poked about in the burnt-out console. 'This wouldn't take long to fix if the replacement units were around.

I've seen similar stuff in the TARDIS. Wonder why no one's done it before now.' She studied the ghost in the machine. 'How long's he been in there?'

Leela fingered the hilt of her knife. 'He has been missing for six hundred and seventy-three years,' she said solemnly.

Satthralope poked at the contents of the white bags. She tore open one of the wrappings and broke off some of the pliant brown substance with her fingers.

Had someone brought them food packages for Otherstide? Or was this some joke of the Doctor's? The stuff was chewy and richly flavoured with herbs - the sort of rough bread that wandering Shobogans bake in ember fires.

There were strange-coloured fruits in the bags and boxes that contained square paper envelopes of a herbal mixture that smelt vaguely like tea.

'Use them,' she told the headless Drudge. 'They'll suffice for supper. And find the intruders!'

There was a sudden knocking noise.

144.

An image of the Doctor, reflected up from the library, was banging its knuckle insolently on the inside of her mirror.

He was mouthing noiselessly at her, but his thoughts came through clearly.

'Satthralope? End this charade now, or I'll tell the House about Quences!'

Her hands gripped the finger arms of her chair in fury. The arrogance of it! How dare he?

She was about to send a Drudge, when she saw, through the mirror, the figure who was standing behind the Doctor.

It was Glospin.

Chris nearly tripped over Jobiska. He thought she was dead, but the old lady eased herself out of the deep fireplace and handed him her telescope.

'Have a look, dear. Looks like rain.'

Chris lay on his back and squinted up the chimney at a distant punch-hole of light far above. 'These candledays you can only see up the West chimney,' Jobiska said sadly. 'Cousin Luton thought he could climb up the East chimney, but he got stuck. We could hear him regenerating for eleven candledays. That was five hundred and six years ago and he's still there.' She pawed Chris's arm. 'I'm two hundred and ninety-nine, you know. And no one will take me home.'

Chris sat up. 'Who would you like like to take you home?' to take you home?'

Jobiska's eyes filled with tears again. 'Arkhew, dear. We used to play Sepulchasm together. Where's he gone?'

'He's gone away,' said Chris gently.

She moaned a little. 'No, dear. He always said he couldn't afford to go away.'

'What?'

'He owed too much. He tried to clear the debt, but the wagers got bigger.'

Chris felt that little tug inside his head that always said, you're on to something. It felt like a hug from Roz. 'What can you bet down here? Who was s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g him? I bet it was Glospin.'

She choked back her tears. 'Arkhew said there was nothing else to bet. Glospin already owned him.'

Chris would have hugged the tiny old woman, but he feared she might snap in two. So he leant in and gently touched her spindly arm.

Something sliced past his head, nicking his ear.

A knife clattered across the floor.

The sharp pain brought everything into focus. Chris was surrounded by people. All the Cousins in the portrait, all calling him.

They seemed to think he was the Doctor.

'There he is!'

The Cousins had gone. Jobiska was pointing at someone trying to hide behind a sofa.

145.

'Glospin!'

Chris lunged down, and yanked out the figure by the collar. It was Owis. 'I didn't do it!' he squealed.

'Nice try anyway,' said Chris. 'Did you kill Arkhew too?'

'Why should I?' He was damp with sweat.

'They used to look for the missing will together,' said Jobiska.

'What was it worth?' Chris growled. 'Did you ever have a bet with Glospin?'

Owis swallowed hard. 'Sometimes.'

'Nothing much exciting to bet with down here though.'

'There's enough.'

'Yes?'

'Arkhew was my friend. And we never found the will.'

'Arkhew hated Owis,' added Jobiska.