'Has ' Faversham began. Then he had to fight back nausea before he could continue. 'Has anyone gone for the doctor?'

'Doctor Martinson is up at the Hall,' one of the women offered. 'At Sir Edward's big do.'

'Someone had better fetch him,' Faversham decided. 'There'll have to be an autopsy. We have to find out what did this to old Ben.'

'I'll go,' Brackley offered. 'I can borrow a horse from Marlowe.'

'Good.' Faversham nodded his approval. 'You'd best alert Sir Alexander to the news, too.' As the local Justice, Sir Alexander would have to be notified and make a ruling on the cause of death. Brackley grunted and moved off. He looked relieved that he didn't have to stay with the body. Faversham took one of the lanterns that were burning beside the body and turned to the villagers. 'You'd best all go home,' he said, trying to sound like the pillar of the law that he was. 'I'll take care of things now.'

Millicent Chadwick shuddered. 'What do you think it was?'

'It's too soon to say,' Faversham replied. 'Rest a.s.sured, though, that as soon as we know, steps will be taken.'

'To the Devil with steps!' Millicent yelled, pale and angry. 'My Ronnie is out there at sea this night! All our husbands are! Will whatever did this ' she gestured at the ravaged corpse ' go after them next?' There was a mutter of agreement with this view from the others.

'Please, Millie,' Faversham said gently. 'Go on home. I'm sure that Ronnie and the others will be fine. Old Ben always went out alone, and just into the bay here. The menfolk are further out, and all together. They'll be fine, just you see.'

This seemed to calm the women down. As he knew, half the battle was sounding like you knew what you were talking about, even when you didn't. Especially when you didn't.

'But,' he added, 'it might be best to keep the young ones away from the water for now. Until we're certain that whatever did this isn't still about.'

The women started to drift away, save for Jen Walker, the barmaid from the Pig and Thistle. She moved to join Faversham. 'There's a doctor on that s.h.i.+p that docked this morning,' she offered. 'A young man, but he might be able to help.'

'The whaler?' Faversham had forgotten about that recent arrival. It was rare to get the whalers in here. They generally made for the larger ports, but the captain of this one had business with Breckinridge at the factory, and the s.h.i.+p was stopping over for a couple of days. 'Do you think you could ask the gentleman to step down here, Jen?'

She nodded and faded into the night. In a few moments, Faversham was alone with the body. He gave it another quick glance, then looked away. Poor old Ben must have died swiftly, but it had been a gruesome death. Moving to a pile of supplies, Faversham dragged out an old tarpaulin. He settled it over the corpse, which made him feel a little better. Then he gathered his courage and sat on a bollard to await the first of the arrivals.

Doctor Doyle shuffled through his notes in the small cabin he had been a.s.signed as s.h.i.+p's surgeon to the Hope Hope. The vessel was a stout three-master that had weathered a seven-month stay in the Arctic Circle well. The holds were filled with seal skins, whale bones and vats of oil, and the crew was anxious to return to their home port of Peterhead as soon as possible.

Aside from wis.h.i.+ng to see his family again, Doyle was interested in the money that this voyage would bring him. His share of the profits was a handsome three s.h.i.+llings a ton of the oil money.

Thankfully there had been little call for his services during the voyage. He'd spent considerable time aiding in the hunting of seal and whale, in fact. The captain, John Gray, had even offered him a double berth for the next voyage as both surgeon and harpooner. Flattered and tempted by the money he could make Doyle had nonetheless turned down the offer. He was longing to get his feet back on solid land for a while. He had been hoping to be back in Edinburgh by now, but Captain Gray had made an unexpected and unannounced detour to this small Devons.h.i.+re fis.h.i.+ng village instead. The only reason he had given for the lengthy detour was 'business'. While Gray was a fair and able captain, he was not inclined to explain his actions.

So, faced with a few extra days on the s.h.i.+p and with little to occupy his time, Doyle worked on the notes he had taken during the voyage. He was trying to work out some way to turn them into a story, but the threads of plotting eluded him.

Chamber's Journal had bought and printed his fledgling attempt at fiction the previous year, and he was rather proud of had bought and printed his fledgling attempt at fiction the previous year, and he was rather proud of 'The Mystery Of Sa.s.sa.s.sa Valley'. It had taken him a good deal of work, but had fetched him the sum of three guineas. The idea of following this tale with others appealed to Doyle, but it was a matter of finding the right storylines. Mysteries were always sought after, and There came a rap at the cabin door. With a sigh, Doyle replaced his journal. 'Yes?' he called. It was typical that after an uneventful voyage his services should be required while the s.h.i.+p was calmly docked.

'Doctor?' came the voice of Jack Lamb. The wiry little fellow was the s.h.i.+p's steward, and a staunch supporter of Doyle's skills with both medicinal and boxing dispensations. They had sparred any number of times together these past few months. 'There's a woman from the village to see you. Claims it's very urgent.'

'Thank you, Jack.' Doyle rose to his feet and picked up his medical bag. Bodham had its own medical pract.i.tioner, but Doyle supposed that the man was unavailable for some reason. Oh well, perhaps he'd earn himself a fee while he was here.

More likely, though, he'd end up with an unpaid bill. Still, if there was a need for his services he could hardly turn down the call.

He went up onto the deck, where a young woman, attractive in a rustic sort of way, stood waiting for him. The way that she stood on the gently swaying deck confirmed that she was no sailor. 'I'm s.h.i.+p's Surgeon Doyle,' he informed the woman. 'I take it you are not the patient?'

'I'm Jen Walker,' the woman replied, the Devons.h.i.+re burr prominent in her voice. 'And there's no patient, Doctor.'

Doyle frowned. 'Then what is the meaning of this call?'

'It's a dead man, sir,' she replied. 'The local constable would appreciate it if you'd have a look-see at the body.'

'Ah.' Doyle began to understand. 'Drowned, has he?'

'I doubt it.' The woman gave him a dour look. 'He were on his boat when the men found it drifting.'

'Hmm.' That sounded more promising. Perhaps a small autopsy fee . . . 'Well, lead on, miss.' Jen Walker nodded, and started down the gangplank. Clutching his bag, Doyle followed along.

Sarah had been walking for almost twenty minutes now, following the Doctor as best she could. He had long legs and seemed never to tire. Hands thrust deep into his pockets, he simply strode along. She, on the other hand, was feeling the effects of this night tramp. 'Oi!' she called. 'Can we take a breather?'

The Doctor halted. 'Five minutes,' he agreed, without looking around.

Collapsing onto a convenient rock, Sarah didn't much care that the cold stone numbed her behind. It felt so good to get the weight off her feet. 'What a dismal place,' she complained.

'Dartmoor,' the Doctor answered. 'It's not hard to see why it's reputed to be haunted, is it?' He stared all around.

'It doesn't need any legends,' Sarah commented. 'There really is something running around out here, and it certainly wasn't any ghost.' She shuddered at the memory of the monstrous beast. 'Do you have any idea what that thing was?'

'I always have ideas,' he replied enigmatically. 'What do you think it was?'

'I asked first,' Sarah objected. Then she shrugged. 'Off hand, I'd say it was some prehistoric ancestor of a rottweiler or something.'

The Doctor shook his head. 'No dog on Earth has ever looked like that,' he told her. 'It's very, very wrong. And there were definite signs of intelligence.'

'What?' Sarah stared at him in astonishment. 'Look, I like dogs as much as the next person, but I wouldn't call them intelligent. Personable, yes. Clever, maybe. But that's about it.'

'That was no dog, Sarah,' he said softly. 'I examined the pawprint, remember? The foot structure was all wrong. And it had a semi-opposable thumb.'

'Come again?'

'It was almost able to use its paw as a hand.' The Doctor shook his head. 'We must be somewhere around the turn of the twentieth century, but that creature was more like a dog from twenty million years in the future.'

Cold sweat started to trickle down Sarah's spine. 'You mean that it's from the future somehow?'

'No, I don't think so.' The Doctor frowned. 'The TARDIS may be a trifle grouchy, but the old girl would have detected a temporal disturbance of that order.'

'Then would you kindly explain what you mean?' snapped Sarah.

He wrinkled his nose as he stared out into the darkness. 'It's as if something has somehow accelerated that poor creature's evolutionary trends,' he replied. 'That paw is all wrong.'

'That dog dog is all wrong,' Sarah retorted. is all wrong,' Sarah retorted.

'Yes,' agreed the Doctor thoughtfully. 'That dog is definitely all wrong.' He gave her a smile. 'Come on, time to get going again.'

'Do we have to?' complained Sarah. 'My feet are killing me.'

His eyes twinkled. 'You want to stay out here on the moor with that creature? Besides, I'll wager that Sir Edward has a well-stocked cellar. A nip of Madeira would hit the spot right now, wouldn't it?'

'You talked me into it.' Sarah slowly clambered to her feet. 'Let's get on with it, then.'

Doyle hurried along the wharf to the lonely pool of light cast by several fitfully burning storm lanterns. The local constable, a slightly rotund man in his forties, sat hunched on a bollard, guarding what appeared to be a pile of tarpaulin. It was obviously where the victim lay. Doyle felt a surge of almost excitement, and then a twinge of guilt. This was at least out of the ordinary, but it was a shame that a man had to perish to break the day's monotony. As he approached, the constable glanced up, then slowly rose to his feet.

's.h.i.+p's Surgeon Doyle,' the doctor introduced himself. 'I understand you have need of my services.'

'That we do,' agreed the policeman. 'I'm Faversham.' He nodded at the bundle on the planks. 'Old Ben Tolliver was killed tonight.'

Killed? Then this was no simple accident, or some unfortunate old man whose heart had picked an inopportune time to stop working. The excitement began to rise within Doyle again. A murder, with him helping out the police! This would be something to remember for future stories. A doctor who helped to solve crimes . . . it had possibilities. 'So you're talking murder, then?' he asked.

'Maybe,' the constable agreed guardedly. 'That's what I want a professional opinion on.' He reached down to remove one corner of the tarpaulin, then halted. 'It's not a pretty sight,' he warned.

'Neither is watching a man dragged to his maker by a dying whale,' Doyle replied. 'But I've seen that.'

Faversham nodded, then drew back the covering.

Doyle had to fight the urge to throw up his meagre supper onto the dock. Judging by the smell, others had failed at this task. It was no easy thing for Doyle to retain control of his stomach. He'd seen bodies dissected as part of his anatomy cla.s.ses, but nothing to match this. The dead man was missing most of his head and one arm. G.o.d alone knew what else the rubber sheet prevented him from seeing.

'What could have done this?' he gasped.

'I was hoping you could tell me, Doctor,' the policeman answered drily. 'That's why you're here.'

Doyle nodded, then stopped the motion, afraid it would make him sick. 'It appears to have been some violent action,' he said. Trying to wipe from his appalled mind the fact that this had been a human being who lived and loved and laughed just hours earlier, Doyle bent slowly to study the mangled corpse. Once his nausea was under control, his curiosity came to the fore. 'This is most unusual,' he finally announced.

'Aye,' agreed Faversham, with sardonic humour. 'It's the first body I've come across that's missing its face. But can you tell me anything of help?'

'Several things, I think,' Doyle told him. One of his professors at Edinburgh, Joseph Bell, had astounded people by his inferences and deductions based on small facts. Doyle knew he couldn't emulate the master fully, but he could do so in some small measure. 'First, obviously, the man died recently within the past three or four hours, I think.'

'That's most likely true,' agreed the constable, 'seeing as how I had a drink with Ben myself late this afternoon.'

'His death was clearly caused by the facial wound,' Doyle plunged ahead. 'If it had been inflicted after the man was dead by some sort of means, there would have been less bleeding. And it was performed by some animal with rather large and incredibly strong teeth.' He gestured at what remained of the sphenoidal and frontal bones. 'You can see the scoring of the bones where the teeth clamped together.'

The constable frowned. 'You mean he was attacked by a shark or something?'

'Not a shark,' Doyle said firmly. 'For one thing, no shark's teeth I've ever seen or read about could score the bones in that way. And sharks attack limbs, not the head. Besides which, he would have had to have been in the water to have attracted a shark's attention. There is no sign of dampness on the clothes, and I perceive a pouch of tobacco in his pocket which appears to be still very dry. Therefore whatever attacked this benighted soul was on the boat and not in the water.'

Faversham shook his head in puzzlement. 'Well, it certainly beats me, sir.'

Doyle nodded. This was a most intriguing mystery indeed! 'I could tell you more if there were some well-lit place to perform an autopsy,' he offered. 'Would that be possible, do you suppose?'

'I reckon,' the policeman agreed. 'I could speak with the landlord of the Pig and Thistle. He has an old stable that might be of use.' He glanced down at the body again. 'Would you mind staying here, sir? I can't leave poor Ben unattended.'

'Oh, I understand perfectly,' Doyle replied. 'I'd be happy to stay and await your return.' There was no way anyone could drag him away from here at the moment: this was far too intriguing to pa.s.s up. He reached down to cover the face of the body, though. It was one thing to wait here, but quite another to stare at that sight alone as he did so.

'Thank you, sir,' Faversham said. 'I don't know what this world is coming to. This used to be such a quiet little town.'

He shook his head sadly. 'I've already had to send to London about the missing children. I'd hate to have to write to them again. They might think I'm not up to this work. Still, you don't need to hear about my troubles, do you, sir?' He managed a small smile. 'I'll be as quick as I can. I promise.'

'Take your time,' Doyle answered airily. Then he sat on the bollard, and was lost in his thoughts before Faversham had gone five steps.

A medical man helping the police to solve their crimes. Yes, it had distinct possibilities for story-telling.

'Bear up, Sarah,' the Doctor said, irritatingly cheerful. 'We're almost there now.'

'You've been saying that for the past fifteen minutes,' Sarah objected.

'Then we're at least fifteen minutes closer to our destination, aren't we?' he rejoined.

Sarah sighed. No matter how often he was proven wrong, the Doctor always managed to end up thinking he was somehow right all along. Before she could object to his latest load of cheek, he held up a warning hand. Mindful that the monster was still at large on the moors somewhere, Sarah promptly stood still, peering into the darkness nervously. 'Is it that monster back again?' she whispered.

'Worse,' the Doctor answered in his normal, velvet tones.

'Worse?' Sarah tried to imagine what could possibly be worse than that giant hound. She doubted her imagination was warped enough. s.h.i.+vering, she stared fruitlessly around. 'What?'

'Boys.'

'What?' Sarah felt like punching him for scaring her further.

'Young boys,' the Doctor said, striding across to a bush that was barely more than a shadow in the gloom. 'You know,'

he remarked pleasantly, 'if you really want to hide, you'll have to switch to a less pungent brand of tobacco.'

There was a rustle of movement and three smallish shapes emerged from their hiding place. One, tall and thin, turned to one of his companions. 'I told you that weed was noxious, Gigger.'

'Lay off. Duns,' his target complained. 'I'll wager it was your socks he could smell anyway. Or McBees bad temper.'

Sarah stared at the three apparitions with some surprise. It was not quite so much their unexpected appearance from the night that astonished her, but that she knew who they were. The tall, gloomy looking lad was L. C. Dunsterville; the smaller, darker youth was George Beresford. And as for Gigger . . .

He was a strange-looking boy, of that there was little doubt. On the stout side and shorter than his friends, he wore steel-rimmed gla.s.ses with pebble lenses his nickname came from these, derived from 'Giglamps' and there was the faint but unmistakable trace of a moustache on his upper lip. He possessed penetrating blue eyes and a strong, blunt manner.

Sarah punched the Doctor on the arm. 'You're a decade early,' she complained. 'He's still a schoolboy.'

'I may only be fifteen,' Gigger said with as much dignity as he could muster in the circ.u.mstances, 'but I'm a man.'

'Ah,' said the Doctor, with understanding. He held out a hand. 'Rudyard Kipling, I presume.'

Kipling took his hand and shook it seriously. 'Do I know you, sir?' he asked.

'No,' the Doctor replied. 'But we know of you. My friend here wanted to meet you. This is Sarah Jane Smith, and I'm the Doctor.'

Turning to Sarah, Kipling took her hand and bowed over it, planting a kiss. 'Enchanted.'