2: Art and Lies

‘Nice, isn't it?’

‘Yes, marvellous.’

‘Marvellous. Absolutely. Yes.’

‘Yes, absolutely marvellous.’

‘I don't know about you, but I think it's marvellous.’

‘So do I.’

‘Good. If you hadn't I'd have been very upset.’

‘Well then you haven't got anything to worry about.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Positive.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’

‘It's not quite how you described it, though.’

‘Oh, how did I describe it?’

‘You said it was nice,’ Romana frowned, with just the slightest hint of condescension.

The Doctor shrugged. By now, he was beginning to think, there was absolutely no satisfying Romana. From the middle observation deck of the Eiffel Tower, they could look over the whole of central Paris, and here she was splitting hairs over his choice of description. ‘Oh well,’ he sighed. ‘It's still the only place in the galaxy where one can relax entirely.’

‘Oh, that bouquet!’ declared Romana, with an appreciative smile. Finally, at the end of the argument, she was beginning to give in to exactly the kind of pointless behaviour the Doctor had been arguing in favour of all along - simple, mundane, un-Gallifreyan things like sniffing the morning air in a beautiful city.

‘What Paris has,’ the Doctor said as he continued his philosophical assessment of the city, ‘is an ethos. A life. It has...’ He searched for the right word to end the sentence.

‘A bouquet.’

‘It has a spirit all of its own... it has...’

‘A bouquet?’

‘Like a wine, it has...’

‘A bouquet!’

‘...it has a bouquet! Like a good wine,’ mused the Doctor. ‘You have to choose an old vintage, of course.’

Romana frowned. ‘What year is this?’

‘What?’ The Doctor thought for a moment. ‘Ah, well it's 1979, actually. More of a table wine, really.’

‘A good one?’

‘I don't know,’ the Doctor confessed. ‘A randomiser's a useful device, but it lacks true discrimination.’ He grinned a mischievous grin and adopted his loudest stage whisper. ‘Shall we sip it and see?’

Romana's eyes lit up. ‘Let's!’ She looked around them with a slightly confused frown. ‘Shall we take the lift or fly?’

‘Let's not be ostentatious,’ the Doctor advised, with a cursory nod at the other tourists around them.

‘All right, let's fly then.’

‘That would be silly,’ the Doctor said severely. ‘We'll take the lift.’

They took the lift.

The argument, as the Doctor saw it, had been going on for four hundred years. Yesterday they'd been in London in the year 2000. As a treat, he'd decided to take Romana to see a work of great art. In the heat of the July afternoon they paid their £5 each at the box office and joined the other tourists making their way into the yard at the reconstructed Globe Theatre on the South Bank. ‘This,’ the Doctor told Romana, ‘is one of the greatest works of art to have been created. It's certainly the greatest play ever written. And I should know. I had a hand in it.’ As usual, he was declaiming too loudly and Romana smiled politely at the audience members around them giving them strange looks. ‘And yet somehow I've never managed to see the whole thing through...the trouble with being a Time Lord is that there's never enough time.’

‘Surely,’ contradicted Romana, ‘we have all the time in the world?’

The Doctor chuckled and the play began. ‘Brilliant,’ he whispered as Barnardo and Francisco fired lines of pentameter at each other. ‘You know, Will wanted to cut all this stuff out,’ he said as Horatio and Marcellus arrived. ‘He wanted to start it with the council scene. ‘But Will’, I told him, ‘you must have the Ghost appear right at the start. Otherwise the first half an hour is all talk!’ He was quite an easy pushover, that boy.’

When the Ghost appeared, rising up through a trap door in the centre of the stage, the Doctor grinned his wide-eyed grin and said, ‘Excellent. Excellent!’ Romana, on the other hand, thought it was silly and said so. ‘Silly?’ retorted the Doctor indignantly.

‘Yes,’ said Romana. ‘Anyone could tell that wasn't a ghost. It's just a man in a suit.’

‘But you have to suspend your disbelief!’ the Doctor insisted. ‘This is a great work of art! In great works of art, it's not the effect but the intention that matters! They,’ he said, gesturing widely at the groundlings around them who were wishing he'd shut up, ‘know it's just a man in a suit.’ There was a twinkle in his eyes. ‘But they believe it just the same!’

‘I've been to theatre before,’ said Romana condescendingly. ‘And when they needed ghosts, they used holographic projection and effects that made the audience believe they really were seeing a ghost. No one here is fooled. They're being conned. Surely by now Earth is capable of better than this?’

‘Of course they are! But the whole point of this place is that they're recreating great works of art as they once were - the point is in the story, in the poetry and the script! Not in the special effects! Four hundred years ago, close to this spot, human beings were held rapt by this play.’

There was a whisper from beside them. ‘And some of us are still trying to be! Will you please shut up?’ said an audience member. The Doctor and Romana glanced up to find that not only were the people around them glaring angrily but the Danish Court onstage were paused in mid-action waiting for the end of the distraction.

‘It's all right,’ growled the Doctor, ‘we're leaving,’ and he took Romana by the arm straight back to the TARDIS.

Things hadn't gone much better in 1601. Amidst the Elizabethan audience the Doctor and Romana looked like giants and smelt like fanatics in the field of personal hygiene. When the Ghost appeared, the Doctor said, ‘Look, it's Will!’ in a bellowed whisper, and onstage the Ghost grimaced, before nodding in the Doctor's direction through clenched teeth and then carrying on with the scene.

The audience may have been rapt as the Ghost descended into the trap door situated in the centre of the stage, but Romana was not. ‘This is even worse than the other one,’ she murmured. ‘How can any of them be taking this seriously?’

‘But listen to the poetry!’ the Doctor begged. ‘Listen to those lines!’ He spoke along with the onstage actor. ‘‘But look; the morn in russet mantle clad walks o’er the dew of yon high eastward hill’! Brilliant! Wait until they get to the bits I helped with!’

‘At least the Ghost in the other one had a better costume,’ snorted Romana.

‘How many times do I have to tell you? This is a work of great art. The costumes don't matter!’ The Doctor was becoming more than exasperated. ‘This is one of the greatest literary works in the universe and you complain about the costumes!’

‘The world, Doctor.’

‘What?’

‘The world,’ repeated Romana. ‘Not ‘the universe’ in public; people might hear you.’

‘I don't care!’ exclaimed the angry Time Lord. ‘This is one of the greatest plays in the universe!’

‘How can you know?’ retorted Romana, through clenched teeth. ‘I thought you said you'd never seen it through to the end?’ And with that she pushed her way out of the packed yard and returned to the TARDIS, which had several horses tied to it. The last of them was puzzling over its new-found freedom when the Doctor stalked back into the TARDIS. ‘There's no satisfying you,’ he complained. ‘The human race are capable of such great artistic achievements, and you won't give them the slightest bit of acknowledgement...what a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason, how infinite in faculties!’

‘Doctor, you have failed so far to show me anything that might imply that humans are as ingenious and industrious in the Arts as you continue to maintain they are,’ replied the adamant Romana.

And so they came to Paris. So far, she hadn't complained.

They'd had to fight their way onto the train when they got to the Metro. The Parisians cheered them on. Unlike Londoners, Parisians respect rule-breakers and people who hold up trains from departing on time by standing in the way of closing doors. They received a polite round of applause as the Doctor freed his scarf from the train doors and proceeded to an empty seat.

‘Where are we going?’ Romana asked as the train pulled away from the Champ de Mars Tour Eiffel Metro station.

The Doctor raised an eyebrow at her. ‘Are you talking philosophically or geographically?’ he enquired.

Romana thought this over for a moment. ‘Philosophically,’ she decided.

The Doctor grinned. ‘Then we're going to lunch!’ He settled back in his seat. ‘I know a little place not too far from here that does an excellent bouillabaisse.’

‘Bouillabaisse...’ Romana savoured the word, unaware that the imagined meal would turn out to be a simple fish soup. ‘Yum, yum!’ Humans might be lousy artists, but as far as Romana was concerned they knew how to cook.

A short while later, they disembarked at another station and made their way back up to ground level, whereupon the Doctor led the way past the Nôtre Dame cathedral to a small street-front café called La Vache, and ordered bouillabaisse and tea.

Romana sat at a table and looked around. The café had a number of small round tables with matching gingham tablecloths and three chairs. One side of the café was dominated by a long bar, presided over by the café patron, who spent his time watching a small television set when he wasn't serving customers. The Doctor greeted the patron with a cheery ‘Hello, Jaques!’ to which Jaques responded the kind of grunt that was peculiar to men of his profession.

The Doctor reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the book he had purchased at the Metro station, entitled 3 Million d’Annees d’Adventure Humaine. He hadn't the faintest idea what had possessed him to purchase it but it sounded thrilling. He opened it to the first page and flicked through the entire book in a couple of seconds...

‘Any good?’ Romana enquired casually.

‘Not bad,’ the Doctor replied, stowing it away again. ‘A bit boring in the middle.’

Romana breathed in the aroma of the café and sighed. ‘You're right, Doctor.’

‘Am I? Good, I usually am. What about?’ Surely she wasn't about to concede defeat in their eternal argument about Art?

‘About Paris being so relaxing.’

The Doctor nodded. ‘Yes, I suppose it is.’

‘Have you been to Paris before?’

‘Oh yes.’ The Doctor frowned thoughtfully. ‘This used to be my favourite place on Earth, back before the Renaissance. It's a while since I've been back here, though.’

‘Really?’

‘Hmmm. Dropped by to see the Saint Bartholomew's Day massacre, and later on a bit of the French Revolution... even in the midst of chaos, this city has an atmosphere like no other.’

‘How do you mean?’ Romana sniffed the air, puzzled. ‘Methane? Carbon? Molybdenum?’

The Doctor broke into a grin. Sometimes Romana wasn't as smart as she thought she was - or rather it was that she took things too literally. ‘No,’ he said with a harsh laugh, ‘but it has a bouquet!’

Jaques called out to tell them that their bouillabaisse was ready. ‘I'll get it,’ said Romana, and went to stand up.

‘No!’ hissed the Doctor urgently. ‘Don't move, you might spoil a priceless work of art!’

Romana frowned. ‘What?’

The Doctor nodded slightly towards the table behind them. ‘That man over there... no, don't look!’

‘What's he doing?’ she asked, mortified.

A pause, before the Doctor spoke. ‘He's sketching you!’

Romana's fear gave way to delight. ‘Is he?’ She went to turn around.

‘No!’ whispered the Doctor, but Romana had already turned.

Across the café, a man wearing a tweed suit and a beret scowled at her, cursed silently and then screwed up the top page of his drawing pad. He then stormed out of the café, pausing only to theatrically toss the crumpled ball of paper into a bin as he passed their table.

The Doctor and Romana exchanged glum expressions.

‘I told you not to look,’ the Doctor murmured reprovingly.

Romana was indignant. ‘I just wanted to see!’

The Doctor shrugged. ‘Well it's too late, he's gone now.’

‘Pity.’ Romana leaned back in her chair. ‘I wonder what he thought I looked like?’

‘Well, he threw it down over there,’ said the Doctor, and retrieved the crumpled sheet of paper from the bin. Jaques cleared his throat as two bowls of bouillabaisse steamed away on the counter. The Doctor carefully uncrumpled the paper. ‘Let's have a look, shall we...’

He suddenly stopped. There was a tingling in his head and he looked carefully at Romana. She could feel it too. A strange sensation came over them and they both found their attention drawn back to the patron up at the counter.

Jaques called out to tell them that their bouillabaisse was ready. ‘I'll get it,’ said Romana, and went to stand up.

‘No!’ hissed the Doctor urgently. ‘Don't move, you might spoil a priceless work of art!’

Romana frowned. ‘What?’

The Doctor nodded slightly towards the table behind them. ‘That man over there... no, don't look!’

‘What's he doing?’ she asked, mortified.

A pause, before the Doctor spoke. ‘He's sketching you!’

Romana's fear gave way to delight. ‘Is he?’ She went to turn around.

‘No!’ whispered the Doctor, but Romana had already turned.

Across the café, a man wearing a tweed suit and a beret scowled at her, cursed silently and then screwed up the top page of his drawing pad. He then stormed out of the café, pausing only to theatrically toss the crumpled ball of paper into a bin as he passed their table.

The Doctor and Romana exchanged glum expressions.

‘I told you not to look,’ the Doctor murmured reprovingly.

Romana was indignant. ‘I just wanted to see!’

The Doctor shrugged. ‘Well it's too late, he's gone now.’

‘Pity.’ Romana leaned back in her chair. ‘I wonder what he thought I looked like?’

‘Well,’ said the Doctor, ‘he threw it down over there.’ But there was no need to cross over to the bin, for the sheet of paper was already in his hand, as it had been when the tingling feeling had begun. The sensation was gone now. He looked around the café carefully. All was normal and there was nothing in the behaviour of the other customers to suggest that it had ever been otherwise.

Romana stared at the Doctor with an expression of bewilderment. ‘What's going on?’ she asked.

The Doctor was, for once, as equally puzzled as his companion. ‘I don't know,’ he admitted, a twinge of pain nagging at his ego. ‘It's as if... as if time jumped a track for a second!’ He held up the sheet of paper and frowned, as if expecting it to somehow be the cause of the mysterious temporal disturbance..

‘Let's have a look,’ suggested Romana.

The Doctor smoothed the paper out on the table, and then held it up to examine it. His face paled and he put the picture face-down on the table. ‘You know, for a Time Lady,’ he said quietly, ‘that's not at all a bad likeness...’

‘Let me see.’ Romana reached out and turned the sheet so that she could see it. She drew a sharp intake of breath as she saw what the Doctor meant. The picture was a head and shoulders sketch of her - but in place of her facial features was a clock-face with Roman numerals and a jagged crack running across it.

‘It's extraordinary!’ Romana exclaimed.

‘It is, isn't it?’ the Doctor agreed.

‘I wonder why he did it like that...?’ she mused.

‘Like what?’

‘The face of the clock - it's fractured.’

The Doctor grinned. ‘Hmmm, almost like a crack in time,’ he punned, and then stopped himself when he realised the gravity of what he'd just said. ‘A crack in time...!’

The machine in the château's cellar laboratory was now dormant.

‘Time, Count!’ spluttered Kerensky as he shut down the last of the power systems, scurrying to avoid the Count's glare of disapproval at yet another failure. ‘It will take time!’

Count Scarlioni nodded, disappointed. ‘Time,’ he murmured, liking the sound of the word. ‘Time, time...’ He straightened up and turned to the Professor. ‘Nevertheless,’ he said confidently, ‘a very impressive, if... flawed demonstration. I'm relying on you to make very fast progress now, Professor. The fate of many people is in our hands!’

Professor Kerensky nodded. ‘The world will have much to thank you for,’ he said with admiration. Just occasionally he remembered the actual purpose of their work and realised what a great thing it was the Count hoped to accomplish.

‘It will indeed, Professor,’ murmured Scarlioni with his cat-like smile, ‘it will indeed...’

Hermann came down the stairs and the Count drew him aside. ‘Have you sold that Gutenberg?’ he enquired.

‘Yes, Excellency,’ Hermann confirmed.

‘That was well done,’ the Count remarked. ‘How much did you get for it?’

‘One hundred and fifty thousand.’

The Count winced. ‘Not nearly enough...’

‘The buyer was almost convinced it was a fake.’

The Count chuckled. ‘Did you convince him otherwise?’

‘Of course, Excellency.’

‘Good. Has the Countess gone to the Louvre?’

‘She left but an hour ago,’ came the reply.

Scarlioni nodded, and dismissed Hermann before turning back to the Professor. ‘How soon before we can start the next test?’

Kerensky sighed. ‘The next one, Count?’ he groaned.

‘I want to see it today,’ the Count told him.

Kerensky gaped. ‘Today?’

‘Yes! Today!’

Professor Kerensky shook his head. ‘I think this is wonderful work, Count Scarlioni, but I do not understand this obsessive urgency!’ he complained.

‘Time, Professor!’ Scarlioni glared, mockingly. ‘It is all a matter of time!’

Their bouillabaisse forgotten, the Doctor and Romana had gone outside and seated themselves at a table in the concourse. A large umbrella mounted in the middle of the table shaded them from the early afternoon sun.

‘I think there's something the matter with time,’ the Doctor said at last. ‘Do you feel anything?’

Romana considered. ‘Yes, just a twinge,’ she admitted, ‘and I don't like it.’

The Doctor stared off into the distance, frowning thoughtfully. ‘It must be because I've crossed the time fields so often,’ he said indecisively. ‘No one on Earth seemed to notice anything.’ With a gleam in his wide blue eyes, he took hold of Romana's hand. ‘We are unique. You and I exist in a special relationship with Time, you know.’ He breathed a sigh of amazement and smiled. ‘Perpetual outsiders...’

Romana sneered and pulled her hand away. ‘Oh, don't be so... so portentous!’ she snapped.

‘Portentous?’ said the Doctor incredulously. ‘Portentous?’ He pulled the sketch from inside his coat and slapped it down on the table. He could sense the old argument flaring up again. ‘Well what do you make of this, then?’ he demanded.

Romana wrinkled her nose. ‘Well, at least on Gallifrey we can capture a good likeness. Computers can draw, you know.’

‘What?’ The Doctor's mouth fell open. ‘Computer pictures?’ He couldn't believe Romana's nerve. ‘You sit here - in Paris - and talk about computer pictures?’ He got to his feet. ‘I'll take you somewhere and show you some real pictures,’ he snarled, infuriated, ‘drawn by real people!’

‘But what about the time-slip?’ Romana called as the Doctor set out in an angry pace across the concourse.

‘Never mind about the time-slip!’ he bellowed back. ‘We're on holiday!’

Romana sighed. It took so little these days to set him off - one casual word in the wrong place and he seemed to fly right of the handle. One regeneration, it's all going to catch up with him, she thought, and hoped she wouldn't be there to see it. She got to her feet and ran after him, leaving the forgotten sketch on the table.

As they passed the Conciergerie, the Doctor did a brief double-take, remembering that the ancient building had played a big part in one of his previous Parisian excursions. But apart from that one moment, this was the worst the argument had ever been. ‘You know nothing about Art,’ the Doctor scolded her, ‘absolutely nothing. You might have achieved a Triple Alpha pass once, but at heart you're just like all those other cultureless Patrexes. Number-crunchers, that's all they are!’

‘I am not a number-cruncher!’ protested Romana as they strode down the south side of the Seine. ‘I worked in the Bureau of Ancient Records! We dealt with all forms of history and Art!’

‘Gallifreyan history!’ the Doctor snapped. ‘Gallifreyan art! You know nothing of the real universe! There are more things in heaven and earth...’

‘Oh, don't start quoting that wretched play again,’ begged Romana. She stopped dead in her tracks, looking back down the Seine. ‘Do you even know where you're going?’

The Doctor stopped, startled, and glanced around. After a three hundred and sixty degree turn, he peered over the river. ‘Of course I do,’ he snapped, and headed straight towards the nearest bridge. Once they were on the right side of the river the Doctor marched with determination up the steps past the Orangerie and into the Jardin des Tuleries. With the onset of Spring the trees were beginning to flower. Gravel crunched underfoot as the Doctor strode in a straight line, finally stopping at the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel.

‘There we are,’ he declared grandly, indicating the huge museum ahead of them, ‘the Louvre! One of the greatest art galleries in the Universe.’

‘Nonsense,’ Romana retorted as they approached the entrance. ‘What about the Academius Stolarus Art Gallery on Sirius Five?’

The Doctor shook his head. ‘No, no, no.’

‘What about the Braxiatel Collection?’ she asked as they waited in the queue.

The Doctor shook his head again. ‘A pile of childrens’ pictures, drawn in a nursery,’ he declared.

‘Or the Solarium Panatica on Stricium?’ continued Romana as they finally purchased their tickets.

The Doctor was still shaking his head. ‘The nursery that produced the Braxiatel Collection.’

‘But surely then there's the...’

‘No! There's nothing else! ...this is the gallery,’ the Doctor insisted, dragging her through the building at a breakneck pace, ignoring the medieval fortress and the Egyptian section, ‘the only gallery in the known Universe to contain a picture like...’

Up stairs, around corners, down stairs, past tourists, he led her towards a painting that hung in its own space behind a protective glass cover.

‘...the Mona Lisa,’ the Doctor announced solemnly.

There was a long silence whilst Romana stared long and hard at the painting. That was it. That was the Doctor's grand finale. If she wasn't going to respond to Will's plays, if the Italian museums were not going to sway her, then this was the only thing that might.

‘Quite good,’ said Romana at last.

‘Quite good?’ echoed the Doctor. His voice rose and his face began to turn red. ‘Quite good? That's one of the great treasures of the Universe and you say quite good? Quite good!’

‘The world, Doctor!’ Romana corrected.

‘What?’

‘Not ‘the Universe’ in public! People might hear you!’ she cautioned.

‘I don't care!’ exclaimed the Doctor, glaring around at the painting's other onlookers to prove his point. ‘This is one of the great treasures of the Universe!’

‘Doctor,’ Romana muttered under her breath, ‘people are looking at you.’

‘I don't care!’ he declared loudly. ‘Let them gawk. Let them gape. See if I care!’

People were indeed gawking and gaping. Amongst them was the Countess Scarlioni, seated at the end of a row of red leather chairs at one end of the room. She watched the conspicuous pair with curiosity. At the far wall behind her Duggan watched the Countess with curiosity. Not far away, two burly men in double-breasted suits and low-browed hats watched Duggan with curiosity. Romana, anxious to quell the Doctor making a scene, had turned her curiosity back towards the Mona Lisa.

‘Why hasn't she got any eyebrows?’ she enquired.

Now it was the Doctor's turn to gawk and gape. ‘What? Is that all you can say? No eyebrows?’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Romana, that's the Mona Lisa you're talking about!’ The Doctor suddenly frowned, peering at the painting. ‘You're right,’ he said, astonished, ‘she hasn't got any eyebrows! How did I never notice that?’ He thought back to a birthday party, centuries ago, and an angry model in Leonardo's studio wanting the painter to get on with the job.

A small middle-aged woman led a group of Japanese tourists into the room. ‘...And over here, ladies and gentlemen,’ she was saying, ‘we have perhaps the most famous picture in the world: the Mona Lisa, painted by Leonardo da Vinci in 1503. It is believed to be a still-life portrait of the third wife of Francesco di Bartolemmeo di Giocondo, an Italian aristocrat who...’

She stopped and pursed her lips. A tall man with curly hair wearing a coat and a ridiculously long scarf was blocking the view of the painting. She cleared her throat loudly and tapped him firmly on the shoulder. ‘Excuse me, Monsieur,’ she said, and moved around to face him, just as he turned in the opposite direction to see who had tapped him. She returned to her original position as he turned the other way again. Eventually they managed to find each other. ‘Excuse me, Monsieur,’ the guide repeated.

The Doctor smiled innocently. ‘Yes?’

‘Could you please move along?’ she requested as calmly as she could. Jobs of this calibre were not for the easily unnerved. ‘Other people wish to enjoy this picture.’

‘Of course!’ The Doctor obligingly stepped aside and produced a small paper bag. ‘Would anyone like a jelly baby?’ The tourists all ‘ahhh!’ed, ignoring the painting in favour of the proffered bag.

Romana frowned. ‘What did she say?’ she whispered in the Doctor's ear.

The Doctor turned to her. ‘She said...’

And then it happened again. The tingling in his head.

‘...And over here, ladies and gentlemen,’ the guide said, ‘we have perhaps the most famous picture in the world: the Mona Lisa, painted by Leonardo da Vinci in 1503. It is believed to be a still-life portrait of the third wife of Francesco di Bartolemmeo di Giocondo, an Italian aristocrat who...’

She stopped and pursed her lips. A tall man with curly hair wearing a coat and a ridiculously long scarf was blocking the view of the painting. She cleared her throat loudly and tapped him firmly on the shoulder. ‘Excuse me, Monsieur,’ she said, and moved around to face him, just as he turned in the opposite direction to see who had tapped him. She returned to her original position as he turned the other way again. Eventually they managed to find each other. ‘Excuse me, Monsieur,’ the guide repeated.

The Doctor smiled innocently. ‘Yes?’

‘Could you please move along?’ she requested as calmly as she could. Jobs of this calibre were not for the easily unnerved. ‘Other people wish to enjoy this picture.’

‘Of course!’ The Doctor obligingly stepped aside and produced a small paper bag. ‘Would anyone like a jelly baby?’ The tourists all ‘ahhh!’ed, ignoring the painting in favour of the proffered bag.

Romana frowned. ‘What did she say?’ she whispered in the Doctor's ear.

The Doctor turned to face Romana and the look on her face confirmed that again, he wasn't the only person who'd felt the unusual sensation. He frowned as something caught his eye, and then he gave a loud groan and clutched his head. He swayed, tripped over his scarf, lost his balance and toppled forward. The row of seats broke his fall and he landed face-up in the Countess’ lap. People stopped looking at priceless works of art and instead gathered around to see what was wrong.

Duggan pushed through the small crowd, cursing the circumstances that had led to having to blow his cover. He did his best to look authoritative as he approached the Doctor. ‘All right, stand back everybody,’ he instructed, adopting the manner he had once used as a police officer.

While the Countess sat by, not the slightest bit worried or embarrassed, Duggan attempted to help the Doctor to his feet. This resulted in the Doctor sprawling and hitting Duggan in the stomach with his head. Then he fell backwards and lay dazed on the floor.

‘Are you all right, sir?’ Duggan asked.

The Doctor opened his eyes and looked up. ‘Yes,’ he said unnecessarily loudly, ‘yes, I'm all right. I just dented my head on your gun, that's all...’

This provoked murmurs of concern from the already rather surprised onlookers.

Duggan groaned inwardly, but managed a laugh for appearances. ‘My what?’ he chuckled, trying unsuccessfully to feign innocence.

‘Your gun,’ continued the Doctor at full volume, sitting up, ‘it's just in here inside your coat.’ He reached into Duggan's grey trenchcoat and tried to take out the object in order to demonstrate to the baffled crowd what had happened. Duggan shook off the Doctor's hand and stepped back hurriedly.

By now Romana had fought her way through the crowd and reached the Doctor. She helped him to his feet and smiled at Duggan. ‘Don't take any notice of him,’ she assured the exasperated detective. ‘He's just having one of his funny turns.’

‘My funny turns?’ The Doctor swayed slightly as he leaned on Romana for support. ‘The whole world took a funny turn!’

‘Come on, Doctor!’ said Romana firmly, gripping his arm and leading him away through the dissipating crowd, hoping she could find an exit quickly.

But Duggan wasn't fooled. He hesitated for a few seconds, and then began to follow them out of the Louvre. The Countess looked over and nodded at her two men, and they responded by moving off after Duggan. The guide vowed that this was the final straw. This time she was definitely handing in her resignation.

The Japanese tourists were enjoying their jelly babies.

Prologue | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | Epilogue