The Revengers;Always the Third Doctor!;Jo Grant;Katy Manning;Jon Pertwee;UNIT;TARDIS; <
The Revengers
Episode Seven
Written by Jeri Massi
The Doctor went through first, blocking her view, and Jo had the idea that he was suddenly not keen on her being there. They passed through a small front room comfortably but shabbily furnished, and came into a narrow bedroom with a sloping roof. The smell was evident as they walked in, but not overpowering.
"Not Mark Lowry," the Doctor said as Jo came around the time lord to see for herself.
"Ralph," she whispered.
"Ralph Braithewight," Inspector Jake told them, not hearing her. The Doctor looked down at her.
"Was it suicide?" she asked. Her voice sounded small. She suddenly felt helpless and useless. It seemed that the more they learned, the faster the people died.
The Doctor sniffed. Then he bent over the dead young man. Braithewight's glasses were knocked askew, and his mouth was pinched tight in a grimace, his eyes fast closed, as though some inner pain had gripped him.
The Doctor rested an open hand on Braithewight's forehead, then opened the shirt and rested a hand on the pale chest. "Quite warm," he said. "If it was suicide, I think it was not intentional." He looked over at Jake. "Have you turned out his pockets?"
"No, not yet."
"Have your men do so. Come here, Jo. Come this way." He led her back to the front room, and Jake followed.
"You know this man?" Jake asked her.
"He and Neil Sparrowe and Mark Lowry were all friends," she said. "I'd just met them. We lifted weights together."
Jake shot a look at the Doctor. "Why was it unintentional suicide?'
"Sparrow chose a fast-acting and lethal narcotic to end his life. Essentially a painless way out. But nobody would end his life with what Braithewight took. There's only one drug that leaves that smell and can raise the body temperature after a person has died. The indications are obvious." Both Jo and the Inspector stared at him.
"Dinitrophenol," he said. "DNP, to put it in the common vernacular. Used as a weight loss drug. If we had found this earlier we would have been off following the steroid dealers again."
"Is it a steroid?" Jake asked.
The Doctor shook his head. "Not quite. It was used in the 1920's as a weight loss pill, until the medical profession realized that it was killing people off in record numbers. There's virtually no difference between an effective dose and a lethal dose," he added. "It depends on the subject. What works for one person will kill another, and that's what happened back then."
"Surely it's not still on the market," Jake said.
The Doctor shook his head. "No, it is illegal as a prescribed medicine. It's still used as a pesticide and as a preservative of lumber. So it is present in the human habitat in sufficient quantity to be recovered. I imagine that if somebody wanted to lose weight badly enough, and could precipitate the DNP out of commercial substances, he might risk it. The weight loss results of DNP are spectacular."
"Seems awfully drastic," Jake said. "And you say you think he took too much unintentionally?"
The Doctor hesitated. "I think the most likely scenario is that he took it as a weight loss aid. But he took a fatal dose. He was either experimenting, or he was given more than he thought. You'd better get him to autopsy right away, and check his belongings and any fitness journal that he kept. But it is hard for me to imagine that he willingly chose to die by burning himself up from the inside."
"Accidental or not, how did he get it?" Jake asked.
The Doctor glanced at Jo, and then at the inspector. "Mark Lowry is a chemist. He could have provided it to him."
"But why?" Jo asked.
"I'm not saying that Lowry killed him, Jo." The Doctor put his arm across her shoulders. "But if these young men were quite keen on fitness and training, Lowry is just cocky enough and just experienced enough to make up low dosage pills of DNP for his friend. The margin of error could have been as low as a tenth of a gram of DNP per kilogram of body weight."
Jake shook his head. "Doctor, there's no grounds for singling out Lowry. Any steroid dealer could have supplied it. Anybody running an underground laboratory would have been willing to cook it up for him at a price."
With a gracious incline of his head, the Doctor suddenly gave in. "As you say, Chief Inspector. It need not have been Lowry. Perhaps we are dealing with steroid dealers after all."
Jake and the Doctor looked at each other for a long moment. At last, Jake said, "All the same, I think I'll put in a call to Professor Lowry."
* * * *
"Can you really think that Mark Lowry had anything at all to do with this?" Jo asked him as they re-emerged into the chilly day outside.
"I didn't when I walked into the room," the Doctor admitted. "But I know that boy did not kill himself."
"How do you know?" she asked.
"I could see it in his face---everything."
"But how could you see anything in a dead man's face?"
"Jo!" His voice was exasperated. "He just wasn't the type! I need to get to the medical library down town. Come on. We'll pick up your car. Are you off to see the priest?"
"Yes."
They started across the narrow street. As they crossed, he rested a hand on her shoulder. "You all right?" he asked, his voice now gentle. "Was he your friend?"
"Just an unfortunate human being," she said quietly. "It's not really a personal loss to me, but it hits close to home. I just don't understand what's going on."
"You know, there is an outside chance that his death is not even related to Neil's death. And the only thing that links Neil to Len is that note. And the only thing that links Len to the others is the rather tenuous tie of being a boxing coach eight years ago."
"One link between two others is all it takes to make a chain," she said. She looked at him more carefully. "If you know that Ralph wasn't the type to willingly commit suicide, how much more do you know?"
"What?"
They got to Bessie, and Jo climbed into the open car while the Doctor walked around to the other side. "This precognisance of yours," she said. "Was it working when you told me I needed to start fitness training?"
"No!" He exclaimed. He climbed into Bessie on his side and afforded Jo a look of sharp surprise. "Do you think I planned for you to meet Len and get attacked by Jimmy Hughes and all the rest?"
"Of course not!" she told him emphatically. "I don't think you planned anything. But did you know I should meet them?
"Honestly Jo, sometimes you talk the most complete nonsense!" He sharply turned the wheel, and they sped out of the car park.
* * * *
An hour later, back in her own small car, Jo sped onto the small green parcel of ground that accommodated one of the parish houses just outside the city. There was the church, easily identifiable by its magnificent steeple, a small rectory, and a tiny all-purpose building. She was directed to this small building in her quest for Father Dunn.
After her exposure to Mark Lowry and Len, and their comments about boxing, she had expected Father Dunn to be a broad, muscular man, his shoulders straining under the tight black shirting of the priestly clothing that he wore.
But when she opened the door to the small, badly lit recreation hall, she saw the last thing that she expected. And yet as soon as she saw him, she knew that this must certainly be Father Dunn. He was long and rickety legged, a man skinny enough to pass either as a marathon runner or a POW from the last war. Clad in gray sweat pants and sweat shirt, he danced and minced under a punching bag, his skinny hands moving in a non-stop blur. The rat-a-tat-tat pounding of the bag evidenced his perfect concentration.
And yet his long legged dancing under and around it as he hit it in perfect rhythm was comical. He could not have looked more like a boxer with his speed and effortless, blurred hand speed. And yet he could not have looked less like a boxer, with his long skinny legs, and his bobbing dance around his target. It was like watching a character from a Wodehouse novel engaging in a bag drill.
Jo broke out into an unconscious smile as she watched the comical dancing and sidestepping, but after a moment as the rhythm did not falter, she began to admire him. His form was ungainly because his build was so ungainly, but his concentration was perfect, and the blows of his hands were hard and tempered. She herself became less aware of time passing as he danced, ducked, and bobbed around the bag. Sweat had already made a broad collar around his neck, with patches under his arms. Great droplets flew from his very short, curly hair. The pounding rhythm on the bag did not cease, and the innocent blue eyes in his face did not move from the target. Gradually she became aware of the ticking of a small egg timer. It dinged a single, clear note, and he instantly came to rest. He stepped away from the bag and stopped it with a gloved hand. Then he saw her.
"I say!" he exclaimed pleasantly, his face lighting up at her smile. "Come for a lesson? Or here to confess?"
Not even out of breath from his exercise, he stripped the bag gloves off and approached her. He held out a taped hand. "How do you do, young lady?"
"You must be Father Dunn," she said. "I'm Josephine Grant. I'm working on an investigation, and I need your help."
"An investigation! I say! So, you've caught on to me have you!" And he smiled a wide, happy smile at her. With a conspiratorial bob of his head, he shot her a sideways glance. "Investigation into boxing, Miss Grant? No wait, I know! Into last Tuesday's bingo night? I must confess, even I was a bit suspicious when Mildred Twitty won three games. Want to check the barrel ey? Make sure everything is on the up and up? Come up to the house and have a cup of tea!"
He held the door for her and ushered her out of the building.
"An investigation into something that happened years ago," she told him. "The death of a young boy in your secondary school."
"Ronnie?" he asked. His levity disappeared, though he remained kind in his bearing. "Are you with the police, Miss?"
"I'm with a group called UNIT," she said.
"UNIT, eh? Well, it was a really bad business. And it will take some telling. We'll let Mrs. Hall make you a cup of tea while I get cleaned up and into my, uh, official garb, and then I'll tell you what I remember. But it was a very bad business, and it needed investigating back then." He afforded her a serious, grieved look. "I frankly don't think much can be done now. Here we are!" He opened the door to the rectory for her and led her down a narrow hallway to a kitchen, where a lay woman was preparing supper. "Mrs. Hall, this is Miss Josephine Grant. You will look after her won't you, while I clean up. I'll be back directly."
Twenty minutes later, walking with Father Dunn under the bare trees of the quiet grounds, Jo felt as though she had been pulled from one world into another. His optimistic bearing, somewhat tempered by the subject matter, still radiated from him. He had seemed a comical figure to her when she had first seen him, then a brave and cool character as he'd effortlessly hammered the bag. But wearing the long black garment of a priest, walking in the silent grounds, telling her of an unhappy episode of the past, he at last seemed to be exactly what he was: an unpretentious and honest man with a deeply spiritual side.
"Yes, I boxed my third year," he told her. "That was the year Ronnie came to school. He was a big chap, a little slowed down by some type of palsy. Oh, it was a great blow to him, for he'd been pretty sound up until he turned fourteen. The family moved to London when the older brother went off to university. Ronnie almost immediately developed this partial paralysis. It effected the side of his face. Left side."
"Did anybody know what it was?" she asked.
He lifted his eyebrows and then pointed the way they should go to make a complete turn about the grounds. "Nerves," he told her. "He was such a big boy, nobody thought that jerking him away from the life he'd known and into a city school would effect him much. But it did. Oh, the other fellows really made hay of him, I can tell you that."
"And nobody interfered?" she asked.
"Well I did!" he exclaimed. "I was on the boxing team, you see. So I asked Ronnie to be my corner man. 'Come on out to the meets,' I told him. 'You'll be very handy!"
"Sounds like a good idea."
"Oh, the fellows had been rough on me too, you see," he told her. "Until this big chap Len took over coaching. By Jiminy, he was an excellent coach. It's probably a sin, Miss Grant, but I must admit to you my sheer delight when Len let us spar the first time." He gave an appreciative shake of his head. "Up until then we'd sort of thwacked at each other for a few rounds. But Len really taught me how to box, not just fight. He taught me combinations, and then he taught me to shadowbox so I could sort of string the combinations together."
"So you won your first match?" she asked.
"It was against one of the worst boys---a Jimmy Hughes. Len's younger cousin. Jimmy used to really lord it over us that his cousin was our coach. So to teach him a lesson, Len let him go two rounds with me. I was that tall and gangly---well, rather like I am now. Jimmy thought it would be a cake walk. I certainly changed his mind!" Still enjoying the memory, he let loose a combination of jabs and crosses in the air. "Just like that. Again and again. He didn't know which way was up. After that, the fellows let me alone. But to make it up to him, Len let him pick the corner man, and he chose another fellow that was twice as spiteful as himself. Simms. Spotty Little Simms, the decent chaps called him."
Jo decided not to mention that Simms was dead, as was Jimmy, and Len. "So poor Ronnie was given the boot."
Dunn shrugged. "Len made a promise that the boys could take turns, but the others always arranged things somehow. They'd tell Ronnie the van was leaving at 2:30, and it would pull out at 2:00. Things like that. I interfered when I could. Sometimes it helped. Other times, I think I only made it worse."
"What finally happened?"
He scratched his head. "You know, I can't remember all the particulars that led up to it. More nasty business. Cruel jokes and the like. All I really know is there was a tremendous row down in the stairwell, and some of the girls were screaming. I went pelting down there, just in time to see Ronnie having at it with about three of the boys from the boxing team, and Spotty Little Simms squealing at them to kill him. I jumped right into it on Ronnie's side."
"Good for you!" she exclaimed, forgetting herself.
He afforded her a quick grin of appreciation. "Must work on that turn the other cheek stuff, eh? I'm still not very good at it, you know. Well, I really think it might have been the end of it, except once I got one of the fellows out of action and was taking on the next, Ronnie jumped on Simms." He rolled his eyes. "That did it for all of us. Simms started blubbering, and Ronnie was just beside himself and got astride him so that even I had to stop what I was doing and pull Ronnie away. You know, I think that one burst of savagery startled even him."
"Was anybody hurt?" she asked.
"No, not really. Just Ronnie himself, and that was the sort of hurt that doesn't really show. We all got hauled into the headmaster's office, and then we were suspended. But Ronnie had really gone berserk. The headmaster called him a savage. A savage, after having put up with all of that abuse for months, and never saying a word. Stupid rules of boys' honor and all that." He glanced at her as they turned again and started up the walk towards the rectory. "Problem is, Ronnie believed him. I think the poor lad was horrified with himself. He'd been throttling Simms there at the end, you see."
"And then Ronnie killed himself?" she asked.
For a moment he said nothing and showed no expression; then he let out his breath. "You know, I went home that night, and I thought my parents, especially my old Dad, would be furious with me. I mean, I was already considering the priesthood then. I went home and sat at the table, and I told my parents everything that had been going on in that school all term." He paused. "I think it's the first time my father ever really was impressed with me. He didn't pretend anything. He just told me life is like that, very unfair, and I would have to decide how to meet these situations. But there wasn't going to be any grumbling or grousing or feeling sorry for myself or carrying grudges. But he told me he wanted me off the boxing team, and I agreed with him. Next term I switched out to the parish school." He caught himself. "Oh yes, Ronnie. Well, the boxing meets were canceled until the end of term. Ronnie came back to school one day after the suspensions were up. But everything was just as bad. That was a Friday. He went home, and we all found out Monday morning that he had killed himself."
"Was anybody sorry?" she asked.
"I was sorry," he told her. "If I had known he was that low, I would have gone round his house, given him a pep talk, worked harder at being his friend, I suppose." He glanced down at her. "Still, nobody who really should have been sorry was sorry. The faculty got roasted alive, I can tell you that. But we had this ridiculous code of honor among us boys. I don't suppose the faculty half knew what was going on. The whole school was sorted out, but the next term the boxing team went on again, with Len as coach. In fact, a couple of the boys did very well. They had a lot of meets. Almost every Friday night. The school acted as though Ronnie had never been there. They said they needed to put the tragedy behind them, and they did a remarkably good job of it, too. He was very quickly forgotten."
She sighed. "Not everybody forgot him." And then, haltingly, and as gently as she could, she told him about John Wilson, and Jimmy Hughes, and Donald Simms. And then she told him about Len and the note.
The story amazed him, and they took another turn around the grounds as he collected his thoughts. "Well," he said at last, his voice much quieter. "And to think I called him Spotty Little Simms, and he met such a tragic end. I am sorry, Miss Grant. If I were wiser, I would have forgiven him sooner."
"Do you recall any notes?" she asked.
He was silent again for a long time. At last he said, "I do recall that some of the boys found something vastly amusing not long after Ronnie's death. Remember, I was there only for a couple months before I changed schools. And I was pretty numb. All I wanted to do was get away from them, so I had nothing to do with them."
"You held them responsible?" she asked.
"Yes, certainly." He became silent again, thinking. At last he told her, "You see, it was so minor at the time. Just one more beastly part of this whole business of lads picking on anybody who didn't fit in. I think that there were notes or something that were being passed around. And the boys were laughing about them. Snickering, like. I remember seeing them passing chits of paper from hand to hand and behaving very---well, theatrically. But I never saw the notes. I rather supposed it was some sort of wicked humor they had concocted, some joke about Ronnie." He put his hands behind his back. "Do you have one of those notes?"
"No, but I can recite it," she told him.
We know what you've done. We won't forget. We'll get you. Where ever you go, we'll find you and make you suffer. You'll die a hundred times over for what you've done.
"It was signed, the Revengers," she added.
He rolled his eyes. "Very dramatic. Just the sort of thing for secondary school, except it almost sounds like girls."
"Girls?" she asked.
"Yes, you know, something out of a novel. Something by somebody who doesn't properly know how to intimidate people. I mean, no offense intended Miss Grant, but girls are absolutely the worst at genuinely intimidating a chap. They don't know how to go about it."
"So these boys took the warnings as a great joke," she said.
"Yes, I rather think they did. Come into the parlor. I have some photographs. I can at least show you the other boys who were on the team and give you some names."
She walked with him toward the front doors of the rectory. "Speaking of names, Philips over at the school didn't know Ronnie's full name."
"Oh he didn't, eh? That's Philips getting around having to say anything directly. If I know him, Philips doesn't want to catch it from the brass if there are repercussions of this inquiry." He opened the door for her. "He's one of those men who get ahead by standing still while things are falling apart. Ronnie's full name was Ronald Braithewight. Philips knew I would tell you, so he didn't have to risk it."
* * * *
"Jo, I was worried. You should have called!" the Doctor exclaimed as she entered the lab. His voice was sharp.
"Worried? Whatever for? I was interviewing a priest! And a very good one, I daresay!" she hung her coat on the coat rack. "I have ever so much to tell you!"
"I was worried because we both know that scoundrel Mark Lowry is very good at following people about." He strode across the room towards her. "He may have waylaid you. How would I have found you?"
He took her by the elbows as she turned around. "You must stay in touch with me!"
She was startled. For a moment his eyes, suddenly compelling, went into hers with an overpowering stare, and she felt a recoil go through her. Her knees went weak. "Why are you angry?" she gasped.
He caught himself and instantly released her. "I'm sorry." He took a step back. "I really fancied he had gotten you. I apologise."
He calmed himself down, looking away for a moment. She got her breath. The Doctor's presence usually charmed and attracted the younger members of UNIT. Jo had realized early on that there was a natural charisma in him not normally present in human beings. But that same powerful presence could easily be overwhelming if he were truly angered or even alarmed. Once or twice she had found the look of his eyes---like the Master's---to be unendurable. He could strike with his eyes.
He looked at her again, contrite. "I'm sorry I startled you," he said gravely. "Come in." He took her by the hand and led her to the workbench. "Here, sit down." She did. A small stack of very old books had been piled onto a cleared section of the bench."
"I should make tea." Her voice was shaking.
"No, no. I will. I'm sorry I startled you," he said again. "I was that worried. I was blaming myself and you."
She saw an oblong coffin-like structure against the wall near the lab's enormous window. It was black, like a real coffin, but it shone under the lights of the laboratory, and she realized that it was made of some type of metal. This macabre instrument startled her further, "What is that thing?"
"In case the poisonings are ongoing," he said as he turned on the tap and let the water run. "If somebody were to receive a high dose of the toxin, I could put him in there, connect him to that pumping device, and filter his blood. The device would provide an oxygen-rich environment, monitor brain function, keep the patient dormant." He filled the teakettle and turned off the tap. "I think the poisonings are long over, but we should have a contingency plan, just in case."
"You just whipped all that up in one afternoon?" she asked.
He smiled ruefully at her as he brought the teapot to the workbench. "Of course not, Jo. It's an old machine. It was in storage in the TARDIS. I've used it before to fight plague, so all I have to do is set it to filter the correct molecular structures. Everything else is automated."
"It's a horrible thing," she said softly.
"It can save lives," he told her. He plugged in the teakettle and sat down. For a moment he covered her hand with his. The shakiness left her. He smiled faintly and reached for the cups. "What have you found?" he asked.
"Father Dunn told me all about it," she said. "The boy who committed suicide. He was new at the school that year. He was Ralph Braithewight's younger brother. Father Dunn said that the family moved to London after Ralph was accepted at university. But Ronnie had some type of palsy. He was treated very badly at school, especially by the boxing team. After he committed suicide, the notes started to show up."
"Nobody was alarmed?" the Doctor asked.
"I think they treated the notes more like a joke."
"Hmmm." He looked thoughtful and poured tea. "Dust samples and other fibres embedded in the note that we found in Len's car match residues on other items that had been folded into the magazines in his apartment," he told her.
"So that means . . . . "
"Well, the magazines themselves came from Jimmy Hughes' personal effects. It means that Len never received that note. It had been stored away with Jimmy Hughes' school things. Perhaps Jimmy had showed it to him. The last thing that Len did before calling you was to look through Jimmy's school magazines and retrieve the note."
"But why did Neil get one?" she asked.
"I don't think he did, Jo. But first, look at this."
He pushed her tea to her, and then pulled the pile of books closer. He showed her the top book. She read the title: Household Poisons And Environmental Hazardous Substances. She glanced up at him. It was an old book, dusty, with a library binding on it.
"And this," he said. He handed her a slimmer volume, also old. She glanced at the title: Long Term Effects of Nerve Gas Exposure in Veteran Soldiers.
"We're not dealing with veteran soldiers," she said. She glanced up at him. "Are we?"
"Only in the remotest sense." He sipped his tea. He set down the cup and said, "After World War II, the incidence of an illness called Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease more than tripled in Europe and the United States. As did the incidence of Alzheimer's disease and other nerve degenerating illnesses. The man who wrote this book noted what was going on and documented his findings."
She flipped it open and leafed through the pages. She checked the table of contents. "He thought that exposure to nerve gases brought on these diseases?"
The Doctor nodded. "In fact, he sets up a sort of sketchy time table, showing how various dilutions of the nerve gases over a given amount of hours would increase susceptibility. He also shows that as nerve gases were dissipated and were rained into the soil from the atmosphere, they created a danger to human and animal life by becoming a part of the water table. Soldiers in occupying forces in some areas of France were in more danger of long term effects of nerve gases than those soldiers who went right into the clouds of gases equipped with gas masks."
She was surprised at this information. "Well---is this true? Is he right?"
The Doctor nodded. "I think so. War is a messy business and has always had a toxic side with longterm effects. Compared to incidence of these nerve diseases before the war, the figures have more than tripled. But if you consider that nerve diseases most often set in after middle age, and that they are often diagnosed as senility, and that far more people die of heart disease or cancer, then this book's findings are not so very significant. Except to us." He picked up the book. "You see, Jo, this book was written in layman's terms, with very clear graphs, and it named the most toxic elements, and where they are used in peacetime products." He set the book down and frowned.
She paused and thought hard for a moment. "In other words, a person of normal intelligence could pick this up and figure out how much exposure to give a person to make him fall ill."
The Doctor nodded. "Yes, that's essentially what you could do with this information. It wasn't written to instruct on how to administer long term poisoning. The man who wrote it was trying to diagnose longterm poisoning after the fact."
"But our poisoner used it to re-introduce those poisons in a peacetime environment."
The Doctor nodded and picked up the first book. "And this source told him exactly where he could find the poisons that he needed. A good chemistry handbook would have taught him how to isolate out the poison itself from commercial products."
"So then it became a matter of administering the poison to the victims," she said.
"But that was very possible," the Doctor added. "By attending the boxing meets, the poisoner or poisoners could easily have slipped diluted poisons into the drinking water, which would usually be kept in a team jug. One of those insulated things to keep the water cold."
She took up the book about nerve gas and veterans and flipped it open to glance at the charts. "The team had boxing meets every Friday---"
"And training sessions one Mondays and Wednesdays," he added. "It said so in the magazine. Our killers might have sneaked into the school and gotten to the water there. Ten weeks or so of exposure at sufficient concentration would have been enough."
She looked up at him. "And now you think Mark did it."
"I think they all did it, Jo, though certainly Mark Lowry would have been the brains behind it. Ronnie Braithewight ties them into it."
"But what about Neil getting that note?" she asked. "And him confessing to me that he had sinned? Could he have been one of the boys on that boxing team? Yet I never found his name on the enrollment forms!"
He shook his head. "You've got it backwards, Jo!" he told her, not unkindly. "Neil was not given a note from the Revengers. Rather, he stole it from the possessions of Donald Simms, before the police could find it. Don't you remember, Jake told us there had been a theft?"
"A television," Jo said.
"And boxes from the attic!" the Doctor exclaimed. "Stealing the television was just a cover-up for the real theft. As Neil saw the chain reaction of deaths beginning, he tried to prevent any evidence from surfacing. But surely he realized it was a lost cause. He knew he would be caught."
"Not Neil," she whispered. "Kill all those people? In such a horrible way?"
"Certainly when Mark Lowry killed Len so brutally, Neil knew there was no way out but prison or death."
"So you are sure?" she asked. "Sure it was Mark?"
"Only a truly brilliant and imaginative chemical expert could have committed the poisonings of the boxing team and the poisoning of Len," he told her. "From odd materials at hand he put together a gas bomb that killed Len almost instantly---"
"But Mark was with me!" she protested. "He---" She stopped.
The Doctor glanced at her. "Yes?"
"I did tell him I had to meet Len," she said. "And then Mark said he had to go unlock the doors. He got Neil to give me a tour of the building, and Neil took too long to do it. I knew I was going to be late meeting Len." She looked up at the Doctor. "Was Neil stalling me? Giving Mark a chance to get to my place ahead of me?"
"Len knew Mark from that morning, when he and Mark fought side by side in Len's own gym," the Doctor said. "Surely Mark could have slipped easily into Len's car, and asked a brief question: 'Had Len seen you?' That's all it would take. He depressed the plunger and moved the cardboard canister from his pocket to the floor of the car. Then he left. In the darkness, Len may not have even seen the mist rise. It took only a moment to kill him."
"But there's no proof of any of this!" Jo exclaimed. "And why would Mark kill Len?"
"Because he realized that Len knew these deaths had to be related to the past. And now Mark's not the same person he was when he poisoned those boys! Maybe back then he was brash enough to think he could get away with it. Well he's grown up, too! He knew that if Len talked about Ronnie Braithewight's death, then sooner or later it would get tied back to Ralph and Neil and Mark himself."
"I betrayed Len," Jo said softly.
The telephone suddenly trilled at them. The Doctor scooped it up. "Hallo?" He shot her a quick glance and motioned for her to drink her tea. "Yes," he said into the receiver. "We'll be right there. But you'd better not waste any more time. Get Lowry into custody." He set the receiver down.
She gulped down her tea and looked guiltily at him. "You didn't mean to betray Len," he said. "It was an innocent comment. And don't think Lowry wasn't pumping you every moment to find out where you would go and what you would do and who mattered to you and why. In that sense we've all betrayed Len and Ralph to him, because all along, every moment, we were letting him see what we were thinking."
* * * *
At Inspector Jake's office, the chief Inspector met them with Dr. Breed at his side. Before the Doctor and Jo had even sat down, Breed said, "It was DNP as you said, Doctor."
"And the dosage?"
"There were four tablets of six milligrams each. We think that Braithewight ingested ten times that amount."
"In a single tablet?" the Doctor asked.
"Most likely."
With a grim nod of understanding, the Doctor allowed Jo to take his cape for him. "Russian roulette with the dosages. Lowry planted a fatal dose among the normal doses. Braithewight must have been losing his nerve." He quickly related all of Jo's information to them.
Jake inclined his head as the Doctor finished. "Of course. Braithewight could have come forward and pleaded off on a diminished capacity: his little brother's suicide, the pathos of a palsied boy being tormented to death, and a young man's earnest desire for revenge---"
"But if Lowry were in on it, that part was just cold and calculating," Breed chimed in. "Lowry knew none of the secondary school boys and barely knew Ralph Braithewight at that point. Braithewight and Sparrowe were first year students, and Lowry was second year."
Jake was puzzled. "So why did Lowry play a role?" he asked. "What was his grudge?"
"Perhaps he did it to win the friendship of Braithewight and Sparrowe," Breed suggested.
The Doctor spoke. "Or simply to prove a theory about the long term effects of nerve gas. "
"Could a young man really be that cold?" Breed asked.
Jake interrupted. "We have evidence that Braithewight and Sparrowe were actually good friends before they started at university. Mark Lowry was the newcomer to the trio. Perhaps it was his way of making a tie with them." He turned to the Doctor. "The boxing team held weekly meets the term after young Ronnie's suicide. We checked into the records. Mark Lowry was assistant coordinator for the meets sponsored by the boxing youth league. Just for that one term."
"So that was how Len recognized him," Jo said softly.
"And that gave him access to the water coolers," the Doctor said. "And gave him free reign to wander around the school during the training sessions as well."
"We've got all the records, photographs, and other evidence just down the hall," Jake said. "Let's adjourn there and see what sort of case we can make."
Just then a hand rapped on the door.
"Come!" Jake called. The door opened a crack, and somebody said, "Call f or Miss Grant from a priest. Didn't catch the name!"
"Go on, Jo," the Doctor said. "And call the Brigadier. We need to keep him informed."
She nodded, secretly surprised and concerned that Father Dunn had called her.
"We'll be four doors down the hall that way," Jake told her.
She left the office, found a door to a separate office, and entered, looking for the person who had announced the call.
She turned as the door behind her closed.
"Mark!" She gasped. He moved so quickly that there was no time to draw a second breath. He hit her a sharp, focused blow on the side of her neck with his knuckle. Her knees gave way and her vision went dark.
She came back in a moment. He was pulling her into a closet.
"Stop!" she began, but he covered her mouth with his hand. His arm was wrapped around her head, holding her pinned to himself, and his other hand was locked on her wrist, forcing her arm straight down.
"Don't scream," he told her, his voice calm. He pulled her in and closed the door so that they were in darkness.
"If you scream," he whispered, "I'll have to kill you, Jo. And I don't want to kill you. Not if I can help it. But I won't let things end like this. Do you understand me?"
She didn't move. He tightened the arm that was around her head, pulling her head back so that she had to look at him. In the darkness, she could see only a faint shine on his glasses. "I'm talking to you," he said. "I don't want to kill you, but I will kill you if you scream. Do you understand me?" he repeated.
She nodded. He moved his hand from her mouth to her throat, his fingertips pressed in against her larynx. "Right there," he told her. "One push, and your windpipe would rupture. Nothing could save you. So don't make a sound."
She nodded again. He was quiet for a moment, and she knew that he was letting himself adjust to the darkness and to her level of fear, measuring her mind and emotions by the sound of her breathing, the wetness of her perspiration, and her tenseness.
"I thought I taught you something about courage, Jo," he said at last in a low voice. "About composure under stress. Have you learned nothing from me?" His voice was disappointed, as a teacher would be disappointed with an erring student.
"You've been using me," she whispered.
He let out a breath-like laugh. "We all use each other," he whispered. "In one way or another. The only difference is the amount of tenderness we feel at each transaction. The amount of sorrow we cannot dismiss after we've crossed lines and invaded another person's perceived domain." He suddenly pushed his weight into her, and for a moment she thought he meant to rape her, and she barely stopped herself from crying out, but she stifled it into a whimper.
It startled him, and he instantly tensed and pushed his fingertips into her throat, but then he caught himself. He realized what she was thinking. "No," he whispered. "I've got to hurt you and hold you in place, but not to degrade you. You couldn't help but fight me on this, so I'll make it easy for you." He pushed her into the wall and changed his grip so that his forearm was a bar across her throat, pinning her in place, but she could breathe well enough so long as she stayed still.
He stopped again and let her get better control of herself. In the darkness he softened his voice. "What a rogue you must think me to be," he said. "To think that I would hurt you that way, that I would do anything to you other than what I have to do. Maybe you can't believe this now, Jo, but I don't enjoy hurting you. I liked it best when you listened to me of your own free will and learned under me."
"Then let me go," she whispered. "Because you are hurting me."
He had his arm across her throat and his right knee, heavy and strong, pushed into her left leg just above her knee, his right lower leg making a trap against her legs so that she could not get the leverage to push herself away from him. His other hand was free. He reached for something else in the closet, and there was a rattle and a sound of his hand sliding down some type of flimsy metal or wire apparatus.
"I'll let you go in a moment," he said. "It's not you I'm after. This won't kill you, Jo. The Doctor told me that he can save you."
He lifted her left hand and grasped it with the hand of the arm across her throat. Something sharp bit into her flesh. She jumped instinctively,. and he leaned into her to keep her still. It was some type of syringe. As soon as it was inserted, he covered her mouth again.
"It is not immediately fatal," he said to her. "And the best thing you can do is to stay calm to relax your heart."
She strained to get away, unable to control her fear, but she might as well have tried to push away a brick wall. He was too big, and too strong. "Yes, Jo, it is the nerve gas poison, a highly diluted amount of thalidomide and phosphorodithioate, contained in a suspension I designed and concocted that will prevent it from being eliminated too quickly from your system. As mammals absorb this poison extremely well, it would be best if the Doctor wastes no time once he finds you."
She wanted to faint but could not faint, but after a moment she stopped pushing against him. "I don't like this," he whispered to her. "But it's not to kill you. I really think he can save you. But I intend to kill him. To kill him, and to find out how he has done this to me."
He waited a moment more. The burning up her arm told her that she was taking in the poison. As far as she could sense, he was administering it to her in a drip, from a suspended bag that he had set up in the closet. At long, long last, he eased the pressure of his weight against her. She nearly collapsed, no longer able to hold herself up. Some part of her had been instinctively pushing against him even after her decision to stop.
"Jo," he whispered, as he put his arms around her. "I want you to survive this. I do. I have to put you to sleep for a moment." His fingers, precise as steel devices, pushed into her jaw and against the back of her head. She went spinning away into blackness and only dimly felt him lower her to the floor and tape a heavy square of electrical tape across her mouth. Then she heard two heavy footsteps and the slamming of the door as he left the closet. She had wanted to faint earlier and had not been able to. But now that she knew she must get away, she could not recover from the pressure point attack he had used. She fainted again.
