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Once Upon a Time Lord
 For Mum,

in memory of Dad,

and with dimensionally transcendental love to

Kate,

Molly, Grace and Eliza.

Once Upon a Time Lord
The Myths and Stories of Doctor Who

Ivan Phillips
Contents

List of Figures
Acknowledgements
Introduction: ‘Quite a great spirit of
adventure’
Defining terms: Myths, stories, Doctor Who
Questions of canon: Keeping track (or trying to)
Fear of getting it wrong: The Skinner–Hadoke paradigm
1 Critics, fans and mythologies of discourse
Writing about Doctor Who: Difficult conversations and critical
projects
Fandom as a character: ‘Most likely to fight back’
Fandom as critique: Cultures and contributions
2 Doctor Who as mythology
On mythic identities: Flying carpets and silly robots
Remaking the monsters: Nostalgia and novelty
Transmedia traditions: Of fishmen, fanfic and sweet cigarettes
3 Doctor Who and mythology
Representing history: ‘In an area of human thought’
Themes of haunting: Ghosts in the time machine
Vampires, werewolves and other universal monsters
4 The hero and his worlds
World-building and the TARDIS: ‘Home, the long way round’
The Doctor as hero: A good man, an idiot, the destroyer of
worlds
Myths of representation / representations of myth
5 Conclusion: ‘The universe will surprise you’

Notes
Bibliography
Index
Figures

0.1 The eponymous aliens of ‘The Sensorites’ (1964)

0.2 The Ood first appear in ‘The Impossible Planet’ (2006)
1.1 Sally Sparrow encounters the Weeping Angels in ‘Blink’ (2007)
1.2 The Abzorbaloff is let loose in ‘Love & Monsters’ (2006)
2.1 The Cybermen work out in a graveyard in ‘Death in Heaven’
(2014)
2.2 The Doctor addresses the Nestene Consciousness in ‘Rose’
(2005)
2.3 Alan Willow’s illustration of the Nestene from Terrance Dicks’s
Doctor Who and the Terror of the Autons (1975)
2.4 Iraxxa takes control in ‘Empress of Mars’ (2017)
2.5 The ‘New Paradigm’ Daleks meet their predecessors in ‘Victory
of the Daleks’ (2010)
2.6 Same sex, different species. Madame Vastra and Jenny Flint
kiss in ‘Deep Breath’ (2014)
2.7 Susan is unaware of a Voord in ‘The Keys of Marinus’ (April–
May 1964)
2.8 The Doctor spits out his food in ‘The Fishmen of Kandalinga’,
featured in the first Dr Who Annual (1966)
2.9 The Doctor dines with the enemy in the Cadet Sweets Doctor
Who and the Daleks story cards (1964)
3.1 Dracula greets a Dalek in ‘Journey into Terror’ (1965)
3.2 The Doctor haunts the Drum at the end of ‘Under the Lake’
(2015)
3.3 Platoon Under-Leader Benton comes over all Primord in the
parallel fascist Britain of ‘Inferno’ (1970)
3.4 Queen Victoria is menaced by the Lupine Wavelength
Haemovariform in ‘Tooth and Claw’ (2006)
4.1 The Doctor prepares for the end in ‘Logopolis’ (1981)
4.2 Nicolas Tournier, The Descent from the Cross (c.1632), oil on
canvas
5.1 The Doctor in ‘The Woman Who Fell to Earth’ (2018)
5.2 Caspar David Friedrich, Wanderer above the Sea of Fog
(c.1817), oil on canvas
Acknowledgements

I would like to thank all those at Bloomsbury (and, initially, I.B.

Tauris) who have ensured that this book didn’t get lost in the space-
time vortex, in particular my editors, Rebecca Barden and Philippa
Brewster, my cover designer Charlotte Daniels, my original copy
editor, Kate Reeves, and my project manager at Newgen, Kalyani.
Thanks, too, to my many supportive, inspiring and endlessly
knowledgeable colleagues at the University of Hertfordshire and
beyond, and to my students, past, present, future: it’s a pleasure
learning with you. An earlier version of the lycanthropic musings in
Chapter 3 of this book appears in Sam George and Bill Hughes’
collection of essays In the Company of Wolves: Werewolves, Wolves
and Wild Children (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2020):
thanks to Sam and Bill for permission to borrow from myself. Finally,
thanks to my friends and family: without you, nothing would have
been done, and nothing would have been worth doing. You remind
me, as I keep moving, of all the people that I used to be.
Introduction: ‘Quite a great
spirit of adventure’

Defining terms: Myths, stories,

Doctor Who
As the Doctor knows only too well, and as successive companions
have quickly discovered, setting coordinates does not guarantee a
destination. ‘You don’t steer the TARDIS,’ Peter Capaldi’s Time Lord
tells Bill Potts (Pearl Mackie) in the opening scene of ‘Smile’ (2017),
‘you negotiate with it. The still point between where you want to go
and where you need to be, that’s where she takes you.’ A book that
sets its coordinates as ‘the myths and stories of Doctor Who’ will
likewise need to negotiate a still point between an apparently simple
authorial intention and more complex critical needs. If ‘story’, for
instance, is separated from ‘myth’ for anything other than rhetorical
convenience, then it becomes necessary to clarify the distinction.
The most straightforward definition of ‘myth’, after all, is ‘story’, from
ancient Greek muthos and Latin mythos, but this brings with it an
array of alternatives, including not only ‘narrative’ and ‘plot’ but also
‘speech’ and ‘fable’. If the subject here is ‘the myths and stories of
Doctor Who’, which myths are being referred to (or which sense of
‘myth’), which stories (or sense of ‘story’) and, come to think of it,
which Doctor Who?
Taking a pragmatic view, the notion of ‘story’ can be allowed to
pass more or less unchallenged. Doctor Who is self-evidently
preoccupied with storytelling – ‘We’re all stories in the end,’ the
Eleventh Doctor (Matt Smith) muses by the bedside of Amelia Pond
(Caitlin Blackwood) towards the end of ‘The Big Bang’ (2010) – and
it would serve little purpose here to get snarled up in a consideration
of the relative dimensions of story and plot, histoire and récit, or
fabula and syuzhet. This study is not, in the end, concerned with the
finer discriminations of narratology. It is, however, concerned with
understandings and applications of ‘myth’ as a viable categorical
concept. A positioning of Doctor Who in relation to this over-familiar
and much-contested term becomes, from this point of view, a matter
of some significance. It is taken as read that, against any strict
criterion of deep-rooted, shared and venerated origin stories (‘the
prime authority, or charter, for the religious institutions of each tribe,
clan, or city’, prescribes Robert Graves),1 the series of tales woven
around the character of the Doctor since his first appearance on BBC
television on 23 November 1963 cannot qualify as a ‘true’ myth. It
can, though, be seen to constitute a pseudo-myth, one that has
drawn upon diverse narrative tropes with classical precursors. From
this perspective Doctor Who seems to have a ‘mythical method’ akin
to that identified by T. S. Eliot in James Joyce’s Ulysses (1922), albeit
much looser in its aims and methods – more open in its format, less
coherent in its execution.2 Joyce knew that his great mythopoeic
anti-novel remained a novel: he knew, in other words, that it was
not a myth. At the same time, he knew that it represented a radical
critique and reinvention of the form it inhabited, of what (to apply
Roland Barthes’s distinct adaptation of the word) might be seen as
the ‘myth’ of the realist novel. Ulysses achieved a subversive
mythicization of Western life on a single day in 1904. Doctor Who,
without the potential for a comparably unified vision or the impetus
for a similarly uncompromising formal agenda, has nevertheless
amounted to a mythicization of the cultural conditions out of which it
is produced.
Using mythography to read Doctor Who is, in one sense, an
intuitive response to a body of fantastic stories which must surely
satisfy Joseph Campbell’s definition of ‘wonder tales’.3 The field of
study is far from clear-cut, however, presenting difficulties in terms
of disputed boundaries, variable contexts and divergent
understandings. Myth, mythology and their many cognates describe
a landscape that is immense, slippery, unsettled. Neil Clarke, writing
with specific reference to Doctor Who, describes the territory as
‘riddled with ambiguities’.4 Taking a broader view, Laurence Coupe
asserts, ‘Myth is paradigmatic, but there is no pure paradigm.’5 Add
to this the distinctive size, scope and disposition of Doctor Who
itself, and the choice for anyone wanting to develop a workable
mythography is stark: either settle on a single impure paradigm of
myth and apply it with consistency, or allow for the possibility of an
exploratory navigation between paradigms. I have chosen the
second option, feeling that it is more suited to the temperament of
the particular text, with its inherent contradictions, its sense of being
at once infinite and intimate, continuous and disjointed, inventive
and indebted, endlessly renewable yet essentially old-fashioned.
Myth is a vast area of scholarly investigation and Doctor Who is a
‘vast narrative’.6 The opportunities for getting lost between the two
are manifold. In attempting to refine my methodology I have
resisted the temptation to place ‘myth’ sous rature in the Derridean
manner, myth (‘Since the word is inaccurate, it is crossed out. Since
it is necessary, it remains legible’), but only just.7 A brief overview of
the history of writing on myth, necessarily partial, might be
beneficial here.
The theorization of myth is old enough to have become mythical:
‘There are no theories of myth itself,’ writes Robert Segal, ‘for there
is no discipline of myth in itself.’8 If it exists at all, then, the study of
myth predates Euhemerus in the fourth century bc, with his
rationalization of mythologies as the ornamented and fantastical
reworkings of historical figures and events. And even if the discipline
exists, some of its original exponents have raised the question of
whether, by now, it should effectively be a discipline without a
subject. Early social anthropologists like E. B. Tylor and Sir James
Frazer believed that myth was the ‘primitive’ forerunner of science
and as such was incompatible with a modern world view: in an
advanced technoscientific age, myth simply should not exist. This
would seem to anticipate more recent claims by, among others, Ivan
Strenski, who has written that ‘there is no such “thing” as myth.
There may be the word “myth”, but the word names numerous and
conflicting “objects” of inquiry, not a “thing” with its name written on
it.’9
Yet for a subject that does not exist, studied as part of an
academic discipline that should no longer exist, myth has been a
remarkably energetic area of scholarship, not least since the
beginning of the twentieth century. The roll call of commentators
who have written on myth in the last hundred years or so is
prodigious, and the variety of approaches that they have taken to
the subject scarcely less so. This variety is surely a vital sign (myth
and the theorization of myth might exist after all!) but it is also a
problem, since it requires ruthless selectivity, the acceptance of
contradiction, a capacity for synthesis or, as seems most likely, all
three. If the emotional-mystical ideas of myth proposed by Lucien
Lévy-Bruhl are to be utilized alongside the cooler, more cerebral
readings of Claude Lévi-Strauss, or the ideological analyses of
Roland Barthes alongside the sacred schemas of Mircea Eliade, how
are such contrasting viewpoints to be reconciled within a survey of
storytelling in Doctor Who? Even a single writer can present starkly
discrepant agendas, yet the early symbolic idealism of Ernst Cassirer
is as resonant in the context of the Doctor’s adventures as the
politically brooding mythography of his later writings.
Of course, Strenski’s denial of the existence of myth is not really
consonant with the obsolescence predicted by Tylor and Frazer: it
represents, in fact, a negation of their thesis. Where they contended
that myth would wither away as an archaic irrelevance in the age of
scientific apotheosis, Strenski implies that it is only within the
technologized environment of modernity that its full suggestive
power is understood:
Myth is everything and nothing at the same time. It is the true story or a false
one, revelation or deception, sacred or vulgar, real or fictional, symbol or tool,
archetype or stereotype. It is either strongly structured and logical or emotional
and pre-logical, traditional and primitive or part of contemporary ideology. Myth
is about the gods, but often also the ancestors and sometimes certain men. It
is ‘Genesis’ and ‘General Strike’, ‘Twentieth Century’ and ‘Cowboy’, ‘Oedipus’ and
‘Frankenstein’, ‘Master Race’ and ‘Chosen People’, ‘Millennium’ and ‘Eternal
Return’. ‘Myth’ translates muthos, but also die Sage, die Mythe or lili’u. It is both
 ‘la geste d’Asdiwal’ and ‘le mythe de Sisyphe’. It is charter, recurring theme,
character type, received idea, half-truth, tale or just a plain lie.10

Myth survives into the modern world because of its sheer

promiscuity of significance, its adaptability to new conditions. Even a
comparatively strait-laced account like that of G. S. Kirk makes this
clear in its initial scoping of the topic, emphasizing the ‘insistence on
carrying quasi-mythical modes of thought, expression, and
communication into a supposedly scientific age’.11 It is here, in this
quality of resilient, connotative plurality, that myth is seen most
persuasively as a discourse suited to Doctor Who. Myth is mutable: it
has not been rendered obsolete or meaningless by the demise of
those ancient cultures into which its roots can be traced. On a much
smaller scale, Doctor Who has survived its own mythic (or, more
accurately, mythicized) origins, at the same time carrying them into
its expanded present. The challenge is for criticism to acquire a
similarly lithe durability.
In his contribution to Anthony Burdge, Jessica Burke and Kristine
Larsen’s The Mythological Dimensions of Doctor Who, Matt Hills
brings two distinct readings into dialogue around the Russell T.
Davies era.12 The first of these (from cultural studies) is based on
rationally formal principles derived largely from Lévi-Strauss; the
second (from the TV industry) is founded on more emotionally and
commercially attuned ideas of plot and character.13 The tension that
Hills negotiates is that between the intellectual objectivity (some
would say ‘aridity’) of high theory and a more impressionistic (some
would say ‘populist’) mode of enquiry. Within the domain of ‘Doctor
Who studies’,14 this represents a stylistic conciliation of John Tulloch
and Manuel Alvarado’s high theorizing in the first book-length study
of the series in 1983, and the accessibility that James Chapman set
against it over twenty years later: ‘The Doctor may have conquered
Daleks, Cybermen and Ice Warriors, but would he survive an
encounter with Foucault, Derrida or Deleuze?’15 More importantly, it
posits a correlation between myth as, in Bruce Lincoln’s phrase,
‘ideology in narrative form’16 and myth as flourishing fantasy brand.
 The aim in the present study is to take the hint from Hills,
recognizing that a flexible approach is peculiarly suited to the subject
matter. Barthes and Paul Ricoeur are, in many ways, the presiding
critical spirits here, the former for his example as an interrogator of
illusion, the latter for his advocacy of ‘social imagination’.17 Myth, for
Barthes, is what ‘transforms history into nature’; for Ricoeur, it is ‘the
bearer of other, possible worlds’.18 If Barthes encourages us to read
a text such as Doctor Who for its ideological taint, its inevitable
complicity in the-way-things-are, Ricoeur tempts us to identify the
utopian possibilities beyond this. In one of the earliest academic
critiques of Doctor Who, John Fiske takes a Barthesian line to
declare that ‘popular art is not escapist, but mythic’: in other words,
it is an endorsement of everyday sociopolitical realities, not a
liberation from them.19 The more alien the alien worlds, the more
monstrous the monsters, the more efficient the ideological
reinforcement. The Doctor’s exploits are depicted as a ‘naturalizing
force, denying the historicity of [their own] production and
reception’.20 Fiske’s argument is well made, exemplary of its kind,
and persuasive to a point, but it is itself a form of myth. As will
become clear, I consider Doctor Who more than capable of satisfying
the desire to discover ‘just how a work of popular art can be other
than reactionary’.21

Questions of canon: Keeping track

(or trying to)
In the final years of its classic series Doctor Who showed an unusual
degree of self-consciousness about its own mythological status and
potential. The arrival of Andrew Cartmel as script editor towards the
end of 1986 coincided with that of Sylvester McCoy as the Seventh
Doctor and initiated a sequence of stories by new, young writers in
which continual referencing of the show’s history – a contentious
element of Doctor Who throughout John Nathan-Turner’s time as
producer (1980–9) – was accompanied by both a heightened
tendency to borrow from external mythologies and an intensified
development of internal ones. ‘The Curse of Fenric’ (1989), with its
mix of Hammer-style vampire eroticism, Lovecraftian monstrosity,
Second World War techno-heroism and deep ideological unease, was
typical in this respect. Not only did Ian Briggs’s story exert
imaginative pressure on a number of received mythic narratives
(from the Viking invasions to English heroic wartime pastoral), but it
also epitomized attempts after McCoy’s first season to turn the
Doctor himself into a less stable, more darkly perplexing kind of
hero:

FENRIC [IN SORIN’S BODY] The choice is yours, Time Lord. I

shall kill you anyway, but if you would like the girl to live, kneel
before me.
ACE I believe in you, Professor.
FENRIC/SORIN Kneel, if you want the girl to live!
DOCTOR Kill her.

Calling his companion, Ace (Sophie Aldred), ‘a social misfit’ and ‘an
emotional cripple’ is part of the Doctor’s strategy to defeat Fenric, a
necessary undermining of her faith in him, but it is still an act of
cruelty. It restores something of the unease of the earliest Doctor
Who stories, the first thirteen episodes from ‘An Unearthly Child’ to
‘The Edge of Destruction’, in which the volatility of the hero (William
Hartnell) made him less than reliably heroic. This template for
challenging behaviour on the Doctor’s part has also been used in
‘The Invasion of Time’ (1978) and ‘The God Complex’ (2011), as well
as in many of the Virgin novels (1991–7) and Big Finish audio
dramas (1999–present).
Together with other stories of the period – Ben Aaronovitch’s
‘Remembrance of the Daleks’ (1988) and ‘Battlefield’ (1989), Kevin
Clarke’s ‘Silver Nemesis’ (1988), Rona Munro’s ‘Survival’ (1989) –
‘The Curse of Fenric’ represented an effort to recover a sense of the
primal enigma of Doctor Who’s central character, what Tulloch and
Alvarado had by then described as its ‘hermeneutic code (the code
of puzzles and mysteries)’.22 Cartmel and his associates were not the
first production team to give prominence to the perplexities of the
Doctor’s personality and to draw on prior mythologies in order to
adjust the scope of the programme. They were, however, the most
brazen in the attempt. They were also, crucially, the first to be
informed by a fan sensibility. Not all of the new stable of creators
had grown up watching Doctor Who from behind the sofa as children
and then as dedicated enthusiasts into adulthood, but many of them
had. The last three years of the classic series marked, in this
respect, the point at which a complex merging of identities – fans,
producers – began to take place. As a consequence, discourses of
production and reception became ever more intricate, a situation
intensified in the decade that followed as, following the final episode
of ‘Survival’ on 6 December 1989, fans seized the means of mythic
production. The quiet removal of the show from television – ‘The
BBC never publicly declared the demise of Doctor Who,’ writes Miles
Booy23 – left a vacuum that was filled by the products of fan
invention and aspiration.
How this mutation of the creative ecology affected the expanding
mythology of Doctor Who, and the myths woven around it, will be a
focus of the first chapter of this book. For now, it is worth noting the
contrast between the official (and therefore public) condition of the
show and the vitality of its continuing existence off-screen. Beyond
McCoy’s initially slapstick demeanour there had been a strategic
deepening and darkening of the narrative that his portrayal
embodied. Colin Baker’s depiction of the Sixth Doctor had already
emphasized elements of unpredictability and danger in the character
but without, apparently, gaining the confidence of the core audience,
the curiosity of a new one, or the respect and financial beneficence
of BBC management. The popular success and longevity of Doctor
Who seems, on the whole, to have been a source of bemusement to
the organization that created it, but the loss of institutional support,
exacerbated by a slow decline in ratings during the 1980s, was only
one of the problems for the show. There was also the issue, as
Chapman, Kim Newman, Jim Leach and others have observed, that
the conceptual ambition of the later McCoy stories was undermined
by a propensity to lose narrative coherence.24 David Rafer, for
instance, refers to ‘Silver Nemesis’ as ‘a pretentious mish-mash’ and
‘The Curse of Fenric’ suffered, in its broadcast version, from the
need to edit it down to size, becoming a congested, occasionally
brilliant riddle rather than the richly textured yarn that its
novelization eventually revealed it to be.25 As Booy writes,
‘interpretation of the McCoy years necessarily became a search for
some aborted level or hidden meaning’.26 This might suggest that
the attempt to extend the mythic scope of Doctor Who after a
quarter of a century on TV screens was either a valiant failure or a
fundamental miscalculation. In an important sense, though, it
created the conditions from which – via Virgin Books, Big Finish and
the TV movie of 1996 – the series would be regenerated by Russell
T. Davies in the early years of this century. Moreover, in the
cluttered, gapped, chaotic quality of some of the products of the
‘Cartmel Masterplan’ it is possible to discover the kind of evocative
abundance that is almost definitive of classical myth.
However else it is defined, it is clear that a ‘myth’ is a cumulative
and irregular mass of material that needs to be examined as a whole
as well as in fragments. To form a mythic understanding of Doctor
Who, every artefact contributing to its developing mythology must
be available for study. With this in mind, the approach of the current
book is comparable to that of Piers D. Britton in TARDISbound and
Kevin S. Decker in Who Is Who?27 In other words, a flexibly thematic
arrangement is preferred to a more chronological one, with classic
and new Who treated alongside each other and shown to be in
dialogue. Similarly, although the public eminence and cultural reach
of the television series mean that, inevitably, this will be the main
focus of discussion, other manifestations of the mythology are a
significant part of the story. This, of course, raises questions of
canon and, tempting as it might have been to leave these for others
to fail to answer, they have proven both difficult to avoid and
extremely suggestive in relation to ideas of myth. ‘Myth, after all,’
Coupe has written, ‘is inseparable from the idea of totality; yet myth
has only ever been a gesture towards it.’28
The concept of a resolved canon is almost certainly incompatible
with traditional understandings of myth and, in the context of Doctor
Who, it is surely a fascinating chimera. Broadly speaking, when
confronting the insoluble problem of canon, there is the pragmatic
approach – ‘the television series takes priority over what is said in
the other media’29 – and there are arguments. This book tends
towards the latter, while keeping the television screen in constant
view. Regrettably, however, its scope does not allow for extensive
reflection on the offshoot dramas K9 and Company (1981), The
Sarah Jane Adventures (2007–11), Torchwood (2006–11) and Class
(2016).
Almost forty years ago, Tulloch and Alvarado supposed that the
‘committed audience’ would have ‘an accumulated knowledge and
clear memory of a programme’s past’.30 When that programme is as
expanded and ramified as Doctor Who, however, the knowledgeable
accumulation will inevitably include aporias and elisions, and the
memory might only be clear in inverse proportion to its reliability.
Towards the end of their study, Tulloch and Alvarado noted that the
‘programme coherence’ of Doctor Who was ‘totally bound up with
the mythology of two decades of adventure’.31 Two decades have
now become more than five decades and a concern for coherence is
a fundamental aspect of ‘brand management’ for the regenerated
television series.32 It is a concern, though, that can never achieve
more than a playful compromise with the contradictions of the
mythology.
There are so many possible narrative tracks within Doctor Who, so
many discursive practices and areas of disputed methodology, that
the sensible strategy must be to set limits on any enquiry. Hills is
explicit in making ‘televised Doctor Who from 2005 onwards’ the
foundation of his Triumph of a Time Lord,33 and both he and Andrew
O’Day argue convincingly that ‘new Who’ can – and to some extent
should – be separated from the ‘classic’ series in critical discussions,
being the product of an entirely different ecology of creation and
consumption. O’Day is right to suggest that, in terms of making
general qualitative assessments of the old and the new, ‘there is no
comparison’.34 From the perspective of an exploration of the
mythology of Doctor Who, the idea of setting limits would risk an
impoverishment of the analysis. It would also, I suspect, be
impossible. The nature and success of the fiftieth anniversary
celebrations in 2013 demonstrated not only a rich, vital interplay
between classic and new Who but also an essential continuity which,
in mythic terms, transcended half a century of wonderful
incoherence.
‘Inconsistency’, Newman writes, ‘was built into the format from the
outset, to the eventual frustration of fans who like to hammer the
whole series into some overarching design.’35 Lans Parkin and Lars
Pearson, at the start of their colossal and meticulous Ahistory: An
Unauthorized History of the Doctor Who Universe, offer a disclaimer
about the viability of their unifying project:
Now, with dozens of new books, audios, comic strips, short stories and a new
TV series, not to mention spin-offs, it is almost certainly impossible to keep
track of every new Doctor Who story, let alone put them all in a coherent –
never mind consistent – framework. References can contradict other references
in the same story, let alone ones in stories written forty years later for a
different medium by someone who wasn’t even born the year the original writer
died.36

Parkin has written elsewhere that, as far as the canon is concerned,

this proliferation of material means that ‘the problem for the twenty-
first-century Doctor Who fan is not so much philosophical as
logistic’.37 Since no one can possibly know everything in the
expanding mythos of Doctor Who, he proposes the importance of
the ‘personal canon’, a concept that is ‘the polar opposite of the
normal use of the term, where canon is imposed by a central
authority’.38
It might be argued that it is precisely this absence of a ‘central
authority’ to settle questions of canonicity that justifies a claim for
the mythic status of Doctor Who. As Britton and Decker have
pointed out, the BBC – for all that it produces the television series
and manages the global brand – has never put in place an official
canonical framework like those that exist for such fictions as Star
Trek and Star Wars.39 Furthermore, just as there is no central
authority for asserting the canon, there is no single figure, alive or
dead, who can be identified as the originating author. Doctor Who
was designed by committee, which means that – although Sydney
Newman, Donald Wilson, C. E. Webber, Verity Lambert, Antony
Coburn and a host of others have reasonable claims to be authors of
the original series – none of them can be designated as its creator.
Rather like Milman Parry detecting the multiple and historically
disparate voices within the supposedly unified epics of a blind poet
called Homer, the student or fan of Doctor Who must be aware of
the patchwork plotting of its fictional territories.40 A myth, in the
loosest and most basic terms, is a story that is owned by nobody
and, therefore, by everybody. The BBC owns the Doctor Who
franchise but, as a quick search through fan fiction websites will
demonstrate, it does not own the story.

Fear of getting it wrong: The

Skinner–Hadoke paradigm
The comedian Frank Skinner, a self-proclaimed ‘fanboy’, has reported
how he ignored his own inner voice of caution in order to realize a
lifetime ambition by appearing as Perkins in Jamie Mathieson’s story
‘Mummy on the Orient Express’ (2014). At the same time, he
remembers dodging an after-show conversation with fellow
comedian and Doctor Who aficionado Toby Hadoke because of a
nervousness that he might reveal himself to be a fandom interloper:
If I say I’m a fan, someone might ask me who was the third Cyberman from
the left in The Tenth Planet [1966], and I’d struggle with that kind of
information. Toby would know. He’s probably interviewed the third Cyberman
from the left.41
This expresses the kind of anxiety that might haunt any fan in
conversation with other fans. It is one that can prove especially
unsettling where fan enthusiasm and academic scruple converge,
where fans who are also academics – fan-scholars or, as Henry
Jenkins terms them, ‘aca-fans’ – try to reconcile the two sides of
their engaged personality. Ian Bogost captures the situation well:
One can like or dislike something, but we scholars, particularly of popular
media, have a special obligation to explain something new about the works we
discuss. There are plenty of fans of The Wire and Mad Men and Halo and World
of Warcraft out there. The world doesn’t really need any more of them. What it
does need is skeptics, and the scholarly role is fundamentally one of
skepticism.42

The fan might be frightened of getting something wrong, the fan-

scholar too, but the aca-fan is frightened of getting something
wrong and being banal.
Hills’s work on the complex relationship between the scholar-fan
and the fan-scholar is important in this respect, noting how
‘academic and fan identities are not always separable, and can be
hybridised in a variety of ways’.43 It is possible to go further and
argue that these identities are never separable, always hybrid, and
inevitably mythic. It is for this reason that the current book begins
with a journey into the matrix of fandom and academia. To a large
extent, the objective is to chart the uneven terrain where various
tribes of expressive fan write into and across each other. Inevitably
this involves finding a footing between academic and more popular,
even populist, modes of discourse. Does this mean affording all
sources the same degree of authority? There is, it can hardly be
denied, a different set of pressures, expectations and allowances for
the commercial writer than there is for the peer-reviewed academic
writer, even the peer-reviewed academic fan writer. Just as the
emotional investment of the latter might disrupt traditions of critical
detachment, so the economic reliance of the former might
undermine interpretive objectivity. An Amazon review of the DVD of
1979’s ‘The Creature from the Pit’ is never going to be equivalent in
methodology and analytical discernment to Fiske’s essay on the
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
it made her desperate; getting up from her crouching position, she
sped across the hall, frightened by the echoes of her crutch and her
own feet, and threw herself with all her force against the great door,
making the chain swing and rattle.
“What’s that?” cried Mrs. Bean’s cheery voice in the distance.
And in a few moments the door leading to the kitchen was opened,
and the buxom housekeeper appeared.
“Oh, Mrs. Bean,” cried Freda, throwing herself into her arms and
speaking in a voice hoarse with fear, “this house is haunted!”
“Bless the poor child! you’re overtired, and you fancy things, my
dear,” she said soothingly. “All these old places are full of strange
noises, but you’ll soon get used to them.”
“But faces! I saw a face, a dreadful face, with long sharp teeth like
a death’s head; it was looking at me through the banisters, up there!”
And poor Freda, with her head still buried in Mrs. Bean’s plump
shoulder, pointed upwards with her finger.
“Oh, no, my dear, you didn’t. It was only your fancy. What you
want is to go to bed, and after a good night’s rest you’ll see no more
death’s heads.”
Mrs. Bean’s manner was so very quiet and matter-of-fact, and she
took the account of the appearance so unemotionally, that it
occurred to Freda to ask:
“Haven’t you heard of that face being seen before?”
“Well,” said the housekeeper, rather taken aback, “I believe I have
heard something about it.”
“And the doors, why do they lock of themselves?”
“Oh, that’s very simple,” answered the housekeeper quickly.
“That’s a patent invented by the Captain for the greater security of
the house when he didn’t live here himself. I will show you how to
open them.”
She crossed to the door of the dining-room, followed by Freda. But
it seemed to the girl that she listened a few moments, before
attempting to open it. Then she turned what looked like a little
ornamental button above the keyhole, and the door opened.
“That’s how it’s done; you see it’s perfectly simple.”
“Ye-es,” said Freda, “but it all seems to me very strange.”
 Mrs. Bean laughed, and wanted the girl to amuse herself with a
book while she cleared away the tea-things.
But no sooner was the housekeeper’s broad back turned than
Freda was off her chair in a moment, and out of the kitchen to a door
which opened into the court-yard. As this door had no secret bolt,
she was speedily outside, under the gallery.
Fancying, that she heard voices to the left, Freda turned in that
direction, and presently saw Crispin standing ankle-deep in the
snow, looking up at the gallery above.
“Were you talking to some one, Crispin?” she cried.
He started at the sound of her voice, and came towards her with
impatient steps.
“What the d——l are you doing out here?” he asked angrily, with a
stamp of his foot on the ground.
“I came out to talk to you,” she answered. “I sha’n’t catch cold.”
“You’ll catch something worse than cold if you come wandering out
here at all hours of the night,” muttered Crispin roughly. “Nell must
keep you indoors.”
He came through the sheltered colonnade, stamping the snow off
his feet.
“You’re a very disagreeable man, Crispin,” said Freda, watching
him gravely. “You must have been very good to my father for him to
have kept you about him so long. It shows,” she went on
triumphantly, “that he must have been much more amiable than they
say. Do you know I think you only talk against him to tease me. But it
is horrible, now that he’s dead.”
Her voice sank on the last word, and the tears started again.
When Crispin answered, which was not at once, his voice was
scarcely so harsh as before, though he spoke rather scoffingly.
“Women are always full of fancies. I don’t wonder your father
couldn’t stand them!”
It was Freda’s turn to laugh now.
“Oh,” she cried, “then I knew him better than you after all. For he
loved one woman so well that he could never bear to look at another
after she died. And he left his own daughter among women, nothing
but women. And I believe that all those years he wouldn’t see me
because he thought I could never be good enough for her daughter. I
was lame, you see,” she added softly.
There was a long, long pause. Freda had managed to get on the
right side of rough Crispin. For he suddenly startled her by taking her
in his right arm with a sweeping embrace which nearly took her off
her feet, while he said huskily:
“Come in, there’s a dear child; you’re cold. You’re quite right, I’ll be
good to you for the sake of—— Well, for your own sake!”
He half led, half carried her along under the gallery and into the
house. Mrs. Bean, who was standing at the back door with rather an
anxious look upon her face, seemed relieved to see that they
returned in amity. Crispin took the girl into a long, low-ceilinged
room, where the furniture, in holland bags, was stacked up against
the walls. He led her before a large oil-painting of a lady, the charm
of whose gracious beauty, even the old-fashioned fourth-rate
portrait-painter had not been able wholly to destroy.
“I suppose you can guess who that is,” said Crispin.
“My mother,” said Freda softly.
“I believe the Captain thought a lot of this picture once. But for the
last few years his memory had grown a bit dim, and he remembered
bitter things better than sweet ones.”
Freda drew a little nearer to Crispin. She perceived by his tone
how strong the sympathy had been between him and her father. She
gave a little sigh, and they instinctively turned to each other and
exchanged glances of growing liking and confidence as they went
down the long room and crossed the hall to the dining-room. Crispin
turned up the lamp, and was about to refill his pipe when it occurred
to him to turn to the girl and say:
“You won’t be able to stand this indoors, I suppose?”
“Oh, yes, I shall. They smoked all the time in the kitchen, at the
‘Barley Mow.’ ”
“The ‘Barley Mow,’ eh? How did you get there?”
Freda told him the whole story of her journey, her sojourn at the
inn, the mysterious character they gave her father.
When she mentioned her friend who was connected with the
government, Crispin grew very attentive, and asked for a minute
description of him, at the end of which he said: “The scoundrel!
That’s the fellow who was sneaking about here this afternoon. If I’d
guessed——”
He did not finish his sentence, but he looked so black that Freda
hastened to get off the unpleasant subject, and rushed into a
description of her adventures at Oldcastle Farm. This, however,
proved even less pleasing. Crispin listened with a frown on his face
to her account of the kindness of the Heritages, and at last broke out
into open impatience.
“Mind,” said he sharply, “if those two young cubs come carnying
about here while I’m away—as they will do, my word on it—you are
not to let them inside the door on any pretence, remember that.”
“I wouldn’t let Robert in,” said Freda decidedly.
“No, nor Dick, either.”
“I should let Dick in,” said Freda softly.
Crispin sat back in his chair to look at her face, and perceived
upon it a rosy red flush.
“Now look here,” he said, like one trembling on the borders of a
great outburst of passion, “if you let Dick Heritage come fooling
about you here, I’ll shoot him through the head. Now you
understand.”
Freda looked up with a sudden flash of haughtiness.
“I am going back to the convent, Crispin, and these gentlemen are
nothing to me. But if I were going to stay in this house, I should see
whom I liked, for I should be the mistress here.”
If she had stabbed him he would not have been more surprised.
He held his pipe in his hand, and stared at her, unable at first to find
words. She, on her side, felt very uncomfortable as soon as the
outburst had escaped her. She felt that a confession had slipped out
against her will, and she hung her head, and looked into the fire,
hoping that the glow would hide her flaming cheeks.
“So you would be mistress here, would you?” he said. “And you
intend to go back to the convent? And I suppose you think your
father’s wishes nothing.”
“I don’t know what they were; and I shall never know now!”
“Well, I’ll tell you. His wishes were that you should remain here,
and call yourself mistress if you like, while I go away to manage his
property abroad for him.”
 “But, Crispin, what could I do here? I should be miserable. I should
like a nun’s life, but not a hermit’s!”
“Oh, well, you’ll get used to it. Your father had a troop of
pensioners in the town here: you will have them to look after.”
“Crispin,” she said suddenly after a pause, in a whisper, “who do
you think it was that killed Blewitt?”
Crispin was rather startled by the question.
“Well,” he asked in his turn, looking stolidly at the fire, “who did
Barnabas Ugthorpe think it was?”
“Oh,” said Freda quickly, “he was wrong, altogether wrong. I told
him so.”
“And supposing he had been right, altogether right, your father
would be a murderer.”
Freda bent her head, but said nothing.
“What do you say to that?”
The girl burst out fierily:
“Why, that he was not a murderer! he was not, he was not! And I
wouldn’t believe it if—if everybody in England had been there!”
She kept her head up, and looked at him steadily, her eyes
flashing defiance. After a few moments he got up.
“You’re tired, and you’re very silly,” he said, huskily.
And, with a nod, but without again looking at her he left the room,
as Mrs. Bean came in with a candle.
 CHAPTER X.
“You’ll be glad to go to bed, I dare say, my dear,” said the
housekeeper. “If you hear any noises in the night, don’t be afraid;
this old house is full of them. Good-night.”
Freda fled across the hall and hopped up the stairs.
Oh! How long that gallery seemed, skim over the floor as she
might! The candle smoked and flared and guttered in her hand, and
the boards creaked, and the musty smell seemed to choke her. The
row of stately carved oak chairs, ranged along the wall on one side,
seemed to be set ready for the midnight hour when the faded ladies
and the sombre gentlemen should come down from their frames and
hold ghostly converse there. She ran along the stone passage to the
door of her room, and threw it open suddenly.
A man sprang up from his knees before the wide, open grate, in
which a wood fire now burned. The girl, no longer mistress of herself
in her fright and excitement, uttered a cry.
“It’s all right,” said the rough voice which had already begun to
grow familiar to her, “I thought you’d like a fire. So I brought some
sticks, and a log. It’s cold here after France, I expect. Anyhow, the
blaze makes it look more cheerful.”
Freda was touched.
“Oh, thank you—so very much! How kind of you.”
“Stuff! Kind! You’re mistress here now, you know, as you said; and
one must make the mistress comfortable.”
He spoke in a jeering tone, but Freda did not mind that now.
“I wish,” she said, looking wistfully at the blazing log, “that you
were going to stay here, Crispin.”
He gave one of his short, hard laughs.
“I should get spoilt for work,” he said. “You’d make a ladies’-man of
me. Sha’n’t see you again. Good-night.”
Freda held out her hand, and he held it a moment in his, while a
gleam almost of tenderness passed over his seamed and rugged
face. Then he gave her fingers a sudden, rough squeeze, which left
her red girl’s hand for a minute white and helpless.
“Good-night,” he then said again, shortly and as if indifferently. “If I
come into these parts again, I’ll give you a look in.”
He left her hardly time to murmur “good-night” in answer, before
he was out of the room. He put his head in again immediately,
however, to say “Draw the bolt of the door, and you’ll be all right.”
Freda obeyed this direction at once, with another little quiver of the
heart. But Crispin’s kindness had so warmed her that what now
chiefly troubled her was the fact that she would see no more of him
for an indefinite time. The strongest proof of the confidence he had
inspired in her was the fact that she accepted implicitly his
assurance as to her father’s wishes, and resolved to make no
attempt to return to the convent. Indeed, the last three days had
been so full of excitement and adventure that the old, calm years
seemed to have been passed by some other person.
Freda’s last thought as she fell asleep, watching the dancing light
of the fire on the roughly white-washed beams of the ceiling, was,
however, neither of quiet nuns at their prayers in the convent by the
sea, nor of Crispin Bean with his rugged face and hard voice, but of
Oldcastle Farm and one of its occupants.
The girl was tired out; so utterly weary that she was ready to lie
like a log till morning. But presently she began to dream, with the
leaden drowsiness of a person in whom some outward disturbance
struggles with fatigue, of thunder and battling crowds of men. And
then she started into wakefulness, and found that the fire had burnt
low, and that men’s loud voices were disturbing her rest. They
seemed to come, muffled by the massive boards between, from a
chamber under hers; they died away into faintness, and she was so
overpowered with fatigue that she would have dropped to sleep
again almost without troubling herself, when one voice suddenly
broke out above the murmur. It was loud and shrill, and high-pitched,
a voice Freda had never heard before. She could hear the words it
uttered:
“Ye maun stay, ye maun stay. We can’t get on wi’out ye. Do ye
want us to starve?”
 And a chorus of evidently assenting murmurs followed. The voices
dropped again, and again the listening girl’s attention relaxed, as
sleep got the better of her senses. But suddenly she was aroused
again, this time by sounds which came from behind the head of the
bed, and were so plain that they seemed to be in the very room.
Sounds as of a man’s footsteps coming up a stone staircase, coming
up unsteadily, with many pauses. Sounds, too, as of heavy weights
being dragged up, and of suppressed laughter and jeers.
“Eh, but tha’s gotten aboot as much as tha’ can carry, eh, Crispin?”
said one voice.
“Tha’ couldn’t climb oop a mast to-night, Crispin,” said another,
during the laughter which succeeded the first speech.
The voice of the man who was on the stairs answered, in low and
husky tones. Although he was the nearest to her, Freda could not
distinguish what he said, except the word “hush.” Then she heard a
mumbling sound, like the drawing back of a sliding door, and then
the dragging of some heavy weight over the boards, and the opening
of a window. Presently the man came back, went down the stone
steps, and re-ascended in the same manner as before. This
happened three or four times, until the voices below died gradually
away, and the sounds ceased. Not until long after all was quiet did
Freda fall asleep again, and for the remainder of the night her rest
was troubled by all sorts of wild dreams.
Next morning, as a consequence of her broken night’s rest, she
did not wake until the housekeeper knocked loudly at the door.
Springing up with a sudden rush of confused memories through her
brain, Freda ran to the door, drew back the bolt, and pulled Mrs.
Bean into the room.
“Oh,” she cried, “this is a dreadful house; how can you stay in it? It
is haunted, or——”
Mrs. Bean interrupted her with a peculiar expression on her face.
“Didn’t I tell you to take no notice of anything you heard?” she
asked quietly. “What does it matter to you what goes on outside your
door, while you’re locked safe inside?”
“But I want to know——” began Freda.
Again Mrs. Bean cut her short.
 “Didn’t they teach you, in the place you came from, that curiosity
was the worst sin a woman can have?” she asked drily. “A wise
woman doesn’t meddle with anything outside her own business, and
especially she does not poke her nose into any business where men
only are concerned. I see you’ve had a fire,” she went on in a less
severe tone.
“Yes, Crispin made it for me.”
Mrs. Bean shook her head good-humouredly.
“You’re making a fool of that man. He was to have gone away last
night, and he is still hanging about this morning. And it’s all because
of you, I’m certain. Now make haste and get dressed, for I’ve got a
tiresome day’s work before me, and I want to get the breakfast done
with as soon as I can.”
It was a bright, sunny morning. The numerous windows let in
floods of sunshine, the snow outside dazzled the eyes, even the
knights and dames in the picture-gallery seemed to be in better
spirits. In the dining-room Freda found Crispin, who affected to treat
her with marked coldness, and to be grieved that he had had to put
off his journey until the following night. Now although she stood in
some awe of the housekeeper, Freda had no fear whatever of
Crispin; so she very soon opened the dangerous subject.
“Crispin,” she began solemnly, “I heard you last night after I was in
bed.”
“Very likely,” he answered quietly.
“There were some men with you.”
“Yes, so there were.”
“The voices seemed to come from under my room.”
“So they did.”
“And some one came up the stairs.”
He nodded.
“Dragging a heavy weight over the floor,” continued she. “And then
some one opened a window. And the sounds went on over and over
again.”
“Quite right. Well?”
“What did it all mean?”
“That I had some of the men from your father’s yacht here, and
told them all about his death. I suppose you don’t wish the yacht
sold? It would throw half a dozen men out of work.”
“No-o,” said Freda. “But——”
“Here’s your breakfast,” he interrupted, as Mrs. Bean brought a
laden tray into the room.
 CHAPTER XI.
Crispin had breakfasted, but he remained in the room, “to wait,” as
he said with grim jocularity, “on the mistress of the house.”
Whenever she tried to bring the talk again to the subject of the
noises of the night, he slid away from it in a most skilful manner, so
that she could find out nothing from him, and presently got rather a
sharp warning about the value of silence. When she again
expressed a wish to see her father, too, he answered very shortly, so
that she began to understand that Crispin’s goodwill did not render
him pliable. Mrs. Bean was in the room when she made this last
request. She stood up suddenly, with a crumb-brush in her hand,
and a look of great annoyance upon her face.
“There’ll have to be an inquest!” cried she. “Did you ever think of
that?”
And she turned in great agitation to Crispin, who was just lighting
his pipe. He only nodded and said quietly:
“Don’t you trouble yourself. I’ve thought of all that. You just put on
your bonnet and run down to the town, and tell Eliza Poad that the
master’s shot himself. Then it will be all over the county in about
three quarters of an hour, and the police will have notice, and the
coroner will be sent for without any trouble to you. And within two
hours Mr. Staynes will come panting up the hill with religious
consolation.”
“I sha’n’t see him, interfering old nuisance!” said Mrs. Bean
indignantly.
“No, Miss Freda will. And you, Nell, will go to the undertaker’s; go
to John Posgate—we owe him a good turn—and tell him you don’t
want any of his measuring: he’s to send a coffin, largest size he
makes, up to the house-door by to-night, and leave it there. And then
go round to the house of that young doctor that’s just come here (he
lives in one of the little new red houses on the other side of the
bridge past the station) and tell him what has happened. And you will
be glad if he will step up at once. That’s all.”
 These details made Freda sick; she retreated, shivering, to the
window, and there she perceived a long, much trampled foot-track in
the snow across the walled-in garden. She noticed it very
particularly, wondering whether it was by this way that the men had
entered the house on the preceding evening. Then, as she was by
this time alone, she went softly out of the room and upstairs, and
turned the handle of the door of her father’s room. It opened. She
saw, with a wildly-beating heart, that the curtains of the bed were
drawn back, and that on it there lay the body of a man.
Suddenly she was lifted off her feet, and carried back from the
door of the room.
“Look here,” said Crispin drily, as he put her down, “haven’t you
learnt by this time that it’s of no more use to try to circumvent me
than to fight the sea? You will see your father when I please and not
before. Now go downstairs and wait till the Vicar comes, and tell the
old fool just as little as you can help, if you don’t want to get yourself
or anybody else into trouble.”
Freda obeyed, mute and ashamed. She crept downstairs, returned
to the dining-room, and fed the hungry birds till the bell sounded.
Running out to the court-yard gate, she drew back the two heavy
bolts which fastened it. Waiting outside were a lady and gentleman
whom she at once guessed to be the Vicar and his wife.
The Reverend Berkley Staynes was generally considered the
greatest “character” in Presterby. A member of one of the county
families, with a fairly good living and a better private income, he was
an autocrat who considered his flock of very small account indeed
compared with the well-being of their pastor. Although close upon
eighty years of age, and quite unable to perform a tithe of his parish
duties, he would never take a curate, partly from motives of
economy, and partly because he feared that an assistant might
introduce some “crank” of week-day services or early Communion,
and wake up some of the parishioners into disconcerting religious
activity. Never at any time over-burdened with brains, he had been at
one time an exceedingly handsome man, athletic and muscular, and
a great encourager of health-giving sports and pastimes. For these
former good qualities, and from a natural, loyal conservatism, the
good Yorkshire folk bore with him, maintained respectful silence
while he droned out his antiquated sermons, and shut their eyes to
his inefficiency. Mrs. Staynes belonged to a type of clergyman’s wife
sufficiently common. She was much younger than her husband, and
slavishly devoted to him, giving him the absurd homage which he
believed to be his due, and working like a nigger to shield his
deficiencies from the public notice.
Something of this was to be guessed even by inexperienced Freda
as she opened the gate to them. A tall, but somewhat bent old
gentleman, still handsome in his age, with silver-white hair and a
good-looking, rather stupid face, dressed well and with scrupulous
neatness, stood before her. Behind him rather than at his side was a
small, middle-aged woman dressed in what looked like a black
pillow-case, a long narrow black cloth jacket and a rusty black hat of
the old mushroom shape. She had a fresh-coloured face and a
simple-minded smile, and she habitually carried her left hand planted
against her waist in a manner which emphasised the undesirable
curves in her “stumpy” figure.
“H’m, a new servant!” said the Reverend Berkley Staynes, looking
searchingly at Freda. “Well, what the Captain wanted more servants
for, considering that he never received anybody or kept the place up,
I’m sure I don’t know! Why don’t you wear a cap, young woman?”
“I’m not a servant,” said Freda. “I’m Captain Mulgrave’s daughter.
Will you please come in?”
She led the way, without waiting for any more comments, across
the court-yard, through the hall, and into the dining-room; and she
noticed as she went how both her visitors peered about them and
walked slowly, as if they had not been inside the house before, and
were curious about it. In the dining-room they sat down, and the
Vicar, glancing round the room inquisitively as he spoke, began a
close interrogatory as to Freda’s history. His wife looked
uncomfortable and he solemn when she mentioned the convent.
“Ah! Bad places, those convents,” he said, shaking his head,
“nests of laziness and superstition.”
“Dear me, yes,” said Mrs. Staynes. “But we’ll cure you of all that.
You shall come to the Sunday school and hear Mr. Staynes talking to
the girls; and when you feel pretty firm in the doctrine, we’ll have you
confirmed.”
 “Thank you,” said Freda.
“I’ll come in again myself in a day or two, and perhaps we’ll have
you round to tea. You’d like to come, I daresay.”
“Of course she would,” chimed in Mrs. Staynes.
“Thank you,” said Freda.
“I think,” said the Vicar, rising and moving towards the door, “that
I’ll go upstairs and just look upon the poor Captain’s face again. I feel
it my duty to. I wish I could have felt happier about him, but I’m sorry
to say he was always deaf to the exhortations of religion.”
“I’m afraid you can’t see him,” said Freda, quietly.
She had had particular injunctions on this point from Crispin, who
had foreseen that the Vicar would think it his duty to satisfy his
curiosity. As Mr. Staynes persisted, brushing her angrily out of his
way, Freda followed him upstairs, and had to point out the door of
the death-chamber. The Vicar tried to open it, but it was locked;
Freda let him push and shake in vain.
“Can you open it for me, girl?” he was at last constrained to ask.
“I think I could, but I have been told not to. I am sorry, but I cannot
help you.”
“And pray who is it that has more authority with you than the Vicar
of the parish?” asked Mr. Staynes when, finding indignation and
expostulation useless, he had to accompany her downstairs.
“Crispin Bean,” she answered simply.
“What!” cried the Vicar, almost staggering back. “That drunken
ruffian Bean! A disgrace to the neighbourhood! Why, it was enough
to keep Christian people away from this house that such a scoundrel
was ever allowed about it.”
The implied taunt at her dead father incensed Freda as much as
the accusations against Crispin.
“I suppose,” she said very quietly, “that my father liked scoundrels
better than Christian people. I think I do too.”
The Vicar drew himself up.
In the midst of his anger at being thwarted, the girl’s answer rather
tickled him.
“I shall come and have a talk to you, young woman,” he said more
amiably, “when you’re in a better frame of mind. You’ve had
everything against you, and I make allowance for it.”
 Little Mrs. Staynes, who had listened to the latter part of this
conversation in such horror that she had scarcely breath left to play
her usual part of chorus, followed her husband out, pausing as she
did so to say, in a warning voice:
“Oh, dear child, pray to be forgiven for your conduct to-day.”
Freda, who was distressed to the verge of tears by the whole
interview, let them out by the big gate, and returned to the house.
She was almost frightened to find Crispin in the dining-room, in roars
of laughter.
“Well done, little one,” he said, as she came in. “That’s the way to
serve the tract-mongers.”
But Freda was shocked.
“What did you hear? Where were you?” she asked in a whisper.
“I heard everything. Never mind where I was; there’s many a
corner in this house that you will never see.”
But the girl shrank away, ill-pleased at his praise.
When the housekeeper returned, she was accompanied by the
doctor Crispin had sent her for, and he and Mrs. Bean went upstairs
at once. As soon as she heard their footsteps overhead, Freda went
quickly out into the court-yard, through the great gate, and into the
enclosure beyond, waiting for the doctor to come out.
At last the gate opened to let out a youngish-looking man, with a
correct professional air of unimpeachable respectability. Freda
waited until Mrs. Bean had wished him “good-morning,” and shut the
gate; then she quickly overtook him, and greeted him with some
agitation.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” she began modestly; “you have just seen
my father, I believe.”
“Yes, I have seen him, if Captain Mulgrave was your father.”
Freda answered in the affirmative.
“Did you know him?” she then asked.
“I had not that pleasure. You know, Miss Mulgrave, what a
secluded life your father always led. I have not been long in
Presterby, and although of course, I’ve heard a great deal about him,
I never saw him in life.”
“Do you think he shot himself?”
 “No, I think not. From the position of the wound I should think it
more likely that somebody else shot him.”
“And where was the wound?”
“In the back.”
There was a pause. Then Freda looked up in the doctor’s face.
“They won’t tell me anything, so I had to ask you. Thank you for
telling me. Good-bye.”
She left the doctor, and went back slowly to the gate. Mrs. Bean,
who answered her summons, looked angry and disconcerted on
learning how she had been employed.
“I think you’d best have followed your own whims and gone back
to the convent,” she said drily, “we don’t want any more questions
than necessary asked here just now. There’ll be quite enough of a
rumpus as it is.”
She turned her back upon Freda pretty sharply, and walked back
to her kitchen with an offended air. The girl, however, was not to be
shaken off.
“Mrs. Bean,” she said, following her, “this doctor never saw my
father while he was alive!”
There was a pause. Mrs. Bean took up a fork and violently stirred
the contents of a saucepan she held.
“Look here, my dear,” she said, “what has put all these silly ideas
into your head? Don’t you know there’s going to be an inquest?”
She went on stirring her saucepan without looking up. Freda
turned to her eagerly.
“And are these inquest-people men who have known him, and
seen him, and talked to him?”
“Why, of course they are. They’ll be tradesmen out of the town,
most of them, who have supplied him with butter and cheese, beef
and candles, for years and years.”
“Oh,” said Freda, evidently much relieved.
“Now then, you’re satisfied, I suppose?” said Mrs. Bean rather
curiously.
“Oh, yes, thank you very much.”
But in the girl’s tone there was still the vestige of a doubt, and she
went out with a thoughtful face.
 It was a very curious thing, Freda thought, that the servant
Blewitt’s body should be found shot in the back, and then that her
father should be shot in exactly the same way. She puzzled herself
over this until her brain reeled, and then she unlocked the front door,
and went along the foot-tracks in the snow the whole length of the
garden to the wall at the bottom. Here was a door, which she went
through, and instead of following the little lane which ran to the right,
down towards the town, she still followed the foot-marks over a
couple of meadows straight in front of her until, coming to a stone
wall, she looked over and discovered the road by which she had
come to the Abbey. A great heap of freshly dug up snow stood
almost in the middle of the road, and by the help of a shed on the
right, Freda was able to identify the spot on which the body of the
servant Blewitt had been discovered by Barnabas Ugthorpe.
Freda turned sick with horror. Her mind had jumped, with that
splendid feminine inspiration which acts independently of logic, and
which is as often marvellously right as stupendously wrong, to the
conclusion that the body of Blewitt had been carried into the Abbey.
So certain did she feel of this, that the question she asked herself
was: Why was this done? And not: Was this done at all? She turned
away from the wall, and went back, this time avoiding the foot-track,
which she believed to have been made on a guilty errand. She was
too horror-struck for tears. She gazed upon the beautiful old house,
as she slowly drew near to it again, as she would have done on
some unhallowed tomb. The sun, which had been shining brightly all
the morning, had begun to melt the snow on the flagged roof, so that
patches of moss-grown stone appeared here and there where the
white mass had slid down, partially dissolved by the warm rays. The
main body of the house was Tudor, of warm red brick with gables,
mullioned windows, and stacks of handsome chimneys. But the west
wing the so-called Abbot’s House, was a plain structure of solid grey
stone, with one little scrap of decorated tooth work to bear witness to
its connection with the Abbey.
There were secrets behind warm red bricks and venerable grey
stone that it was better not to think upon. For the awful conviction
was pressing in upon her that if the body of the murdered
manservant had been brought there, it could only be to conceal the
fact of his murder. Unless, then, it was this mysterious father of hers
who had fired the shot, who could it have been?
 CHAPTER XII.
The following was the day of the inquest. It was to be held at the
Abbey itself, and Mrs. Bean had swept the drawing-room, and
uncovered the furniture in that dismal and damp apartment, so that
the coroner and jury might hold their deliberation there. Freda, who
followed the housekeeper about like her shadow, without
acknowledging that it was because a horror had grown upon her of
being left alone in that dreary old house, was helping to dust the old-
fashioned ornaments.
“Mrs. Bean,” she said at last, stopping in the act of dusting the
glass shade over an alabaster urn, in order to clap her hands
together to warm them, “aren’t you going to light a fire here?”
“Yes, I will presently,” answered the housekeeper, whose lips and
nose and hands were purple and stiff with cold.
“It will take a long time to warm this great room, won’t it?”
“Oh, the fire will soon burn up when it’s once lighted.”
However, it didn’t get lighted at all until half an hour before the
coroner and jurymen arrived; and when Mrs. Bean did remember it,
she put in the grate a small handful of newspaper and a few damp
sticks which gave forth smoke instead of heat, and after hissing and
spluttering for some minutes, finally gave up the task of burning
altogether.
Freda stood by the kitchen fire, trying to puzzle out the meaning of
these strange actions, while Mrs. Bean went out into the court-yard
at the summons of the gate-bell. When the housekeeper returned,
she met a gaze from the young girl’s eyes which made her feel
uneasy.
“Are they all come?” asked Freda.
“Yes, the coroner and all of them. They’re in the drawing-room
now.”
“What are they doing now?”
“First, the coroner will charge them; then the witnesses will be
examined——”
 “What witnesses?” asked Freda quickly.
“Why, Crispin and I.”
“Crispin will be examined?”
“Yes,” said Nell sharply, “and so will you, if you don’t keep out of
the way. You’d better go upstairs to your room till they’re out of the
house. They won’t be more than an hour, I should think, at the
outside. I’ll come up and tell you when they’re gone.”
So the girl went slowly out of the room, and across the hall, where
she could hear the deliberate tones of the coroner charging the jury,
and upstairs. But on the landing she stopped, and peeping about to
see that she was not watched, she tried the door of her father’s
room, found that it was locked, and dropping softly on her knees,
looked through the key-hole. The bed was opposite to the door.
The body was no longer there.
Freda sprang up from her knees with a white face, ran through the
picture-gallery, and shut herself up in her own room. She knew very
well that a dead body was not easily moved; half-an-hour ago she
had seen it lying on the bed; Mrs. Bean had not been upstairs since;
if Crispin was about the house still, could he move such a weight by
himself, and carry it down the stairs and out of the house without her
having heard or seen him? She sat on a chair near her window, with
her head between her hands, trying to puzzle out the meaning of
these strange occurrences, until the thought came into her mind that
she might perhaps be able, by secreting herself somewhere on the
landing outside her father’s room, to see the jurymen come up on
their investigations, and to hear what they said. So she came softly
out of the room, and through the picture-gallery, and out on to the
wide landing.
The most desolate spot in the whole house this had always
appeared to Freda. As large as a good-sized room, panelled from
oaken floor to moulded ceiling with a raised recess by the mullioned
window, this might have been made a comfortable as well as
handsome corner, while now it was left to the dust and the rats. So
thick was the dust on the boards that two paths might be traced in it,
the one leading to Captain Mulgrave’s room, the other to the door of
the picture-gallery. Except on these two tracks the dust lay thick,
showing the state of neglect into which the old house had fallen.