1

‘You’re being very mysterious, Doctor.’

The Doctor raised an eyebrow.

‘Let me rephrase that,’ said Jo, stabbing his shoulder with her forefinger. ‘More mysterious than usual.’

The Doctor grappled with the gear-lever of Bessie, the bright-yellow vintage roadster he was so fond of driving. He frowned. The gearbox answered with the sound of cogs trying to eat each other, but soon lost the fight as the Doctor moved up into third. He smiled, looking ahead along the bustling street of Piccadilly. It was a warm day and the hood of the car was down. A few people stared and pointed at them as they trundled past.

Jo sank a bit further back into her seat as the Doctor waved at a couple of passers-by.

‘You know what I love about London?’ he said, turning to her briefly.

She sighed. ‘I’m sure I can’t guess.’

‘It’s the only city in the universe where you can drive around in a car that’s seventy years old and get away with it.’

‘Who says you’re getting away with it?’ muttered Jo.

The Doctor waved again, and Jo shut her eyes. ‘We couldn’t have taken the Tube, I suppose?’

‘Now come on, my dear. Where’s your sense of style?’

Jo stared, open-mouthed, at the Doctor.

The Doctor was dressed in a green velour smoking jacket over a purple frilly shirt, the collar of which was large enough to sail a small yacht. It was eye-watering fashion, even for 1973, but, in all honesty, it was quite restrained. For the Doctor.

Jo shut her mouth. At least he wasn’t wearing the Inverness cape for once. But she hated it when he didn’t tell her what was going on. ‘Doctor!’ she wailed. ‘Will you please tell me what we’re doing?’

The Doctor turned up Dover Street, scuffled briefly once more with Bessie’s gearbox and then brought the car to a halt at the top of Hay Hill.

‘We’re going to a museum.’

‘You told me that much. A private collection. To look at something?’

‘No,’ said the Doctor, grinning. ‘To steal something.’