‘Thanks to the tireless work of Miss Jenny Flint here –’ the Doctor looked over at me and winked, and I felt a sort of little glow on my cheeks – ‘we know all about you.’

Mortlock gulped.

The Doctor shook his head. ‘The orphanages you’ve endowed! The fallen women you’ve rescued! The endless, anonymous charity work in East End soup kitchens!’

Mortlock looked down at his boots. ‘It’s true! All of it! That “Mr Horrible” nonsense is just an act! For the sake of the Contest. The public lap it up! So I twiddle my moustaches and scowl at the contestants. And the more I do it, the more they love me. But, oh Lord, what a strain it is.’

‘Your secret’s safe with us, chum,’ I said.

‘It is?’ Mortlock’s dark eyes brightened.

‘Of course,’ said the Doctor. ‘Wouldn’t want to spoil everyone’s fun, would we?’

Mortlock stood – and warmly shook the Doctor’s hand.

And then the Doctor excused himself and said he was going to put the kettle on. But minutes went by and when we went into the kitchen we found him gone. And then we didn’t see him again for quite a while. Not till Demon’s Run and … Well you know all that, don’t you?

Somewhere, across town, in a darkened room, a report was being made. The reaction – a hushed silence interrupted only by a strange, low, mechanical whirr – was grim.

‘The man known as Piccolo now lies in Pentonville prison awaiting trial. Operation: Castrato must be regarded as a total failure.’

‘He knows too much,’ said the strident woman with the Yorkshire accent.

‘Agreed,’ said the whispery voice. ‘He sang with the voice of God – but now he must be silenced. Permanently.’

Click. Whirr. ‘See to it.’

‘Yes, sir.’

A deep sigh and then – ‘The Italian was thwarted by those women. You know the ones I mean. They have crossed our path before.’

‘Kill them, too,’ spat the woman.

‘Perhaps. But perhaps we should see how this develops. They may, in some strange way, prove useful.’

‘Useful?’

The whispery voice became a chuckle. ‘Chaos … assassination … bedlam and lies. C.A.B.A.L. is aptly named. We create a web of disinformation. A blurring of light and darkness. Until no one can be sure of the very ground beneath their feet. Let us wait. And see.’

The woman sighed impatiently. ‘Is that all for today? I have a train to catch. I have plans afoot myself.’

‘Care to elaborate?’ It was the Indian’s voice.

‘All in good time,’ said the woman. ‘Suffice to say that, in my travels I have recently come across something which might prove very useful. And which might very well alter the course of Human History.’

‘A bold claim,’ came the whispery voice. ‘I do not promise anything – yet.’