Strax shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘Just generally. Remember … ’ And his voice fell into an awed sort of whisper, like he was talking of the Last Trump. ‘We are going to … the North!’

He went on to suggest a full-scale invasion of this hellish region using his fully worked-out scheme of aerial bombardment and Sontaran decimation canons, but Madam said that was overzealous. She applauded his industry, though, and allowed him some liquorice.

‘If our stratagem succeeds,’ she said at length, ‘Jenny will infiltrate deep into the black heart of this curious place.’

‘But how will she locate the Doctor?’ asked Strax sucking on a skinny, liquorice bootlace.

‘That’s easy,’ I chuckled. ‘To find him, I need only to ignore all keep out signs, go through every locked door … ’

‘… and run towards any form of danger that presents itself,’ completed Madam.

‘Business as usual then,’ nodded Strax. ‘Business as usual!’

We arrived in Bradford in the middle of the night and had to knock up the owner of the lodging house we’d rented. We always had to be discreet – as you can imagine – and it was me as always did the talking. Outside, plastered to the wall, amongst the advertisement for Gregory Powders and whatnot was this:

Tomorrow!

In person!

Mrs Winifred Gillyflower on the present moral decay and the coming

APOCALYPSE!

and then the address, a little chapel on the outskirts of the sooty old town. Soon we was fed and watered and laying plans for the morrow.

I was up sharpish and, after a plate of gammon and eggs I took myself off for my first appointment of the day.

The fog was even thicker than down in the Smoke, and it hung around the mucky stones of the old chapel like the skirts of a ghost. The chapel was old – you could see where the steps had been worn into curves by the passage of so much devotion – and crowded that morning as we all poured in to hear this Mrs Gillyflower talk. Being as how I was now an Investigator (official, like) I engaged the ‘congregation’ in conversation. My London twang raised many an eyebrow but I said how I was visiting a relative and had been drawn to see the famous Mrs G by the advertisements plastered all over the brickwork. Held in uncommon regard was Mrs Gillyflower. A paragon of virtue – said one local, pressing a hand to her more than ample bosom. A Saint of the North – said another, screwing his eyes shut in sincerity as though he was discussing a handmaiden of the Lord Himself. And then there was a gal called Abigail. A nervous type but keen. Not a bad-looking thing, I must admit – though with the worst set of teeth I’ve ever seen in a human mouth.