There is fury in Bakewell Gaol. Outside my cell, doors are being flung open, tables are being thumped and voices are raised in what serves as the interview room. Despite pressing my ear to the shuttered grill, through which Yellow Eyes often studies my incarcerated movements, I can never quite make out the details of the heated conversations.

They wouldn’t be that stupid…

How long has it been now? Several weeks, at least, since I lost my liberty and was thrown into this once proud but now rotting stone hole. The days have become grey. The word reminds me of one of my main adversaries, the good Doctor, who shares the name ‘Grey’; the same colour as my faceless remand uniform. Dr Grey seems to be at the centre of this storm. I catch his footsteps and snippets of his voice as he takes his ‘guests’ down the corridor and into…