The Undertakers Gift by Trevor Baxendale

Times .’
    ‘Uh-oh,’ said Ianto.
    ‘So where is all this leading us?’ Jack asked.
    Gwen smiled. ‘I tracked Rachel Banks’s online activity. Knowing she was a blogger it seemed likely that she uses the web for most things, including shopping. She bought a mobile phone last August and so I traced the number and the most recent calls. She’s in regular contact with Meredydd-Wyn Morgan-Kelso, but this morning she took a call from another student. . .’ Gwen tapped the remote control a couple of times and a female voice with a strong Valleys accent filled the boardroom:
    ‘No, no, don’t be daft. I was at the party, remember. You’d been drinking but you definitely weren’t pissed. Not that much anyway. But it was the blog you see, I couldn’t believe it when I read it. Is it true? Did you see it as well?’
    Rachel’s voice: ‘What do you mean, “as well”?’
    ‘Well, I saw it too! I saw the funeral!’
    Jack’s eyes narrowed and Ianto looked up sharply. Gwen used the remote to fast-forward through some more of the conversation. ‘Hang on, there’s some romance stuff next. I’ll cut to the chase.’
    Rachel Banks’s voice crackled back: ‘Look, where are you, Gillian? Can’t we talk properly? I’ll meet you somewhere.’
    ‘Right! Sure. You can tell me all about it then. Say, meet me at the Black House.’
    ‘The Black House?’
    Jack frowned and mouthed, ‘The Black House?’
    The Valleys girl was still chattering. ‘Yeah. That’s where I saw the funeral thing. I’m on my way there now. Meet you there, right?’
    ‘And there you have it.’ Gwen killed the recording with the remote control. ‘Rachel Banks and this Gillian person, both claiming to have seen the mystery funeral cortège in the early hours of this morning, and a location.’
    ‘The Black House is an abandoned church near Cyncoed,’ Ianto said. ‘It was scheduled to be knocked down in 1966, ready for a redevelopment that never happened. There’s nothing there now – just the shell of the church and waste ground. The developers pulled out unexpectedly and no one has ever taken it up.’
    ‘I’ve already checked it for signs of Rift activity,’ Gwen said. ‘There are quite a few level-five temporal energy spikes in the area stretching over a two-week period, peaking last night. It looks like a definite winner.’
    Jack didn’t look convinced. ‘These kids. . . they’re just students. We’ve run into this kind of thing before. They invent stuff without even realising it. I once spent an entire summer running around trying to trace a suspected Golgothron gambling ring in the Old Brewery Quarter. Turned out to be the University First XV playing strip poker.’ His eyes glimmered for a second at the recollection. ‘I mean, don’t get me wrong, that was an interesting case in its way. . . but not Torchwood business.’
    ‘We can’t ignore this, Jack,’ insisted Gwen. ‘It’s the only possible lead we have.’
    ‘It’s really not much of one at all.’
    Ianto held up a hand. ‘And yet. . . there may be something in it.’
    ‘What?’ Jack demanded.
    ‘I checked through some of the archive material.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘Nothing much in relation to the Undertaker’s Gift or space-time fusion bombs,’ Ianto said, ‘but there was one case that caught my eye.’ He opened the manila folder on the desk and took out some sheets of yellowed, typewritten foolscap paper. ‘This is a report written in 1919 by Torchwood operative Harkness, J.’ He glanced up at Jack. ‘Looking good for your age.’
    ‘It’s all down to clean living,’ Jack said.
    ‘What’s the report about?’ Gwen asked.
    ‘It’s a missing person report – but there was a Rift angle and so it fell into Torchwood’s jurisdiction. The country was still in a state of turmoil following the end of the First World War, and quite a number of soldiers, many horrifically injured, were trying to make a life in post-war Britain. There was little