some areas, incomplete.
‘It’s got some pieces missing, or we’d find a place for it downstairs.’
Ann looked at the armour with misgiving. There was something about it that chilled her. She took in the domed skull and the many perforations in the visor which seemed to her like tiny, sightless eyes that, nevertheless, watched her relentlessly. The pauldrons and the breastplate were powerful while the tasset must have protected giant thighs.
‘It’s Greenwich armour,’ said Cranleigh. ‘Made in a workshop at Greenwich founded by Henry the Eighth. It was at a time when German armour became fashionable.
That was made by a man called William Pickering in 1618
for the first Marquess.’
‘Be a bit big for you,’ giggled Ann nervously.
‘Yes,’ agreed Cranleigh. ‘And I wouldn’t want my head cut off either.’ He pointed to an effigy of an executioner that stood close to the armour. The figure stood with legs apart and with arms, that developed from wide shoulders, joined across the chest and suspended over a point where once must have stood the long handle of an axe. Its head and face were hidden completely by a black triangular mask that depended from a skull cap. Ann shivered again.
‘Charles, I don’t like it here.’
‘All right, my dear, we’re going. In this chest, if I’m not mistaken, and in that one.’
Ann lifted the lid of a chest and looked at the contents that were carefully folded and interleaved with tissue paper. Cranleigh had, in the meantime, opened a large skip to take out a long, one-piece costume resembling a French circus clown. With it went a complete head covering attached to a chalk-white mask painted to represent a face.
‘Here,’ said Cranleigh, donning the mask, ‘what about this? Pierrot. And I think I remember a Pierrette.’ He rummaged further before suddenly hit with an idea. ‘Of course! Ann! In that one.’ He pointed at a smaller basket.
‘Identical costumes. Made for Great-Aunt Arabella and her twin sister. It was for a pageant. Fireflies or beetles or something. They would do nicely for Tegan and Nyssa.’
Ann took a cardboard box from the basket and opened it. From it she lifted a midnight blue tulle dress and a fitted cap and mask from which protruded two long antennae. ‘I’ve got a much better idea,’ she said. Setting aside the dress in the box she searched deeper within the basket.
Meanwhile, Cranleigh had added a mid-seventeeth-century Commonwealth costume to that of the Pierrot.
Ann picked out an elf-like taffeta dress in laminations of different colours. ‘Tegan shall have this,’ she said happily.
‘Time to go then,’ said Cranleigh. They made their way with the costumes to the door shedding the lights on the way. Cranleigh switched off the main light and followed Ann out. The door closed behind them.
A single ray of evening sunlight, percolating a small hole in the roof, fell upon the masked head of the executioner. A shadow left the dark behind the suit of armour and a grossly deformed hand reached into the light towards the triangular mask.
3
The Doctor Loses His Way
Standing by the huge fourposter bed that dominated the oak-panelled room the Doctor dangled the Pierrot costume from its neck, testing it for size. Lord Cranleigh looked on approvingly. The costume was of cream-coloured flannel extending in one piece from neck to feet. There was a deep scalloped collar and the arms, in slashed green and red check, ended in white mittens.
‘It could have been made for me,’ said the Doctor. He dropped the costume onto the bed and picked up the head covering which was all of a piece. The pale green cap that covered the head was fronted by a white face mask. This provided holes for the eyes and nostrils, and two blood-red triangles accentuated the cheeks. The Doctor put the head piece on and his identity promptly disappeared.
‘I must flatter myself and call that an admirable choice,’
said his Lordship. The Doctor’s reply
‘It’s got some pieces missing, or we’d find a place for it downstairs.’
Ann looked at the armour with misgiving. There was something about it that chilled her. She took in the domed skull and the many perforations in the visor which seemed to her like tiny, sightless eyes that, nevertheless, watched her relentlessly. The pauldrons and the breastplate were powerful while the tasset must have protected giant thighs.
‘It’s Greenwich armour,’ said Cranleigh. ‘Made in a workshop at Greenwich founded by Henry the Eighth. It was at a time when German armour became fashionable.
That was made by a man called William Pickering in 1618
for the first Marquess.’
‘Be a bit big for you,’ giggled Ann nervously.
‘Yes,’ agreed Cranleigh. ‘And I wouldn’t want my head cut off either.’ He pointed to an effigy of an executioner that stood close to the armour. The figure stood with legs apart and with arms, that developed from wide shoulders, joined across the chest and suspended over a point where once must have stood the long handle of an axe. Its head and face were hidden completely by a black triangular mask that depended from a skull cap. Ann shivered again.
‘Charles, I don’t like it here.’
‘All right, my dear, we’re going. In this chest, if I’m not mistaken, and in that one.’
Ann lifted the lid of a chest and looked at the contents that were carefully folded and interleaved with tissue paper. Cranleigh had, in the meantime, opened a large skip to take out a long, one-piece costume resembling a French circus clown. With it went a complete head covering attached to a chalk-white mask painted to represent a face.
‘Here,’ said Cranleigh, donning the mask, ‘what about this? Pierrot. And I think I remember a Pierrette.’ He rummaged further before suddenly hit with an idea. ‘Of course! Ann! In that one.’ He pointed at a smaller basket.
‘Identical costumes. Made for Great-Aunt Arabella and her twin sister. It was for a pageant. Fireflies or beetles or something. They would do nicely for Tegan and Nyssa.’
Ann took a cardboard box from the basket and opened it. From it she lifted a midnight blue tulle dress and a fitted cap and mask from which protruded two long antennae. ‘I’ve got a much better idea,’ she said. Setting aside the dress in the box she searched deeper within the basket.
Meanwhile, Cranleigh had added a mid-seventeeth-century Commonwealth costume to that of the Pierrot.
Ann picked out an elf-like taffeta dress in laminations of different colours. ‘Tegan shall have this,’ she said happily.
‘Time to go then,’ said Cranleigh. They made their way with the costumes to the door shedding the lights on the way. Cranleigh switched off the main light and followed Ann out. The door closed behind them.
A single ray of evening sunlight, percolating a small hole in the roof, fell upon the masked head of the executioner. A shadow left the dark behind the suit of armour and a grossly deformed hand reached into the light towards the triangular mask.
3
The Doctor Loses His Way
Standing by the huge fourposter bed that dominated the oak-panelled room the Doctor dangled the Pierrot costume from its neck, testing it for size. Lord Cranleigh looked on approvingly. The costume was of cream-coloured flannel extending in one piece from neck to feet. There was a deep scalloped collar and the arms, in slashed green and red check, ended in white mittens.
‘It could have been made for me,’ said the Doctor. He dropped the costume onto the bed and picked up the head covering which was all of a piece. The pale green cap that covered the head was fronted by a white face mask. This provided holes for the eyes and nostrils, and two blood-red triangles accentuated the cheeks. The Doctor put the head piece on and his identity promptly disappeared.
‘I must flatter myself and call that an admirable choice,’
said his Lordship. The Doctor’s reply
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