was muffled and so he removed the head piece and spoke again.
‘It certainly is. What are you going to wear?’
‘Nothing nearly as exotic. I shall do my best to impersonate Beau Brummell.’
‘The eighteenth-century dandy?’
‘Yes. The one who behaved abominably in Bath. But my impersonations will stop short at the clothes. There have been enough black sheep in the family without my adding to them.’ He picked up the Roundhead costume from the foot of the bed. ‘Now I must see to the young man. What was his name?’
‘Adric.’
‘Scandinavian?’
‘Not quite. He’s Alzarian.’
The Doctor felt quite safe in declaring Adric’s origins.
He knew the young nobleman would not offend good manners by pursuing the matter. Such lack of breeding was left to policemen, politicians and people from the press.
Cranleigh was true to type.
‘Never could remember all those funny Baltic bits,’ he reflected. ‘Geography was never my strong point. My brother stole all the thunder there. A positive Odin.’ He moved to the door which he opened. ‘Until later,’ he said and withdrew.
The Doctor put the head piece with the rest of the Pierrot costume on the bed and took off his tail coat and v-necked sweater. As he did so he looked about him with satisfaction. His great age made him a natural antiquary and he warmed towards the solidity of Jacobean architecture and the mellow comfort of the furnishings. He went into the adjoining room to run his bath and saw, with amusement, the primitive unclad bath tub which was a concession to the early part of the twentieth century in traditional England. In high spirits after the vigorous and successful afternoon’s sport he began to hum happily to himself.
‘I think it could be a teeny-weeny bit tighter,’ said Ann Talbot thoughtfully. She looked beyond the reflection of herself in the cheval-glass and at the figure of the maidservant behind her who was adjusting the head-dress of her costume.
‘Yes, miss,’ agreed the maid. ‘I’ll just give it a tuck with a needle and thread.’ She turned to riffle through the contents of a work basket on the table near the foot of the bed, leaving Ann to continue to primp and pat at the cleverly fashioned tulle dress that fell frothily from slender shoulder straps to a bunched hem just below her knees.
Both young women were too engrossed to hear a faint click at the wall beside the bed. The door in the panelling opened an inch or two in a sinister vertical black line; an elongated evil eye that watched unblinkingly as Ann’s head-dress was fitted tighter.
Tegan hummed happily to herself, sinking deep into the armchair in another of the bedrooms in the guest wing.
‘You sound happy,’ said Nyssa, wrapping herself in the long housecoat that had been provided for her.
‘I am happy,’ agreed Tegan. ‘A great game of cricket and a dance to look forward to. What more do you want?’
‘You like it here, don’t you?’
‘Yes. Don’t you?’
‘No,’ said Nyssa categorically. ‘No, I don’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know. There’s something about the place... a feeling. A feeling that I’m being watched.’
‘Well, of course you’re being watched,’ exclaimed Tegan. ‘It’s only natural, isn’t it? You and Ann looking like twins.’
‘No, it’s not that. It’s more than that. Something creepy.’
‘Creepy?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s the house,’ said Tegan with authority. ‘All old houses are the same and this one’s bound to be haunted.’
‘Haunted?’
‘Ghosts,’ explained Tegan cheerfully. ‘Mary, Queen of Scots, I shouldn’t be surprised... with her head tucked underneath her arm.’
‘Oh, don’t!’
‘Oh, come on, Nyssa! Cheer up! We’re going to a dance... a ball. You concentrate on that!’ And Tegan began to whistle a jaunty, jerky tune which compelled her to rise and jig to it, knocking her knees together and kicking up her heels alternately.
‘What are you doing?’
‘It certainly is. What are you going to wear?’
‘Nothing nearly as exotic. I shall do my best to impersonate Beau Brummell.’
‘The eighteenth-century dandy?’
‘Yes. The one who behaved abominably in Bath. But my impersonations will stop short at the clothes. There have been enough black sheep in the family without my adding to them.’ He picked up the Roundhead costume from the foot of the bed. ‘Now I must see to the young man. What was his name?’
‘Adric.’
‘Scandinavian?’
‘Not quite. He’s Alzarian.’
The Doctor felt quite safe in declaring Adric’s origins.
He knew the young nobleman would not offend good manners by pursuing the matter. Such lack of breeding was left to policemen, politicians and people from the press.
Cranleigh was true to type.
‘Never could remember all those funny Baltic bits,’ he reflected. ‘Geography was never my strong point. My brother stole all the thunder there. A positive Odin.’ He moved to the door which he opened. ‘Until later,’ he said and withdrew.
The Doctor put the head piece with the rest of the Pierrot costume on the bed and took off his tail coat and v-necked sweater. As he did so he looked about him with satisfaction. His great age made him a natural antiquary and he warmed towards the solidity of Jacobean architecture and the mellow comfort of the furnishings. He went into the adjoining room to run his bath and saw, with amusement, the primitive unclad bath tub which was a concession to the early part of the twentieth century in traditional England. In high spirits after the vigorous and successful afternoon’s sport he began to hum happily to himself.
‘I think it could be a teeny-weeny bit tighter,’ said Ann Talbot thoughtfully. She looked beyond the reflection of herself in the cheval-glass and at the figure of the maidservant behind her who was adjusting the head-dress of her costume.
‘Yes, miss,’ agreed the maid. ‘I’ll just give it a tuck with a needle and thread.’ She turned to riffle through the contents of a work basket on the table near the foot of the bed, leaving Ann to continue to primp and pat at the cleverly fashioned tulle dress that fell frothily from slender shoulder straps to a bunched hem just below her knees.
Both young women were too engrossed to hear a faint click at the wall beside the bed. The door in the panelling opened an inch or two in a sinister vertical black line; an elongated evil eye that watched unblinkingly as Ann’s head-dress was fitted tighter.
Tegan hummed happily to herself, sinking deep into the armchair in another of the bedrooms in the guest wing.
‘You sound happy,’ said Nyssa, wrapping herself in the long housecoat that had been provided for her.
‘I am happy,’ agreed Tegan. ‘A great game of cricket and a dance to look forward to. What more do you want?’
‘You like it here, don’t you?’
‘Yes. Don’t you?’
‘No,’ said Nyssa categorically. ‘No, I don’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know. There’s something about the place... a feeling. A feeling that I’m being watched.’
‘Well, of course you’re being watched,’ exclaimed Tegan. ‘It’s only natural, isn’t it? You and Ann looking like twins.’
‘No, it’s not that. It’s more than that. Something creepy.’
‘Creepy?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s the house,’ said Tegan with authority. ‘All old houses are the same and this one’s bound to be haunted.’
‘Haunted?’
‘Ghosts,’ explained Tegan cheerfully. ‘Mary, Queen of Scots, I shouldn’t be surprised... with her head tucked underneath her arm.’
‘Oh, don’t!’
‘Oh, come on, Nyssa! Cheer up! We’re going to a dance... a ball. You concentrate on that!’ And Tegan began to whistle a jaunty, jerky tune which compelled her to rise and jig to it, knocking her knees together and kicking up her heels alternately.
‘What are you doing?’
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