Doctor Who_ Daemons - Barry Letts [32]
The Squire's entrance hall had seen many a Minuet and Quadrille, indeed many a Charleston and Tango, though it was now many years since last a Hunt Ball was held there. Now, thirty-seven men and women, mostly middle-aged, stood in awkward groups, exchanging sotto voce trivialities and waiting to be told why they were there. As the big door from the drawing-room opened and the Squire appeared, closely followed by the vicar, there were a few scattered handclaps, an embryonic burst of applause, quickly stillborn as the set faces of their betters told the assembled villagers of the gravity of the occasion. The Squire mounted the short flight of stairs to the first landing, which made a natural platform, with the famous Winstanley stained-glass window as a backing. The groups started to drift together as it became obvious that Mr. Winstanley was about to make a speech.
'Just tell them why you've called them together,' murnured the Master in his ear. 'Leave the rest to me.'
'Of course, of course,' said Winstanley.
Turning to the villagers, he lifted his hand for silence. 'Meeting to order, please! Thank you! Thank you, ladies and gentlemen!' The subdued chatter died away and thirty-seven faces looked expectantly up at the Squire.
'Now then,' he said, 'as you know, my speeches are like me—short, but packed with good solid meat,' and he slapped himself a couple of times on the belly while he waited for the respectful chuckle he knew would greet this terrible joke, which was an old and trusted friend. Laboriously and at some length the Squire started to go through the events since midnight . The announcement of the heat barrier caused a buzz of wonder, quickly stilled as the Squire told them of the death of P.C. Groom and pointed out some of its implications.
Seeing that Winstanley was fairly launched, the Master stepped quietly down to the bottom of the stairs and beckoned to Tom Wilkins, the garage owner, who was standing with on or two more members of the coven. Nodding towards the little study door down the hall, the Master whispered in Wilkins' ear. Tom Wilkins, glancing up at the Squire, who was still going strong, nodded and slipped quietly away.
'So it seemed to me,' the Squire was saying, 'that we ought to get together and have a bit of a chat about the situation. Before it gets out of hand.'
A murmur of approval.
'Now, it appears that Mr. Magister here has had a few thoughts on the subject, so I've asked him to say the odd word... Vicar?'
As Tom Wilkins disappeared into the study, he could hear Mr. Magister starting his 'odd word' with the obligatory joke, 'Now, I promise you that this isn't going to be a sermon...' followed by the ritual chuckle from his audience. Then he shut the door and could hear no more. Crossing to the untidy desk, he pushed aside a pile of bills and pulled the telephone across. He dialled.
'Yes? Who is it?' an impatient voice answered.
'That you, Bert?'
'Who do you think it is, Tom Wilkins—Old Nick?'
'That's not funny, Bert,' said Wilkins looking over his shoulder. Asking for trouble it were, making stupid cracks like that.
'Well, what do you want, then? I've got a bar full of people...'
'Ah, yes. Magister wants to know what that Doctor's up to. He's still there, isn't he? Him and the rest of his lot?'
'Yes, he's still here. In the back.'
'Well, better get in there and find out what's going on. Magister wants to know, like.'
'Does he now? Then he'd better come and mind my bar if he wants me to run errands for him. You go and tell him that.'
'Aw, come on, Bert!'
'I'll be going in to clear the table when things ease off out here. It'll have to wait till then.'
'Okay. Better ring me back on this number,' and he read it out.
When he rejoined the others in the hall, the Vicar had just finished his opening platitudes and was getting down to business. 'Even though I am a newcomer here, already I feel that I know you—indeed, that I know you well. You, Mr. Thorpe...' Ron Thorpe, the prosperous owner of the grocery in the High Street, smirked ingratiatingly. 'Are you