Doctor Who_ Daemons - Barry Letts [48]
'Charming,' said Miss Hawthorne. 'Don't you think so?'
'Round the twist, if you ask me,' answered Benton .
Now a group of villagers had formed a circle round the Maypole in the middle of the green. Taking hold of a ribbon each they awaited their moment. The Morris dancers finished their dance and there was a moment of absolute stillness.
'One! Two! Three!' A distant voice floated across the green. Everybody in sight sprang into violent action. The Morris men, to the frenetic wail of the pipe, danced the dance of the quarter-staff, their ribbons flying, their bells a-tinkle. Round and round went the Maypole dancers, weaving their ribbons into an intricate lace of colours. Even the spectators, urged on by the ubiquitous Paper-Man and his bladder, jigged and jogged in time to the irresistible lilt of the whistle.
'Hey, look! There's the Doctor!' exclaimed the Sergeant with relief.
Struggling through the swirling bodies, the tall figure of the Doctor was instantly recognisable. Soon he was near to the Morris dancers themselves. Smiling genially at the Paper-Man, who was jumping round him, like a gleeful chimp, belabouring him with his jester's bladder, he seemed to find himself by accident in the middle of the Morris ring—and each time he moved to escape, a staff just happened to be in his path.
'What's going on?' said Benton . 'Here, I'm going out to him.'
'Wait!' The peremptory tone of the white witch was so full of authority that Benton automatically obeyed.
The music had died away. The dancing stopped. All eyes turned to look at the Doctor, imprisoned in a ring of quarter-staffs. In the silence, the Doctor's voice could be clearly heard. 'Now really! Please get out of my way. I'm in a great hurry.'
It was the Paper-Man who answered, in the unmistakable tones of Bert Walker. 'You're being invited to join our May Day revels, Doctor. I'm sure you don't want to disappoint us—or Mr. Magister.' And from inside his ragged paper coat he produced a small but dangerous looking automatic.
'All part of the tradition, I suppose,' said Benton grimly, bringing out his own gun.
'No!' said Miss Hawthorne, clutching his arm.
'The Doctor needs help,' said Benton , wrenching himself free and making for the door.
'There are too many of them,' cried Miss Hawthorne. The Sergeant took no notice but threw open the door. There stood one of the larger Morris dancers. With a swift sidestep, he brought his staff crashing down onto Benton 's wrist, sending the gun flying from his hand.
From his years of training, the Sergeant's reaction was instant. His other hand grasped the staff and with a mighty pull overbalanced the burly Morris dancer so that he staggered through the door. The Sergeant went for his gun but the man had recovered himself and with the precise toe of the practised dancer he sent it sliding out of reach.
The fight that followed was very nearly as one-sided as Mike Yates's battle with Wilkins on the village green. Although Benton managed to hold him off for a while, the man moved with the agile ferocity of a wildcat, in spite of his size. Blow after stinging blow found its mark, while Benton 's ripostes time and again connected with empty air. Even the occasional blow that landed seemed to have no effect.
Miss Hawthorne hovered on the fringe of the combat uttering shrill cries of distress. But her air of helplessness was deceptive. Seeing that her dear Sergeant was weakening, she seized her handbag and leapt to his aid, swinging it in a wide arc to meet the Morris man's head with a curiously heavy thud. Her method of fighting proved considerably more effective than Benton's. Without even a groan, the man crumpled at the knees and limply slid to the floor. Benton looked down at him in astonishment. 'What happened?' he asked.
Miss Hawthorne displayed the handbag dangling from her wrist. 'I hit him with my reticule,' she said.
'Your what ?'
'That's right,' she said, diving into the handbag and producing a large crystal ball.