‘A weapon?’ mused the Doctor. He looked grim. ‘Bob Blood’s shattered noggin! It wasn’t blown off, it was sung off!’

‘Well, well, well,’ said a familiar voice. ‘And what the deuce do we have here?’

Gideon Mortlock stepped from the shadows, a pistol in his hand!

‘I know what you’re up to, Mortlock!’ cried the Doctor. ‘Stop this madness now. Before it’s too late!’

Mortlock frowned. ‘Madness? It seems to me, sir, that you are the one exhibiting signs of derangement. You have trespassed backstage, endangered the lives of last year’s champions, posed mendaciously as a member of the press and now I find you crouched over a corpse!’ He glanced anxiously at his pocket watch. ‘There’s no time now. I shall fetch the police and they can deal with you. I have an appointment with the Prince of Wales.’

‘Of course!’ gasped the Doctor. ‘Bertie! It’s him you’re after!’

Mortlock shook his head and pulled something from his pocket. ‘Raving,’ he muttered – and cracked the Doctor over the head with a leather cosh.

*

Meanwhile, as the Mistress and me was speeding back to the Pom with all due expedition, Billy Skittles was rising in his place, ready for the biggest night of his life (the Crimean campaign excepted).

‘Your Royal Highness. Esteemed guests, my lords, ladies and gentlemen. Have I ’ad such a ’onour before?’ he bellowed from his usual place by the side of the stage. ‘Not since Inkerman, I ain’t, where I lost this ’ere arm and what ’as left me feelin’ … ’

‘ALL RIGHT DOWN ONE SIDE!’ chorused the crowd.

Billy beamed. ‘It is, then, a privilege to present the grand final of the All-Britannia Aptitude Contest. First up – a treat for those of you what ’as been following us all these weeks, please give a huge hand for Pete and His Tongs!’

*

When the Doctor finally come round, he found himself bound hand and foot to a rickety old cane chair. Distantly, he could hear Anne Dante beginning her final performance. ‘Un bel di vedremo’ from Madame Butterfly (so I gather from comparing notes with Madam, after.)

Vedi? È venuto!

Io non gli scendo incontro, Io no.

Her extraordinary warbling echoed through the corridors of the old Pom like the music of the spheres, enthralling everyone within earshot. But the Doctor had no time to listen. He shuffled the chair across the stone flagged floor to where a mottled old mirror had been propped against the wall.

He looked at his reflection a moment and contemplated the wild-eyed, wild-haired young fella in the dicky bow –

‘What’s seven years’ bad luck anyway? Out of thousands?’

– and nutted the mirror, shattering it into pieces. In moments, he had his boots on a large shard of glass, fixed it between his toe caps, and managed to toss it into the air. It landed neatly in his lap by his tied up hands, and he set to work.

*