Mi metto

Là sul ciglio del colle e aspetto, aspetto

Gran tempo e non mi pesa,

La lunga attesa

Anne Dante’s immaculate song rolled over the heads of the assembled throng and, as one, they closed their eyes in bliss, the music rising and falling, like the ebb and flow of a beautiful tide. The whole theatre – from the judges to Billy Skittles, the Cardinal and the Prince of Wales – with Mrs Langtry, Mortlock, O’Kane and Miss Polly next to him – sat spellbound.

Suddenly, as Anne headed towards a luscious crescendo, the Doctor sprang up in the wings like a jack-in-the-box. Before Anne knew what was happening, he had clattered across the stage, clamped his hand over her mouth and dragged her down to the boards!

Her beautiful singing was immediately silenced – but not the howls of protest which erupted from the crowd. Anne struggled to free herself from the Doctor’s grip but he held her firm and boldly addressed the crowd.

‘My apologies, ladies and gentlemen and –’ he winked – ‘your Maj.’

From the box, Mortlock shrieked. ‘Stop that man! Stop him! He’s a lunatic!’

‘No!’ yelled the Doctor. ‘Entirely sane – last time I looked. I’m doing this to prevent an attempt on the life of the Prince of Wales!’

A gasp like escaping steam ran around the theatre.

The Doctor looked down at the helpless Anne, her eyes bulging beneath the hand that firmly clamped her mouth shut. ‘Why, Miss Dante?’ he asked. ‘Why?’

Then a very queer thing happened. Unbelievably, the strains of the aria began again! I’m not up on my Italian but this is what the words meant:

Do you see it? He is coming!

I don’t go down to meet him, not I.

I stay upon the edge of the hill

And I wait a long time but

I do not grow weary of the long wait.

Anne Dante’s voice, unquestionably, soaring and seducing in high, swooping beauty!

The Doctor goggled at her, suddenly wondering if the remarkable young woman had added ventriloquism to her act. Then, as suddenly, the glorious singing stopped and was replaced by a voice. A curiously high-pitched voice, crackling from every corner of the theatre.

‘No, my friend,’ it hissed. ‘Miss Dante is merely my mouth-piece. The mouth-piece of my revenge!’

The Doctor, not for the first time, was somewhat nonplussed.

‘How long have I waited!’ came the voice, echoing round the theatre. ‘Planned! Trained! Just to get near to him once again!’

And suddenly someone else appeared on stage, cutting a strange and terrifying figure. A very, very tall gangly shape, its face covered in a weird, mask-like contraption, with a great horn, like the trumpet of a gramophone, projecting from the mouth. Then come the voice, squeaking through the apparatus. ‘For I am Piccolo!’ he cried. ‘Last of the Castrati!’