As he made his way to the playgroup for the usual storytelling session, the Master was in the frame of mind of one who, having successfully negotiated the first half of a downhill ski slope, finds himself hurtling down a precipitous ice-covered incline and begins to wonder how he might contrive to stop at the bottom. While the children seemed enthusiastic enough now, he suspected that they were anticipating a fairytale ending — with a wedding, and justice being done upon the villain of the piece. The latter, he also suspected, would involve several buckets of (simulated) blood. The question was whether his sense of artistic integrity, not to mention his recalcitrant cast, would allow him to pull this off while remaining true to the spirit of the original book.

"Now, children," he said, taking his seat as usual. "We've seen what happened when Henry and his sister Mrs Norbury stayed at the hotel. This time, their brother Francis makes a visit."

"Do more people fall in the canal?" little Mel asked. "That was funny."

The Master ostentatiously ignored her.

[The hotel manager's office. François is lounging in a swivel chair, his boots on the desk. Treader 27 stands before him.]

Treader 27 :
This Telegram Has Just Arrived From Milan.

François :
Give precis. François too busy for details.

Treader 27 :
Mr Francis Westwick Will Be Arriving Tomorrow And Wishes To Reserve Room Fourteen.

François :
Then reserve Room 13A. François keen to see effect of Mr. Moggie cunning stratagem. And strictly caution all staff against explaining sudden change of number.

Treader 27 :
As You Command.

Master / Narrator [vo] :
The next day, Francis Westwick arrived in excellent spirits. He was the manager of a theatre, and had just succeeded in securing a new act: a famous dancer.

[In a quick flash, Francis, as portrayed by no less eminent a personage than Henry Gordon Jago, is seen shaking hands with Tallulah.]

Master / Narrator [vo] :
When his brother and sister told him what their experiences had been, he decided to go to Venice and investigate the hotel for himself.

[The main hall of the hotel. Jago / Francis looks around.]

Jago / Francis :
'Pon my soul, a set like this would be the very thing for a ghost story. "The Haunted Hotel". Posted all over London, how could it not pique the psychology of the populace?

François [standing beside him] :
Finished?

Jago / Francis :
Oh, I think you would be rash to write me off prematurely, my good fellow.

François :
Can we get to business? You order Room 14, first floor. But Room 14 on second floor and where François live. Perhaps you meaning Room 13A, first floor? You can stay there tomorrow night; tonight you get truckle bed in attic. Many apologies for any inconvenience.

[He departs.]

Jago / Francis :
Rarely have I heard a more transparent tissue of tall tales. The fellow must have formed the meanest estimate of my intelligence. Hmph! This is not to be borne. I shall make my own investigations forthwith.

[The restaurant, that evening. Jago / Francis is deep in conversation with the waitress.]

Jago / Francis :
So, my fine young lady, I disembark primed to partake of the equivocal ethereal events which, I am informed, take place in a first-floor room bearing the number Fourteen. Upon my arrival, I discover a room that duplicates the description in size, situation, and all other qualities, save one. The number. Can you explain to me why this anomaly should arise?

Luna / Waitress :
Nope.

Jago / Francis [mopping his forehead] :
Strike me, but this conversation is hard work. Do you know who is the current resident of the referenced room?

Luna / Waitress :
Theatrical manager. French. Name: Litefoot, Edward.

Jago / Francis :
Well, I'll be jiggered! Fancy that! The excellent Professor is well known to me, my dear; a stalwart friend and occasional collaborator in [he taps his nose] matters of the highest importance. After he and I have dined, I shall inveigle an invitation back to his room, and take the opportunity of inspecting it for myself. What could be simpler?

Luna / Waitress :
Don't know.

[Jago / Francis sighs deeply.]

[The corridor outside room 13A. Jago / Francis and Professor Litefoot enter.]

Litefoot :
I shall not be a moment, Henry— I beg your pardon, Francis. Please, go in and wait.

[He leaves. Jago / Francis enters the room. A moment later, he comes out, at a somewhat higher speed, with a handkerchief over his nose.]

Jago / Francis :
Faugh! Never have I smelt the like!

Litefoot [returning, with a box of cigars] :
Is something the matter, my dear fellow?

Jago / Francis :
Indeed there is. A most sickeningly blended combination of two odours, each in itself repulsive.

[Litefoot goes into the room, sniffs the air, and comes out looking baffled.]

Litefoot :
I can't smell anything. [He glances around.] Excuse me, little girls.

[Two sinister little girls stroll up: Judith Winters from 'Remembrance' and Jasmine Pierce from 'Small Worlds'.]

Little girls [in unison, flatly] :
Yes, sir.

Litefoot :
Can you smell anything out of the ordinary?

Little girls :
No, sir, we can not.

Jago / Francis :
I found the noisome vapours were only present within the room itself. Perhaps you should ask them to go in...

Little girls :
We were always taught, sir, never to let a stranger lure us into his hotel room.

Jago / Francis :
Ah, ah, of course. Very wise.

Litefoot :
Thank you. You may go now.

Little girls :
Yes, sirs. When the Earth is subjugated, your deaths will be slow and painful.

[They skip off down the corridor.]

Litefoot :
There you are, Henry. It must all be in your imagination.

[He goes into the room, and closes the door behind him.]

Jago / Francis :
Dear me, there's precious little inspiration for a play here. If I were to replicate such an insanitary spectre on the stage, I'd choke half the audience. [He takes a deep breath.] And after that, I feel the need for fresh air.

Master / Narrator [vo] :
He went out, and went for a walk in the Square of St. Mark. And straight away ran into an old acquaintance.

[The Square of St. Mark. A woman, dressed in black and wearing a veil, comes up to Jago / Francis as he strolls to and fro.]

Gwendoline / Countess :
Excuse me. Are you Mr. Francis Westwick?

Jago / Francis :
Indeed I am. Described by The Stage as the brightest star in London's theatrical firmament. At your service, madam.

Gwendoline / Countess :
You don't recognise me, then? [She lifts her veil.]

Jago / Francis :
Egad! The Countess Narona herself! I thought you were in America. What do you want with me?

Gwendoline / Countess :
I am all alone in the world, Mr. Westwick. My brother, Baron Rivar, is dead.

Jago / Francis :
Shot in a gambling saloon, I don't doubt. Or do you expect me to believe he was reduced to soup? Ha!

Gwendoline / Countess :
My brother died no extraordinary death, Mr. Westwick.

[A brief flashback shows the Ainley Master dying at the end of 'Planet of Fire'.]

Jago / Francis :
And why have you come here?

Gwendoline / Countess :
I can't help it. This is the last place in the world that I wish to find myself in. I hate Venice. And yet, here I am.

"Yes?" the Master asked cautiously.

Little Vicki lowered her hand. "It's post-hypnotic suggestion. Her bruvver must have told her to do it before he died."

"Why would he want her to go to Venice?" Nyssa asked her.

"Easy. He hid somefing important when he was here before and now she's got to find it before the police do..."

The Master raised his eyebrows appreciatively.

"...And then there's a big fight in a glass factory and the hotel gets set on fire and she ends up fighting the uvver girl wiv swords on a rope bridge over a valley and the bridge gets cut in two and she falls miles and miles and goes splat on the rocks at the bottom," Vicki concluded.

The Master lowered his eyebrows again.

"I think Izzy should have a word with your guardian about watching unsuitable holovids," he said, and returned to his reading.

Gwendoline / Countess :
When is Miss Agnes Lockwood expected to be in Venice?

Jago / Francis :
How the devil did you know she was coming?

Gwendoline / Countess :
Say I guessed it.

"Or she hacked into the hotel computer and looked at who was coming," Vicki suggested.

"They didn't have computers then," little Tegan pointed out.

"She could have bribed the manager, though," baby Sarah said. "Or just used long words to him till he went to sleep."

Jago / Francis :
Well, since you ask, she's due in a week or so. Why are you so interested in Agnes?

Gwendoline / Countess :
Call it destiny.

Jago / Francis :
Hah! What nonsense!

Gwendoline / Countess :
Chance, then, if you prefer. [She looks around.] Speaking of chance, let us go into that café and talk.

[Florian's Café. Jago / Francis and the Countess sit opposite each other.]

The Minister of Chance :
Good evening, sir, madam. What will you have?

Gwendoline / Countess :
Maraschino. And a pot of tea. Mixed together.

The Minister of Chance :
If that isn't illegal, it damn well should be.

Gwendoline / Countess :
I call it Maraschino punch. It was invented by Caroline of Brunswick.

The Minister of Chance :
Yes, that would follow. Something that appalling would have to be a German invention.

Gwendoline / Countess :
Now, Mr. Westwick, suppose I tell you what my business is. I thought I could write a play, and you could put it on.

Jago / Francis :
Why do you want to write a play?

Gwendoline / Countess :
I need the money.

Jago / Francis :
You need the... What happened to all your insurance money?

Gwendoline / Countess [lamely] :
My tastes are expensive.

Jago / Francis :
I'll wager the Baron had a hand in spending it.

Gwendoline / Countess :
My affairs are my own secret, Mr. Westwick. Now, what do you say to my proposal?

Jago / Francis :
If you write a play, I will certainly read it. But why—

Gwendoline / Countess :
I am a living enigma, and you want to know the right reading of me. [She takes a drink of the maraschino punch, and stares in horror at the glass.] What in the world was that?

The Minister of Chance :
Sixty percent Twinings Variety Mixed, and forty percent Ribena. You don't suppose that a nursery would really have supplies of cherry liqueur to hand, do you?

Gwendoline / Countess [looking ruefully at the punch] :
And now I have to drink a whole glass of it?

Master / Narrator [vo] :
Two glasses, to be precise.

Jago / Francis :
Or perhaps we should call a halt here, while the young lady disposes of her drink down the nearest drain?

The Minister of Chance :
Sir, my tea has been abused enough already today!

Heedless of the Minister's protests, the Master closed the book, said his farewells, and departed.

"What do you fink tea and Ribena would taste like?" Baby Sarah said, after he'd gone. "I fink it would be revolting."

"You'd be sick," little Nyssa told her. "Only a vewy silly person would dwink it."

Sarah crawled over to whisper in her ear. "Let's dare Jo to do it, then."