‘Please leave everything as it is. You will be relieved in a few minutes. Which entrance is available? Thank you.’

Peregrine hung up. ‘Hawkins,’ he said. ‘Go back to the stage-door and let the police in. Go on.’

‘Yes. OK. Yes, Mr Jay.’

‘Well, go on, damn you.’

Was there an independent switch anywhere in the foyer for front-of-house lighting or was it all controlled from backstage? Surely not. He couldn’t remember. Ridiculous. Emily was out there in the darkened stalls. He went in and found her standing just inside the doors.

‘Emily?’

‘Yes. All right. Here I am.’

He felt her hands in his. ‘This is a bad thing,’ he said hurriedly. ‘It’s a very bad thing, Emily.’

‘I heard what you said on the telephone.’

‘They’ll be here almost at once.’

‘I see. Murder,’ Emily said, trying the word.

‘We can’t be sure.’

They spoke aimlessly. Peregrine heard a high-pitched whine inside his own head and felt sickeningly cold. He wondered if he was going to faint and groped for Emily. They put their arms about each other. ‘We must behave,’ Peregrine said, ‘in whatever way one is expected to behave. You know? Calm? Collected? All the things people like us are meant not to be.’

‘That’s right. Well, so we will.’ He stooped his head to hers. ‘Can this be you?’ he said.

A sound crept into their silence: a breathy intermittent sound with infinitesimal interruptions that seemed to have some sort of vocal quality. They told each other to listen.

With a thick premonition of what was to come, Peregrine put Emily away from him.

He switched on his torch and followed its beam down the centre aisle. He was under the overhang of the dress-circle but moved on until its rim was above his head. It was here, in the centre aisle of the stalls and below the circle balustrade, that his torchlight came to rest on a small, breathing, faintly audible heap which as he knelt beside it, revealed itself as an unconscious boy.

‘Trevor,’ Peregrine said. ‘Trevor.’

Emily behind him said, ‘Has he been killed? Is he dying?’

‘I don’t know. What should we do? Ring for the ambulance? Ring the Yard again? Which?’

‘Don’t move him. I’ll ring Ambulance.’

‘Yes.’

‘Listen. Sirens.’

‘Police.’

Emily said: ‘I’ll ring, all the same,’ and was gone.

There seemed to be no interval of time between this moment and the occupation of The Dolphin by uniformed policemen with heavy necks and shoulders and quiet voices. Peregrine met the sergeant.

‘Are you in charge? There’s something else since I telephoned. A boy. Hurt but alive. Will you look?’

The sergeant looked. He said: ‘This might be serious. You haven’t touched him, sir?’

‘No. Emily – Miss Dunne who is with me – is ringing the ambulance.’

‘Can we have some light?’

Peregrine, remembering at last where they were, put the houselights on. More police were coming in at the stage-door. He rejoined the sergeant. A constable was told to stay by the boy and report any change.