Arthur and his friends, you see, was of that very particular breed who like to queue up outside of theatrical establishments in order to secure the scribbled signatures of their heroes. In his fat, crocodile-skinned book, Arthur had ’em all. Mr Tree. Miss Terry. Mr Irving. Miss Millward and Mr Terris. But all his current delight lay in the angelic form which was just that minute arriving in a hansom.

The crowd parted as the cab drew up. The door swung open and Anne Dante stepped gracefully down onto the street.

Flash! The air filled with powder and smoke as the press tried to grab pictures of the Siren herself. ‘Over here, Anne! Anne, darlin’! This way!’ they cried, struggling to reload their flash plates, spilling powder all over themselves and the pavement.

Arthur dashed up to her, autograph book in hand. ‘Superlative again last night, Miss Dante,’ he gabbled. ‘Could I be so bold as to ask for your signature for my … sister?’

But Anne smiled sweetly and simply breezed past him into the theatre without a word.

‘Oh,’ said Arthur. ‘She’ll be disappointed in that.’

He was resolved to wait for her exit, when she would no doubt be in a better humour and had gone so far as to take out a shooting stick to plant his rear on, when an idea occurred to him. He watched the stagehands, carrying props and crates, as they swept by, unchallenged, into the theatre. And he smiled.

*

Now I wasn’t there for this next bit and I’ve had to rely on what I was subsequently told, so this is me being ‘authory’ again. Wilkie Collins! That’s the cove. The sickly one what Madam likes so much. Anyways. You get the gist!

‘It says “Access All Areas”,’ said the Doctor.

He was in the vestibule of the Pom, deep in conversation with the stage-door keeper, who sat with long legs stretched out, in a cluttered little booth, pictures of the great and good of the Profession pinned to the walls. Piccolo, for that was the door keeper’s name, was an extremely tall, elderly Italian with close-cropped steely grey hair and an odd, high-pitched voice which had earned him his nickname. He peered myopically at a small square of blank paper which the Doctor had handed him and pulled a face.

‘But I know nothing of this,’ trilled Piccolo. ‘It is most unorthodox … All areas?’

‘Yeah. Listen, I don’t have time for this, mush,’ continued the Doctor. ‘I’ve got deadlines to meet. This pass has got me everywhere. A tête à tête with Barnum. Tea with Annie Oakley. A lock-in with Metallica.’ The Doctor held his breath, trusting that his special paper with a mind of its own would do its work.

At that moment, Anne Dante glid inside, like a great, slender lily, and Piccolo hastily opened the door for her.

‘Signora Dante!’ he piped. ‘And how are we today?’