The Doctor frowned, and waggled the paper about a bit, like he was trying to jostle a loose wire.

Suddenly, there was consternation and excitement behind him.

In the foyer, Billy Skittles cast an eye outside, then he puffed up his chest and declared: ‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen: His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales!’

There was a flurry of bowing and curtseying as the old boy himself stepped out of his carriage, Mrs Langtry on his arm, followed by what looked like half the Court. He was smoking a fat cigar and looking pleased with himself. He looked about with his fat-rimmed, blood-shot eyes then burst into a hearty laugh. ‘Doctor!’

The Doctor turned and grinned. ‘Bertie, you old dog. It’s been ages.’

The Prince nodded and patted his great tum. ‘Paris, wasn’t it? The Folies Bergère! Are you here to see the Contest?’

‘Yes,’ said the Doctor. ‘As a matter of fact I am. But I’m having a little trouble getting in.’

The Prince of Wales merely cocked a bushy grey eyebrow at the flush-faced copper and the little ring of policemen parted like the Red Sea.

Sometimes it pays to have pals in high places.

Making his excuses and promising to join old Bertie and Mrs L. in the box at the interval, the Doctor rapidly made his way backstage. The audience – all dolled up in their Sunday finery – was piling in, and the Doctor kept a weather eye on them as he picked his way through the coiled ropes and eternal clutter that was rammed into the old Pom’s wings.

Suddenly, he heard a low, faint cry – a sort of despairing moan – and, finding his way to the back wall of the theatre, came across Arthur, the baby-faced autograph hunter, his ears black with congealed blood! Like a wounded elephant, he had dragged himself into the shadows to breathe his last.

The Doctor crouched down and cradled Arthur’s head and the big man stirred and groaned pitiably.

‘It was … it was she … SHE!!’ gasped Arthur.

‘Don’t try to speak,’ murmured the Doctor.

‘What?’ croaked Arthur.

‘I said, don’t try to speak.’

Arthur cupped his bloodied ear and shook his head. ‘I can’t … can’t … ’

‘Ear drums blown,’ said the Doctor to himself, wincing. ‘Nasty.’

‘It was her voice!’ wailed Arthur. ‘Her siren song!’

‘Anne Dante?’

‘Pardon?’ said Arthur.

‘ANNE DANTE!’ yelled the Doctor.

Arthur nodded and his mouth turned down like Pagliacci’s. ‘The Siren of Cripplegate herself … ’ His heavy eyelids flickered. ‘I loved her. Loved her. But she has done for me!’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Eh?’

‘WHAT DO YOU MEAN?’ yelled the Doctor.

‘Her voice, my friend. Her true voice. It is … fatal!! I’ve never heard such a note. So pure! But deadly. Deadly!’

And, with one last rattling gasp, he expired.