That nobody among the stage managers was even sniggering showed the strength of the compulsion they were under. Since Nightingale hadn’t yet started me on ‘compulsion for beginners’, I didn’t know how much magic it took to hold over two thousand people in thrall, but I bet it was a lot, and that’s when I decided it was probably better for Lesley to have her face fall off than her brain shrivel up. I looked around. There had to be a first-aid kit close by. Dr Walid had said I was going to need saline solution and bandages to wrap around her head if I was going to keep her alive long enough for the ambulance to get there. I spotted the kit mounted on the wall above a selection of fire extinguishers, contained in an impressively large suitcase of red ballistic plastic that would also come in handy as an offensive weapon. I got my last syrette ready, and with the first-aid kit in my other hand I sidled into the wings. By the time I had sight of the stage again, Lesley – I couldn’t bear to think of her as Punch or Henry Pyke – was giving a full and detailed description of Henry’s disappointments. Most of which he blamed on Charles Macklin who, Henry claimed, had turned his hand against him out of spite and when challenged, outside this very theatre, had cruelly struck Henry down.

‘He should have swung for that,’ said Lesley. ‘Just as he should have swung for poor Thomas Hallum that he did for in the Theatre Royal. But he has the luck of the Irish and the gift of the gab.’

That’s when I realised what Henry Pyke was waiting for. Charles Macklin had been a regular at the Royal Opera House until his death. According to legend, Macklin’s ghost was supposed to have been seen on numerous occasions in his favourite seat in the stalls. Henry Pyke was trying to draw him out, but I didn’t think he was going to turn up. Lesley paced the width of the poop deck, peering out into the stalls.

‘Show yourself, Macklin,’ she called. I thought there was uncertainty in her voice now. The poop deck was a raised section of the stage, too high at the sides for me to climb. The only access would be up the stairs at the front – but there was no way to sneak up on Lesley. I was going to have to do something stupid.

I stepped boldly onto the stage, and then made the mistake of looking out at the audience. I couldn’t see much beyond the footlights, but I could see enough to register the great mass of people staring back at me from the towering darkness. I stumbled over my own feet and caught myself on a prop cannon.

‘What’s this?’ screeched Lesley.

‘I am Jack Ketch,’ I said, rather too quietly.