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Conversely, their dismissal of Dora’s fears immediately put Clem on the defensive. “We could always make some discreet enquiry,” he suggested once he and Dora had retired to their sitting room for an after-dinner drink. He did not think it a bad suggestion, despite the fact he had never done anything discreet in his life.

“I was thinking of sending Vincent around to Sir Matthew’s father’s,” Dora confessed, biting her thumbnail.

It seemed Dora lacked subtlety even more than he. “The banker’s house? By all means, if you want to get Vincent arrested,” Clem responded wryly.

“No, of course not! Do you really think—?” Leaving her sentence unfinished, she jumped out of her seat to move to the window and gazed moodily out of it for a while. “Have I lost all sense of perspective about this?” she asked slowly. “Only, it seems to me that—” She broke off again, stiffening.

“What is it?” Clem asked, lowering the bottle he was pouring.

“Hetty!” Dora cried, rushing for the door at once. Clem moved to the window, scanning the view, but though there were several shadowy figures in the street below, none of the women struck him as remotely resembling Henrietta Fields.

Following Dora swiftly down the stairs and out of the open door, he found her standing by the front gate, shivering in the night air. “Come back inside,” he urged her.

“Clem, I know no one believes me, but—”

“I believe you are very worried about your sister,” he said smoothly, slipping an arm about her shoulder. “And I don’t want you to take a chill. Come on.”

“Clem,” she sobbed, sounding in such distress that he forgot his resolve to drop the tender stuff, and enfolded her in his arms, murmuring nonsense comfort phrases in her ear.

“Come on,” he said at last. “The sooner I get you back inside, the sooner we can get our hats and coats on and get to The Parthenon.”

“The Parthenon?”

“I think we need to speak to Vincent.”

“Vincent?” The dawning hope in her eyes did funny things to his chest. “But you said—?”

“Not to send him to Hillingdon’s London residence,” he clarified, “but to set him on a patrol in his free time.”

“A patrol. You mean of the vicinity?”

He nodded. “In case she is haunting the locality.” She looked instantly stricken and Clem pinched her chin. “I meant in the sense she is skulking around. Nothing else. Come on. The sooner we set our watch dog on guard, the sooner we can find out if there is any truth to these rumors.”

“Yes,” she agreed tearfully, seizing his hand. “Oh yes. Thank you, Clem.”

It was a fool’s errand, but it was almost worth it when she raised his hand to her cheek and pressed it there. He did not even care that it was wet with tears.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Theo spent the next three days on edge. Of course, Clem had meant nothing by that “haunting” remark, but it had struck a discordant note with her. Theatre folk tended to be superstitious, and she felt jumpy and uneasy despite the fact Vincent pledged his every free hour to the cause.

It had been fortunate that both she and Clem had jointly recruited Vincent, for only their combined efforts prevented him from flinging off for an immediate and violent confrontation with Sir Matthew. Theo had been forced to point out he would be of no earthly use to Henrietta in a jail cell and he had finally seemed to quiet down at that.

Even less than Clem did he seem to understand the implications of what the gossip column had printed, but the solitary account of a paper boy was good enough for Vincent. Theo realized that she could not have hit upon anyone more devoted to her sister’s cause and she slept easier that night for it, though she could not dispel her fears altogether.

Work was a welcome distraction, and she threw herself into it. Mid-week, she finally got her long-awaited introduction to Florrie Foss. That lady looked her up and down with a jaundiced eye before sniffing and saying, “Oh yes?” in a decidedly cool manner. “The boss’s wife, is it? Better mind me p’s and q’s then, hadn’t I?” she said, digging her companion in the ribs. That gentleman gave a roar of laughter, and the two of them had sauntered away without giving Theo a backward glance.

Jim, who had performed the introductions, directed a sheepish look in Dora’s direction. “She don’t mean anything by it, Miss Dora,” he said awkwardly.

“Oh, I’m sure,” Theo agreed quickly. “I know sometimes that performers can be territorial.” Jim looked confused by this, so she did not elaborate. Later on, though, she spoke to Lil about it at length.

“Forget ‘em,” Lil recommended. “If they come around, they come around. If they don’t”—she shrugged—“well, it’s no skin off our nose, is it? You’re the boss’s wife and I’m far too tough an old boot to give a damn for anyone’s opinion. I don’t give a snap of me fingers these days.”

Theo knew deep down that her old friend was right, but even so, she felt encouraged when their change of dressing room meant they were next to a large communal room where the temporary acts tended to congregate. A few of these made tentative overtures, and within a couple of days, they had struck up friendlier relations with folk who were happy to exchange a bit of friendly chit-chat in the corridors or between stage appearances.

Theo’s particular favorite was a rubber-faced comedian called Robert Spence, known to his friends and intimates simply as “Spence” who appeared as part of a double act with a much better-looking and smoother individual called Lawrence Dukes. Sadly, Dora did not like Lawrence who, despite being suave and witty on stage, had a cutting and abrasive manner off it. She frequently overheard him being downright mean to poor Spence, berating him for all manner of petty things.

When she mentioned this to Lil, her friend pointed out that Lawrence was the straight man and Spence the butt of all his jokes. “Sometimes on-stage personas spill off stage.” She shrugged. “You have to admit; poor old Spence would be nothing without Lawrence. He’s got all the charm and the looks.”