Jeannette and Clifford made their way across the foyer towards the horn-rimmed Marion, who waved a clipboard in the air to guide them through the throng.

Marion Trodd—so that was her name.

“Val, darling! Sorry I’m late.”

The voice rang out like a crystal trumpet, bouncing from the polished paneling of the foyer.

Everyone turned to watch Phyllis Wyvern begin her descent from the landing of the west staircase. And what a descent it was: She had changed into a Mexican dancer’s costume: white frilled blouse and a skirt like the canopy of a seaside roundabout.

The only thing missing was a banana in her hair.

There was a smattering of light applause and a single wolf whistle at which she pretended to blush, fanning her cheeks with her hand.

She must be freezing in those short sleeves, I thought. Perhaps working under hot lights had made her immune to the English winter.

She paused once, to give a helpless little shrug and point her chin to the upper reaches of the house.

“Poor, dear Bun,” she said, in a suddenly solemn voice—a voice meant to carry. “I tried to get some soup into her, but she couldn’t keep it down. I’ve given her something to help her sleep.”

Arriving at the bottom of the stairs, she floated across the foyer, seized Val Lampman’s forearms, as if to keep him from touching her, and pecked at his cheek.

Even from where I sat, I could see that she missed him by a mile. She looked a little peeved, I thought, that he had stolen her thunder.

As they held each other at arm’s length, the front door opened and Desmond Duncan made his entry.

“Sorry, all,” he said in that voice of his that was known round the world. “Last matinee at the pantos. Command performance. Simply couldn’t bear to tear myself away from the poor dears.”

He was bundled up in some kind of heavy fur coat—buffalo or yak, I thought. On his head was a wide-brimmed floppy hat of the sort worn by artists on the Continent.