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At the studio, making the most of one of the few times that he was available, Alasdair put a call through to Mrs Richards, crossing his fingers that she’d also be free to speak to him. He used her home number, which she’d given him in case of emergencies—such as his falling ill and having to pull out of a commitment to address a meeting. Or announcing his engagement to some lucky lady and wanting to ensure that his devotees had prior warning and didn’t faint with shock when they read the news. The latter had been Mrs Richards’s suggestion and Alasdair had greeted it with what he hoped was the right mixture of alacrity and coyness.

“Oh, Mr Hamilton,” she said on picking up the telephone and hearing his greeting. “You don’t usually ring me—is everything all right?”

“All is well, Alice, and how many times must I remind you to call me Alasdair?”

“Old habits die hard, I’m afraid. How can I be of help?”

Alasdair smiled: there was no nonsense with Alice. “I’m trying to track down one of your members, for a friend of a friend. Bit of a complicated story but I felt sure you were the person to help her.”

“Is this one of your cases?” She asked gleefully. “Happy to oblige if I can.”

“Yes, it is. A young woman called Alexandra Cummings, who we think is a member of Toby’s fan club, as well. It’s a friend of his who got to know Alexandra via a totally different club—I told you it was complicated tale—but she’s not attended recently and so folk are concerned that she might be ill.”

“Well, off the top of my head, I believe we have two members called Alexandra, although I don’t think either has the surname Cummings. One comes to every meeting—even breaking her leg six months back didn’t stop her—and she was there when you visited us recently. The other stopped attending in January or February.”

“That sounds like it might be her, although that non-attendance could be coincidence. Not having seen a picture of the missing lady, I wouldn’t know if she was the broken leg one, whom I must have seen. Odd about the surname being different, though. Is there anyone else called Cummings, who perhaps uses her middle name when she deals with you?”

“I’m afraid not, although there may be a simple explanation for the surname not matching. If Alexandra is recently married, or recently divorced, she might still use her maiden name with us. I can even imagine someone employing different names if they attend both yours and Toby’s clubs, so nobody can twig they’re shouting for both sides.” Alice chuckled. “You know how cagey people can be.”

“I certainly do.” Such behaviour would be in keeping with membership of the Monday Evening Association . “We have a description, although not a very specific one. She’s of medium height, had—has—mousy hair and brown eyes, was said to be pretty and soft spoken. In her late twenties perhaps and always neatly turned out. And I apologise for the had and has part. We’re hoping nothing’s happened to her, obviously, but that uncertainty must have been playing on my mind.”

“Her friend must be very concerned for it to have rubbed off on you. I’m afraid that description could apply to either of the Alexandras I have in my mind, if one stretched the late twenties to early thirties so it included the woman with the broken leg. That assumes Toby’s pal is as bad at guessing ages as I am.” She giggled again. “Some women never look their age, for better or worse, and if I didn’t have my records I wouldn’t have a clue.”

That meant the one who was closer in age to Richard’s guess had disappeared from the fan club. “The other Alexandra: do you know why she stopped coming to your meetings?”

“I’m afraid not. My predecessor as chairwoman used to ask people directly, after they left us, but on the last occasion it led to unpleasantness. The woman concerned had decided she’d gone off you—I know you’re sensible enough for me not to have to gloss over the fact—and now preferred Stewart Granger. Unfortunately, news of that switching of allegiance got out and led to an almighty hoo-hah amongst our membership, including one or two unnecessary and unpleasant letters being sent to the woman who’d left. We put a stop to that, and I put a stop to asking folk directly once they’d made a decision. So, unless the departing person volunteers the information, I simply don’t know why they’ve gone. We’re all grown-ups with the right to make our own decisions, so the group needs to accept they’ve done so and move on.”

“That sounds eminently sensible.” Perhaps it would be for the best for Moira et al to do the same, were it not for the Herbert and Chapman business. “Now, you obviously keep member details. It would be wrong of me to ask you to give me these two women’s addresses, if you have them, but might I impose on you to ask them to contact me via the office at Landseer. You can tell them what I said about Toby’s friend being concerned for their welfare and wanting reassurance. They’ll no doubt know which group is involved, so can guess at the friend’s identity.”

“Of course. I’ll make sure she knows it’s not Mr Bowe’s appreciation society we’re referring to. Actually, Mr Ham—Alasdair—if you don’t mind, I’ll ask the Alexandras to reassure me that they’re well and I’ll report their answers back. There may be a jolly good reason why the young lady concerned has disappeared and hasn’t let her friends know where she’s gone.” Mrs Richards sighed. “Perhaps it might be best not to mention Toby’s friend at all. I’ll say it’s us at the club who are worried.”

“That sounds a splendid idea.” Maybe he should suggest to Toby that he get Miss Crouch to do the same, unless he’d already been in touch with her. “A final question. Does one of these women show a particular interest in weather forecasting?”

“Not that I recall. Should she have done?”

“Toby’s friend said she did, that was all. It’s probably not relevant. And now, I’ve taken up quite enough of your time. Thank you for being so understanding and so helpful.”

“It’s a treat to be involved in one of your investigations. I hope I can give Toby’s friend the reassurance he or she needs.”

“She. Although not one of Toby’s lady friends, if that makes sense.” He should stop now before the pudding became too obviously overegged. Alasdair made his goodbyes, then sat for a moment to assimilate what he’d heard. Two possible candidates for the missing woman, although the broken leg surely ruled one of them out if it was coincident with the time Alexandra still attended the Monday meetings. The matter of the surname gnawed at him, though, especially when he took into account the level of pretence that abounded within Lloyd’s little gang. Maybe Cummings was an alias, although Jeff having known Alexandra through work surely ruled that out. It struck him that a different and more vexatious lie could have been employed: perhaps she’d never been a member of Alasdair’s fan club—or Toby’s—and had put up the pretence for reasons of her own, as the others had done concerning their powers. In which case, their trail was going to go cold almost before it had the chance to warm up.

***

The actors’ plan had been to make an appointment with Sir Ian for the first available time that suited all parties, but as luck would have it, that Tuesday morning the great man himself made one of his regular yet spontaneous visits to the set. Sir Ian liked to keep an eye on all his productions, no matter how much he trusted the actors and vast array of other staff involved. He had a nose for spotting when something wasn’t quite as it should be and the earlier he could ensure that a film would pass muster, by identifying an issue and dealing with it, the better.

On this occasion, all seemed to be well. He watched a couple of short scenes being filmed, nodding happily as they progressed, then when everyone broke for refreshments he joined them for a cup of tea and a chat.

“Excellent playing, as usual.” Sir Ian said, beaming at his three stars, who had clustered around him. “I have every confidence this will be a winner.”

Profuse thanks broke out all round: nobody liked to think they were saddled with a stinker and Sir Ian’s judgment was to be trusted. Alasdair asked, “Has all the business with Naughty Nelly been settled or is it a sore topic?”

“The censor is satisfied at last. We took out what he regarded as the worst bits, which means we’ve got some others past him. The kind of lines which look fairly innocent on the page but are dynamite in the execution, especially with a knowing glance or a leer.” Sir Ian grinned. “We’ve assured them that all the publicity will make it plain that the eponymous Nelly is the historical Miss Gwyn, which seemed to appease. Never have that issue with your films.”

“Long may that continue.” Toby—who’d manoeuvred himself to Sir Ian’s side—said in a low voice, “Might we have a word, in a minute? We’ve an update regarding that Monday Evening Association meeting I got invited to, and it’s turned out to have led us into a new case. A potentially serious one.”

“Of course.” Sir Ian glanced at his watch. “Now?”

“Perfect.” Alasdair bowed elaborately to Fiona, in a style befitting his costume. “If you could excuse us a moment.”

“Of course. I could do with seeing my dresser, because this thing—” she indicated a place on her bodice, just under her ribs, “—is like an instrument of torture. How and why women wore them I couldn’t say.” She sashayed away, while the three men headed for Alasdair’s dressing room, where Toby wasted no time in giving a brief account of why they now had a logical explanation for the group members’ so-called powers.

“Sounds like a plot from one of our comedies,” Sir Ian observed, as the story concluded. “Misunderstandings and cover-ups all round, with a healthy thread of romance running through.”

“We had a similar thought, because throughout our dealings with this group, various elements have felt somewhat unreal. The case we’ve been led into feels all too horribly real, though.” Alasdair continued with a swift run through regarding Alexandra’s disappearance and her having overheard an unsettling conversation at work.

“I’ve heard of Herbert and Chapman , when they helped defend an actor from a rival studio.” Sir Ian’s moue of disapproval spoke volumes. “Fingers in some unsavoury pies and possibly fascists to boot.”

“Definitely fascists, according to a reliable source. That fact may be directly relevant to what she heard being discussed, which sounded like a threat to disrupt the coronation.” Alasdair’s insured eyebrow registered disgust.

“The coronation? The miserable sods.” Sir Ian must have been deeply affected, because that was the strongest form of swearing he usually employed. “Any idea what this plot consists of? And before you answer that—stupid question no doubt—have you told the police?”

“Young Jonny Stewart is doing so today, possibly right now if not already,” Toby reassured his boss. “If he warns us off because it’s dangerous, we’ll step back. Now, to answer the first part of your question, we’re not certain what the threat is, but it may involve Queen Salote. We have evidence that they don’t like her, or her wartime allegiances or something else about the great lady.”

“The absolute bastards.” Sir Ian excelled himself on the swear word front. “She’s a magnificent woman, as beautiful and as brilliant as our own queen. They could run the world between them, if allowed to do so. Queen Salote will be here as befits her station and no doubt will be part of the procession, so it would be easy enough for a determined person to pick her out. Shades of Archduke Franz Ferdinand and look at the mess that helped stir up. If I could get my hands on these people beforehand, they’d regret they’d even considered such a thing.”

“We’d join you.” Alasdair jiggled his eyebrow in disapproval. “Although I’ve had to keep reminding myself that in British law, it’s a case of innocent until proven guilty. Even if Messrs Herbert and Chapman were discussing such a thing, they may never have intended the plans to come to fruition. How many people say things like, ‘I could kill you,’ with never an intention of carrying out the threat? Idle words.”

Sir Ian harrumphed. “Well, I hope the police take this seriously. If they don’t, let me know and I’ll pull some strings. I still have contacts.”

“We’ll do that,” Toby said, “although Superintendent Firestone isn’t the short of man to ignore such a lead if it comes onto his radar, especially from a reliable source and we’d count ourselves as that.”

“Let’s hope you’re correct. Anything else?”

“Back to matters Naughty Nelly related,” Alasdair said, “we’ve run across Charles Carstone’s name on the fringes of this inquiry and he’s become a bee in both our bonnets. We know that he was potentially going to be named in a couple of divorce cases, which makes it suspicious that he died under the wheels of a train before that happened. Yet he was a Catholic and wouldn’t have risked his mortal soul.”

Sir Ian, face grim, nodded slowly. “My thoughts exactly. I also feel some guilt about his death, because he came and confessed what was going on and how he’d taken up professional help as a precaution. I’m afraid I made the studio’s position clear, so when I heard about his accident…well, I wish that his rescuer had been able to save him. It may have meant the end of his involvement in Naughty Nelly but I’d rather his life had been saved.”

“Indeed. Sadly, he may have made the wrong choice in his professional help. Herbert and Chapman .”

Sir Ian shuddered. “Keep me informed on all fronts, then. I don’t want either of you ending up under the wheels on the Central Line or indeed any other.”

Once Sir Ian had left, Alasdair said, “Do you think that warning was specific or simply a good exit line?”

“The latter. If he knew of a particular threat, he’d have passed it on to us.”

“Hmm.” Alasdair frowned. “Where has the time gone this morning? I’ve been meaning to ask if you’d had any luck with Miss Crouch.”

“Not yet. She’s going to rummage through her rotary card index or wherever she keeps the members details and get back to me as soon as she can.”

“She’s happy to give you an address?”

“I assume so. I was going to suggest she did the contacting but the matter didn’t arise.” Toby had his hand halfway to ruffling his hair when he remembered he was wearing a wig and his dresser would slap said hand for disarranging it. “How about you?”

Alasdair exhaled in a frustrated manner. “Mrs Richards is going to contact her two Alexandras on our behalf although I’m not holding out much hope. One suffered a broken leg six months ago so she’s probably not our woman and while the other candidate is promising—on the grounds that she’s stopped attending the fan meetings—she doesn’t have the right surname. Neither of them do. In fact, nobody at the club does.”

“Lummy. I suppose Alexandra might be using a different name for a legitimate reason? Like some actors adopt an alias.”

“Perhaps. Mrs Richards and I came up with several explanations for the discrepancy, but none of them sit well with me, given the context of the story.”

“I don’t blame you.” Toby didn’t like this at all. “More subterfuge, do you think, only this time from Alexandra? Either when she joined your fan club or when she joined Lloyd’s mob? Although the latter seems less likely, given that Jeff knew her at work and would surely have spotted any mismatch in names.”

“Who knows? At least I trust what our two ladies say, although whether I believe one hundred percent anyone else involved with this case—present company, Jonny and Morgan excepted—I increasingly doubt. It wouldn’t surprise me if there are more layers to peel off this especially smelly onion.”

“A very apt analogy.” Toby edged towards the door. “The Landseer publicity office is bound to have cuttings related to Carstone’s inquest. I’d be interested in the name of that aspiring good Samaritan. Might be interesting to get his or her view. Now, to end on a lighter note, Miss Crouch was saying she felt that devotees wouldn’t necessarily admit to being members of both our clans, as ‘twere. Not to their fellow members.”

“Yes, I got that impression, too, from Mrs Richards. A great rivalry.” Alasdair chuckled. “I now have visions of our most loyal devotees smiting each other with a glove and arranging for pistols at dawn to defend the honour of which of us is best.” He dropped his voice. “Just as well we don’t feel any need to have that fight. Equals always.”

“Equals.” Toby opened the door, shook Alasdair’s hand—not the kiss he’d have liked to have shared but acceptable in the circumstances—then headed for the toilet. His cup of coffee had gone straight through him, as his mother would have put it, and a stroll to the facilities and back would allow his mind to get out of investigating mode and into acting again. Although given that in the next scene he merely had to hang around in the background looking decorative, it would be hard to keep his thoughts away from the apparent lack of an Alexandra Cummings on Alasdair’s fans’ roll call. And speculating whether there’d be one on his .

***

Tuesday night, Toby shut his own front door with a profound sense of relief. Much as he’d have loved to spend an evening doing absolutely nothing other than smooching with Alasdair, they’d seen a lot of each other recently. Which meant they’d been seen together a lot and a short while spent apart, except for on the sound stage, wouldn’t hurt in the preserving-their-reputation department. Anyway, they had tasks to execute.

As Jonny had left the previous evening, he’d offered to call with an update on any conversation he managed to have with Matthew Firestone. Toby had equally offered to ring Jonny, ostensibly on the premise that he wasn’t sure what time he’d be home from the studio, but actually because he didn’t want to be twiddling his thumbs waiting for the call. Better to take the initiative and to take it at the first opportunity.

Fortunately, Jonny was at home and able to talk at Toby’s first attempt at telephoning. After receiving a brief update on the fan clubs side of things, Jonny said, “Plot thickening all round. You’ll be delighted to know that I was able to speak to our esteemed constabulary pal this very morning and he’s most grateful I did. If he had any prior knowledge of a plot against Queen Salote, he was keeping it to himself and the same goes for the disappearance of Alexandra. He says we can keep digging—on both counts—if we wish but to be extremely careful. He doesn’t want to face the wrath of either your fans or the clan Stewart for having caused injury to their flowers of manhood.”

“That serious? What does he know that he’s keeping under his hat?”

“I asked him something similar and he said there was nothing specific, but any matter like this makes him fear the worst. Take that as you wish.”

“I will.” With perhaps a pinch of salt about the “nothing specific” part.

“Interestingly, the firm of Herbert and Chapman has come into his distant view previously, being on the fringes of objectionable stuff, although nothing that he or his colleagues could pin them down for. Matthew, fair man that he is, said that everyone has the right to be defended in court and, for example, sticking up for a child molester doesn’t make you one yourself, but the alacrity with which Messrs H and C leap to defend said people gives one pause. He knew about their sympathies, as well, and you can imagine how those sit with him.”

“I bet he’s pleased to have a potential reason for bringing them to book. Anything else?”

Jonny sniffed. “Only that the upcoming events have apparently brought a few of the regulars out. You know, little old ladies who are sure they’ve witnessed a gang planning something awful but who in reality are either starting to lose their faculties or are possibly lonely and in need of a friendly conversation. Then apparently there’s the chaps who want to confess to the worst kinds of crimes, either past or future. Every instance has to be taken seriously, but it’s a drain on the police’s time.”

“Yes. Too easy to dismiss them all as time-wasters and then find some clever soul has hidden a real crime by confessing to it among a trail of false ones. Like a plot Mrs Christie might use.” Toby stifled a yawn. “You’ve done well, young Jonny. Now, please excuse me if I have to depart, but it’s been a long old day and I have more job to do before I can curl up with the Light Programme and a good book.”

Only his intended reading matter was the press cuttings about Carstone and his accident.

“What a glamorous life you lead.” With a chuckle, Jonny put down the telephone, leaving Toby to the tender ministrations of his man, North, who had a light supper ready to serve whenever it was needed. Now was the perfect moment, as Toby’s rumbling stomach advised him: hopefully, he could get the whole repast consumed before Miss Crouch called.

He was just finishing the last soupcon of cheese, tucked up in his favourite chair for radio listening, when the telephone rang and North sprang into action to answer it.

“Miss Crouch?” North’s deep, melodious voice sounded from the hallway. “Yes, Mr Bowe is expecting your call. Let me inform him.”

Toby let himself be informed. North wouldn’t have appreciated entering the sitting room as Toby was exiting it: a gentleman’s gentleman had to discharge his job properly.

“Miss Crouch,” Toby said, as he took up the receiver. “Thank you so much for calling.”

“My pleasure. Now, we appear to have three Alexandras among our membership, although none of them have the surname Cummings. Did I note that part incorrectly?”

“You did not. After I spoke to you, I learned that she might go by more than one name and I’m hoping that’s only the surname as opposed to the Christian name or else we’ve no chance of pinning her down. Can you eliminate any of your three?”

“The first one on my list is too old to match the description you gave me, so unless your informant is wrong, we can discard her. The next one I think came to the last meeting, the one you attended. It was her first and I particularly remembered her because of how tall she was. Too tall for the woman you seek.”

“I feel like Goldilocks. This lady is too old, the other too tall.”

Miss Crouch chuckled. “I’d pay good money to see you as Goldilocks. Perhaps you’d consider it for one of your charity pantomimes. So, we have the third Alexandra, a Miss Munsey, about whom I have a note which helps me place her. She’d not long been coming to the meetings when she offered to help with any jobs that needed doing—there’s a fair amount of admin at times—and one of the longer-standing, more mature, members took umbrage. She said that time in the ring should count in cases like that and that Alexandra should get in the queue. I felt sorry for the poor girl, because she was only trying to be helpful and I told her privately that I would certainly call on her if she was needed. In fact, I went out of my way to make sure I had a few small tasks to give her, which she did admirably. That’s a long-winded way of telling you why she sticks in my mind.”

“Be as long-winded as you like, as long as we get to identifying her correctly.” Toby recalled the remark Alasdair had made at The Swan with Two Necks , about Alexandra Cummings might have been using an alias. If that was a bow drawn at a venture, it had hit the spot. “Was Miss Munsey at the recent meeting?”

“No. In fact, I doubt she’s been there since January or February. Sorry to be vague, but I don’t keep a record of who comes when. The aforementioned older lady and her pals seem to do that unofficially for themselves.”

Yet another group Alexandra had left. “Has she let you know why she no longer comes along? You can be honest and say that she’s gone off me and wants to throw her cap at some other actor.”

Miss Crouch gave a derisive snort. “As if anyone would do that. Mr Bowe, I know that you’re used to exercising discretion, with your work alongside the police and all that, so I can air a suspicion.”

“Air away. You have my promise of secrecy. Unless, of course, this is a matter the police have to be informed about.” Toby tried to ignore the unpleasant thought that employing discretion might concern Miss Crouch having discovered something that he and Alasdair wouldn’t want discovered, namely their relationship. There’d be no blabbing to the police in that instance.

“I wondered if she was expecting a baby.”

“Oh.” That was a possibility they’d not considered. Hadn’t Richard said something about Alexandra glowing at the last meeting she’d attended? What if that had been due to her condition rather than her upcoming change of employment? “What made you think that?”

“Her face. I saw a possible mask of pregnancy there, if a confirmed bachelor would know what that is.”

“I don’t, but I’ll look it up forthwith.”

“It’s a darkening of the skin. That’s all I have to base my theory on, because she stopped attending before her waistline had a chance to become too noticeable. Assuming it was expanding, of course. I could be wrong.”

A practiced eye such as this hospital matron possessed would have been less at risk of error than a laywoman—or layman—though. If this was the Alexandra, then either his promise of confidentiality or his duty to Moira was going to have to go by the board and the latter looked the likelier. He and Alasdair would have to tell her that they knew why Alexandra had gone off and that was all they were prepared to say. “Would you know if she’s either married or recently widowed? That could explain why we have two names for her. Although I don’t suppose she’d hide herself away in shame in that instance.”

“I wouldn’t know about her marital status. She’s listed as Miss Munsey, that’s all.”

“I see. Well, that leaves me with the challenge of finding a way to tell my mutual friend what’s happened to Alexandra without actually telling said friend what’s happened. Assuming what we think has happened has happened.” Toby chuckled. “If that makes any sense. I’ve been working hard at the studio and I’m losing coherence.”

“It makes entire sense. I’m sure you’ll find a way to reassure them, especially if we can pin down what’s going on and it’s nothing sinister. Would you like her address or would you prefer I made contact?”

“In any other circumstance, I’d suggest I send you a note that you could forward to Alexandra, asking her to get in contact with her old pal. However, time is of the essence, so if you feel you could trust me with Miss Munsey’s address, I’d be very grateful. I can tell you, in strictest confidence, that this business might be more serious than a missing person’s case.”

“Ah.” The nod Miss Couch was no doubt giving was almost audible. “I won’t ask you to expand on that, because I know you paddle in some murky waters, investigation wise. Pencil at the ready?”

“Poised over the paper as we speak.” Toby jotted down the address—a road in Finsbury Park—thanked Miss Crouch for being a marvel, reminded her that a bottle of champagne would be coming in her direction and then ended the call so he could contact Alasdair with the news. Frustratingly, when he put a call through to his lover, the line was busy, Alasdair probably engaged in his own detection tasks. No doubt any discussion could wait until morning, unless Alasdair uncovered a bombshell, in which case he’d surely be sharing that later. Toby could use the time to plan the next step: would he be writing to Alexandra via the Finsbury Park address or visiting himself?

Or was this a job better suited to Jonny, who had the benefit of a face that didn’t look out from dozens of film posters all over London?

And who, Toby reminded himself with a frustrated sigh, could go out and about any time he wanted with his chap Roger, frequenting establishments that Toby and Alasdair could never be seen entering. Sometimes fame and fortune proved a tough account to pay.

He settled down again, picked up the file of press cuttings and worked through them, ready to make notes as he went along, although his page became only sparsely occupied apart from obvious things like the date of February the fifth. The reports gave no hint of what had troubled Carstone, nor any mention of Messrs Herbert or Chapman, although there were conflicting accounts of whether he’d been talking to a woman while he waited for his train. Inevitably, the array of witnesses couldn’t quite agree on what had happened prior to the tragedy, except that the actor had edged his way towards the platform edge, as though keen to be first on the train. Among the most convincing witnesses was the man who’d attempted to save Carstone—James Salt—and the person who’d saved Salt’s life, one Robert Archer. There were fuzzy pictures of them with some of the newspaper reports, probably syndicated given their similarity and the type of photographs that could have been of anyone.

Why did something about the names ring a bell, though? Mr J Salt . Surely that was one of the names he saw at Herbert & Chapman’s office, one of those he was going to ask his nephew about and which had subsequently gone out of his head. That lapse didn’t matter now. The surname wasn’t common so gave a potential link between the firm and the moment Carstone had died. He quickly scanned back through the other reports, which said that Salt and Archer didn’t know each other and were simply there to travel home at the end of the working day.

What that coincidence of name signified, Toby couldn’t tell, but he was going to have to discuss it with Alasdair that evening, or he’d burst.