Frobisher had sent another note to the Warrender. True to his word, he had sent a constable around the dance schools and he had eventually come up trumps with the name of the establishment that Freda and Florence attended. “My constable has already asked questions,” Frobisher wrote, “so there is no necessity for you to go there.”
“But, of course, I shall,” Gwendolen said, addressing the note.
The grandly named Vanbrugh Academy of Dance was located in Frith Street and Gwendolen elected to walk there, which, it was becoming clear to her, had been a mistake. For one thing, it was a long walk, and now that she was here in Soho, she was hopelessly lost in its warren of streets. The people she asked for directions all seemed to be as ignorant of the capital’s topography as she was. She must have spent a good half-hour wandering the maze before happening by chance on Frith Street. A map seemed a necessity.
* * *
—
“Well, there is always something for a girl while she’s got her looks,” Ada Sherbourne said. The Vanbrugh was the domain of a “Miss Ada Sherbourne—Dance Instructress.” She had a striking, etiolated figure, wore a tailored black dress—elegant rather than funereal—and she had such good posture that Gwendolen felt a complete slouch in contrast. Miss Sherbourne had also retained her unbobbed locks, twisted up in a neat but complicated style that would have taken Gwendolen hours to achieve (if indeed she ever could). Gwendolen discovered an immediate antipathy towards her.
“Yes, I believe they were enrolled here,” Miss Sherbourne said. One of her eyes had twitched at the mention of the girls’ names. Perhaps she simply had a nervous tic.
“When were they last here?”
“Goodness, I can’t remember,” she said vaguely. “A few weeks ago, perhaps. I’m afraid Freda’s talents were middling, she was rather gauche. I mean she had reasonable tap and could keep a tune, but I know fifty girls more talented than her. And as for poor Florence…Perhaps they moved on to somewhere less reputable.”
What did that mean?
“Tell me, Miss Kelling, what are they to you? These girls?”
“They are girls who are missing, Miss Sherbourne, that is what they are to me.”
“I would try some of the nightclubs, if I were you. Girls like Freda are meat for the Nellie Cokers of this world. She devours them. Although I presumed that they had gone home to whatever northern town they came from.” Ada Sherbourne made “northern” sound like an insult.
“York,” Gwendolen supplied defensively. “It’s a very attractive town, actually. A lot of history.”
The telephone rang, interrupting this rather scratchy exchange. Ada Sherbourne said, “Do you mind if I answer this?” and without waiting for Gwendolen to say anything she picked up the phone and placed her hand over the receiver, saying to Gwendolen, “I’m so sorry I can’t help you further,” before removing her hand and proceeding to conduct a conversation in syrupy tones with someone clearly in the theatrical profession. Gwendolen had been dismissed, it seemed.
On the way out, she passed a gaggle of girls coming into a class, in their rehearsal clothes, dance shoes in hand. They smiled and murmured polite greetings to Gwendolen.
“Excuse me,” she said, “but do any of you know a Freda Murgatroyd or a Florence Ingram who attended here?”
A girl at the back of the gaggle piped up: “I know Freda. She’s nice.”
The other girls drifted off.
“When did you last see her?”
“A couple of days ago. At rehearsal.”
A couple of days ago? Ada Sherbourne had implied that she hadn’t seen Freda and Florence for weeks. Were they so unmemorable, or was there some reason she wanted to forget them?
“And Florence?”
“Not for ages. She only lasted a few days. Why, miss? Has something happened?”
“Well,” Gwendolen said, “I’m afraid nobody seems to know where they are. I’m a friend of Freda’s sister, I’ve come to London to look for them. Perhaps you can think where they might be?”
The girl cocked her head to one side in order to think. A little bird. She was charming, her dark hair in a sharp bob, a small retroussé nose, Gwendolen could imagine her on the stage—a musical comedy, perhaps. She spoke well, already well versed in enunciation.
“Well, I don’t know where they live,” she said, “but I know Freda has an audition.”
“An audition?”
“Yes, Miss Sherbourne got her an audition at the Adelphi, for Betty in Mayfair. It’s a revue,” she explained when Gwendolen looked blank. Ada Sherbourne had made no mention of any audition. Why not?
Gwendolen could hear her shouting crossly, “Cherry! Cherry Ames, are you coming? Cherry!”
The girl made a face and said, “That’s me, I’ve got to practise, I’m going for a solo, I’ve got an audition tomorrow as well, at the Palace.” She ran off down a corridor and then ran back halfway and said, “Miss Sherbourne has all our addresses, you know. In her office.”
* * *
—
Gwendolen slipped as quietly as she could into Ada Sherbourne’s office. Ada Sherbourne herself was now fully occupied with her class, Gwendolen could hear her counting out the beats, “five-six-seven-eight,” with remarkable ferocity. The woman was a dragon and Gwendolen was trespassing in the dragon’s lair.
The orderly arrangement of things in the office made the task of searching easier than it might have been. Against one wall there was a four-drawer oak filing cabinet, each drawer labelled in copperplate handwriting, with the third one down helpfully announcing itself to be “Students.” Inside the filing cabinet everything was neatly alphabetical—Ada Sherbourne would have made an excellent librarian, she could have given Mr. Pollock a run for his money.
And there she was, in a hanging folder tabbed “L–M”—“Freda Murgatroyd” and an address—Henrietta Street, number four.
The counting had stopped and Gwendolen was convinced that she would be accosted by Ada Sherbourne before she could make a successful escape. The idea made the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. She would like to see Ada Sherbourne locked in a room with Mrs. Bodley in a draconian contest. Her money would be on Mrs. Bodley (her resentments had more flair), but it would be a close-run thing.
“One-two-three-four!” The relentless counting started up again. Gwendolen breathed a sigh of relief when she reached the front door. She closed it quietly behind her.
Cissy had always castigated her sister for being an undisciplined child, but really Freda must have nerves of steel to subject herself to the rigours of dance.
* * *
—
“Ten minutes from here,” a man behind the counter of a tobacconist in Greek Street said when Gwendolen ducked in to ask for directions. She had been going round in circles for some time since leaving the Vanbrugh Academy of Dance. A London “ten minutes” was beginning to seem a good deal longer than a Yorkshire one.
Long Acre again! She had already walked along Bow Street and was on the verge of giving in to frustration and seeking out Frobisher to ask him to reorientate her when happily she chanced upon Stanford’s bookshop and a helpful young man sold her the mysterious Bartholomew’s. Of course—a map. She remembered now being asked for one in the Library. “I’m an idiot,” she said to the helpful young man, who said, “Not at all, madam,” and, what was more, he unfolded the virgin creases of the map and pointed out the route she should take. “Five minutes away,” he promised and, thankfully, he was right.
* * *
—
There was no sign of Betty in Mayfair at the Adelphi. Instead, the front of the theatre was plastered with posters advertising The Green Hat, alongside large photographs of the leading lady, Tallulah Bankhead. (Gwendolen imagined Mr. Pollock’s wrath.) She would buy a ticket, she thought. Perhaps she should buy two and invite Frobisher, although it was difficult to image that The Green Hat would be to his taste. What would be to his taste?, she wondered. Rigorous opera, perhaps, or exhausting choral music (she liked neither). But surely the man must be in possession of some lightness of being? If he was, she determined she would find it.