LAST week, I had a few free moments in London so I went searching for the spirit of Signor Rino Pepi in Piccadilly Circus.

Pepi was the flamboyant founder of Darlington Civic Theatre – his ghost is said to appear there – but he made his name at the London Pavilion, topping the bill in 1898 in a “rollicking one act farce” entitled Love Is Always Victorious.

Pepi, who also built hippodromes in Bishop Auckland, Shildon and Middlesbrough before the First World War, was a quick change artiste, and in his 15 minute sketch, he played all seven characters simultaneously: a black servant, a grey-haired butler, a bewhiskered father, a headstrong daughter, a troubadour lover, a skittish maid, and a serving soldier.

To help with the 15 minute sketch I’m preparing for the Civic’s closing gala night on Tuesday, I’ve acquired an 1898 magazine with a review of the show and pictures of Pepi in his different guises.

His sketch was set in a room in which there were a couple of doors, a window and a trunk. Pepi would disappear from one portal and reappear within two-and-a-quarter seconds through another as an entirely different character: a different race, sex, dress and demeanour.

There were two sets of lovers – the mistress charmed by the troubadour and the maid who had fallen for the military man – but the irate father was determined to quell their passions, getting angrier and angrier as he chased them about the house.

“Disappearing into the inner room, he leaves behind him a trail of thunder, and the lightning plays swiftly in gleams of flying humanity,” said the reviewer, as faster and faster the characters dashed about. “The troubadour and the soldier rush in quick succession across the stage while, from behind, sundry crashes of broken crockery and overturned furniture reach us.”

The clean-shaven troubadour, fearing he’s about to be discovered, jumped for cover into the trunk, and – miraculously – in the next second Pepi, in the form of the moustachioed soldier, clambered in through the window.

“Such is Signor Pepi’s entertainment,” said the reviewer, without spoiling the plot, “trivial in point of dramatic art, but wonderful as an example of what may be done in the way of impersonation.”

The scene of Pepi’s triumph closed as a theatre in 1934, and is now Ripley’s Believe It Or Not tourist attraction. It is a very grand building, with columns and balconies, but whereas once it had "London Pavilion" emblazoned all over it, I could only find one back door that still bore the name. In fact, amid the tourist tat, the incessant flashing of the neon hoardings and the never-ending stream of buses, it was difficult to find the spirit of Pepi.

I sat looking at the Pavilion, my back against the famous fountain with the winged statue on top, and I felt like a star myself, as a continuous stream of tourists snapped me in the background of their selfies, and snapchatted me around the world.

I tuned into their guide. I learned the statue was not that of Eros, the Greek god of sensual, romantic love, but that of his brother, Anteros, the god of selfless love. I learned that a piccadill was fashionable, decorated collar that a trendy tailor made in the circus – Latin for circle – in the early 17th Century.

As I was digesting that nugget, a pigeon perched on Anteros’ heel pooped on me, its warm, grey message landing on my forefinger. Perhaps I had found the spirit of Pepi after all.

I’m talking about Pepi in Tuesday's Live at the Hippodrome show, which stars Christopher Biggins and Mari Wilson, and after which the theatre shuts for an £11m restoration.