The Sweet Far Thing (38 page)

We nod sheepishly.

“He told us of a vanishing lady. His assistant,” Ann says. “He believed her to be murdered.”

Miss McCleethy frowns. “I think that’s quite enough.”

“Yes, I assure you Dr. Van Ripple is a conjurer of tales and cannot be trusted,” Inspector Kent says.

“Now, shall we see the miracle of moving pictures?”

It would seem that Dr. Van Ripple is nothing but a con. I can’t understand why my visions have led me to this aging magician with a vivid imagination and a coat as shabby as his reputation. And to think I’ve chanced magic on it.

“Did you find your acquaintance, Miss McCleethy?” Felicity asks, and I should like to kick her for it.

“I did, indeed,” she says. “At first, I thought my eyes deceived me, for he disappeared in the crowd, but happily, I found him again.”

I’m confused. How could she have met up with Fowlson when he was nothing more substantial than ether? Is she lying? Or is Fowlson really here among us?

We’re led to our seats, which have been arranged so that we face the wall. A strange instrument is wheeled in and placed in the center aisle—a box perched upon metal legs, much like a camera, but larger. One of the Wolfson brothers, in full tails and top hat, stands before us, rubbing his white-gloved hands together in anticipation.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I welcome you to the Egyptian Hall, where in this hour, you shall witness an amazing spectacle of spirits, ghosts, and hobgoblins conjured before your very eyes!

“The Wolfson brothers, masters of the magic lantern, shall astonish and astound you with our feats of illusion—or are they illusion after all? For some would swear that these spirits walk among us, and that this machine powered by gas and light is but an instrument for their release into our world. But I shall leave that to your discretion. It is my duty to advise you that in Paris alone, no fewer than fourteen ladies fainted within the first several minutes, and one gentleman’s hair turned white as snow from sheer terror!”

Gasps and excited whispers roll through the audience, to the manager’s delight.

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“Why, even the great Maskelyne and Cooke, those renowned illusionists and our gracious hosts here at this famed house of mystery, found the spectacle thrilling beyond all imagining. Therefore, it is my solemn duty to ask any here who may be weak of heart or otherwise unsound in mind or body to please leave now, as the management cannot be held accountable.”

Three ladies and a gentleman are ushered from the hall. It heightens the excitement.

“Very well. I cannot say what shall happen this afternoon, whether the spirits will prove kind—or angry.

I bid you all welcome…and good luck.”

The lights are dimmed until the hall is nearly black. In the center aisle, the iron machine hums and hisses to life. It casts an image upon the far wall—a sweet-faced girl standing in a meadow. As we watch, she bends to pick a flower and brings it to her nose. She moves! Oh, the wonder of it. Delighted, the audience breaks into applause.

Ann squeezes my hand. “She seems so real—as if she were here now.”

Another image comes, one of a regiment on horseback. The horses prance, their legs moving up and down. We see an angel hovering over the bed of a peaceful sleeping child. Each image is more spectacular than the one before it, and in the dim gaslight, every face gazes straight ahead in awe.

The wall flickers with new light. A woman, chalky pale, appears in her nightgown, sleepwalking. Slowly, she transforms—the arms lose their flesh; the face becomes a death mask—until standing before us is a skeletal creature. Now there are gasps of a different sort. And then the skeleton seems to move closer to us.

Small cries of fear pierce the dark. Someone shouts, “My sister! She’s fainted! Oh, do stop the show!”

Inspector Kent leans in toward us. “Not to worry, ladies. All part of the act.” And I confess I’m grateful for his aside.

“Spirits!” Mr. Wolfson calls. “Leave us now!”

The ghostly specters stretch across the wall, their faces shifting from benevolent to grisly.

“Please, do not leave your seats! I’m afraid I must inform you that the spirits will no longer listen to the Wolfson brothers! They do not obey our commands! Be on your guard, for I cannot say what shall come next!”

The air is thick with excitement and fear. And then, quickly, the apparition shifts. It grows smaller until it is nothing more than a sweet-faced child offering a flower. Relieved laughter fills the hall.

“Gracious me.” Mademoiselle LeFarge chuckles. And that’s when I notice that Miss McCleethy’s chair is empty. Surely, McCleethy isn’t frightened by a magic-lantern show; she isn’t frightened of anything.

I spy her hurrying out of the gallery.

“Gemma,” Felicity whispers. “Where are you off to?”

“The ladies’ dressing room, if anyone should ask.”

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McCleethy slips into a long room and behind a curtain that hides a winding staircase. I take a deep breath and trail her at a safe distance. When I reach the bottom, I fear I have lost her. But soon, I hear her footsteps. Taking great pains to be as quiet as possible, I follow. We seem to be in a tunnel under the hall, for I still hear the hustle and bustle above us.

Miss McCleethy goes into a large dimly lit room that houses all sorts of exhibitions—statues, exotic costumes, magic apparatus, a placard for the Wolfson brothers with the word
scoundrels
painted across it. I secrete myself behind a bust of some Egyptian goddess sporting a lion’s head.

McCleethy is arguing with someone in the shadows. “You lied to me. I don’t take kindly to liars. This is not a game we’re playing! I saved your life. You’re in my debt. Or have you forgotten?”

I can’t hear the answer, nor can I see more without revealing myself.

“I must know everything from now on,” McCleethy commands. “I don’t think I need remind you that they would kill you where you stand if they knew you were here with me. If you mean to save them, you must follow me. It’s the only way.”

She pushes her hair into place and fiddles with the brooch at her collar until it’s straight. “For twenty-five years, I’ve been devoted to the cause. I do not mean to lose to the Rakshana or a sixteen-year-old girl.

Go on, then, before you’re seen.”

The figure in the dark retreats. I shrink behind the giant statue, and Miss McCleethy hurries back the way she came. I wait until I no longer hear the echo of her footsteps, and then I return to the hall, where the audience delights in the merry image of a jumping dog and a clown juggling balls.

I steal a quick glance at McCleethy. The triumph I felt earlier at deceiving her has been replaced by wariness. To whom could she have been talking? Was it Fowlson? Is he her spy within the Rakshana?

You lied to me,
she said. Lied about what? And whom did they mean to save?

At last, Mr. Wolfson shuts down the lamp that fuels the magic lantern. The room burns with light once again, and the ghostly apparitions vanish from the walls. But the haunts inside me won’t leave so easily.

“I thank you for your kind attention, ladies and gentlemen!” Mr. Wolfson’s voice booms out. “These images are enchantments of a sort, but they are illusions—dreams born of gas and light. Our good hosts, Maskelyne and Cooke, have made it their work to expose the fraudulent among us. I would advise you to be on guard against all forms of trickery and deceit disguised as truth. We shall play again at eight o’clock this evening and tomorrow again at three and eight. We bid you good evening, all!”

We’re ushered from the hall in a crushing sea of excited people making their last-minute purchases. I try to keep a safe distance from McCleethy, holding fast to my friends’ arms.

“Where did you go, Gemma?” Felicity asks.

“I followed McCleethy. She had a secret meeting with someone.”

“Who?” Ann asks.

I look behind me, but McCleethy is deep in conversation with LeFarge and Inspector Kent. “I couldn’t see who it was. Perhaps it was someone from the Rakshana or the Order,” I say, and tell them all I
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know.

The streets are a madhouse of people and carriages, gloom and bustle. The program has promised carriages at five o’clock but there are far too many people for so few carriages, and we shall be forced to wait an eternity.

“Right,” Inspector Kent says. “Let’s see what the law can do.”

He marches purposefully toward the man corralling the cabs.

“I am sorry to abandon you like this, Mademoiselle LeFarge,” Miss McCleethy says. “Are you certain you’ll be fine on your own with the girls?”

“Of course,” Mademoiselle LeFarge says, patting Miss McCleethy’s hands.

“Miss McCleethy, are you leaving us?” Felicity pries.

“Yes, I’ve a dinner engagement with a friend this evening,” our teacher answers.

“What friend is that?” Fee says, abandoning all propriety.

“Now then, Miss Worthington, it’s none of your affair, is it?” Mademoiselle LeFarge reprimands, and Fee falls quiet. Miss McCleethy does not grant us an answer to the impertinent question.

“I trust you’ll give Mademoiselle LeFarge no trouble, ladies,” she says. “I shall see you on the morrow.”

“I didn’t know Miss McCleethy had any friends,” Ann mutters once McCleethy has taken her leave of us.

Nor did I, but Miss McCleethy has been full of surprises tonight.

The London fog envelops us in its murkiness. Figures emerge at first like ghosts, like something that belongs to the mist, before taking on form—top hats, coats, bonnets. It is an effect as thrilling as anything conjured by the Wolfson brothers’ magic lantern.

Ann, Felicity, and LeFarge are distracted by the sight of a Mr. Pinkney—the Human Calliope—as he mimics the sound of the instrument with his mouth while also banging a drum.

Dr. Van Ripple emerges from the fog, hobbling quickly on his cane. He collides with a gentleman. “I do beg your pardon, sir. It’s this leg and the damp.”

“No harm done,” the gentleman says. As he helps to right Dr. Van Ripple, I see the magician reach into the man’s pocket and relieve him of his gold watch.

Master illusionist, indeed. Master pickpocket would be more like it.

“Pardon me, pardon me,” he says, shooing the ladies and gentlemen in their finery out of his way. I block his path. He locks eyes with me, startled.

“Did you enjoy the show, my dear?”

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“Which show would that be, sir?” I say sweetly. “The Wolfson brothers’? Or the one I just witnessed in which you relieved a man of his pocket watch?”

“An honest mistake,” Dr. Van Ripple says, his eyes wide with fear.

“I shan’t tell,” I assure him. “But I expect something in return. When Miss LeFarge mentioned Spence, you paled at the name. Why?”

“Really, I must be going….”

“Shall I call for the constable?”

Dr. Van Ripple glowers. “My assistant attended the Spence Academy.”

“She was a Spence girl?”

“So she said.”

I search his face. “How do I know you’re telling me the truth?”

He puts his hand over his heart. “On my reputation as a gentleman—”

I stop him. “I believe your reputation as a gentleman is very much in question, sir.”

He holds my gaze. “On my reputation as a magician, then. I promise you this is the truth.”

Our carriages have arrived. “Come along, girls!” Mademoiselle LeFarge calls.

“Best not keep them waiting,” he says, pocketing the stolen watch.

Can I trust the word of a thief?

“Dr. Van Ripple,” I start, but he waves me off with his cane. “Please, sir, I only wish to know her name, nothing more, and I shall leave you in peace. I promise.”

Seeing I will not surrender, he sighs. “Very well. It was Mina. Miss Wilhelmina Wyatt.”

Mina, Miss Wilhelmina Wyatt, author of
A History of Secret Societies
and the lady in my visions, was a Spence girl, and one of her sisters betrayed her.

The moment Mademoiselle LeFarge falls asleep in the carriage, we break into low chatter.

“Wilhelmina Wyatt! To think that we have her book—and its dangerous secrets—in our possession!”

Ann blurts out.

“But we’ve read the book,” I say. “What could we have possibly missed? There is nothing dangerous there.”