“It’s not my fault you don’t know how to advertise and promote a magician’s act.”
“It’s not my fault you’re a mediocre illusionist,” Murphy shot back. “It’s all well and good to unlock safes and make a few items disappear and reappear, but that’s very old-fashioned stuff. The public wants new and more mysterious astonishments. They want to see you levitate. At the very least they expect you to summon a few spirits from the Other World.”
“I never claimed to be a medium. I’m a magician.”
“One with only a couple of tricks up his sleeve. You’re skilled with the art of sleight of hand, I’ll give you that. But it’s not enough for modern audiences.”
“Give me another few nights, Murphy,” Edmund said wearily. “I promise I’ll come up with something suitably spectacular.”
“Bah. That’s what you said last week. I’m sorry for your lack of talent, Fletcher, but I can’t afford to give you any more chances. I’ve got bills to pay and a wife and three children to feed. Our contract is finished as of now.”
So it was back to a life of crime, after all. Well, at least it would be more profitable, if somewhat more dangerous. It was one thing to be let go because of a poor performance on the stage; quite another to be sent to prison because one had been caught robbing a house. But there was a certain thrill to the art of breaking and entering, a thrill he could not seem to come by in any legitimate fashion.
Deliberately he heightened his senses, charging the atmosphere with a whisper of energy. Murphy did not possess any noticeable degree of psychical talent but everyone, even the dullest and most irritating theater owners, possessed a little intuition.
“I’ll be gone by morning,” Edmund said. “Now go away and take your little dog with you or I’ll make you both disappear. Permanently.”
Pom squeaked in alarm and ducked behind Murphy.
Murphy’s whiskers twitched and his eyes widened. He took a hasty step back, managing to step on Pom. The dog yelped. So did Murphy.
“Now, see here, you can’t threaten me,” Murphy stammered. “I’ll summon the police.”
“Never mind,” Edmund said. “Making you vanish would require more effort than it’s worth. By the way, before you remove yourself and the beast, I’ll have my share of the receipts.”
“Haven’t you been listening? There was no profit tonight.”
“I counted thirty people in the audience including the man who came in late and sat in the back row. Our contract specifies that you will give me half of the total you took in at the box office. If you propose to cheat me, I’ll be the one summoning a constable.” It was an empty threat but he could not think of anything else.
“In case you didn’t notice, a good percentage of the crowd left before you finished,” Murphy insisted. “I had to refund a great deal of money.”
“I don’t believe that you refunded so much as a penny. You are far too shrewd a businessman.”
Murphy’s face reddened with outrage but he reached into his pocket and removed some money. He counted it out very carefully and dutifully handed over half.
“Take it,” he grumbled. “It’s worth it to be rid of you. See to it that you clear out all your things. Anything left behind becomes my property.”
Murphy picked up Pom, tucked the dog under one arm and stalked away toward his office at the front of the theater.
Edmund went into his dressing room, turned up the gas lamp and calculated quickly. There was enough to buy another bottle of claret and still have something left over for food tomorrow. There was no question, however, that his career as a member of the criminal class would have to resume immediately; tomorrow night at the latest. He would pack and go out of the theater via the alley just in case the unknown man in the last row was waiting for him in front.
He hauled his battered suitcase from under the dressing table and swiftly tossed his few possessions into it. The dramatic satin cape was still on the stage. He must not forget it. Not that he would be needing it any longer. Nevertheless, he might be able to sell it to some other struggling magician.
A knock on the door stopped him cold. The man in the last row. His intuition was strongly linked to his talent. It never failed him in situations like this.
“Damn it, Murphy, I told you I’d be gone by morning,” he said loudly.
“Would you happen to be interested in another engagement?”
The man’s voice was low and well educated. It resonated with cool control and raw power. Not your typical debt collector, Edmund thought, but for some reason he did not find that especially reassuring.
He elevated his senses, picked up his suitcase and cautiously opened the door. The man standing in the hall somehow managed to remain just beyond the reach of the gas lamp’s weak glare. There was a lean, hard, predatory quality to the shadowy figure.
“Who the devil are you?” Edmund asked. He prepared to execute a little diversion.
“Your new employer, I trust.”
Perhaps the return to a life of crime could be postponed for a time, after all.
“You wish to hire a magician?” Edmund asked. “As it happens, I’m open to an offer.”
“I don’t need a magician. Magicians use sleight of hand and props to achieve their astonishments. I want someone who truly does possess a preternatural talent for slipping in and out of locked rooms.”
Alarm shafted through Edmund.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
“You are not a stage magician, Mr. Fletcher. You do not depend upon fakery, do you?”
“I don’t understand what you mean, sir.”
“You possess a most unusual psychical ability, one that enables you to feel your way through the most complicated locks. It also allows you to create small illusions that distract the eye of those around you while you go about your work. You cannot actually walk through walls but one could easily believe that you are capable of such a feat.”
“Who are you?” Edmund demanded, trying to conceal his astonishment.
“My name is Caleb Jones. I recently established a small investigation agency, Jones and Company, that handles inquiries of a most private and confidential manner. I am learning that upon occasion I require the assistance of consultants who possess particular talents.”
“Consultants?”
“I am presently conducting an investigation that requires your unusual abilities, Mr. Fletcher. You will be well compensated, I assure you.”
“You said your name was Jones. That rings a very loud bell. Any connection to the Arcane Society?”
“I can assure you that there are days when the connection is a good deal closer than I would like.”
“What is it you wish me to do for you?”
“I want you to help me break into a securely locked and well-guarded building. Once inside, we will steal a certain artifact.”
In spite of everything, Edmund felt his pulse quicken.
“I had rather hoped to avoid a life of crime,” he said.
“Why would you want to do that?” Caleb Jones asked very seriously. “You have a talent for the profession, after all.”
The one insurmountable, damnably annoying difficulty that got in the way of trying to operate a psychical investigation agency was that the business necessarily involved clients.
Caleb stepped down from the hansom and went up the front steps of Number Twelve Landreth Square. He raised the heavy brass knocker and let it fall a couple of times.
Clients were the great drawback to what would otherwise have been an interesting and challenging profession. Discovering patterns and obtaining answers had always fascinated him, some said to the point of obsession. He was still new at the investigation business but already he could see that it promised a great deal of stimulation. It was also a welcome distraction from the other matter that consumed him these days.
It was a great pity that there was no way to avoid dealing with the individuals who brought their questions to the Jones agency, however. Clients were always carrying on in a dramatic fashion. Clients got emotional. After contracting for his services they pestered him with messages demanding to know what progress he was making. When he did provide answers, clients tended to fall into one of two categories. Half flew into fits of rage. The rest broke down weeping. Either way, they were rarely satisfied. But, sadly, clients seemed to be a necessary part of the enterprise.
At least on this occasion he was about to interview a potential client who promised to be decidedly out of the ordinary. In spite of his customary antipathy toward those who approached the agency seeking investigative assistance, he could not suppress an odd sense of anticipation.
He had recognized her name, of course, the moment he opened her note. Lucinda Bromley, known in the sensation press as Lucrezia Bromley, was the daughter of the notorious Arthur Bromley. A brilliant botanist, Bromley had traversed the far corners of the world seeking out rare and exotic botanical specimens. His wife and daughter had often accompanied him. Amelia Bromley had died four years ago but Lucinda had continued to travel with her father.
The expeditions had come to an abrupt halt some eighteen months ago, when Bromley’s longtime business partner, Gordon Woodhall, was discovered dead of cyanide poisoning. Immediately thereafter Arthur Bromley had committed suicide. Rumors that there had been a falling-out between the two men were splashed across the front pages of every newspaper in London.
The headlines following the murder-suicide were nothing, however, compared to those that had riveted the public less than a month later when Lucinda Bromley’s fiancé, a young botanist named Ian Glasson, was found dead of poison.
The scandal was compounded by the sordid gossip that had swirled around the events immediately prior to Glasson’s demise. Lucinda had been seen rushing away from a secluded corner of the gardens at the Carstairs Botanical Society, the bodice of her gown half undone. A short time later, Glasson had sauntered out of the same remote section of the grounds, still fastening his trousers. A few days later he was in his coffin.
According to the lurid stories in the newspapers, Lucinda had fed her fiancé a cup of poisoned tea. They said she had secreted the lethal dose in a hidden chamber of a ring she always wore.
It was in the wake of the Glasson poisoning that the press had bestowed the name Lucrezia on Lucinda. The reference was to the infamous Lucrezia Borgia, who was said to have poisoned any number of people. According to the legend, the lady had concealed the deadly substance in a ring.
The door opened. A formidable-looking housekeeper eyed him as though she suspected he had come to steal the silver.
“I’m here to see Miss Bromley,” Caleb said. He gave the woman his card. “I believe I am expected.”
The housekeeper studied the card with a disapproving frown then reluctantly stepped back.
“Yes, Mr. Jones. Follow me, please.”
Caleb moved into a marble-tiled hall. A large mirror in a heavily gilded frame hung on the wall above an elaborately inlaid side table. The silver salver on top of the table designed to receive cards from visitors was empty.
He expected to be shown into the drawing room. Instead the housekeeper marched to the back of the house and through a library crammed with books, maps, globes and papers.
At the far end of the room the woman opened a set of French doors. Caleb found himself looking into a large conservatory. The fancifully designed glass-and-iron structure contained a verdant green jungle. Humid warmth flowed over him, carrying the scents of rich, fertile soil and thriving vegetation.
Other kinds of currents flowed from the conservatory, as well. He felt the unmistakable whispers of energy. It was a remarkably invigorating sensation. The atmosphere in the conservatory acted like a tonic on all his senses.
“Mr. Jones to see you, Miss Bromley,” the housekeeper announced in a voice that was loud enough to carry to the far end of the conservatory.
The sea of greenery was so thick and so dense that Caleb did not notice the woman in the gardening apron and leather gloves until she appeared from behind a waterfall of purple orchids. A prowling excitement whipped through him, tightening muscle and sinew. An inexplicable sense of urgency unfurled. The word invigorating came to mind again.
He did not know what he had been expecting but whatever it was, Lucinda Bromley engineered an extremely rare feat. She caught him entirely by surprise.
He supposed that, given her reputation, he had been anticipating a sleek, sophisticated lady with a façade of charm and polish that might just possibly conceal a venomous heart. Lucrezia Borgia had a certain reputation, after all.
But Lucinda looked more like an absentminded, scholarly Titania, Queen of the Fairies. Her hair put him in mind of an exploded sunset. She had attempted to tame the frothy red curls with pins and a couple of ribbons but to little avail.
Intelligence lit her features, transforming a face that would otherwise have been described as passable into one for which the only suitable word was riveting. He realized that he did not want to look away. She peered at him from behind the sparkling lenses of a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. Her eyes were a deep, fascinating shade of blue.
She wore a long, many-pocketed leather apron over a plain gray gown. In one hand she gripped a pair of pruning shears. The long, sharp blades of the tool had the appearance of some bizarre medieval weapon designed to be worn by an armored knight. A number of other equally dangerous-looking implements were festooned about her person.
“Thank you, Mrs. Shute,” Lucinda said. “We’ll take tea in the library, please.”
Her voice was not at all fairy-like, Caleb decided, pleased. Instead of the irritatingly high tinkle of little elfin bells that so many women cultivated, her tone was warm, confident and determined. Energy radiated from her in an invisible aura. A woman of power, he thought.
He had met other women with strong talents. They were not that uncommon at the higher levels of the Arcane Society. But something inside him responded to Lucinda’s energy in a way that was new and oddly unsettling. He had to fight the urge to move closer to her.
“I’ll fetch the tea, ma’am,” Mrs. Shute said. She turned and went back through the doorway.