Things Half in Shadow (10 page)

That all changed, however, after a lone man entered the fray. When people saw him, they stopped their pushing, their yelling, their general unruliness. A hush spread through the crowd, radiating outward from the man like water into which a pebble had been dropped. Soon everyone on the street, just as they had done so in the theater, fell silent.

The man was the Amazing Magellan, reappearing at last.

The manacles around his wrists were gone. Police inspectors later found them behind the theater, just outside the stage door. The ropes, too, no longer bound him, although one snaked around his right ankle, trailing behind him. The chains, though, remained, weighing him down and digging into the skin of his shoulders until they were raw and bleeding.

Stumbling in a daze, his eyes unfocused, he cried out, “She's gone! My love is gone!”

When a group of policemen approached, he let himself be taken into custody. A new set of manacles was placed around his wrists and he was led to a waiting wagonette.

He was never seen in public again. The Amazing Magellan had, intentionally or not, pulled off his greatest trick.

He had vanished for good.

Since then, little is known about what really happened backstage at the Walnut Street Theatre. Because all the stagehands had been dismissed prior to that final illusion, there were no witnesses. Still, whispers persisted throughout the city that Magellan Holmes had grown unhappy in his marriage. Some said he had met another woman while overseas and wanted to begin a new life with her. The grand new illusion he had been working on was merely a ruse, designed to give him just enough time to strangle his wife and flee the theater.

These stories seemed to match official accounts by the police, who claimed to have proof of his plan in the form of the iron shackles found outside the stage door. They claimed two people in a nearby alleyway—a man and a prostitute, rumor had it—witnessed Magellan running past, yanking away the ropes tangled around his limbs. The only thing that kept him from getting away was the unexpected crowd in the area. They came from all points of the city, filling the streets and forcing Magellan to run first one way, then the other, until he was suddenly and unluckily back at the theater.

It came as no surprise to anyone when word got out that Magellan Holmes had confessed to the willful murder of his wife.

Many assumed he would hang for his crimes, but that day never came. The scuttlebutt around the city was that a stay of execution had been signed by President Franklin Pierce himself, an admirer of the magician since his performance at the White House. Yet others said he was spared the noose because the police wanted to prevent any embarrassment—they didn't know if it was possible to hang a man who could levitate. And so the Amazing Magellan was
ordered to spend the rest of his days incarcerated at Eastern State Penitentiary, on the northwestern edge of Philadelphia.

Forgotten amid all this drama, like a lone card that had fallen out of a playing deck, was Columbus Holmes, the ten-year-old son of Magellan and Annalise. He had been by his parents' side during their trip around the world, seeing Paris and London, Munich and Rome. He had shaken hands with Czar Nicholas and bowed before Queen Victoria.

And he had been in the audience at the Walnut Street Theatre on that infamous Fourth of July, witnessing the entire scene.

For a few months after the crime, his image was everywhere. People gazed upon newspaper illustrations of the dark-haired, serious-faced boy and wondered what would happen to him now that he was essentially an orphan. But as Magellan Holmes sat in prison and the entire incident became a distant memory, no one attempted to find out more.

If one were to bother, it could be discovered that Columbus Holmes was sent to stay with his only living relative—his father's maiden aunt in Buffalo. Not wanting to be reminded of her shamed nephew or his crime, she, in turn, shipped Columbus off to an elite all-boys school in New England, where he became an outcast among his classmates.

When that cold and unloving aunt died, Columbus returned to the house in Buffalo only long enough to sell it and most of the possessions contained within its walls. By then, the War Between the States had broken out, and he enlisted in the Union Army, succumbing to dysentery before ever seeing battle. Because there was no one left to receive his body, he was buried in an unmarked grave somewhere in the foothills of Virginia.

The lineage of Magellan Holmes ended there.

But a strange thing happened to Columbus Holmes during his final days on earth. In a bustling and chaotic field hospital, he was placed beside another sick young man of the same age, also without
any relatives. When dysentery claimed the life of that soldier, a harried and war-weary doctor misidentified the young man, confusing him with Columbus. It was, truth be told, an easy mistake to make. The field hospital contained a great many sick and dying men, with little in the way of identification, and the two ill soldiers did bear a slight resemblance to each other, which their unshaven faces made all the more prominent.

Delirious with fever and on the verge of death himself, Columbus Holmes nevertheless sensed an opportunity in the doctor's error. Since the death of his mother, he had longed to change identities, to be known as anything other than the son of the infamous Magellan Holmes.

This was his chance.

So when he heard that confused doctor misidentify the dead soldier lying next to him, Columbus chose not to correct him. Nor did he say anything when two men carted away the corpse that suddenly bore his name. When someone else arrived to discard the young man's things, Columbus handed him his own meager possessions.

As the days passed and Columbus regained his health, he expected someone in that field hospital to realize the mistake that had been made. But it was a crowded, disease-ridden place, with more wounded arriving every day. No one noticed that the sickly young man once known as Columbus was answering to a new name.

Once he had fully recovered, the former Columbus Holmes walked away from the field hospital a new man. He was assigned to a new unit—his old one having long moved on—and earned the trust of his comrades. He marched with them into battle and fought bravely by their side. At war's end, he followed one of his new friends back to Philadelphia, where he bought a house, got a job, and began a new life, all using the name of a soldier who lay buried in the Virginia soil.

That poor dead soldier's name was Edward Clark.

Now it is mine.

L
ater that evening, I found myself riding in Mrs. Collins's impressive coach. To where, I did not know. The streets were filled with people from all walks of life emerging outdoors to enjoy the crisp spring air. Couples on their way to dinner strolled arm in arm down the crowded sidewalk, passing a lone lamplighter who paused every few steps to brighten the quickening dusk. If those along the street happened to peek into the windows of the coach, they probably would have assumed Mrs. Collins and I were just like them. A happy couple heading out for an enjoyable evening of food, drink, and entertainment. If they had looked closer, though, they would have seen Mrs. Collins and I sitting a good deal apart. Those who were particularly observant might have also noticed the ruthless gleam in her eyes and the panic in my own.

Also making me nervous was her brother, Thomas, who happened to be our coachman for the evening. I would have preferred someone older than ten at the reins of a pair of Cleveland Bays, which looked strong enough to drag us all the way to Ohio if they had a mind to. Yet up top he sat, cap askew and a wad of chewing tobacco wedged in his cheek. On the bright side, his perch kept him out of earshot, which allowed me to speak freely.

“How did you learn who I was?” I asked Mrs. Collins.

She waved the question away as if it were a pesky mosquito. “If you're concerned that I'm going to start telling others, don't be. Simply carry on with the plan and your secret is safe with me.”

“But I must know. If you found out without much effort, then others can as well.”

“I assure you that I learned of it quite accidentally,” Mrs. Collins said.

“From whom?”

At this, she offered a sly smile. “From
you
, naturally.”

“I told you no such thing!”

“Not in words,” Mrs. Collins said. “But the expression that was on your face told me everything I needed to know.”

I thought back to earlier that day, and how I had reacted to seeing the newspaper article about my mother's death and my father's arrest. My shock had been so great that I never bothered to deny Mrs. Collins's claim. I simply assumed she somehow knew I was the son of Magellan Holmes. But that clearly hadn't been the case.

“You tricked me into admitting the truth,” I said, disbelief heavy in my voice.

“ ‘Trick' is such a strong word,” Mrs. Collins replied. “I merely baited the hook. You chomped down on it all on your own.”

“So you had no idea about my true identity?”

“I had a
suspicion
,” she said. “As I mentioned earlier, I knew you had to be a magician, a medium, or someone closely acquainted with one. You knew too many tricks of the trade. So this morning, I visited a few of the newspaper offices in the city.”

I found myself hoping that
my
newspaper hadn't been one of them.

“Of course I didn't go to the
Bulletin
,” Mrs. Collins was quick to add. “They're the ones who sent you to me, after all, and would have been very unhelpful. But the others were quite accommodating when I asked about notable magicians in the city. A gentleman at the
Times
produced a box full of articles about Philadelphia's famed magicians. Among them was one about the Amazing Magellan's arrest. It included an illustration of his son. A son who would be around the same age you are now. One who, as it would happen, bore a slight resemblance to you.”

“And you recognized me from that?”

“No,” Mrs. Collins said. “You look far different now, of course. But there was enough of a resemblance for me to make an assumption about your identity. Lucky for me, that assumption was correct.”

“So if I had denied everything, you would have then left me alone?” I asked.

“Hardly. I would have found another way to get you to do my bidding. I'm quite good at that, as you'll soon learn.”

“I think I already have.”

“What I don't understand,” Mrs. Collins said, “is why you changed your identity in the first place. Certainly no one would think any less of you because of what your father did.”

Ah, but here she was wrong. People
would
think less of me. I knew because they had done so in the past. My father's aunt, for one, had wanted nothing to do with me. The school she had banished me to was even worse. Boys can be cruel to begin with. Put the son of a confessed murderer in their midst and they'll become absolutely savage.

I'm ashamed to admit that I joined the army not out of a strong desire to keep the union whole, but to be among men who might not know who I was and would therefore have no reason to pass judgment. But anonymity wasn't enough. I wanted to rid myself not only of my father's deeds, but his name as well. I couldn't bear to be Columbus Holmes, a name I had always disliked. It was too ornate, too showy. I longed to be a David or a Franklin. A name that blended easily into a crowd. A name that wasn't associated with the death of my mother. So when the opportunity to acquire a new one presented itself, I grabbed it without hesitation.

“People will always judge,” I told Mrs. Collins. “The sins of the father always reflect poorly on the son.”

“Speaking of your father, what does
he
think about this change of identity?”

“He doesn't know,” I said. “I haven't seen Magellan Holmes since the day he was arrested. The night my mother died, he became dead to me as well. Now please, Mrs. Collins, if you don't mind, I don't want to discuss this any further.”

“Then I won't bring it up again,” she replied. “Except to say that, since I know your real name, I'll allow you to start using mine. Please call me Lucy. Mrs. Collins sounds like someone who's nearing seventy.”

“But wouldn't the use of our first names imply a familiarity with each other?”

She blinked at me demurely and asked, “Are you saying you
want
to be familiar with me, Edward?”

“Hardly,” I said. “Which is why I wish to be addressed as Mr. Clark.”

“Wish all you'd like,
Edward
. But seeing that we're going to be spending plenty of time together, we might as well become better acquainted.”

I crossed my arms over my chest and expressed my displeasure with a huff. While I had the urge to throw open the coach door and jump into the street, I knew such an act would prove useless. Any escape I made would only be temporary. Lucy Collins, I was certain, would surely track me down again. There was no way around the fact that I was, for the moment, trapped.

“Fine,” I said. “So tell me,
Lucy
, what made you turn to Spiritualism as a way to earn a living?”

“Desperation.” Lucy Collins gazed out the coach window, her face the very picture of stoicism. “There aren't many opportunities for women like myself. Marriage is considered the easiest way to keep a roof over your head and food in your stomach, although it's more like indentured servitude, if you ask me.”

“It sounds like finding another husband isn't high on your list of priorities.”

“I would prefer to be hanged than endure another marriage. I'm perfectly happy in my current situation.”

“Deceiving people,” I said.

“
Helping
them,” Lucy replied. “And for your information, what I do is far more difficult than you think. Customers arrive with different needs. My task is to understand what those needs are and then fulfill them. It's hard to keep up.”