Murder by Magic

by Paul Tomlinson

  “I assume you will want to attend the party after tomorrow’s show,” Vickery said.

  “Party? No one mentioned a party.”

  “No, they didn’t,” Vickery said, “but there’s bound to be one. To celebrate my ‘return’ to the stage.”

  “Oh,” Malloy said. “I told them they shouldn’t bother because you’d hate a party.”

  “You did?” Vickery asked, crestfallen.

  “I’m sorry,” Malloy said. “I thought the last thing you’d want was a surprise party.”

  “Don’t concern yourself,” Vickery said.

  “I’ll talk to Toby tomorrow – tell him I made a mistake.”

  “You don’t have to do that, Jamie. It’s not important.”

  “I feel terrible now,” Malloy said, staring out through the windscreen.

  “You’re lying to me, aren’t you?” Vickery said.

  Malloy turned to him and grinned. “How did you know?”

  “There’s a thing that you always do when you’re not telling the truth,” Vickery said.

  “There is? What?”

  Vickery turned and smiled at him. “That’s one secret I’m not going to share with you.”

  “You made that up,” Malloy said. “You can’t possibly know when I’m lying. I’m an expert.”

  The Alvis turned into the crescent, and whatever reply Vickery was about to make was lost. There was a car parked in front of Vickery’s house.

  “Police,” Vickery said.

  Malloy parked behind it. A uniformed officer climbed out and approached them. Malloy wound down his window.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” he said, bending to look into their car, and touching a finger to the peak of his cap.

  “Constable,” Malloy said. “Is there a problem?”

  “I’ve been asked to collect you, sir. I’m to take you directly to Detective Inspector Grives.”

  “Why?” Malloy asked.

  “I’m not supposed to say, sir.”

  “There’s been another murder,” Vickery said. “Constable, you lead the way and we’ll follow you.”

  “Very good, sir.” The policeman touched the peak of his cap again and went back to his car.

  There were two police cars already parked on the bridge when they arrived. Another car pulled up soon after they did. Standing on the bridge over the river, they could see that two large lamps had been set up on sturdy wooden tripods on the path beside the water: one was pointed at the path, the other into the reeds that grew out from the bank into the water. It was a slightly surreal scene – like something arranged on a theatre stage. Beyond the illuminated tableau was only darkness.

  The constable led them onto an overgrown path that ran from a gap in the wall at the end of the bridge and down to the riverside path. The smell of wet earth and rotting vegetation brought to mind childhood expeditions to a local pond, where Malloy and his friends had taken turns to catch frogs in a net. They weren’t fishing frogs out of the water tonight.

  Three policemen stood on the bank. A third, who appeared to be wearing fisherman’s waders over his uniform, was standing in the reeds close to the bank. Inspector Grives was crouched beside a body that had been pulled out of the water and placed on the path. A photographer stood to one side, screwing a fresh bulb into the flash unit of his camera.

  Inspector Grives stood and greeted them with a nod. “Thought you were the police surgeon,” he said.

  “He arrived as we got here,” Vickery said, “he’ll be down in a minute.”

  “I thought you’d want to see this before we took him off to the morgue,” Grives said. “He was spotted from the river by a bargeman – face down in the water. I would say he drifted downstream and got snagged in the weeds.”

  Vickery nodded. He looked back along the river. “Probably put into the river at Hanford Lock, or somewhere near,” he said.

  “Maybe,” Grives said, “he hasn’t been in the water long.”

  “You’ve identified him already,” Vickery said, “that’s why you sent for us.”

  Grives ushered his men out of the way so that Vickery had a clear view of the body.

  Malloy looked down at the ghostly pale face and the unblinking eyes. He felt relieved that it wasn’t Danny Holcroft – and then he felt a twinge of guilt for thinking this.

  “Bristow,” Vickery said.

  “You’re sure that’s who it is?” Grives asked.

  “Yes,” Vickery said. Behind him, Malloy nodded.

  “The local bobby recognised him – he’s here somewhere,” Grives said, looking around. “I thought you might confirm it. Do you know his Christian name?”

  “I’m sorry,” Vickery said, shaking his head. “I only ever knew his as ‘Bristow.’ I’m sure Raymond Skelhorn will be able to tell you.”

  “Hmph,” Grives said. He looked down at the body. “He’s an addict, I’m told. There are fresh needle-marks in his arm. Could be an overdose.”

  “I would think it more likely that the broken neck killed him,” Vickery said.

  Grives looked back at the body, frowning. “We’ll let the doctor determine that, shall we?”

  “He was murdered,” Vickery said, “sometime after seven o’clock tonight.”

  “How can you possibly know that?” Grives said.

  “He was alive at seven o’clock when he delivered a message to me at the theatre,” Vickery said.

  “I will want to see that message,” Grives said.

  “Of course, Inspector. Malloy will drop it in at the station in the morning.”

  Grives looked as if he wanted to demand immediate delivery, but he just nodded.

  “We should get out of the way and allow your surgeon to do his work,” Vickery said. He turned to go but turned back as another question occurred to him. “I’m curious, Inspector, why you made an immediate connection between this and Charlie McNair’s murder.”

  Grives looked away towards the river, then back at Vickery. “Bristow is a magician’s assistant – McNair was a magician.” He shrugged.

  “Thank you, Inspector.”

  Vickery and Malloy stood back to allow the police surgeon to pass them, and then they headed back up to the bridge.

  “Poor Bristow,” Vickery said, “he didn’t deserve that.”

  “Home?” Malloy asked.

  “Let’s go back via Ellerton Grove.”

  “That’s quite a detour,” Malloy said. “You want to search Bristow’s flat?”

  “I thought we might drop in before the police get there.”   

  As they came to the junction, about to turn and head into Ellerton Grove, the bells of a fire-engine sounded behind them. Malloy pulled over to let it pass.  He glanced at Vickery and knew he was thinking the same thing. Malloy followed the fire-engine.

  “Someone else decided to pay a visit,” Malloy said.

  They were standing beside the Alvis, looking down the street to where the fire engine had drawn up in front of the house at the end of the terrace. Bristow’s flat had occupied the upper floor of the house. There was already a smaller engine in attendance, its hose directed up at the house. Orange flames were visible in every window and were beginning to show themselves through the slates of the roof. As they watched, glass from a downstairs window shattered and was blown out into the street. Watching neighbours, including a couple of children in pyjamas, gasped and drew back to a safer distance.

  “There’s nothing we can do here,” Vickery said.

  “Do you want to go over to Bristow’s workshop?” Malloy asked.

  Vickery nodded.

  Smoke was rising behind the old warehouse as they approached, lit orange by flames they could not yet see.

  “Stop here,” Vickery said.

  They walked around the factory, reaching the rear of it just as the roof of Bristow’s lean-to collapsed, sending sparks and flames flying up into the night sky.

  Vickery moved a little closer, peering into the blackened and glow
ing timber framework that was all that remained of the building.

  “Everything has been destroyed,” Malloy said.

  “Not everything.”

  “What’s left in there?”

  “I’m more interested in what’s not in there,” Vickery said.

  It took Malloy a moment to realise. “Bristow’s delivery van is missing!”

  In the distance, the bells of another fire-engine could be heard.

  “We should go,” Vickery said. “Questions might be asked if we were spotted at the scenes of two suspicious fires.”

  “Do you think Skelhorn is responsible for all of this?” Malloy asked.

  “He may be.”

  “Bristow was afraid something like this would happen,” Malloy said. “But he told us he’d taken precautions to protect himself.”

  “We need to find that delivery van,” Vickery said. “Bristow probably moved it to a new location after we visited him here.”

  “I could tell Inspector Grives about the van tomorrow,” Malloy said. “His men could search for it.”

  “No,” Vickery said. “I want to look at the van before the police get their hands on it.”

  “You don’t trust Grives?”

  “I don’t trust anyone,” Vickery said. “Except for you, of course.”

  They got back into the car.

  “He didn’t tell us anything,” Malloy said, “but Bristow is dead because of us, isn’t he?”

  “No, Jamie, he’s dead because someone broke his neck. That wasn’t us,” Vickery said. “Let’s go home.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Have you been bitten by the bug?” Vickery asked.

  Malloy’s cheeks ached – he’d been grinning since the curtain went down after their encore. The nervous energy was still coursing through him and he felt an urge to dance, but with so many people in the room, there was no space. Drinks and food had been set out on trestle tables at the back of the theatre’s rehearsal room. With the audience gone and the end of day chores complete, the whole company had congregated here.

  “I can’t quite believe I made it through all three days,” Malloy said. “I would happily do it again tomorrow.”

  Vickery smiled. “Don’t let Toby hear you say that.”

  “I like feeling like this,” Malloy said.

  “We must do our best to enjoy tonight. From experience, I can tell you that the next few days will feel like a terrible anti-climax.”

  Toby Crabbe had given a short speech, offering a toast to ‘absent friends,’ and thanking Vickery and Malloy for stepping in and helping the Palais in its time of need. This had brought cheers and applause, and everyone raised their glasses.

  “Where did the champagne come from?” Toby asked. He was already looking a little glassy-eyed.

  “A mysterious benefactor,” Malloy said.

  Seemingly satisfied with this answer, Toby nodded wandered away. Malloy was sure the crates of champagne had cost more than Vickery had been paid for the three performances. But this had never been about the money.

  “Jamie, I’d like you to meet Wu Shan Chung,” Vickery said.

  The old man’s face was wrinkled and he was dressed in a Chinese costume straight out of a Victorian comic opera. His head was completely bald, and his eyes were magnified by the round, steel-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. The strings of his grey moustache and beard were even more exaggerated than the fake ones Charlie McNair had worn. He was leaning heavily on a bamboo cane.

  “Mr. Wu,” Jamie said, bowing and shaking the old man’s hand. “Didn’t they write a song about you?”

  The old man nodded. “Must have stern word with young Mr. Booth,” he said. “Please also be introduced to beautiful daughter Soo-Lin.”

  “Please, call me Soo,” she said, offering her hand. Malloy gave a theatrical bow and kissed it. This seemed to amuse her. Soo-Lin wore a tight black evening dress by a Paris fashion house and patent leather shoes with heels that made her almost as tall as Malloy. She was smoking a thin black cigar. “You’re thinking I don’t look Chinese,” she said, “and I’m thinking you don’t sound Irish.”

  “Daughter!” Mr. Wu cautioned.

  “I’m sorry,” Soo-Lin said, “I always forget that we’re supposed to respect each other’s secrets.”

  “Why don’t I get us both some champagne?” Malloy said.

  “I like him,” Soo-Lin said, watching him go.

  “He’s spoken for,” Mr. Wu said, then he turned to Vickery. “Isn’t he?”

  “You would need to ask Mr. Malloy that question,” Vickery said. “It is good to see you again, old friend.”

  “He changes subject, that is clue,” Mr. Wu told his daughter. “We saw act tonight – punters enthusiastic. Reminded of old times.”

  “It has been a good run,” Vickery said.

  “But short,” Mr. Wu said. “You sure you not want to stay on?”

  Vickery shook his head. “I’m glad I agreed to do it. But it is not a life I want to go back to.”

  “Touring is young man’s game,” Mr. Wu said, nodding. “You should leave to us spring chickens.”

  Malloy returned with a tray of champagne glasses. Mr. Wu refused to accept one.

  “I must go and impress company. Make them quickly forget Great Vicari!” He gave a little bow and shuffled away.

  Soo-Lin watched him go, shaking her head.

  “You have taken your mother’s place in the act?” Vickery said.

  “She told him she’s too old for this nonsense,” she said. “Said that he had to choose – her or the magic. And here he is.”

  “Marian won’t leave him, of course,” Vickery said,

  “When she grows bored spending his money in Paris, she’ll join us here.” Soo-Lin drew on her cigar

  “How is your brother?” Vickery asked.

  “A pain in the arse, as ever. Mummy has paid off his debts – again. She should let them break his legs, just once. It would do him the world of good, don’t you think?” She sipped her drink and glanced over towards her father. “Oh, good lord, he’s going to impale himself again. I’d better go and keep an eye on him. It was nice seeing you again, Benjamin. Mr. Malloy.”

  Malloy watched her hips swaying as she walked away. “She’s nice.”

  “That’s what she said about you,” Vickery said. “We ought to go and watch.”

  “I hardly think the ‘Mysterious Mr. Wu’ is in your league,” Malloy said. “He sounds like an amateur performance of The Mikado.”

  “That’s Japanese,” Vickery said. “And you of all people should not be fooled by accents. I’ve seen Shan Chung perform King Lear.”

  People had formed a circle around the Chinese magician. Mr. Wu held up his bamboo cane, brandishing it like a magic wand. Then he pretended it was a sword, swishing it in front of him and adopting a fencing pose. He pulled a filmy silk scarf from the front of his robe and threw it into the air. Then as it drifted down, he used the blunt edge of the cane to slice it into ribbons.

  “It is trick,” he said when the applause faded. He held up the cane. “Is really blade.” He swished it again. Then he held one end of it in each hand and pulled them apart, revealing that the cane to be a sword-stick, the blade hidden inside. He tossed the bamboo sheath to Soo-Lin, who caught it easily.

  “Blade is real,” he said, showing it to the people nearest him. Then he pointed it at the ground and jabbed it downwards. It stabbed the floor with a distinct metallic poing. “Once stabbed self in foot,” he said. “Now wear spectacles.” He turned and looked behind him. “Please not to stand too close.” A couple of people backed away. “And now, all count to three,” he said. “If cannot count, just move lips like when sing hymn in church.”

  “One! Two! Three!” The whole company chanted together, and on three, Mr. Wu suddenly pushed the sword through his stomach. Six inches of the blade poked out from his back. Someone cried out – then laughed as the old man raised his hands above his head and turned s
lowly to allow everyone to see that he had been stabbed right the way through.

  “Word of advice,” Mr. Wu said, “better to cut food before eating.” He gave a little belch. People laughed. “Now please to count backwards for removal.”

  “Three. Two. One!”

  Mr. Wu pulled the blade free. Streams of water poured from the holes in his robe, front and back. They quickly subsided. “So sorry, had glass of water earlier.” He bounced the point of the blade on the ground again. Poing. “You no try this trick at home,” he said. “Stabbing self in stomach dangerous. I practice many years. Start small first, with arm.” He jabbed the blade upwards through his forearm. Again he turned so that everyone could see the blade through him. He pulled the sword free and quickly slid up the sleeve of his robe, revealing the bare, unmarked arm inside. He bowed and handed the blade over to his daughter.

  “How did he do that?” Malloy asked.

  “I haven’t the foggiest idea,” Vickery said. “I’ve seen an apparatus that allows you to stab someone through the body – it is hidden beneath one’s clothes. But the blade through the bare arm? That’s impossible.”

  Malloy looked at Vickery and couldn’t decide if he was being serious. Then he grinned. “You’re in your element here, aren’t you?” he said.

  Vickery looked around him and he too smiled. “It’s nice to be here again. I didn’t think I would ever come back to this. Our three nights on stage have laid some ghosts to rest.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “I couldn’t have done it without you, you know that.”

  “Sure you could,” Malloy said. “Is this really the end of it. Or do you want to go back on tour with your act?”

  “If I did, would you come with me?”

  Malloy answered without hesitating. “If that’s what you want to do.”

  Vickery leaned back against the wall and thought about it. “I have grown rather accustomed to the comforts of home,” he said. “The thought of moving from town to town, country to country, living out of a suitcase – it doesn’t appeal to me anymore.”