The Illusionist's Apprentice

by Kristy Cambron

  “Naturally. But we’re considering all angles, so to speak.”

  “You mean you’re considering all motives.”

  “Motives for what?”

  “Precisely.” She tipped her head toward the door to the hall. “No partner? I thought you Bureau boys traveled together. Like a pair of well-worn shoes.”

  Just who was conducting this interview?

  “Well, yes. We do work in teams, Ms. Lockhart. My partner is outside having a smoke.”

  “I see.” She clasped her hands in her lap. “You will have to tell him he missed out on a warm fire and pleasant conversation. And our tea, when it arrives. Or perhaps you’re a bourbon man? But alas, I loathe it and won’t allow a single drop under my roof—that, too, on principle.”

  “While I applaud you for following the law to the letter, I really won’t be here long enough for a drink of anything.” Elliot flipped the notepad open to a fresh page. “I’d just like to get down to business, then be on my way, if that’s alright?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Good. Have you always worked as a magician?”

  Wren brought the tips of her fingers together in a steeple under her chin but said nothing right away.

  He wrote Confident at the top of the page.

  “I have never worked as a magician, Agent Matthews.”

  Elliot glanced up, meeting her challenge. “Then the newspapers have it wrong? You haven’t given shows all over the world? Taken to, uh . . .” He flipped a few pages back in his pad. “Wanderlust, I believe the press called it. I wonder if you could comment on that.”

  She narrowed her eyes, a sure sign his question was ill appreciated. “I don’t see the relevance of that question. And I’d contend that newspapers manage to get few things correct,” she said matter-of-factly. “You asked if I’d always worked as a magician. The answer is no. I never have. I’m an illusionist, and there is quite a difference. I’ve never claimed the use of magic. I don’t believe in it.”

  “You’re a religious woman then?”

  “Faith and religion can be two different things. I prefer not to confuse them. And as to wanderlust? Well, that is the newspapers’ opinion. I simply don’t bother to correct them. As I said, I haven’t the time.”

  “I’ll make note of that—no newspapers.” He jotted down Clever as the next word on his list. “And how long have you lived at this estate?”

  “Six years.”

  “Does anyone else live here at the house with you?”

  Her eyes turned playful, sparkling in their golden depths. “Is that a backhanded way of inquiring as to whether I’m married, Agent Matthews?”

  “No—” He faltered for a breath, then sat up a little straighter, covering the hitch. “I need an account of everyone under this roof in the event I have to come back.”

  “Irina, my business manager, whom you met at the door, lives here at the estate. We have Mr. Adler on staff from time to time. He comes twice a week to tend the garden and grounds, but that’s usually only in season.”

  “No other permanent staff?” He added Independent to the list, then looked up as she gave a slow shake of her head, a cool smile easing onto her lips.

  “Not at the moment.”

  “And why is that? It’s quite a large estate house from the looks of it.”

  “It is. But you see, if I need something done then I take care of it myself. We typically bring new staff in only for a party or an event, but that is planned well in advance and all candidates are thoroughly screened to my satisfaction.”

  “Right.” Elliot nodded, underlining Independent on his list for good measure. “And did your staff attend Horace Stapleton’s show with you?”

  “No. I don’t employ staff, as I’ve said, so I attended alone. My manager stayed on to watch over my affairs here, which she always does.”

  “So you won’t be surprised when I corroborate these details.”

  “Of course not.” She paused. “And when the questions about Victor Peale begin, let me know. I do so want to be on my toes.”

  Elliot cleared his throat. If he wanted to battle with the wry wit of Wren Lockhart, he’d have to hit harder.

  A lot harder. “Very good. Last question, Ms. Lockhart, and it looks like I can be out of your way for now.” Elliot punctuated the statement by locking eyes with hers in an iron glare. “Is it true that your real name is Jennifer Charles?”

  Her features iced over, chilling the temperature of the room despite the warmth of the fire. She raised her chin, as if the question were a marked intrusion into a place she’d put up a fight to keep hidden.

  Checkmate.

  Turns out he’d struck the chord he’d intended.

  Wren held his stare far longer than most men would have. “Where did you come across that name?”

  He didn’t miss a beat and answered, “In a file.”

  “What file?”

  “I’m afraid that’s Bureau business, madam.”

  The firelight danced across her face. She paused, seemingly to choose her words carefully. “Yet you still asked questions that anyone could learn about me if they did a bit of research. I’d say that file of yours must be full of some rather remarkable holes.”

  “Oh no, Ms. Lockhart. We have quite enough to fill as many files as we’d like. I was only asking the questions to ascertain whether or not you’d be honest with me.”

  Wren’s eyes flashed with anger. “Excuse me, but am I being implicated in some sort of crime?”

  “Not at all. Unless, of course, you have something to hide.”

  “What could I have to hide? I’ve welcomed you into my home, haven’t I?”

  “You have . . . yes.”

  “Well then.” She dropped her hands to the armrests, triumph evident. “I ask you. What more can you have to question me about?”

  Elliot scanned the room, settling his glance on a door nestled in a shadowed back corner. It was tucked away, as if forgotten between dusty bookcases and a velvet curtain that had been drawn over a great portion of it.

  He allowed his gaze to linger on the possibility of hidden mysteries she might be concealing behind it, before shifting his focus back to her.

  “I believe you have nothing to hide—at least not of a criminal nature.” He pointed his pencil toward the hidden door. “It’s what’s behind doors like that I find holds my interest, Ms. Lockhart. Not the distractions you want others to see in this room.”

  Elliot jotted down one more word, then tucked the pad and pencil back in the inside coat pocket. He exchanged them for a single scrap of paper he held in his fingertips.

  “When Victor Peale’s body was examined, we found several items on his person. Curiously, we found a book tucked in an inside pocket of his jacket.” He held up a piece of paper between his fingertips. “And a piece of paper that had been slipped in the front cover, similar to this one: a scrap with two names written on it.”

  “Which book?” Her voice was soft and controlled, as if she asked out of making polite conversation, instead of the keen interest that he knew held her captive.

  Why not ask me the names? Why not ask why a piece of paper would remain intact seemingly after so long in a grave?

  “A copy of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Hound of the Baskervilles. First edition, as a matter of fact.”

  “Sharing information are you, Agent Matthews?”

  “Whatever I need to in order to get what I want, Ms. Lockhart.”

  She rose and crossed the room to the mantel, wasting no time to summon Irina with a tug on the gold chord against the wall. “I’m afraid that’s all I have time for today. I have a prior engagement I must attend to, so if you’ll excuse me.”

  Elliot patted the scrap of paper on the armrest and stood.

  Slowly.

  With marked intention.

  “Well then . . . I do thank you for your time.”

  Wren took a confident step toward him, the heel of her boot clipping against the hardwood f
loor. She looked him square in the eyes. “You’re intruding upon things of which you know nothing, Agent Matthews. Vaudeville is a complex world—so much more than what you might see on a stage. But it is also a notoriously closed world to outsiders. Be aware that what you’ll unearth by digging into Stapleton’s life may turn out to be more than you bargained for. Dig too deep and you could find yourself buried in the aftermath.”

  “Sharing information?” He reached back into his jacket pocket and raised an eyebrow. “Should I be taking notes?”

  “Write whatever you’d like. It was merely a piece of advice. And as a matter of record, I prefer to stand on truth. The ground there is much more solid. But I will tell you this: I fiercely protect every corner I own. I won’t be intimidated, especially by an agent who thinks he can do so in my home.”

  “Of that I have no doubt, Ms. Lockhart. And I assure you”—Elliot buttoned his jacket—“it was meant to be a friendly call. I’ll see myself out.”

  “No need. Irina will meet you outside the door with your coat and hat. To make quite sure you don’t get lost on your way to the front gate. I bid you a good day.”

  “Until we meet again.” He nodded to her just as the library door was opened from the hall.

  Irina was there, just as Ms. Lockhart had predicted, waiting on the other side with his coat and hat in hand. Elliot accepted them, adding, “Good day,” to Wren before he was followed down the hall and tossed out by the seat of his trousers.

  The pleasant smell of cinnamon curry from the mansion died as the door was shut behind him. The sound of turning bolts cut through the air. The wind kicked up with its relentless sting, reminding Elliot once again that it was early January.

  He pulled the collar of his trench coat up around his chin to fend off its onslaught and trekked through the ankle-deep snow on the path to the curb.

  “What took you so long?” Connor blasted him the instant Elliot slipped into the passenger side of their car. “I was nearly fitted for a pine box out here!”

  “I was just engaged in a little chess match, that’s all. Took longer than I thought. But my hunch was right: this Jennifer Charles and Wren Lockhart are one and the same.”

  “Well, praise be for that much.” Connor fired up the engine, then angled the car out onto the snow-covered street.

  “It means the pieces on the game board are in play, and Ms. Lockhart now knows where we stand. She knows more about Peale’s death than she’s willing to admit—at least right now. And whatever she’s uneasy about regarding her real name could be why she’s been putting us off. We’ll just have to do our best to change her mind about getting involved.”

  “Well, you could have at least let me go in with you. Never heard of a partner who prefers interviewing potential witnesses alone, especially when it’s January and the mansion is sure to have a fireplace or two.”

  “I wanted to see her reaction to my questions. She wouldn’t have been as open with two of us in the room. But never fear, you’ll get to see her up close when we drop in at her next show.”

  “A show? When?”

  “Saturday night, as a matter of fact.”

  Connor gave him an exasperated glare, muttering, “I’m putting in for a transfer.”

  “No you’re not. You want to get to the bottom of this as much as I do.” Elliot chuckled. Connor’s gruff exterior hid an almost childlike curiosity about the unexplained. This mystery was simply too good for him to walk away from. “As soon as the medical examiner’s report comes back, you and I both know this case will become the media frenzy Stapleton wanted—except he could be arrested for killing a man instead of bringing him back to life.

  “Everyone saw Peale walk across that stage. He wasn’t a phantom or a vapor created by smoke and mirrors. However it happened, Peale was alive—for a few moments, anyway. And now he’s dead. And Stapleton may have to answer for it.”

  “And you think she can stop that?”

  Elliot shook his head. “No. But she can help us uncover the truth, and it’s almost the same thing. Truth is the illusion we always chase.”

  The car chugged past the Beacon Hill landscape. Elliot continued thinking on the encounter as snowy scenes passed by the window. How long did it take for the ever-composed Wren Lockhart to snap up the paper he’d left on the chair’s armrest?

  On it was written: Jennifer Charles, the name Wren wanted to remain buried deep in her past. Beneath it: Ehrich Weisz, the real name of the infamous Harry Houdini, the legend they both knew she’d apprenticed under. And though Elliot could imagine what must have been going through her mind, it was the conclusions he’d written on his own paper that told him what he needed to know about Ms. Lockhart.

  Confident, clever, independent, and sad.

  CHAPTER 3

  JANUARY 12, 1927

  THE CASTLETON THEATRE

  SCOLLAY SQUARE

  BOSTON, MASS.

  Wren was fairly certain she was being followed.

  She thought she caught sight of a figure as it cut a ghostly path through the glow of the lamplights along old Trenton Street. The shadow appeared to be trailing her a little more than a block behind. She quickened her pace, marching through the shroud of darkness that hovered between the downtown buildings, bound for the back alley entrance to the Castleton Theatre.

  Braggarts were known to frequent the hidden corners and alleys of the theater district, even in the winter. And though patrons trickled out from theaters—potential witnesses who might deter criminal intentions—the hour was still late and the alleys dark enough that she didn’t want to tempt trouble to glance her way.

  Wren kept the white-knuckled grip on her walking stick, ready to defend herself if need be. Though she doubted anyone would dare to challenge her.

  Not on this night.

  Not when she’d had to contend with a visit from the FBI and an urgent summons to the Castleton on the very same day. If anyone provoked a confrontation in her present mood, they’d soon regret it.

  A stray cat hissed, overturning a crate in its haste to flee from Wren’s approach.

  She jumped back, almost falling prey to a wide patch of ice under a nearby waterspout. The heel of her boot slipped, throwing her against the side of the building, shoulder smashing brick.

  “Blasted cat!” She cracked the end of her cane against one of the upturned crates, sending it flying out of her path. “Be off with you!”

  The cat scurried away, hissing out its final threats.

  “You’re on edge,” she muttered to herself, running her hand down the length of her arm to dust off any dirt that may have marred her cloak. “Calm down. Stand tall.”

  Wren stopped long enough to glance over her shoulder. Whoever might have been there hadn’t followed her into the alley. She drew in a deep breath and let it out, by degrees, before edging past the ice to knock on the stage-side door. She kicked her boots against the brick wall to free them of latent snow and waited.

  Nothing.

  She knocked harder, this time pounding with her gloved fist against the aged wood. When no one answered, she tried the tarnished brass knob. It squeaked, giving easily. The door groaned on rusty hinges as she opened it wide.

  Wren stepped under the low door frame, making sure to clear the edge of her top hat.

  The theater’s back halls were dank and dimly lit. The one working lightbulb hung from the ceiling far to one end and let off weak light at best.

  “Why is no one posted at this door?” she called out.

  The scurrying of tiny feet froze her, the hair on the back of her neck spiking to attention. Whether roaches or rats it didn’t matter, she bemoaned the prospect of either uninvited guest. She’d never been so grateful she wore boots that protected her legs up to the knees.

  Wren rapped her knuckles against the nearest wall, trying to get someone’s attention. When no one responded, she stepped over a pile of soiled linens mounded next to the door, covering the lingering odors of sweat and lye with her glov
ed hand pressed against her nose.

  “Hello?” She tried not to trip over formless obstacles lining the walls. She bumped into a metal bucket and mop, sending both clattering to the floor. “Honestly!” She knelt and groped out in the darkness. “Tulley?”

  “Wren—”

  She stood and turned toward the voice, only to plow front-first into the stage manager.

  The collision rocked her onto her backside, knocking off her hat. She absorbed the impact with her outstretched hand, then grimaced when the leather of her glove pulled against something sticky the instant she lifted it from the floor.

  The man offered her a hand up, scruffy bearded face looking down, the burn of the lightbulb casting a glow behind him. It outlined a linen shirt and a red-and-black-striped vest at his shoulders.

  “Between the ice in the alley and the traps set up in this hall, I’m surprised I’m still in one piece.”

  “Come on.” Tulley sighed and hooked an arm under her elbow. “I’ll help you up.”

  “I can do it.” She released herself from his grip. “But thank you.” She pushed up from the ground. When she was sure her feet were level on the floor, she inhaled. Squared her shoulders.

  He picked up her top hat and dusted it against his sleeve before offering it back to her.

  “It’s us that thank you for coming tonight, Wren. We had no one else to call.”

  “Apparently it’s quite good that I did. The laundry, Tulley.” Wren extended her arm wide to question the deplorable conditions surrounding them, down to the end of the halls by the smell of it. “I don’t think it’s too much to ask for an explanation.”

  “I know, I know. Don’t say it.” He moved past her, grumbling, “Where’s that switch?”

  He lit a match, then ran his hand along the wooden framing against the back wall.

  “The wiring’s all shot. Been on the fringe for months, but it’s taken a turn now. The lights keep going out back here, and we’ve taken to using candles in the dressing rooms. The girls are all threatening to quit, and I don’t blame them. The other theaters on the block don’t have to deal with such conditions.”

  She sighed. “Did you tell Josiah?”