The Illusionist's Apprentice

by Kristy Cambron

  “Though that’s clearly impossible.”

  “We know it is, Ms. Lockhart. But Stapleton suggests Peale died again in the moments after he was brought back, and that is the man’s own misfortune. Stapleton only claims responsibility for summoning his spirit from the other side.”

  “You’re here to solicit my help in solving a murder.”

  “Not solving outright. Helping to uncover the truth, yes. Stapleton’s not talking. He won’t refute anything. Seems to think the charges are baseless when he gets off scot-free, but he’s not willing to destroy his career to prove himself innocent. He’s making this a matter of spiritualism, claiming a connection with the other side that law enforcement couldn’t understand—or find criminal. The courts will have to unfurl the legalities of that. And I’m sorry, but you were brought into this matter, along with Mr. Houdini, when your names were written on the paper we found on Peale’s body.”

  “I had nothing to do with that.”

  “We believe you.” Elliot raised his hands, palms forward. “But it’s why your name was there in the first place that we have to investigate. It’s as if someone knew Peale was going to die and your name would be found on his body afterward. You were drawn into the mix because someone knows of your past connection to Stapleton, and we believe they want to exploit it.”

  The image of the pink-filigree party invitation invaded her thoughts. “Amberley . . . ,” she whispered.

  “We’re not sure of Mrs. Dover’s involvement. But it would speed things along if you could share what you may know about her connection to all of this,” Connor added.

  Elliot sent Connor a look, clearly bidding silence in their proceedings.

  The more seasoned of the two seemed gifted with the ability to look through a person. His clear-blue eyes didn’t waver, as if too knowledgeable of things they shouldn’t have been.

  She swallowed hard, considering.

  “We’re not asking for ourselves, Ms. Lockhart. A man is dead, and we’re charged with finding the guilty party. Moreover, if Stapleton is exonerated after a trial, he’ll walk out of his jail cell a free man to take advantage of the unsuspecting public with outlandish claims again. He’ll just find new hearts to prey upon. I would think you of all people can sympathize with that. We need to ensure whomever is responsible is prosecuted but at the same time, prove Stapleton’s claims as false.”

  The words she’d spoken onstage but an hour prior came back to haunt her.

  Stapleton had swindled money from grieving widows and parents with empty cradles for years, always claiming to have a mystical connection to the grave. But now he’d found himself in real criminal trouble, and all the showmanship in the world couldn’t free him from his iron cage.

  “I can’t possibly help you without giving myself away or revealing the secrets of every other illusionist on vaudeville. Once it gets out that I’m helping you, I’d be cut off from everyone I care about, from everything I’ve built. It would spell the end of my career.”

  “We’ll protect you,” Elliot answered without pause. “We won’t reveal anything that would be detrimental. Your file would be sealed. As far as the press knows, we’re hounding every notable vaudeville performer. It’s logical that you would be a target of our investigation.”

  “I don’t need protection. Furthermore, you can’t promise me that, especially not after that stunt you pulled onstage tonight. You’ve linked me to the FBI, yet you tell me no one will know. Secrets always come up for air. They’re never content to stay buried for long. You cannot know what you’re asking me,” Wren fired back, not comforted in the least when anyone asked for her blind trust or offered promises of protection in return.

  She’d find them broken all too soon.

  “We’d thought of that. But we can spin this any way we need to,” Elliot countered. “The FBI might be questioning you just because you’re an illusionist. Wouldn’t the public take issue with that? You’d earn their sympathies along with Stapleton. And we would be pursuing you, but you could rebuff the request—at least in the public’s view. No one would have to know you’re helping us.”

  Connor stared down at the tips of his shoes. He seemed almost pained by their putting her through her paces, and that was a small amount of solace. And though Elliot’s eyes reflected sincerity, they were far more unwavering than Connor’s.

  Elliot was after truth. She doubted anything mattered more to him.

  “What about Bess?”

  He furrowed his brow. “Houdini’s wife?”

  “Yes. How could I dare reveal her husband’s secrets when she’s still overcome with grief at his passing?”

  “You know Houdini’s secrets?” Connor piped up, clearly intrigued.

  Wren bit her tongue, frustrated at what she’d revealed. “I won’t definitively state what I do or don’t know, certainly not in a backstage area and without assurances that my words wouldn’t be repeated.”

  Elliot exchanged glances with Connor, adding, “But you know more about Harry Houdini’s stage secrets than you’re leading everyone to believe, don’t you? It’s why you’re still an ardent supporter of defrauding spiritualists. Are you carrying on his work?”

  It was common knowledge that she’d once worked with the famed illusionist’s show. The biting fact was, they’d managed to strike at a tender place within Wren, one in which the words had tumbled from her lips and there was no seizing them back.

  She’d tossed a strong bargaining chip on the table. Now she’d stiffen her spine and see what they intended to do with it.

  “If I agree to answer your questions, we pick up where Harry left off with Stapleton without drawing anyone else in. I won’t be the traitor to reveal secrets of the stage, outside of what may have occurred at that cemetery. We keep him from being charged with murder by proving him a fraud, if that’s what it takes. But we leave the name of Houdini out of it. Those are my terms.”

  “I don’t believe you would be a traitor to anyone,” Elliot said with a quiet poignancy that willed her to trust something in him. After waiting several long seconds for a response, he added, “But I’m also not too proud to say we need your help.”

  Wren connected her gaze with his, trying to read whether there was honor in them.

  Would he remain faithful to his promise to protect her name? Wren Lockhart was entangled in the case now whether she wanted to be or not. But Jennifer Charles—there was far more at stake for her.

  “Jennifer Charles,” she said. “I won’t agree unless you bury that name. If one mention of her makes it into the papers, I’m walking. No second chances.”

  Elliot nodded. “Done.”

  Wren sighed. It was about as uncertain a deal as she could make.

  “I will help you then, gentlemen. On one final condition,” she whispered.

  Elliot looked over at Connor. Skepticism melted away from both of their faces. “Alright. What do you want?”

  Wren stood and could feel their gazes follow her as she crossed the room to the wardrobe with the mirrored front. She opened it, the door creaking out in protest. Irina had left her crimson cape hanging there. From the secret pocket sewn into the seam, Wren pulled a pink-filigree invitation with gold-foil script.

  She crossed back over to where the men sat.

  “I believe the fiasco in the cemetery was merely the opening act to a bigger show.” Wren held the invitation out to Elliot. He took it in hand, his eyes questioning. “Amberley Dover is hosting a party next month. This will get you in.”

  Wren lifted her chin a notch. “If anyone was involved in Victor Peale’s death, she’s going down with them.”

  CHAPTER 6

  APRIL 2, 1907

  THE CASTLETON THEATRE

  SCOLLAY SQUARE

  BOSTON, MASS.

  “You like the box?” Jenny’s uncle Franklin smiled, his eyes bright.

  She unwrapped the gold-foil paper to find a beautiful box, with lacy paper cutouts raised on the top. It was a rich robin’s
-egg blue—because her uncle must have known she didn’t favor pink.

  “I found the box in a shop along the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, just for you.”

  “Along a what?” Jenny ran her hand over the luxurious box, hardly able to take her eyes off it to get to the birthday gift inside. It was heavy, weighting the box in her lap.

  “Why, the Champs-Élysées. A most famous street in Paris, of course. You can’t tell me you’ve never heard of it?” He gave her a tsk, tsk look, as if every proper young lady should know the layout of France’s most famous, modern city.

  “No. But would you take me one day?”

  “To Paris?” He crossed his arms over his chest, play-thinking.

  Her eyes must have lit up, because the mocking melted from his face and was soon replaced with warmth again. “Certainly. If it’s alright with your mother and father.”

  “Maybe you could take Charlotte too. She likes pretty things. If Paris has more things like this, she’d be happy there.”

  “Well, we’ll have to see about that, I think.”

  “But you’ll leave again soon, won’t you? To go back to London.”

  He looked down, as if her question had given him pause.

  “Yes. I have some . . . things . . . lingering there that need my attention. I can’t leave them now. But you needn’t worry about that. Even across an ocean, I’ll always be here if you need me. You can rest assured of that.”

  Jenny looked away, finding the pretty box an easier focus than thinking about him leaving again.

  Her momma was sick again.

  She was often sick, but this day was different. It was Jenny’s birthday. And they were meant to have tea and cakes and take a walk to the big Common Park to feed the birds. Instead, her father had woken Jenny as the sun came up, not even letting her put on her favorite dress for the occasion, and took her along with him to the theater. At least Uncle Franklin had come to see her. And to her surprise, he’d brought her a present all the way from across the sea!

  He sat on the front of the stage next to her, dangling his long legs off the side by her little ones. She tried to smile at him. Momma had always told her she should be grateful when she was given a gift. And this might be the most beautiful one she’d ever received just based on the box.

  She shook it lightly. What made the weight shift inside?

  “Jenny? What is it?”

  Tears welled up in her eyes. She couldn’t fight them back.

  She could turn back to her uncle—the man who looked like what her father would if he ever smiled—and wish, especially on days like this, that he was her father instead.

  Her mother had scolded her the one time she’d said it out loud, that it was a wicked thought and she should hush. Franklin was a kind man and an entertainer, too, like her father, but he lived far away, and rarely came home to visit. But when he did reappear, Jenny just kept the longings to herself.

  “Momma is sick today,” she admitted, holding on to her box as if the one pretty thing she had at the moment would vanish on air if she let loose of it.

  “Sick?” He furrowed his brow. “What do you mean, sick? I saw her just yesterday and she was quite well.”

  Jenny tipped her shoulders in a light shrug. “I don’t know. I didn’t see her. Father said she was sick, so I had to come with him.”

  “And where is Charlotte now?”

  “Home. In the nursery.”

  Franklin nodded, as if he were a wise old owl and knew some secrets he hadn’t yet told. He scanned the empty auditorium, seeming to look all the way to the back where she could barely see through the darkness.

  “Do you know where I might find your father?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. But he likes the rooms in the back. The nice ones. With the dancers. I have to go fetch him. Knock on the doors sometimes. He gave me a walking stick to do it so he can hear and I won’t have to come in.”

  “I see.” Franklin hopped down to the floor. He stood before her, looking up into her eyes. He dotted a finger to the soft skin on the apple of her cheek and offered a smile. “Those freckles get more pronounced every day, don’t they? Just like your dear mom.” He patted her hand atop the box. “They suit you.”

  She brightened. “They do?”

  “Yes. They do.” His eyes lingered on her for a long moment.

  She wasn’t sure, but he looked like he’d wanted to say something and didn’t.

  “Uncle?”

  He cleared his throat. Maybe he was sick, too, because he didn’t seem able to speak for a moment. But he summoned a smile anyway.

  “How about I give you something else to cheer you on your birthday? Share a secret perhaps, from one grown-up to another? You are six years old today. I think that’s quite old enough to share in the entertainers’ code.”

  “An entertainers’ code? Yes, please!”

  It was interesting. Exciting! She could know something only the showmen did, and that was better than a box from Paris.

  “There’s a secret door over there.” He tipped his chin up to the stage. “Right in the center. A trapdoor for the vanishing acts. And there’s a switch in the floor, stage-side right. A stage assistant steps down on it at the right time, and poof! The trapdoor opens and the illusionist disappears. Only, the crowd thinks he’s vanished into thin air.”

  Jenny turned, staring back at the empty stage behind them.

  A secret door! It was like a hidden-away enchantment, one that only a few were graced with the knowledge of. She smiled, exchanging sadness for a lovely escape.

  “What’s behind the door?” she whispered, near breathless at the thought.

  “You mean, what’s beneath it? Why, an entire corridor! Rooms with hidden spaces and tucked-out-of-the-way memories of yesterday. Posters. Old stage props, that sort of thing. There’s even a great big sign, with lettering for yours truly—when I used to be on the stage here. But shhh. Only illusionists know about the door. You have to keep it a secret. Promise?”

  “I can keep a secret . . . I think.” She raised an eyebrow, playacting.

  He laughed, a small chuckle that rumbled in his chest. “I believe you. And you just sit here with your gift. Take your time opening it.” He leaned in to whisper, a comical bent to his features. “I had the shop girl put mounds of perfumed paper in it just for you. Blue, of course. Your favorite color.”

  Jenny nodded, feeling the oddest sense of trust wash over her whenever he was around. Suddenly the theater didn’t seem so dark in the back. And the days she missed her momma not so sad. When Franklin was there, her world had a bit of light and warmth she couldn’t feel otherwise.

  Uncle Franklin turned to walk to the right stage curtain, a bit of hustle in his steps. He pivoted, pointing to a door in the shadowed alcove underneath the balcony. “Is this it? The door to the VIP rooms?”

  “The new rooms Father likes so much?”

  Franklin nodded, though his forehead wrinkled like her father’s when he was angry. Maybe her uncle was angry about something too.

  “Yes. I need to speak with him. Now.”

  “That’s the door, Uncle Franklin. But pull the curtain back over it. No one’s supposed to know it’s there. It’s another secret. Entertainers’ code, you know.” She smiled, trying to be brave and show him she remembered things that should be hidden.

  He winked, silently sending her back to her fanciful world of birthdays and blue perfumed paper. Then he stepped through the door into the hall beyond and left her alone in the vast auditorium, the lovely box in her hands.

  Jenny opened the lid. Slowly, carefully, as though the paper were made of the finest silk, she pulled back the layers of blue to find a book. A thick volume of deep blue, with gold letters on the front.

  She couldn’t read many of the words, but she did read Fairy and Book in the title, and a wave of excitement washed over her. The lady on the cover certainly looked fairy-like, with her flowing dress and golden harp and bright flaming hair just lik
e Jenny had.

  Careful not to smudge the cover, she lifted it out, then brushed her fingertips over the title. She knew about fairy tales. Her momma had told her about them many times. But this was different. This book had a beauty to it that could be her someday. With flaming red hair and music floating around, with no fear to steal her smile away.

  No longer caring whether she’d mar the cover, Jenny hugged the book to her chest. Tight. In a birthday hug that she’d not received from anyone yet. She then put it back, mindful to wrap the folds of the paper just so, and replaced the box lid with the utmost care.

  It was a birthday she knew she’d always remember somehow, for her uncle Franklin had given her the image of a hero when she most needed one. He’d shared a secret, even if the door wasn’t truly enchanted. And in the life she lived—with shades of darkness in the span of the bright red of theater seats all around—that one glimpse of light made her believe someone was out there who would fight for her.

  Somewhere there was a hero waiting to rescue her.

  JANUARY 21, 1927

  BIJOU THEATRE

  WASHINGTON STREET

  BOSTON, MASS.

  “What’s this?”

  Irina was trying to move a chair and hadn’t seen the book on the seat. It flipped off the edge and landed with a crack against the hardwood floor, the sound echoing through the backstage rafters.

  “That’s mine.” Wren had been wringing water out of her hair after the water escape she’d just finished onstage. She wiped her palm on a towel nearby and held out her hand.

  “I’ve never seen it before.” Irina bent to retrieve it. She eyed the cover, then tipped her brow up. “Reading fairy stories? Wouldn’t our friend Houdini have laughed at that? Who knew that the mysterious Wren Lockhart has a softer side?”

  Wren brushed her palm down the spine and over the cover, shaking off imaginary dust. “It was a gift I received on my sixth birthday.” She slipped the book inside a hidden drawer at the side of the long worktable they used in the shows. A soft smile eased across her lips. “And you already knew I had a softer side.”

  “Well, that book must be a favorite if you keep it under lock and key.”