by George Mann
Alfonso turned to the audience. "Watch closely." He unfurled the large red sheet and then draped it over the woman, spreading the edges out neatly so that they pooled on the floor around her, completely covering her from head to toe. Then, with barely a moment to catch his breath, he snapped his wrist and swept the sheet away again, flicking it up into the air in a bold dramatic flourish.
The woman was gone.
The crowd took a moment to react. The woman had completely vanished. There was not a trace of her to be seen. One minute she had been there, clearly evident beneath the thin silk sheet, the next she had entirely disappeared. There had been no sound, no sign of any movement. It was as if she had simply been swept up into the ether like an errant spirit.
Someone started to clap. Others fol owed. Soon the entire audience was standing, applauding the magician, who lingered just a moment longer on the stage, before offering a sweeping bow, col ecting his hat and then exiting stage left. The audience continued to clap, even after the final curtain was drawn.
Newbury turned to Veronica. He had to shout to make his voice heard over the clamour of the audience. "Now I'm impressed."
Veronica nodded, a knowing look in her eye. "It's what happens to her next that concerns me."
Newbury smiled. "That, Miss Hobbes, is what we are here to find out." He glanced over his shoulder. "Come on, let's see if we can make our way around this crowd. I can't imagine it will be too difficult to find our way backstage."
Veronica rose to her feet. She was smiling. "Thank you, Sir Maurice."
Newbury grinned as he offered her his arm. "Always a pleasure, Miss Hobbes. Always a pleasure."
Chapter Five
As Newbury had anticipated, it was not difficult for the two of them to find their way backstage.
Newbury was without doubt the best dressed man in the house, and after speaking in hushed tones with the wizened old man who was standing guard – sentry-like – on the artists' entrance, the two Crown investigators soon found themselves admitted to the private area at the back of the theatre, passing themselves off as wealthy patrons who wanted to congratulate Alfonso on his excellent performance.
The Archibald Theatre was a small venue, and it was soon clear to Newbury that most of the space had been reserved for the paying guests. The conditions behind the scenes were cramped and dirty, and if the front of the house was dilapidated, the backstage area was ready to be condemned.
Newbury and Veronica found themselves in a short, narrow corridor, which terminated in an artists' exit to the street behind the theatre, and contained a number of mildew-stained doors that opened into dressing rooms along either side. The wooden floorboards creaked alarmingly as they walked.
Newbury noticed that Veronica was lifting the hem of her yellow dress ever so slightly to avoid letting it trail on the dirty floor. Crossing to one of the open doorways, he peered into an empty dressing room with a grimace. The room had not seen use for some time, and had been al owed to become run-down and mouldy. The wal s were slick with damp, the floorboards peppered with rodent faeces and other, indescribable dirt, and the furniture had been piled up in one corner and was covered in a thick film of dust.
"It astounds me that the theatre can function in such a decrepit state." Veronica wrinkled her nose as she joined Newbury in the doorway of the abandoned room. Her eyes were shining in the low light. She seemed full of energy and life, excited at finding herself here, in the midst of another adventure. Newbury couldn't help but smile; the thril of the chase was upon her.
He nodded in agreement. "Quite. I fear the halcyon days of this particular establishment are long behind it."
There was a sound of coughing from one of the other rooms along the corridor. Veronica turned her head. Newbury looked over her shoulder. There was no one in the doorway, but it was clear which room the sound had come from; the door had been propped open and a light was spil ing out into the corridor, causing shadows to flicker ominously up and down the walls. They made their way towards the light. Newbury hesitated in the doorway and rapped loudly, three times. He couldn't see the occupant from where he was standing by the doorjamb, but what he could see of the room suggested it saw more frequent use than the dressing room he had seen just a moment before. Bil s were pasted all over the walls, gaudy posters advertising events that had long since moved on to other, more salubrious venues: strong-man acts, dancing girls, magicians from the Far East. A dressing table was pushed up against one wall, a top hat resting before the discoloured mirror, a sepia photograph of two women tucked into one corner against the glass. A dove fluttered its wings in a domed cage hanging from the ceiling. It looked uncomfortable in the small cage.
"What is it?" The man's voice was gruff and unexpectedly English.
Newbury stepped across the threshold and into the room. Veronica fol owed behind him. The man – whom Newbury immediately recognised as Alfonso – was lounging in a chair, dressed in his shirtsleeves and trousers and smoking a long cigarette, on which he puffed luxuriously. Smoke plumed from his nostrils. He looked up at Newbury, a dour expression on his face. "The show's over.
I think you must have taken a wrong turn." He returned to studying his boots.
Newbury smiled. Al sense of the man's Italian accent had gone, replaced by a Home Counties drawl. "On the contrary. I sought you out in order to offer my compliments, Mr. Alfonso. My name is Sir Maurice Newbury, and this is my associate, Miss Veronica Hobbes."
At this mention of Newbury's honorific, the magician seemed to snap to attention. He glanced at Veronica, seeing her properly for the first time. "Sir Maurice. Please forgive me. I'm sure you will understand that a venue such as this does not frequently attract clientele of the genteel variety." His face cracked into a wide grin. He shifted his feet from where they were perched on a stool and stood, offering Newbury his hand. Newbury took it and shook it firmly. "So, what on earth attracted you to the Archibald this evening?"
"You, Mr. Alfonso. I hear your show has been causing quite a stir in the Home Counties and wanted to see it for myself."
"Really? Well, thank you for taking an interest. And how did you find it? I hope it wasn't a disappointment?"
"No. Not at all. It was most impressive. I was particularly taken with the card tricks. I've been studiously attempting to work out how you managed to effect them al so easily."
Alfonso grinned. "Ha! Parlour tricks. It surprises me that a man of your distinction should be so taken with such trivialities."
Veronica laughed. Newbury was pleased to see that she had taken his cue. "Wel, I for one was struck by how successfully you made that girl disappear. I am quite in awe of you, Mr. Alfonso. She seemed to vanish in a puff of smoke!"
Newbury feigned ignorance. "Yes, indeed! But tel me, what happened to the poor girl? You didn't make her reappear again afterwards? How did you pull it off? I do hope she hasn't disappeared forever!"
Alfonso smiled, shaking his head. "Sir Maurice. I'm sure you don't really expect me to give away my secrets, do you? I've worked for many, many years to develop my act. Many have tried to impersonate it. So far, none have succeeded. I intend to carry the secret to the grave."
Veronica frowned. "But what of the girl?"
Alfonso laughed. "The girl? She's probably on her way home by now. My assistant will have given her the fare for a cab." He waved his cigarette. "Now, I'm afraid I really must press on. I have another show to prepare for the morrow, and the act rather takes it out of me." He looked from Newbury to Veronica and back again. "I appreciate your kind words."
Newbury nodded. "Of course." He took Veronica's arm as if to lead her from the room. Then, just as they were about to turn their backs on the magician, he paused. "How long do you intend to continue your run at the Archibald, Mr. Alfonso?"
"Another week, Sir Maurice. Then I'm taking the show north to Manchester."
Newbury met his gaze. "Excellent. In that case, I'm sure we'l meet again. Good night."
"Good night."
<
br /> The two investigators took their leave.
Outside, the fog had descended on the city like a thick, wool en blanket, smothering the streets and diffusing the light so that everything seemed to lose its definition, becoming hazy and soft around the edges. Newbury sniffed. The air was damp with the grey miasma. He adjusted his hat and scarf, and then offered Veronica his arm.
The two investigators stepped out onto the cobbled road, pausing to close the door behind them. The artists' exit opened directly onto the street at the back of the theatre. They had taken advantage of the private door, slipping out in order to avoid the crush of people who, even now, would still be spilling out of the front of the theatre following the end of the show.
Newbury glanced from side to side. He could hear horses whinnying in the murky fog, somewhere off to the left. It was likely there were still a few hansom cabs patrolling the area, hoping to pick up fares as the theatregoers stumbled into the night and found themselves drunk and in need of transportation home.
He looked to Veronica, who was bracing herself against the cold. She shivered. "Well, 'The Mysterious Alfonso' wasn't quite the wretch I had anticipated. What did you think?"
He shook his head to indicate the conversation was better left until they were safely out of earshot. "I think that, in places such as this, even the walls have eyes and ears. Let's find ourselves a cab."
Huddling against the chil, Veronica nodded her assent. They edged along the road, fol owing the curb to ensure that they didn't wander too far off track in the thick, wintry fog.
There was a sob from somewhere just to the right of them. A woman's sob, soft and stifled.
"Hello?" Veronica broke away from Newbury, trying to locate the source of the crying. "Hello?"
Newbury fol owed her. The sobbing sound came again. "Veronica. Over here." He approached the shape that loomed out of the fog. It slowly resolved into the form of a young woman, leaning against the wal of the theatre, clearly distraught. He stepped closer, putting a hand on her arm. "My dear. Whatever is the matter?"
The woman looked up. Newbury almost started in surprise. She had a spill of long, dark hair and she was wearing a lilac dress. She was pretty, young, and her cheeks were stained with tears. It was the girl from the theatre, the woman who had disappeared during the show. She looked confused, her eyes searching Newbury's face for the answer to some undisclosed question. When she spoke it was with another sob. "Where am I?"
Veronica, who had moved over to stand beside Newbury, offered her a concerned but quizzical look. "You're outside the Archibald Theatre. You were there to see a show, a magician. Don't you remember getting up to go on stage?"
The woman bit her bottom lip apologetical y and shook her head. She sniffed and wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands. "I'm.. I'm not sure. I don't remember." Her voice was a whimper.
Her accent was thick and telling; she was from the East End.
Newbury leaned closer, trying to catch the scent of gin on her breath. He wondered if she were simply drunk. She didn't smel of alcohol, however. She seemed sober, but terribly confused.
And there was the hint of something else, some chemical he found difficult to place. He frowned. "Are you able to recall your name?"
She nodded. "Miss Annabel Myers."
"And do you have an escort this evening, Miss Myers?"
"Yes." She gave another sob. "My brother, Jimmy. He should be around here.. somewhere."
She looked from side to side, but it was difficult to make out anything in the cloying fog.
Veronica smiled, warmly. "Miss Myers. Do you have an address we could see you too? I suspect that, even if your brother is searching for you now, he won't get far in this fog. If we were to see you to your home, I'm sure he would be relieved to find you there upon his return."
The woman stifled her tears. "Yes." And then, more resolute: "Yes, that sounds like a good idea.
I live at my father's house at twenty-six Nelson Street, Shoreditch." She looked down at the palm of her hand, which she held up towards Veronica. Resting there was a smattering of small coins. "I think someone handed me this for my fare. I'm sorry.." She hung her head. "I'm so confused."
"Put your money away, Miss Myers. I'll fetch us a cab." "Thank you..?"
"Sir Maurice Newbury. And this is my associate, Miss Veronica Hobbes."
"Thank you, sir." Miss Myers looked utterly bemused. "Don't mention it. Miss Hobbes, I shal return momentarily with a cab." Newbury made his way towards the sound of horses, somewhere up ahead of them by the side of the road. Behind him, the two women were soon enveloped by the thick, tubercular blanket of smog.
The house in Shoreditch had been everything that Newbury had been expecting: run down, dirty: a pile of red bricks leaning awkwardly against its neighbour for support. The cab ride had proved uneventful, and Miss Myers had been- able to tell them very little about Alfonso and the method by which he had caused her to disappear on stage. Her memory of the event was erratic and impressionistic, and all she kept telling Newbury and Veronica was that she was terribly confused, and remembered feeling as though she had somehow been squeezed into a box that was too smal to contain her. The next thing she remembered was being found by the two investigators in the street, with the vague recol ection that someone had pressed money into her hand and turned her out into the foggy street.
Newbury had waited in the cab whilst Veronica had shown Miss Myers to her door, and then they had set out for Kensington, so that Newbury could escort Veronica home to her rooms just off the High Street. With all this talk of missing girls, and the continuing threat of the revenants prowling the streets, Newbury was keen to ensure his assistant made it back to her home in safety. That, and the fact he was keen to discuss his impressions of the evening's events with her.
He glanced up at her, watching as the motion of the cab caused her to rock from side to side in her seat. "So, to answer your question, Miss Hobbes: I think our 'Mysterious Alfonso' was every bit of the wretch you anticipated him to be."
Veronica frowned. "So you believe him to be guilty, then?"
Newbury shrugged. "Al the evidence suggests not. The girl was found to be fine – if a little confused and disorientated by her experience – and he had provided her with the cab fare home as he suggested. But I do feel there is more to the man than meets the eye. I'd like to know what sort of trick he's using to pull off that disappearing act, and what's more, why it should leave the volunteer feeling so lost and unwel. I have a suspicion she was rendered unconscious, probably with some kind of chemical compound. It certainly bears more investigation."
Veronica nodded. "Indeed. I wonder if it is the process itself that is causing the girls to go missing. By that I mean – do they stumble out of there disorientated and with no memory of the preceding events, and then wind up getting themselves lost, or worse?"
Newbury looked thoughtful. "Or perhaps some of them are simply rendered unconscious during the process, and then don't wake up at al ? But we must also consider the possibility that Alfonso, or whatever his real name is, may not be to blame. There is always coincidence to consider."
Veronica raised an eyebrow in a parody of Newbury. "Mmmm. Coincidence indeed."
Newbury laughed. "Yes, you have me there, my dear Miss Hobbes." He glanced out of the window. Kensington loomed out of the fog. "Shall we talk further in the morning?"
Veronica nodded. "I'll wait for you at the office." The cab juddered to a halt as the driver reined in the horses. Veronica got to her feet. "Did Peterson have any thoughts on your mysterious screaming mummy, by the way?"
"Very few. He suggested it was probably some sort of elaborate punishment, that the poor chap was probably mummified alive for some terrible crime he'd committed. Other than that, the markings are unlike anything he's seen before."
Veronica smiled. "Well, I'm sure tomorrow will bring with it some fresh ideas." She clicked open the cab door and moved to step out.
"Oh, and Miss Hobbes?"
Newbury couldn't help but feel stirred by her beauty. He felt the impulse to reach out to her, but fought it back.
"Yes?"
"Assure me you won't place yourself in any unnecessary danger."
She nodded. "Good night, Sir Maurice."
"Good night, Miss Hobbes."
The door snicked shut behind her, and a moment later Newbury rocked back in his seat as the cab rolled away towards Chelsea, and home.
Chapter Six
Morning brought with it a laudanum fog that would have proved debilitating, if not for Mrs.
Bradshaw's revitalising breakfast of bacon, eggs and Earl Grey tea. Newbury, wrapped in his blue velvet dressing gown, sat heavily at the table, wincing at the sunlight that was streaming in through the dining room window. Outside, a frost had settled, clearing the fog, and people were already beginning to bustle along the streets, their carriages creaking loudly, their animals yapping and chirping, their steam engines firing noisily as they careened along in ground trains and other, stranger, steam-powered vehicles. The last two months had seen a proliferation of new devices: bizarre, single-person carriages that barrelled along at great speed, bowling everyone and everything over in their wake. They were smaller than a hansom, but far larger than a bicycle; squat, fat little things on four wooden wheels, into which the driver lowered himself, leaving his head and shoulders exposed to the elements. Newbury was a huge supporter of progress, but he didn't believe the city was ready for the coming transport revolution that these new devices seemed to foreshadow. Aside from that, they were damn ugly, and a nuisance, too. Perhaps Veronica was right, after all. Perhaps there was a very real need to slow things down, to stop the world from rushing too hastily towards the future. Or perhaps he was just feeling dour and hung-over.