I was thunderstruck by the news, and stared at the floor, unable to think coherently.
‘Galling and goading, isn’t it?’ Koenig said. ‘You must feel it too. We have both been taken in by pranksters.’
‘Are you sure of this?’ I demanded. ‘Totally sure?’ Koenig was nodding slowly. ‘For instance, have you ever seen the two brothers together?’
‘This is the basis of my certainty. Just once, and then only briefly, they met in my presence.’
‘Were you shadowing them?’
‘I was shadowing one of them,’ Koenig corrected me. ‘I followed Mr Borden from his house one evening in August. He walked alone into Regents Park, apparently taking a leisurely stroll. I was following at a distance of about a hundred yards. As he walked round the Inner Circle, a man approached him from the opposite direction. As they met they paused for about three seconds and spoke together. Then they walked on as before. Now, though, Borden was carrying a small leather case. The man he had spoken to soon passed me, and as he did so I could see that he looked exactly like Borden.’
I stared at Koenig thoughtfully.
‘How do you know—?’ I was thinking carefully of some possibility of error. ‘How do you know that the man who walked on, the one now carrying the case, was not the man who had spoken to Borden? Borden himself could simply have walked back the way he had come. And if that was so, wouldn’t it have been him who passed you?’
‘I know what I saw, my Lord. They were wearing different clothes, perhaps for reasons of subterfuge, but this fact made it possible for me to distinguish between them. They met, they spoke, they continued on their separate ways, they were identical.’
My mind was sharply focused. I was thinking rapidly about the mechanics of mounting a theatrical magic performance. If it were true that they were twins then both brothers would have to be present in the theatre at each show. This would mean that the backstage staff would inevitably be in on the secret. I already knew that Borden did not box the stage, and there are always people hanging around in the wings during a show, seeing too much for their own good. All the time I was performing the switch illusion with a double I was conscious of this. But Borden’s secret, if Koenig were to be believed, had stayed intact for many years. If Borden’s act was based on identical twins, then surely the secret would have leaked out years ago?
Otherwise, what was the explanation? It could only be that the secrecy was maintained before and after the show. That Borden-1, so to speak, would arrive at the theatre with his apparatus and props, with Borden-2 already concealed in one of the pieces. Borden-2 would duly make his appearance during the performance, while Borden-1 went into hiding in the props on-stage.
It was admittedly feasible, and if that was all there was to it I might be able to accept it. But many years of touring from one venue to the next, burdened with the sheer practicalities of long train journeys, the employment of assistants, the finding of lodgings, and so on, made me wonder. Borden must have a team working with him: an ingénieur of course, one or more assistants who appeared on stage, several carriers and shifters, an agent. If all these people were privy to his secret then their ability to keep quiet about it was remarkable.
On the other hand, and much more likely in view of human nature, if they were not to be trusted, Borden-1 and Borden-2 would have to engage in a comprehensive array of concealment.
Beyond this, there were the day-to-day realities of theatrical life. For example, on the days when there was a matinée performance, what would Borden-2 (the one concealed in the apparatus) do between shows? Would he remain hidden while his brother relaxed in the green room with the other artistes? Would he let himself out secretly, then skulk alone in the dressing room until it was time for the next show?
How did the two of them get into and out of the theatres without being spotted? Stage door managers are jealous guardians of the way, and in some theatres the doorman is so notoriously punctilious about checking everyone’s identity and business that, it is said, even famous actors tremble at the thought of arriving late or of trying to smuggle in a paramour. There are always alternative ways into the building, notably through the scenery bay or front of house, but again this bespeaks a need for constant secrecy and preparation, and a willingness to put up with a huge amount of physical discomfort.
‘I see I have given you something to ponder,’ Koenig said, interrupting my train of thought. He was holding out his empty whisky glass as if to ask for a refill, but because I wanted time to think this through I rather brusquely took the glass away from him.
‘Are you sure of your facts this time?’ I said.
‘Copper-bottomed certain, sir. Upon my very word.’
‘Last time you gave me some leads so I might check your claims myself. Are you proposing something similar now?’
‘No – I offer you only my word. I have personally seen the two men together, and as far as I am concerned no further proof is necessary.’
‘Not to you, perhaps.’ I stood up, to indicate that the interview was at an end.
Koenig picked up his hat and coat, and went to the door, which I held open for him.
I said to him, as casually as I could contrive, ‘You show no curiosity about how I perform my own illusion.’
‘I take it that it’s magic, sir.’
‘You don’t then suspect me of having an identical twin?’
‘I know you have not.’
‘So you did investigate me,’ I said. ‘And what about Borden? Is he wondering how I work the effect?’
Mr Koenig gave me a broad wink.
‘I’m sure he and his brother would not like you to know that they’re in a lather of curiosity about you, sir.’ He extended his hand, and we shook. ‘Once again, my congratulations. If I may say so, it has been reassuring to see you in such good health.’
He was gone before I could respond to that, but I think I know what he meant.
In London 7th September 1902
My short season at Daly’s being complete, I am able to tidy up my affairs in London for a while, and spend my long-wished-for month with Julia and the children in Derbyshire. Tomorrow I shall be heading north. Wilson has gone ahead of me to make the usual arrangements for the prestige materials.
This morning I have safely secured Tesla’s apparatus in my workshop, paid off my assistants for the next few weeks, settled all my outstanding bills, and spoken at some length with Unwin about bookings for the autumn and winter. It already seems that I shall be busily engaged from the middle of October until March or April next year. My estimated income from these performances, even after all my overheads have been deducted, will make me rich beyond the wildest dreams of my youth. By the end of next year I shall, in all probability, need never work again.
Which brings me to Koenig’s parting remark. Having recorded it here I feel I should also explain it.
A few months ago, when I was in the first rush of perfecting the presentation of IN A FLASH, I thought of a novel final twist to the illusion. What brought it to mind was that sensation I experienced at first, that I was somehow surviving beyond death. I have arranged, by a combination of carefully positioned lights and use of make-up, that at the end of my act, after I have passed through the aether, I look more haggard than before. I seem worn by the rigours of the undertaking. I am a man who flirts with death and who now is showing the traces.
This effect has become a routine part of my act. Throughout my show I move carefully, as if favouring my limbs so they should not hurt, I turn with stiff movements of my waist and back, I walk with my shoulders hunched. I make the best of my condition, acting as if I do not care. After I have performed IN A FLASH, and once I have been seen to have arrived miraculously intact, then I allow the lighting to do its gruesome work. As the final curtain falls I appear to most of the audience as if I am not long for this world.
Apart from the effect itself, I do have a long-term strategy in mind. Put plainly, I am planning and preparing for my own
death. I am, after all, no stranger to the concept. For many years I acted the rôle of the dead man while Julia played the widow. And after so many transits through Tesla’s infernal device, the idea that I could stage my own death comes easily.
Next year I wish to retire from the stage for good. I want to be free of the endless touring, of the long journeys, the overnight stays in theatrical lodgings, the endless tussles with theatre managements. I am sick of the need for secrecy about what I do, and I always fear another round of attacks from Borden.
Most of all, my children are growing up and I wish to be with them as they do so. Edward is soon to depart to university, and the girls will no doubt be wanting to marry soon.
By this time next year I shall be, as I say, financially independent, and with prudent investment the Caldlow estate should be able to provide for my family for the rest of my life and theirs. As far as the world in general is concerned the life of The Great Danton, of Rupert Angier, shall come to a cancerous end, brought on by the rigours of his career, at some point in the autumn of 1903.
Meanwhile, without publicity or announcement, the 14th Earl of Colderdale will at much the same time take up the reins of his inheritance.
Thus the explanation of Koenig’s remark about my ‘surprising’ good health. He is a sharp-eyed and intelligent man, who knows more about me than I wish.
On this subject, I have been reflecting a great deal about his new theory that there is not one Borden but two. I remain unsure.
This is not because the premise itself is implausible – after all, my man Cutter had worked it out for himself – but because of the endless ramifications of living with the deception. I was already thinking about a few of those when Koenig was in my dressing room.
What about everyday life? No artiste is constantly in work, however successful his or her career. There are periods of rest, both voluntary and involuntary. There are necessary delays between bookings. Shows and tours can be cancelled just before they are due to start. There are holidays, illnesses, family crises.
If Borden is not one man but two, and one of the men is always in hiding so that the other might seem to be the ‘only’ Alfred Borden, where and how is the hiding going on? What happens in the life of the hidden man while he is hiding? How does he make contact with his brother? Do they ever meet, and if so how do they arrange not to be spotted by anyone?
How many other people know about the deception, and how can Borden be certain the secret is safe with them?
Speaking in particular of other people, what of Borden’s wife? And what of his children?
If Borden is two men, they cannot both be husband to the wife, nor both be father to the children. Which of them is husband, which the father? Borden’s wife is a woman of good background, and by all accounts no fool. What does she in fact know about Borden?
Is she being kept in the dark about his true identity?
Could concealment and deception extend successfully even to the marital home, the conjugal bed? Would she suspect nothing, discern no difference at all between the two men?
What about family lore, private jokes and observations, shared personal memories, matters of physical intimacy? Is it conceivable that the two men would collaborate to such an extent that even personal matters are dragged into the precautions and secrecy that surround a mere stage illusion?
The contrary is if anything harder to believe, that Borden’s wife knows the truth of the matter and is prepared for some reason to put up with it.
If that were true, the arrangement would surely have gone wrong years ago.
One of the two brothers would inevitably become seen as the lesser partner in the arrangement: one of them (let me again call him Borden-2) would not be the one who actually went through the ceremony of marriage with her. He would therefore be in her eyes less of a husband than Borden-1, and what would follow then of matters concerning conjugality?
Further to the point, Borden-2 would not be the actual father to the children. (I assume for sake of normal propriety that the Borden-2 who did not marry is the same Borden-2 who did not sire the children.) Borden-2 would therefore be uncle to the children, at a stage removed from them, emotionally and physically. The wife, the mother, could not help but discriminate in some way against him.
It is a situation fraught with instability.
Both of these explanations are so unlikely that I am forced to believe in a third: The Borden brothers have deliberately not told the wife the truth, and have tried to deceive her, but she has herself made the deception unimportant. In other words, she has worked out what is going on (how could she not?), but for reasons of her own has decided to acquiesce in it.
In spite of the fact that this theory contains its own mysteries I find it the most plausible explanation, but even so the whole business beggars belief.
I would go, and do go, to considerable lengths to protect my secrets, but I would not let secrecy become an obsession. Could Borden, and Borden’s supposed brother, be as obsessive as Koenig makes them out to be?
I am still in two minds about this!
In the end it does not matter, for a trick is a trick and everyone who sees it knows that a deception is being performed. But Julia suffered horribly because of the feud, and my own life came damnably close its end because of it. I believe Borden is such a man as to make a fetish of his secrets and it was my misfortune to tangle with him.
Also my luck, as a direct consequence of the feud, to hit upon the illusion that is making my fortune.
Somewhere between Wakefield and Leeds 27th November 1902
After a long and beneficial holiday in Derbyshire with Julia and the children I am back on tour. Tomorrow I open at the King William Theatre in Leeds, where I shall be performing twice nightly until the end of next week.
Thence to Dover, where I am top of the bill at the Over-cliff Theatre. Thence to Portsmouth, for the week leading up to Christmas.
I am a tired but happy man.
Sometimes people notice my appearance and comment in a well-intended way on how unwell I might be. I am brave about this.
1st January 1903
So I reach the year in which Rupert Angier is to forsake this life. I have not yet chosen an exact date for his or my demise, but it will not be until after the conclusion of my American tour.
We depart from Liverpool for New York three weeks from tomorrow, and shall be away until April. The problem of disposal of prestige materials has only partially been solved, but helping to alleviate it is the fact that I shall be performing IN A FLASH on average only once a week. If necessary I shall do what I did before, but Wilson declares that he has found a solution. Whatever the case, the show will go on.
Julia and the children will be with me during what will no doubt later become known as my farewell tour.
30th April 1903
I have told Unwin to continue accepting bookings through to the end of the year, and for the early months of 1904. However, I shall be dead by the end of September. Probably it will occur on Saturday, 19th September.
In Lowestoft 15th May 1903
After the dizzy heights of my appearing in New York, Washington DC, Baltimore, Richmond, St Louis, Chicago, Denver, San Francisco, Los Angeles … I am in Lowestoft, Suffolk. In the USA I might make my fortune, but in places like the Pavilion Theatre in Lowestoft I earn my living.
I open tomorrow for a week.
20th May 1903
I have cancelled both my performances tonight, tomorrow’s are in jeopardy, and as I draft these words I am anxiously awaiting Julia’s arrival.
I am a fool, a damned, bloody fool!
Last night, second performance, halfway through. I can barely bring myself to set this down in writing.
So. I must be calm.
I have recently added a new card trick to my repertoire. In this, a member of the audience is invited up to the stage. He takes a card and writes his name on the face of it. I tear off a corner of the card and give it to the volunteer to
hold. The rest of the card is placed inside a paper envelope, which is ignited. When the flames have gone out I produce a large orange. I cut it in half and it is found to contain the signed card, and the torn-off corner still of course fits.
Last night my volunteer was what I thought must be a local man: he was tall and burly, had a florid complexion, and when he spoke I heard a Suffolk accent. I had spotted him earlier in the show, sitting in the centre of the front row, and as soon as I noticed his amiable, unintelligent face I had picked him out as a likely volunteer. He did in fact offer himself as soon as I called for someone to come up on stage, something which should have alerted me to likely trouble. However, while I was doing the trick he was the perfect foil, even drawing a laugh or two from the audience with his homely sense of humour and commonplace observations. (‘Take a card,’ said I. ‘What? Do you want me to take it home, sor?’ said the man, all wide-eyed and seemingly eager to please.)
How could I not have guessed it was Borden?! He even gave me a clue, because the name he wrote on the playing card was Alf Redbone, a transparent near-anagram, yet with my guard lowered I took it to be his real name.
With the card trick completed I shook his hand, thanked him by name, and added my applause to that of the audience as he was led by Hester, my present female assistant, towards the stalls ramp.
I did not notice that Redbone’s seat was still empty until a short while later, as I moved towards the start of IN A FLASH.
In the tensions leading up to this performance, his absence registered only at the back of my mind. I knew there was something wrong, but because of the moment I could not think exactly what it might be.
As the current started to flow through the Tesla apparatus, and the long tendrils of high-voltage discharge snaked around me, and the anticipation from the audience was at its greatest, I noticed his absence at last. The significance of it came at me like a thunderbolt.
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