Murder by Magic

by Rosemary Edghill

  He closed his eyes, feeling the wand vibrating in his hand; the air, warmed by power, caressing his face. Invoking the trance was a matter of a measured breath, the deliberate forming of a Word in the blackness behind his eyelids.

  As always, it was as if he passed through a door, leaving a shadowed room and stepping into full, glorious daylight. All about him, he perceived the cords of power, the lines of magic that knit the world of the spirit to that of the flesh. There was no deception in this place, nor was there mercy. Those who came seeking truth here had best be canny and skillful—and wise. If one could not be wise, caution might do.

  Nicky, who had studied caution at the feet of a master, brought his attention to the sorry tangle of cord and discord before him. Even in the remoteness of the sorcerous viewpoint, he felt a thrill of astonishment as he counted the layers of spell wrapping that which had been John Wolheim. So numerous were they that the shine of each melded into the next, rendering the whole a blot of meaningless, shapeless power, obscene in this place of orderly peril.

  So, then. The sorcerer girded his will, lifted his wand, and set about the tedious and dangerous task of separating the layers, one by one, subjecting each to the closest scrutiny before allowing it to evaporate back into the common reservoir of magic.

  Some hours later, baffled and sweat-soaked, his ears ringing with exhaustion, Nicky leaned against the worktable. He had scrutinized each of the eighty-five separate and distinct high-level attacks upon Wolheim’s person, and yet discovered no smallest trace of the magician who had conceived and implemented those attacks. It was as if a textbook spell had suddenly become maliciously animate, repeating itself over and over. Or a machine . . .

  He closed his eyes. Memory replayed Brian’s voice, cheerful with gossip: “declared that it is possible to store—store—a spell!”

  “Oh,” Nicky murmured. “Blast.”

  He was known to Benjamin Hillier’s butler, and so was shown to the upper parlor while that worthy went off to roust his master from his work. Restless and exhausted, Nicky stalked the bookshelves—novels, mostly, with Benjy’s more interesting books reposing in the research library upstairs, next to the laboratory.

  Sighing, he turned from the shelves—and caught himself up. Curled into the corner of a wide damask chair was a towheaded girl of about twelve years, her dress rucked up to expose thin knees. There was a book on her lap—the bestiary, he saw—but she was staring at him out of frowning blue eyes.

  “Good afternoon, Aletha,” Nicky said softly. “How are you today?”

  The frown extended to her face, drawing the light brows together. “I’m reading,” she stated. “Why are you here?”

  “I’m here to see your father,” he answered, and moved carefully to sit in the chair opposite hers. Quick motions frightened her, and loud voices. Music, she could not abide, nor birds, nor dogs. Despite this, she had a fascination with pictures and books on the subject of all kinds of animals, and would spend hours immersed in one page of her bestiary. Indeed, it was this characteristic of absorption in her own projects to the exclusion of any other stimulus that sat at the core of her affliction. Benjamin had the best and most learned doctors—psychological, magical, and spiritual—attend to her, and some progress was made in the direction of encouraging her to interact with other humans. It was rare to find her in so talkative and gracious a mood, however.

  “Your father tells me that you are progressing in your magical studies,” he said, choosing a topic of conversation that might be expected to engage her interest.

  Aletha stared at him, blue eyes unblinking, then abruptly shut her book, slipped to her feet, and walked away. A moment later, he heard the door to the parlor slam.

  “How very maladroit of me,” Nicky murmured around a sigh. He allowed his head to fall back against the chair and closed his eyes, wishing that Benjy would come.

  The chair was comfortable and he was very tired. And it really would not do to fall asleep before he had a chance to speak to Benjy. Grimly, he pried himself out of the chair and wandered back to the shelves.

  He was browsing the novels when a gleam caught his eye, back among the dark books. Aletha liked to hide those things she had identified as precious, according to Benjy; and her taste appeared to run to the shiny.

  At great peril to his sleeves, Nicky reached back and slid the object out, discovering nothing more precious than a silver cigarette case. He frowned down at it, noting Benjy’s initials, and a slight shimmer across the surface, as if—

  Behind him, the door opened. He turned, slipping the case into his pocket.

  “Nicholas! A thousand apologies for keeping you cooling your heels!”

  Nicky smiled. “It wasn’t as long as that.”

  “Well, you’re kind to say so,” Benjy said, running a hand through his already disordered hair. “I suppose it’s about Wolheim? The news report said the circumstances were suspicious, and I thought of you.”

  “Yes, it’s precisely about Wolheim,” Nicky said. “Listen, will you, and see what you make of this.”

  Quickly, he described the scene as he had found it: the grotesquely transformed body, the cocoon of spells, the lack of signature.

  By the time the tale was told, Benjy was shaking his head. “I can’t help you, I’m afraid. Wolheim didn’t confide in me, if you’re thinking that this is one of his own projects gone hideously wrong.” He frowned. “Though I don’t know how he might have achieved that effect. And there would have been a signature in that case—his own.”

  “Too true. I’m wondering, though, something along the lines of your stored spell system . . .”

  Benjy blinked, then shook his head again. “No, old man, it’s not like that. Even if Wolheim had managed to completely overload his vehicle, the spell would still have shown a signature—his.” He moved his shoulders. “A stored spell is the same as any other—just held in abeyance for a bit. I’d show you just how it is, but my prototype’s gone missing.”

  “I see.” Nicky frowned, wishing he weren’t so desperately weary. “Do you know of any enemies Wolheim may have had?”

  “Besides myself, you mean? Only half of the practical magicians on the town—and half of the philosophers, too.”

  Despite his weariness, Nicky smiled. “Explosive on all fronts, the late doctor.”

  “That he was.” Benjy shrugged. “Not very helpful, am I?”

  “Not yet, but I expect you will be. I would appreciate a list of those people you know Wolheim had offended.”

  Benjy sighed. “Is tomorrow morning soon enough? You understand, it’s a project which will consume some time.”

  “Thank you,” Nicky said with a weary smile. “Tomorrow morning will be soon enough.”

  “Nicky?” Nora’s voice wafted into his dressing room. “Whose cigarette case is this, darling?”

  He shrugged into his jacket and walked out into the main room. Nora, adorably tousled in her carmine robe, was fiddling with the catch on the silver case.

  “Oh, it’s Benjy’s,” he said. “There was something odd about it and I wanted—”

  Across the room, the case sprang open with a loud swell of music and an expanding yellow cloud of a thousand tiny butterflies.

  Nora squeaked and dropped the case; Nicky leaped forward and caught it before it hit the rug. On a higher plane, the butterflies reached the sky-blue ceiling and melted into snowflakes, embracing the two of them in a brief indoor snowstorm. The snow dissipated, leaving behind a lingering sense of cinnamon—the magical signature of Benjamin Hillier.

  “What in heaven’s name!” Nora gasped, but Nicky was holding the silver case, his face perfectly blank. She sighed, rather unsteadily, and went over to the table to pour herself a cup of coffee. By the time she had added cream and brought the cup to her lips, Nicky had blinked back to everyday awareness.

  “It works,” he said in soft wonderment.

  “What works, darling?”

  “Benjy’s spell-storing system,”
he said, staring down at the case as if he had never seen anything like it before in his life. “This will revolutionize the Arts Magical.”

  “Well, good,” Nora said. “Benjy deserves some—”

  A knock at the door of their suite interrupted her. Nicky slipped the expended cigarette case into his pocket as he crossed the room and opened the door, finding their butler bearing a tray with a single envelope on it.

  “Special delivery, Your Lordship,” he said.

  “Thank you, Jensen,” Nicky replied, and took the envelope, recognizing Benjamin Hillier’s hand. The list of possibles, then. Splendid. “That will be all.”

  He closed the door, slipped his finger under the seal, and pulled out a single sheet of paper.

  It was not a list, but a letter.

  Dear Nicholas,

  By the time you receive this, matters will be in hand. I apologize for leading you a little dance yesterday afternoon. Yesterday afternoon, I had not fully understood the problem—or the solution.

  But, there, you wish to know who killed Wolheim.

  I performed that well-earned deed. I and my accomplice.

  Certainly, there was no one else who deserved to die as much as Wolheim—for Sarah alone he deserved a dozen excruciating deaths, and she was only one of many, though dear to me. Very dear to me.

  The reason you could find no signature is that there was none to find. The phenomenon we call a signature is nothing more or less than the spin given any particular spell by the mind of the magician. Wolheim’s concoctions, for instance, were notable for the stink of unexpended power. Your own efforts have a silken essence, marking them out as the constructs of an unusually subtle mind.

  The spells that transformed and killed Wolheim bore no signature because there was no interaction between the magician and the spell.

  Allow me to explain.

  My accomplice, Aletha, is an exceptionally strong and talented magician, but she is intensely literal. She cannot alter what she is taught by as much as a breath. Therefore, I used the process that I have perfected to prepare a perfectly ridiculous mechanical monkey. I then placed Tanister’s book on transformation magic, open to the page where the base spell is written, before Aletha. As she read those words, over and over and over, I guided her thought—aimed her, if you will, at the toy. Then I went to the opera, leaving her to it.

  When I returned home, Aletha was asleep and the monkey was fairly shimmering with energy. I wrapped it up and put it with the other mail, which was in due time taken down to the post office.

  I confess that I hadn’t expected the matter to go forth so quickly. Wolheim must have wound the toy up the moment he received it. The spells would have been released when the mechanism was engaged. With what exceptional results we have seen. I had not expected it to work nearly so well as it did. Eighty-five transformations! I hope each was an agony.

  So the thing was done. Wolheim was dead. The monkey, its energy expended, would scarcely invite the scrutiny of the prince’s sorcerer. I thought that would be an end to it. Alas, I had reckoned without my accomplice.

  Last night, after I saw you out, I went in search of her. It is our custom to dine together on those days when I’m not engaged, and to work through some of those exercises the doctors had prescribed. I found her in the kitchen, torturing one of the cats. She transformed the poor creature into a monstrosity as I watched—as she watched, smiling delightedly, then laughing aloud when it gave up its life in a shriek of anguish, horribly, horribly misshapen.

  It was then that I realized what I had done—and what I must do.

  On another subject, before I bid you adieu, the seek spell I employed to locate my prototype reveals that it has come to you. Nothing could be more satisfactory. You will by now have understood it—and what it will mean for our art. The papers are on file with my solicitor. I would be honored if you would take up the work and see it made available. The process is, if I may be forgiven a certain amount of pride in the child of my own intellect, revolutionary.

  And now I do bid you adieu, old friend. Pray assure your lady of my everlasting regard, and make her see, won’t you, that this was the only way.

  When you hear the engines go out of Station 9, you will know the thing is done.

  With respect and affection, your humble servant,

  Benjamin Hillier

  He let the letter fall from nerveless fingers, seeing it—seeing it all too clearly.

  “Nicky?” Nora touched his arm lightly. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Very nearly. I must—”

  From the street below, a sudden shouting of sirens. Nicky jumped to the window and threw it wide, staring down as Engine Company No. 9’s scarlet pump truck streaked away. He raised his eyes, staring across the rooftops, to a plume of smoke, dark against the egg-blue sky, and flames, licking up from the fire. He turned away from the window and looked into Nora’s dark brown eyes.

  She held up the letter he had dropped and wordlessly opened her arms.

  A Tremble in the Air

  James D. Macdonald

  James D. Macdonald was born in White Plains, New York, in 1954, the son of a chemical engineer and an artist, and raised in nearby Bedford. His last significant formal education took place at Archbishop Stepinac High School in White Plains, though he passed through the University of Rochester, where he learned that a degree in medieval studies wouldn’t fit him for anything. He went off to sea “to forget,” though he’s forgotten exactly what.

  As Yog Sysop, Macdonald ran the Science Fiction and Fantasy RoundTable on GEnie for two years (1991–93) and now is managing sysop for SSF-Net, an Internet presence provider and discussion site for genre fiction. He is also an EMT-intermediate with the local ambulance squad. Macdonald and Debra Doyle now live—still with various children, cats, and computers—in a big nineteenth-century house in Colebrook, New Hampshire, where they write science fiction and fantasy for children, teenagers, and adults.

  Mrs. Roger Collins stood in the visiting room of her home. “Mansion” would have been a better word. The sun shone in through a bay window flanked by French doors. Filmy drapes kept the sun from bleaching the delicate cloth on the circular table in the center of the room. Spiced air from the gardens gently wafted in.

  Mrs. Collins was expecting her friend Mrs. Frederick Baxter. She had something she wanted to talk to Shirley about. Last night the strangest thing happened. Mary Collins had known for years that the house was haunted, because there was a window on the second floor that would not stay closed if it wasn’t locked. But last night, in the misty dark of twilight, while entering the upstairs guest bedroom, she saw the translucent shape of a young lady, and the apparition looked at her and she felt—

  “Mary, dear!”

  It was Shirley, being shown in by Mr. Collins. Mr. Collins had retired at the end of the war, and he had been very helpful during his wife’s recent illness.

  Mary had the tea things ready, and the tea itself, a nice oolong with a great deal of milk and sugar, occupied their time along with the small talk of doings in the town. Mr. Collins removed himself to his study. He had always played the stock market, and played it well. The war had left him wealthy, still quite young, for munitions had been greatly in demand. The prosperity that the whole nation now experienced made his investments more valuable by the day, while the contacts that he had across the nation gave him insights that perhaps other men didn’t have.

  Now was the time for Mary to tell the story, for that delightful frisson, in the bright afternoon.

  “I’m sure you’ll think I’m being silly,” Mary said, “but I felt such a feeling of sadness coming from that woman. It was like a palpable wave. I gasped and took a step backward. Then I switched on the light, and she was gone!”

  “You’re so brave,” Shirley said. “I’m sure I would have screamed and run.”

  “I was too surprised,” Mary said. “And it wasn’t until the light was on that I realized it wasn’t a re
al woman at all; she was gone. She would have had to come past me to leave the room, you know. I looked under the bed and in the closet, and in the bathroom, but she was gone completely. It was only then that I realized I’d been able to see through her.”

  “You could? What are you going to do now?”

  Mary’s eyes sparkled, and she sipped her tea. “I thought it would be such great fun to have a séance.”

  “Are you quite certain? I mean, if you felt this sadness . . . that can’t be good.”

  “She wants help, the poor thing,” Mary said. “This is an old house. And after all those years of opening the window, she’s finally gotten to trust me enough to appear and ask for my help.”

  “What does Roger say about your plan?”

  “Oh, I haven’t told him. You know what a stick-in-the-mud he is.”

  On a gray afternoon, while a desultory breeze ruffled the remaining leaves on the trees around his home, Orville Nesbit sat in the overstuffed chair in his library, holding the letter that the morning post had brought. Mr. Nesbit styled himself a psychic researcher. He was entitled to call himself a master of science, master of arts, and doctor of philosophy, though he seldom did. His degrees were quite legitimate, in psychology and related fields. He had never had to use them. Family money supported the house and the grounds it stood on. His personal needs were simple and his wants were few; but he was a gourmand and had a weakness for old books, and these habits required that he occasionally turn his hand to trade.

  His library contained books that required a particular turn of mind to comprehend, as well as fluency in the archaic forms of several languages. Many were the sole surviving copies. Royal and ecclesiastical censors over the centuries had exhibited little tolerance about certain things, and such volumes were expensive.

  The letter, on unlined white notepaper with a blue border—high rag content and a watermark—told of a Ouija board that had spelled out the letters M-U-R-D-E-R, and of a feeling of oppressive hatred experienced before the candles (burning low and blue) had mysteriously blown out. The letter ended with the familiar plea “Please come at once” and the heartening words “I will pay any fee.”