‘Who lives here?’ he asked.
‘We do.’ Pinchbeck ruffled his hair.
‘And if the owners come back?’ said Charlotte.
‘Nobody comes here since the family left. People think the house is cursed.’ Pinchbeck winked at Leander.
‘Cursed? Why?’
‘Some children went missing.’ The ghost of a wicked smile crossed Pinchbeck’s face. ‘Hop to it, then! Boys, you can find some wood and build me a fire in the parlour. Charlotte, you can make up my bed in there, and air out a bedroom in the morning.’
Charlotte sighed heavily and folded her arms. ‘Fine.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Yes, Madame.’ She forced a smile and a sarcastic curtsey, but Pinchbeck was already busy unpinning her hat.
The boys changed out of their seance clothes first, quickly using the carriage before letting Charlotte do the same. There was no time for Leander to feel worried about his shabby underclothes now: it was clear that Pinchbeck would stand for no shirking or delay in getting things ready. Leander was happy to swap his glowing jacket for the frock coat Pinchbeck had given him. It was deliciously warm compared to his old one, and it had all the buttons, too. He smiled to himself as he smoothed out the fabric.
‘Hurry up, Leander!’ Felix already had an armful of wood. ‘There’s still a few logs in the woodshed. Watch out for the damp ones.’
‘It’s just like Pinchbeck to know a place like this,’ muttered Charlotte as she climbed out of the carriage now wearing her plain dress and pinafore. There was a blanket flung over her shoulder and she carried a pillow under each arm. ‘Somewhere she can play house with somebody else’s belongings.’
Leander wanted to ask what she meant, but she had already disappeared inside. He scuttled off round the back of the house and loaded up his arms with chunks of firewood. There wasn’t much left, but it should get them through the night.
The parlour contained a small settee – a little cobwebby but still strong – which Charlotte turned into a bed for Pinchbeck. The boys cleaned out the hearth and lit the kindling, then fed the flames with larger pieces of wood until they had a roaring fire. Pinchbeck promptly chased them out of the warmth and closed the door behind them.
They gathered the few remaining rugs from the carriage and set them out in front of the kitchen stove. They scraped together enough wood and sticks to light a fire of their own, albeit much smaller. The three of them sat as close to the stove as possible in the draughty room so that their fronts roasted and their backs stayed frozen.
‘I hope there’s no rats,’ said Leander, peering nervously into the dark corners of the room. He couldn’t shake the image of the rat he had seen by the roadside. Strange for it to be so unafraid of humans. Nothing to stop a creature like that running over their legs as they tried to sleep. ‘Not that I’m scared of rats. I’m not.’
‘I’m sure there’ll be no rats here,’ said Charlotte. ‘When the people left, so did the food. The rats will be long gone.’
Felix sat at the table, lovingly polishing his violin, wiping away the rosin dust and bringing the old wood to a gentle shine, then crept away outside. Leander began to softly snore. Charlotte lay awake, listening to the scrabbling of rats in the walls. She had lied to Leander. There were always rats everywhere they went. She had been as squeamish as Leander once, having grown up in luxurious surroundings where vermin were thankfully rare. But, since she’d met Pinchbeck, she saw and heard them every day. If not for Leander mentioning them, she probably wouldn’t have noticed their scratching.
No point scaring the boy. He’d be used to the rats soon enough.
Charlotte couldn’t stop thinking about what would happen next. It wasn’t possible for Pinchbeck to keep all of them. Three magical Cabinets took too much strength. She was buoyant tonight after her great performance, but soon she’d grow weak and weary with the effort, and dispose of Leander.
Well, dispose of someone.
No, it would be Leander. Charlotte was certain. She and Felix were too valuable. Pinchbeck wouldn’t have kept them around for so long if she didn’t need them. She had often threatened Charlotte and Felix that she’d force them into their Cabinets and then smash them if they stepped too far out of line. And Charlotte knew Pinchbeck was more than capable of that. She still thought about little Rosa, and how Pinchbeck had made her disappear for ever. As much as Charlotte wanted rid of that annoying street urchin, she wouldn’t let Leander be harmed. Charlotte couldn’t see that happen to another child.
He was so frustrating, though. Even after all her warnings, it was clear he still believed that Pinchbeck would follow through on her hollow promises, and was so happy when the woman showed him the tiniest bit of affection. The poor boy must have had an awful life to be so desperate for kindness. It seemed that he’d been alone for a while and of course Charlotte felt sorry for him. But she was also annoyed at his presence because it threatened the life that she and Felix had. As awful as it was to be trapped, the alternative was unthinkable.
Outside, Felix began to play. Each night since she’d met him, Felix played songs of his own creation, sweet and mournful, beautiful and mysterious. Felix didn’t talk about his feelings, but Charlotte knew what he was thinking by the colours that flowed from his strings. Tonight the melody was first fretful, then sad, and Charlotte felt he was playing just for her.
Felix woke before dawn and was away before the others were even stirring. He and Pinchbeck had an agreement: when they arrived at a new place, Felix was allowed to search for his lost brother. He slung his violin case over his shoulder and walked through the crisp air.
Of course, he couldn’t go too far from her without becoming weak. Still, he knew he could wander into the centre of the village without any problem.
The village was filled with the music of a market day – the click of clogs on cobbles, carts dragged on creaking wheels, the sing-song cries of the costermongers.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ he began, but the first seller grunted and waved him off. He tried again. ‘Excuse me, ma’am, I’m looking for someone.’
The woman was friendly, but had never heard of Felix’s brother. There was little chance of anyone knowing the little boy here, far from where he had gone missing, but Felix never wasted an opportunity. He dreamed his brother had somewhere grown to be a young man.
‘His name is Isaak Reisbeck – or he may go by Peasmarsh, our mother’s name.’
‘No one by those names around here.’ The jam maker couldn’t help. One after another, the stallholders shook their heads.
‘He’d be about fourteen, dark hair.’
‘Sorry, lad.’
‘He may have passed this way as a child – you might remember him; the tip of his third finger is missing.’
A stone road marker provided a convenient platform to stand on and get a good view of the folks milling about. Felix drew out his holey stone – a smooth pebble with a hole worn right through the centre by the tide – and peered through it, hoping for some shimmer of a clue. Pinchbeck had given it to him when they first met, to help him with his search. After his violin, it was his most treasured possession. No luck.
In the churchyard, he checked each grave for any sign of his brother, but there was nothing. Even finding Isaak’s name on a burial plot would be something. The vicar was nowhere to be found. Felix looked through the holey stone again, but everything appeared normal; it always did. Pinchbeck said it would reveal hidden things, lost things, magical things, and that he would know it when he saw it. He carried it with him always, but had never seen anything through it.
Of course, he hadn’t expected to find anything today. They had been through this village before, four or five times, and with every passing year the chances grew slimmer that someone would remember Isaak. Besides, Felix and Isaak came from Kent – that was where Isaak went missing – and now they were in the Midlands, about two hundred miles to the north. It felt to Felix as if there were now few corners of the country
that he had not searched.
He sat on the wall and took out his violin. He always played in the hope Isaak would hear the music and be guided back to him. Felix had played his violin in a hundred villages or more since his little brother disappeared. The music summoned memories from his mind like spirits from Cabinets.
Their mother had died when Isaak was an infant, and their father was no provider – he cared only for the drink until he perished from it. So it was their grandfather who saw that they were fed, and taught Felix how to play the violin. Before Grandfather passed away, he made Felix promise to keep Isaak safe, no matter what. Felix would play music in the marketplace for enough pennies to buy food for them both, even though he was only ten years old. Isaak was five, or was it six?
That’s what they were doing when they first met Pinchbeck. She had a husband, then, and the two of them travelled from town to town, selling potions, lifting curses, finding things that were lost. Pinchbeck had watched Felix play and given him a whole sixpence for the song.
‘That’s a beautiful violin,’ she’d said. Felix remembered she was dressed in fashionable clothes, not like her husband who wore odd garments decorated with feathers and twigs and crosses.
‘Thank you, miss.’
‘I wonder if you could be persuaded to part with it.’
‘I couldn’t, miss. It’s how I make my living.’
‘I would pay you very handsomely. Think of all the wonderful things you could buy. Cakes and pastries, new boots . . . Name your price.’
They were standing outside a cheesemonger’s shop with empty, hollow tummies. Isaak crept closer, eager for a treat. The lady saw that he was listening and added, ‘Toy soldiers, for your little brother?’
Felix shook his head. He could never part with his grandfather’s violin for all the cake and boots and toy soldiers in the world. Apart from Isaak, music was all that mattered to him.
‘Sell it!’ Isaak begged as the lady walked away. ‘The money!’
‘We can’t! When the money’s all spent, then what? I need the violin to make more.’
Isaak pouted and kicked the wall. ‘You should’ve sold it.’
But of course, Felix now knew, if he had sold the violin that day, he would have been under Pinchbeck’s spell immediately. Although perhaps Pinchbeck might have allowed Isaak to travel with them, and the boys would at least have been together.
Felix shook the thoughts away. There was no use dwelling on what-ifs. He couldn’t go back and change things now, no matter how much he wanted to. He had to make the best of reality. He set the violin back carefully in its case, loosened the strings of the bow and settled it securely in its spot, then headed back towards the house.
8
Page of Wands:
Discovery, New Information,
Unexpected News
Over their morning tea, Pinchbeck laid out instructions to Leander for the next performance.
‘Leander, it’ll fall to you to make sure I am compensated fairly for my skills, if you see what I mean.’
He didn’t but he didn’t want to look stupid. Charlotte watched, scowling, as if waiting for him to show his ignorance.
‘Payment for services provided,’ Pinchbeck prompted.
What was he supposed to say? ‘Sending the bills, Madame?’
‘Robbery,’ snapped Charlotte. ‘You’ll be stealing their valuables while we keep them busy. I imagine you’ll be good at that.’ She was in a foul mood again. He was already sick of her and her changeable temper.
‘At least I’m good at something,’ he jabbed back. ‘What do you do except look pretty and be rude?’
A wry smile crossed Pinchbeck’s lips. ‘Children, children. We’re all family here. Get to your work, Charlotte, or shall I fetch the horsewhip?’ Pinchbeck stood.
‘I’m not scared of your whip,’ said Charlotte, glowering at her.
‘I know what you are scared of.’
That did the trick. Charlotte left the table and Pinchbeck sat back down.
‘She’ll come around,’ she said to Leander. ‘You’ll be jolly friends in no time.’
He shrugged. ‘Don’t care. Don’t want to make friends anyway.’
Pinchbeck tilted her head and said gently, ‘No man is an island, Leander. You’ve been alone for a long time, but you’ll be happy here, with us.’
Jolly friends! Leander was doubtful Charlotte knew how to be jolly. No one liked thieves, of course not, and if the world hadn’t been so unkind he never would have taken anything that wasn’t his. But he’d had to steal to survive, and he’d do it again if need be. Charlotte could look down at him all she wanted. He wouldn’t make a show of shame for her benefit. In fact, he’d do such a good job of stealing for Madame Pinchbeck that they would have no choice but to thank him for it. He was sure even Charlotte couldn’t be nasty to him if he put food on the table.
With the others out of earshot, Leander took his chance. ‘Madame Pinchbeck, I wanted to ask you, please . . . about my mother.’
From a small satchel Pinchbeck produced a bundle of papers. ‘Fold these for me, my lamb. I need to have them delivered.’
Leander took the stack and started work. ‘You said you could help me. I wondered . . . may I talk to her?’ he pressed.
Even asking the question made him shiver. Charlotte said Pinchbeck couldn’t talk to the dead, and last night he’d seen for himself the tricks used to fool her patrons, but if there was even a tiny chance—
‘Ah, little Leander. Of course I will help you. Soon. Very soon. But these things can’t be rushed.’ She reached for an ink bottle and began scratching out a letter, copying the address from her black notebook that she quickly tucked back into her pocket.
‘You can do it, then? Really talk to the dead?’
A laugh. ‘Of course.’
‘Charlotte said it’s impossible.’
‘Charlotte doesn’t have the imagination for magic, Leander. Not like you.’
‘But . . . if you can talk to ghosts, why do you need us to pretend?’ He almost whispered the words, half afraid that he would anger her. But he had to know.
She paused, the nib of her pen hovering over the ink. ‘How can I explain? It’s showmanship, my sweet. Putting on a spectacle for our customers. Of course, I could simply pass on messages from the dead, but where’s the performance in that? They wouldn’t be half as entertained.’
‘Oh,’ said Leander. That made sense. If people were paying money to see a seance, of course they wanted something exciting and showy. ‘I see.’
‘And besides –’ she lowered her voice and leaned closer, until her breath tickled his ear – ‘it’s tiring work. I save my real power for people who truly need it. People who truly deserve it.’ She tapped him on the nose and then sat back in her chair and returned to her writing. ‘But now tell me about your old home. Litchfield House. How many people live there?’
‘Only the master. He hasn’t got any family since the girl disappeared.’
Pinchbeck took out her small black book and flipped carefully through the pages. It was packed densely with writing and drawings. She found a page with a little empty space and scribbled something Leander couldn’t make out. ‘Servants?’
‘A cook, couple of maids and a groom, I think. And a horrible, wicked housekeeper. Why do you ask, miss?’ He leaned over to get a better look at the book, but she moved it away and covered it with her arm.
‘Never you mind,’ she said. ‘You want to earn the chance to speak to your mother, don’t you? Here’s your chance to begin. Impress me by answering my questions.’
Leander straightened up and nodded. Besides, it was nice to have someone interested in what he had to say. No one had ever asked about his life before.
‘Only five servants? Are you sure? So few, in such a grand house?’
‘It used to be grand, but now it’s in a right state. The garden’s all overgrown. There’s this huge fountain with statues of all these ladies with scrolls, fancy-like,
but it doesn’t work any more.’
Charlotte stopped what she was doing and began watching him from across the room, brow furrowed. When Pinchbeck glanced in her direction, she hurried away.
Pinchbeck continued to question Leander for a long time, asking strange things like how many staircases were in the big house, and how many chairs were in the parlour. Once she was satisfied with his answers, she tucked the little book away and began to shuffle through a stack of newspaper cuttings. Now and then she read out headlines such as ‘Spirit Phenomena’ and ‘Psychic Demonstration’.
‘Always good to know what our competition is up to. My seances must always be the best in the business.’
Leander picked up a piece of paper. It showed a photograph of a lady posing next to a ghost – Leander supposed it was meant to be a ghost anyway. It looked more like a person wrapped in a tablecloth, creased white fabric covering the face and shoulders.
‘Yes, that’s an interesting one, isn’t it? Spotted that in the Illustrated London News back in September,’ Pinchbeck muttered. ‘Fred Hudson, the old fraud.’
‘Who’s Fred Hudson?’ asked Leander.
‘A medium. Calling himself a “spirit photographer” these days. Somewhat famous. Not a patch on me, of course. It should be my name in all the papers. And it will be. Soon.’ She stood up. ‘Speaking of which, time to get our newest member properly trained. The performance tonight must be perfect!’
The newspaper cuttings fluttered down to the table. Charlotte swooped in to tidy them away, peering at Hudson’s ‘ghost photograph’ as Pinchbeck showed Leander some of the wondrous contraptions and devices she had dreamed up.
A wooden block on wheels made the sound of ghostly footsteps when pushed down the stairs. Pigeon feathers rained from the sky when blown out of miniature bellows. An oily substance painted on Leander’s palms left damp, shimmery handprints that faded to nothing.
Then she called Felix in from tending the horses and made him play his violin, while Charlotte and Leander rehearsed appearing at the perfect moment in time with the music. Pinchbeck shouted questions and the children would respond with a series of knocks and taps on the walls and furniture. They practised creeping silently about the room, beneath the table, up the stairs, so that they could move unnoticed while the audience was distracted. Leander learned the hand and whistle signals that Charlotte and Felix used to indicate what the other should do. And, when he revealed that he had taken a handkerchief from Charlotte’s apron pocket without her knowledge, Pinchbeck laughed with delight.
The Vanishing Trick Page 6