The Vanishing Trick

by Jenni Spangler

  Mrs Smart was very close to Leander now, and it was only because she was engrossed in her task that she hadn’t noticed him, inches from her skirt hem. As she leaned over to examine something on the writing desk, the fabric of her dress brushed Leander’s knee. He shuffled backwards. If he could edge round to the other side of the chair, he’d have a chance of sneaking out unnoticed. Mrs Smart found something and held it up to examine it in the light, stepping back as she did so.

  Leander hopped aside, but overbalanced and fell. The housekeeper whipped round towards him. Her shock faded to wicked joy when she recognized him.

  ‘Here’s the sneak thief.’ She stuffed her trophy into her pocket with one hand and grabbed Leander’s wrist with the other. ‘I thought you’d gone to the sewers with the rest of the vermin.’

  ‘Let go of me!’

  ‘Oh no,’ she replied as she yanked him to his feet. ‘Sneaking around His Lordship’s chambers! No doubt you’re up to your usual pilfering ways.’

  ‘You’re the thief! I saw you put money in your pocket.’ He wrenched his hand from her claw, but she caught him by his coat before he could get away.

  ‘This half-sovereign that I stopped you from taking when I caught you red-handed?’ she asked, producing the coin. ‘Oh, the master will be most pleased with me, catching a ne’er-do-well in his chambers. I daresay I shall be rewarded handsomely, once you’ve been handed over to the constable.’

  ‘I’ll turn you in!’ he protested. ‘Let go!’

  ‘I’d like to see you try. To the master with you.’ She dropped the coin back into her pocket and gripped his shoulder, wrestling him through the doorway.

  The letter! He had to leave it otherwise all would be lost. Quickly, Leander pulled it out of his coat and twisted round to flick it into the room. It landed on the corner of the rug, almost invisible against the pattern. The door closed behind them.

  Please let him find it, he pleaded to himself.

  ‘Stop squirming!’ Mrs Smart shook him and gave his arm a hard pinch.

  ‘The master’s got visitors,’ said Leander. ‘He’ll be angry if you interrupt.’

  ‘And what would you know of that?’ She shoved him through the door to the servants’ staircase. It was darker in here, and her long, pinched face looked skeletal in the shadows. She smelled of camphor and damp.

  ‘Wait!’ Leander cried.

  She did not.

  ‘The master is finding out what happened to Charlotte.’

  That stopped her.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘His visitors. One of them’s a medium come to show him the spirit of his lost niece. You’ll be for it if you disturb him.’

  She stared at him for a long time. ‘How do you know about Lady Charlotte?’

  He couldn’t resist a smirk – it was fun to see her wrong- footed. ‘Just do.’

  ‘How does a ruffian like you know these things?’

  ‘I know a lot of things,’ Leander said. He avoided her gaze until she squeezed his cheek and twisted his head towards her.

  He had to get out of here.

  His Cabinet! He closed his eyes and willed himself to disappear, imagining his bones turning to air . . . Nothing happened. Perhaps he was too far away, or there were too many walls between him and his locket. He took a deep breath and tried again. He imagined steam, smoke, breeze.

  But Mrs Smart was off again, dragging Leander down the stairs too fast for his short legs. Pinchbeck would be irate if this woman interrupted her seance. And if she didn’t reveal Charlotte then Lord Litchfield might not believe the note – if he found it at all. To make things worse, Leander hadn’t stolen anything for Pinchbeck. She’ll be furious if I disobey!

  He could hear Felix’s violin and all manner of knocking and banging. The sound was comforting to Leander, but Mrs Smart was clearly uneasy. As they neared the bottom of the staircase, her pace slowed and her breathing quickened. No real ghosts, but she didn’t know that. As they got closer to the parlour door, her march became more of a shuffle.

  ‘You’re scared,’ said Leander.

  ‘No. But it seems the master is busy, and I shan’t disturb him. Mark my words, though, we’re going to stay right here until he’s finished, if it takes all night.’

  Again he tried to become vapour and return to the safety of his Cabinet. The sensation was like pushing against stretched canvas; the air around him wanted to yield to his will, but he wasn’t quite strong enough to break through. If he could reach the parlour door . . .

  He had to get away. He couldn’t let anything ruin their plans. The others were counting on him.

  He stamped on Mrs Smart’s foot, hard.

  Mrs Smart yelped and hopped on one foot, cursing him. He yanked himself free of her grasp, shoving past her and sprinting down the hall.

  ‘Get back here—’ She tripped over the hem of her dress and fell, sprawling face down on the floor. The coin flew from her apron pocket, rolling along the carpet towards Leander.

  ‘Serves you right!’ Leander said, snatching it up. He pushed on the parlour door, opening it just a little, and willed himself to vanish.

  This time the air accepted his plea and his spirit flowed through the gap into his locket, retaining his vision long enough to see Mrs Smart slack-jawed with astonishment.

  Charlotte stepped out into the parlour of her childhood home. It looked strangely cold, all harsh shadows in the dazzling light from the clockwork lamp, but the smell was unmistakably home. Her chest was filled with an ache of longing so strong it threatened to burst out of her. She belonged here.

  Most of the sitters were men. She dimly recognized one man as an old friend of her uncle, far greyer and plumper than she had known him. Another man, balding and flushed, she remembered being some sort of important figure from the next town, but his name was missing from her mind.

  And then she saw him . . .

  Uncle!

  Had he always been small and frail? No, he had been such a vibrant man. But now his hair was completely white and his eyes were sunk deeply into his skull. His posture was hunched as if the weight of his sorrows pushed his shoulders towards the ground. Was it because of her he was like this? No . . . not her. Pinchbeck!

  Charlotte stepped forward, eyes fixed on her uncle. Recognize me! Please recognize me.

  ‘Charlotte . . .’ The old man barely whispered, but she heard it over the howl of Felix’s violin and the gasps of the other men. She leaned over the table, over the arms of the nearest men, and reached her hand out towards her uncle. She wanted to call his name, but she was too overcome with emotion to speak and didn’t want to do anything to draw Pinchbeck’s negative attention.

  The spluttering lantern behind her uncle blinked and burned out. Only the watery candlelight remained. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, Charlotte could see Pinchbeck’s smile as the woman draped a dark cloth over the camera lens. She had taken the photograph. The reward would be hers for certain. But, even without the photograph, Charlotte could see her uncle was in awe of Pinchbeck. Oh, devious witch! This is too, too cruel.

  ‘Abeo!’ Pinchbeck’s voice commanded Charlotte into her lantern. She tried to scream no, no, not yet, a few moments longer. To shout at her uncle that this was the woman who had taken her, and she wasn’t dead, and he must find a way to save her.

  She pushed and fought, desperate to keep her form, but the magic pulled her in, tugging at her flesh like a million fish hooks, burning, smothering. But it was nothing next to the pain at being parted from her uncle again.

  The lantern door snapped shut as Pinchbeck ensured she couldn’t come back out.

  ‘The craftsmanship is unremarkable,’ the voice said. ‘No real value.’

  How dare they? Felix hated it when people touched his violin. Even in his Cabinet he knew; he could picture them turning it over in their hands, running their fingers over the worn patches on the finish, noticing the tiny crack in the tuning peg. Insulting its quality.

  ‘The mu
sic, though,’ said another man. ‘I’ve never heard anything like it before.’

  ‘Well, it was played by a ghost, my dear,’ said a woman with a titter. ‘One can’t expect the spirits to be capable of Bach.’ They laughed.

  Felix was furious. Of course I can play Bach! Then you’d complain it wasn’t mystical enough!

  He should pop out of the violin case and give them a fright. But he wouldn’t, of course. Especially not tonight.

  Pinchbeck knew how Felix felt about his violin, and yet she had left it out here for them to toy with. After her performance, Pinchbeck had requested to be shown to a dark place where she could develop the long-awaited for any sign she was creating illusions, and none would be found. Pinchbeck was too canny to bring her showy tricks in here. The seance had been performed with nothing but music and heartbreak to set the mood.

  ‘James, are you unwell?’

  ‘Yes,’ said a man – Charlotte’s uncle? – in a soft voice. ‘Shaken. It was . . . I could never have believed it . . .’

  ‘Dreadful news. We’re so sorry,’ said the woman.

  ‘I hope you find some comfort in . . .’ The man trailed off.

  ‘Knowing she’s at peace,’ the woman finished.

  ‘Yes,’ said the uncle. ‘Of course, yes. I always knew she couldn’t be alive . . . after all these years. I always knew.’ The last words were little more than a whisper. Felix could taste the old man’s pain and he thought of Charlotte, locked away in matching agony. He felt guilty for fretting over his violin.

  ‘ . . . quite startling. Such a clear manifestation.’ The woman spoke as if she had seen many ghosts. These gatherings were quite fashionable among certain circles.

  ‘Exactly as I remember her,’ said Lord Litchfield.

  ‘I’m certain no one in London could compare to this medium. She truly has a gift.’

  ‘That’s why I invited her.’ Charlotte’s uncle cleared his throat. ‘I saw many frauds and illusionists back in the old days. I’m sure you remember, Alfred.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘This was the only one who didn’t . . . I couldn’t find any evidence against her. You’ll think me a foolish old man, I suppose. I miss Charlotte so dearly.’

  There was a moment of deep, empty silence.

  The old man continued. ‘Thank you for coming tonight. I have rather neglected my old friends, it seems. Without you, I might not have trusted my own eyes.’

  The woman began to say something, but the door burst open and Pinchbeck’s crowing voice called, ‘I have done it!’

  The people all spoke at once, their voices mixing and fading as they moved away from Felix’s Cabinet. Pinchbeck’s plan, it seemed, was working perfectly.

  13

  Strength:

  Courage, Determination,

  Cleverness

  The carriage was already far from Litchfield House when Pinchbeck finally opened their Cabinets and allowed them to come out. They had stopped by the side of a dark and winding country lane, and almost immediately Pinchbeck gathered the children round the lantern, eager to show off the photograph.

  ‘One for us, and one for your uncle to show off to all his rich friends. Come, see what clever Mama has done!’

  The boys looked at the image, curious, but Charlotte hung back. She might as well be looking at her own burial gown.

  ‘You should be grateful,’ Pinchbeck said to her sharply. ‘You saw your uncle and brought him comfort. And this picture will bring comfort to many more. They’ll believe this is proof their loved ones go on after death!’

  It was a striking photograph. Though Charlotte had been reaching for her uncle, Pinchbeck had angled the camera perfectly, making it appear that Charlotte was staring right at the viewer, arm outstretched, eyes black in the harsh light. She even looked transparent: the furniture was visible through her dress.

  ‘Double exposure,’ explained Pinchbeck with a wink. ‘Two pictures over the top of each other on the same plate. One of the empty room, and one with you in it. The walls and furniture look solid because they’re in both pictures, but you are not.’ She was obviously pleased with her own cleverness.

  Charlotte pushed down her anger. As soon as Pinchbeck had gone to sleep, there would be a chance to find out if Leander had succeeded in planting the letter. Until then, Charlotte needed to stay calm and not arouse suspicion.

  ‘Glorious day, children! Mark this day! Remember this day!’ Pinchbeck said with glee. It was obvious now that she wasn’t just buoyant from the seance, she was drunk, too. No doubt she had been offered sherry and wine at the house, to thank her for the success of the session. Charlotte was revolted at the thought that her uncle was rewarding the woman who was the source of all his pain. Giggling, Pinchbeck took down a large wicker basket from the driving seat and handed it to Felix.

  ‘A gift from your grateful uncle, Charlotte dear. Help yourselves.’

  ‘I got this,’ said Leander, producing a gold coin from his pocket.

  ‘A half-sovereign!’ Pinchbeck clasped her hands over Leander’s. ‘Well done, my little Leander! You’ll have pocket money when we reach the city. Good lad.’

  Leander managed a half-smile in response.

  ‘Oh,’ said Pinchbeck, pulling Leander’s locket out of her pocket. ‘Put this away safely.’

  Leander put the chain round his neck.

  ‘Will we camp here or go back to the farmhouse?’ asked Felix.

  Pinchbeck shook her head and made big sweeping gestures. ‘Neither. Onward, children. Onward to better things!’

  ‘I’ll ride up front with you,’ said Charlotte. She’d charm Pinchbeck while she was vague with drink and try to learn more about her plans. If she’s going to smash my lantern and kill me, why not do it now? Why the urgency to travel through the night? She put on her sweetest smile. ‘I can hold the reins while you eat. Keep you company.’

  The boys were already rummaging through the hamper. She crouched beside them so their heads were very close. ‘She might give something away while she’s drunk. You hunt through her books for ideas. If she falls asleep –’ she glanced at Pinchbeck, wobbling precariously as she heaved herself up to her seat – ‘I’ll pull off the road and tell you what I’ve found out.’

  Charlotte took out a small pigeon pie and a wimberry tart, which should keep Pinchbeck awake for a few miles, at least. Felix nudged Leander to get into the carriage and handed him the hamper. A rat scampered from the hedgerow and stood boldly watching them from behind the carriage wheel, as if waiting for its share of the spoils. Charlotte stamped her foot and it retreated. Vile creatures.

  ‘Blankets.’ Felix passed Charlotte an armful of rugs. ‘Good luck.’

  It was impossible to climb gracefully while wearing a crinoline, but she didn’t waste time changing. Pinchbeck’s gown was thankfully more modern, not sticking out as far, or there wouldn’t have been room for the two of them to sit together. Charlotte arranged the blankets over their laps to protect their clothes from dirt and their skin from the cold.

  ‘Everyone in?’ Pinchbeck shouted and didn’t wait for an answer. Felix hopped into the carriage as it started moving and slammed the door.

  The white in Pinchbeck’s hair was gradually taking over and her hands were bony, though she drove the horses like a demon until Charlotte persuaded her to hand over the reins.

  ‘Where are we heading?’ said Charlotte, gripping tightly to keep her hands from shaking with fear.

  ‘To Stafford, for some well-earned rest and luxury. Your uncle is a generous man, Charlotte. My work was richly rewarded and he’ll no doubt be sharing news of my talent far and wide soon, too.’

  She opened her mouth as wide as a snake to take a huge bite of the fruit pie, the purple-red syrup staining her lips blood red.

  ‘I’ll need some new gowns in the most fashionable styles before mixing with high society in London. And I shall need to hire a driver. It won’t do for a woman to travel alone among the upper class. Another limitat
ion of this wretched female form. I should have been a man, Charlotte. I could have chosen a—’ She stopped herself abruptly. ‘Oh well. Too late now. At least I’m beautiful. All eyes will be on me very soon.’

  As well as talking nonsense, Charlotte noticed that Madame Pinchbeck’s balance had been affected by the drink; every bump in the road made her sway dangerously. It’d be so easy to push her off the seat. Charlotte imagined the sound of her head hitting the ground, legs pulled beneath the carriage wheels, the cry of pain—

  No! What kind of monster had she become? Was she capable of such a thing? Besides, hurting Pinchbeck wouldn’t grant their freedom. But if it would . . . could she do it?

  ‘Keep on this road until the village of Coven.’

  ‘What’s in Coven?’

  ‘No concern of yours. Your work is done.’

  Your work is done. So Charlotte had been right to worry. She was no longer useful to Pinchbeck. The cold, biting wind stung her face and matched the lump of ice in her gut. The carriage passed along the narrow, winding road, the world around them shades of navy and black. It was spooky, but what need was there to fear the dark when the monster was already beside you?

  Perhaps flattery would get her talking. Pinchbeck was a prideful creature, and might let something slip if Charlotte encouraged bragging. ‘I was wondering . . .’ Ease into it. Don’t rush. ‘Using us as spirits in a seance . . . it’s such a clever idea. How did you ever think of it?’

  Pinchbeck laughed. ‘I’m a clever person, Charlotte. Don’t you forget it. I simply had to use my gifts to my advantage.’

  ‘And before you were a medium?’ Charlotte’s mouth was as dry as parchment, and it was a struggle to keep her voice light.

  Pinchbeck stared at her for a long time. ‘A lady must have a few secrets, Charlotte.’ She leaned back and closed her eyes.

  ‘How did you learn to perform so well?’

  ‘I won’t be tempted into talking, girl. My secrets have been buried for eight years, and it’ll take more than a prying child to uncover them.’

  Felix scoured the books yet again, searching for any tiny clue they might have overlooked – anything to stop Pinchbeck harming Charlotte. Leander’s reading wasn’t good enough to be of any use, so he mostly sat guard over the well-stuffed food hamper. He’d already devoured his chunk of fruitcake and pocketed handfuls of biscuits and sugarplums when he thought Felix wasn’t looking, but Felix pretended not to notice. He knew it wasn’t greed. Leander had spent months never knowing when his next meal would come. The longer Felix knew him, the more Leander reminded him of Isaak; though he was much older, Leander had the same stubbornness, the same false bravery and puppy-dog hopefulness. Felix was growing fond of the boy, and that was the last thing he wanted to do. Never get attached.