The Vanishing Trick

by Jenni Spangler

  ‘I wrote about the tricks they used to fool others, thinking knowledge would stop people being so easily taken in.’ He sighed. ‘Augustina Pinchbeck sent me a letter, and said she was a true medium. Offered to prove it and I allowed her into our home.’

  ‘I know, we were introduced. That’s why I stopped to talk to her that day in the woods – I wouldn’t have spoken to a stranger. But that’s not your fault. She wanted to get her hands on a rich girl. If not me, she would’ve taken the next girl she found.’

  Her uncle shook his head. ‘No, I think it was more than that. I did a bad thing.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Charlotte.

  ‘When I invited her to perform, I intended to expose her as a fake. I expected to catch her with trick candles and fake limbs and all the usual paraphernalia. But there was nothing.’

  ‘She did use those things,’ said Charlotte. ‘She must have deliberately left them behind when she met you.’

  ‘I was baffled. Couldn’t guess how she did it. There was a haunted violin played by a ghost in the dark. I held it in my own hands and couldn’t solve the mystery.’

  ‘Felix.’ Felix performing his music in her own parlour before she ever knew him, her own dear uncle cradling his violin . . .

  ‘She gloated. She had bested me. I knew it was a trick, but I couldn’t prove it.’ He closed his eyes, shook his head at the memory. ‘So I lied.’

  ‘Lied?’

  ‘I couldn’t say she was the real thing. It would undo all the good I’d done with my articles. I had witnesses, and I needed them to verify my report.’ He cleared his throat and lowered his voice. ‘I hid a few props of my own among her things. When we raised the lights, everyone believed she had put them there to trick us.’

  ‘She must have been angry.’ Pinchbeck would never tolerate being humiliated in such a way.

  ‘Furious. She swore I’d live to regret it. And then she left. I published my articles, and heard no more about her.’

  Charlotte let his words sink into her mind like rocks into deep water.

  ‘Is that when she took me?’

  ‘A month later. I had no reason to think it was connected. You’d disappeared on your morning walk. I feared you had fallen in the woods, or toppled into the lake.’

  So it hadn’t been a chance meeting. Pinchbeck had planned her kidnap.

  ‘Why did you invite her back?’

  ‘Years of sitting alone and wondering. Wealth buys a certain privilege. There were searches – your name was spread as far as I could manage. Weeks became months and I knew you must be dead. Still, it consumed me. I saw no one, rarely left my study.’

  Charlotte rested her head on his shoulder. Her absence had tortured him, as Isaak’s disappearance had torn at Felix. All the lost children asleep upstairs had left someone behind, suffering the same way.

  ‘Then in the paper – barely a week or two ago – a photographer claiming that not only could she contact the dead, she could capture their image. Augustina Pinchbeck, the one medium I couldn’t disprove—’

  ‘She might have the answers after all.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I was there, Uncle. I was in your parlour that day.’

  ‘I thought I’d never see you again, yet there you were, as I remembered you. And later I found a letter.’

  ‘My note.’

  ‘Too strange to be real, but it was your handwriting, and the honeybee you drew . . . I sent word through old friends to stop Pinchbeck at any cost. The rest you know.’

  She threw her arms round his neck, tears flowing down her cheeks as he embraced her.

  ‘How can this be, Charlotte?’

  ‘I can’t explain it. And I don’t know what will happen now.’ She wiped her face with one sleeve, the fabric rough against her weather-chafed cheeks. ‘I suppose . . . perhaps we will begin to grow old, now the magic is done.’

  At least she hoped so. They deserved to grow up and grow old like everyone else. Pinchbeck’s spell was broken; the Cabinets were just ordinary objects again. Surely their bodies would be allowed to age at last. She had been the same for so many years, it would feel strange to see her body change and grow.

  ‘I will see you are cared for always. No more harm shall befall you. I promise.’

  ‘Felix and Leander, too? I won’t be parted from them. I wouldn’t be alive without them.’

  ‘And the boys, too. As long as I live. All of them.’

  Leander woke slowly from sweet dreams, stretching out his sore limbs. He could tell it was daylight before he opened his eyes and he remembered: It’s over. He savoured the glorious sensation, enjoying the warmth of the soft blankets against his skin. He had slept for a long time and some of the others were already up. Felix was gone. A small boy slept curled up at the end of the bed, and a lanky youth was snoring on the rug.

  Leander rolled over and started. Mrs Smart was standing over him.

  ‘I knew it was you, toad.’ Her voice was hushed but bitter.

  ‘Mrs Smart—’

  ‘Laid there like the cat who got the cream. I don’t know how you did it—’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ He sat up and scratched his head. Mrs Smart was less scary here, in this warm, light place. After all the dangers he had survived.

  ‘The master’s taking them all back to the big house, to find them a trade or a home to go to.’

  A home.

  ‘But not you, swine.’ Mrs Smart stood, hands on hips, bending over to glower at him. ‘There’s no place in that house for you. Wait till the master hears of your thieving ways.’

  ‘Wait until he hears of yours,’ Leander hissed. Mrs Smart sneered.

  ‘The boy criminal turns up with the master’s missing girl? Somehow you’re responsible for whatever villainy happened to her.’

  ‘How could I be? I was seven years old when she wentmissing!’

  ‘And she hasn’t aged a day in years. For all I know, you’re the same breed of devil. These little children will have a home, but you, you’ll rot in the workhouse as you deserve. I’ll see to it.’

  Would they believe this horrible woman? Mrs Smart had often used the master as a threat, reminding Leander how much he hated thieves, how cruel he’d be if he found Leander sleeping in the library. But Charlotte spoke of a loving uncle who cherished her. If he was willing to find homes for all those children, surely he’d forgive Leander his misbehaviour.

  ‘Charlotte will tell him the truth.’ Leander folded his arms and stared right back at her.

  ‘Does Lady Charlotte know what you are? A dirty thief? A beggar? She’s a high-born lady. She’ll have no time for you now she’s back to her station.’ Mrs Smart smiled like a weasel. ‘Or we can come to an arrangement, you and me.’

  ‘She knows who I am,’ said Leander with more courage than he felt. A tiny doubt crept into his mind. Charlotte had grown to care for him, but that was when she had nothing and no one else. She had her home back now. Would she really still want him around? Being alone after everything he had gone through seemed too much to bear.

  ‘Get out, witch.’ Charlotte was standing in the doorway.

  Mrs Smart snapped her mouth shut, surprised, then pursed her lips.

  ‘Leander, come and have breakfast. We have a long journey ahead.’

  Relieved, Leander scrambled out of bed and pushed past the scowling woman. Charlotte stared at Mrs Smart with the same fierceness he’d seen that first day in the woods. She guided Leander out into the corridor and down the stairs. Music from Felix’s violin drifted in from the street.

  ‘She shouldn’t be here, but Uncle’s health wasn’t good enough to travel alone.’ Charlotte pushed open a door to where seven or eight children were eating bowls of porridge under the bemused gaze of the innkeeper’s wife.

  ‘She won’t bother you again. I won’t allow it.’

  27

  The World:

  Completion, Success,

  Accomplishment

  Coaches were ordered;
hampers were filled. People ran to and fro, packing and preparing for the journey ahead. They were squeezed into three carriages. Leander, Charlotte, Felix and Isaak rode in the front one with Lord Litchfield.

  ‘I want to thank you, boys.’ Lord Litchfield sat beside Charlotte, looking brighter and healthier than Leander had seen him before. ‘Charlotte has told me everything. I’m not sure I understand it yet, but I know that you are good and brave. You will have a home at Litchfield House for the rest of your lives. I will treat you as my own sons. I give you my word, as a gentleman, that you will be taken care of.’

  ‘Lord Litchfield, thank you,’ said Leander, blinking hard to stop hot, happy tears from spilling down his cheeks.

  ‘Call me Uncle,’ said the old man. He rested his head back and closed his eyes with a small, contented smile.

  An uncle. Brothers and a sister. A family.

  The procession of carriages clattered up to Litchfield House. This time Leander entered the big house by the front door.

  There was a great deal of excitement. The few servants left after the master’s long years alone rushed about, trying to cope with a suddenly busy household and the reopening of many forgotten rooms. The children did their best to help, but a few spoke no English, and none could properly make a bed.

  Lady Charlotte, as the servants called her, was given her old rooms. They were exactly as she had left them, but covered in a thick layer of dust. Mrs Smart, as it turned out, was a poor housekeeper. She had not returned with them.

  The rooms were cleaned swiftly and the stale smell was driven out with vast bunches of hothouse flowers which her uncle – our uncle – had sent up to cheer her.

  The spirit children were slotted into the house wherever they would fit. A makeshift nursery was cobbled together. There was talk of finding positions for the bigger children and schools for the babies, but Lord Litchfield said it would take time before they were ready for the wide world. They were bewildered and uneasy, wild and playful, and drove the maids to distraction. The cook, on the other hand, was delighted to have so many eager mouths to feed, and, whenever one of the children went missing, they were sure to be found in her kitchen being spoiled with bread and cake.

  Lord Litchfield was as good as his word – Leander was shown to a room with a huge bed and a fireplace all for him. It was the grandest thing he had ever seen. He placed his mother’s locket underneath his pillow for safekeeping. Felix and Isaak would share a room, refusing to be separated again even for a night.

  The big house seemed so different now that Leander didn’t have to sneak around. He walked the length of every corridor and opened every door. He returned to the library. It seemed smaller than he remembered. At the front of the house he found Charlotte sitting on the steps, staring out at the moss-covered fountain.

  ‘It’ll be beautiful again by the springtime,’ she said. ‘We’ll have everything cleaned and repaired. Everything back as it should be.’

  A gust of wind whipped round the building, shaking bare branches and sending dry leaves skittering in circles. Something brushed against Leander’s ankle, the wind holding it against him. He picked it up. It was one of Pinchbeck’s tarot cards. How did that get here?

  ‘Four of Wands,’ said Leander.

  ‘What does it mean?’

  And, for the first time, Leander knew exactly what the cards were trying to say.

  ‘It means home.’

  Acknowledgements

  This story would never have made it to the page if it wasn’t for the support of some wonderful people.

  My wonderful husband, Styl. When I announced I wanted to write a book, he made my dream a priority and made sure I had time and space to work. He is the best partner I could ask for, and I am so lucky. My beautiful children, Daphne and Jasper, who are an endless source of enthusiasm and imagination. I love you all so much.

  My amazing parents, John and Dawn, who made a lot of sacrifices for my education, and who really believed it when they said I could do anything I put my mind to. They deserve thanks for so much more than this book, but it will do for a start.

  My grandparents, Charles and Mabel, who love books almost as much as they love each other.

  My amazing friends – Emma Norry, who has read so many versions of this book and pushed me not to give up on it. Lindsay Galvin, who thought that maybe Pinchbeck would be better as a woman (she was right!). Laura Oldham, who is always on board whenever I say, ‘I’ve had an idea . . .’ And Stuart White, who created the #writementor community which has helped more than I can say.

  I’m so grateful to Lauren Gardner, my brilliant agent, for taking a chance and being a huge cheerleader for my work. To Jane Griffiths, my editor, and the whole team at S&S for all your hard work and support. And a massive thanks to Chris Mould for his gorgeous illustrations, which are better than I ever dreamed.

  Author note

  The Victorian era is my favourite period in history to research, because the Victorians left so much behind for us to study – buildings, newspapers, advertisements, and most exciting of all, photographs.

  Having a portrait painted is slow and expensive, so throughout much of history, only rich people could afford a picture of themselves. The faces of everyday people are missing from our galleries and records. But fast, cheap photography gave us thousands of photos of ordinary people. We can see people who lived nearly 200 years ago, exactly as they looked on the day the photo was taken.

  The oldest existing photographs were created around 1826, though they look grainy and rough. Improvements happened quickly and by the 1840s huge numbers of people were having their photos taken. In these early days, it took several minutes to capture a picture. People had to stay completely still or the picture would be blurry. It’s quite hard to hold a natural- looking smile for three minutes at a time, which is one of the reasons why Victorian photos look formal and stuffy. The other reason is fashion – people thought a serious expression looked dignified.

  Victorian photographs were made by coating sheets of glass or metal (called ‘plates’) with a special chemical called silver nitrate, which reacts to light. The silver nitrate changed colour depending on how much light reached it, capturing the image. Then the plate was bathed in different liquids to stop the picture darkening or fading.

  By 1876 when this story takes place, cameras had improved and photos could be printed onto card instead of delicate sheets of silver and glass. This made them even more popular as they could easily be copied, sent through the post, or sold as souvenirs.

  Just as cameras became more advanced, photographers were learning and experimenting with trick photography. A clever photographer could layer images together to make it seem like a woman was sitting inside a wine glass, or a man was holding his own severed head.

  Some photographers decided to make ‘ghosts’ appear on their pictures. Some, like Pinchbeck in The Vanishing Trick, used double-exposure – exposing the same ‘plate’ to light twice, effectively making two photos on top of each other. Any objects (like furniture) which were in both pictures would look solid, whilst anything only in one picture would look see-through and ghostly.

  If you’d like to know more about Victorian photography, or to see some of the photos which inspired The Vanishing Trick, go to my website www.jennispangler.com and click ‘more information’.

  The Victorians were fascinated by ghosts, so ‘spirit photography’ became very popular. In both England and America, mediums held seances and claimed to speak to the dead. It may seem surprising to us that so many Victorians believed in ghosts and seances, but lots of sensible and educated people did. Even Queen Victoria attended some seances.

  The 1800s were a time of huge change in the UK, with advances in science and invention changing the way people lived. At the beginning of the century, cunning folk made their money by selling a mixture of herbal remedies and magic. You might have consulted someone like Edmund Pellar to cure a tummy ache, lift a curse, or find a thief. By the end of the c
entury the cunning folk had died out because modern medicine and the police force were beginning to take shape, and people were letting go of their old beliefs in magic and superstition. But interest in mediums and seances was still gaining popularity. Perhaps people weren’t ready to give up on magic entirely.

  Perhaps we still aren’t.

  First published in Great Britain in 2020 by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

  Text Copyright © 2020 Jenni Spangler

  Illustrations Copyright © 2020 Chris Mould

  This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

  No reproduction without permission.

  All rights reserved.

  The right of Jenni Spangler and Chris Mould to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Design and Patent Act, 1988.

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  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  PB ISBN 978-1-4711-9037-7

  eBook ISBN 978-1-4711-9038-4

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Typeset in Goudy by M Rules

  Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY