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An elegant gentleman with a thicket of black hair, streaked through with silver, and a neatly trimmed goatee steps forward. There are deep wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, and he leans upon a walking stick, but though he is an older man than I’ve seen in my visions, there is no doubt he is the man we seek: Dr. Theodore Van Ripple.
“That’s him,” I whisper to Ann and Fee.
The doctor hobbles closer. “This ghostly image is no more a spirit than you or I. It is simply an ordinary photograph soaked too long in a photographer’s bath. A trick, you see?”
“Do you call me a liar, sir?” Mr. Smith sniffs.
The man bows. “You’ll forgive me, sir, but I cannot allow such kind, good-hearted ladies to be taken in by untruths.”
Mr. Smith can smell doubt robbing him of a sale. “Ladies, I assure you, I saw these spirits with my own eyes! Here is proof, I tell you!”
But it is too late. The lady in front has walked away, shaking her head. Others come to take her place. They still want to believe.
Felicity pushes her way toward Dr. Van Ripple. “Is that true, sir?”
“Oh, yes. Quite. I am familiar with a great many illusions. I deal in the world of smoke and mirrors myself. I am a magician by trade. In fact, I performed this evening. For a few moments,” he adds bitterly. “But I shall perform a special show for you.”
He reaches into his pocket and produces a deck of cards. “Here. I shall show you. Take a card. Any card you wish. You may reveal it to your dear friends but do not show the card to me.”
I crane my neck, but I don’t see McCleethy yet, so I select a card—the ace of spades—and reveal it to Ann and Felicity before tucking it into my palm out of sight. Dr. Van Ripple passes the deck to Mr. Smith.
“Would you do me the favor of shuffling these cards, dear sir?”
With great irritation, Mr. Smith rearranges the deck. He hands it back to Dr. Van Ripple, who shuffles the cards again and again, making polite chatter the entire time like a born showman. At last, he places his white-gloved hand upon the deck and pronounces, “You hold the ace of spades, dear lady. Do you not?”
Astonished, I show him the ace. “How ever did you do it?”
His eyes twinkle. “The rules of magic, my dear, are best not discussed. For once we understand the illusion, we no longer believe in it.”
“He’s marked the cards,” Mr. Smith huffs, indignant. “Sheer fakery.”
Dr. Van Ripple tips his hat and produces a frog from inside it. The frog hops onto the shoulder of a very startled Mr. Smith.
“Ahh, slimy beast!” The photographer nearly topples his own table trying to get away. The crowd laughs.
“Dear me,” Dr. Van Ripple says. “Perhaps we should stand elsewhere.”
The doctor hobbles ahead, leading us past other exhibitions: A painted Turk’s head pushes fortunes out of its mechanical mouth; a snake dancer balances a giant serpent across her shoulders, undulating slowly as the beast coils and slithers; a man holding a stuffed bird trumpets the wonders of a traveling museum of natural history. I even spy Madame Romanoff, otherwise known as Sally Carny of Bow’s Bells, conducting a séance. I once took this false spiritualist to the realms by accident. We lock eyes and Sally abruptly ends her reading.
Dr. Van Ripple pauses before a statue of Osiris to mop his brow with a handkerchief. “Our Mr. Smith was nothing more than a faux-tographer, it would seem.”
“Your card trick was most impressive!” Ann says.
“You are too kind. Allow me to present myself properly. I am Dr. Theodore Van Ripple, master illusionist, scholar, and gentleman, at your service.”
“How do you do? I am Gemma Dowd,” I say, giving my mother’s maiden name. Ann holds fast to “Nan Washbrad” whilst Felicity becomes “Miss Anthrope.”
“Dr. Van Ripple, I do recall hearing of you,” I begin. “I believe my mother attended one of your shows.”
His eyes sparkle with interest. “Ah! Here, in London? Or was it perhaps in Vienna or Paris? I have played for both princes and the populace.”
“It was here in London, I am sure,” I offer. “Yes, she said it was a most marvelous spectacle. She was amazed by your talents.”
The doctor positively glows with the adulation. “Splendid! Splendid! Tell me, which illusion did she prefer—the disappearing doll or the glass of ruby smoke?”
“Ah…yes, em, I think she rather fancied both.”
“They are my specialties. How marvelous!” He cranes, searching the crowd. “And is your dear mother with you here tonight?”
