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“As it happens, I have a previous engagement.”
Miss McCleethy’s stare nearly stops my blood. “I am sorry, Mademoiselle LeFarge. I was gone but a moment,” she says.
“Ladies,” Mademoiselle LeFarge chides, “if you ever wish to leave the confines of Spence again—”
“Spence, you say? Spence Academy for Young Ladies?” Dr. Van Ripple asks.
Mademoiselle LeFarge nods. “The very same, sir.”
Dr. Van Ripple gives us a little push. “Yes, well, wouldn’t want to miss the show. Best to take your seats now. A good evening to you all. Inspector.” And with that, the old man hobbles away, as fast as he can.
LeFarge shakes her head. “What an odd fellow.”
“Dr. Theodore Van Ripple, né Bob Sharpe. Magician, thief, fraud. Did he tell you ladies a fantastic tale, then claim he could not find his wallet?” the inspector inquires.
We nod sheepishly.
“He told us of a vanishing lady. His assistant,” Ann says. “He believed her to be murdered.”
Miss McCleethy frowns. “I think that’s quite enough.”
“Yes, I assure you Dr. Van Ripple is a conjurer of tales and cannot be trusted,” Inspector Kent says. “Now, shall we see the miracle of moving pictures?”
It would seem that Dr. Van Ripple is nothing but a con. I can’t understand why my visions have led me to this aging magician with a vivid imagination and a coat as shabby as his reputation. And to think I’ve chanced magic on it.
“Did you find your acquaintance, Miss McCleethy?” Felicity asks, and I should like to kick her for it.
“I did, indeed,” she says. “At first, I thought my eyes deceived me, for he disappeared in the crowd, but happily, I found him again.”
I’m confused. How could she have met up with Fowlson when he was nothing more substantial than ether? Is she lying? Or is Fowlson really here among us?
We’re led to our seats, which have been arranged so that we face the wall. A strange instrument is wheeled in and placed in the center aisle—a box perched upon metal legs, much like a camera, but larger. One of the Wolfson brothers, in full tails and top hat, stands before us, rubbing his white-gloved hands together in anticipation.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I welcome you to the Egyptian Hall, where in this hour, you shall witness an amazing spectacle of spirits, ghosts, and hobgoblins conjured before your very eyes!
“The Wolfson brothers, masters of the magic lantern, shall astonish and astound you with our feats of illusion—or are they illusion after all? For some would swear that these spirits walk among us, and that this machine powered by gas and light is but an instrument for their release into our world. But I shall leave that to your discretion. It is my duty to advise you that in Paris alone, no fewer than fourteen ladies fainted within the first several minutes, and one gentleman’s hair turned white as snow from sheer terror!”
Gasps and excited whispers roll through the audience, to the manager’s delight.
“Why, even the great Maskelyne and Cooke, those renowned illusionists and our gracious hosts here at this famed house of mystery, found the spectacle thrilling beyond all imagining. Therefore, it is my solemn duty to ask any here who may be weak of heart or otherwise unsound in mind or body to please leave now, as the management cannot be held accountable.”
Three ladies and a gentleman are ushered from the hall. It heightens the excitement.
“Very well. I cannot say what shall happen this afternoon, whether the spirits will prove kind—or angry. I bid you all welcome…and good luck.”
The lights are dimmed until the hall is nearly black. In the center aisle, the iron machine hums and hisses to life. It casts an image upon the far wall—a sweet-faced girl standing in a meadow. As we watch, she bends to pick a flower and brings it to her nose. She moves! Oh, the wonder of it. Delighted, the audience breaks into applause.
Ann squeezes my hand. “She seems so real—as if she were here now.”
Another image comes, one of a regiment on horseback. The horses prance, their legs moving up and down. We see an angel hovering over the bed of a peaceful sleeping child. Each image is more spectacular than the one before it, and in the dim gaslight, every face gazes straight ahead in awe.
The wall flickers with new light. A woman, chalky pale, appears in her nightgown, sleepwalking. Slowly, she transforms—the arms lose their flesh; the face becomes a death mask—until standing before us is a skeletal creature. Now there are gasps of a different sort. And then the skeleton seems to move closer to us.
Small cries of fear pierce the dark. Someone shouts, “My sister! She’s fainted! Oh, do stop the show!”
Inspector Kent leans in toward us. “Not to worry, ladies. All part of the act.” And I confess I’m grateful for his aside.
“Spirits!” Mr. Wolfson calls. “Leave us now!”
