On the Nature of Magic E-Book

Marian Womack

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Spanning London's occult seances to the Parisian catacombs, two women claim to have seen Marie Antoinette's ghost in the garden of Versailles in this Gothic supernatural mystery where magic and science collide.1902. Helena Walton-Cisneros, known for finding answers to the impossible, has started her own detective agency. The agency's first uncanny cases are both located in Paris – itself too much of a coincidence to ignore.First, two English women claim to have seen the ghost of Marie Antoinette in the gardens of Versailles. Then a young woman working at the mysterious Méliès Star Films studio has disappeared.As Helena and her colleague Eliza investigate, they uncover vanishings, impossible illusions, demons in the Catacombs and connections to the occult. To find the thread that connects the cases, Helena and Eliza must accept the natural world is darker, stranger than they could ever have imagined…

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Prologue

CHAPTER ONE

Beyond the Veil

CHAPTER TWO

Walton & Waltraud, Inquiry Agents

Interlude

CHAPTER THREE

Two Female Scholars

CHAPTER FOUR

Chaffins’s Antique Collectables

Interlude

CHAPTER FIVE

The Ghost of Christmas Past

Interlude

CHAPTER SIX

Gaslight Ghosts and Electric Fairies

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Glass Doll House

CHAPTER EIGHT

Into the Night Garden

Interlude

CHAPTER NINE

The Shaman up the Mountain

CHAPTER TEN

Into the Wolf’s Mouth

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Green Fairy

Interlude

CHAPTER TWELVE

Unexpected Allies, Unexpected Enemies

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

On the Nature of Magic

Acknowledgements

Author Bio

Praise for On the Nature of Magic

‘Marian Womack is fiendishly inventive. She creates magic.’Priya Sharma, author of Ormeshadow

‘An intricately built tale of history, spiritualism, and magic; perfect for fans of Susanna Clarke.’A.C. Wise, author of Wendy, Darling

‘The intricate plot seamlessly weaves together mystery, fantasy and some very curious historical incidents. A delightfully detailed puzzle box of a book.’A.J. Elwood, author of The Cottingley Cuckoo

‘Like the fantastical early cinema at the centre of its plot, On the Nature of Magic occupies a region midway between science and sorcery – and Marian Womack excels at the tricky balancing act, mixing methodical deductive processes with bursts of wild imagination. Highly recommended to all lovers of gaslit crime and the Gothic!’Tim Major, author of Sherlock Holmes and The Twelve Thefts of Christmas

Also by Marian Womack and available from Titan Books

The Golden KeyThe Swimmers

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On the Nature of Magic

Print edition ISBN: 9781803361345

E-book edition ISBN: 9781803361925

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd.

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First Titan edition: May 2023

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organisations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2023 Marian Womack. All rights reserved.

Marian Womack asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

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

I have observed electrical actions, which have appeared inexplicable. Faint and uncertain though they were, they have given me a deep conviction and foreknowledge, that ere long all human beings on this globe, as one, will turn their eyes to the firmament above, with feelings of love and reverence, thrilled by the glad news: ‘Brethren! We have a message from another world, unknown and remote. It reads: one… two… three…’

—NIKOLA TESLA, Christmas 1900

Prologue

They would be dressed as fairies, planets, stars, bound tight to ropes as they soared up, up all the way to the glass ceiling to be enveloped by the light. It would still be there when she closed her eyes, tiny green dots floating behind her eyelids.

The ropes and the levers would start working, and the dancers would fly up, performing their daring pirouettes, their arms and legs forming delicate shapes, love doves that would entrance the movie audience.

Yes, she knew it then: that night there would be nightmares. They were like clockwork, always after seeing the lady dancers floating in mid-air for the camera, everyone silent at the studio, intently following their progress, only an old piano shrieking somewhere, and le patron giving directions, a grin on his face. That was all everyone wanted, to please le patron; but his grin brought no relief to anybody. At least not to her. In bed, when she was trying to sleep, she would still see it when she closed her eyes, the green light that had covered the dancers. And the dreams were awful. They would always be populated by the same strange creatures, beasts out of a fairy world but awfully wrong, twisted: tall boys made of clay and sticks glued together, gentlemen in expensive outfits, which crumbled into tatters when she got close, wicked women who talked to the dead. Who were these strange people? Why did she have these strange dreams?

She remembered the first few times she saw Star Film Studio. It was impossible to believe it, a building completely made of glass like some oversized orangery. There was a complicated system that moved curtains one way or another to maintain a measured quantity of light. There were ropes and levers that lifted the dancers. The ropes helped le patron create his illusions; her aunt’s job was to render them invisible among the costumes. There were always ladies flying in le patron’s movies. Fairies bathed in light. He would be giving instructions, if he wasn’t operating the camera himself. But on many days there were visitors in the studio, and he would show them around. Investors, her aunt would whisper. These two had come often, a tall man and a petite woman fashionably dressed. The man sounded English, but his wife was definitely French. She had been an actress herself, someone commented; there she was now, trying on a decorative headpiece, laughing and chatting with the dancers. Philothée wondered if one day she would be as beautiful as that woman, if she would be able to chat to strangers with such confidence.

She had always been a shy girl, fond of a book, hiding behind her glasses. Her aunt had pressed her mother to let her make the journey from the country, for le patron was looking for more dancers for his moving pictures. Any pretty girl would do. And if she was something she was pretty, with her big blue almond eyes and her blonde hair and her little doll face. That was, if she removed the glasses, which she would have to do. As it happens, if Philothée had wanted anything in her short life it was to see Paris, which she imagined full of books. And so she came, and so she now was starting her apprenticeship, observing the lady dancers, for soon she would be one of them. She had misgivings about this, all the excitement of the idea burning itself out as soon as she confronted the deed, which always seemed to end in dancers with distorted faces, a strange demeanour as they came back down and were freed from the ropes: unhinged, like life-size, broken dolls.

And then there was Paris itself. She had expected lightness and laughter in every street, only to find a city of darkened corners and thousands of strangers who did not look at each other once, as if they all shared an awful secret.

She soon found that the vast avenues and fanciful buildings were indeed hiding another reality after her aunt took her to a ‘religious’ meeting, where Philothée discovered another world sitting below our own, one of middle-aged ladies holding hands in darkness, sitting around a table that turned by itself as it provided messages from the Beyond, oddly grinning faces following the movements of this unnatural occurrence; and all that followed by watery tea and stale pastries in the parlour, as if what had just happened was part of a normal day.

‘Don’t be scared, child,’ her aunt had advised. ‘What you have seen is a miracle.’ And Leonie would make the sign of the cross, and kiss the medal of the Virgin Mary that hung from her chest. And then, at home, she would do even stranger things, like lighting a blue-black candle, and studying by its darkened light the peculiar symbols on a piece of paper. Philothée did not know what to think, except that Leonie, with her grey-white hair and her distorted expression, worrying over the difficult words of her blasphemous prayer, resembled a witch. A horrid thought. At night, when she went to bed, she would hear Leonie still chanting under her breath, something that sounded almost like a Christian prayer, on the edge of being a prayer, that was no prayer Philothée had ever heard.

That morning she had been helping her aunt, distributing silver organza bows on each hand that happened to come within reach, the dancers running around in a frenzy. But still she saw it, their dull faces, as if they had been dancing their very souls away.

The ladies expertly arranged the last few elements of their costumes. Everyone knew what was required of them, or rather they ought to know, if they valued their position: le patron did not expect anything less than perfection. Soon, they would all appear exactly on their marks, which some young assistants were now crudely drawing on the wooden floor with thick white chalk. There was no time to waste on divagations. Behind them, the carpenters were still hammering the craters on le patron’s Moon. Meanwhile, there were hats and feathers and short bits of clothing changing hands and thrown over quickly-coiffured heads, and even being repaired and sewn and cut at this late hour, a cacophony of voices competing to make themselves heard. And, despite the apparent confusion, the proceedings would occur exactly as was expected, in that oversized glasshouse that was in fact a smoothly run machine.

The dancers were being ushered along now, helped by studio dogsbodies to carefully climb the papier-mâché set, positioning themselves on top of the Moon itself.

A call for attention, and everyone scrambled to their required positions. She quickly got out of the way. Behind an oversized demon’s head, she peered into the colourful scene. The ladies were arranged as if for having their picture taken, and indeed le patron’s camera now appeared, pushed from both sides by eager helpers. Lights were switched on and adjusted, a huge heavy beam, white and yellow, dispelled the shadows. The ladies stepped inwards, and the harnesses were brought forward.

She liked this moment very much, the endless energy that ran through the place right before shooting a scene.

What she did not like was the next stage of filming.

Soon, the light would engulf the dancers, and they would dance as they ascended, a green halo shining around them. And they would start floating: hands, arms, legs, flung in all possible directions. Everyone was praising Leonie, even the visiting couple. Her artistry was incredible.

Leonie enjoyed the favour of le patron. And why not? She happened to be one of his oldest and most loyal workers, and her work meant that the dancers wore the most wonderful creations, with none of the levers and ropes visible under the folds of their ornate costumes. Philothée had noticed how, the morning after each séance, le patron would call her aunt into his office, and he would speak to her with interest. Leonie enjoyed the favour of le patron – and so it was soon that Philothée enjoyed it as well.

But she would not dance that morning after all, the first time she had been due to. She had not been able to sleep again, the faces and the loose limbs of the dancers worrying her mind. But the moment she feared would not come to pass, not now or ever. She did not know it, but Philothée had been chosen for an even greater task.

*   *   *

She was holding the package for dear life. It was rectangular, and small enough to be carried in her hands. It was also very light. But she had been told repeatedly to guard it carefully, as it was extremely fragile.

Le patron’s office had been out of a nightmare, with his affiches on masonic lodges and telekinetic theatre performances, its upright palms and his disembodied papier-mâché heads on shelves surrounding the room.

‘You need to give this to Madame Mathers personally. Do not leave it with anybody else. Understood?’ And then, because he must have realised he was sounding stern, he tried to smile. He was still wearing his black-and-white make-up, and he looked strange.

‘Oui, Monsieur.’

It was the first time she had climbed into a hansom cab, which would take her all the way to the centre of Paris. She felt special, as le patron’s brother Gaston held her hand and helped her ascend. The Mathers building was located at 1 Avenue Duquesne, a normal Parisian street close to Les Invalides, bathed in the mild afternoon light. But the light was already waning, and Philothée could divine the shadows among the cracks of the city. But as soon as she walked into the entrance hall, everything became dark, unrecognisable. The dark wooden walls had fantastical creatures carved on them. She climbed the staircase to the first floor, and rang the bell.

It was a long time before somebody opened the door, and the woman who did so was the same elegant actress who had laughed with the dancers that morning. Philothée could now see her more closely, her dark eyes and jet-black hair, tied back and piled up in the latest fashion. She showed her the package, and mumbled her errand.

‘I am Madame Mathers,’ the dark-haired lady said. ‘Would you like to come inside? Have a little something before you go back.’ An elongated hand, encrusted with more jewels, more rings and bracelets than Philothée had ever seen, took the package and ripped apart the brown paper to reveal nothing more than an old and tattered-looking book.

Philothée explained that she had been told to go back to the flat she shared with her aunt, and that she couldn’t stay.

‘Ah! I am sure we can take you there later on. Please, come in.’

Inside there was an unexpected green profusion of plants, little palm trees and huge aspidistras competing in their race to reach the ceiling. A huge balcony, an interior glasshouse, shone at the end of a narrow series of chambers, inundated with pile upon pile of fantastical objects, terrifying sculptures, and books: more books than Philothée had ever seen together in her life.

‘Oh! I see you have found Hathor,’ Madame Mathers said, for Philothée had stopped in front of a statue. ‘She is the light that helps us reach the Beyond.’ But Madame Mathers was wrong, for Philothée had stopped to admire the books lying about, had not even noticed the Egyptian goddess. The books were mostly in piles, in disarray, occupying corners, covering chairs, and hiding a sideboard in the dining room.

They reached the orangery-balcony, so small in comparison with Star Film Studio, and Madame Mathers told her to sit on a couch, and she was abruptly left alone.

Philothée wondered who these people were.

Madame Mathers came back; this time her husband was with her.

‘Thank you for bringing back the grimoire,’ he said. Philothée had no idea what that word meant, but she assumed he was referring to the book. ‘I am Samuel and this is my wife Moina. Have some refreshments before you go back.’ Moina was next to him, already putting down a tray on an ottoman. Philothée noticed it had only one cup. ‘I am sure we will meet again,’ he said, and he left after shaking her hand.

Moina Mathers sat down next to her, and watched as she drank her cup. They chatted a bit about the scene that le patron had filmed that morning, and then she called her a hansom cab. Philothée had never been inside one before that day, and now she had been in two. All her excitement returned at once, all those feelings of yearning mixed with fear that had brought her to Paris. She sensed again the possibilities of the unknown floating in the air.

That night she wondered again who these people were, this time out loud, as her aunt wanted details. But Leonie seemed ecstatic that her niece had been singled out to help le patron with this particular errand, and kept fussing over her. To Philothée, it was like when they shot the flying scene at the studio: it all had left a peculiar taste in her mouth.

1

BEYOND THE VEIL

London, 13th March 1902

The woman on the stage jerked horribly, her neck bending to breaking point. A loud crack, the collective gasp of a full theatre. Her head hanging, falling to its side like a rag doll’s. Eliza could feel it, the dark energy that now hung above the audience, the shared fear. The power that descended over the small auditorium, keeping everyone enthralled.

On stage, the terrible vision, a woman shifting and jerking, a woman who ought to be dead.

Eliza was sitting in the fourth row. She was a woman in her twenties, with the healthy countenance of people who take good books along for lengthy walks. She was wearing a pretty set of skirt and puff-sleeved jacket of a fashionable light grey with no frills of any kind, an amethyst brooch in the delicate shape of a forget-me-not her only concession to fashion. The brooch was a loan from the friend who was with her, who had explained that the stone in question helped with clear thinking, and brought spiritual peace; Eliza merely thought it pretty. She had recently cut a new fringe, which got in the way, and she had to keep pushing it to one side: she was trying her hair up in a new low bun.

The friend sitting next to her was Helena Walton-Cisneros – spiritualist to the higher London society, detective to those in the know – her mentor, her teacher, her business partner. The woman, generous enough to refer to Eliza as her associate, took notes frantically, her pencil scribbling on a small silver-bound paper holder that hung from a chatelaine on a silver chain around her waist, a present from her grandfather. The beloved object had been customised for Helena’s unique needs: instead of a pair of sewing scissors, a diminutive magnifying glass; the contents of the sewing kit substituted for the tools of an experienced lock picker. She was a handsome woman, younger than her worried countenance and flashes of grey hair, already whitening in places, seemed to suggest. Her clothes were curiously subtle, appearing to be both in the latest fashion but not flashy, as if they had been designed by an experienced seamstress to allow the wearer to enter any building, and access any situation, without looking out of place, which indeed they had been.

Eliza had to admire her cool detachment: Helena had presented the evening’s entertainment to her as an opportunity for research, and that was what she was doing, while Eliza herself had started, to put it mildly, to panic.

Eliza had looked at Helena for a moment, and when she looked back towards the stage new horrors awaited her. The woman on stage was now floating in mid-air. There was no doubt: the unnatural posture of her head and limbs suggested that she was dead; but there she was, still opening and closing her darkened mouth, a monstrous attempt at communication. As the commotion behind Eliza gathered intensity, she was finally able to pose one simple question: how was the illusion possible?

‘Someone in the audience is in danger,’ reported the woman’s aide, a short man situated close enough to the floating nightmare to receive her intermittent messages. His voice wasn’t particularly strong, and he was making no special effort to project it, as if he preferred to force his audience to keep up. Or, thought Eliza, her rational mind now fully recovered, as though he were attempting to dispel any suggestion that an act, a performance, was at work. It struck her, how rational thinking seemed closely – perhaps uncomfortably – aligned to thinking cynically. The man insisted on behaving in this casual manner, as if he and the dead woman just happened to be passing through, and, touched as they were with the ability to receive messages from beyond the veil, had decided to stop and help this particular group of people. No doubt this was another trick, to add truth to the act.

Eliza had to hand it to them, the cleverness of it all. She didn’t need to look around to see the conflicting emotions in every single member of the audience. They had all come seeking a miracle, looking to be touched by the inexplicable. Seeking contact. A loved one. A certainty of their wellbeing. Anything at all would do. And yet, they were stirring in their seats, repelled by the means by which this miracle was enacted.

‘Someone whose name begins with the letter M,’ the short man continued. ‘A Maria? Yes. A Maria.’ The floating nightmare, still opening and closing her dark mouth, her blackened puffed-up tongue on show, was trying to communicate an ‘M’. Meanwhile her aide had now produced a handkerchief, and strived to look as surprised as the rest of them, and as repulsed. As if he himself were not in on the deception.

The name Maria lingered over the auditorium. A sudden recognition sparked somewhere at the back. A gasp, clearly audible, cutting through the silence. The commotion, already brewing, grew louder. It seemed that the woman called Maria – if indeed she was there – and those around her, her friends, family, or even those simply sitting in close proximity of the lucky winner, were coming to terms with this sudden contact with the Other World. They had come seeking this, of course: what else would induce them to part with a good portion of their weekly wages? But now that it was really happening, even by association, they would have preferred to be elsewhere. Some people were turning around, nervously considering whether to get up.

Eliza marvelled at this dichotomy. It was one of the things that Helena referred to as the ‘psychology’ of the sitters, of the clients, of everyone who came seeking understanding, at times when understanding was impossible to parse.

In fairness, the floating woman would have repelled anyone. Even from her position in the fourth row, Eliza could now smell her overpowering tomb-like stench. It was not surprising that even the short man was the colour of a sour lemon, and looked about ready to surrender his most recent meal to the wooden floorboards. Eliza looked at Helena again. Her eyes were on the stage, half closed, a gesture Eliza now recognised well: her mentor was trying to work something out. She looked down at her notes, then back at the stage again. Interestingly, Eliza saw that she had drawn diagrams, a pulley-activated contraption, and scribbled a couple of mathematical formulae next to it. There were arrows as well, indicating the movement of three cones of lights, reflecting from a crude square that Eliza assumed must represent a mirror. A huge question mark next to it all had been pressed against the page, no doubt indicating the frustration of the detective searching for an elusive conclusion. Eliza wondered what the numbers meant. Looking at the stage, what could Helena be trying to work out that she couldn’t?

‘Quiet, please! Mademoiselle needs to concentrate!’

Reluctantly, people folded back into their chairs, and turned diligently to face the stage, like children instructed by a stern professor to pay attention to the lesson. It was ironic: that was exactly why Helena had insisted that she should come tonight, knowing only too well how much Eliza despised these public demonstrations, so they could carry on studying what she called ‘the Method’, which seemed to include everything from the unconscious make-believe they had at times encountered, to the deliberate attempts to mislead the credulous, to what Helena rather annoyingly insisted on claiming as the ‘true supernatural’, which to Eliza was nothing more than a puzzle whose solution had until that point somehow eluded them both.

It took Eliza a few seconds to interpret the small chaos at the back: apparently someone, perhaps the woman about to communicate with the dead, had fainted. How quaint, she thought, and wondered cynically if this ‘Maria’ were not in cahoots with the two people on stage.

*   *   *

Once everyone had resumed their seats, and some semblance of order was restored to the proceedings, Mademoiselle Carrière went back to her business of waking the dead from their eternal slumber.

Even if Helena could work out how some elements of the performance were put together, as if she had been privy to a secret rehearsal, there were still moments, far too many, in which she had to recognise the artistry behind the proceedings. She was capable of following the logic behind the changes in the highly creative and effective lighting, of seeing which effect was deployed at which point, and why; and she could even make an educated guess as to how some of the hidden mechanisms must be operated. She had to admit it: the elevating and casting down of the sparse furniture would have appeared comic if it hadn’t been used for a particularly uncanny effect. Objects seemed to float unsteadily, as if about to crash against the wooden stage. The eerie voice modulation was perhaps necessary given the setting, although Helena had witnessed far scarier performances where mediums employed child-like voices for their grimmest pronouncements, which she had found to be highly effective. To resort mid-performance to an aide, as if the medium had lost the capacity for communing with her audience, was even more so. Indeed, she fancied that she could follow the orchestration, and admire it.

Such certainties had been welcomed until now, allowing Helena a sense of security. It was comforting to possess this knowledge, to see behind the well-rehearsed spectacle. And still… She had to admit it: there were some blind spots in today’s particular riddle. She wasn’t solving it for its own sake: it was more than an intellectual exercise, a way of keeping herself trained, appraised of the latest fads at work in the art of deception. She was also trying to answer some questions, for Eliza, and also, crucially, for herself.

Helena had felt compelled to attend Mademoiselle Carrière’s performance after hearing the extraordinary reports that circulated around London. Some of them hinted at quite incredible and eerie physical changes in the medium. She was particularly interested in observing this; the artistry at work had meant that even friends more versed in these illusions had sworn bafflement. It had been extremely difficult to secure a ticket, let alone two tickets. Even harder had been to convince Eliza to come to the theatre with her. She had to frame the whole outing as some sort of scientific experiment, which in truth it was, although Helena was curious as well. Her associate, on the other hand, seemed to be the only person in the whole of London with little or no interest in the performance. She had managed to bring her at last, and now hoped that Eliza had been at least duly entertained, with any luck even baffled. Later, once they had the chance to discuss the proceedings, probably in one of the afternoons that Helena kept free in order to instruct her protégée, she would be happy to confide to Eliza her own theories. The explanation of how such or such moment had been orchestrated by Mademoiselle Carrière’s team was sure to be welcomed by the young sceptic. And yet, she had at present no idea of how she would explain some of the most unsettling moments of the evening.

In short, there were quite a few things that even she, with her ample knowledge of all things false, had not been capable of furnishing with a plausible explanation. She had no idea, for example, of how the medium on the now well-lit stage was managing to change her size, let alone to shrink her very features, which in turn made her neck look longer, as if it were gradually elongating. Helena thought of Alice in Wonderland, curiouser and curiouser, her neck opening out like a large telescope… The woman must have been a very good actress to create that particular illusion. Or was it all nothing more than a sly mixture of mirrors and intricate lighting systems? Whatever it was, the illusion that the woman was a plastic thing, a doll that was now proceeding to extend her limbs and her neck, monstrously and at will, was something that surpassed even her own ability as a connoisseur of on-stage illusionism and spiritualist fraud. The strangely grown creature, now almost reaching the ceiling, a clever play of unknown effects, shadows and plain fear, was now pointing to the back of the auditorium, ominously aiming its elongated finger at the lucky chosen woman, Maria. Helena felt Eliza shivering next to her, and she could see it in her friend’s features, everything that was transpiring in the audience: admiration, uneasiness, fear.

*   *   *

It was becoming more and more difficult for Eliza not to gag. The stench descending from the stage was unbearable. People in the first few rows were covering their mouths and noses with anything to hand; some ladies had fainted, and others were getting up and were in the process of leaving the theatre.

‘Mesdames et messieurs, if you please!’ the short man pleaded from the stage. By now everyone was starting to get into a sort of frenzy. Although most of the members of the audience remained in their seats, it was obvious that the evening was getting out of hand, its rhythm now moving as fast as a runaway horse; as soon as someone had dared to get up and flee, their movements and demeanour had changed the mood of the theatre, a new plasticity which meant that everything was accepted now.

‘Mesdames, s’il vous plaît!’ It was clear that the short man thought his pleas would become more effective in his native tongue. Not in London, thought Eliza.

Then, as if on cue, Carrière mutated again, moving from the deathly pallor she had exhibited until that moment to a green hue.

‘How on earth…?’ Next to her, Helena could no longer contain herself. And Eliza understood that the veil had finally been broken, as well as the pretence from her mentor of being able to follow the tricks, unmask the deceitful. It was clear that Helena was as surprised by this strange chain of events as everyone around them. Eliza could hear screams now, as the lady on stage ballooned out of all proportion, as wide as the stage, with the short man exiting left in a fearful hurry that didn’t bode well. Carrière was now pointing at the audience, and, around Eliza, the mood shifted once more. She could now sense pure panic. If those responsible for the spectacle did not stop it, they would start a riot. Eliza had to give credit to the French performer: she looked menacing now, with her impossibly elongated limbs, her green countenance, her cavernous diction. How did she manage all that at once? She was obviously a superior actress, worthy of a Shakespearean play. She would have made a rather fierce witch in Macbeth.

‘Everyone! Stay calm!’ A different voice, a commanding tone.

The police? At the Alhambra?

Eliza hardly believed what she was seeing. A young man advanced, dressed in the practical and sturdy brown favoured by the less wealthy members of Scotland Yard, cutting through the crowd, shouting instructions right and left. He was followed by a retinue of similarly clad gentlemen, albeit older than him, which rendered his commanding attitude even more impressive. They were escorted by at least thirty bobbies, maybe forty. It was impossible to say.

‘The Jacks from the Factory are here!’ someone shouted. And all hell broke loose.

Eliza could not believe it: the police were indeed raiding Mademoiselle’s performance.

‘Come. Now.’

Helena was getting to her feet and, amidst the commotion, directed Eliza to follow her to a wall, where she pushed until a door slid aside, cut into the theatre’s décor: a panel that Helena seemed to have found miraculously; or rather, as Eliza suspected after knowing Helena for some time, that her friend must have known was there by her usual secret means. Eliza was confused. Were they hiding?

‘We will see everything from here,’ was all Helena would say.

See what, exactly? Eliza found herself inside the cavernous and dark labyrinth of the back of the theatre. But, within seconds, the police seemed now to have extended their octopus limbs everywhere, and they were beginning to swarm the back corridors and passages as well. From the main auditorium, Eliza could now hear a different, older voice, no doubt the young detective’s second-in-command, asking for the audience’s collaboration, pleading with everyone to stay in their seats; and, finally, the same handsome and powerful voice of the younger man in charge again, a voice more suited to an actor than a detective, confident and absolutely in command of the whole operation, and loudly declaring that the show was over, for everybody to remain calm, and that the whole company was to be taken into police custody for fraud.

‘Damn! How on earth did he know?’ Helena exclaimed. He? Who was this he, wondered Eliza. From their side lookout, Eliza could see that Helena’s eyes were fixed on the young actor-detective. Presently, a bobby put an axe to the fake walls built as part of the décor, unveiling ropes and levers. Humiliatingly, Mademoiselle Carrière was still tied to one. Helena’s look was difficult to parse. Angry? Tired? Or simply about to lose her temper, judged Eliza. She hoped Helena was planning to confront a small Scotland Yard army.

‘Do you know him?’ she ventured.

‘Do I know him?’ snorted Helena. ‘Do I know him?’ she repeated, unhelpfully. Whether she did or not, she seemed obviously put off by the mere presence of the man, imposing in his demeanour. Eliza could now see him clearly: he was tall with elongated blue eyes that seemed to end in a question mark, and expressive eyebrows. His chin was pointy and his mouth twitched as he commented on something with another of the policemen present. Eliza recognised that his attractiveness was as much due to his pleasant features, so unusual in the Yard, as to his command of the complex situation. She guessed he might be one of the many Scotland Yard men that Helena knew from before their acquaintance.

‘That man, my dear, is a veritable nuisance!’

The policemen had now swarmed past their hiding place and adjacent corridors, and soon Helena found her chance to intercept him, Eliza following closely behind.

‘Mr O’Neill, if you please!’

The young man turned to face them and, to Eliza’s surprise, let out a long sigh, rolling his eyes under the longest strawberry-blonde lashes Eliza had ever seen on a man.

‘It is Detective O’Neill, Miss Walton.’

‘And it is Miss Walton-Cisneros, Detective.’

They both stared at each other for a couple of seconds, enough to make Eliza feel that they ought to get out of there before Helena landed them in police custody.

‘I guess there is no need for me to ask what you are doing here…’

‘Oh! By all means! Allow me to illuminate you, Detective O’Neill. I am conducting scientific research.’

The man chuckled at this.

‘Miss Walton… Cisnegos…’ O’Neill mispronounced, making Eliza flinch. Was it really so difficult for her fellow Englishmen and women to remember the correct pronunciation of Helena’s surname? It wasn’t as if London society was free of its Cholmondeleys and St Johns, its Chumleys and Sinjuns. Eliza hated these situations, making her feel protective towards her friend. The man was still pontificating. ‘As you know, I have already had an opportunity to express in the past what it is that I think your research can achieve…’

‘But, Detective, if you allow me…’ Helena seemed to be trying, very hard indeed, to hold her face in a non-cynical smile. ‘This is my associate, Miss Eliza Waltraud.’ To his credit, Detective O’Neill smiled courteously in her direction, although he did so while keeping an eye on the comings and goings in the little theatre.

‘A pleasure.’ They shook hands.

‘The thing is, Detective,’ Eliza detected a change in Helena’s tone and felt relieved: they would not end the night in a cell after all; although Detective O’Neill seemed to be expending his whole resources of patience on them, ‘Miss Waltraud and I have been studying this particular performance today, and, let me reassure you—’

‘What? Are you now going to say that Mademoiselle Carrière really levitates? The whole thing is a hoax and, as they are charging money, it is also fraud, plain as daylight.’

Eliza doubted the legal veracity of the man’s statement, but was at a loss as to how to intervene.

‘But, in this case, my observations—’

‘I apologise, miss, but I really have to abandon our conversation here. I would strongly advise you to leave this to the professionals from now on.’ And with that he left.

‘How dare he?’ Helena was incensed. ‘I’ll bet we have far more experience than he does in these matters!’

‘And still, my dear Helena…’

‘What?’

‘He is probably right.’

‘Eliza, pray tell me, have we not watched the same performance tonight?’

Eliza could not help it, and gave a more forceful response than she had intended: ‘But the police found her crane system! We both saw it!’ She refrained from pointing out that Helena herself had been drawing ropes and levers while trying to understand the performance on stage.

*   *   *

Helena despaired. Until recently, she had not called herself a detective, at least not openly. A network of mostly female clientele, friends, allies, built over a number of years, had made it possible for other women in need to find her, and to seek her services. All this was about to change. Helena was about to take a step she had never imagined possible with the opening of her own detective agency, a firm which would specialise in solving cases for women who found themselves in trouble of any kind. Due to her knowledge of spiritualist fraud, and her growing understanding of the supernatural, she hoped one day to be able to intercede for women who had been accused of committing fraud themselves, at least when she suspected that they were being wrongly accused. Usually, it was the female mediums who suffered from this kind of accusation. Usually, it was the majority-male Society for Psychical Research, and their close ally, the Golden Dawn, who publicly accused them. The organisation supposedly conducted scholarly research into séance phenomena, but instead was bent on ‘exposing’ fraudulent mediums, who – nine times out of ten – turned out to be women.

Helena’s investigations had made her realise how so often women’s safety, the difference between being sent to the madhouse or not, depended on how men interpreted them, read them. It wasn’t so much about losing one’s reputation as about losing one’s freedom, and, in the most extreme cases, one’s life. The zealous work of the Society for Psychical Research was clearly at fault here, with their insistence on the unreliability of female experience. But who was telling the truth, and who wasn’t? Many times, it was a matter of interpretation, of who decided to look at you, of the preconceptions they used, of how they decided to frame the narrative that explained what they were seeing.

In the context of a séance, or even a performance like the one they had just witnessed, when the same men who had given testimony against a medium had paid for seeing those same marvels they did not believe to be possible yesterday, it would be considered a positive result that a woman levitated, or climbed the walls like a reptile. However, as soon as their intentions had changed, those same men declared themselves disgusted by the display of those uncanny powers.

The whole thing was profoundly unfair. The manner in which the overzealous SPR members collected huge folders of ‘evidence’ and ‘documentation’, sometimes no more insightful than the fact that a male witness voiced his suspicions… it was enough to make anyone disgusted. These old-fashioned mediums, she knew too well, at times indicated the presence of their spirit guides by manically laughing; the line between supposed ‘raving’ behaviour and accepted mediumship-related deportment had always been thin, and the SPR knew how to capitalise on it. Once the ‘deal’ was broken, and someone fell out of favour, it was a free-for-all, a wild hunt. It was so easy for those men to label a medium they did not like or who refused to play by their rules as ‘mad’, a trickster.

Was that what had transpired that evening? Had the SPR put the Yard on to Carrière and her entourage?

Ironically, the creation of the SPR had signalled the need to separate the fraudsters from the real thing, its remit precisely to preserve this reality of spiritualism, winnowing its true practitioners from the tricksters. Its mere existence, therefore, suggested a belief in the supernatural. Things had veered aside at some point, intentions had shifted, the SPR becoming a tool for its members to retain control over the occult community. No matter how well-meaning its earlier iteration had been, it was clear that it had now grown into yet another device to keep the women of the spiritualist community under control. This infuriated Helena. She had studied their reports, a fascinating and disgusting read in equal measure, which gave a chilling insight into these men’s minds: the manner in which women were forced to ‘perform’, or ‘work’ subjected by the men present, who relished in physically holding down their legs and arms, four bear-like men encroaching on a tiny five-foot woman, so as to prevent any cheating, the possible activation of any supposed hidden mechanism. The practice, as extended as it was intrusive, was disturbing to Helena, a violation. Understanding these cases had led her to the opposite side of the spectrum regarding her own understanding of the paranormal. For she had to admit it: the mere recognition of fraudulent mediums implied that there were instances in which the powers these women displayed were real. And the sceptic Helena ceased to exist.

Was it really so difficult to understand that a woman may be the real thing, but may equally need to feign supernatural powers sometimes? That the supernatural was not something that could necessarily be commanded to appear exactly after supper, when the rest of the world demanded entertainment? That women like La Carrière needed to make a living, to keep warm, put food in their bellies? It seemed increasingly difficult for Helena to suggest these and other nuances of their world to Eliza. Her friend seemed to stubbornly insist on seeing everything in black and white.

On the way home in the hansom, after leaving Eliza safely in her rented rooms, Helena had some time to herself to reflect on the events of the night. She was furious at O’Neill’s ignorance, and arrogance. Not only did he not understand why some measures were at times needed, even by the most experienced mediums, but, even worse, he had absolutely no desire or intention to educate himself. She thought that some hope remained with Eliza; she knew there was absolutely no hope for people like O’Neill. As far as Helena was concerned, this alone marked him out as someone suspiciously aligned to certain parties, the Society for Psychical Research coming firmly to mind. Since when did Scotland Yard storm theatres in the middle of a performance? The whole thing stank of the SPR’s tactics. If the SPR and the Yard got in cahoots, from now on O’Neill, and others as ignorant as him, would continue to dictate the future of female mediums, based on little more than preconceptions and stereotyping.

And Eliza? It was becoming ever more obvious that their partnership, which, at the beginning, had seemed such a great idea to them both, was at the risk of turning sour even before they truly started. Helena feared that she should have gone to see the medium backstage after the performance, insist on acting as her advocate. But the truth was that she was unsure what she would have achieved. Tonight had been their first attempt at studying her methods and, unfortunately, she only had suspicions at this point that the act was at least in part genuine; suspicions and not enough proof, or indeed any kind of proof. True supernatural actions were much harder to confirm than fraudulent ones. She studied her notes, and realised she could not have done much for the woman. Still, should she ask the hansom driver to go back? Had they really arrested the medium, was she now in police custody? What were O’Neill’s true intentions in raiding the theatre?

It did not bear thinking about, that horrid man. But what was happening to her? She felt anger after each one of their interactions, but also a strange desire to get him to understand… what, exactly? She herself was still coming to terms with this new uncanny reality becoming more and more apparent: the inexplicable existed, the supernatural was real. And it had been present in that shabby theatre. It did not matter if the medium had been suspended from ropes and levers. Other things had happened as well, inexplicable to modern science. But whether O’Neill would listen or not… And tonight, finally, Helena had realised how much his interventions and methods aligned with the SPR’s.

And, as she thought this while sat in the hansom cab, she saw herself go there—

She’s walking among the people in the theatre foyer, excusing herself, talking in a slow voice with someone, being conducted down a badly lit passage, facing a door, and, behind a little door, the stage, and Mademoiselle Carrière turning, floating in mid-air, a ray of light pouring from her chest, blinding the audience…

Helena opened her eyes, the hansom cab’s jerking motion bringing her back. She didn’t know or want to know where the images came from, what they were saying to her. She felt ill-prepared at present for this new development. She ought to be careful; this was now happening more often, these visions – she did not dare call them premonitions; and anyway, if they were premonitions, she had absolutely no idea what they could be foreshadowing. What she knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, was that she could never tell Eliza about them. And she wondered, was she really going to open a detective agency with somebody she was keeping secrets from?

It took her a minute to realise that something from the vision had lingered, as aspects of dreams sometimes do; a smell, a feeling.

A noise, in this case.

Helena still could hear it, the little funeral bells, chiming their endless ominous tune, each of their peals a reminder; they had been in the vision, they were still here, in the actual world, as if showing the flimsy gossamer of reality, the volatile borderline, that separated them both.

Through the window, London. The clack clack of the horses on the paved road helped centre her. The world seemed unreal, she thought, as the hansom cab came in and out of the lamplight, advancing through streets and alleys where children were being born and old men were dying, at that very moment; turning corners where people were getting murdered, leaving behind taverns where women were using their wits to survive, and all that happening at the very same time, the energy of the city emanating hope, evil. And, somehow, Helena partaking of it all, sensing it all inside, for her senses were always more acute after one of these visions. She now knew how to make the most of this, if she tried very hard, of the lingering effects of her own private moment of wonder. She closed her eyes again.

She saw the sea, for some reason. Margate, perhaps, where she had spent a childhood holiday with her grandfather. She saw horses running. Women together, chanting, not just any song, but one with meaning and direction. Modern witches, in Edwardian England? Why not, she thought. And still let her mind wander even further, into those recesses that anyone would avoid, where fear resides. And then she felt it, very closely indeed: more fear, not too far off. A puddled street, violence, pain, and her mind’s eye racing towards the commotion. A young girl, one street to the east, feeling lost, bewildered, frightened, beaten black and blue by a hag. With all probability, the woman who sold her every night to passing strangers. Fear always got to Helena; it was the one constant emotion her newly acquired powers of predetermination never missed.

Helena opened her eyes.

‘Driver! Stop here.’

And there she went, directly onto the scene, half hidden round a filthy London corner. She was armed with her umbrella, a detachable blade shining inside it. She also carried a revolver with her at times, a fact she had never shared with Eliza. But she judged that the umbrella would suffice. Helena approached the scene decisively, umbrella up and ready to strike. Nothing was needed in the end: as soon as her tall imposing figure emerged, the old woman fled, leaving the child covered in blood and tears over a urine-stinking floor. Helena lent her a hand:

‘Are you hurt? Can you stand?’

‘Don’t worry, miss, I am fine.’

‘Do you have a place to go to?’

‘Yes, my brothers are waiting for me.’ And she fled. Then, after she had run for a bit, she turned, as if she had forgotten something, and shouted back:

‘Thank you, miss!’

Helena sighed, and walked back to her hansom cab. She climbed onto her seat, told the driver to set off, and let tiredness take her, dozing into oblivion.