Things Half in Shadow

by Alan Finn

  The bugle rose into the air and hung limply a few feet off the table’s surface. Instead of inspiring astonishment and awe, as the floating instruments at Mrs. Pastor’s séance had done, this looked exactly like what it was—a horn on a string.

  “Hmm. It’s not very convincing, is it?” Lucy conceded.

  “Not at all,” I said.

  Lucy stood beside me, scratching her head. “What do you think we should do?”

  “We?” I said, my eyes bulging at her use of the word. “There is no we, at least not involving this trickery of yours.”

  Sighing, Lucy crossed her arms and said, “Would you like to know what’s absolutely maddening about you, Edward?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “It’s that you can be so judgmental. We both know you’re skilled with illusions. It’s in your blood. Just this once, I would appreciate it if you set your disapproval aside to help a friend in need.”

  “I’d hardly call us friends,” I told her, chuckling. “As for need, I know you’re not lacking money.”

  “Sometimes,” Lucy said as she moved to the table, “it takes all the self-restraint I can muster to keep from slapping you.”

  “It pains me to say that the feeling is mutual.”

  “Well, then,” Lucy replied, “we can either take turns flailing at each other like children or you can help me. Just this once.”

  Reluctantly, I joined her at the table, grabbed the dangling bugle, and untied the string from its mouthpiece.

  “You’re going to need a thinner string,” I said. “What you have now is too visible, even when in dim light. Also, it needs more life and motion. Something to make it look as if a real spirit is carrying it.”

  I set about retying the string around the bugle’s center. When that was finished, I went to the cabinet and found Thomas crouched in his usual corner, the other end of the string in his hand. Above his head, a circle had been cut into the top of the cabinet. Beyond that was another hole in the ceiling, in which a pulley had been placed. There was, no doubt, another pulley located in the ceiling just above the table.

  “You have to raise it slowly,” I told the boy. “Don’t be afraid to take your time with it. And don’t hold the string so tight. It’s not a kite. It won’t fly away.”

  Thomas glared at me. “Why should I listen to you, you pile of manure?”

  I looked away from the cabinet to address Lucy. “Must your brother always talk this way? And why doesn’t he go to school?”

  “Thomas talks the way he likes,” Lucy replied with a detached shrug. “I’ve long ago given up trying to censor him. As for school, I tried to send him, but he kept running away.”

  “School is for girls and pantywaists,” Thomas grumbled from inside the cabinet. “I got enough learnin’.”

  “Learning,” I corrected him before turning back to Lucy. “Will you at least tell him to do as he’s told?”

  “Thomas,” Lucy called to her brother, “do what Mr. Clark told you to.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I told you to, as well.”

  “Fine,” Thomas said before mumbling a series of words so profane I’m sure they would have caused hardened sailors to blush.

  I returned to the table, where we gave it another go. This time, it worked beautifully. Thomas raised the bugle ever so slowly, giving the impression that it was being lifted by a pair of tentative, invisible hands. With the string tied at the bugle’s midsection, both ends battled for dominance, making the instrument seesaw back and forth.

  Lucy clapped her hands and exclaimed, “It’s wonderful, Edward! You’re a genius!”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” I replied. “But perhaps a little of my father’s skills rubbed off on me.”

  “Then you must help us with the others,” Lucy said.

  Apparently three more lengths of string were located just inside the ceiling. I was instructed to climb onto the table, retrieve the strings and work my magic on the other instruments in the room. Since I had already learned not to say no to Lucy Collins, I did as I was told.

  “You know, I came here to do more than help you trick your customers,” I said as I scaled first a chair, then the table. “I have information about Mrs. Pastor.”

  “Good news, I hope,” Lucy said.

  While I uneasily fished the strings out of the ceiling, I recalled not only my encounter with the noseless man on Sunday morning but my conversation with Mr. Pastor.

  “He thinks this man without a nose was working for Mr. Barnum,” I said, pulling the strings lower until they skimmed the tabletop. “Which makes Mr. Pastor think Barnum is the one who killed his wife.”

  Lucy set about knotting the strings around the other instruments. “Interesting, to be sure. But what does this have to do with me?”

  “You were with Mr. Barnum at the end of the séance,” I said as I hopped down from the table. “Did he leave your presence at any time between then and our discovery that Lenora Grimes Pastor was dead?”

  “No,” Lucy answered. “He was injured from that falling violin. I had a handkerchief to his head the entire time to stop his bleeding. I never left his side.”

  That was all the confirmation I needed to determine that Barnum was not Mrs. Pastor’s murderer. I was certain her killer was the darkened figure who had approached her while I put out the fire. Since Barnum had an alibi, that left only four possible suspects: Mr. Pastor, Mrs. Mueller, and the Duttons.

  “That doesn’t mean Mr. Barnum is entirely innocent,” Lucy said. “I’m intrigued by this noseless man you described.”

  Finished with tying string to the drum and the flute, she moved on to the small items that resembled wooden clamshells. There were two pairs of them, each attached to one another with twine.

  “What are those?”

  “Castanets,” Lucy said, holding a pair between her thumb and fingers and clicking them together. “They were a gift from a Spaniard who was trying to woo me a few years back.”

  “Was he successful?” I asked.

  “It takes more than castanets to win the heart of Lucy Collins.”

  “What does it take, I wonder?” I said.

  Lucy hesitated not a second before giving her response. “Money.”

  “Such an obvious answer,” I said, shaking my head in mock disappointment. “I was hoping for something unexpected from you.”

  “An unexpected answer, you say?”

  “Yes. Surprise me.”

  This time, Lucy gave it quite a bit of thought, standing for almost a minute with an index finger pressed to her lips.

  “Acceptance,” she eventually said. “Of who I am. Of what I am. And of what I want out of life. Did that surprise you?”

  Indeed, it did. Only her answer, sincere though it might have been, wasn’t the most surprising part. What truly took me off guard was how she responded—straightforward, sincerely, and without an iota of affectation. It was the first time her facade had cracked wide enough for me to glimpse the real person hidden behind it. I rather liked what I saw.

  “In spades,” I replied. “I can see how castanets wouldn’t do the trick. Then or now.”

  “Now?” Lucy said, back to her old self again.

  “Sorry to say, they’ll never work properly for what you have in mind,” I replied. “Replace them with one of your bells.”

  Lucy retreated to the spirit cabinet, where she tossed the castanets into a small box and retrieved an equally small bell. Tying the string around the bell’s top, I said, “Back to the noseless man, I don’t find him intriguing at all. Having seen him once, I don’t want to lay eyes on him again.”

  “But let’s assume Mr. Pastor is right and that he is working for P. T. Barnum,” Lucy replied. “What reason would someone like Mr. Barnum have to threaten a medium?”

  “We’re not certain he wrote those threatening notes. It’s just a theory.”

  “Well, it’s one I think we should look into.”

  “And how do you
propose we go about that?”

  “I have it on good authority that Mr. Barnum is hosting a masquerade ball tonight at the Continental Hotel,” Lucy said. “We simply need to show up and ask him about this gruesome man without a nose.”

  I finished attaching the string to the bell and set it on the table. Then I called to the cabinet one more time. “All right. Try all four of them now, Thomas.”

  All the instruments on the table started to rise. Not quickly, mind you, but slowly and eerily. Once they were in the air, the effect was now quite realistic, even with the strings visible. The bugle and the flute spun around each other while the drum rocked back and forth and the bell lightly rang.

  “Splendid!” Lucy declared. “Simply splendid!”

  “About this masked ball,” I said. “You realize we haven’t been invited, right?”

  Lucy shook her head at me, disappointed by my apparent lack of imagination. “Honestly, Edward, you’re more naive than I thought. An invitation isn’t necessary. All we need is to arrive at the hotel tonight in costume. Which is exactly what we’re going to do.”

  I wanted to protest, but decided against it. Even if I refused to go, I had no doubt that Lucy’s coach would nonetheless arrive at my house that night. That’s what Barclay, for all his advice, didn’t know about Mrs. Collins. She was persistent beyond the point of annoyance. Faced with such determination, I could think of only one thing to say.

  “But I don’t own a costume.”

  “Well, Edward, you need to get one. And quickly.”

  III

  Cobbling together a costume proved to be more difficult than I expected.

  The mask was easy enough to acquire—I bought one in a shop on Market Street. Finding the proper outfit to wear with it was another matter. Normally, I would have ordered a costume from my tailor. But since the circumstances were anything but normal, I knew that not even the speedy Mr. Brooks would be able to stitch something together for me on such short notice.

  Without any other option, I had to make do with a black morning coat, trousers, and a top hat pulled from my wardrobe. Still, even with the mask, it wasn’t suitable enough for a masquerade ball hosted by P. T. Barnum. I needed something else—something that would turn my meager ensemble into a full-fledged costume.

  So that evening, I again crept into the dusty attic on the fourth floor, once more looking for an object from my past.

  I found it in a wooden trunk that had been shoved deep under the eaves. Its lid was darkened by dust, and when I swiped my hand across it, I saw words that had been branded into the wood.

  THIS TRUNK AND THE CONTENTS WITHIN ARE THE SOLE PROPERTY OF MAGELLAN HOLMES.

  Upon lifting the lid, I immediately saw what I was looking for.

  A cape.

  Made of black velvet and lined with red silk, it was the cape my father had worn during many of his performances. And despite a decade and a half spent languishing inside the trunk, it remained in excellent condition.

  Removing the cape from the trunk, I shook off some dust and smoothed out a few wrinkles. Then I draped it over my shoulders, holding it in place with a diamond-encrusted pin. Thus dressed, I turned and studied my reflection in a mottled mirror that leaned against the wall.

  What I saw astounded me.

  I was the spitting image of my father.

  Normally, I suspect, I bear only a faint resemblance to Magellan Holmes. Growing up, people always told me I looked more like my mother. Yet standing before the mirror, wearing my father’s old cape, our resemblance was undeniable. So much so that, for a brief moment, I thought my father was in the attic with me. It was an improbable notion, to be sure, but that didn’t stop me from spinning around, cape twirling, to look behind me.

  Satisfied that the Amazing Magellan hadn’t somehow escaped captivity, I turned back to the mirror, trembling slightly as I studied my reflection. I imagined I looked the very same way my father had when he was first starting out as a magician. Before “Amazing” became a permanent part of his name.

  The realization didn’t please me. I wanted to look like Magellan Holmes about as much as I did the noseless man. Yet there was no avoiding it. I was his son, as much as I hated that fact.

  I hated it so much that I was inclined to tear off the cape, stuff it back into the trunk from whence it came, and never look at it again. The only thing stopping me was the fact that I still needed something to wear to the masked ball. Since time wasn’t on my side, I swallowed both my pride and the dislike of my father and took the cape with me. It was better to have a costume I abhorred than no costume at all.

  With my ensemble complete, I had nothing to do but wait for Lucy Collins to arrive.

  Her coach stopped outside my house exactly at nine, a lit lantern swinging from the back and Thomas at the reins. Befitting the occasion, he wore a top hat, which made him look like a proper coachman in miniature.

  Lucy was even more decked out, wearing a gown of emerald satin that brought out the green in her eyes. The bodice was cut low, revealing ample décolletage framed by a ribbon of scarlet silk. The gown then narrowed, hugging Lucy’s tiny waist, before expanding again in a layered skirt so wide that it took up most of the coach’s interior. A flock of red birds had been embroidered into the skirt—a touch of elegant whimsy. Her hair was piled atop her head in a riot of curls that were barely contained by an ivory comb inlaid with rubies. Her face, lightly powdered, had touches of pink at the cheeks.

  “How do I look?” she asked.

  “Quite nice,” I said, in what might be the biggest understatement I have ever uttered. For Lucy, as a matter of truth, was stunning, and I felt inferior in every way as I climbed into the coach.

  “You look very fine yourself,” Lucy remarked as I sat down amid her rustling skirt. “Formal wear suits you. It feels like a handsome prince has just joined me in my coach.”

  I arched my brow. “Handsome, you say? Why, Lucy Collins, I do believe you just paid me a compliment.”

  “I was only being polite,” she replied while straightening her skirt. “Seeing how you find me so beautiful, I felt it only right to return the favor.”

  “I never said beautiful. I believe the word was attractive.”

  “It’s the same thing,” Lucy was quick to add.

  “But it’s not,” I said. “Trust the man who writes for a living. As for handsome, however, the meaning of that word is unmistakable.”

  “Which is why I take it back.”

  I gasped in mock surprise. “You can’t retract a compliment.”

  “I most certainly can,” Lucy said. “I’ve now decided that you look . . . presentable.”

  “I’ll accept that,” I replied. “I hope I’m presentable enough to allow us to enter. I still think this is a terrible idea.”

  Lucy gave me a small sigh. “Do try to have fun, Edward.”

  “This isn’t about fun,” I said. “We need to question Mr. Barnum and then take our leave.”

  “You’ve never been to a masked ball, have you?”

  “I’ve never been invited to one,” I said. “Come to think of it, I’m not invited to this one. I assume you’ve been to dozens, invited or not.”

  “No, not many,” Lucy admitted. “But I’ve been to enough to know that they can be quite spectacular.”

  She was correct in that regard, for I was enchanted as soon as we arrived at the Continental Hotel. It appeared that Mr. Barnum had spared no expense. Lit torches had been placed outside, the leaping flames casting an orange glow onto the hotel’s facade. A line of white-gloved footmen in top hats and tails greeted each arriving coach, helping guests disembark in their cumbersome finery.

  When Thomas pulled our coach to a stop, Lucy and I donned our masks. Mine was black, made of papier-mâché and tied in the back so that it covered the upper part of my face. The nose was elongated, tapering to a point, Cyrano-like, several inches from my face. Lucy’s mask, the same emerald shade of her gown, was attached to a stick and bedecked wi
th red feathers that matched the birds on her skirt.

  Because of our outfits, Lucy and I both had trouble leaving the coach. Her skirt was too wide to fit through the door going forward, requiring her to exit sideways. My problem was my mask’s nose, which insisted on knocking against the door frame several times. When I finally managed to step outside, my mask poked the eye of the footman who had hurried to help me.

  “My sincerest apologies,” I said as he backed away from me, hand over his face.

  Lucy took my arm before I could do any more damage and guided me inside the hotel. There were more footmen in the lobby, standing before a wall of potted palms that led to the ballroom.

  We joined the line of guests entering, fitting in quite nicely. Like Lucy, the ladies were dressed in all manner of silks and satins. The gentlemen wore coats and cloaks similar to my own. Every one of us was masked. We all paraded slowly through the lobby, passing more footmen, more potted plants, and crimson curtains made of silk.

  Then it was into the ballroom itself, full of so much color and activity that it felt like stepping into a kaleidoscope. Banners of red, orange, and royal blue dripped from the ceiling and dangled in the corners. Large vases burst with flowers—roses; irises; lilies of every shape, size, and color. A full orchestra lined an entire wall of the ballroom, its musicians also masked. On the other side of the room was a large buffet containing oysters, roast lamb, a suckling pig, roast beef, and desserts so elaborately decorated they more resembled jewel boxes than something edible.

  Situated between the food and the musicians, like a teeming sea that divided two continents, was the dance floor. So much activity was taking place there that I scarcely knew where to look first. The floor was a whirling dervish of color—crimson and periwinkle, emerald and gold, orange and purple. All those varied hues were constantly on the move. Reflected in the mirrored walls. Streaking across the dance floor. Shifting and blending and uniting in myriad combinations. There was noise, too, a joyous cacophony of music, laughter, and clinking champagne glasses.

  And the costumes! I had never seen so many gathered in one place. It was an unceasing rotation of masks. Some were painted. Others were bejeweled. Still others had been festooned with feathers—a flock of exotic birds. There were devils and demons and jesters and beasts.