by Tom Becker
“He’s got a lot of stuff in here, hasn’t he?”
“This is a treasure trove, miss,” Sam replied reverently. “There’s enough tricks in here for ten magicians. But Mr Mountebank only uses the best. That’s what sets him apart from the others. They’ll do any cheap stunt to get an audience. My master respects magic.”
Given the size of Mountebank’s audience, Raquella couldn’t help wondering whether other magicians had the right idea, but she was touched by the passion in Sam’s voice.
“If you wait here, miss, Mr Mountebank’ll be along presently.”
He paused, seemingly unwilling to leave her alone with all the props. Raquella looked at him thoughtfully.
“You do know your face is covered in soot, don’t you?”
The boy peered in the mirror, his eyes widening with shock. “Oh no! He’ll kill me if he finds out!”
“If he finds out what?”
Sam located a dog-eared handkerchief from the recesses of his pockets, spat on it, and vigorously rubbed his face.
“It’s not soot, miss. It’s explosive powder. I was trying to do one of Mr Mountebank’s illusions, The Exploding Death, when . . . it went sort of wrong. He hates me messing around with stuff. Aw, it’s not coming off!”
Raquella rolled her eyes. “Oh, for Darkside’s sake, come here!”
She removed a clean handkerchief from her sleeve, doused it in a glass of water on the dressing table and began to wipe Samuel’s face clean, ignoring the boy’s winces and wriggles.
“Stop moving about. . .!”
“I can’t help it – it tickles.”
Though the powder was coming off, underneath it had left a residue that had stained Samuel’s freckled skin a sour nicotine yellow.
“I can’t get rid of this. It’ll need carbolic soap and a scrubbing brush.”
Samuel shuddered. “I’m going to have to go before he gets here.” He ran out of the room, calling out over his shoulder, “Whatever you do, don’t touch anything!”
Raquella scrunched up the dirty handkerchief and tossed it amongst the clutter. Boys were such odd creatures sometimes. She barely had time to find herself a seat before the door opened again, and Mountebank strode triumphantly in. There was a sheen of perspiration across the magician’s forehead, and he was slightly out of breath, but he was smiling. Carnegie was following close behind. Unusually for the wereman, he was grinning too.
“You should have seen it, Raquella!” he said. “After you disappeared, Mountebank pulled up the spikes, and your card was stuck on one of them. Then there was an explosion and he disappeared! If I’d known the theatre was this much fun, I would have come before.”
The magician gave him a benevolent smile. “I’m glad you enjoyed the performance. It did go rather well tonight.”
He stopped, noticing the glare on the maidservant’s face and the angry tapping of her foot.
“Is something wrong, my dear?”
“SOMETHING WRONG?” Raquella shouted. “What were you doing up there? You nearly killed me!”
The magician looked baffled by her outburst. “You were never in any danger. It’s an automatic mechanism. As soon as the spikes come down, the straps are released and the table flips over, sending the volunteer down the chute. It’s simple engineering.”
“Couldn’t you have told me that beforehand? And what was all that nonsense about ‘no one comes late to my show’?”
“I’m sorry if I frightened you,” Mountebank replied calmly. “The trick always works much better if the volunteer looks genuinely scared. It’s all part of the spectacle.”
“You’ll have to forgive me if I am less than impressed.” She gave Carnegie an accusatory stare. “Though it seems you have at least one new fan.”
“It was a good show,” the wereman agreed, oblivious to the edge in her voice. “I’m surprised you didn’t have a bigger audience.”
With a melodramatic sigh, Mountebank slumped down in front of the mirror and took off his gloves.
“Believe it or not, that was a good crowd. Darkside’s the wrong place to be a magician. If it’s not two animals ripping each other to shreds in front of their eyes, people aren’t interested. They crave the bloody horror of reality. They don’t care about illusions. They have no sense of . . . wonder.”
He took off his jacket, draping it forlornly but carefully over the back of his chair, and began to remove his stage make-up. “I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this. Eli Kinski is not renowned for his patience. If I can’t get bigger audiences, I’ll be off the bill.”
“You could always introduce a bit more gore into your act,” Carnegie suggested helpfully. “A few buckets of blood will bring the crowds in.”
“Or,” Raquella cut in, “you could listen to what we have to say. We have an idea that may interest you. A scheme that demands a man of your undoubted talents.”
Mountebank leant back in his chair. “I’m listening.”
Raquella took a deep breath. “We have to carry out a robbery, but we need help to pull it off. Specifically, the Troupe’s help.”
The magician laughed harshly. “I fear you are somewhat behind the times. The Troupe is no more – Ripper be praised.”
“We’ve spoken to Correlli,” Carnegie interjected. “He’s agreed to help us. He and a friend of ours have gone over to Lightside to get the rest of the team.”
“Correlli’s agreed to reform the Troupe?” Mountebank said with surprise. “With me as well?”
The wereman nodded.
“Then he must have fallen on hard times. There is bad blood between Antonio Correlli and myself that will never be washed away.” The magician shook his head. “I’m afraid to say I cannot help you. I have my act to think about. I can’t just walk away at the drop of a hat to plan a robbery.”
“But we need your help! We’re trying to steal an item of great value. . .”
Mountebank held up his hand imperiously. “That is my final answer. I will hear no more about it.”
Raquella glanced at Carnegie, who shrugged. The maidservant adopted an innocent expression.
“Well, if that is your final answer, I suppose we should leave you to get on. Good luck with your show – I have no doubt that better times are round the corner. Do we turn right or left by the toilet door?”
For a brief second the cruel fire she had witnessed on stage rekindled in Mountebank’s eyes. Then he lowered his head.
“Even a magician should not try to deceive himself. You say that you are hoping to steal an item of great value?”
“Greatest value,” the wereman replied solemnly.
Mountebank gathered up his jacket.
“Then let us go and see whether the fire-eater has cooled down.”
15
The Troupe were reunited on a blustery afternoon down on the South Bank, under the revolving blades of the London Eye. Jonathan was sitting on a wall watching Fray and Nettle amuse themselves by performing gymnastic routines for a crowd of onlookers when he caught sight of Carnegie elbowing his way through the throng. Raquella and a striking albino man in a white suit followed closely behind him. Jonathan saw Correlli stiffen at the approach of the stranger, and a murderous look come into his eyes.
It was a muted reunion. Only one of the twins came forward to hug Mountebank, while the other sidled closer to Correlli. Verv was too distracted by a plane zooming overhead to speak to anyone. Carnegie looked on with unfeigned contempt.
“‘The best thieves in Darkside’, she said,” he muttered. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“Did you have any trouble persuading Mountebank to come with you?” asked Jonathan.
The wereman shook his head. “He’s a thief. He’s greedy. It wasn’t too difficult. It’s going to be harder to stop the fire-eater from killing him, though.”
At the mere presence of the magician, Correlli’s face was darkening by the second. Hastily, Jonathan stepped in and invited all of them to stay at his house.
In hindsight, it was a big mistake.
On screeching up the driveway to the Starling house, Verv had shouted with delight and immediately annexed the garage as his own. Unwilling to sit through any planning meetings, he preferred to spend time tinkering with his beloved cab. The floor was soon slick with grease and oil, and the air thick with the poisonously sweet smell of petrol. Every now and again, the garage doors reverberated to the sound of hammering, a revving engine, or manic laughter. Verv slept in his cab, only leaving the garage to quickly stuff food in his mouth.
Fray and Nettle had scampered up the stairs to claim the attic room, bickering and pushing one another all the way. Jonathan was amazed by the length and sheer vitriol of their arguments – the only time they stopped insulting one other was when they weren’t on speaking terms. And yet, in the early morning, they forgot their differences and made their way up on to the roof, where they cartwheeled and tumbled across the slate tiles, lithe shadows against a brightening sky.
With Raquella occupying the one guest bedroom, Correlli made a bed for himself on the sofa in the lounge. He was a caged animal, visibly fighting the urge to lunge at Mountebank. The fire-eater threw himself into organizing the robbery, turning the lounge into a temporary war room, lining the wall with secret photographs of the mansion and detailed maps of Kensington marked with potential getaway routes. At night, as a release, Correlli slipped out alone into the back garden to practise his fire-eating, punctuating the night sky with the crackling whoosh of flames.
Perhaps mindful of the danger to his person, or – as Correlli maintained – to avoid the threat of doing any heavy lifting, Mountebank fled to the safety of the study, where he joined Alain in the hunt for information on Cornelius Xavier. The two of them made for a strangely compatible pairing: Mountebank airily reading aloud, his feet propped up on a stack of books, while Alain earnestly pored over half-opened books like an archaeologist on a dig.
“Your father has acquired a really rather excellent library,” Mountebank mused to Jonathan. “How did he manage to obtain so many books with references to Darkside?”
“It took him a long time,” Jonathan said finally.
He didn’t know quite what to make of the magician. Given Correlli’s reaction, he was initially wary of the albino, but – aside from the occasional grand magical boast or rambling theatrical anecdote – Mountebank proved thoughtful, considerate company. He sat quietly in meetings, rolling a coin effortlessly back and forth across his knuckles. From time to time he would amuse himself by producing various objects seemingly from thin air.
“How do you do that?” Jonathan asked, as a tortoiseshell cat appeared from nowhere and settled into his lap.
Mountebank smiled and stroked the cat’s back. “I couldn’t possibly reveal how a trick works, young man. Suffice to say, all the greatest magic tricks rely on the same thing – the subtle art of misdirection.”
Given the barely suppressed tensions and threats of violence amongst the Troupe, it was a surprise that Jonathan’s biggest problems were caused by the people he knew best. Carnegie was in particularly ill humour, seemingly unhappy with Correlli’s attempts to take charge, and took great pleasure in arguing with the “blasted candle-kisser”. Having been persuaded to sleep on Jonathan’s floor, the wereman spent the first night growling and muttering in his sleep, keeping his roommate awake until the early hours. Rising reluctantly the next morning, with dark circles hanging beneath bleary eyes, Jonathan saw that Carnegie had dribbled a small pond of drool on to his bedroom carpet.
Raquella was in an equally awkward mood. She had stormed out of the first planning meeting after Correlli had abruptly ruled out her having any involvement in the robbery, and since that moment had pointedly refused to do anything other than menial jobs. She carried around trays of food and drinks and ferried messages between Troupe members, glowering and perpetually biting back a sharp response.
Having spent so many years in a slumbering silence, the house struggled to contain this explosion of activity: the stairs creaked and groaned under the weight of people running and pushing past each other; the kitchen floor was splattered with sugar, congealed egg mess and chunks of raw meat; and out in the garden, the shed bulged with an ever-increasing stockpile of weaponry and burglarious gizmos. One afternoon the neighbours came round to complain about the noise, only to find Carnegie answering the door. They did not complain again.
It was Tuesday afternoon. They had been in the house for forty-eight hours, and there were only two days until Vendetta’s deadline expired. Jonathan went into the lounge to find Correlli poring over a set of architectural drawings. Deep in thought, the fire-eater ran his fingers through his wiry hair and sighed.
“Problems?” asked Jonathan.
“You could say that.”
Correlli pointed at the photographs of Xavier’s mansion on the wall. “See those little boxes on the tops of the walls? They’re motion sensors. Make a movement between them and you’re going to have alarm bells ringing. Not only that, but the dratted security cameras cover every inch of the grounds, and the guards appear to be armed with a small arsenal. Really, I don’t know how Lightside burglars make a living. All these newfangled security devices take all the fun out of stealing.”
As the fire-eater shook his head at the unfairness of it all, Jonathan peered over his shoulder at the architectural plans.
“Is that Xavier’s mansion?”
Correlli nodded. “I sent Verv down to the council office to get hold of them. I’ve yet to find a public official who won’t become very helpful if you offer them large amounts of money. These are the photocopies.”
“Well, they must be useful at least,” Jonathan said brightly.
The fire-eater pointed at a small room lying underneath the house. “I’m guessing this is the vault. We’ll have to work our way to the bottom of the building – without being seen, obviously – and then hang around while the magician gets to work on the lock. But the vault isn’t the biggest problem, Jonathan. Nor are the motion sensors or the cameras or the guards.”
“Then what is?”
Correlli counted off his fingers. “William Enigma; Lord Appleby; Heinrich and Hans Hands; Nancy Esposito.”
“I don’t get it,” Jonathan confessed. “Who are they?”
“A roll-call of some of the greatest thieves in the history of Darkside. All of them tried to break into Xavier’s house when he lived in Darkside, and none of them were ever seen again.”
“Yeah, but you’re the Troupe. You’re meant to be the best thieves around.”
“Don’t you understand? These guys tried to rob Xavier while he was living in Darkside! He didn’t have any of this technology back then. There had to be something else in his residence, something that protected his money, something that all these thieves couldn’t get past.”
“Something Darkside,” Jonathan finished, the truth dawning on him.
Correlli nodded. “We can have all the plans and photographs we want, but we don’t have any idea what’s waiting for us inside this place. Chances are, by the time we find out, it’ll be too late.”
He was about to toss the plans glumly to one side when he stopped suddenly and cocked his head. Placing a finger over his lips, the fire-eater raised himself quietly out of his chair and crept across the lounge. He whipped the door open, revealing a flushed Raquella standing out in the hallway.
“You could have just come in,” he said drily. “Or has all that time at Vendetta’s made eavesdropping a habit?”
“Certainly not!” the maid replied indignantly. “I simply came down to tell Jonathan that his father wants to see him in the study. It is clear that you see me as nothing more than a maid – I wouldn’t dare to presume a greater
role.”
She glared at Correlli, daring him to demur. Unwilling to get caught up in the stand-off, Jonathan fled from the lounge and went up to the study, where the stuffy atmosphere was edged with excitement. Alain and Mountebank were hunched over a book, talking in hushed tones.
“What’s up, Dad?”
“Jonathan, come in!” Alain grinned. “I told you I’d heard the name Cornelius Xavier before. Well, with the help of Mr Mountebank here . . .” (the magician sketched out a theatrical bow) “. . . I’ve managed to track him down.”
He handed Jonathan a battered book entitled Tales from the Whitechapel Gazette.
“It’s a collection of articles from a local newspaper that ran at the end of the nineteenth century, around the time Darkside was founded. It’s packed with crazy stuff about conspiracies and monsters – probably why most people don’t take it seriously. Some of us, however, know better.”
He winked. Jonathan pulled up a chair and began to read the article, which was dated 23rd February, 1895.
Today the Whitechapel Gazette is the bearer of grim tidings for this fair capital city. One of its intrepid reporters has uncovered a scandalous situation at the Spitalfields lodgings of the notorious silk merchant Cornelius Xavier that will revile all right-minded Londoners. Born on the 11th December, 1861, Xavier rose to prominence as the purveyor of the finest silks this side of the Orient, but the Whitechapel Gazette can reveal that his business is based on cruelty, inhumanity, and an utter lack of the notions of human spirit and common decency upon which the British Empire was founded.
Two days ago a reporter secretly gained entry to Mr Xavier’s workplace, an unassuming building in the heart of Spitalfields. A hardened reporter who has witnessed many of London’s less salubrious sights, even he was shocked by the scene before him. Inside the main hall of the building were rows and rows of grubby, undernourished children dressed – if that is indeed the correct term – in filthy rags. They were tending to the giant silk looms that clattered ceaselessly, their hands darting in and out of the weaving like wasps in a flowerbed.
