by John Gaspard
“Well, in addition to the dearth of motive on Harry’s part, there is also the question of timing. He had hardly been in the country three hours when the murder occurred. And, of course, there is the issue of the chair. A unique item, that one, and certainly not something Harry had packed in his carry-on bag.”
“No, that chair has been in use for years at The Magic Circle,” Baxter said. “It’s never given us any trouble in the past.”
McHugh arched an eyebrow at this. “No, I suppose it hasn’t.”
He consulted his notes, flipping back a couple of pages. “They tell me the mechanism appears to have been inside it for years, but that it was possibly recently oiled and adapted to hold the knife. Apparently, it was triggered when the subject sat in the chair. Any idea what its previous purpose might have been?”
Harry and Baxter exchanged a look.
“Probably a clever way to deliver a load of some kind to the magician,” Harry said.
“Or produce an object quickly, out of thin air as it were,” Baxter added.
“Davis De Vries might have some thoughts on that,” I suggested.
McHugh clucked his tongue thoughtfully at this and made a quick note, then flipped to the next page in his small notebook. “Well, we got Harry out on bail. That’s a good first step. My guess is they will hold his passport until they are sufficiently persuaded he had no involvement in the case.”
“How long will that be?” Harry asked. I could tell he was worrying about the impact his absence would have on Franny back home. Although not yet newlyweds, the pair acted like a long-married couple and had become virtually inseparable over the last year or so.
“Probably be a few days,” McHugh said. “At most, a fortnight.”
“Oh, my, where will I stay for that long?” Harry said, setting down his teacup and patting his pockets. “I had a reservation for Saturday night at the Wesley Hotel by The Magic Circle, but I have clearly lost it by now, being Monday and all.”
“You can always stay at our hotel,” Megan offered brightly.
Before I could verbalize a response to the contrary, Laurence Baxter slapped the table with his hand.
“Nonsense,” he said. “You must stay at my house. I have a little place out on the Heath. In fact, you all must come.” He scanned the group and then added, “I mean, the visitors. The Americans.”
McHugh smiled wryly and nodded. “Yes, of course, obviously.”
Baxter’s tone left little doubt there was to be no argument on the subject. I could tell Megan was disappointed at the prospect of leaving our own version of Fawlty Towers. She glanced at me, and I did my best to look sad. I’m pretty sure she saw right through my performance, and I was reminded of an expression Harry used to say to me when I was a teenager.
“You look like an undertaker trying to look sad at a thirty thousand-dollar funeral,” he would say. I glanced back at Megan and doubled my efforts, trying to look twice as disappointed.
Deep down, of course, I knew neither one of us was buying it.
Chapter 4
The “Heath” Laurence Baxter spoke of turned out to be Hampstead Heath, a posh suburb of London. Its exclusivity was evidenced by the numerous large houses and small mansions I noticed as we approached Baxter’s home. He had insisted on driving us, so after a quick stop at our hotel to check out and pick up our bags, Harry, Megan, and I found ourselves cruising through the tree-lined lanes while Baxter provided a running commentary on the surrounding geography.
“Hampstead Heath is one of the highest points in London, and you’ll see the proof of that to your right, just around this curve.”
Ever the obedient tourists, we all turned to the right as the trees parted, revealing a large green park that rolled on and on. In the distance was an amazing view of the heart of London.
“This must be one of the best views of the city,” Megan said as she leaned around me to get a better look out the car window.
“Yes,” Baxter agreed. “Of course, the London Eye provides the best view of London, primarily because it’s one of the few views that doesn’t include the London Eye.”
He laughed at his own joke. I had seen photos of the London Eye, a very tall Ferris Wheel-type structure. No fan of heights, I wasn’t planning on getting close to—let alone inside—the London Eye any time soon.
“Didn’t someone once say the same thing about the Eiffel Tower?” Harry asked from his position in the front seat. He had been strangely silent throughout the entire trip.
“Perhaps,” Baxter admitted, “but it applies in this instance tenfold. Ah, here we are.”
He turned left, and we got our first view of Laurences Baxter’s “house.” A three-story mansion, complete with a turret on one high corner and what looked like a small glass greenhouse on the roof. The massive gray stone and red brick structure was situated directly across the lane from The Heath, giving the impression it was all part of the same sprawling property.
“Laurence, are you sure you’ve got enough room for us?” Harry teased as he gazed up at the imposing structure.
“Make your jokes, Marks, but this is one of those rare occasions when we are actually quite near capacity,” Baxter replied. “Several of the Magi performing this week are staying with us. Borys, Angus, Davis De Vries, Hector Hechizo. Oh, and Roy, and Roxanne Templeton. Let me see, is that all of them?” He pulled the car to a stop in the portico outside the front door, scratching his chin thoughtfully.
“Yes, I believe that’s all of us,” he finally said. “Now, let’s get you three settled and have some lunch.”
The contrast between where we had stayed the night before and where we were staying now could not have been more, I don’t know, contrasty. It was no exaggeration to say you could have fit four or five of our hotel rooms into the one bedroom Baxter brought us to (plus still have space for a handful of the hotel’s elevators as well). The room, and the house itself, was an artful mixture of old-world elegance and modern convenience.
“When I bought it,” Baxter explained as he gave us a quick tour of our new surroundings, “I have to admit it was a bit of a fixer-upper, if that’s the right expression.”
I assured him it was. I couldn’t speak for all the American tourists on Yelp, but I felt it was possible the type of high-ranking reviews this locale might generate would have caused the app to explode.
“I’ve put Harry across the hall from you,” Baxter said, taking several long strides from the center of the bedroom to the doorway. He gestured down the long, tastefully decorated corridor. “All the other magicians are on this floor. I was tempted to put Borys up on Three,” he said with a devilish grin. “You know, keep the mentalists at a bit of a distance, a little outside of the club and all that. But my better angels prevailed.”
“And, speaking of the third floor,” he continued, turning me toward the staircase at the end of the hall, “we’ve got a pretty decent workout room upstairs. You know the drill, some ellipticals, bicycles, free weights, that sort of thing. And, if you like flowers, my dear,” Baxter said, turning to Megan, “you should take a look at the greenhouse on the roof. Not dazzling this time of year, I’m afraid, but there are some lovely specimens.”
“A greenhouse,” Megan said happily. “I love greenhouses.”
And that was all it took to inspire a continuation of the guided tour, this time to visit the greenhouse, which was up a flight to the third floor, and then up a spiral staircase and out an aged wooden door that deposited us on the roof.
Once we were out in the air, Megan headed to the small greenhouse and immediately started oohing and ahhing over either the flora or the fauna, whichever one applied in this situation. Baxter marched forward to the edge of the roof and gestured to the majestic view of the Heath in the near distance and an equally impressive view of London on the far horizon.
“This is why I bought this place
,” he said with pride, then turned to me and motioned I should join him near the edge. “Come enjoy this magnificent view.”
“It looks great from back here,” I said, sticking close to the door and the stairway. I had found one of the best ways to confront my fear of heights was to stay away from them. While many other treatments had been employed, both traditional and arcane, no other method had proved to be as effective as simple avoidance.
“No fan of heights, I see,” Baxter said.
“Guilty as charged,” I agreed. “But it is an amazing view.”
“You should see it during the New Year’s Eve fireworks display. Dazzling from this vantage point. Looks like The Blitz all over again!”
I nodded in agreement, although I wasn’t entirely clear why any Londoner would want to recreate the Blitz. I looked down, surprised to see I was standing on a grass lawn, which covered most of the roof. Baxter noticed and walked over to me.
“It’s not really grass,” he said quietly, sounding a little disappointed at the admission. “I tried, lord knows I tried, but the drainage issues up here were, to put it lightly, insurmountable.”
I looked down at my feet. “I don’t know,” I said. “It looks pretty real to me.”
“Thank you, but it would never pass close inspection,” he said rather sadly.
I tried to imagine a reason why such an inspection would be required, but couldn’t think of one. “Anyway, it looks nice,” I finally said.
“Yes, I do like it. They lay it just like sod, in long strips. Remarkable, really,” he said. “All right, enough of the tour,” he said suddenly, clapping his hands together. “Let’s eat!”
Lunch was nearly as impressive as the house itself.
A typical lunch for me at home usually consisted of simply standing in front of the open refrigerator, grazing on whichever foodstuffs seemed like they hadn’t gone bad yet. That was a far cry from the spread Laurence Baxter set out for his guests, and it included the ritzy novelty of servants bringing in food and carrying away plates.
Once Harry, Megan, and I were seated, we were reintroduced to Angus Bishop and Borys, two magicians we had met briefly backstage at The Magic Circle. Although Baxter had rattled off a long list of names when we arrived, only one other magician joined us for lunch. He introduced himself as Hector, a large and jovial man from Spain, whose English was far superior to my Spanish. He seemed to find everything I said both fascinating and hilarious. I liked him immediately.
As we all got down to the serious business of eating an amazing lunch, Harry inquired as to the whereabouts of the other houseguests.
“Dr. and Dr. Templeton went into the city for even more shopping, God luv ‘em,” Angus said between large bites from a sandwich that would have made Dagwood Bumstead proud. “And I’m not sure what happened to Dr. De Vries,” he added, wiping at a glob of mayonnaise that had missed his mouth and landed on his cheek. He licked the finger clean and continued to work on the sandwich.
“Dr. De Vries went back down to The Magic Circle,” Borys said in his deep somber voice. Both magicians had been adding the moniker “doctor” to the names, in keeping with the way all the Magi addressed each other—with the exception of the one actual doctor in the group, Laurence Baxter.
Borys was an amazingly still and focused man who looked far younger than his years, given he was a contemporary of the other Magi. Like many mentalists, he cultivated a spooky quality, which he maintained in full force, even while offstage. His accent was hard to pin down, but I suspected it was some form of Slavic.
“His shipping cases with The Catherine Wheel arrived,” Borys added.
“Ah, yes, the legendary Catherine Wheel,” Uncle Harry said as he took another bite of the egg-white omelet the kitchen staff had prepared for him. “Let me ask you this: since he’s arrived, how many times has he casually mentioned the whole enterprise packs into two cases and can be assembled by one man using no tools whatsoever?”
Angus and Borys exchanged a quick look.
“Three times, just this morning,” Borys said. Angus was still chewing, but he shook his head. “Four?” Borys ventured.
Angus nodded.
“He’s proud of that fact, is he?” I asked.
“Eminently,” Laurence Baxter said before Harry could respond. “He hardly ever talks about the illusion’s effect, just goes on and on about how easy it is to transport. As if conveyance were the primary concern behind a magic trick.”
Angus shrugged. “You forget, mate, that’s important to a lot of us poor working stiffs. Not every magician has a fleet of semi- trucks carting our shows about, with peons and minions to set up and tear down for us.” He gave a sidelong glance at Baxter to make sure his jab had landed. Baxter pursed his lips at him, confirming it had.
“Once, the airline lost all my luggage,” Borys said in his deep voice, which seemed much too large for his small frame, “and I was able to procure everything I needed to perform a dazzling show from a stationery shop for under ten American dollars. You magicians, you’re all about the silly big boxes.”
Hector laughed and held up a deck of cards. “Not me, my friend, not me. All I need is this. And these.” He wiggled his fingers at the rest of us in a manner that was somehow both charming and just a little bit obscene. “I can take one deck of cards and make it play for ninety minutes.”
I glanced over at Megan and noticed she wasn’t eating, just looking at the group and smiling.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
“This reminds me of home,” she said. “Sitting around with you and Harry and the Mystics at the bar. The accents are different, but the sentiments feel about the same.” She patted Harry’s hand and he smiled warmly for the first time all day. “It’s a good feeling.”
“Yes, it is,” I agreed and turned to ask Hector a question about the make and model of the cards he was holding. And then I froze.
Standing by the door to the kitchen, icy and still, was the creepy old woman from The Magic Circle. She had entered quietly and stood staring at us with a look on her face that might have been utter contempt or complete indifference. Either way, it was unnerving.
Baxter noticed the expression on my face and must have recognized its cause. “Yes, Miss Hess?” he said without turning to acknowledge her.
“Do we know how many to expect for dinner?” she said in her clipped German accent. “Preparations must begin.”
Baxter looked around the table. “What do you say, gents? You made it through lunch, want to give dinner a go?”
General assent all around, then Megan touched my elbow. “We have those theatre tickets tonight, Eli. Do you think we should eat in town before the show?”
I had completely forgotten about the tickets. “Yes, that’s a good idea,” I agreed, and then turned to Harry. “Harry, do you want to join us? It’s the show I told you about, the one with my friend from high school, Jake North.”
I don’t have much experience dropping names, but I must have just dropped a big one, if the reaction from around the table was any indication.
“Jake North, you say?” Baxter said, in a tone that was hard to read. The looks on Angus’s and Borys’ faces also suggested surprise at the mention of the name.
“You guys know Jake and his sitcom?” I asked.
“That bloody sitcom,” Angus mumbled. “You know, when I talk to Americans, they are always so impressed by the Brit shows of ours that they’ve seen. They think all we produce are shows like Downton Abbey, Sherlock, Dr. Who, and The Office, because we’re polite enough not to send you our rubbish. The least you colonies could do is return the favor.”
“And make no mistake, Blindman’s Bluff is rubbish,” Borys said.
“I’ve only seen it dubbed into Spanish, but, sí, I would have to concur,” Hector nodded. “Es basura.”
“It’s bad enough we’re su
bjected to that tripe, but now the bloke keeps popping up on every chat show and every channel,” Angus said between bites of a rich-looking apple cobbler. “Gotten to the point you can’t turn on the telly without seeing that silly git doing his lame tricks. Celebrity prats doing magic, God help us.”
“Celebrities doing magic,” Borys said, spitting out the words. “The worst. Just the worst.”
“Lo peor,” Hector agreed. “Justo lo peor.”
I didn’t need more than my high school understanding of Spanish to determine celebrities doing magic on talk shows was a sore subject among this group.
“Well, regardless, the whole thing strikes me as a bit deceptive,” Baxter said, “given I am led to understand the play he’s in doesn’t even feature any magic.”
“I guess not, I understand it’s a comedy-mystery,” I said. “Jake got into magic when he did the movie about the life and death of Terry Alexander.”
The mention of that film steered the table away from the discussion of celebrities doing magic into an intense discussion of the Bullet Catch and the impossibility of effectively presenting magic in movies. Since I had helped with the presentation in that particular movie, I decided not to join in on the conversation. Thankfully, Harry pulled us back on track.
“It’s a comedy, you say? Jake’s play?” Harry said, steering the discussion back to our plans for the evening. “That might be just the thing. If the invitation still stands, I would love to join you.”
“This will be fun,” Megan said, and Harry beamed at her.
“Terrific,” I said. “Anyone else up for it?”
Polite refusals all around. No one even bothered to come up with an excuse, which I took as a continued indictment of Jake and his magic-heavy TV appearances.
“Now, if you’ll pardon me,” Harry said, “I think I’ll go lie down for a bit, in my ongoing attempt to reset my internal and infernal clock.” With that, he pushed himself back from the table, nodded to Laurence Baxter, and headed toward the large dining room’s entryway.
