by John Gaspard
“How did it go?” Harry asked as I entered. He pushed a new coffee cup across the table toward me as I returned to my original seat.
“I was just going to ask you that,” I said, reaching for the coffee urn. It was nearly empty, but I poured what was left into my cup. I nodded a greeting at McHugh as I poured, and he gave me a welcoming nod in return.
“A friend in the service alerted me to the situation,” he said. “I thought I might be able to lend a hand. Or an idea.”
“I was just telling McHugh that their questioning of me seemed, at best, perfunctory,” Harry said. “He suggested a longer, more in-depth interview is in my not-too-distant future.”
“That would be the traditional approach,” McHugh agreed. He was dressed in the same tweed jacket I’d seen him in before, and his trilby hat was in its apparent permanent position on his head. “Harry is still their key suspect from the murder this past weekend. So they will note your reaction at this new interview and then compare and contrast how you behave after you’ve had some time to sort yourself out. And what about you?” he said, turning back to me.
Before I could offer reflections on my interview, Laurence Baxter entered, escorting Megan. He pulled out a chair for her by force of habit, but he was clearly distracted.
“This is a morning I could have done without,” he said.
“No one expects to wake up with a corpse as a house guest,” McHugh agreed.
“Well, clearly someone did,” Baxter said. He stopped, surprised to see this new figure in his dining room, and then seemed to wave it off as all part of the surreal morning he was having. He reached for the coffee urn and cursed quietly when he recognized that it was empty. He carried it to the swinging kitchen door.
“Can we have some more coffee, please,” he said, holding up the empty urn as physical evidence of his displeasure at the current state of household affairs. He waited for a moment, then turned back, looking exasperated. “No one there. Of course, they’re all being questioned. I suppose I’ll have to make it myself.”
Baxter stomped into the kitchen, and we could hear him banging around as he began what appeared to be, for him at least, the arduous process of making coffee.
“If he gets this upset over a lack of coffee, how is he likely to react when we tell him the cream pitcher is empty?” McHugh suggested with a smile.
“Everyone reacts to stress differently,” Harry said quietly. “He’s got to deal with all the special shows this week at The Magic Circle, a house full of bothersome guests, and now a dead body and a police invasion. I think he’s allowed a tiny crack in his famous British reserve.”
“Yes, a murder investigation is always an interruption to even the best-planned garden party,” McHugh agreed. He turned to me, leaning across the table and lowering his voice. “So, tell me about the tea.”
As I had done with Detective Inspector Matthews, I explained how Gwendolyn had brought in the tea service, accompanied by Miss Hess, and how Borys had offered me some tea. McHugh asked a couple questions about the timing of the delivery and the exact location of each person in the room, and then sat back and considered what I had recounted.
“If the poison was in the kettle, it could have been added at any point after the afternoon tea,” he said slowly. “So, basically, anyone could have put the poison in the kettle at any point during the evening.”
“If, in fact, that was how the poison was delivered,” Harry offered, and McHugh nodded in agreement.
“And, if what you told me is correct,” McHugh said, turning to Harry, “the odds are quite good Borys would be the only one in the group who would drink tea last evening. Is that correct?”
Harry nodded. “Yes, given the choice between Baxter’s high-end liquor cabinet and tea, this group could be counted on to always choose free booze.”
“Except for you two,” McHugh said, pointing at me and then at Megan. “Someone may have had prior knowledge of Borys’ habits, but you two were both unknowns in that regard.”
“I would have taken tea if it was offered,” Megan said. “But Roxanne dragged me off to her room for girl chat. And alcohol. Too much alcohol,” she added, slowly rubbing her temples with her forefingers. I looked over at the kitchen to see if Baxter had made any progress with the coffee.
“What about you, Eli?” McHugh asked. “Are you a tea drinker?”
“If you’d asked me a couple years ago, I would have emphatically said no. But Megan has introduced me to the pleasures of a warm cup of Earl Grey.” I turned to her, and despite her headache, she flashed me a smile. “However, Angus made such a strong argument against the tea last night, I decided to give it a pass.”
“Did he?” McHugh said thoughtfully. “Interesting. Or not.”
“A wise and fortuitous move on your part,” Harry said gravely. He looked to McHugh for agreement, but his old friend had settled back into his chair and was stroking the first of his several chins.
“This is so odd,” I said to fill in the silence. “With the first slaying at The Magic Circle, the murderer was well aware his victim would be one of two people—Harry or Oskar. Did he care which one? We don’t know. Was the wrong person killed? Again, we don’t know.
“But the intended victim last night had to be Borys,” I continued. “He was the only one who was sure to drink the tea. There was always the chance Megan and I might have had some tea as well, but Borys was—for lack of a better term—a sure thing.”
“I think that is very likely correct,” McHugh said. “There was always the likelihood of collateral damage,” he added, “but I think it’s clear Borys was the one who was scheduled to die.”
“What does that mean?” I asked as Laurence Baxter banged back into the dining room, returning with the coffee.
“I can’t speak to the quality,” he said holding up the urn triumphantly. “But here’s the blasted coffee.”
McHugh was the first to hold up his empty cup. He turned to me as he did.
“What does it mean?” he repeated. “I have no idea. Let us have some more coffee and consider a few possibilities.”
The conclusion of the questioning of guests and the household staff finally arrived about an hour later and coincided with the removal of Borys’ body. While the staff had returned to the business of running the large house, the rest of us had wandered into the front foyer to stretch our legs and determine what to do next.
The low, somber hubbub of the group came to a sudden stop with the appearance of two EMTs at the top of the stairs, carrying a stretcher between them. Borys’ body was encased in a black plastic carrier. All that was discernible was a small, inert shape encased within a terminal sleeping bag.
We all stood in respectful silence as they made their way down the stairs and past us toward the front door. Hector Hechizo made a quick sign of the cross as they moved by him, and McHugh took off his hat. I noticed both Roxanne and Megan were visibly crying, and even Angus Bishop wiped his eyes with a handkerchief, which then disappeared immediately into his pocket.
“You think of the strangest things at a time like this,” Harry said quietly. “I’d always meant to ask Borys about the center tear he developed. It was remarkable. Never get the chance now, I guess.”
“Aye, that secret dies with him,” Angus agreed quietly. He was normally so upbeat and talkative, it was interesting to see this more subdued side of the glib old magician.
“Yeah,” I said. “I kept meaning to ask him to translate a Russian phrase I heard at the hotel we were at earlier this week. Never got around to it.”
“Not to worry. He likely wouldn’t have been able to do it,” Angus said. “Borys wasn’t Russian, he was Ukrainian.”
“You mean Romanian,” Laurence Baxter corrected.
“Romanian, Ukrainian, same difference,” Angus grumbled.
Detective Inspector Matthews had followed the gr
im procession down the stairs and watched closely through the open front door as the body was loaded into the coroner’s van. She made a note of the time and then turned to the group, doing a quick headcount to ensure we were all present and accounted for.
“Thank you, all of you, for your cooperation this morning,” she said in her clipped British-Indian hybrid accent. “As I mentioned to some of you, we may need to follow up at a later date for a more in-depth conversation. I understand those of you who are not British residents are staying on for at least a few days?”
“Yes,” Laurence Baxter said, speaking for the group. “We have a series of shows at The Magic Circle through Saturday,” he said as he looked around the group. “I’m guessing we will cancel tonight’s show, because of this...most recent tragedy. But you’re all staying on, correct?”
“Sí,” said Hector.
“Absolutely,” said Roxanne, and Roy nodded in agreement.
“Where she goes, I go. Marriage is just long-term stalking, really,” he said brightly, and then realized humor might not be the best response in this situation. He quickly switched to a more appropriate, somber expression.
“Of course,” De Vries added. “I can stay as long as required.”
“I’ve got nothing booked for a fortnight,” Angus Bishop said. “Maybe longer.”
Everyone turned to Harry. “Obviously I’m not going anywhere,” Harry said quietly.
The group reacted sympathetically, but there was a palpable feeling in the room—and there had been since the announcement of the discovery of Borys’ body—that the group’s built-in sense of unity was beginning to ebb. Two members of the group were dead, and while no one had voiced any actual suspicion of Harry, I was getting the sense it was beginning to bubble up from under the surface.
I scanned the lined faces of the Magnificent Magi assembled in the lobby. I knew Harry was not the killer—that line of thinking was a non-starter—which meant that if it was someone from within the group, they were standing with us right now.
I suddenly realized—looking at all their unhappy faces—that they were all staring right back at me. I had forgotten we were all expressing our availability to Detective Inspector Matthews. I turned to her. “We’re here for as long as you need us,” I said.
Baxter turned back to Detective Inspector Matthews. “And, of course, I’m at your disposal.”
“All right then,” she said. “We will be in touch.”
With that, she stepped through the door, and Baxter closed it behind her. The group was still unusually quiet as he turned back to us. He sighed, clearly searching for the right thing to say at a time like this. However, as with the rest of us, Baxter wasn’t really schooled for times like this.
“Well, that one plays things close to the vest, doesn’t she?” Baxter said with a forced chuckle. “Hard to tell what she’s thinking.”
“Not at all. She is thinking someone in this house is a murderer.”
We all jumped at the sound, looking around to see where it came from. It was the unmistakable voice of Miss Hess, who we discovered standing at the top of the stairs. She glowered down on the group, her gaze landing on each of us for a tad longer than we might have liked.
“And I, for one, am inclined to believe her,” she added, before turning slowly and disappearing down the second-floor hall.
Chapter 10
The surprising and sudden death of Borys had thrown all of us into a sort of limbo, not sure what to do with ourselves or where to turn next. I was itching to do something—anything—to clear Harry’s name, but I feared the additional murder had pushed my uncle further up Scotland Yard’s list of suspects. I felt helpless in my inability to do anything productive to lower that ranking.
Megan and I puttered around for a while, tossing out ideas of how to spend our day. I was thinking a trip back to The Magic Circle was in order to revisit the scene of the first crime and see if it triggered any new avenues of pursuit. Megan was game, but our impromptu plan was cut short when Davis De Vries cornered me about contacting Jake North so we could sort things out.
Clearly De Vries was anxious to get his Catherine Wheel illusion successfully launched this week and felt Jake was the linchpin who could make it happen. So I set aside the plan to head to The Magic Circle and made some attempts to reach Jake, trying all the contacts I had for him. Sadly, after about twenty fruitless minutes, I didn’t have much positive news to report.
“The cell number I have for him has been disconnected,” I explained. “So I sent him an email, and I got a generic reply telling me to click on a link, which took me to his website. On that site, I was given the opportunity to join his mailing list, but it didn’t offer any other contact options. Although I was entered into a drawing to win an official signed Jake North t-shirt, with the slogan ‘What Are You, Blind?’ emblazoned across the front. Fingers crossed on that one. But otherwise, I think I’ve reached a dead end.”
De Vries pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Not much to report on my end, either. I left a message with his publicist,” he said, “and haven’t heard anything back from her. She was slow to respond last time, but the indication I got was he was interested in premiering the illusion this week because it would take place at The Magic Circle, his schedule permitting. I followed up the phone call with an email and a text to her. But still nothing.”
I felt badly for him. I didn’t have any other ideas on how to contact this now reclusive star—ironically, the same actor who would have attended the opening of a grocery store in his earlier days of semi-fame.
“Is she British?” Harry asked.
De Vries and I were standing in front of the house, and I hadn’t realized Harry and McHugh had planted themselves nearby in patio chairs that offered a fine view of the heath.
“Is who British?” De Vries replied.
“Jake North’s publicist,” Harry said.
“Yes, I believe she is,” De Vries said.
“Then have Baxter call her,” Harry suggested. “He’s the closest thing magicians have to royalty, at least in this country.”
McHugh nodded in agreement. “I concur. A call from Laurence Baxter will be returned at lightning speed. Faster than a call from the Queen herself, I suspect.”
We didn’t have the resources to perform a double-blind experiment to prove McHugh’s hypothesis, but we did have Laurence Baxter, and he was more than happy to place the phone call.
We all stood around him while he did it, listening to his polite-to-a-fault message for the publicist, filled with “sorry to bother you,” “hope I’m not intruding,” and the devastating coup de gras “Anyway, again, this is Laurence Baxter, and I do hope to hear back from you if you have time. Thanks so much, and have a lovely day.”
She clearly had time and a “last number called” button, because the phone rang just as Baxter was handing it back to De Vries. Obviously recognizing the power of the resource he had at his disposal, he immediately handed the phone back to Baxter, who navigated through the conversation with consummate skill. The end result was an agreement that her client, Jake North, would in fact premiere the new illusion, and he would also, incidentally, love to have a chat with his dear old friend Eli Marks.
And, as luck would have it, he suggested the meeting take place at The Magic Circle.
The precise arrangements for that conversation rivaled the cinematic meeting between Michael Corleone and Virgil Sollozzo, minus the hidden revolver (I’m guessing) and bloody dénouement. Finally, it was decided this casual conversation would take place the next morning in the Executive Director’s office at The Magic Circle. The agreed-upon participants would be myself, Jake North, and his publicist. Laurence Baxter would act as my second, and the whole thing would be overseen by Executive Director, Gareth MacKenzie—the man who I had seen on the first night giving pre-show instructions to my uncle Harry and the not-long-for-this-ea
rth Oskar Korhonen.
In addition—although he wasn’t officially part of the proceedings—Davis De Vries would be allowed to stand in the hallway and listen in on the conversation, with the understanding his role was to be strictly a silent one.
This was only the second time I had seen Gareth MacKenzie and both times he had been a mass of nerves; I wasn’t sure if this was a permanent condition or a reaction to two stressful situations. Although he was dressed in a different suit than the one I’d seen him in on Saturday, this one looked equally baggy. His bald head sported several rivulets of sweat, despite the fact his office—and the entire building—was excessively cool.
Speaking of cool, Jake’s publicist was an unflappable brunette who introduced herself to Laurence Baxter as Stephanie Milbury. In contrast to Gareth MacKenzie, her suit was tailored to perfection, and her hair and makeup were equally coiffed. Her intensity and forced cheer suggested she was fishing for a new client and Baxter—no stranger to his impact on the general public—did nothing to disabuse her of this notion, at least for the time being.
Baxter and I were on time, which allowed Jake to make a showy entrance five minutes later, all handshakes and smiles, as everyone in the Executive Director’s office pretended this was the most casual of encounters. Once greetings and introductions had been covered, MacKenzie took it upon himself to introduce the topic under discussion for this hastily called meeting.
“The motto of The Magic Circle,” he began, “is indocilis privata loqui, which translates from the Latin as ‘not apt to disclose secrets.’”
“A closer translation might be ‘incapable of speaking of private things,’” Laurence Baxter added, and then recognized correct Latin translations were not the primary concern of this meeting. He nodded at MacKenzie to continue.
