The Darke Chronicles (8 page)

Just as he was about to slip down under the covers, a sound came to his ears. It was the sound that he had heard before. His name was called, softly, wistfully in the gloom of the bedroom. It came again: louder, more insistent, demanding a response. It resonated in his tired brain.

‘Yes, I am here,’ he said. ‘I am here.’

As though this utterance was a cue, no sooner had he replied to the disembodied voice than a light shone into the bedroom through the window. Caught in the dancing ray was the figure of an angel. It appeared exactly as it had done before; even the actions of supplication were identical.

Why had it come again? What was the purpose of its visitation this time? Confused and distressed, Cornelius Hordern called out to his daughter. With remarkable alacrity, the girl came into the room and rushed to his side.

‘It’s the angel,’ he muttered, shaking his head in confusion. ‘Why has it come again?’

‘Don’t worry, Father. There’s nothing to be concerned about now.’ As she spoke, the image of the angel wavered and slid upwards towards the ceiling of the room before disappearing altogether. Without a word, Sarah Hordern led her father to the window. They looked out into the moonlit garden beyond, where they heard voices raised in anger. Dimly, they saw a group of men, one of whom appeared to be a uniformed policeman.

Sarah gasped with delight. ‘They’ve captured your angel,’ she said.

One of the men turned his face towards them. It was white and contorted in anger. It belonged to Doctor Sebastien Le Page.

Dawn was breaking and pink light was seeping into the sky when Cornelius Hordern, now dressed in his day clothes, and his daughter sat together in the drawing room with two men.

‘It’s time I introduced you to Mr Luther Darke and Inspector Edward Thornton,’ she announced, passing her father a cup of hot tea. She and Thornton also had cups of the reviving brew but, as usual, Darke had requested free rein with the brandy decanter.

Hordern looked pale and bewildered. ‘I wish you would tell me exactly what has been going on, Sarah. What was Doctor Le Page doing here? I thought he was out of the country. And why are the police involved?’

‘You must forgive me, father, for going behind your back as I did, but I acted for your own good. I felt in my heart that this angel business was all wrong. It was just instinct, I know, but I just knew that something was not quite right. And when you started giving your fortune away to Le Page…’ The girl began to cry.

‘But, Sarah, you were looking for rationalities in the world of the spiritual. Doctor Le Page is…’

‘A
fraud, sir,’ said Darke finishing his sentence. ‘In some state of distress, your daughter asked me to investigate Le Page and “this angel business”. I suspect that if I had told her that the good old Doctor was Moses reborn and that he had a cupboard full of the heavenly host, she would have accepted the situation and been pleased for you. She just wanted things to be right and proper for her father, and an independent investigation would present the truth – or as near the truth as we ever get to in this life.’

‘I see,’ said Hordern quietly. ‘And what is the truth?’

‘The truth is that Sebastien Le Page is running the most genteel of extortion rackets. He discovers rich widows or widowers, and then arranges for the angel to pay a nightly visit. This is followed up with a personal call from the man himself. As he did with you.’

‘As he did with me,’ repeated Hordern dully. ‘But what about the angel?’

‘I’ll come to that later, sir. First, let me run through the extortion process. I suspect your reaction to Le Page’s first visit was a fairly standard one. Le Page would be used to and prepared for the initial rejection. But another nightly vision and the bereaved victim is hooked, convinced that the angel brings greetings from beyond the grave. That was the really clever part of the scheme. If you believe that a heavenly visitor is prompting this spiritual communion, you are more likely to accept the various fairground theatricals that follow. There are numerous fake mediums in London, but none with such prestigious credentials as one with an angel on his side.’

‘You mean all those séances were … were false. I didn’t communicate with my dear wife?’ The old man’s voice trembled with emotion as he sought confirmation from his daughter.

She shook her head.

‘Everything you experienced in the dark during those sessions can be explained away as a trick.’ It was Edward Thornton who spoke now. ‘There would be an accomplice, maybe more than one, in the room with you. They would be dressed in black from head to foot so you could not see them. In this way candles can be
blown out, perfume sprayed in the air, material rustled as though a woman is present and even a vague shape may be glimpsed. Any female voice in such a situation could be easily accepted as the one that your heart desires it to be.’

Hordern, his eyes now moist with tears, ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I’ve been a fool. A gullible old fool.’

‘You have been a victim, Mr Hordern. One of many, I am sorry to say. Once you were ensnared, then Le Page could ask you for money, large amounts of money, and you were grateful to pass it over to him. As Luther observed, it is the most genteel form of blackmail.’

‘But how did Le Page manage the angel illusion?’

‘Aha,’ said Luther rubbing his hands, ‘that is where our Mr Le Page – the Doctor qualification is also false – was exceedingly clever. He was at one time principal projectionist to the Lumière brothers in their cinematography show – moving pictures. No doubt while working with them he had the idea for the angel illusion. You photograph an actor who is dressed as an angel against a black background with a moving picture camera. All you need is about ninety seconds of film. And then you project the film against a window at night, using it as a transparent screen. The image can be seen on the other side, as though the angel is real and suspended in mid-air.’

‘This is incredible,’ said Cornelius Hordern shaking his head in wonder.

‘Ingenious, I would say, but not incredible. In fact, sir, it is far more credible than the alternative. The inspector and I found signs in the grounds near your bedroom window where the tripod supporting the projector had rested for the celestial film show. As for the voice in your bedroom calling your name, you need look no further than your maid, Sadie. I am afraid she was seduced into assisting in this charade by one of Le Page’s handsome accomplices. No doubt he promised wealth and marriage and, silly little girl that she is, she fell in with their plans. She used the speaking tube
in your bedroom as a means of creating the disembodied voice. On the night of the visitation, she would ensure that the stopper on the tube in your room was removed and at the appointed time she would call your name through the tube from the kitchen. It was an essential part of the plan. The projectionist had to be sure you were awake before he began to run the film. No doubt it was Sadie who took some of your wife’s perfume for Le Page to use.’

‘The iniquitous girl!’ cried Hordern.

‘Do not be too hard on her. What she did, she did for love or affection and we all know what fools that powerful emotion can make of us.’

Hordern’s face broke into a wry grin. ‘How right you are, Mr Darke.’ He leaned forward and held his arms out to his daughter. She slipped easily into his embrace. ‘I think that my acquaintance with the angels has done me the world of good. I have learned that while I have breath in my body, I should care for the living. I will be patient about the rest.’ Father and daughter hugged each other in silent joy.

‘Time we were on our way, Edward,’ said Darke with a smile, pulling the policeman towards the door. ‘If we hurry, we can catch the first train to town and indulge ourselves in the dining car.’

It had to be tonight. He had planned it down to the last detail. There was no reason for a delay and, in fact, in order to survive it was imperative that he act now. He just hoped that his nerves held. Working the scheme out meticulously in an abstract form was one thing, but putting it into action was another. He was entering fresh territory now. He had never killed anyone before.

‘I don’t understand your fascination with this so-called magician, Merlin the Magnificent, and why you have to drag me off to the theatre to see him.’ Carla sat back in the cab and shook her head in mild disapproval.

Luther Darke, who was sitting opposite her, leaned forward and gave her a gentle kiss on the lips. ‘Because, my sweet, I know you will be thrilled and fascinated by the fellow. And he is not a magician. He is an illusionist. There is a great difference.’

‘And what, pray, is the difference?’

‘Well, magic is mysterious and inexplicable. There are suggestions of the supernatural about the concept of ‘magic’ – the black arts and its accoutrements. An illusionist can easily explain all he does. They’re tricks, you see. Innocent bits of business to fool the eyes. The illusionist is in essence doing something quite ordinary,
quite practical and workmanlike, but because you don’t know what he’s doing and how it’s done – making a dove appear from out of thin air for instance – you are amazed. But you are only amazed because you are ignorant of the mechanics of the deception. If you did know how it was carried out, you wouldn’t think it was very special at all. So you see, it’s a far cry from magic; it’s more … scientific. When you turn the tap on and water gushes out, you don’t say, “Ooh, that’s magic,” because you know about the plumbing and pipes and so on. But some natives in darkest Africa would think of it as magic. It’s the illusionist’s job to disguise the inner workings of the illusion.’

‘You seem to know a great deal about the practice.’

Darke beamed. ‘It’s one of my interests. You know how the unusual and inexplicable fascinate me.’

Carla returned his smile. ‘Yes, I do.’

The Golder’s Green Hippodrome was full that evening, but Luther had managed to secure a box for the two of them. Within minutes of taking their seats, the orchestra struck up with a rousing overture. The first half of the variety show featured fairly mundane run-of-the-mill entertainment: jugglers, a couple of singers who duetted in the most strangulated fashion, a droll comedian in a very loud suit and a troupe of performing dogs. By the interval Carla was decidedly bored, and so Darke whisked her off to the bar, where he plied her with champagne to keep her spirits from flagging. They had just returned to their box when the lights began to dim for the commencement of the second half of the show.

‘If you’ll excuse me for a moment,’ said Darke as Carla settled down in her seat. ‘I’ll be back shortly.’ Before she could respond, he had slipped through the door and was gone. Carla was used to Darke’s odd behaviour but this seemed very strange indeed. Why on earth should he choose to disappear at this moment minutes
before Merlin the Magnificent was due to make his entrance? He was the reason they had come to the show in the first place. Carla gave a gentle shrug, sat back in her seat and turned her attention to the stage. The small orchestra had just finished wading through the turgid overture heralding the second half of the performance. There was a small ripple of applause and then the curtain rose. To Carla’s dismay, the two singers from the first half, a very mature husband and wife duo, reappeared to regale the audience with more of their unattractive warbling. In the first half, Darke had observed that they looked as though they had escaped from some embalming room in a nearby hospital. Carla could not help but agree with him.