The Voices (17 page)

‘All pretty standard,’ said Baylis before biting into an oval of sliced French bread. Christopher grimaced when he saw the trifling sum he was going to be paid. ‘Yes, I know,’ Baylis continued. ‘Pitiful, but there it is.’ He handed Christopher a pen. ‘I’m so glad you and Ancel hit it off. And what’s this Baumann character like? I’ve only had the pleasure of talking to him on the phone.’ Christopher finished signing the contracts and handed them back to Baylis, who checked the signatures and said
‘Splendide!’
At that moment, a waitress appeared with their entrées –
crêpe aux
é
pinards et saumon
for Baylis and
escargots de Bourgogne
for Christopher. Baylis topped up their glasses from a bottle of Merlot.

‘Henry.’ Christopher leaned forward. ‘Do you know anything about Victorian stage magic?’

Baylis assumed an exaggerated expression of bemusement. ‘I can’t say that I do.’ He raised his glass. ‘To
Le Jardin des Reflets
and the Palme d’Or.’

Christopher humoured his agent. The touch of their glasses produced a pure, delicate chime, and Christopher repeated the toast. ‘You see,’ he continued, ‘I want to find out about a Victorian magician called Edward Stokes Maybury.’

‘Why do you want to do that?’

‘He used to live in my house. I found some of his things in the attic when we moved in. Props . . . I think.’

‘And you want to know where you can get a good price for them?’

‘No, not at all. What I found was broken, worthless. I just want to find out more about Maybury.’

Baylis sampled his crêpe. ‘Delicious. Well, you could try the British Library of course . . .’ His face was suddenly illuminated by inspiration. ‘No. Not the British Library, the Magic Circle. If they can’t tell you anything about him, then no one will. That said, the Magic Circle is a private members’ club and they don’t extend a warm welcome to strangers. They can be very cagey.’

‘Oh,’ said Christopher, disappointed.

‘Even so,’ Baylis continued, his eyes twinkling mischievously, ‘that might not prove to be an insurmountable problem.’

‘Don’t tell me that you’re a member!’ Christopher exclaimed.

‘No, no, no. Don’t be ridiculous. But I know someone who is. Bill Loxley. He’s actually a criminal barrister – that is to say, a barrister specializing in criminal law rather than a barrister with a penchant for crime. We were in the same set together back in the Dark Ages. He’s a real character. When he isn’t defending rogues he does magic shows as Balthazar, Master of Miracles. He also writes very scholarly articles on the history of magic. It’s one of those peculiar passions, like early music or exotic pets – unaccountable and all consuming. Bill might know something about your Maybury chap. He might even be able to use his advocacy skills to get you into the Magic Circle library. You’ll have to buy him lunch, of course.’

‘Naturally.’

‘So, this Baumann fellow?’

‘You won’t forget, will you?’

‘What?’

‘Loxley.’

‘No, I’ll give him a call tonight. Well?’

‘There’s not much to say about Baumann.’

Henry rolled his eyes at the ceiling. ‘God give me strength!’

‘Well, there isn’t.’

‘And Ancel?’

‘I thought he was a bit arrogant at first, but I warmed to him in the end.’

Henry dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief and refilled his glass. ‘Come along now, catch up. I’ve got a good feeling about this film, you know.’

‘You always do, Henry.’

Halfway through their telephone conversation, Christopher had realized that Loxley would have agreed to meet him even without Baylis’s intercession. ‘That’s fascinating, quite fascinating.’ The man had clearly been eager to learn more about what Christopher had discovered. Loxley had arrived early and was waiting for Christopher outside Goodge Street Underground station. Identifying him wasn’t a problem. He was tall, big-boned, and the high dome of his head was completely hairless; a Van Dyck beard and tapering ears suggested a certain diabolical but hammy glamour. They greeted each other, shook hands and walked to the headquarters of the Magic Circle in Chenies Mews while exchanging polite generalities. On entering the building, Christopher remarked on the absence of members. ‘Magicians,’ Loxley confided, ‘have a tendency to rise late. Let me show you around.’
Christopher, who had expected his companion to be more secretive, was guided to a small theatre – ‘one hundred seats’ – and an extraordinary club room, the floor of which was decorated with all of the signs of the zodiac arranged between concentric circles. Above the zodiac was a canopy surmounted by an enormous witch’s hat. There were also display cases in which the paraphernalia of several famous magicians were displayed.

‘Take a seat,’ said Loxley.

Christopher lowered himself between the arms of a rather grand wooden chair while Loxley dragged another away from the wall and turned it so that he could sit facing Christopher.

‘So,’ said Loxley, ‘Edward Maybury.’ He crossed his legs and removed a notebook and silver pen from his jacket. ‘Would you mind? I’d like to go over a few details.’

‘Not at all.’

‘When we spoke on the telephone you mentioned finding a theatre bill.’

‘Yes. There was a framed theatre bill promoting a Maybury show.’

‘Do you recall the venue?’

‘I’m afraid not. And there was a traveller’s trunk with the letters E.S.M. engraved on the nameplate.’

Loxley raised his hand, indicating that he wished
Christopher to slow down. ‘Please . . . The theatre bill – can you recall anything about the show?’

‘The audience were promised secrets of the ancient world . . . vanishings . . . automatons.’

‘Automatons?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re quite sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s interesting. I didn’t know Maybury used automatons. What else did you find?’

‘There were some large mirrors and some wire.’

‘How thick was it?’

‘Not very. And some lacquered boards decorated with Chinese dragons. They looked like the sections of a folding screen.’

‘Were they large?’

‘Yes.’

‘How many of them?’

‘Four, I think.’ Christopher paused.

‘Please . . .’ Loxley gestured for Christopher to continue.

‘There was a broken camera and some old 78 records. I suppose the camera might have belonged to Maybury, but not the records.’

‘He didn’t die until 1914. It’s possible they were his.’

‘And some toys. I kept one of them for my daughter – a clockwork monkey.’ Christopher tried to remember what else he had seen but nothing came to mind. ‘That’s all there was, I think.’

‘And everything you found was thrown away?’

‘Yes. Everything except the monkey. The mirrors were broken, the boards were split. None of it looked valuable. I’m sorry.’

Loxley shook his head. ‘It’s unfortunate, but how were you to know?’ He smiled, plainly attempting to compensate for the regretful tone of his voice. After making a few more notes he raised his head and continued in a lighter register: ‘Let me tell you what I know about Edward Maybury. It isn’t very much and I trust you won’t be too disappointed, but his career was relatively brief and I don’t suppose he was ever, even at the height of his fame, regarded as a very considerable magician. We know about his act from reviews and he’s mentioned – in passing – by some of his contemporaries. Our most important source is a memoir by George Briscoe, not a performer himself, but a talented engineer who created illusions for others. Now, this Briscoe was an associate of John Nevil Maskelyne, who was, at that time, the most important magician in London. He used to put shows on in the Egyptian Hall in Piccadilly . . . Just wait here a moment,
we have a rare photograph of the Egyptian Hall stage in the library. I won’t be a minute.’ Loxley got up, walked across the room, and ascended a curious staircase made of alternating half-steps. When he returned he was carrying two old volumes. He opened one of them and showed Christopher a grainy view of a proscenium arch, beneath which a distant figure in a suit was holding up a large square of silk. ‘You can’t really tell from this bookplate, but it was a splendid venue – the walls were decorated with hieroglyphs, and papyrus leaf columns supported the balcony. They called it England’s home of mystery.’ Loxley turned a few pages and showed Christopher a line drawing of the auditorium as seen from the stage. A cupola was clearly visible in the centre of the ceiling. ‘Maskelyne hired Maybury to perform at the Egyptian Hall in 1874. Briscoe tells us that Maybury had perfected a vanishing illusion that neither he nor his associates could fathom. It was called the Siamese cabinet.’

‘The boards in my attic?’ Christopher asked.

‘If so,’ Loxley continued, ‘one wonders whether Maybury had succeeded in fooling Briscoe into believing his methods were more ingenious than they in fact were.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘You found mirrors.’

‘Is that how it’s done then?’

Loxley feigned horror. ‘I couldn’t possibly say.’ He took the book back from Christopher. ‘Maybury travelled to America shortly after his Egyptian Hall performances and eight years later he returned to England a wealthy man. He must have made some shrewd investments. As far as I know, he never worked in magical theatre again. Although I suspect there was no love lost.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Harry Vignoles and Arthur Pratt – one a journalist and the other a composer of music-hall songs – mention Maybury in their diaries. They both describe a bitter, rather conceited man, who believed that he had never been given the recognition he deserved. To make his point, Maybury performed a card trick that left Vignoles and his companions utterly astonished, but sadly the reporter didn’t trouble to record the details of the illusion, so it’s difficult to assess whether their astonishment was merited.’ Loxley opened the second book and offered it to Christopher. ‘This, as far as I know, is the only surviving photograph of Edward Maybury.’

Christopher took the book reverentially and inspected a plate that was discoloured with age. It showed a man in a frock coat and top hat, surrounded by children. They were dressed in rags and looked like street urchins. The
photograph was of such poor quality it was impossible to get a very clear idea of what Maybury looked like.

‘Who are the children?’ Christopher asked.

‘They were part of his act.’

‘What did he do with them?’

‘He made them disappear.’

First week in July

Amanda Ogilvy was sitting up in bed writing a poem. She had thrown a silk scarf over the lamp stand and the walls were patterned with crimson shadows. Two joss sticks burned and crumbled as the album on her Wildcat portable record player revolved and filled the air with sitar music. A mournful melody was augmented by the shimmer of sympathetic strings.

The feeling of the pencil in her hand and the slight traction of the graphite on the thick, textured paper was gratifying. As the pencil traversed the page, it left a trail of looping, childish script:
What was it that she fell for? His beak, plumage, webbed feet . . . or was it the prospect of convenience, a daughter hatched from an egg?

She was working on one of her satires inspired by Greek mythology – Zeus’s shape-shifting seduction of Leda, for which purpose the god had assumed the form of a swan. Amanda had given it the capricious title ‘Bird Watching’. The theme of the poem was gender differences, a topic she frequently explored in her writing.

Amanda was a complex person. A pleasure-seeker, a voluptuary, but at the same time, ever since the early years of her adolescence, she had been strongly attracted to anything that betokened intellectualism: the romance of the coffee house, intense conversation, art, revolutionary politics. In her youth, she had yearned for the company of men with vision and purpose (none of whom, she soon discovered, lived anywhere near her parents’ house in Pinner). She would return from juvenile parties drunk, aroused from being kissed – and touched – fall into bed and still feel the need to read before sleep – Kafka, Orwell, Camus. Her mother and father, neither of whom read for pleasure, were vaguely suspicious of her expanding library of second-hand paperbacks. She was attracted to dissident cliques and hung out with like-minded students in smoky bedsits, listening to impassioned conversations about modernism that lasted all night and didn’t end until daybreak.

All of her lovers at university were would-be novelists, but none of them ever succeeded in getting anything published. Simon was the first ‘real’ artist that she had ever met and this made him irresistible. She would sit for hours watching him improvise at the piano, entranced by the glamour of his authenticity; however, she had had to make concessions. He could be cold and distant, cerebral
to the point of frigidity. It had become increasingly difficult to accept the conditions of their compact of late, particularly so since she was now an artist in her own right and generally less impressed by Simon’s accomplishments. From the very beginning the match had been imperfect. Amanda, the pleasure-seeker, the voluptuary, had made significant sacrifices over the years.

The record came to an end and Amanda got out of bed in order to put it back in its sleeve. She heard the front door opening and Simon’s inept attempt to close it quietly. He crept up the stairs, tripping where the carpet was loose, and entered the bathroom. Amanda slid back between the sheets and waited. She listened to him showering and eventually the door handle turned and he appeared, his hair still dripping. He was fragrant with excessive cologne.

‘Still awake?’

She glanced at the alarm clock. It was one o’clock in the morning. ‘Yes, I’ve been writing. I hadn’t noticed the time. You’re late.’

‘Douglas wanted to go out for a drink after the rehearsal.’

‘Where did you go?’

‘We went to a pub first and then on to his club.’ Simon walked over to the lamp stand and pulled the scarf
off. The light in the room changed colour from red to yellow.

‘You know, you really shouldn’t do that. You’ll start a fire.’

‘It’s only a thirty-watt bulb. It doesn’t get very hot.’