Magic Lantern (Rogue Angel) (6 page)

“No.” Annja stuck with coffee and cupped her hands around her cup to absorb the warmth. She took a deep breath, enjoying the sweet baking smells.

“I can’t say I’m surprised. Rather, I would be flabbergasted—very much so—if you
had
heard of him.” Edmund reached into the messenger bag he’d brought with him from Carlini’s. He took out an iPad and placed it on the table. The screen flared to life.

Not many people were in the tea shop at that late hour, and none of them paid attention to Edmund and Annja. They were mostly watching the television in the corner of the room. The low rumble of the news and casual conversation was a comforting undercurrent of background noise.

Edmund touched the handheld device and opened a folder. He sorted through images, then selected one. Immediately, a taciturn man with slitted eyes filled the screen.

“Anton Dutilleaux. This image was used on several handbills that advertised his shows. He toured Paris for three years. I couldn’t find much history on him, no parents and no idea where he lived. I just know that he traveled.” Edmund sipped his tea. “And no one ever knew much about his murder.”

That heightened Annja’s interest. “He was murdered?”

Edmund nodded and grinned. “Intriguing, no?”

“It is.”

“According to a newspaper account of the murder, Dutilleaux was stabbed through the heart by a Chinese ghost in front of several eyewitnesses.” Edmund tapped the iPad screen again and shifted to a new image. “He was pronounced dead at the scene by a doctor in the audience. Do you read French?”

Annja nodded.
“Mais, oui.”
And she read on.

Phantasmagorist Slain by Celestial Spirit!

On the eve of the twenty-first of June, in the catacombs, M. Anton Dutilleaux, late of Paris and previously from parts unknown, met with an untimely end at the hands of a supernatural murderer. M. Dutilleaux was a phantasmagorist conducting a group comprising this reporter and several others through a dark and winding tunnel under the city at the time of his death.

The reporter described several of the events leading up to the murder. The account meandered, as stories did in those days because the news was meant to be savored and enjoyed and—in this case—puzzled over.

M. Dutilleaux had barely begun what was to be a fascinating presentation, this reporter is convinced of that, when the crafty killer sprang from the darkness. Merciless and without hesitation, the apparition brandished a knife and drove it through M. Dutilleaux’s heart with cold savagery, like a predator pouncing on much weaker prey. The stricken man had no opportunity to defend himself or call upon his Maker before he lay stretched out dead before us.

A few paragraphs of the reactions of the crowd, the panic that had ensued and the desperate attempts to revive Dutilleaux followed.

As of this morning when I write this piece for you, Dear Reader, the Parisian police have yet to decide who killed M. Dutilleaux. There are some who believe that the phantasmagorist was the victim of a Celestial spell that followed him from the Far East during his travels. Many readers this reporter knows believe in those curses. All I can tell you is that whatever killed the poor man was not human. I stared into that White Face of Death and knew fear the like of which I have never before known.

My only prayer is that the thing that killed M. Dutilleaux has completed its mission. Otherwise, that thing may yet haunt the catacombs. At present, the tunnel has been boarded up and placed under guard by the police until such time as they deem it safe.

Annja looked up at Edmund. “I assume you followed up on this story?”

The young professor nodded. “Of course. I’ve checked for months and years following. And I’ve gotten absolutely nowhere. No one ever mentioned Anton Dutilleaux again. Only a few magicians remember him. I wouldn’t have known him at all if I hadn’t discovered some of his handbills in a collection I purchased a year ago.”

“Two hundred years is a long time.”

“It is. But history has a way of making itself known, don’t you agree?” Edmund sipped his tea.

“Tell me about this lantern you found.”

Slipping his hands around his teacup, Edmund leaned conspiratorially across the table toward her. “Only a few weeks ago, I was at an estate sale.”

“Looking for the lantern?”

“No. Merely poking about. A lot of magicians have made their home—temporary and permanently—here in London. During my days off, I research those people. Occasionally I stumble across stage props or costumes while dissembling through estate sales.”

“Treasure hunting?”

Edmund smiled in pleasure. “When history is not valuable or fashionable, it is garbage and people toss it out. Or they sell it to speculators for pennies on the pound. I have assembled quite the collection of mementos and collectibles. Trust me when I say I have made several acquisitions that other fans of magic envy, and that no one else would want.” He shot her a rueful look.

Annja didn’t doubt him for a moment. Passion showed in Edmund’s dark eyes and she knew he wouldn’t easily turn away from something he wanted.

“Have you heard of Étienne-Gaspard Robert?”

Annja thought for a moment, then shook her head. “Another phantasmagorist?”

“Yes, but he was also an inventor and physicist from Liège, Belgium. His stage name was Étienne Robertson.” Edmund waited expectantly.

Annja shook her head again.

“Robertson, by either name, was one of the most important phantasmagorists who ever lived. I have copies of some of the lenses with which he used to conduct his magic-lantern shows. I can’t afford the real lenses, not on a university professor’s salary. Fascinating stuff. Especially for the time.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Do. Anyway, Robertson was there the night Dutilleaux was murdered by the Chinese ghost.”

“Coincidence?”

“No. Robertson was there to take umbrage with Dutilleaux. Robertson felt certain Dutilleaux was copying aspects of his own magic-lantern show. Which I’m sure he was. But at that time, many people were copying Robertson.”

“Was Robertson a suspect in the murder?”

“Of course.” Edmund grinned, warming to the subject. “Robertson and Dutilleaux were rivals for a long time. But the murder occurred in 1793, four years before Robertson revealed his pièce de résistance at the Pavillon de l’Echiquier. That was when Robertson left his competitors in the dust, to use a colloquialism. During that time, Robertson perfected the magic-lantern craft by putting the projectors on wheels to create moving images as well as make the images larger and smaller simply by moving the projectors.”

Annja sipped her coffee.

“The police never found any evidence against Robertson?”

“No. But Dutilleaux’s magic lantern went missing that night. I believe that Robertson, or one of his assistants, liberated that projector while the gendarmes were en route. Or perhaps it was merely a spectator looking for a trophy. Or simply theft.”

“And the lantern was taken even though it was cursed.”

“Dutilleaux claimed that he could open a doorway into another world. Maybe they didn’t think the projector was cursed so much as it was truly a miracle.” Edmund smiled. “You have to remember—magicians, the really good ones, want magic to be real. Perhaps whoever took it believed the magic lantern possessed supernatural powers. Fast-forward two hundred years.”

Annja finished the last of her coffee.

“I was tracking down Robertson’s apprentices. There were dozens of them, by the way. In 1799, Robertson’s phantasmagoria show had created such a stir that the courts ordered him to reveal his secrets to the public. Once he did that, there were many imitators. Some of them carried phantasmagoria back to the United States. Did you know that?”

“No.”

“In May 1803, the first of the magic-lantern shows was presented at Mount Vernon Garden, New York, and the entertainment caught on readily enough.” Edmund looked into his cup.

For the briefest moment, Annja felt uncomfortable, like someone was watching her. She glanced around the teahouse, but no one seemed especially interested. It was too dark to see much out the window. She returned her attention to Edmund.

“The point is, I tracked down some belongings of one of Robertson’s assistants at auction those few weeks ago.” Excitement gleamed in Edmund’s eyes. “I think someone else was searching, as well, because after I bought the lot—for a song, practically—the auctioneer informed me there was an interested party asking about the lantern I’d bought. They told me I could more than double my money if I wished to sell it. Of course I refused. What I gave for the lantern was a pittance, and it was purely for my own amusement. Even doubling my money wouldn’t leave me a rich man.”

“So you now own Anton Dutilleaux’s cursed magic lantern?”

Edmund nodded happily. “I truly believe I do.” He hesitated. “What I’d like to ask, and I wouldn’t want to impose in any way, is if you could look this magic lantern over and see if there’s a possibility of authenticating it.”

“Confirming that it was owned by Anton Dutilleaux would be extremely difficult if the man is as hard to trace as you say he is.”

“He is, and I wouldn’t ask you to do that. If possible, I’d like to confirm the approximate age of the lantern.”

“I would love to.”

“Good.” Edmund checked the time on the iPad. “We’ll have to save that for another day, though. I have a literature class bloody early in the morning, and none of my students is especially keen on
Beowulf.
I don’t want to go dragging in looking like one of the underclassmen. But I had an absolutely brilliant time, Annja.”

“Me, too.”

* * *

EDMUND INSISTED ON WALKING Annja back to her hotel, then he flagged down a taxi and left, promising to see her the following afternoon so they could start working on the Robert Louis Stevenson piece.

Up in her room, still slightly muddled from the rich food and the wine but not quite drowsy enough to sleep, Annja exchanged the black dress for a T-shirt and flannel pajama pants. The room was just cold enough to make the flannel welcome.

She booted up her notebook computer and logged on to the internet. She checked Google for Anton Dutilleaux but didn’t get any hits on the name that had anything to do with magic lanterns or phantasmagoria.

Frustrated, but not surprised, Annja backtracked and bookmarked sites that dealt with phantasmagoria, magic lanterns and Étienne Robertson. At least that way she could meet Edmund Beswick on a more equal footing when they were together again.

Her sat-phone chirped for attention before her head hit the pillows. Caller ID showed it was Bart McGilley.

Bart was a longtime friend, a detective on the New York City Police Department and a guy who had ended up being a big part of her life—on and off. There was a definite attraction between them, and they’d been the “plus ones” for each other several times as well as going out on legitimate dates. However, the only permanent thing they had between them so far was friendship.

The caller ID picture showed Bart in his shirt and tie, which was how Annja usually saw him. He wore his dark hair cut short and was square jawed, the kind of guy women would want to have children with.

“Hey, Bart.”

“Hey. Not calling too late, am I? Wherever you are.” He sounded distant and a trifle off his game.

“London. Only a five-hour time difference.”

“It’s midnight there.”

Annja looked at the time on the computer. “Yes. But I’m not asleep. Still working on New York time at the moment.”

“Morning’s going to come early.”

“Morning is six hours away no matter how you look at it. I go to sleep and I’m awake six hours later. I don’t have to be up till eight. I’ve still got a couple hours.” Annja waited. Bart McGilley wasn’t one to call frivolously.

Bart hesitated. “Maybe I should call at another time.”

“You’ve got me now.”

“Yeah.”

Annja waited.

“We caught a bad one tonight. I don’t really want to get into it. I just wanted to hear a friendly voice.”

“Sure.”

“So what are you doing in London?”

Obviously the Mr. Hyde story wasn’t going to fly. That would have reminded Bart of his own problems as well as put him into worry mode. Instead, Annja talked about phantasmagorists, magic lanterns and what little she knew of Étienne Robertson.

Mostly, Bart listened. She’d seen him like this before and knew that he appreciated her talking about something,
anything,
while he sorted himself out. Chances were, she’d never know what he’d gotten into unless she went back and researched the news. Usually, she chose not to do that.