Resonance (8 page)

Séance

D
EAR MAMA
,

Here I am, only two days ashore and already a phenomenon! The manager says he has never seen such skill of prestidigitational art. He has ordered posters printed with my name in top billings – Harry Weiss, the Great Houdini! How's that for your boy, Ma? I will be sending you billings from all over the world soon.

I hope you aren't still sore at Pa for having slipped me the fare – as you can see, I have returned most of it with this letter! Your boy finds himself very well-in, and set up nice and cosy already, Ma! The Irish are not, as you'd feared they would be, unkind to those not of the Catholic persuasion, and I am well lodged, with a cosy room (a fireplace and wardrobe and full board!) and an introduction to the community over here. My week's wage goes a long way over here, so I can cheerfully send my mama and my papa back their investment in me without any dent in my pocket!

Harry nibbled his pencil and squinted in the dim backstage light, thinking hard. If he could find a
penny-printer
willing to press a single handbill, he could include a
flyer with his stage name on it – The Great Houdini! – that would thrill Ma to no end.

He looked at the little stack of money he was enclosing with the letter. It was all the savings he had. He had intended sending his first week's wage home as part-payment for the boat fare. There was no first week's wage on the horizon now, of course, but Harry couldn't stand the thought of wandering about with a pocketful of cash while his ma was tearing her hair out trying to pay the rent.

He smiled at the thought of her opening the envelope and all the money showering out. Then she'd unfold the handbill, see his name on the top, and turn and show it to all the others.

Mein Ehrich!
she'd say.
The Great Houdini!

Yes, he'd go tomorrow and get that bill printed up. Grinning, he set pencil to paper again.
I am enclosing a copy of the bill Mr Simmons (stage manager) has had printed up. As you can see, I am using my new stage name—

‘Harry?'

Tina stepped into the wings. Harry shoved the letter and pencil in his pocket as she offered him the steaming mug she carried. ‘Oh, say!' he whispered. ‘Thanks! How's Mr Gosling?'

She sat on the sandbags beside him. ‘He just finished his shift. I snuck him into Miss U's room. He's promised to have a bit of a rest.'

‘He'll be back to himself before you know it,' said Harry.

‘Mm hmm.'

‘You really should go home, Tina. Joe and I don't have a heck of a lot to lose here, but it won't do you any good to be caught hanging about after lockup like this.'

She cut him a sideways look that conveyed just about all she had to say on the subject of her leaving. ‘How'd you do in the auditions?' she asked.

Harry sighed. ‘Not well,' he said.

‘You and poor Miss Ursula both.'

Miss Ursula. Harry hadn't seen her since her dignified exit from the stage. ‘Will she be all right?' he asked Tina.

She gave him that sideways look again – of course the old lady was not going to be all right. ‘The theatre's no place to grow old, Harry.'

It was a bald statement, and both of them knew the horrible truth of it too well. To fill the silence that followed, Harry took his cards from his pocket and began practising riffle and faro shuffles in the near dark.

Tina watched him. ‘Will
you
be all right, Harry?'

He shrugged. ‘I guess I shouldn't have tried the magic act without an assistant. But I'd no shills for the mind-reading, couldn't even get them
interested
in the card tricks … I should have just done some fortune-telling and left it at that.'

‘I used to tell fortunes. When I was a little kid.'

‘Oh?'

‘Fran made me stop. She didn't like how they used to come true.'

Harry grinned. ‘Some people take it very seriously.'

There was an uncertain pause. ‘I think I scared her.'

Oh,
thought Harry.
That's sad
. ‘Well, like I said, some people take it very seriously.'

‘Joe was never scared of me. Joe … Joe's been very good to me, Harry.'

Harry thought of Joe's thin, street-wary face, his moments of unexpected gentleness. Silence weighed down on them
once more. Harry let the cards run through his fingers, back-palmed the locator ace, cut it single-handed into the middle of the pack.

The abrupt rustle of Tina's skirts startled him, and he looked up as she surged to her feet. He thought maybe she'd heard Joe coming, but she just stood there, staring towards the moon-washed stage. ‘Harry?' she whispered. ‘Someone's coming.'

The tone of her voice had him stowing the deck and rising cautiously to her side. ‘What do you mean?'

‘Someone … that man. That
man
is coming. Lord Wolcroft.'

Before Harry could say,
How could you possibly know that?
the theatre lights went on, making him jump.

‘He's here!' hissed Tina. ‘Oh, Harry! He's here! What'll we do?'

There were voices in the auditorium now: the sound of people murmuring to each other as they neared the stage. Harry grabbed Tina and swivelled her towards the ladder to the catwalks. ‘Climb up! Hurry! Just leave the darned cup! Climb up, before they catch you and you lose your job!'

Tina grabbed the hem of her heavy skirt, hoisted it over her knees and scrambled up the ladder with surprising agility. She had only just reached the top, with Harry climbing after her, when the first footsteps rang out on the stage.

Miss Ursula's plummy voice said, ‘The witching hour approaches! If you do not object, Lord Wolcroft, I shall light the candles and lay out the spirit board so that when the others arrive, we may commence at once to commune with the dead.'

Tina leaned over the top of the catwalk's sandbag wall. Harry scrambled to her side. There was a terrific view of the
stage, but Tina did not seem interested. Instead, she was craning her neck to see down the back stairs, and Harry realised that she was watching for Joe.

‘Say,' whispered Harry. ‘You knew that dandy was coming before the lights even went on. How did you know it was him?'

Tina shrugged. ‘Sometimes I just know things.' She switched her attention to Cornelius Wolcroft, genuine unease creasing her face. ‘I don't like him, Harry, or that man who works for him. There's something wrong with them.'

Unaware of their scrutiny, Lord Wolcroft was strolling around, shaking hands with the various bohemian-looking gents and ladies to whom Miss Ursula was introducing him. Despite his beautiful clothes, he looked terrible, with great dark rings under his eyes and a dewy sheen of sweat on his pasty skin. Harry wondered: was the man an opium fiend? He certainly had the look. ‘Miss Ursula's getting on fine with him, considering the way he treated her earlier.'

‘We find our uses as we may.'

‘Pardon?'

‘That's what Miss U always says. She's being what she calls “diplomatic”.'

Harry watched the old woman graciously introduce Wolcroft to each newcomer.
She must be a fine actress
, he thought. If Wolcroft had bellowed at
him
like that, Harry sure as heck wouldn't have come back later just to smile and take his arm.

‘Lord Wolcroft, Lord of Fargeal, I believe,' drawled a gentleman, shaking Wolcroft's hand.

Wolcroft smiled tightly. ‘Among other things,' he said.

‘I took the liberty of looking you up in the lists. Yours is an impressively
old
title, I must say. A peer of
England
, I
believe, and not simply of this Emerald Isle? It is rare indeed to find a family with such an unbroken line of descent in this turbulent country.' Still holding Cornelius Wolcroft's hand, the gent turned to a scarf-draped woman by his side and exclaimed: ‘Apparently, m'dear, there has been a Cornelius Wolcroft at the head of the family since the late sixteen hundreds!'

‘You must be a very retiring family, sir, for us not to have heard of you sooner,' the woman said with a smile. ‘Do you and the Lady Wolcroft never move in society?'

‘There is not yet a Lady Wolcroft, m'dear,' answered her companion. ‘The Lord of Fargeal is still footloose. Ain't I right, My Lord? Though at thirty-five years of age, one might suggest you are old enough to at least
consider
the prospect of marriage – give yourself time to produce a crop of little Wolcrofts before you are too old to enjoy the process!'

Lord Wolcroft lifted his lip ever so slightly and extricated his hand from the man's grip. The man seemed undeterred. ‘Our families share business history, you know – both having dabbled in sugar and slaves.' He laughed at Miss Ursula's pained frown. ‘Ah, Ursula's come over all Quaker on us! Never fear, old girl, the slaving days are long gone. And thankfully some of us were wise enough to diversify before America stole the sugar business right out from under us, ain't that so, My Lord? I believe some of your ancestors had holdings in Saint Kitts?'

‘Nevis,' Lord Wolcroft corrected.

‘Nevis! You're mostly in shipping now, I believe? Brighton, India, the West Indies?'

There was a rolling of eyes from his female companion. ‘Must you constantly harp on about business, Phillip?'

‘As a matter of fact, Lord Wolcroft and I share an acquaintance in London. My nephew is an investor in one of your companies, I believe, sir. As such, he must deal quite regularly with your man of business?'

At Wolcroft's attempt to physically withdraw from this interrogation, another man hemmed him in. ‘Oh, Lord Wolcroft has no
man
of business. All his accounts are handled by a
woman
. Is that not so, Lord Wolcroft? Your business is entirely managed by your … well, what would one call her? Your
book
keeper? Your
assistant
?' The man raised an eyebrow. ‘Certainly she lives with you.'

The others glanced knowingly at each other.

Lord Wolcroft looked decidedly queasy. ‘My business associate, Raquel, handles all my accounts,' he said. ‘She is a most gifted woman.'

‘Oh, your
associate
,' smirked one of the women.

‘Yes,' snapped Wolcroft. ‘My
business
associate. Raquel.'

‘Raquel,' said one of the men. ‘Raquel …' He tasted the word, his brow creased in mock surprise. ‘Why, that's a
very
unconventional name. I don't think I know
anyone
of that name – except, perhaps, my tailor's daughter.'

The man's smile became a sneer, and anger rose in Harry's chest. ‘He means she's Jewish,' he whispered.

‘Harry,' tutted Tina. ‘How would you know that just from—'

‘How many Raquels do
you
know, Tina?'

She drew back. Her expression told him that she knew none.

Onstage, Wolcroft had gone dangerously still, his eyes hard as glass, his hand clenched around the silver top of his cane. ‘The hour grows late,' he said softly.

Miss Ursula clasped her hands nervously and began shooing the participants towards the waiting table and chairs. Harry whistled beneath his breath. ‘Well,' he said. ‘That look sent them scattering. For all that he dresses like a
faygele
, I wouldn't like to tangle with Lord Wolcroft.'

‘Oh no,' whispered Tina. ‘They're starting the séance.'

‘Ah, don't be scared, kid. I can tell you, it's gonna be rubbish – and I'm not just saying that because I now hate their
antisemitisch
guts. Look at the slapdash way the paraphernalia is scattered about the stage. And what's with all the lights? That's no way to build up an atmosphere. Whoever this medium is, they'd better have some patter, I tell you, because so far this show's on a short slide to Bumsville.'