poet blurred with the cold truth of the scientist.
He immediately averted his
wretched gaze, moved away from the window and fought his way
through the hanging ghosts back to the bench by the door where he
put the lid on the bottle and hid it behind some bottles of
chemicals. The absinthe had clearly loosened his tongue, and the
taciturn broody Byron had turned into a talkative Royal
Academician, keen to share his knowledge.
“They’re going to be used in
America. Instead of one ghost shroud we’ll do dozens of them.
They’ll float all around the hall, over the heads of the audience,
on invisible wires. The crowd will go mad. It will be pandemonium.
The publicity will be enormous. We’ll set up dozens of camera
obscuras and project dozens of ghosts onto the walls and ceiling at
the same time. Camera obscuras can be made from cardboard boxes.
I’ve got several on the go, trying to work out the best size. But
we will need to hire the right hall and train enough operators. I’m
instructing Reverend Blackadder at the moment but he’s proving to
be a slow learner. He doesn’t have a scientific brain. He’s a
Theosophist,” he said, as if that explained it.
“Whose idea is it? All the
ghosts, I mean? Madame Moghra’s?”
He shook his head in disgust
and his untidy blond hair kicked in wild unison. “No, she’s good at
what she does, the spiritual stuff, but she hasn’t got the sort of
imagination that can dream up the truly dramatic. That’s
Champollion’s metier. Croquemort is a genius at that sort of thing.
He used to be a magician.”
“And now he’s a hypnotist.”
“Mesmerist,” he corrected,
lighting a candle in a wooden holder. “A hypnotist can actually put
someone in a trance and make them recall things from the dim dark
depths of their memory, or make an auto-suggestion that will be
acted upon once the subject wakes from their trance, such as no
longer being terrified of spiders or dogs or ghosts. A mesmerist is
a showman. It’s an act. You’ve met Sissy. She wears different wigs
and can act out almost any part you want. You should see her as an
old cripple. She’s got a gift. Reverend Blackadder isn’t half as
good but he’s passable. Sometimes Champollion hires an actor or
actress so that the routine doesn’t get stale, especially if we
stay in a city longer than planned.”
The Countess turned to study
one of the shrouds in the candlelight, letting the cloth run
through her fingers. Was it still a fair bet if she found out how
the shroud was created, not by using her own imagination or brain,
but by simply asking the creator? She would win the bet, yes, but
might she hate herself later?
“Dr Watson and I have made a
wager that I cannot work out how the ghost image was created. I
don’t want you to tell me how it was done, but could you nod if I’m
right and shake your head if I’m wrong.”
“Is that the same Dr John
Watson who is the friend of the great consulting detective Mr
Sherlock Holmes?”
She wanted to say: And I’m the
daughter of the great consulting detective Mr Sherlock Holmes, but
managed to bite her tongue and nod at the same time. “Dr Watson and
I are travelling companions. I’m Countess Varvara
Volodymyrovna.”
“That’s a good stage name. Go
ahead. Ask away.”
“First of all, Dr Watson
wondered how the shroud that first appeared in the graveyard scene
had no image and then suddenly did have an image. I’m guessing you
used one of the blank shrouds and then whipped it away as it was
flying back and forth, and had the other one, possibly underneath,
ready to take its place.”
He nodded. “It’s the standard
illusionist’s sleight-of-hand. Direct the audience’s attention
elsewhere while you perform the magic.”
“You used the lovely harpist to
divert the eye while the first cloth flew out of sight and the
second cloth with the image appeared.”
He nodded. “Miss
Morningstar.”
“She of the sublime singing
voice and irritating speaking
He immediately averted his
wretched gaze, moved away from the window and fought his way
through the hanging ghosts back to the bench by the door where he
put the lid on the bottle and hid it behind some bottles of
chemicals. The absinthe had clearly loosened his tongue, and the
taciturn broody Byron had turned into a talkative Royal
Academician, keen to share his knowledge.
“They’re going to be used in
America. Instead of one ghost shroud we’ll do dozens of them.
They’ll float all around the hall, over the heads of the audience,
on invisible wires. The crowd will go mad. It will be pandemonium.
The publicity will be enormous. We’ll set up dozens of camera
obscuras and project dozens of ghosts onto the walls and ceiling at
the same time. Camera obscuras can be made from cardboard boxes.
I’ve got several on the go, trying to work out the best size. But
we will need to hire the right hall and train enough operators. I’m
instructing Reverend Blackadder at the moment but he’s proving to
be a slow learner. He doesn’t have a scientific brain. He’s a
Theosophist,” he said, as if that explained it.
“Whose idea is it? All the
ghosts, I mean? Madame Moghra’s?”
He shook his head in disgust
and his untidy blond hair kicked in wild unison. “No, she’s good at
what she does, the spiritual stuff, but she hasn’t got the sort of
imagination that can dream up the truly dramatic. That’s
Champollion’s metier. Croquemort is a genius at that sort of thing.
He used to be a magician.”
“And now he’s a hypnotist.”
“Mesmerist,” he corrected,
lighting a candle in a wooden holder. “A hypnotist can actually put
someone in a trance and make them recall things from the dim dark
depths of their memory, or make an auto-suggestion that will be
acted upon once the subject wakes from their trance, such as no
longer being terrified of spiders or dogs or ghosts. A mesmerist is
a showman. It’s an act. You’ve met Sissy. She wears different wigs
and can act out almost any part you want. You should see her as an
old cripple. She’s got a gift. Reverend Blackadder isn’t half as
good but he’s passable. Sometimes Champollion hires an actor or
actress so that the routine doesn’t get stale, especially if we
stay in a city longer than planned.”
The Countess turned to study
one of the shrouds in the candlelight, letting the cloth run
through her fingers. Was it still a fair bet if she found out how
the shroud was created, not by using her own imagination or brain,
but by simply asking the creator? She would win the bet, yes, but
might she hate herself later?
“Dr Watson and I have made a
wager that I cannot work out how the ghost image was created. I
don’t want you to tell me how it was done, but could you nod if I’m
right and shake your head if I’m wrong.”
“Is that the same Dr John
Watson who is the friend of the great consulting detective Mr
Sherlock Holmes?”
She wanted to say: And I’m the
daughter of the great consulting detective Mr Sherlock Holmes, but
managed to bite her tongue and nod at the same time. “Dr Watson and
I are travelling companions. I’m Countess Varvara
Volodymyrovna.”
“That’s a good stage name. Go
ahead. Ask away.”
“First of all, Dr Watson
wondered how the shroud that first appeared in the graveyard scene
had no image and then suddenly did have an image. I’m guessing you
used one of the blank shrouds and then whipped it away as it was
flying back and forth, and had the other one, possibly underneath,
ready to take its place.”
He nodded. “It’s the standard
illusionist’s sleight-of-hand. Direct the audience’s attention
elsewhere while you perform the magic.”
“You used the lovely harpist to
divert the eye while the first cloth flew out of sight and the
second cloth with the image appeared.”
He nodded. “Miss
Morningstar.”
“She of the sublime singing
voice and irritating speaking
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