The Scoundrel’s New Con 

1

The Magician

“I’m quite looking forward to the postmortal state, myself.”

The young man who spoke those flippant words propped one arm up on the ornately-carved mantelpiece, lazily swirling a glass of brandy.

“After all,” he continued, “who wouldn’t want to spend eternity visiting lovely ladies in darkened chambers?”

He held Tess’s gaze a moment more than was proper, his blue eyes dancing with merriment. He probably thought he could shock her. She was, after all, wearing a particularly plain and conservative mourning dress. The false spectacles would only add to the prim and proper illusion.

Tess answered his teasing smile with an unperturbed nod of her head. After three years as a journalist, she doubted much of anything could shock her. Certainly nothing at a mid-afternoon seance in a room full of middle-aged ladies dressed as primly as herself.

“I wouldn’t be in any hurry to pass on to the next realm, were I you,” she replied. “I’m certain we would all be the worse off for the lack of your presence, Mr…?”

“Jack Weaver.” He gave her a theatrical bow, his grin widening at her sarcastic retort. “Photographer for today’s gathering. Delighted to make your acquaintance. Would you care to sit for a portrait?”

Mr. Weaver waved casually at the corner of the parlor. A worn sofa had been draped with a black shawl, and small tables to either side held ghoulish props and decorations. The sightless glass eyes of the taxidermy raven glinted in the light of a nearby candelabra. A camera stood at the ready, awaiting guests eager to capture their visit to this macabre gathering.

Tess made a mental note of the arrangement. Besides the raven, the tables held a skull, two bracelets of woven hair, an assortment of jet jewelry, a crystal ball, a deck of cards, and a book open to what looked like an astrological chart. When she had a private moment, she would record everything in her notebook.

“No, thank you, Mr. Weaver. I am here to engage with the spiritual realm, not to make a spectacle of myself.”

As fun as it would be to have a photograph of herself, in any sort of costume, Tess couldn’t take the risk someone might publish the photograph in a newspaper. Her editors required her to be discreet in her observations. If she were revealed to be a reporter, mouths and doors would close to her. And no story meant no pay.

Given her surroundings, she also suspected the fee for the photograph would be exorbitant.

Mr. Weaver abandoned his casual slouch and stepped toward her. “A true believer, are you?” His sandy-blond eyebrows raised in a skeptical arch. His right eye had a small patch of brown at the bottom of the otherwise-blue iris. Tess looked away so as not to stare.

“Indeed.” Tess started toward the small group of women gathered at the opposite end of the room, taking refreshments to fortify themselves for the upcoming seance. “I’d thank you not to mock your prospective clients.”

“No mockery was intended, Miss…”

“Mrs.” Tess didn’t look back. “Harris.”

Weaver jogged to catch up to her vigorous strides. “Ah, of course. Here to contact your beloved husband, no doubt.” His sympathetic tone contained a hint of cynicism. Apparently he didn’t believe a word she said. Fitting, since she didn’t believe a word he said, either.

“Yes. Poor Edgar,” Tess sighed, acting now for the benefit of the other ladies.

“Tragic,” Weaver replied. “Consumption, was it?”

“Typhoid fever.”

He placed a hand over his heart. “The same illness that took my mother only last July. My deepest condolences, Mrs. Harris.”

For the first time that evening, his words sounded sincere. Had he truly lost his mother to typhoid? Tess felt a stirring of guilt for choosing it as the killer of her fictional husband.

An older woman laid a hand on Weaver’s arm, smiling sadly up at him. “Will you be joining us around the table, Mr. Weaver? You, too, deserve the chance to speak with those lost to you.”

“It would be my pleasure, my lady.”

Her face lit up. “Good boy. I’m so delighted. I am most eager to see if any spirits appear in the photographs you’ve taken this afternoon.”

Weaver flashed perfect white teeth. “As am I, Lady Perkins. One can never say when or whom the spirits choose to visit, but with so many in attendance who wholeheartedly embrace the metaphysical, I must believe conditions favorable.”

Tess’s jaw tightened. He’d delivered that entire speech with the sincerity of a saint. The charlatan! These women weren’t documenting their attendance at the seance. They’d paid good money in the hope of catching a glimpse of a loved one in a blurry ferrotype. Weaver was a spirit photographer. And his mother was probably alive and well.

Her fingers itched to pull out her notebook. She could expose him and Madame Xyla, all in one story. More visits would be necessary, along with research into photographic processes.

Tess turned to look Weaver in the eye again. How many grieving people had he duped with that soothing baritone voice and charismatic smile? “What would you estimate the chances are of my dear husband appearing were I to sit for a portrait?”

“Given your recent loss and obvious attachment, I should say the odds are unusually high. But as I said, one never can know.” His mouth twitched. He was mocking her again. “Would you like to sit? The entire process will take no more than fifteen minutes.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t any money with me today.”

“Of course not. I can have the bill sent to your residence, as usual.”

Tess gave him her sweetest smile. He probably didn’t even tell his victims how much the fee was, the scoundrel. “I’d be delighted, Mr. Weaver. Thank you so much.” She’d take the risk. A first-hand look at his methods would give her a good place to begin her investigation.

“Thank you, Mrs. Harris. I am only too happy to be of service to fellow believers.”

“Or skeptics,” she murmured as they walked together towards the camera. “Or anyone, really.”

His smile didn’t even falter. “It’s so nice that we understand one another.”

*****

Mrs. Harris—or whatever her real name was—made a perfect photographic model. She didn’t possess the dainty features so often believed feminine, but the play of light and shadow across her face highlighted elegant cheekbones and brilliant eyes. Jack hoped he could do her justice.

Despite the uncurtained windows and a number of lamps and candles around the room, the lighting wasn’t ideal. It hadn’t bothered him when he’d arranged everything. People who wanted spirit photographs expected them to be dark or hazy. Spirits didn’t materialize in cheerful, sunlit gardens, after all. For his current customer, however, a garden on a cloudless day would be just the thing. In correct lighting, her features would show to their greatest advantage. Even the subtle freckling across her fair skin would be visible.

Today, unfortunately, he would have to make do with what he had. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to make a spirit appear in her portrait.

He’d known her for a skeptic the instant she’d entered the room. He’d seen it in the slight narrowing of her eyes and the way she’d looked over the entire space with a calculated curiosity. If he’d been running a swindle on the street, he wouldn’t have even attempted to catch her attention. There were plenty of easier marks to be had.

Now that he’d watched her a bit longer, he thought perhaps she might be an investigator. She was playing a role, that was certain. She’d responded to his initial banter the way a cynical young woman attending the seance at the behest of a friend might have done, then promptly declared herself a believer.

She’d also been poking around while he was in the darkroom preparing the plates. Instead of sitting on the sofa awaiting her photograph, she stood beside his array of props, flipping through his astronomy textbook with avid interest. Most people assumed the book had something to do with astrological predictions or they didn’t bother to look at it in the first place. She probably knew exactly what it was. If he gave her enough time, perhaps she’d even discover which circulating library he’d stolen it from.

“Are you ready, Mrs. Harris?” he asked, readying the camera and adjusting the focus.

She looked up from the book and gave him an impish smile that made his heart give an odd little flutter. “Of course.” She replaced the book on the table, smoothing the pages.

Jack eyed the astronomy text and nearly choked with laughter. This primly dressed widow had found the page where someone had doodled an obscene image in the margin and she’d displayed it for all to see. It seemed she had a mischievous streak. He quickly snapped a photo before her grin disappeared.

He wasted time repositioning the camera to capture her from another angle, which meant he’d need to be especially efficient at developing the photos before the plates dried. Also, he’d likely be late to the seance room, but the delay would be worth it if the photographs came out as he hoped. That glint in her eye and slight twist of her lips would be hanging on his wall of favorite photos soon, unless the damned lighting ruined it. He took his final exposure and scurried into the darkroom.

With the portrait finished at last, Jack slipped quietly into the room where “noted spiritualist” Madame Xyla had already begun her standard ritual. Jack knew it by heart.

A single chair remained at the oblong table, directly beside the photogenic Mrs. Harris. In the dim lighting, he could no longer see the fetching angles of her face or discern her expression. Her posture, however, was rigid, and when the group was instructed to join hands, she reached for him with reluctance.

The contact between their fingers sent a tingle of pleasure up Jack’s arm. Her hands were gloved, of course, encased in a smooth, silky material that glided over his skin. Her grip was firm and her hand fit nicely into his. He tried to concentrate on the feel of it to distract him from the hairy, sweaty hand of the man on his opposite side.

The seance proceeded in the exact fashion of all Madame Xyla’s rituals: raps and taps and a board that chose random letters. Madame’s manner wasn’t dull—at least to anyone who hadn’t witnessed her performance a dozen times—but Jack half-dozed in his chair, waiting for it all to end.

He almost didn’t notice the seance had concluded until Mrs. Harris released his hand. He opened his eyes just before Madame herself turned up the light, illuminating all the guests around the table. The ladies appeared highly pleased with the evening’s entertainment, with the lone exception of the shrewd Mrs. Harris. Two of the attending gentlemen seemed likewise charmed. The third and final gentleman, a tall, silver-haired man with lines around his mouth that suggested a perpetual scowl, gave a short grunt.

“Quite something, wasn’t it, Bardrick?” one of the other men enthused. “Aren’t you amazed at the skill with which Madame Xyla coaxed the reluctant spirits to make their presence known?”

“I am not,” the earl replied. Jack had never met the man before, but knew him by reputation. Very rich. Very haughty. Beastly to anyone who crossed him. “Nothing I have seen tonight cannot be replicated by sleight-of-hand or magician’s tricks. It is nonsense. Just as the claims of hauntings at my estate are nonsense. Foolishness and chicanery.”

“You don’t believe the ghostly tales regarding Bardrick Castle?” the earl’s friend pressed.

“I do not.”

“Heard plenty of talk about it in the last month or so. Didn’t realize you disapproved.”

The earl huffed. “I’d wager five thousand pounds no man or woman alive can prove my castle haunted.” His scowl softened. “In fact, why not do that very thing? A competition. I will host a party. A single fortnight. You will come, of course, Madame Xyla, and bring better tricks than tonight’s silly board. Prove my house is haunted and the five thousand pounds are yours. I shall recruit others. All the best spiritualists in England. Compete amongst yourselves, or work together to persuade me and split the prize. The choice is yours.”

He strode from the room without a “by your leave” or even a polite nod of the head. The remaining guests rushed after him in a frenzy of whispered words. Only Mrs. Harris walked out silently, her lips pursed in thought.

Jack closed the front door behind the last of the guests, pondering this new opportunity. What was Bardrick up to, and why? It was difficult to imagine an arrogant sort like him wanting to be proven wrong. Or handing over good money.

“Well, I certainly won’t agree to that nonsense!” Madame Xyla yanked off her wig, revealing the short blond curls beneath. “I haven’t any better tricks. And you were no help tonight. Wasting your time flirting with that girl.”

Jack smirked at her. “Lydia, darling, I flirt with all the girls. You know that.” He toyed with the spirit board sitting on the table. “You should get some new tricks. We’re going to that party.”

“Don’t be a fool,” Lydia scoffed. “Something’s not right about Bardrick’s offer. I don’t like it.”

“I am suspicious of his motives, but that only means we’re going in prepared. We’re going to go, and we’re going to win.”

“You’re daft, Weaver. I’ll never convince him.”

“No. But I will.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Don’t believe me? I’ve conned harder marks than Bardrick. That five thousand is as good as mine. Help me out and I’ll give you ten percent.”

Lydia snorted.

“Fine, fine. The usual twenty. Start researching new tricks. I have photos to print.”

“You’re crazy, Jack Weaver,” she said to his departing back. “Mad as a hatter.”

“Rubbish, darling.” Jack grinned as he bounded away with a spring in his step. “Trust me. He’ll be the dupe of the century.”