The Sweet Far Thing

“My mother,” he says, catching me staring. “Even the best illusionist cannot cheat death.”



Dr. Van Ripple offers us a seat on a shabby settee covered in an old paisley shawl. I sit on something hard—a book, The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde.



“Ah, so that is where it went! I’d been wondering,” Dr. Van Ripple exclaims, seizing it.



Felicity makes a face. “Mr. Wilde was tried for indecency. Papa says he is a thoroughly immoral man.”



“It is Queensberry and men like him who are ‘indecent,’” Dr. Van Ripple says, referring to the man who brought the charges against Mr. Wilde.



“Why do you say such, sir?” Felicity presses.



Dr. Van Ripple bends the flower in his buttonhole toward his nose and inhales deeply. “True affection and love have a purity which shall always prevail over bigotry.”



“We have not come here to speak of Mr. Wilde’s misfortunes,” Felicity says hastily, and far too rudely, but Dr. Van Ripple shows no sign of being affronted by her brashness.



“Indeed. To what do I owe this unexpected visit?”



“We have need of your services,” I say.



“Ah. I am sorry to disappoint you. But I am recently retired as an illusionist. I’ve nothing to offer but old tricks from an old man. That is not what the people want these days. They want vulgar thrills,” he grouses. “Like this Houdini chap, escaping from chains and boxes. It is cheap, music hall entertainment. In my day, I played the best theaters, from Vienna to St. Petersburg, from Paris to New York. But now, the days of magic are ending, I fear. The new power in the world is industry. Industry and greed.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out in a sigh. “But you did not come to listen to tales of the glory days of an old magician, my dears. And so I would bid you a good night.”



“We would pay, of course,” I say.



Dr. Van Ripple’s eyes glimmer with interest. “Ah. Yes. Well. I could, perhaps, be convinced to aid ladies in need for a modest sum.”



“How modest?” Felicity asks.



“Miss Worthington,” I say through a forced smile. “I am quite sure Dr. Van Ripple will treat us fairly. We should hate to offend.”



“No offense taken,” the old man says. “Now, how might an old magician be of assistance to two such lovely young ladies?” he asks, all smiles.



“We wondered if you might tell us more about Wilhelmina Wyatt,” I say.



Dr. Van Ripple frowns. “I don’t see how I can be of help in that regard.”



“I’m sure you can be of great help,” I say sweetly. I hold up my coin purse, and Dr. Van Ripple’s lips curl into a smile once more.



We agree upon a fee, and though it is more than I wished to pay, it is the only way the bargain shall be struck. Dr. Van Ripple pockets the coins at once. I half expect him to test their worth between his teeth.



“Did Miss Wyatt have a dagger in her possession?” Felicity blurts out, much to my chagrin.



“Not that I recall. And certainly one would recall such a weapon.” Dr. Van Ripple strokes his beard, thinking.



“Does the phrase ‘The key holds the truth’ mean anything to you?” I ask.



Dr. Van Ripple purses his lips, thinks some more. “I’m afraid not.”



“Did she ever make mention of a key—any key that was special to her?” Felicity presses.



“No, no,” the doctor answers.



“Did she leave anything behind?” I ask, but my hopes are fading fast.



“A few of her dresses remained at the hall, and those I sold. I kept only one of her possessions—the slate.”



“Might we see it?” I plead.



Dr. Van Ripple rifles through a cupboard and comes back with the slate I’ve seen in my dreams and visions, and my excitement grows. The slate is of a good size, perhaps a foot tall by a foot wide, and it rests upon a wooden base. My fingers trace over the board, feeling the marks grooved into it from use.



“May we purchase this from you?” I ask, emboldened.



He shakes his head. “Dear me. It has such sentimental value that I couldn’t possibly—”



“How much?” Felicity interrupts.



“Perhaps five pounds?” he suggests.



“Five pounds!” Felicity gasps.



“Four?” he counters.



It doesn’t matter whether it’s four or five; we haven’t got it. Or do we? I wave my hand over my coin purse. I know I shall hate myself for this later, but that is later.



“Here you are, sir,” I say, opening my purse and counting out four pounds to Fee’s astonishment. She takes the slate from the magician.