Magic Lantern

Doug whined. He was a good whiner when he wanted to be, but Annja was impervious.

“You have Kristie for the T and A ratings. With me, you’ve got history and archaeology ratings.”

The fact that Kristie Chatham was the fan darling because of her habitual loss of clothing and “wardrobe malfunctions” bothered Annja more than she would ever tell anyone. But she accepted it. She had her fans, too.

“Would Kristie agree to walking in a rat-infested alley at midnight so a serial murderer could leap out of the shadows and murder her?”

“No, of course not. If she got hurt, she wouldn’t be able to work.”

“And I would?”

“You’re not going to get hurt. You have Igor. Besides, you’re only there tonight to shoot a little mood footage. Igor also tells me the fog is going to have to be enhanced. Says it’s really weak.”

Annja looked back over her shoulder at the lumbering shadow that trailed her. Igor carried a portable video camera in one giant paw. “You’re talking to him?”

“Texting. I’m talking to you.”

“Great. So you’re distracting my bodyguard.”

“He’d probably be more focused on you if you weren’t overdressed.”

Turning her attention back to the alley ahead of her, Annja shook her head. Sometimes—most of the time—Doug had a one-track mind. “About the Mr. Hyde thing.”

“You said you loved the Mr. Hyde thing,” Doug said, instantly wary. “You said the Mr. Hyde thing was awesome. You couldn’t wait to do the Mr. Hyde thing.”

Annja had said that. But that had been when she’d thought her schedule wasn’t going to be so tight. She’d hoped to get out to Hadrian’s Wall. That had been the site of her first dig, and the place still held a special spot in her heart.

Then, when she’d seen those poor women in those police photographs, she realized that the “investigation” bordered on sensationalism. That the women were going to be fodder for the conspiracy mill Chasing History’s Monsters routinely set into motion didn’t sit well with her.

“You do realize Mr. Hyde isn’t real.”

“When you meet Mr. Hyde, tell him that. Either we’ve got one of London’s oldest and eeriest monsters returned from over a hundred years of being missing, or we’ve got someone who rediscovered Dr. Jekyll’s secret potion. I don’t care which it is. It’s a great story.”

“That’s what it is—a story. Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde was a novella written by Robert Louis Stevenson. An allegory some say was based on Victorian views of sex.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. You told me that already. And I agreed that you could put that stuff in there. As long as there’s not too much of it. Which is why we’re picking up the tab on your date with Professor Beeswax.”

“Professor Beswick. And it’s not a date. He’s an expert on film, literature and myth.”

“I suppose it doesn’t hurt that Professor Beeswax is good-looking, though. I ran a Google search on him. I see what you saw.”

“Really? You thought Professor Beswick was attractive?”

Doug nearly choked. “No! That’s not what I said. Are you recording this?” He cursed. “Now I’ve got Diet Coke up my nose. Don’t do that.”

Annja chuckled. Doug was easy to set off.

“As for this Mr. Hyde thing, I got a very convincing email stating that the Dr. Jekyll formula had been discovered on the internet and someone had re-created it.”

“Who was the email from?”

“An anonymous source.”

“Doug, it’s me and you. You can tell me.”

“I can’t. That’s how the writer tagged the email.”

“And you bought into this based on that.” Annja couldn’t believe it, then reminded herself she’d been in the same situation with Doug dozens of times before.

“Sure. There are the three murders. Mr. Hyde claims to have done them.”

Annja bit her tongue. She was looking forward to her stay in London and dinner tomorrow with Professor Beswick appeared promising.

Ahead, one of the doors suddenly banged open and four figures spilled out into the alley. Three of them were young Asian males dressed in dark clothing backing out of a restaurant. One of them held a young woman trapped with an arm across her neck. Her eyes rolled fearfully and she hung on to the man’s arm to keep her balance.

The woman was dressed in black pants and a white shirt, the typical server’s uniform for a lot of restaurants. Light shined from the open doorway and revealed tattoos on the necks of two of the men. All of them carried pistols. A handful of pound notes drifted from the cloth bag one of the guys fisted.

“Doug, I’m going to have to talk to you later.” She unclipped the Bluetooth earpiece and shoved it into her pocket. Annja was calm as she surveyed the scene. Her heart went out to the frightened young woman.

An older man in a suit raced through the back door and quickly stopped when he saw the gunmen. “Laurel.”

“Get back, old man.” One of the youths took a step forward and pointed the gun at the businessman.

“Please. You have the money. Don’t take my daughter.”

The youth opened fire. Annja didn’t know if he was trying to hit the man or not, but one of the bullets chewed into the door and the other went through the doorway.

The man dropped to the ground, covered his head with his arms and screamed for his daughter.

“Papa!” The young woman cried out in fear and tried to free herself. One of the men not holding her backhanded her across the face.

“Hey!” Igor’s loud voice thundered in the alley. “You blokes want to put the guns down before you get hurt?”

Glancing back, Annja saw that Igor had a gun in his own hand instead of the camera now. He stood holding the revolver like he knew what to do. Unfortunately, so did the three Asians. Two of them opened fire while the third hung on to their hostage.

Annja pressed herself flat against a building.

The bullets drove Igor back into cover. He rose up just long enough to fire two rounds. Both bullets went wild, and one of them came dangerously close to Annja.

In the next moment, a car roared into the alley behind Igor. The bright lights pinned him for a moment as he threw up a hand in front of his eyes. He stepped aside, but the driver opened the door and hit the bodyguard hard enough to bounce him off a brick wall. Igor rolled and dropped as the car roared by.

The driver brought the car to a rocking halt only a few feet from the three men. They opened the doors on the passenger’s side and started to get in with their captive.

Annja sprang for the driver, shoved a hand into the car and caught the man by the jacket front. She yanked hard and the man’s head cracked against the window’s edge. The driver’s eyes rolled up and showed white just before he slumped across the steering wheel. His foot pressed against the accelerator and the car sped forward before the others could climb in.

Reaching into the otherwhere that contained her sword, Annja drew the blade into the physical world. Moonlight glinted along the three-foot-plus polished steel blade. The hilt was plain, unadorned, wrapped in leather strips, and it felt completely at home in Annja’s hand. The sword had been forged for Joan of Arc and only the one destined to take up Joan’s crusade could wield it.

Annja shot forward as the car passed, and she knew she was moving too fast for the men to track. To them it would have looked like she’d appeared out of nowhere. She drove a double-fisted blow into the face of the man on the right. Propelled by the great strength she had when she wielded the sword, the man sailed backward and thudded against crates of trash. Rotted vegetables and refuse tumbled over him. Rats scattered and ran.

Whirling, Annja lashed out with the sword as the man holding the money took aim at her. Beyond him, the out-of-control car rammed into a streetlight, shuddered and died with an explosive release of steam. Her blade caught the man’s pistol as he lifted it, and drove it from his grip. She took two quick side steps forward, then raised her right leg and drove her foot into his face.

He went down in a loose jumble of flesh and blood, unconscious before he hit the ground.

Still holding his hostage, the third robber fired again and again.

Annja ducked and went low. She shoved her left leg out and swept the legs of the man and his hostage from the ground. As they fell backward, the man kept firing, wildly spraying the stone walls on either side of the alley. Trapped between the buildings, the sharp reports rolled like thunder.

She swung the sword at the gun and knocked the weapon from the man’s grip. He tried to get up, made it to his knees, but she met him with the sword hilt between his eyes. The impact snapped his head back and he sank.

Satisfied that the immediate danger was over, Annja released the sword and the weapon vanished. She walked over to the young woman and helped her to her feet.

“You’re all right.” Annja cradled the woman in her arms. “You’re going to be fine.” When her father reached them, she released the woman into his custody and went back to check on Igor.

The big man was just coming around, groaning and still trying to get his breath back.

“C’mon. Let’s get you up and get out of here.” Annja pulled him to his feet.

Igor held an arm across his ribs and stared at the men lying in the alley. Cooks and waitstaff were already taking them into custody.

“What happened?”

Annja shrugged. “The driver’s brakes must have gone out. He hit them and knocked them down.”

“The girl’s not hurt?”

“We got lucky.” That was an easier story than telling the truth to the police. “Let’s go. I really don’t want to spend the whole night in a police station being questioned.”

“Shouldn’t we stay?”

Annja looked at him.

Igor grinned sheepishly. “I mean, I did try to save the girl. Maybe a little publicity will help the business, you know.”

“Right. And that way Doug Morrell will know you got taken out by a couple thugs. Think he’s going to want to keep you around protecting me from Mr. Hyde?”

“On second thought, I’ve never been a glory hound.”

“Right.”

“But we can’t leave just this minute.” Igor looked at the side of the alley. “I have to find my pistol. I must have dropped it. Can you help give us a look?”

2

Professor Edmund Beswick stood on the curb in front of Carlini’s Magic Bullet Club when Annja arrived by cab. He was a few years older than Annja, in his mid-thirties, and was about the same height. His black hair brushed the tips of his ears and he wore a neatly trimmed goatee. His olive complexion hinted at some Indian or Middle Eastern ancestry and lent him an Old World elegance. The dark blue tux and top hat made him look like he’d stepped from the pages of a Charles Dickens novel.

He opened the cab door for Annja and thrust pound notes at the driver.

“I can get that.” Annja had her pocketbook at the ready.

“Nonsense. This evening is my treat. I insist.” Edmund offered her his gloved hand.

Annja took it, then held on to his arm. She wore a simple black dress, but it was one of her favorites and she knew she wore it well. Still, she couldn’t help feeling underdressed.

“I wasn’t expecting anything so formal.”

Edmund grinned. “You look marvelous, and you’ll find that not everyone inside is dressed as pompously as I am.” He waved a dismissive hand. “I tend toward the exotic when I’m given my head. I do hope you’ll forgive me my eccentricities this evening, but this is a special occasion.”

“You look dashing.”

“Thank you. You are most kind.”

Annja surveyed the front of Carlini’s Magic Bullet Club. The first floor of the small building was covered in wooden gingerbread that made it look positively ancient. Red velvet curtains covered the large plate-glass windows. Torchlight created golden pools against the material and shadows moved inside. A red carpet under a small canopy led to the front door, which looked like it would open to a dungeon.

“Now, that looks foreboding.”

Edmund’s smile was so big and innocent, Annja was certain she could see the twelve-year-old he had been. “Doesn’t it just?” he replied.

“And I notice there’s no doorknob.”

“So it’s mysterious, too.” His dark brown eyes twinkled. “Carlini’s is a very special place. No one gets in here who isn’t invited.” He waved a hand and suddenly there was a single red rose in it. He offered it to Annja.

Smiling, she took the rose in her free hand and smelled it. The fragrance was subtle and sweet. “You’re a magician?”

“Alas, you thought I was merely a literature professor?” Edmund feigned a look of pain.

“From what I’ve heard, you’re an authority on English literature. I saw you in an interview on the History Channel and was impressed. When I got this assignment, I knew I wanted you as a guest speaker.”

“I’d wondered about that. Your program doesn’t draw immediate confidence from a cursory look.”

“No.” Annja knew that was true, and it was one of the things she had to accept about the opportunities Chasing History’s Monsters afforded her. “I like to go below the surface of a story.”

“That was true of most of your segments that I saw.”

“Sometimes a good deal of what I’ve prepared ends up on the cutting-room floor. So I have to warn you that some of what I’m doing could end up in the same place.”

“Well, we’ll just have to roll the dice, won’t we?”

“I do put interviews on the television website.” That was a deal Annja had recently negotiated. “Added-value pieces I believe are interesting.”

“Then I shall endeavor to be interesting. I consider it a challenge.”

“That’s hardly fair for you.”

“Trust me when I say that I am a fierce competitor.”

“All right.” Annja grinned in self-satisfaction. She’d known Edmund was going to be intriguing. She was happy to be proven right.

“So how goes your hunt for our new Mr. Hyde?” Edmund looked troubled.

“We’re still looking.”

“Please don’t hold it against me for hoping you’re not the one who finds that man.” Edmund shook his head. “I saw some of the pictures and videos they released of those poor women. I would hate to think of you facing such a brute.”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen. Not with Metro increasing surveillance on the streets.” Annja looked at the pub. “Tell me about this place.”

“Carlini’s has been a home to magic for over a hundred years. All the great masters have come here. Magicians. Escape artists. Illusionists. Mentalists. And prestidigitators of every stripe—fair and foul. They’ve had just as many villains as they’ve had heroes.” Edmund smiled fondly at the pub. “Houdini was here. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, though he came looking for real magic and a way to contact the spirit world. Walter B. Gibson. Robert Harbin. Chung Ling Soo. David Nixon. David Copperfield. Penn and Teller. You’ve heard of the Magic Circle?”

“The organization committed to sponsoring and reimagining magic. Of course.”

“They formed here in London in 1905. Carlini’s predated them. The Great Carlini preferred to keep a lower profile and only invited in the very best in the field. They gave private shows to the royals and other important people, perfected their craft and studied other masters. This was the place where they could be themselves and enjoy magic without the stress of an unfriendly or doubting audience. The people in this place appreciate the orchestration of a skilled magician.”

“It sounds like the hardest audience in the world to play for.”

Edmund grinned. “No. And do you know why?”

Annja shook her head, enjoying his enthusiasm.

“Because magicians want to believe in magic.” Edmund’s eyes sparkled. “Carlini’s guests are the best audience. They live to be astonished, amazed and entertained. Now, observe.” He gestured at the door.

In response, the door quivered, rattled and slowly pulled inward with a theatrical creak that gave Annja goose bumps. She’d been in scary situations before, circumstances that would have gotten her killed if she hadn’t been quick enough or strong enough or lucky enough to get through. But there was something about the atmosphere of the pub, Edmund’s story and her own awakened childish fascination with magic that affected her.

Edmund took her arm and guided her inside.

After the outside door closed, a small yellow light flared to life overhead. The tiny bulb was barely enough to reveal the three wooden doors at the end of the hallway. One door lay dead ahead and the two others were on either side. The doors were unmarked.

“Magic is all about choices.” Edmund waved toward the doors. “Tonight you have three.”

“And if I choose wrong?”

“We go hungry and I don’t get to show you my biggest surprise.” Edmund grinned. “But I have faith in you.” He gestured her forward. “Please have a look. This challenge has been designed for you.”

Annja cocked an eyebrow at Edmund. “You realize we could go hungry.”

“I’ve always found that risk increases appetite and appreciation for a meal.” Beswick looked at her. “I wouldn’t have figured you for someone unwilling to risk.”

Amused, Annja advanced. As she did, a slot opened up in each door and a three-by-five notecard slid out to hang from each of them.

“Kind of creepy.”

Edmund just smiled and waited.

Examining the cards, Annja discovered the one on the left door had a drawing of a chicken in charcoal-gray ink. The middle door had a drawing of an egg in brown ink. The third one she wasn’t quite sure of but it was black and the drawing was etched deep into the card. She pointed to it. “What’s this?”

Edmund shook his head. “The best I could do at drawing a chicken nugget.”

“A chicken nugget?”

“Yes.”

“So the obvious correlation would be that I’m supposed to pick the door that comes first?”

“If that’s what you think.”

Annja examined the cards again, more closely this time. She paid particular attention to the drawings, the ink and the shape of the lines. She even smelled them to confirm her conclusions. “If you listen to a biologist, the biologist would say that the egg comes first. But a theologian would insist that the chicken came first.”

Edmund’s face remained unreadable.

“However, a mystery lover could be tempted to pick the chicken nugget simply because it doesn’t fit, or because it’s not a natural thing, as the chicken and the egg are.” Annja smiled. “You went to a lot of trouble.”

“Then you already know the answer?”

“Yes.” Annja knew she’d surprised him. He hadn’t thought she would fail, but he hadn’t expected her to succeed so early. “But only because you went to such great detail to make your clues.”

“Elucidate.”

“The answer is in the inks, and somewhat in the drawings, but not in what was drawn.”

Edmund smiled in startled appreciation. “You are good.”

Annja pointed to the egg. “That ink is atramentum, or it’s supposed to be. It’s a replica of a Roman ink made about sixteen hundred years ago. You can tell because it’s faded out and has turned brown. That’s because it was made from iron salts and tannin. It goes on bluish-black, then fades to brown.”

She moved on to the nugget. The image was drawn deeply into the card with fine, black lines. “This ink was called masi and was created in ancient India about 400 BCE. The drawing is deep and thin because they used needles to write with. So did you. Quite a good touch on that, actually.”

Edmund inclined his head in thanks.

“This, however, was the first.” Annja touched the drawing of the chicken. “The ink is graphite based and it was drawn with an ink brush. When you look closely, you can see the brushstrokes. This ink, or at least the original, was created by the Chinese about 1800 BCE. Definitely the first.”

Edmund quietly applauded her. “Bravo, Ms. Creed. Quite the performance.”

Annja curtsied, thoroughly enjoying herself. “Did you think of this little test yourself?”

“No. I must admit that I had help. After all, I’m just a professor of English and literature. This was beyond my ken.” Edmund walked to the door with the chicken on it and the door opened before he reached it.

A large man in a good suit greeted Edmund with a warm handshake. He had a high forehead and glasses and looked to be in his sixties. “Welcome, Ms. Creed. It is indeed an honor.”

“Annja Creed, may I present Gaetano Carlini, the current owner and host of the Magic Bullet Club. Gaetano, my beautiful guest, Ms. Annja Creed.”

Totally charmed by the big man, Annja offered her hand and he took it, bowed deeply and kissed the back of it. “Please come in and make yourselves at home. I have your table this way.” Gaetano swept them into a large dining room.

* * *

“OVER THE YEARS, MS. CREED—”

“Please call me Annja.”

Gaetano nodded solemnly. “Annja. Over the years, Carlini’s has been host to a number of important and famous people.” He gave a careless shrug. “And, at times, some who were more infamous than famous.”

“But no one that was ever shot or hanged for their crimes.” Edmund swirled his wine around in the fluted glass.

“Thankfully, no. We’ve never had that notoriety.” Gaetano pushed the glasses up on his nose. “But we do ask one favor of those guests, other than to enjoy themselves while they are here.”

Annja sat at the small, intimate table in the center of the ornate dining room lined with stage magic memorabilia and framed caricatures of magicians. Her red rose occupied a small vase in the middle of the table. They were adjacent to the small, curtained stage. Noises came from the back, so Annja knew something was going on. Her curiosity was getting the better of her.

“What would that favor be?” Annja nibbled on a piece of Havarti cheese.

“To allow me to sketch a caricature to hang on our wall.”

“Gaetano is very good. Very knowledgeable about a great many things. Including history.” Edmund sipped his wine. “He’s the one who helped me figure out your puzzle.”

Gaetano waved the compliment away.

“In another life, had not magic called to him so strongly, I fear he would have been a forger.”

“Oh, now I’m offended.” But the big man’s boisterous laugh plainly indicated he was more flattered than anything.

“I would love for you to draw a caricature of me. But I’m not a magician.”

“I beg to differ.” Gaetano sat up straight in his chair. “I have seen many episodes of your television show. You are a great performer at revealing some of history’s best-kept secrets. I knew who you were before this youngster did.”

Edmund held up his hands in surrender. “Sadly, that’s true. I told him I’d gotten an email from an American archaeologist regarding the Mr. Hyde murders.”

“He was set to turn you down.” Gaetano shook his head in mock exasperation. “Silly boy.”

“In my defense, it was only because the murders were so heinous. I didn’t want to contribute to the gratuitous exposure of the misfortunes of others. That was before I spoke with you and you assured me that would not happen.”

“It won’t.” Annja fully intended that the Mr. Hyde piece, if it aired, wouldn’t dwell on the murders as much as it did the legend. Hopefully the London Metro police would have the killer in hand by then, as well.

“He might not have called you at all had I not shown him one of your programs.” Gaetano chuckled. “He was, of course, instantly smitten.”

Annja laughed. “Obviously he’s easy to impress.”

The meal came then, thick steaming platters of pastas and seasoned vegetables along with crisp salads. Annja ate with gusto, listening to the familiar camaraderie of the two men as they played off each other and took turns telling her stories.

While they dined, several magicians from other tables went to the stage and performed their acts. The audience oohed and aahed in approval and delight as things disappeared, reappeared and changed into other things.