Magic Lantern

“I take it that didn’t happen.”

Edmund grinned and shook his head. “No.”

The streetlight changed and they crossed.

“The latter part of the eighteenth century and into the nineteenth century gave rise to the phantasmagorists. They began their craft in Paris, as I mentioned, but the use of magic lanterns spread quickly. At the same time, Romanticism and Gothic literature were growing. The timing for the magic lantern and the phantasmagorists, you might say, was dead-on.”

Annja rolled her eyes at the pun.

Edmund chuckled. “Suffice it to say, I am smitten by the whole splendor of the phantasmagorists and their lucrative entertainment. During the heyday of the shows, many hosted gatherings within the catacombs beneath Paris.” Edmund looked at Annja. “Can you imagine what that was like? There they were, deep under the city, and these phantasmagorists could make them feel as though they were walking through the bowels of hell itself.”

“That doesn’t sound like my idea of a good time.”

“Ever watch horror films when you were young?”

Annja smiled. “I did.”

“We take pleasure in tempting the dark, wondering if it will one day come out of hiding and pounce on us with a predator’s fangs.”

“Not me.” Annja had been there too many times.

“And yet, here you are, Ms. Creed, tracking a man who has savagely beaten and killed three women.”

Some of Annja’s good mood evaporated, though she knew Edmund hadn’t intended for it to. And he was right about her being there in spite of the danger. She was never drawn to the danger, but she was attracted to the mysteries and curiosities. “I’m not afraid of the man who killed those women.”

“I would prefer it if you were.”

“He’s just a man. The police will find him soon enough.”

Edmund nodded. “I hope you’re right. In the meantime, I’ll tell you about the particular magic lantern I have in my possession.”

4

“Anton Dutilleaux was a Parisian phantasmagorist in the late eighteenth century.” Seated at the small table in the tea shop not far from the hotel where Annja was staying, Edmund added milk to his tea and stirred. “Have you heard of him?”

“No.” Annja stuck with coffee and cupped her hands around her cup to absorb the warmth. She took a deep breath, enjoying the sweet baking smells.

“I can’t say I’m surprised. Rather, I would be flabbergasted—very much so—if you had heard of him.” Edmund reached into the messenger bag he’d brought with him from Carlini’s. He took out an iPad and placed it on the table. The screen flared to life.

Not many people were in the tea shop at that late hour, and none of them paid attention to Edmund and Annja. They were mostly watching the television in the corner of the room. The low rumble of the news and casual conversation was a comforting undercurrent of background noise.

Edmund touched the handheld device and opened a folder. He sorted through images, then selected one. Immediately, a taciturn man with slitted eyes filled the screen.

“Anton Dutilleaux. This image was used on several handbills that advertised his shows. He toured Paris for three years. I couldn’t find much history on him, no parents and no idea where he lived. I just know that he traveled.” Edmund sipped his tea. “And no one ever knew much about his murder.”

That heightened Annja’s interest. “He was murdered?”

Edmund nodded and grinned. “Intriguing, no?”

“It is.”

“According to a newspaper account of the murder, Dutilleaux was stabbed through the heart by a Chinese ghost in front of several eyewitnesses.” Edmund tapped the iPad screen again and shifted to a new image. “He was pronounced dead at the scene by a doctor in the audience. Do you read French?”

Annja nodded. “Mais, oui.” And she read on.

Phantasmagorist Slain by Celestial Spirit!

On the eve of the twenty-first of June, in the catacombs, M. Anton Dutilleaux, late of Paris and previously from parts unknown, met with an untimely end at the hands of a supernatural murderer. M. Dutilleaux was a phantasmagorist conducting a group comprising this reporter and several others through a dark and winding tunnel under the city at the time of his death.

The reporter described several of the events leading up to the murder. The account meandered, as stories did in those days because the news was meant to be savored and enjoyed and—in this case—puzzled over.

M. Dutilleaux had barely begun what was to be a fascinating presentation, this reporter is convinced of that, when the crafty killer sprang from the darkness. Merciless and without hesitation, the apparition brandished a knife and drove it through M. Dutilleaux’s heart with cold savagery, like a predator pouncing on much weaker prey. The stricken man had no opportunity to defend himself or call upon his Maker before he lay stretched out dead before us.

A few paragraphs of the reactions of the crowd, the panic that had ensued and the desperate attempts to revive Dutilleaux followed.

As of this morning when I write this piece for you, Dear Reader, the Parisian police have yet to decide who killed M. Dutilleaux. There are some who believe that the phantasmagorist was the victim of a Celestial spell that followed him from the Far East during his travels. Many readers this reporter knows believe in those curses. All I can tell you is that whatever killed the poor man was not human. I stared into that White Face of Death and knew fear the like of which I have never before known.

My only prayer is that the thing that killed M. Dutilleaux has completed its mission. Otherwise, that thing may yet haunt the catacombs. At present, the tunnel has been boarded up and placed under guard by the police until such time as they deem it safe.

Annja looked up at Edmund. “I assume you followed up on this story?”

The young professor nodded. “Of course. I’ve checked for months and years following. And I’ve gotten absolutely nowhere. No one ever mentioned Anton Dutilleaux again. Only a few magicians remember him. I wouldn’t have known him at all if I hadn’t discovered some of his handbills in a collection I purchased a year ago.”

“Two hundred years is a long time.”

“It is. But history has a way of making itself known, don’t you agree?” Edmund sipped his tea.

“Tell me about this lantern you found.”

Slipping his hands around his teacup, Edmund leaned conspiratorially across the table toward her. “Only a few weeks ago, I was at an estate sale.”

“Looking for the lantern?”

“No. Merely poking about. A lot of magicians have made their home—temporary and permanently—here in London. During my days off, I research those people. Occasionally I stumble across stage props or costumes while dissembling through estate sales.”

“Treasure hunting?”

Edmund smiled in pleasure. “When history is not valuable or fashionable, it is garbage and people toss it out. Or they sell it to speculators for pennies on the pound. I have assembled quite the collection of mementos and collectibles. Trust me when I say I have made several acquisitions that other fans of magic envy, and that no one else would want.” He shot her a rueful look.

Annja didn’t doubt him for a moment. Passion showed in Edmund’s dark eyes and she knew he wouldn’t easily turn away from something he wanted.

“Have you heard of Étienne-Gaspard Robert?”

Annja thought for a moment, then shook her head. “Another phantasmagorist?”

“Yes, but he was also an inventor and physicist from Liège, Belgium. His stage name was Étienne Robertson.” Edmund waited expectantly.

Annja shook her head again.