reading his own obituary in
Angier's affairs are now in the hands of a firm of lawyers. He is of course really dead, and his body was really placed inside the coffin. This I saw as Angier's last illusion; the provision of his own corpse for burial. Julia is officially his widow, and his children are orphans. They were all present at Highgate Cemetery for his funeral, a ceremony kept strictly to his immediate family. The press stayed away at the personal request of the widow, and no fans or admirers were seen on the day.
On that same day I was myself travelling back anonymously to Derbyshire with Adam Wilson and his family. He and Gertrude have agreed to remain with me as paid companions. I am able to reward them well.
Julia and the children arrived back here three days later. For the time being she is the widow Angier, but as we fade from people's recollections she will quietly become, as is her right, Lady Colderdale.
I thought I had grown familiar with surviving my own death, but this time I have done it in a way that I can never repeat. Because I can not go back to the stage, and because I am now in the role that my elder brother had previously denied me, I find myself wondering how I am to fill the days that lie ahead.
After the disagreeable shock of what happened to me in Lowestoft, I have settled down to what has become my new existence. I am not in decline, and my condition remains stable. I have little physical energy or strength, but I do not seem likely to drop dead suddenly. The doctor here repeats what I was told in London: there is nothing apparently the matter with me that good food, exercise and a positive outlook will not cure in time.
So I find myself taking up the life I had briefly planned after I returned from Colorado. There is much to attend to in the house and around the estate, and because nothing has been run properly for years much of it is in decay. Fortunately, for once my family has the financial wherewithal to tackle some of the most serious problems.
I have had Wilson erect the Tesla apparatus in the basement, telling him that from time to time I shall be rehearsing In a Flash in preparation for my return to the stage. Its real use is, of course, otherwise.
19th September 1903
Merely to record that today is the day I had originally planned for the death of Rupert Angier. It has passed like all the others, quietly and (given my continuing restlessness about my health) peacefully.
3rd November 1903
I am recovering from an attack of pneumonia. It nearly got me! I have been in Sheffield Royal Infirmary since the end of September, and I survived only by a miracle. Today is the first day at home where I have been able to sit up long enough to write. The moors look splendid through my window.
30th November 1903
Recovering. I am almost back to the condition I was in when I returned here from London. That is to say, officially well, unofficially not too good.
15th December 1903
Adam Wilson came to my reading room at half past ten this morning, and informed me a visitor was waiting downstairs to see me. It was Arthur Koenig! I stared at his calling card in surprise, wondering what he wanted. 'Tell him I'm not available for the moment,' I said to Adam, and I went to my study to think.
Could his visit be something to do with my funeral? The faking of my own death had a deceptive side to it that I suspect could be construed as illegal, even though I can't imagine what harm might befall anyone else as a consequence. But the fact that Koenig was here at all meant he knew the funeral had been a sham. Was he going to try to blackmail me in some way? I still do not fully trust Mr Koenig, nor do I understand his motives.
I let him sweat downstairs for fifteen minutes, then asked Adam to bring him up.
Koenig appeared to be in a serious mood. After we had greeted each other, I sat him down in one of the easy chairs facing my desk. The first thing he said was to assure me that his visit was unconnected with his job on the newspaper.
'I'm here as an emissary, my Lord,' he said. 'I'm acting in my private capacity for a third party who knows of my interest in the world of magic, and who has asked me to approach your wife.'
'Approach Julia?' I said, in genuine surprise. 'Why should you have anything to say to her?'
Koenig was looking distinctly uncomfortable.
'Your wife, my Lord, is the widow of Rupert Angier. It is in that guise that I have been commissioned to approach her. But I thought, bearing in mind what has happened in the past, it would be wisest to come to you first.'
'What's going on, Koenig?'
He had brought with him a small leather case, and he now picked this up and laid it on his lap.
'The… third party for whom I'm acting has come across a notebook, a private memoir, in which it is felt your wife would have an interest. In particular, it is hoped that Lady Colderdale, that is, Mrs Angier, might wish to purchase it. This, er, third party is not aware that you, my Lord, are still alive, and so I find myself not only betraying the person who is sending me on this task, but also the person to whom I should be speaking. But I really felt, under the circumstances—'
'Whose notebook is it?'
'Alfred Borden’s.'
'Do you have it with you?'
'Of course I do.'
Koenig reached down into the case, and produced a cloth-bound notebook of the sort that comes equipped with a lockable clasp. He handed it to me so that I might examine it, but because it was locked I could not see what was inside. When I looked back at Koenig he was holding the key.
'My… client requires five hundred pounds, sir.'
'Is it genuine?'
'Most assuredly. You would have to read only a few lines to be convinced of that.'
'But is it worth five hundred pounds?'
'I suspect you will think it worth rather more. It is written in Borden's own hand, and deals directly with the secrets of his magic. He elaborates his theory of magic, and explains how many of his tricks are done. The concealment of life as twins is alluded to. I found it a most interesting read, and I can guarantee you will too.'
I turned the book in my hand, wondering about it.
'Who is your client, Koenig? Who wants the money?' He looked uneasy, clearly not practised in this sort of thing. 'You say you have already betrayed your client. Do you suddenly have scruples?'
'There's a lot to this, my Lord. From your manner I suspect you have not already heard the main news I am bringing. Are you aware that Borden has recently died?' No doubt my startled expression gave him the answer he required. 'To be precise, I believe one of the two brothers is dead.'
'You sound unsure,' I said. 'Why?'
'Because there's no conclusive proof. You and I both know how obsessively the Bordens concealed their lives, so it's no surprise that the survivor would do the same when the other dies. The trail has been hard to follow.'
'Then how do you know about it at all? Oh, I see this third party who has commissioned you.'
'And there is circumstantial evidence.'
‘such as?' I prompted.
'The famous illusion is no longer included in Le Professeur's act. I have been to his shows several times in the last six weeks, and not once has he performed it.'
'There could be many reasons for that,' I observed. 'I've been to his show several times, and he does not always include that trick.'
'Indeed not. But it would most likely be because both brothers are required to perform it.'
'I think you should tell me the name of your client, Koenig.'
'My Lord, I believe you once knew an American woman by the name of Olive Wenscombe?'
I have written the name here as I now realize he said it, but in the surprise of the moment I thought he said Olivia Svenson. Because of this a misunderstanding arose between us. At first I thought we were both
