ring; that he had two children from the toffee-apples bulging stickily from his pockets, purchased (one presumes) as gifts for the little ones. That his father was a tailor was clear from the quality of his jacket (unnaturally fine when set against the threadbare quality of the rest of his clothes); and that the unfortunate parent had died from consumption was elucidated by the faint graveyard scent of mildew and disease which still lingered insidiously about it. A distinct whiff of fish on Gaskin’s breath, and behind it an undercurrent of decay, made the man’s supper simple to deduce, and the distribution on his fingertips of a rare oil used only in the restoration of antique clocks rendered his chief pastime as plain as if he had tattooed the same upon his forehead.
But doubtless you will say that such things happen only in cheap novels and upon the stage. Perhaps I have allowed myself to become unduly influenced by the yellow-backed vulgarities of sensational fiction.
The third possibility seems on the face of it still less persuasive. Namely, that Edward Moon possessed powers beyond the understanding of conventional science, that he saw into Gaskin’s soul and somehow understood him, that — bizarre and outre though I know it must seem written down — he really was a mind-reader.
The applause died away.
“Mr. Gaskin? I must ask you something.”
“Anything.”
“When did you intend to tell your wife?”
A shadow passed across the man’s face. “I don’t understand.”
Moon addressed his next remark to the unenviable Mrs. Gaskin who still stood in the third row of stalls, puce-faced and flushed with pride. “My sympathies, ma’am,” he said. “It gives me no pleasure to inform you that your husband is a liar, a cheat, and an adulterer.”
A few delighted sniggers from the audience.
“For the last eleven months he has been engaged in intimate relations with a scullery maid. And for the past fortnight they have begun to worry that she has fallen pregnant.”
A hush descended on the theatre and the smile fled from Mrs. Gaskin’s lips. She looked imploringly at her husband and stuttered something unintelligible.
Gaskin snarled. “Damn your eyes!” he cried and made as if to spring at Moon. Before he could strike, a figure glided onstage and moved wordlessly between the two antagonists, like some animate portcullis lowered in the magician’s defense.
Gaskin looked up to realize that he was standing opposite the Somnambulist, his face approximately level with the giant’s sternum. The big man shielded Moon, as silent and impassive as an uprooted Easter Island statue. In the face of so irresistible a force, so immovable an object, the man sloped swiftly and shamefacedly away, gabbling his apologies and leaving stage and theatre at a craven trot. His wife followed soon after.
Moon allowed himself a private, faintly malicious smile at their departure before flinging wide his arms. “Applause,” he cried, “for the city’s most remarkable man! Asleep! Awake! The celebrated sleepwalker of Albion Square! Ladies and gentlemen, I give you… the Somnambulist!”
The audience bellowed their approval and the giant managed a stiff, embarrassed bow.
At the back of the stalls, somebody called out, “The swords!” His fellows took up the cry. “The swords! The swords!” Soon most of the audience were chanting the same.
Moon clapped the Somnambulist affectionately on the back.
“Come along,” he said. “We mustn’t disappoint our public.”
Moon disappeared, returning with half a dozen wicked-looking swords (borrowed on long loan from Her Majesty’s Coldstream Guards). The orchestra struck up a familiar melody, and at this signal the Somnambulist removed his jacket to reveal his spotless, starched white shirt.
The theatre was silent as everyone waited for what they knew was coming. A member of the audience was brought up to test the genuine nature of the weapons and to certify that the Somnambulist himself was not wearing any padding, device or piece of mechanical trickery. This accomplished, Moon drew out one of the swords. Under the pitiless gaze of the lights and in full view of the crowd, he plunged the blade deep into the Somnambulist’s chest. The tip entered the giant’s body with a slippery, sucking sound before emerging seconds later, with stomach-churning inevitability, from the center of his back. The Somnambulist did not so much as blink in response. Some of the audience cheered, some gasped, others stared on in goggle-eyed amazement. Several ladies (and more than one gentleman) were seen to swoon at the sight of it.
Another drum roll and Moon renewed his attack, this time pushing the blade deep into the thick of the Somnambulist’s neck and out through the back of his head. Without respite, he did the same again, now skewering the man’s thigh, now his chest, and lastly, and most painfully of all, his groin.
Like a bored commuter waiting for his train, the Somnambulist yawned in response. He remained still for the whole of his ordeal, immune to what must surely have been the most exquisite agony. Any other man would have fallen long ago but the giant stood resolute throughout.
Perhaps the most startling scene of the performance arrived at its conclusion. As Moon removed the swords from his assistant’s body and held them up for inspection, I saw that not only was there not a trace of blood discernible on any of the blades but also the Somnambulist’s shirt, though pierced and torn, remained an unsullied white.
Both men bowed, to genuine applause. The most celebrated part of their act, it had not disappointed.
No doubt the audience assumed that what they had seen was an optical illusion. Some may have speculated idly about trick swords, elaborate sleight of hand, gimmicked shirts, smoke and mirrors, but whatever their theories they never doubted that what they had seen had been anything other than an unusually impressive piece of prestidigitation. It was a parlor game, surely. A conjuring trick.
The truth, as you shall see, was infinitely stranger.
The remainder of the performance took place without incident and the audience seemed to go home satisfied.
But still Edward Moon was unhappy. He had tired years ago of giving the same routine every night and went on with it now only in an attempt to stave off ennui. He was chronically, terminally, dangerously bored.
After the show, it had long been his habit to leave by the stage door and stand in the street, to smoke and watch his audience disperse. Well-wishers sometimes lingered on and he was happy enough to spend a moment or two with each of them, making small talk and acknowledging their compliments. A small knot of admirers waited that night and he dealt with them all with his customary courtesy. One woman stayed longer than the rest. Moon stretched and yawned. He wasn’t tired, but in those days and months when boredom took him in its grip he would often sleep his days away, slumbering twelve or thirteen hours at a time. “Yes?” he asked.
The woman seemed incongruous in Albion Square. Patrician, elegantly middle-aged, she had an aloofness about her, a haughty
“I am Lady Glendinning,” she began. “But you may call me Elizabeth.”
Moon, doing his best not to look impressed, affected a nonchalant expression. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“I enjoyed the performance.”
He shrugged. “Thank you for coming.”
“Mr. Moon?” She paused. “I’ve heard rumors about you.”
The conjurer raised an eyebrow. “What have you heard?”
“That you’re more than a magician. That you investigate.”
“Investigate?”
“I have a problem. I need your help.”
“Go on.”
Lady Glendinning made a strange snuffling sound. “My husband is dead.”
Moon managed a reasonable simulacrum of sympathy. “My condolences.”
“He was murdered.”
That last, heady word had a tremendous effect on the conjuror. Moon felt giddy at the sound of it and it was only with an enormous effort of will that he was able to stifle a grin.
