“What I have here will astound you. For in this box is proof that life continues after death.” I daresay we know a good deal more about the subject than dear Mr. Smith. He opens a box of photographs and offers one to the lady in front for inspection. We peer over her shoulder as best we can. It isn’t much, just a picture of a man at his desk, writing a letter. But when I look again, I see something else. Beside the man is a ghostly presence in white, a woman as sheer as lace.
“These are true spirit photographs, ladies. See the spirit world come to life before your very eyes. Herewith lies irrefutable proof of ghosts among us, of life after death!”
“Oh, may I see?” a lady to our right asks.
“See it? Why, madam, for a mere ten pee, you can own it. Amaze your friends and family! I took this very photograph at a séance in Bristol.” He lowers his voice to a charged whisper. “What I saw there changed my life—spirits, among us!”
The ladies gasp and whisper. One pulls out her coin purse. “I should like proof, if you please.”
“Any one you like, madam, plenty to go round.”
I nudge my friends. “We’ve no time for this. We’ve got to—”
A commanding voice breaks through from behind us. “Do not believe his claims, dear ladies. This is nothing more than optical trickery at work.”
An elegant gentleman with a thicket of black hair, streaked through with silver, and a neatly trimmed goatee steps forward. There are deep wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, and he leans upon a walking stick, but though he is an older man than I’ve seen in my visions, there is no doubt he is the man we seek: Dr. Theodore Van Ripple.
“That’s him,” I whisper to Ann and Fee.
The doctor hobbles closer. “This ghostly image is no more a spirit than you or I. It is simply an ordinary photograph soaked too long in a photographer’s bath. A trick, you see?”
“Do you call me a liar, sir?” Mr. Smith sniffs.
The man bows. “You’ll forgive me, sir, but I cannot allow such kind, good-hearted ladies to be taken in by untruths.”
Mr. Smith can smell doubt robbing him of a sale. “Ladies, I assure you, I saw these spirits with my own eyes! Here is proof, I tell you!”
But it is too late. The lady in front has walked away, shaking her head. Others come to take her place. They still want to believe.
Felicity pushes her way toward Dr. Van Ripple. “Is that true, sir?”
“Oh, yes. Quite. I am familiar with a great many illusions. I deal in the world of smoke and mirrors myself. I am a magician by trade. In fact, I performed this evening. For a few moments,” he adds bitterly. “But I shall perform a special show for you.”
He reaches into his pocket and produces a deck of cards. “Here. I shall show you. Take a card. Any card you wish. You may reveal it to your dear friends but do not show the card to me.”
I crane my neck, but I don’t see McCleethy yet, so I select a card—the ace of spades—and reveal it to Ann and Felicity before tucking it into my palm out of sight. Dr. Van Ripple passes the deck to Mr. Smith.
“Would you do me the favor of shuffling these cards, dear sir?”
With great irritation, Mr. Smith rearranges the deck. He hands it back to Dr. Van Ripple, who shuffles the cards again and again, making polite chatter the entire time like a born showman. At last, he places his white-gloved hand upon the deck and pronounces, “You hold the ace of spades, dear lady. Do you not?”
Astonished, I show him the ace. “How ever did you do it?”
His eyes twinkle. “The rules of magic, my dear, are best not discussed. For once we understand the illusion, we no longer believe in it.”
“He’s marked the cards,” Mr. Smith huffs, indignant. “Sheer fakery.”
Dr. Van Ripple tips his hat and produces a frog from inside it. The frog hops onto the shoulder of a very startled Mr. Smith.
“Ahh, slimy beast!” The photographer nearly topples his own table trying to get away. The crowd laughs.
“Dear me,” Dr. Van Ripple says. “Perhaps we should stand elsewhere.”
The doctor hobbles ahead, leading us past other exhibitions: A painted Turk’s head pushes fortunes out of its mechanical mouth; a snake dancer balances a giant serpent across her shoulders, undulating slowly as the beast coils and slithers; a man holding a stuffed bird trumpets the wonders of a traveling museum of natural history. I even spy Madame Romanoff, otherwise known as Sally Carny of Bow’s Bells, conducting a séance. I once took this false spiritualist to the realms by accident. We lock eyes and Sally abruptly ends her reading.
