The Manual of Darkness (28 page)

But what intrigued Peter Grouse was the mention of the Seybert Commission, whose formation and subsequent investigations had not been acknowledged by the London press and therefore had not come to his attention. A group of university scholars assembled to give an opinion on whether spirits could be said to exist and what truth there was to the claims of those who purported to be able to communicate with them. Sixty thousand dollars to fund such an undertaking? Because this, in truth, was the real focus of his interest: that someone should have donated such a sum to study phenomena which any aficionado of magic could explain.

Grouse decided to go directly to the source. Although Kellar maintained that the commission had not yet published a final report on their investigations, Grouse also knew that the magician was not exactly scrupulous when it came to reporting such matters. Besides, almost four years had passed since
A Magician’s Tour
was first published. Though Grouse suspected that the true goal of the commission was to spend Seybert’s money on travel and lavish meals, it was nonetheless possible that it had since published something to justify its activities. He found his answer on his first visit to the university, and he did not even have to steal it; in fact, he had only to ask. The eagerness with which the librarian pressed a copy of the preliminary report on him made it clear the institution was proud of its role in something that he considered to be arrant nonsense.

He immediately set about reading it. Like Galván and Víctor more than a century later, in fact like anyone with more than a passing knowledge of the history of magic, the more he read, the more astonished he became. Nor was it a quick read. He had to spend four mornings at the library in order to wade through the 150 pages of the report. However, in spite of his reading difficulties, he too reached the obvious conclusion: the members of the commission, honest but credulous men, had not encountered a single spiritualist capable of dressing up his claims with even a modicum
of craftsmanship. He was not surprised that the commission had been bowled over by Kellar’s skill after so many third-rate spiritualists. The report only truly aroused his interest when he came to Furness’s appendices. Although in the main body of the report, Reverend Fullerton had endeavoured to maintain a strait-laced neutrality, Furness seemed intent on writing an adventure novel. He recounted his experiences in the first person, amused himself by detailing the circumstances of each disastrous encounter and described these self-professed mediums with biting sarcasm. More importantly, he seemed to bring to the task a sort of vengeful vitality, a violent scepticism and moral rage, as though he had concluded that the very idea of the existence of spirits was an insult to his intelligence. Peter Grouse was sufficiently acquainted with the human condition to realise that it was precisely the reverse. Furness’s rage at being duped could only be explained by his desperate need to believe. This was why he had continued to pursue his investigations, outside the aegis of the commission. His sarcasm concealed a deep, fervent, frustrated desire to happen on the exception, that one, perhaps unique, encounter that would allow him to finally let go, to exclaim: ‘They really do exist!’

Could he use this to his advantage? Could Grouse use Furness’s zeal, his indignation, to somehow help in his own machinations against Kellar? In other words, could he reawaken the commission’s interest and profit from its members’ gullibility?

He had to wait only two days to find out. That morning the newspaper announced ‘Harry Kellar’s triumphant return to the Philadelphia Opera House’. By dawn, the city was strewn with flyers advertising
KELLAR’S STARTLING WONDERS
and depicting the magician surrounded by goblins, demons and skeletons gesturing dramatically towards the dark interior of a wooden cabinet. Grouse made sure to get a front-row seat for the first night and had to admit that the show was first class, as long as he was prepared to ignore the integrity of the performer. Kellar effortlessly performed the finest illusions from around the world; the only problem was that none was his own invention. Zero. Not one. His only real addition was the introduction of magnets, clips and glues which he needed to perform the basic sleights of hand any other magician could perform without any help. So Grouse
sat, silently recalling the names of the genuine inventor of each trick, grateful that at least Kellar’s tone and his attitude onstage were not as arrogant as those of Maskelyne. By the end of the performance, his only concern was financial. By now he understood that Kellar would not be prepared to pay for a new trick. He clearly would not give a damn about improving his version of Psycho. No one knew better than Grouse how difficult it was to sell something to someone who was prepared to steal it.

But he had not made such a long and costly journey to give up at the first hurdle. Early the next morning, he sent three anonymous telegrams, all with the same wording: ‘Henry Seybert requests your presence tonight at the Park Street Opera House.’ Two were addressed to the editors of
Banner of Light
in Boston and
Mind and Matter
in Philadelphia, magazines which, for years, had been engaged in a bitter campaign not only against the Seybert Commission but against anyone who purported to unmask the spiritualists. The third telegram he sent to the University of Pennsylvania, addressed to Horace Howard Furness. All the recipients believed that Kellar himself had issued the invitations, undoubtedly another piece of blatant self-promotion. The magazines duly dispatched their editors in the hope of catching the magician making some mistake they could use against him. Furness showed up as requested simply to be entertained and, perhaps, out of gratitude for Kellar’s honesty.

The brilliance of Peter Grouse’s plan was its apparent simplicity: at some point during the performance he would make something unexpected happen in the cabinet, something for which even Kellar would have no explanation. If those he had invited were in attendance, the magazines would give the event considerable coverage and the commission would be forced to intervene. This would bring Kellar new fame, something the magician would make every effort to turn to his financial advantage. And by subsequently revealing the secret of the illusion, Grouse would ensure that he too was amply rewarded. He realised, however, that to pull it off would require considerable skill, sang-froid and an ability to improvise. So, as soon as he had sent the telegrams, and although there were twelve hours before the show started, he set off for the theatre with his picklocks. Once inside, he spent no time examining
the replicas of the automata or studying the marked cards and various mechanical devices Kellar used to make up for his lack of dexterity. Instead, he headed directly for the cabinet and, seeing that it was locked, could not help but smile. Did Kellar truly think this would protect the secrets he had had no compunction about stealing? Because to judge from its size, the cabinet was an exact copy of the one used by the Davenport Brothers. He quickly forced the lock, taking care not to damage it. The first part of the plan entailed hiding in the cabinet without anyone noticing – at least not until after the performance had started. He examined every inch of the interior. Sliding back the mirror, he found a nail from which hung a black canvas bag. He took it down and checked the contents: a cowbell, a folded hood, a small bag of flour, a stick of white chalk and a tiny pair of shears with blades so sharp they could cut through sheet metal. Kellar clearly did not do things by halves: when he asked his volunteers to tie him up, he did not give them ordinary rope, but ship’s cable. He had once allowed his wrists to be bound with chains.

Grouse put everything back in the bag and hung it on the nail. Then, he stepped into the cabinet, pressed himself into the corner and slid back the mirror. In the darkness, he opened his eyes and felt about him, calculating the size of the space. Though it would be tight, two people could fit in here, as long as the other was as thin as he was. This was all he needed to know. Now he could spend the remainder of his free time making a note of Kellar’s other mechanical secrets. And he could do what he most enjoyed: anticipate, run through in his mind every eventuality, every possible reaction, both of Kellar and of the witnesses he had invited. Memorise the score so he felt confident to improvise if he needed to.

Though he left the doors open, he spent a lot of time inside the cabinet, as though familiarising himself with it would make him more comfortable. He even sat inside while he ate the bread and sausages he had brought with him. In the early afternoon, a sudden hubbub alerted him to the fact that Kellar’s assistants had arrived to prepare for the evening’s performance. He savoured the last fresh air he would taste for quite some time, closed the doors from inside, pressed himself into the corner and slid back the mirror.
Then he dipped his hand into the canvas bag and took out the stick of chalk. This, he knew, was the first thing he would need. Instinctively, he rummaged for the shears too. Though the cabinet required no preparation before the show, there was no way of telling whether someone might decide to pop their head inside.

He spent two hours standing in the darkness, shifting his weight from one foot to the other to relax his muscles and breathing shallowly so as not to give himself away. From the noises outside, he kept track of the assistants’ progress, heard Kellar arrive with a roar of last-minute orders and instructions, listened as the audience filed in and took their seats, their applause as the curtain went up and, somewhat distantly, the magician’s opening speech, full of bluster and clichés about modern science. He listened attentively until Kellar mentioned the cabinet and, steeling himself for what was about to happen, pressed himself into the far corner of his hiding place. Just then, the cabinet was pushed towards the stage, and someone swiftly opened the doors, slipped inside, and slid back the mirror. It was Eva, Kellar’s petite wife, who acted as his assistant for almost all of his illusions. As though his own presence was the most natural thing in the world, Grouse brought his finger to his lips to silence her and gestured to the space next to him. Perplexed, Eva hesitated for a moment, but then saw there was nothing for it but to do as he suggested. By now, the cabinet had been wheeled onstage by two assistants and she could not risk any part of her body being visible when Kellar threw open the doors. Nor could she say anything without alerting the audience to her presence.

Oblivious to what was happening inside the cabinet, the magician, as always, called for two volunteers from the audience. The editors of
Banner of Light
and
Mind and Matter
immediately jumped to their feet. As they made their way to the stage, Kellar announced that what they were about to witness was the fruit of his ingenuity, of his mastery of molecular transformation, blah, blah, blah.

He opened the doors and asked the volunteers to examine the cabinet and tell the audience of any irregularity they encountered. The volunteers eagerly examined it in minute detail and were forced to admit that it was just an ordinary wooden wardrobe.

‘Very well,’ the magician said with heavy irony. ‘Well, it can’t hurt to make sure. And since we know that the spirits like to communicate by writing on slates, let’s give them an opportunity to do so.’ He showed a slate to the volunteers to confirm that it was blank. Then he set it down on the floor of the cabinet, closed the doors and rapped on them with his knuckles. ‘As you can see, it’s made of solid wood.’

The knocking was a signal to Eva that she could get to work. Grouse slid back the mirror and grabbed the slate. Eva tried to stop him and, in the scuffle that followed, she gave a sort of grunt. Kellar thought that his wife had had some minor accident, but immediately recovered his composure, making a quick joke and still mentally counting off the twelve seconds he usually gave Eva to write the message.

When he opened the doors, the slate was on the floor where he expected it to be. Normally, he would hand it to one of the volunteers without even looking at it so that they could read the message aloud, which was invariably the same: ‘Enough with the spirits, Kellar, show us the science.’ But on this occasion, alerted by the curious sounds, he glanced at the slate before handing it over. ‘Summon Mr Furness. We have a message for him.’ Kellar had no choice but to accept the situation and allow the volunteers to read out the message.

Furness was not at all surprised to be called onstage. After all, if Kellar had sent the invitation it was logical that he should try to take advantage of his presence. The magician greeted the investigator and, as he looked at him quizzically, informed the audience that Furness was an eminent scholar, famous for debunking fraudulent spiritualists. He offered Furness the opportunity to examine the cabinet, which the professor did somewhat carelessly since he assumed he would find nothing. Then, he invited him to step inside and close the doors. This was the moment when Eva usually pulled the hood over the volunteer’s head and sprinkled him with flour, skilfully using only one hand since she needed the other to ring the bell for the audience to hear. But Grouse prevented her getting to the black bag, pressing her back into the corner with one arm so she could not move.

‘Horace, it’s Henry Seybert. Though you cannot see me, I am here,’ Grouse said, disguising his voice.

‘Furness, let my husband know there is someone in here with me,’ whispered Eva.

Neither had reckoned on the professor being quite so deaf. For several seconds nothing happened. Outside, Kellar realised that something strange was going on when he did not hear the bell ringing. A moment later he opened the doors and found Furness standing there, with no hood on his head and no trace of flour. Forced once more to improvise, the magician turned to the audience and said: