---

Saturday 17th May 1879: The Coffee House

Today started better than I could have dreamed. Silas arrived early in the morning with the most wonderful news: Fodemere had agreed to his proposal! I was astonished at the ease with which our little game had delivered a result, hugging Silas with excitement.

Fodemere replied that he would be delighted to indulge our request, asking only that Silas present me at the dressing rooms prior to the performance so he could pick me from the audience—and there was no mention of payment. It was almost too easy, but now was not the time for such suspicions. Now as the time for shopping! “I must buy a new frock! And Daphne must help me!”

Saturday 17th May 1879: Lichfield Hall, Thornton Heath; Baron Churchill’s residence

Silas left me in high spirits, on his way to see the Baron. He later reported the grumpy old Major was in a foul mood, snapping at everything in sight, including Silas. He was drowning himself in whiskey, despite it only being midday, and cursing at a map of Europe he had sprawled on his desk. Something had got his goat and he was muttering about the Prussians and the impending marriage of young Prince Arthur to that most unattractive Princess Margaret.

Before Silas could get a word in, the Baron started complaining about how long our investigations were taking. “I thought I made myself quite clear. Langbrook issued me a challenge and I do not intend to fail!”

“It will take as long as it takes,” Silas retorted calmly, pouring himself a whiskey which did nothing to improve the Baron’s mood. “Am I not paying you enough?” he snapped.

“Not enough to be beaten up by Fodemere’s thugs, no,” Silas grunted.

At which point the Baron snapped his fingers and called for Singh. “Bring the chequebook!”

Silas had heard, and see, quite enough by this point. He explained his findings with regards to the O’Hara’s, producing both the above and below board reports. The Baron listened carefully, particularly to the findings that suggested Jessica’s involvement. Then Silas issued his own challenge to the Baron. “What is it you have promised the constabulary? I am not in the habit of writing reports to suit a predetermined outcome”

“I have promised the assistance of the finest physician that I know,” the Baron snorted, seeing immediately that flattery was not going to work on good Doctor Hawthorne.

“Clements has a hard carrot for Ms Harrow,” Silas growled, “Which is a quite absurd theory that he clearly wanted to support. So I ask again; what exactly have you agreed with Dolly?”

The Baron only scowled. “Do you think it would be good if people knew the real reason for these deaths?”

“Of course not.”

“Good. In which case we won’t tell you what to say because you already know! Now get yourself out of here and find out about these damned mirrors. The sooner we satisfy Langbrook the better off we will all be.”

“We?” Silas probed. “Why will ‘we’ be better off?”

The Baron had had quite enough. “Leave!”

Silas did, making sure to pick up the blank cheque proffered by Singh on the way out.

Saturday 17th May 1879: Aldgate; Mr Blackwood’s residence

Saturday was also auspicious for Mr Blackwood, we later heard. He was going about his business when a gentlemen of his acquaintance near knocked him over in the street.

It was Mr Anthony Salvin, an elderly man in his 70s and apparently a quite famous architect. Mr Blackwood knew him from his Embankment days but had not seen him for many years. Salvin was evidently in quite the hurry.

“Tony!” Blackwood cried, to which Salvin immediately responded with no formalities. “Blackwood my boy! Listen, could you do me a favour and hold onto something for me?”

Blackwood reported being somewhat taken aback by the abruptness of the request, expecting more reminiscences from his old friend and sometime mentor. But as we have discovered, Blackwood is an amenable chap when he is not in his rage, so he agreed.

“Good, good. Here, take this and keep it for me—I will return to collect it in a few day.” He thrust a quartto sized folio in a leather pouch into Mr Blackwood’s hands, and with a profusion of hurried ‘thank-you’s’ he hurried away into a Hansom Cab.

Mr Blackwood returned to his residence. He considered himself a man of honour so there was no question of his opening the contents, a 2-inch thick wad of what felt like papers. As we were to discover in a few days, the contents were something we could never have imagined.

Sunday 18th May 1879: The Coffee house

A day of rest with only one morsel of interest: word reached me that Catherine le Bouff’s establishment—Mr Tumnus—had been the victim of a police raid. This surprised me as Catherine was, like myself, always one to make the appropriate payments to stop this kind of thing well in advance. I put some feelers out and discovered it was a show raid only; much fuss and bluster but nothing to show for it, and no arrests. Still, a curiosity and I spent a slow day making doubly sure my house was in order.

Monday 19th May 1879: The Coffee House

We had agreed to regather at the Coffee House on Monday to review the status of our request to Fodemere. Silas and Blackwood were in good time, and I held our good news on that front for the arrival of Daphne.

Who surprised us firstly by arriving barely six minutes late, and secondly by being dressed entirely in mourning clothes. He stomped into the room and flumped into a chair. “She’s not a ‘sister’,” he exclaimed, “She’s a ‘Sister’!”

After a flurry of queries the full romantic tragedy emerged.

---

Miss Thompson had invited Daphne to Selywn Court in Soho, warning him that it was quite a tricky place to find but any local would be able to direct him. Daphne had arrived to find she was quite right, and spent some time wandering with mounting frustration (which he vented on his poor footman; you could not pay me to be in the Marlyebone employ!).

As he wandered aimlessly he was surprised by ‘Jennifer’, the sister of ‘Gordon’, a chum from Eton. Jennifer was accompanied by her mother Lady Judith, which caused Daphne to groan: Judith was a good friend of his mother and he wasn’t keen that she should learn of this latest endeavour. They were in high spirits and very excited to see Daphne slumming it in Soho. After an appropriate amount of vapidity, Daphne threw caution to the wind and asked them for directions, and to his surprise they pointed him to French St, from which Selwyn Court led off. Daphne was curious to see Jennifer gasp and put her hand to her mouth when he asked, and Lady Judith seemed to go an even paler shade of white, but he passed that off to women’s business and continued on his way.

Eventually he found a coachway entrance, well concealed, which opened to a nice little square, and there before him was #3.

(At this point I suddenly had a flash: #3 Selywn Court? Why that was Catherine le Bouff’s very address! I kept mum, but Daphne’s tale had taken on a whole new dimension; it was not the type of house where I would expect a respectable young lady to present herself.)

Daphne was led upstairs by a disinterested young butler (he could barely bring himself to pick up Daphne’s intentionally dropped coat). In the various sitting rooms downstairs were clusters of well-heeled gentlemen, who averted their eyes to Daphne’s glances.

The butler invited Daphne to a doorway and left him to it. Inside was a comfortable room overlooking the square, with two large, peacock green lounge chairs facing the window. Daphne could see no-one in them, such was their size, and he started to suspect a game was being played.

“Susannah?” he ventured into the room.

“Daphne?” a woman’s voice replied, just as the door clicked shut behind him.

Instead of the ravishing Susannah, someone entirely unexpected stood up from the chair: Simon d’Chartreuse, clutching his trademark tumbler of absinthe, in a jacket that matched his drink precisely.

“Well, well, look what the cat dragged in,” Daphne said wryly, always ahead of surprises (I would have been speechless!)

Simone enjoyed this very much, laughing as Susannah stood from the other chair, also in green, smiling like the same cat but one who got the cream.

“Well I guess you won’t be wanting these, ‘Susannah’,” Daphne said flatly, tossing a bag of mandarins onto the floor. “They’re from Spain,” he shrugged as if it were nothing.

“Sister, you may leave now,” Simone said to Susannah.

“Oh so you are available?” Daphne said, interest piqued again.

Susannah laughed and departed.

“It’s always a delight to see you, Daphne,” Simone said, pouring two glasses of his green liqueur.

Daphne drowned his in a single gulp. “Not a delight for me. If you remember, Simone, last time we were together a house burnt down and about twelve people died.”

“Surely not twelve,” Simone smiled. “But yes, that scheme went up in smoke.”

“From the ashes a phoenix shall rise, and here you are,” Daphne said with exaggerated sarcasm, recalling Simone had been trying to use Peabody’s to blackmail someone in some overly complex way. “So—is your sister available?”

“I don’t have a—oh! Sister, I see. She’s not that kind of sister.”

Daphne groaned, realising he’d been pursuing a satanic nun?! Although, he considered an instant later, that might be quite interesting. “Well if that’s not why I’m here, what is all this about?”

Simone then revealed his plot: blackmail, pure and simple. He wanted a ‘donation’ for his church, and Daphne was an easy target. Daphne laughed this off, saying his family was constantly being shaken down for money and very few, if any, were successful.

Simone smiled. “Indeed. And yet I think perhaps your family will be very interested when they find out their favourite son is implicated in a Molly house, witnessed by good friends of your parents.”

“Pah! I have been involved in many worse scandals!” Daphne exclaimed. His mind was racing: how had Simone managed to have Lady Judith here, and had Susannah been a plant in the audience that day? The mechanisms and coincidences were complex, but if it had been a long game then Simone was perhaps cleverer than he gave on.

Simone made more idle threats of a similar nature, vouching that the gentlemen downstairs would place Daphne in some highly embarrassing positions, and Daphne fended each off with typical Marlyebone confidence.

Eventually Simone checked his watch and announced that Daphne had approximately 120 seconds before the premises would be raided by the constabulary. Daphne wasn’t overly concerned, but realised it would be far easier to not be in the house when this occurred.

“How much do you want?”

“Two-hundred pounds, for a start.”

“Done. There will be a delay, banking and withdrawals,” Daphne said apologetically.

“Sixty seconds, Daphne. I will accompany you for comfortable egress, if you agree?”

“You know I am best friends with Superintendent Williamson—Dolly, I know him as—I am sure he will be very interested in your endeavours here.”

For the first time Simone seemed to lose his footing. He blanched, flummoxed, but recovered his wits. “30 seconds.”

“Can Susannah come with us,” Daphne asked, pressing his advantage.

“She’s not here.”

“For two-hundred quid I think you can get her.”

“She’s long gone,” Simone said, sweat breaking out on his brow.

“A satanist is tempting…”

“That can be arranged! Can we go!” It was now Simone who was feeling the pressure of the promised raid, so Daphne bowed and they made their escape.

(So the raid on Mr Tumnus’s was to catch Daphne! I was quite astonished at the sophistication of this plot.)

Daphne dragged Simone to the nearest branch of his banking, making a show of the complexity and withdrawing to the safe rooms to handle the money. Therein he alerted the bank manager, a close business associate of his father’s (of course), to the blackmail, directing him to send a boy directly to Scotland Yard. He waited until two panting police officers arrived before emerging, only to find Simone long gone.

Satisfied with a job well done, Daphne redeposited the money (less a handling fee for this evening’s entertainment) and went directly to his father’s valet where he reported everything. Lord Marlyebone’s valet was the scariest man in London, an Irish hard man who said he looked forward to meeting Mr d’Chartreuse. Even Daphne quivered at that prospect.

Returning to his home there was one last twist: on his top step lay a single green feather.

---

“Simone left it,” Daphne sighed, concluding his remarkable tale.

“James,” Silas said, “Are you implying Miss Thompson and Miss Claremont are both satanist nuns?”

“Not implying, it is fact!”

I asked if it was possible Simone had planted Miss Thompson in the audience at the theatre to lure Daphne. It seemed so unlikely and yet the events that followed all led back to that conclusion.

“Come on Gideon, tempting Daphne is like shooting fish in a barrel,” Silas laughed.

“Like using the right lure when fly fishing,” Mr Blackwood added.

“That’s a lot of bait to put on one hook,” Silas said as the metaphor collapsed.

“I do wonder,” Mr Blackwood continued, surprising us with a second sentence in as many moments, “Is there a link between Simone, Fodemere, and the séance?”

We discussed this further, feeling sure there as a link, but, much like DI Clement, unable to tie it all together to our satisfaction.

Our speculation exhausted, I dragged a despondent Daphne to accompany me on my frock-buying mission, ready for Wednesday evening. He was soon roused to full fashion enthusiasm, introducing me to his favourite off-row tailors. It was an eye opening experience to see how the very rich can have anything they desire. We settled on the business of Clementine Clorice who was mad for every concept, willing to go as far as we desired.

With Daphne’s help we designed something rather unhinged; a gothic dress in blood red with exposed faux-ribs over the breast, and a back layered with hundreds of tiny-mirrors as a tip of the had to Fodemere’s magic. The shoulders were fashioned to close mimic to the Colopinto frames, and Daphne cleverly requested a jacket to cover all this so it could be revealed in all its glory once I stepped on stage.

Fashion is fickle, but I was thrilled, and our success lifted Daphne out of his funk. Wednesday can not some soon enough!

Wednesday 21st May 1879: Dock Street Theatre

I am scribbling this quickly before the show, wanting to capture it before events unfold.

Mr Blackwood has revealed to us some disturbing news. His associated, Mr Salvin, has been missing now for some days. Indeed when he mentioned it I recalled seeing it in today’s broadsheet but hadn’t put it together with Blackwood’s man.

---

This left Blackwood with a dilemma. He had Salvin’s package, but now nowhere to deliver it. After a struggle with his conscience, he decided to crack open the satchel to see if anything inside might help him with an address or similar.

Imagine his shock (and ours upon hearing it) to find a large envelope affixed with the official seal of Queen Victoria! I paled on hearing this, as did Silas. The Baron and Dolly were one thing, but getting mixed up with the Her Royal Majesty quite another.

Blackwood said he briefly considered making a mold of the seal so he could break it open, before coming to his senses.

“You should open it you coward!” Daphne teased, though I could see he was serious beneath his bluster. I too was curious but it did seem a last resort!

Instead he decided to hand the package to Superintendent Williamson. He travelled to the Yard, and managed to convince his way inside. He had reached the penultimate official before his progress was stopped: by Clement! In his gruff way, Blackwood gave very little away, and Clement, in his way, seemed barely interested in Salvin or the package, instead insisting on asking once again about me!? Presumably he was back from High Wycombe, which gave me grave concern. If he had discovered the bullet lodged in Jessica’s skull, he knew our stories were poppycock. And we had thought him off my trail, so to be immediately pressing Blackwood about it again was worrying.

Mr Blackwood tried several approached to breaching Clement’s wall, from dropping the Baron’s name (Clement claimed not to know him) to stressing the extreme importance of contents the package and asking when he could see Dolly (Clement: “I’m here to ask the questions, not you”).

Eventually Blackwood gave up and departed, still clutching the explosive satchel. He found he had just enough time for a run down to Thornton Heath to visit the Baron. The Baron received him in typical two-sheets-to-the-wind spirits, until Blackwood showed him the sealed envelope. The Baron’s mood instantly darkened and he became rigidly formal.

“Two things. Williamson is a tool, nothing more. Is he trustworthy? I don’t know. I want you to find out what happened to Salvin. If he had concerns for the safety of this document then I would take them very seriously. Hold onto it—this seal is nothing to be sneezed at and I worry for you carrying it. Secondly, Clement is a man of robotic intellect, and as such he is dangerous in his way.”

Mr Blackwood ‘yes sirred’ his way through this series of facts, then returned to London where he hid the folio in his ceiling tile, before joining us at the Theatre.

Wednesday 21st May 1879: The Coffee House

It is difficult to write anything tonight. I am thoroughly disappointed in myself and feel like I have let down not only our small company of investigators—particularly Silas whose name must be mud to Doctor Fodemere—but my Coffee House staff and the greater London society. What a debacle tonight was.

And it was all my idea.

How arrogant of me to suppose I could outsmart a practiced showman, a magician whose very livelihood depends on his secrets being kept. Of course others must have tried to pry it from him, by hook or by crook. Of course he would be prepared for further attempts, including from pathetic types such as me, telegraphing my every move leaving no hope of success. Oh! The shame! I feel faint even contemplating the ruin of my reputation.

Despite my mood I must capture the full catastrophe, much as it pains me.

Even in this state a thought does occur to me; it is curious, now I have had time to digest everything, how upset I am—despite my guess that the mirrors were nothing but what they seemed being essentially proven right. Why does this upset me? Could it be that, like the gentlemen, I secretly wanted there to be something magical about the mirrors, something wonderful, a supernatural force that could transport a man in an instant. Magic, unexplained.

Perhaps. Or perhaps I am simply embarrassed.

---

Silas and I were introduced to Doctor Fodemere as planned. Also as planned, Fodemere was struck by my attire, his eyes roaming hungrily over every surface. I feigned young girl nerves as we made small talk, but I could sense in his eyes that he soon saw through my coquettish behaviour. That was good to know as it put my on greater alert for the hi-jinks to come.

We rejoined our companions, presenting the drink vouchers Fodemere had kindly provided. Daphne reacted like we had dropped a tarantula onto the table! Instead he ordered the finest champagne and we toasted to our success.

It was here that Blackwood regaled us with the tale of Mr Salvin, which I captured hastily when visiting the smallest room. Daphne was curious about Salving, asking Mr Blackwood, quite rudely, “Is he creepy like you?”

Blackwood to his credit (or his naïve credulity) took no offence, simply explaining who Salvin was. With that context Daphne immediately recognised the name: “Oh! He is so boring. We owned some property where a Prince got beheaded so of course we had to have it preserved, blah blah, and Salvin worked on it. And is is a bit creepy!”

Showtime approached, so I called the company to order. “Now, gentlemen, we have a decision. Which approach should I take once onstage? The first, and easier, is to tear aside the curtains to reveal the mirrors. The second, my preferred, is for me to attempt to step through the mirror, much as Doctor Fodemere does.”

After some debate about my safety and the likely outcomes, we arrived on the decision: I was to stumble into the mirror, ‘tripping’ on my heels. The gentlemen would be positioned near to stage to assist when things got out of hand, as we were sure they rapidly would.

We entered the darkened theatre, seated three rows from front of stage. Everyone in the audience knew the show backwards by now, regulars all, chatting excitedly through the early performers. All that changed once Fodemere took to the stage; even for his ten-penny tricks the crowd was entertained and appreciative.

My nerves were a chaotic bundle as the lights dropped to spotlight Fodemere for the magic we had all been waiting for. The mirrors where wheeled on stage by Quill and Sayers as Fodemere built the tension with his patter: “Please keep noise to a minimum, the danger cannot be underestimated!”

From our stagefront position the mirror trick was even more impressive. The illusion was seamless, incredible, it really was Fodemere stepping out of the second mirror as he vanished through the first. The only oddity was how he seemed to almost dive through the first mirror, as if speed or determination was the only way to be sure he would emerge from the second.

Finally my moment arrived as Fodemere called for a volunteer. I stood, as did several other young women. For a moment I feared all was ruined when Fodemere’s eyes swept past me, but it was all show; his gaze returned to me and he beckoned me on stage to applause from the audience (and crestfallen looks from the other volunteers).

I smiled widely and slowly removed my jacket, bringing murmurs from those nearby as my dress was revealed in all its splendour. I stepped carefully up on stage, led by Sayers. Daphne let out a raucous wolf-whistle as the spotlight caught the mirrors in my dress, spotlighting the audience with tiny beams as I turned with a flourish.

Fodemere met my gaze as I approached him, telling me he was watching my every move very carefully. This was the first warning that things were not to go as planned, and the first time my confidence wavered. The parchment and graphite was produced by Sayers, and Fodemere invited me to write my message. I had of course rehearsed this, and wanted to send a message to Fodemere with what I wrote:

What mysteries lie within?

Fodemere lifted the paper and raised an eyebrow, his eyes sharpening. “Now Miss Harrow,” (I did not correct him) “If you would be so kind as to approach the second mirror so I may hand your note to you.”

“Oh Doctor Fodemere, may I not pass it through myself?”

“No. I will pass it to you, if you please?” Fodemere said firmly, walking to the first mirror.

I took a look back at Silas and Blackwood (Daphne had moved to side of stage) and walked firmly forward…toward the first mirror.

“Now, now, Miss Harrow!” Fodemere exclaimed as Sayers stepped between us, “The second mirror.”

A ripple of laughter went through the audience and I realised I was trapped. I could not possibly get past Sayers and Fodemere to the first mirror. With a shiver of worry I nodded and walked slowly to the mirror stage right. And this is where the second warning happened: standing in the shadows of the far mirror was the hulking form of Quill, resting his foot upon the frame of the mirror, and a hand stabilising the frame from the side. How had we not noticed this! I cursed silently, wishing we had attended a second show before this, the better to scout out our obstacles. My second-story tutors would be shamed by my lack of planning; I had let enthusiasm and chutzpah get in the way of execution.

All this went through my mind in a flash as I walked tentatively toward the mirror, making sure to stumble slightly on a loose floorboard, the better to sell my still-planned trip. I stood before the mirror with Quill breathing down my neck.

Fodemere went through his routine and suddenly his hand and lower arm appeared directly before me. It was quite astonishing to witness and I could see no good explanation for how it was possible. But I had a mission and there was not time for speculation. With a quick breath I suddenly leapt toward the mirror.

But Quill was anticipating exactly this. He dropped his shoulder into me and shunted me away from my path. I collapsed with a pathetic wail to the wooden stage as the audience gasped and cried out. Some even booed, to my shame!

As I climbed to my feet, Quill looming over me, I noticed the parchment fluttering to the floor. I glanced back at Fodemere, who was holding both his arms aloft and looking with a mixture of deep concern and deep relief at the hand that had passed the note. Had he feared he would lose it in the scuffle? I picked up the parchment and saw with resignation it was indeed my writing, and was indeed my message: there could be no doubt. How?!

Fodemere recovered himself and joked with the audience about my faux pas. There were butter in his hands, and I was an outcast. He called for Quill to bring the parchment forth, and I saw one last opportunity to rescue our mission. As Quill was distracted I leapt through the curtains into the mirror.

And ended up on the floor again. It was just a mirror.

The audience cackled at my misfortune as Fodemere wryly explained it away as an unfortunate stumble. He knew exactly what was going on, and, consummate professional that he was (unlike the consummate fool I had proven myself to be) he turned it to his advantage.

How I escaped the theatre is a blank to me. Silas and Mr Blackwood were by my side, and I do recall Daphne entertaining a cadre of admirers, telling them all about his hand in the creation of the dress, and somehow we found our way outside.

I was speechless, almost in shock, and despite Silas’s best efforts I could not rouse myself. As I wrote earlier, it is curious in retrospect given I had been so sure the mirror would be a mirror.

“A complete shambles,” I said softly before disappearing into the night.

---