The Shadow in the North Read Free

property that was her own; and that the next, after a clergyman had pronounced them married, every single thing that was hers would become (in the eyes of the law) her husband's instead—that was intolerable. Frederick protested in vain, offered to draw up legal agreements swearing that he'd never touch her property, begged and pleaded and got angry and threw things, and then laughed at himself and at her. She wouldn't budge.
    As a matter of fact, it wasn't as simple as she claimed. There had been a Married Women's Property Act passed in 1870, which had removed some of the injustices, though not the worst ones; but Frederick knew nothing of the law and didn't know that Sally's property could legally remain hers under certain conditions. But because Sally was uncertain of her feelings, she stuck to

    this principle—and rather dreaded the passing of a new act, since it would force her to decide one way or the other.
    Recently this had led to a quarrel and a coolness between them, and they hadn't spoken or seen each other for weeks. She'd been surprised to find how much she missed him. He'd be just the person to talk to about this Anglo-Baltic business. . . .
    She cleared away the coffee cups, ratding them crossly as she thought of his flippancy, his facetiousness, his straw-colored hair. Let him come to her first; she had real work to do.
    And with that, she settled down at the desk with her book of clippings and began to read about Axel Bell-mann.

    C/ne ^M/izard oj ike rlorlh
    Sally's friend Jim Taylor spent a good deal of his time (when he wasn't cultivating his criminal acquaintances, or betting money on horses, or flirting with chorus girls and barmaids) writing melodramas. He had a passion for the stage. Frederick's sister Rosa (now married to a most respectable clergyman) had been an actress when they first met, and she'd fired an interest already stoked by his long and devoted reading of such penny magazines as Stirring Tales for British Lads and Spring-Heeled ]ack, the Terror of London. He'd written several bloodcurdling plays since then and, not wanting to waste his genius on second-best companies, he'd sent them to the Lyceum Theatre, for the consideration of the great Henry Irving. So far, though, he'd received nothing back but polite acknowledgments.
    He spent his evenings in the music hall—not in the audience, but where it was far more interesting: backstage, among the carpenters and the stagehands and the lighting crew, not to mention the artists and the chorus girls. He'd worked in several theaters, learning all the time, and on the evening of the day Miss Walsh called

    on Sally he was doing various jobs behind the scenes in die Britannia Music Hall in Pentonville.
    And it was there that he came across a mystery of his own.
    One of the artists on the bill was a conjurer by the name of Alistair Mackinnon—a young man who'd sprung to extraordinary fame in the short time he'd been appearing on the London stage. It was one of Jim's jobs to call the artists from their dressing rooms shortly before they were due to come onstage, and when he knocked on the door of Mackinnon's room and called out "Five minutes, Mr. Mackinnon," he was surprised to hear no answer.
    He knocked again, louder. Still there was no reply, and Jim, knowing that no performer would miss a call if he could humanly help it, opened the door to see if Mackinnon was actually there.
    He was: in evening dress and chalk-white makeup, his eyes like black stones. He was gripping the arms of a wooden chair in front of the mirror. Beside him stood two other men, also in evening dress: one a small, mild-looking man with spectacles, the other a heavily built character who tried, as Jim looked in, to conceal a life preserver—a short stick loaded with lead—behind his back. He'd forgotten the mirror; Jim could see the weapon perfecdy.
    "Five minutes, Mr. Mackinnon," Jim said again, his mind racing. "I thought you might not have heard."
    "All right, Jim,"