The Darke Chronicles by David Stuart Davies Page A

heavenly host, she would have accepted the situation and been pleased for you. She just wanted things to be right and proper for her father, and an independent investigation would present the truth – or as near the truth as we ever get to in this life.’
    ‘I see,’ said Hordern quietly. ‘And what is the truth?’
    ‘The truth is that Sebastien Le Page is running the most genteel of extortion rackets. He discovers rich widows or widowers, and then arranges for the angel to pay a nightly visit. This is followed up with a personal call from the man himself. As he did with you.’
    ‘As he did with me,’ repeated Hordern dully. ‘But what about the angel?’
    ‘I’ll come to that later, sir. First, let me run through the extortion process. I suspect your reaction to Le Page’s first visit was a fairly standard one. Le Page would be used to and prepared for the initial rejection. But another nightly vision and the bereaved victim is hooked, convinced that the angel brings greetings from beyond the grave. That was the really clever part of the scheme. If you believe that a heavenly visitor is prompting this spiritual communion, you are more likely to accept the various fairground theatricals that follow. There are numerous fake mediums in London, but none with such prestigious credentials as one with an angel on his side.’
    ‘You mean all those séances were … were false. I didn’t communicate with my dear wife?’ The old man’s voice trembled with emotion as he sought confirmation from his daughter.
    She shook her head.
    ‘Everything you experienced in the dark during those sessions can be explained away as a trick.’ It was Edward Thornton who spoke now. ‘There would be an accomplice, maybe more than one, in the room with you. They would be dressed in black from head to foot so you could not see them. In this way candles can beblown out, perfume sprayed in the air, material rustled as though a woman is present and even a vague shape may be glimpsed. Any female voice in such a situation could be easily accepted as the one that your heart desires it to be.’
    Hordern, his eyes now moist with tears, ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I’ve been a fool. A gullible old fool.’
    ‘You have been a victim, Mr Hordern. One of many, I am sorry to say. Once you were ensnared, then Le Page could ask you for money, large amounts of money, and you were grateful to pass it over to him. As Luther observed, it is the most genteel form of blackmail.’
    ‘But how did Le Page manage the angel illusion?’
    ‘Aha,’ said Luther rubbing his hands, ‘that is where our Mr Le Page – the Doctor qualification is also false – was exceedingly clever. He was at one time principal projectionist to the Lumière brothers in their cinematography show – moving pictures. No doubt while working with them he had the idea for the angel illusion. You photograph an actor who is dressed as an angel against a black background with a moving picture camera. All you need is about ninety seconds of film. And then you project the film against a window at night, using it as a transparent screen. The image can be seen on the other side, as though the angel is real and suspended in mid-air.’
    ‘This is incredible,’ said Cornelius Hordern shaking his head in wonder.
    ‘Ingenious, I would say, but not incredible. In fact, sir, it is far more credible than the alternative. The inspector and I found signs in the grounds near your bedroom window where the tripod supporting the projector had rested for the celestial film show. As for the voice in your bedroom calling your name, you need look no further than your maid, Sadie. I am afraid she was seduced into assisting in this charade by one of Le Page’s handsome accomplices. No doubt he promised wealth and marriage and, silly little girl that she is, she fell in with their plans. She used the speaking tubein your bedroom as a means of creating the disembodied voice. On the night of the