Tom Mead has been called “ingenious” by Phil Rickman, “brilliantly inventive” by Michael Jecks, “a master of the art of misdirection” by Peter Lovesey, and a “dazzling new talent” by TP Fielden. His debut novel Death and the Conjuror was an international bestseller, nominated for ‘Debut Novel of the Year’ in the Capital Crime Awards and the Debut Crown from the Historical Writers’ Association. The sequel, The Murder Wheel, was published in October 2023, described as “brilliant” in a Publishers Weekly starred review and “pure nostalgic pleasure” by the Wall Street Journal. His third novel, Cabaret Macabre, will be published in 2024. You can find his author website here: https://tommeadauthor.com/ and you can follow him on social media @TomMeadAuthor.
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A magic audience is unlike any other. There is an atmosphere of sheer boisterousness that pervades, and the crowd outside the Pomegranate was no different. It was all part of the appeal for Edmund Ibbs, overgrown adolescent that he was. He was thinking about this when the house doors opened and a sea of shoulders began jostling him toward the foyer. It wasn’t long until the audience was permitted to enter the auditorium. He filed in along with the rest and took his seat.
Paolini emerged onstage in a puff of blue smoke, to the sound of raucous applause. He silenced the audience with a wave of his hand, and spoke. “For my first trick of the evening, I will show you something which nobody anywhere has managed to explain. Martha, if you please.”
From the wings emerged his assistant, Martha. Her glittering costume was a one-piece, a slim sheaf of fabric covering her from collarbone to thigh. It was threaded with sequins to catch the light and occlude the audience’s vision—this was something Ibbs knew about. Her hair was short—scarcely reached her shoulders—but it curled and frizzed outward in a great mad halo.
Martha approached Paolini with a silver tray covered by a cloth. Paolini whisked away the cloth with a flourish. Underneath was a .38 revolver. Ibbs thought of Dominic Dean, and an unanticipated chill ran down his spine.
“A revolver,” said Paolini, seizing it. “And fully loaded.” He cracked it open and showed the crowd the cylinder, complete with six bullets. “Many great magicians—greater even than I—have perished in the performance of this next illusion. Take for instance the magnificent Madame DeLinsky, executed by an unwitting firing squad in front of the royal court of Germany! Or, scarcely two decades ago, my esteemed colleague Chung Ling Soo, who died on a stage a few miles away from this very theatre.”
He reeled off a litany of dead magicians with palpable relish, but Ibbs was thinking about Chung Ling Soo. He had been nine years old when the magician died, and it had left him devastated. He began to sweat. If you had asked him at that moment, he would have told you it was the sheer anticipation and anxiety in watching a magician handle a loaded revolver. But if you asked him afterward, when it was all over, he would have told you that he had experienced a premonition. That he knew something was going to happen that night.
“Now, I know what you are thinking. You are thinking: ‘Paolini is a professional trickster! Surely that is merely a prop weapon, which is not capable of firing live ammunition!’ Well, let me allay your uncertainty. You, sir!” Paolini leaned forward, holding the weapon out to a man in the front row. “Will you take the revolver, and check that it is the genuine article?”
The man mumbled something and took the pistol, turning it over in his hands.
“Good. Are you satisfied?” A mumbled response. “Excellent. And so!” he exclaimed. “The weapon is real. The ammunition is real. And the target,” he patted his fulsome belly, “is very real.
“Now, for this trick, I will require the participation of a willing audience member. I must warn you, though, that there is a very real risk of death for those who dare to perform this dazzling feat. I would like to assure you that, in the event of my demise, the Pomegranate Theatre will absolve you of any legal responsibility. Well? Who’s willing?”
Paolini snapped his fingers and the house lights came on. Ibbs hunkered down in his seat. A foolish move—he caught Paolini’s eye.
“You sir! The gentleman in the third row! Will you oblige?”
His face burning red, Ibbs got to his feet. To the sound of nervous applause, he made his way onstage. Martha the assistant beamed at him and handed over the revolver.
It was heavy. Somehow Ibbs had not expected it to be a real weapon. But it was. A revolver loaded with six live rounds.
Paolini waved his hand once more and the audience fell silent. Martha was wheeling a large pane of glass onstage. She positioned it carefully between Ibbs and Paolini.
“And what is your name, sir?”
“Edmund.”
“And have you ever handled a weapon before, Edmund?”
Ibbs shook his head.
“Very well. I can tell you that it’s quite simple. All you need to do is to take careful aim. Here—this should be a big enough target for you.” Paolini opened his mouth wide. Cue nervous laughter from the audience.
Ibbs did as he was told, though his hand quivered slightly. His aim was far from steady. It occurred to him what a neat method of murder this would be: a perfect way to kill a troublesome magician.
“Now,” said Paolini, “fire!”
Ibbs squeezed the trigger. The blast was deafening, and the kickback sent him reeling backward a few steps. There were gasps from the audience as the pane of glass shattered and Paolini staggered to the apron of the stage.
Martha sprang forward, seizing the revolver from his shaking hand. Paolini dropped to his knees.
The gasps from the crowd gave way to astonished murmurs. Ibbs looked at Martha, who was stone-faced. She stood, silent and statuesque, as Paolini twitched hideously.
Ibbs had never seen a man die before. It was not the way he had pictured it. There was no blood. None. He frowned and, less than a second later, Paolini was on his feet, grinning, flashing the spent bullet between his teeth. He removed it between gloved fingers and handed it to Ibbs.
“You may keep that, Edmund, as a souvenir of the night Paolini cheated death! And you will please return to your seat.”
(C) Tom Mead 2023