Things Half in Shadow by Alan Finn

Edward Clark.
    Now it is mine.

III
    L ater that evening, I found myself riding in Mrs. Collins’s impressive coach. To where, I did not know. The streets were filled with people from all walks of life emerging outdoors to enjoy the crisp spring air. Couples on their way to dinner strolled arm in arm down the crowded sidewalk, passing a lone lamplighter who paused every few steps to brighten the quickening dusk. If those along the street happened to peek into the windows of the coach, they probably would have assumed Mrs. Collins and I were just like them. A happy couple heading out for an enjoyable evening of food, drink, and entertainment. If they had looked closer, though, they would have seen Mrs. Collins and I sitting a good deal apart. Those who were particularly observant might have also noticed the ruthless gleam in her eyes and the panic in my own.
    Also making me nervous was her brother, Thomas, who happened to be our coachman for the evening. I would have preferred someone older than ten at the reins of a pair of Cleveland Bays, which looked strong enough to drag us all the way to Ohio if they had a mind to. Yet up top he sat, cap askew and a wad of chewing tobacco wedged in his cheek. On the bright side, his perch kept him out of earshot, which allowed me to speak freely.
    â€œHow did you learn who I was?” I asked Mrs. Collins.
    She waved the question away as if it were a pesky mosquito. “If you’re concerned that I’m going to start telling others, don’t be. Simply carry on with the plan and your secret is safe with me.”
    â€œBut I must know. If you found out without much effort, then others can as well.”
    â€œI assure you that I learned of it quite accidentally,” Mrs. Collins said.
    â€œFrom whom?”
    At this, she offered a sly smile. “From you , naturally.”
    â€œI told you no such thing!”
    â€œNot in words,” Mrs. Collins said. “But the expression that was on your face told me everything I needed to know.”
    I thought back to earlier that day, and how I had reacted to seeing the newspaper article about my mother’s death and my father’s arrest. My shock had been so great that I never bothered to deny Mrs. Collins’s claim. I simply assumed she somehow knew I was the son of Magellan Holmes. But that clearly hadn’t been the case.
    â€œYou tricked me into admitting the truth,” I said, disbelief heavy in my voice.
    â€œâ€‰â€˜Trick’ is such a strong word,” Mrs. Collins replied. “I merely baited the hook. You chomped down on it all on your own.”
    â€œSo you had no idea about my true identity?”
    â€œI had a suspicion ,” she said. “As I mentioned earlier, I knew you had to be a magician, a medium, or someone closely acquainted with one. You knew too many tricks of the trade. So this morning, I visited a few of the newspaper offices in the city.”
    I found myself hoping that my newspaper hadn’t been one of them.
    â€œOf course I didn’t go to the Bulletin ,” Mrs. Collins was quick to add. “They’re the ones who sent you to me, after all, and would have been very unhelpful. But the others were quite accommodating when I asked about notable magicians in the city. A gentleman at the Times produced a box full of articles about Philadelphia’s famed magicians. Among them was one about the Amazing Magellan’s arrest. It included an illustration of his son. A son who would be around the same age you are now. One who, as it would happen, bore a slight resemblance to you.”
    â€œAnd you recognized me from that?”
    â€œNo,” Mrs. Collins said. “You look far different now, of course. But there was enough of a resemblance for me to make an assumption about your identity. Lucky for me, that assumption was correct.”
    â€œSo if I had denied everything, you would have then left me alone?” I asked.
    â€œHardly. I