The yard was filled with men carrying large and complicated bits of machinery and tubing from a horse and cart toward a large building.

“Another one?” said a man coming out of the building. “We’re supposed to be an art gallery not a factory.”

“Boss’ orders,” said a second man, as if that explained it, then looked to see a woman turning into the yard. “Can I help you miss?” he said.

The woman was holding something in her hand and glancing down at it from time to time. She walked over to the man who had addressed her.

“Yes,” said Marie. “Can you tell me where we are?”

The man heard her accent and strange question and began to speak slowly. “This is the Peitho Institute, miss, on Albion Street.”

Marie nodded as if expecting that and closed her hand. She then asked, “What are you doing here?”

“Ah, can’t tell you that miss… boss’ orders,” he said and smiled sheepishly.

Marie began to say something in French, then stopped herself. A shadow of sadness passed across her face. The man saw this and concern spread on his.

“Well, maybe I could explain…” he started.

“Little Familiar”

“Marie?” called Sir John, coming round the corner. “What are you doing here?”

“I … I went for a walk mon cher and found myself here,” she said. “This man was just telling me about the Institute.”

“Oh good!” said Sir John, turning. “How are you carrying on without Miss Copperwaite’s patronage?”

The man looked confused when a slight, short man came out into the yard. He walked over and looked at all of them, his head turning in a birdlike manner.

“Now then Wilson,” said the man, “no need to stop working. I can talk to our guests.”

He indicated the machinery being unpacked and the workman went over to it.

“I’m so sorry,” said the birdlike man, “but we haven’t made all of the staff aware of the, er, condition of Miss Copperwaite. We fear it would be bad for morale. But please, allow me to introduce myself: My name is Ernest Pook.”

“Good day, Mr Pook,” said Sir John, “I am Sir John Jennings and this is my wife, Marie.”

Pook nodded and turned to Marie.

“Is it possible we may have met?” asked Pook glancing briefly at her hand. “You seem … a little familiar.”

“Not that I know of, sir,” said Marie. Her fingers twitched as if something was trying to wriggle out of her hand.

“I take it you’re in charge here?” asked Sir John.

“Good Lord, no!” exclaimed Mr Pook. “I am a mere presser of buttons, turner of wheels, puller of strings. No, I am under the instructions of our institute’s benefactor. He is a gentleman of wealth and taste, who has stepped in to assist due to the unfortunate circumstances of Miss Copperwaite.”

“Who is this benefactor?” asked Sir John.

“Alas sir, I cannot say, for his modesty is as great as his generosity,” continued Pook. “He wishes to remain incognito. But sir, an idea has struck me. If you are so very keen to meet him, perhaps you will come tomorrow? We have a very special soiree to celebrate our latest artistic endeavour. Mr Cl… I mean our gracious benefactor will be on hand to say a few brief words.”

“Well, that sounds most satisfactory,” said Sir John. “May I ask what the endeavour is?”

“Of course,” said Mr Pook. “It is a most exciting and enticing enterprise. We are having our first unveiling of our Telharmonium: our device which will send music through the telephonic devices to enrich the lives of all those who hear it.”

The Mancunian Mesmerist: Chapter 12

“Three Days!”

“Arthur Clackprattle!” bellowed Mr Copperwaite. “You’re here for weeks at my expense and when I ask you what you’ve found out, that’s all you can give me?”

“Well, there is a little more” said Sir John, sitting, along with Marie, across from the desk. “I take it you’re not familiar with the gentleman?”

“No!” said Mr Copperwaite. “I am not familiar with the gentleman. I am, however, familiar with your antics. I know, for example, that part of your so called investigations involved a trip to the theater. I know that you, Sir John, treated my beloved daughter as a plaything. And I know that you bought a member of my staff a dinner of lobster and champagne.”

Mr Copperwaite was looking quite as red as that lobster, Marie thought.

“Yes, that was a misunderstanding,” started Sir John.

“I don’t mind what you waste your money on Sir John. That’s your business, even if it does mean my Christmas bonus to the staff will raise eyebrows rather than spirits.  No, Sir John, what really bothers me is that a man who’s supposed to be an expert investigator of the occult can’t even see what’s in front of his bloody nose. That must be the oldest trick in the book, and you fell for it. How then, Sir John, am I to judge your performance when I ask what you’ve learned and you give me a name that sounds like it belongs to a bloody clown.”

Mr Copperwaite slumped back. Sir John waited but it seemed the rant was over.

“Well, that name belongs, so I’m told, to a master mesmerist,” said Sir John.

Mr Copperwaite gasped.

“What new nonsense is this? Now I’ve heard it all!” he said, starting up again. “What does this master of mesmerism do? Let me guess, he’s keeping my daughter asleep.”

“That’s what we suspect,” said Sir John.

“And why is he doing this, may I ask?” said Mr Copperwaite.

“We don’t know,” admitted Sir John.

“And where can he be found, so we can ask him?” said Mr Copperwaite.

“We don’t know that, either,” said Sir John.

“And how is he carrying out this marvellous trick?” said Mr Copperwaite.

“Ah, there I do have some information. We believe he is firing electricity at her from his pineal gland,” said Sir John, more confidently.

“He’s doing what!” roared Mr Copperwaite and thumped the desk.

“That’s just a theory at this point,” said Sir John, hoping to placate the man.

“Sir John, let me be clear, when we started I had no faith in you, and I now have less than that. You have three days to tell me something useful and plausible about my daughter’s condition or you’ll be back on that train to London, where you can con the gullible fools who live there as much as you like. Now you’ll have to excuse me, I have some real work to attend to.”

Mr Copperwaite started to rise.

“Mr Copperwaite?” said Marie. “May I ask a question?”

Copperwaite glared down at her. “What?”

“Your daughter runs an institute of some kind, for art, could you tell us what the name is?” asked Marie.

“Was,” said Mr Copperwaite. “That was the first thing I put a stop to, pulled the funding out of it. I can’t remember the name, something like python institute. Forget it, it’s gone. As you will be if I don’t see results. Three days, Sir John, three days.”

With that, Mr Copperwaite left. Sir John let out a breath.

“Well, that could have gone worse,” he said. “Possibly. We have three days, at least.”

“We should investigate the institute,” said Marie. “They are the ones who bought this sphere you mentioned.”

“If it still exists,” said Sir John glumly. “I’ll try to find it tomorrow. But I’ll go alone. If this Clackprattle chap is as dangerous as we think, I don’t want you near him. Will you be alright on your own tomorrow?”

Marie felt a tapping against her shoe. She looked down and saw a small stone.

“I think I can keep myself entertained,” she said.

The Mancunian Mesmerist: Chapter 11

The study was covered in books and had two comfortable chairs in front of a roaring fire. A man was sitting in one of them with a book on his lap and was snoring gently. There was a knock on the door and he sprang up. He opened the door and peered out to see Sir John Jennings in the street.

“Professor Herringbone-Stove?” asked Sir John.

“Who is enquiring?” said the man.

“It’s Sir John Jennings,” said Sir John. “I believe I have an appointment?”

“Ah, yes!” exclaimed Herringbone-Stove. “Come in!”

“Professor Herringbone-Stove?”

Sir John walked into the room and the professor glanced up and down the street before closing the door. He indicated the unoccupied chair to Sir John, who sat down.

“Just out of interest,” said Sir John, “which university are you attached to at the moment.”

“Well I’m at…” started Herringbone-Stove, before commencing a long coughing fit, during which he sat down opposite Sir John. The professor leaned forward and arched his fingers and his eyebrows.

“So,” Herringbone-Stove said, “ you wish to know about … mesmerism!”

“Indeed,” said Sir John enthusiastically. Herringbone-Stove looked a little disappointed at this response. “I have a case at the very moment that I feel you may help me with. You see it concerns a woman who I believe is under the thrall of a mesmerist. I believe him to be working to a most diabolical purpose.”

“Strong words sir and easily misused,” said Herringbone-Stove. “Some of my lectures have been described as diabolical.”

“I’m sure they have,” said Sir John. “But the fact remains, she is catatonic, the doctors can do nothing, and her last known contact … was a mesmerist.”

“Fascinating,” said Herringbone-Stove, “but I still doubt your theory. To be able to carry out such an feat, a man would need tremendous mesmeric powers, even with the help of something like the Sphere of Lethe.”

“The Sphere of Lethe?” said Sir John.

“It was an artefact possessed by Mesmer himself, that purportedly amplifies mesmeric power,” said Herringbone-Stove.

“Good Lord! Named for the river, I suppose,” said Sir John.

“The river?” said Herringbone-Stove.

“The River Lethe. One of the rivers of the Greek underworld.”

“Let me just write something down unconnected to our conversation,” said Herringbone-Stove. He started to write on a pad and said “riv – er” under his breath.

“So how does the Sphere work?” asked Sir John.

“Ah! Well, I have a theory,” started Herringbone-Stove, “that it works by enhancing aural electricity. You see, I firmly believe that mesmerists have long misunderstood their own power. They call their powers animal magnetism, and Mesmer himself believed it was identical to actual magnetism. This is palpable nonsense. The power that mesmerists use is clearly based in electricity, produced by the pineal gland, directed at the target and amplified by auditory excitation. The sphere, I believe, further increases this auditory excitation, thus enhancing the mesmerist’s power.”

“Fascinating,” said Sir John. “But how would this auditory excitation work? And how might one defend against it?”

“You, sir, are as ugly as a baboon!” shouted Herringbone-Stove.

“I beg your pardon!” said Sir John turning red.

“You see, that is an example of auditory enhancement of mesmeric electricity. I fired my pineal gland at you and enhanced that with the power of my voice. It provoked in you a marked emotional response, namely rage. That is the power of the mesmerist.”

“I see,” said Sir John, still shaking a little.

“I posit that there are two forms of defense against this. The first is that one must block up the ears to ensure they do not hear the voice of the mesmerist. The second is to direct a beam of electricity back at the mesmerist’s pineal gland. Sadly, I am no engineer, but I have no doubt that in this modern age a suitable device could be made.”

“So where is this sphere?” asked Sir John.

“Well, until recently it was held in the British Museum in London in a display of Mesmer’s effects. But I believe last year the whole collection was sold to a local artistic foundation. Around March, I think. They were displayed here in Manchester briefly. But really, Sir John, it would take a master mesmerist to use this device.”

“Professor Herringbone-Stove, my client is connected with an artistic foundation and last April was when she was struck down. I now wonder whether this Sphere was used to do that.”

“Good Lord!” said Herringbone-Stove, leaning forward and lowering his voice. “But there is only one man I can think of so powerful and malignant. Only one who would dare to defy the laws of nature in such a way. Only one who might sink to such depravity!”

“Who, man? Tell me!” said Sir John, leaning forward too.

Professor Herringbone-Stove moved as close to Sir John as he could. His face was pale and his voice barely a whisper.

“His name sir … is Arthur Clackprattle.”

The Mancunian Mesmerist: Chapter 10

It was silent in Miss Copperwaite’s bedroom. Weak moonlight trickled in from the tall, thin windows, barely illuminating her as she lay in her catatonic state. The door began to creak open and a figure came in quietly. The figure kept to the shadows and looked down at the supine form of Miss Copperwaite.

“You cannot wake, and I cannot sleep,” said the figure. “I keep seeing that man whenever I close my eyes. The terror on his face. And it was my fault. All my fault. What is it, this terrible thing?”

Marie stepped out of the shadow.

“What is this mesmerism?”

She gasped.

“I knew it!” she said, staring at the bed.

The figure of Miss Copperwaite began to rise slowly out of the bed. She made one slow lurching circuit of the bedroom before heading to the window. Suddenly she slumped forward, her hands just inches from the floor. She grabbed the bottom of the sash window and stepped back, pulling it up. Then she placed one hand on the low window ledge. Miss Copperwaite continued to stare blankly as her hand felt around the ledge. Eventually it found some pieces of paper and brought them into the room. She walked clumsily to a desk, sat down and opened a drawer. Again, her hand acted alone as she stared ahead, producing a pen. The hand wrote quickly on the bits of paper, finishing each with a flourish. Then Miss Copperwaite gathered the papers in her hand, and walked back to the window. She put the papers back outside, closed the window then lumbered back into bed.

Marie watched all of this in silence from the shadows. When Miss Copperwaite was back in bed, Marie went to the window. She could see a figure, a short man, scurrying away in the distance. The papers were gone.

Marie carefully open the window again and put her hand out. The ledge was low enough that she could touch the ground, and she picked up a small stone from outside. She brought the stone up to her lips, kissed it lightly and said, “vivre”. Then she held her hand flat.

The stone started to shake a little, then small cracks appeared on its side. There were three cracks on each side and from each a tiny leg came out. Then two cracks appeared at the front and two antennae appeared. The stone insect walked around Marie’s hand a few circuits, trying out its new legs.

“Little one,” said Marie, “I have a job for you. You will be a stone again in a little while, and you will wait outside the window. A man will come in the night and come to this window. When he leaves, you will follow him and then come back to me. Then you will show me where he goes.”

The insect walked around a bit more then seemed to nod. Marie put it gently on the ground. The legs and antennae curled back into the stone and it was normal again. Marie shut the window and stared outside for a while.

“I will find you, you monster,” she said, then quietly left the room.

The Mancunian Mesmerist: Chapter 9

Sir John and Marie both looked silently at their menus as they sat at a table for three in the pleasant restaurant. It was Marie who broke the silence first.

“I keep thinking about that poor man,” she said.

“Yes, it was a shame about that chap. I do hope he recovers,” said Sir John, “but we really weren’t to know. We merely asked him a couple of questions, it’s not like we twisted his arm or anything.”

Marie looked back down at her menu again.

“Still, the maid is coming soon,” said Sir John. “Perhaps we’ll get some information from her.”

“If we don’t kill her too,” said Marie, still looking down.

“And I saw this poster for some chap called Herringbone-Stove. He had a talk on you-know-what a couple of weeks ago. I think I’ll try and track him down too. We’ll get to the bottom of this,” said Sir John cheerily.

The maid from Miss Copperwaite’s bedroom appeared wearing her Sunday best.

“Good evening your highnesses,” she said somewhat nervously and stood behind the vacant chair.

Sir John stood up quickly.

“Please, Miss…” he started.

“Harper,” said the maid. “Mrs Harper.”

“Please, Mrs Harper, take a seat. Thank you for coming, and for your discretion,” said Sir John. “We wanted to talk to you after you mentioned to us… in the room… about… you know.”

“You mean about…” said Mrs Harper.

A waitress walked past with a tray with several bowls of soup.

“Probably best not mention it,” interrupted Sir John. “But please, we’d like to know why you said what you said.”

Mrs Harper looked at the menu in front of her.

“Oh, my… These prices are a little dear for one on my poor income,” she said. “I could barely afford a bread roll.”

“We’ll pay,” said Sir John. “As a thank you.”

“You’re very kind!” said Mrs Harper. “Now, our story begins just over a year ago. I was maid to Miss Copperwaite around that time, and she often confided to me her most innermost thoughts and secrets. Mostly it was sentimental tosh, but she had some unusual interests. She believed that art and religion could raise the common man and woman out of the poverty of their existence. She meant spiritually, of course. I don’t think she was that bothered about raising them out of their actual poverty.”

“I see,” said Sir John. “What manner of interests did she have?”

“May I take your orders?” said a waiter.

“Oh, I’ll take the soup,” said Sir John.

“And also me,” said Marie.

“I’ll have this, and this,” said Mrs Harper, pointing to the menu, “and one of them.”

The waiter left, and Mrs Harper continued her tale.

“She started an organisation that was trying to share art with people. Free galleries, art on a horse and cart, music down those telephonic devices, that sort of thing. Well, it seemed to me to be a great way to throw money away. I had to remind her that most impoverished people don’t have telephonic devices, for example. But she also got involved with what you might call new-fangled religions. Or what my father might have called utter codswallop. She went from group to group until she met this one man. She said he was the real thing. That he had powers.”

“Two soups,” said the waiter to the Jennings’, then turning to Mrs Harper, “and your lobster. The caviar is here in the bowl, and the bottle of champagne should be arriving shortly.”

“We’ll Pay”

“Oh, very nice,” said Mrs Harper. “Very kind of you, Sir Jenkins.”

“You’re, er, welcome,” said Sir John, a little flustered. “Perhaps you can tell us about this man?”

“She’d always meet him at the theatre, he had a box there, said he told her all sorts of things that she couldn’t tell anyone about,” said Mrs Harper.  “Then one night she went to his home. That night, she came back and went to sleep like she is now. The one thing she told me was the name for what he could do… Mesmerism!”

Sir John gasped. He waved a hand in front of his open mouth.

“This soup is rather hot,” he said. “Be careful Marie, dear. Mrs Harper, do you know the name of this mysterious gentleman?”

“That’s the funny thing,” said Mrs Harper. “You know, she told me many a time and not once did I remember his name.”

The Mancunian Mesmerist: Chapter 8

The dressing room was damp, cold and filled with mismatched furniture. A dusty mirror sat on a cluttered desk next to a chair piled up with clothes. The room was silent.

Suddenly the door handle rattled and a muffled voice came from outside.

“Locked,” said Sir John. “Looks like our luck has run out.”

“Let me try,” said Marie. There was a pause and something muttered in French. The door handle turned and the door swung in. Sir John and Marie went into the tiny room.

“How did you do that?” said Sir John. “I was sure it was locked.”

“Oh, it turned the French way,” said Marie absently. Sir John immediately lifted his modified opera glasses and moved around the miserable room.

“No-one!”

“Nothing, nothing,” he muttered. “It’s the same as before. It seems like anything paranormal was coming from that box. Perhaps we should go and look there.”

“It might not be safe to confront something powerful,” said Marie. “We should look around here first and get some clues about this thing of mind control.”

“Mesmerism,” said Sir John and Marie let out a gasp. Sir John turned to look, and saw she was surprised by the stage mesmerist. He had come into the room without making a sound.

“Can I help you?” he said, a half smile on his face. “I’m afraid the show has finished and you’ll have to leave.” He waved his hand quickly in front of his face, his eyes not blinking. Sir John continued to stare through his opera glasses and came close to the man. He stared intently through them at the man’s face then down his body to the hand he had just waved.

“Fascinating,” said Sir John. “You’re utterly normal.” The mesmerist looked crestfallen.

“Who are you?” said the mesmerist. “There’s supposed to be a man to stop people getting back here.”

“We had a bit of luck there in that he didn’t notice us,” said Sir John, who had gone round the back of the man and was examining his hat. “Can you tell us how you do it?”

“The show? No I cannot, it is a trade secret of mesmerists. I am sworn to the darkest of oaths. It would be more than my mortal soul is worth to whisper even a scintilla of the craft.”

“…and, you’re not really a mesmerist, are you?” said Marie.

“I say!” said the mesmerist, whose sinister aura was evaporating by the second. “That’s a bit much.”

“Can you tell us about who is in the box?” asked Sir John. The mesmerist looked shocked.

“Look, steady on. Blimey, you’re a strange pair, aren’t you. Chaps gotta earn a crust you know. We can’t all be, you know…” he indicated Sir John.

“Dire,” whispered Marie. The man gave a sigh, his shoulders sank and he spoke.

“The man in the box is…” Then he stopped suddenly, stood up bolt upright and said, “There was no-one in the box.”

“I’m sorry,” said Sir John. “That was a little confusing.”

The mesmerist’s shoulders slumped again and he said, “The man in the box is…” then he stood bolt upright as before.

“There’s no-one the box.” He face convulsed and twitched. “No-one in the box. No-one. No-one. No-one…”

Marie and Sir John backed away and out of the room as the man kept repeating the words over and over, a trickle of blood falling from his nose.

The Mancunian Mesmerist: Chapter 7