The four seater train compartment was filled with boxes and a man and a woman. The man was frowning and obsessively hanging on to the boxes as the train made its bone-shaking journey. At each jolt and rattle he seemed to be trying to hang on to all the boxes at once. The woman gazed out the window at the rainy landscape with a half smile on her face.

“Well, it’s good to be going home,” said Sir John, “even if it is in this terrible train again.”

“Yes,” said Marie. “I’m looking forward to getting back. Did you find out about Clackprattle and Pook? Did the constabulary find them.”

“No,” said Sir John. “By the time I had explained and then convinced everyone what had happened Pook and Clackprattle had long gone. They had been renting some rather fine rooms in the Britannia Hotel. They were empty when we got there.”

“I hope they’re caught,” said Marie.

“Well, Clackprattle’s a devious swine for certain, but I don’t think we need to worry about an oily little character like Pook,” said Sir John. “I imagine he’s perfectly harmless without his master in tow.”

They fell silent for a bit, then Sir John said, “How did it go with the Copperwaites?”

“Oh,” said Marie, “I nearly forgot. When I got back of course she had awakened and there was a lot of activity in the house. I tried to speak to the father, but he ignored me saying our services were no longer required as his daughter was better.”

“Oh dear,” said Sir John. “So they didn’t realise we were responsible for that?”

“Well, I spoke to the maid, you know the one we…” started Marie.

“Yes, I know,” said Sir John.

“Well, she let me speak to the daughter, Lillian for a few minutes. I explained what had happened, how she had been mesmerised by Pook … and, er, Clackprattle. I explained what they had been trying to do. She seemed to understand.”

“That’s good, I suppose,” said Sir John, looking a little glum. “Still, I was rather hoping to get paid this time.”

“Well, as I was packing up our room the maid came and gave me this envelope. That is what I forgot.”

Marie took a letter out from her handbag and passed it to Sir John.

“Dear Sir John and Mrs Jennings,” he read, “Thank you so much for rescuing me from the clutches of that evil monster, Clackprattle and his vile servant, Pook. I am grateful beyond measure and want to demonstrate that gratitude to you. I feel that what you have done for me is so great, that no amount of money could ever match it. So instead I have chosen to give you something priceless. I enclose a precious piece of art that I have made to recognise what you have done.”

“Oh dear,” said Marie.

“Well, perhaps this art will be valuable?” said Sir John.

In with the letter was another piece of paper. The Jennings both looked at it.

“Hmm,” said Sir John. “Probably not.”

“Probably Not”

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