2:28, Mr Barnaby and his sister-in-law stood at the front door of her home. His body held itself up in a tired slouch, hands in his pockets. Her arms and legs clutched inwards at nothing, trying to console the rest of her fragile frame. Together they looked tiny against the lofty backdrop of the terrace house.
You could tell the standing of the home with little more than a glance, despite it being quite deep into the city of London. From left to right, round, and back down again, the whole street was intact and uniform. None of the terraced housing had suffered a conversion or demolition to make way for another flat complex.
All the homes sported the dark sandy finish of exposed brick accented by pure white framing around the windows, doors, and roof. Even the lampposts with their metal bodies stuffed with modern, energy-efficient inner workings. From base to tip, they retained their classic design, unchanged since the Victorian era of gaslight.
The lack of neon smart displays or crowds of urban populace gave the street a feeling almost out of time. As if forgotten since the 1990s, if not for the modern smart vehicles dotted up and down the road.
Barnaby and the woman turned towards each other. He checked his watch with unnecessary worry.
“He’s not late, is he?” asked the woman, showing greater anxiety than the tired banker.
“No, no, I’m sure he’ll be here any moment,” he replied. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer.
As they turned back around the detective was standing there. Barnaby jumped. He hadn’t heard anyone approach.
The client thought back to his first meeting with the detective. How Detective Kipling looked younger than he had expected, appearing to be only in his thirties. The detective was a slim, fit-looking gentleman, of average height. The dark, short, uncombed hair atop his head was contrasted by his neat style of dress.
He wore a pinstripe button-down shirt underneath a matching waistcoat and trousers, held up with suspenders. A worn leather duster and canvas messenger bag over the shoulder completed the ensemble.
All that was missing was a trilby and he’d have been right out of an old pulp novel. Barnaby wondered if the detective were trying too hard to look the part.
“Mr Barnaby,” the detective said with a rigid, straightforward tone. A chill ran down Barnaby’s spine as if he had just been addressed by an old school teacher.
“Detective.” His Adam's apple bobbed up and down with a hard, dry swallow. “You're uh quite light-footed. And here. On-time. That’s good.”
“Of course I am. It would be improper to not be.”
“Quite.”
After another moment of silence, the detective’s attention moved to the woman standing next to his client. She must have been in her mid to late thirties. She wore a knitted dress and leggings. In contrast to her high-strung counterpart, the woman was too drained for the detective's abrupt appearance to alert her.
Barnaby tried to wipe the ingrained tiredness off his face and said, “Right, uh, this is my sister-in-law, Mary.” Mary said nothing but stared at the detective with desperate eyes, close to tears.
The detective tried to ignore the woman’s emotional state and spoke with an artificial upbeat tone. “It’s a pleasure ma’am. Now, let’s get started, shall we?”
The three moved to the living room where the husband was waiting. Mary sat down on one couch and leaned into her husband while Mr Barnaby and Detective Kipling sat on another.
“So how about we go through the events once more for me?” the detective asked as he pulled a pair of glasses out from one of his pockets. The glasses were a style of wearable computer. He made a few swiping gestures with his hand as he navigated to his copy of the reports. The parents told him a very similar albeit a more upset version of events. The forensic scans and smart device footage corroborated their story.
Kipling removed the pair of frames and told the couple with a hollow smile, “This is where my investigation begins. I ask that you leave the area, go upstairs, take a nap. We’ll want to be undisturbed during our search.”
The husband jumped forward out of his seat. He spoke up, his voice raised in anger but was too strained to make the impact he wanted. “Now just hold on a minute we want to help. And how are you going to find something the police missed anyway? You haven’t told us anything.”
Kipling raised himself to meet his angered host. With a motion of his hand, the detective said in a commanding voice, “Get some sleep Mr and Mrs Galow we’ll be done in an hour or so.”
The faces of the two parents lost all expression, even the intense worry they carried. “Yes detective, let’s go, honey,” the husband said before the two turned to leave and walked upstairs.
Mr Barnaby's mouth was agape. “What did you do to them?”
“Do you remember what I said about the paranormal Mr Barnaby?” the detective asked. “Well, you’d best start believing, because you’re going to see some serious shit.”
Barnaby, confused and angry, stood up, getting in the detective’s face. “Excuse me!”
“You’re excused if that is what you prefer,” Kipling replied with condescending dry wit.
“Don’t mock me, Mister Kipling.” The detective’s joke did nothing to dissuade his client’s anger.
“Detective Kipling, Mr Kipling bakes cakes. Magic Mister Barnaby, I’m speaking of magic!”
Barnaby turned a bright pink shade of red as he pushed a pointed finger towards the detective's chest. “Now listen here, I’ve seen quite some many things in my years but you expect me to simply believe you when you tell me magic exists? Do you take me for a fool?” he asked.
The detective swatted his client’s hand away. “Don’t be ridiculous, I already told you, Mr Barnaby, seeing IS believing. Behold a mere glimmer of what has been lurking outside your view. Arise!” As the detective raised a flat palm upwards, the empty sofa began to float.
“That’s absurd! That’s impossible, it’s… it’s.”
“Magic Mr Barnaby. Now I understand this is a lot to take in but for clerical reasons, it is useful to have a client like you know what is going on. Please inspect the sofa if it would assuage any feelings of denial.”
Still angry, the mundane banker said nothing as he walked around the sofa three times and patted down the sides. He fell to his knees and laid the side of his head on the floor. He proceeded to swipe at the air beneath the furniture piece. His search for any tells or mechanisms was fruitless. He was angry at himself for even bothering. He knew full well the pointlessness as there would have been no time to set up such an elaborate prank.
“Do something else,” he demanded.
The detective returned to his seat. “You could use a drink,” the detective said. He placed two fingers to his mouth, whistled, and with his other hand made a come hither motion. Two glasses marched into the room from the kitchen with a rhythmic bounce. “What would you like Mr Barnaby?” the detective asked as he reached into his bag.
Barnaby took his place on the recently aloft sofa opposite the detective. With an expectant look, he watched the pair of glasses station themselves upon a small coffee table that separated the two men. “An Old Fashioned,” the client said with a confident voice.
“Good choice.” Kipling retrieved a thermos and unscrewed the cap. “An Old Fashioned.”
The detective began to pour. Out dropped a soaked sugar cube, one in his glass, then in the other. He motioned two fingers in a swirling action. The cubes compressed and spread around the glasses. He repeated the pouring action and each time was greeted with the measured ingredient for each glass. Two ounces of a golden-brown liquid that had the unmistakable scent of whiskey followed by a sphere of ice. He motioned his fingers again and the drinks stirred themselves.
“Cheers,” said the detective as he handed his client a glass.
“Cheers.” The client’s gaze lingered on the detective's hands. He exhaled deeply to decompress and took a sip of his drink. The whiskey cocktail went down smoothly. It was a good drink but it lacked a certain rustic quality as if it were mass-produced. With a defeated energy Barnaby asked, “Do we have the time for some questions?”
“I believe so but make it quick,” replied the detective.
Barnaby laid one arm across his lap and leaned in to ask, “So how much is real?”
Kipling took a familiar position, one leg crossed over the other and laid back. “As in the media, movies, fairy tales? Most of it, in one way or another. There’s an entire world hidden beneath the one you’ve been living in.”
“What do I call people like you? People with powers.” the client asked.
Kipling rolled his eyes. “Don’t make it sound so much like I’m an alien. We’re still human. Well, the human ones are. There’s no singular term magic users use to describe themselves. Wizard, mage, sorcerer, caster. It’s all preferential. Some people live so deep into magic society they forget to distinguish themselves. To them, magic is everything.”
“Why don’t you need a wand? I mean it’s so common in stories.”
“Allow me to explain. There are two classes of tools, channelers, and catalysts. Channelers are common and well, they channel magical energy. Catalysts not only channel energy but enhance it, these are rarer.”
The detective rolled up his left sleeve to reveal a wristband. “You see this ring on my finger? It is paired with this cuff on my wrist. Together they are my catalyst. Sure some people prefer the feel of a classic channeler in their hands but I require something a little more inconspicuous. Besides those old wands and orbs are a pain to carry around everywhere with you.”
“Okay what about words? I’ve only heard you say one or two English words so far, don’t spells need some ritualistic voodoo speak?” Barnaby asked.
“Please, Mr Barnaby ‘Voodoo’ as you put it is a sacred form of practice to certain African groups.”
“My apologies,” he said before taking another sip of his drink.
“Magic, common magic, is merely the manifestation of intent. Words are only useful in defining what it is you wish to happen. The best-trained mages will their magic into being with nothing more than a thought.”
Barnaby’s ears perked up. “Trained? so do you go to special magic schools to be taught to use magic?”
“Pft, maybe if you’re from some fancy elite family. Idiots the lot of them. Those private schools are so focused on teaching magic the students hardly know basic arithmetic. And don’t get me started on their complete cluelessness to the mundane world. Wouldn’t know a rubber duck from a pipe wrench.” Kipling ended his short rant. “Satisfied Mr Barnaby?”
“Yes, I suppose I am,” Barnaby answered.
“Then let us begin shall we?”
The detective finished his glass. From his bag, he pulled out a digital camera. It looked the part of a camera used for high budget film production. Impossibly large for where it was just hauled from. Atop the body was a head of lenses pointed in all directions crammed close together like a compound eye. The projector's body had rough shapes cut out from it giving way for dials, switches, and sliders.
“Hold this would you? And be careful, it's one of a kind,” the detective said as he thrust it into his impromptu assistant’s arms.
The detective continued to pull more impossible items from the small bag. First, a stand, it's frame thick and bulky, more than capable to hold its camera. Next, a projector. Another compound eye of lenses gave the front an uneven weight. Lastly, a set of thick, long cables and a handful of large mirrors fitted on stands.
The detective placed the camera stand close to a wall and ensured it was stable. He reclaimed the camera and fit it within its frame. The projector was set up in a corner on a small table.
He Muttered as he wrestled with the thick cables connecting the two devices, “All the magic in the world and they still haven’t figured out wireless communication.” The detective finished his elaborate setup with the mirrors stood in the corners of the three connected rooms.
Dials with numbers marked by days, hours, and minutes were fiddled with. A metal switch on each machine was flipped. Nothing seemed to happen. Barnaby looked towards the detective with a twinge of worry. The detective offered slight adjustments to one of the dials and a faint blue light burst throughout the room. He tuned a couple of sliders until the light became sharp and the images clear.
Two vaguely human figures sat on the couch and a third smaller one stood to the side. "What are we looking at Detective?" Barnaby asked.
"The past Mr Barnaby. Light and sound dissipate in but an instant, but magic, magic lingers." Excited the detective continued, "This is revolutionary! The camera receives magical energy like one would photons. Then the projector extrapolates the age by the rate of their decay."
"But why would there be magic here?"
"It is my hypothesis that magic has this tendency to bleed into the past. We'll see the source in but a moment." The detective pushed a button and in complete silence, the projections began to move. The small figure made a few exaggerated gestures before it walked into the other room. The other two remain seated only moving their heads to acknowledge the third.
From the opposite doorway came a flash, two new figures stood were rendered on the spot as the flash receded. "There are your culprits," claimed the detective.
If you were to look close enough, you'd almost think the muscles on the intruder's face twisted into a cruel smirk. The trespassing pair pointed towards the seated figures and light travelled from their hands to surround the sofa. The glow lingered and all movement on the sofa ceased. Even the small idle motions were now absent, like a still image. "Some kind of paralysis spell."
The vision of the intruders made its way to the other doorway. The detective and his client crept towards the projection as if wishing to avoid disturbing it. The mirrors continued the projection into the hallway.
One of the figure's hands reached out and the silhouette of another spell hit the child’s form. More light claimed her as she fell limp and carried her into the invader's waiting arms. A final bright flash surrounded the three before the projection ended.
“W-what now? Where’d they go? Can you track them?” Barnaby panicked.
“Unfortunately not. This is where magic ends and old fashioned detective work takes over. But fear not, we have a lead and some simple assumptions we can make.” Kipling began to pack his things. “Are you busy Mr Barnaby?”
He shook his head “No, I suppose not.”
“Good, you should return with me to the flat. If luck would have it I’ll want your assistance later and we’ll be able to resolve this whole ordeal in quick order.” The detective put his hand on his client’s shoulder and the two disappeared.
