The Sherlock Effect

by Raymond Kay Lyon

  The Major stiffened in his chair. ‘If this line of reasoning is leading where I think it is –’

  ‘Please,’ I said, putting up a conciliatory hand. ‘I’m simply pointing out that on paper you have a motive for killing him.’

  ‘I also have an alibi, Mr. Webster. I was right here in this office at the time of the murder, working on the accounts with my wife. But I’m sure you knew that already. Well, if there isn’t anything else, I do have a hotel to run.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, getting up. ‘Oh, just one more thing. Was your wife having an affair with Gill?’

  The Major let out an unexpected roar of laughter. ‘You’re referring to her undignified performance in the bar, I suppose? No, it was just high spirits. She has a problem holding her drink, that’s all.’

  ‘Does that always result in her seducing the guests?’

  ‘I doubt she was in a fit state to seduce anyone. No, it was just a bit of fun, I can assure you.’

  ‘Not many husbands would be as tolerant as you, Major Campbell-Farr,’ I remarked, shaking his hand.

  I headed for the bar, and found Mo sitting alone at a table.

  ‘Any luck with Lonnie Stewart?’ I asked, glancing at the diminutive carrot-haired barman, who was in the process of serving a guest.

  ‘He still won’t admit that he had a proper conversation with Gill,’ replied my colleague in a low voice.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘But he’s told me something about himself. Used to be a jockey for Major Campbell-Farr, in the days when the Major trained horses in Berkshire.’

  ‘So they go back a long way?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right. That confirms a little theory I’ve been developing. You stay here – I want to put it to the test.’

  I went up and ordered a glass of dry white wine. ‘Have one yourself, Lonnie,’ I added, handing over the extra money.

  Stewart’s tiny, chimp-like face contorted into a lopsided grin. ‘That’s very kind of you, sir,’ he piped.

  ‘I understand you were a jockey in a former life?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘I’m a bit of a racegoer myself. Did you ride any big winners?’

  ‘Not really big. Ever heard of Pearl Diver?’

  ‘Should I have done?’

  ‘He was probably the best animal I rode.’

  ‘Why did you give it up?’

  ‘Back injury – put me right out of the game. The Major offered me this job when he bought the hotel.’

  ‘So you owe him a lot?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  I took out a Baskerville card and handed it over. ‘I’ll be totally honest with you, Lonnie. We’re looking into the death of the journalist, Dominic Gill. Someone broke into his cottage on the night he died, and there’s a theory floating around that it was you.’

  Lonnie’s jaw dropped. ‘Me? Why should I do that?’

  ‘I don’t know. You see, the witness described the intruder as a “young lad”.’

  ‘Well, then.’

  ‘But that description was only based on height. You’re no more than five foot four, I should think.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I understand you went off duty at nine that evening. Why?’

  ‘I wasn’t feeling too good. Pat said she’d take over my shift.’

  ‘Where did you go after you left the hotel?’

  ‘Home.’

  ‘What time did you arrive?’

  ‘Don’t know. About ten, I think.’

  ‘Don’t you live in Warminster?’

  ‘Yes, York Road.’

  ‘Does it take an hour to drive home?’

  ‘Look, this is out of order! Why are you accusing me?’

  ‘I told you – it’s a theory that the police are nursing. I thought it was only fair to warn you. I’ve got a soft spot for jockeys, otherwise I wouldn’t bother.’

  Stewart looked suddenly grateful. ‘OK. Thanks for the tip.’

  I drained my glass then stared at him gravely. ‘The trouble is, they’re bound to link the burglary with the murder. Once that happens it could start to get extremely sticky for you. Well, if there’s anything you want to get off your chest just knock on my door – room thirty two. Or phone me on the mobile number. I’d hate to see you go down for a murder you didn’t commit.’

  With that I sauntered out of the bar.

  Mo caught up with me in the lobby. ‘What on earth did you say to the guy? He looked as if he’d been run over by a bus!’

  ‘I suggested that he was the person who broke into Gill’s cottage. He denied it, but not very convincingly.’

  ‘You think it was him?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘What was he after?’

  ‘My guess is the Major sent him there to find out what kind of article Gill was writing.’

  ‘Could he have done the murder as well, then?’

  ‘He could have done, but I don’t think he did.’

  Later, as I was dressing for dinner, the mobile buzzed.

  It was Lonnie.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about what you said,’ he began, almost in a whisper. ‘I want to talk. Not here, though. Meet me in Upton Bray at eleven tonight.’

  ‘Where, exactly?’

  ‘At the top of the hill – Flint Rise, it’s called. Don’t worry, I’ll find you.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  We arrived at Upton Bray early, and parked the car in a lay-by which overlooked the very copse where French’s video was shot.

  Then we waited for Stewart to show up.

  The gibbous moon played hide-and-seek behind racing, mother-of-pearl clouds, occasionally allowing us enough light to discern the broad outlines of the surrounding country.

  ‘I don’t see why we couldn’t talk to him in the hotel,’ complained Mo, plucking a tissue from the glove compartment and dabbing at his nose.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re getting a cold now?’ I asked solicitously.

  ‘Possibly. I feel a bit rough.’

  ‘You should have said. I wouldn’t have dragged you along.’

  After a long pause Mo asked airily: ‘What happens if we see the alien? I mean, what’s our procedure?’

  ‘The procedure is to get the hell out of here,’ I replied firmly.

  ‘Right. Just checking . . . ’

  The next half hour passed without any sign of Lonnie, and by 11.15 we were beginning to suspect that he would stand us up. Suddenly our eyes were drawn to a source of bright orange light on the other side of the copse, slightly above the horizon. It flashed on and off, just as in Bob French’s film.

  Mo grabbed a pair of binoculars from the back seat, got out of the car, and peered at it.

  ‘Well?’ I asked, joining him.

  ‘Could be a plane, I suppose. I can’t see any object underneath. You’d better start the engine, though – in case we have to make a quick getaway.’

  I did as he asked. We continued our observation from the safety of the car, the light winking at us almost mockingly.

  After a while Mo asked: ‘How long do we stay here, Sherl?’

  The tension was obviously beginning to get to him, because his voice was full of suppressed emotion, and the hand that wasn’t holding the binoculars was massaging his adam’s apple.

  ‘Let’s give Lonnie another quarter of an hour, say,’ I suggested, glancing in the rear-view mirror.

  What I saw there instantly turned my blood to ice . . .

  Illuminated by the red glow of our rear lights was what I could only describe as a creature. It was small, had a large circular head, two shining eyes, and bore more than a passing resemblance to the being in the video. More worrying still, it was striding up the road straight towards us.

  Without saying anything to Mo I slammed into first gear and tried to accelerate away, but in my haste I lifted the clutch too quickly and stalled.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Mo.

  ‘Nothing!’ I barked, not
wishing to alarm my friend. But it was pretty obvious that something was amiss.

  ‘Where are we going, Sherl?’

  I glanced in the mirror again. The thing was almost upon us – ten yards away at the most. I locked my door instinctively, and shouted at Mo to do the same.

  ‘Why? What’s going on?’

  ‘Just do it! There’s an alien right behind us.’

  That word would have sounded preposterous, but for the sickening cold reality of the situation.

  Before I even had a chance to restart the engine there was a heart-stopping tap on my window.

  Almost incapacitated with fear I turned, and looked straight into those lamp-like eyes, temporarily blinded by their brightness.

  The next thing I saw, once my vision had recovered, was the lop-sided grin of Lonnie Stewart.

  ‘It’s only me!’ he called, giving a thumbs up. ‘Not a Martian, as you thought!’ With that he collapsed onto the bonnet of the car in a helpless fit of laughter.

  I was hardly in the mood to see the funny side. Nor, indeed, was Mo, who was slumped in his seat, having almost fainted away with terror! I’m not ashamed to say that I completely lost my temper, jumped out of the car, and punched Stewart squarely on the jaw. He fell backwards onto the ground, more out of surprise than from the force of the blow, whereupon I grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him violently, like a rag-doll, until I had no more energy.

  Then I got back into the car and prepared to drive off.

  ‘Hang on!’ squawked the indefatigable Stewart, who had already struggled to his feet. ‘Don’t you want to know how I did it?’

  He did a little twirl in the headlights, so that we could see that he had a wet suit on.

  ‘And this is what I used for the head,’ he added, picking up a diving helmet. ‘I stuck these torches on to make the eyes. Pretty clever, eh?’

  ‘Who put you up to it?’ I demanded.

  ‘The Major. But he doesn’t know I’m here. He’d kill me if he knew I was talking to you.’

  ‘Why are you talking to us?’

  ‘’Cos the whole thing’s got out of hand. It started off as a joke, but now it’s got serious.’

  Mo obviously found it extremely hard to accept that he’d been duped by such a childish prank. He pointed to the orange light which was still pulsing away on the horizon, and asked Lonnie: ‘How do you explain that, then?’

  ‘Ah, that’s my flying saucer!’ replied the ex-jockey proudly. ‘If you give me a lift I’ll show you.’

  ‘Alright,’ I agreed, with the greatest reluctance, ‘get in.’

  He directed us down the hill and along a winding farm track which ended in a clearing in the big copse. There, in all it’s glory, stood the UFO – a Volkswagon Beetle which had been covered with a kind of tent made from sheets and aluminium foil.

  ‘That’s a disco light on top,’ explained Stewart. ‘I’ve hooked it up to the car battery.’

  We got out to make a closer examination.

  ‘How long have you been doing this hoax?’ I asked in a censorious tone.

  ‘About a month. Only on Friday nights; those were the Major’s orders.’

  ‘And the purpose was to generate maximum publicity for his conference centre, I suppose?’

  Stewart nodded. ‘Correct.’

  ‘How much did he pay you?’

  ‘Enough.’

  Mo prodded at the aluminium foil. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said, ‘why go to all this trouble when there are plenty of genuine reports coming in all the time?’

  Stewart shook his head. ‘The real sightings started to dry up in the spring. That’s why the Major got worried, and asked me to help. It was all going great until Dominic Gill turned up.’

  I gave him an inquisitorial stare. ‘It was you who broke into Dominic’s cottage that night, wasn’t it?’

  He put his hands up in mock surrender. ‘OK, I confess.’

  ‘What were you looking for?’

  ‘That article – I wanted to see what he was writing. I thought he’d found out about my hoax.’

  ‘What made you think that?’

  ‘It was just the way he looked at me in the bar that night – sort of suspiciously. And he kept going on about being onto something big. I got paranoid and told the Major.’

  ‘Who suggested the break in?’

  ‘Correct. He got his wife, Maggie, to keep Gill busy for a few hours. Meanwhile I slipped away and did the business at the cottage.’

  ‘But you didn’t find anything?’

  ‘Not a sausage.’

  ‘How long did you look?’

  ‘I was out of there by about ten.’

  ‘You didn’t wait for Gill to return, and then kill him, I suppose?’

  Stewart let out a mirthless laugh. ‘I may do some odd things for the Major – but not murder.’

  ‘Well, someone must have killed him. What’s your theory?’

  ‘I haven’t got the foggiest idea, really.’

  ‘In that case, we’ll leave you to play with your spaceship,’ I said, heading back to the car.

  ‘If I tell the whole story to the police,’ said Stewart running after me, ‘do you think they’ll believe me?’ Suddenly he had the look of a frightened little boy.

  ‘Three to one against,’ I replied coldly.

  Early the next morning, while I was still shaving, there was a knock on my door. I opened up, expecting to see Mo or a member of the hotel staff. Instead a slim, tanned woman with short, slightly straggly blonde hair stood before me.

  ‘Hi, I’m Harriet, Dominic’s wife,’ she declared, thrusting out a hand confidently.

  ‘Oh! Please, come in. Have a seat, I’ll be with you in a minute.’

  ‘Sorry about the ungodly hour,’ she said, sinking into an armchair, ‘I’m still trying to adjust to UK time.’

  ‘That’s perfectly alright.’

  I hurriedly completed my toilet, then rang reception to order tea. ‘Are you hungry by any chance?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ she replied firmly, ‘I don’t have breakfast. Got out of the habit while I was in Oz.’

  ‘When did you arrive back?’

  ‘Yesterday morning. Dominic’s Dad told me you were investigating the case.’

  ‘You know the basic facts, then – about your husband’s death?’

  ‘Yes, although it hasn’t really sunk in yet. I only spoke to Dom a few days ago – it was the day before he died, in fact.’

  ‘Really? Can you remember what you talked about? I know this must be upsetting for you.’

  ‘No, I don’t mind. He called me in the middle of the night, which was unusual. Said he’d just got hold of something big – to do with this UFO investigation.’

  ‘Nothing more specific?’

  Harriet thought for a moment. ‘He said it would “rock the establishment” – I think that’s the phrase he used.’

  ‘Rock the establishment,’ I echoed musingly. ‘That could be significant. Anything else?’

  ‘Just private chit-chat. We had to conduct our marriage over the phone, remember.’

  ‘Yes, I understand. It must have been difficult, being thousands of miles apart.’

  Harriet smiled ruefully. ‘Dom used to send videos of himself by air-mail, so that I wouldn’t forget what he looked like!’

  ‘You mean camcorder films?’

  ‘That’s right. Him doing the washing up, or watching television – domestic stuff. It helped to keep our relationship going.’

  Just then room-service arrived with our tea.

  While I was pouring it out I remarked: ‘You haven’t asked me who I suspect yet.’

  With an expression that was at once sad and steely she replied: ‘Dominic’s gone – knowing who killed him won’t bring him back.’

  I changed the subject. ‘Would you like me to take you to his cottage? There are a few effects to go through.’

  ‘I did that yesterday.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Did you happen to notice
if Dominic’s camcorder was lying about?’

  ‘No, it wasn’t,’ she replied definitely. ‘Perhaps it’s been stolen? I’d better tell the police.’

  ‘Yes, you’d better. When are you seeing them?’

  ‘Straight after this.’

  Once Harriet had left I trotted down the corridor to Mo’s room, and knocked on the door. Judging by how long it took him to answer he had been in a profound slumber.

  ‘We’re supposed to be visiting Bob French this morning, remember?’ I said. ‘He still believes that alien he’s filmed is genuine. It’s only fair to put him straight.’

  ‘Give me five minutes,’ said Mo, sneezing violently.

  Even though the flu had evidently started to take hold he was anxious not to miss any of the action. So having grabbed a quick breakfast we both headed over to French’s characterful house in Founder’s Lane.

  The ufologist was in his dressing gown when he received us, clutching a ream of typed papers.

  ‘Ah, it’s you. Come in. I’ve just been writing to a few people about my film, actually,’ he explained, showing us straight through into the study. ‘I think the time is ripe to let the scientific community judge the thing for themselves.’

  ‘We have some rather distressing news on that score,’ I announced, removing my deerstalker and holding it to my breast condolently.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I think you’d better sit down first.’

  He obeyed, slowly and apprehensively. ‘Alright, I’m listening.’

  Mo took up his cue; ‘There’s no easy way to say this, Bob. That alien in your film was in fact a hoaxer – dressed up in a wet suit and diving helmet. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ exclaimed French indignantly. ‘Who told you this?’

  ‘The man himself – Lonnie Stewart, barman at the Falcon.’

  ‘He’s lying.’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not. He showed us his costume last night. It looked exactly the same as in the film.’

  French shot out of his chair and paced the room, flapping the bundle of papers up and down in his distress. He looked like an owl caught in a cage. ‘No, I still don’t believe it.’

  ‘We predicted your disbelief,’ I replied gently, ‘which is why we’ve taken the liberty of inviting Lonnie round to demonstrate. He should be here any minute.’

  There was a protracted, awkward silence. Then the doorbell rang. French seemed reluctant to answer it, so Mo went instead.