The Sherlock Effect

by Raymond Kay Lyon

  ‘This still seems very positive, Mr. Beaumaris,’ I objected. ‘When do we get to the problem?’

  He held up his hand.

  ‘Soon. You see, when Janine heard I’d contacted Mary Catchpole she became upset.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She said she was embarrassed about needing to use a dating agency at all. It was a stigma – something she wanted to forget about.’

  ‘Well, that’s understandable.’

  ‘I suppose so. Anyway, we agreed that in future if anyone asked where we met we’d say at a party. I thought that would satisfy her.’

  ‘And did it?’

  ‘To an extent. But from then on she seemed to change.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘She became nervy, moody. And she started asking me for money.’

  ‘Ah!’ I said, knowingly.

  ‘You’re thinking “gold-digger’, I suppose?’ said Beaumaris, stiffening.

  ‘It’s something to be considered,’ I replied, as gently as I could. ‘After all, you’re a rich man, and she’s somewhat younger than you.’

  ‘But the point is I’d already arranged that she should receive an annual allowance of forty thousand pounds after marriage.’

  ‘Really? She knew about this?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Janine has no resources of her own?’

  ‘Nothing to speak of.’

  ‘But what did she need money for – so urgently that it couldn’t wait until after the wedding?’

  ‘Her nose.’

  ‘Her nose?’ I repeated, rather taken aback.

  ‘That’s right. She said it was too long, and that she wouldn’t feel confident enough to go through with the wedding unless she had cosmetic surgery.’

  Beaumaris plunged a hand into his breast pocket and drew out a photograph.

  ‘This is Janine – taken before I met her. Do you see anything wrong with her nose? I’m damned if I can.’

  I took a good look, before agreeing that it seemed perfectly acceptable.

  ‘Of course, a profile shot would be more useful,’ I remarked.

  ‘She’s adorable from every angle – believe me.’

  I shrugged. ‘Women can be irrational when it comes to their own appearance, Mr. Beaumaris.’

  ‘You may be right. In any case I gave her a cheque for twenty thousand pounds, on the understanding that it was an advance against her first year’s allowance.’

  ‘And how much did the surgery cost?’

  ‘Let’s just say there wasn’t any change.’

  ‘Well, I hope it was a success!’

  ‘She seemed pleased enough. But, between you and me, I couldn’t see much difference afterwards. And, if that wasn’t enough, last week she asked me for more money – to buy clothes. “I need a new wardrobe to go with my new face”, she said.’

  ‘How much did she ask for?’

  ‘Ten thousand.’

  I blew out my cheeks. ‘That much?’

  ‘Yes, she wanted “designer labels.” ’

  Beaumaris folded his freckled hands and leant over the desk earnestly. He looked like a sad fox.

  ‘Please understand, I’m not worried about the money, Mr. Webster. But I am concerned about Janine. Do you think she’s mentally unstable?’

  I turned and gazed down thoughtfully at the Crawford Street traffic.

  ‘Difficult for me to give an opinion off the cuff. This sudden burst of prodigality is certainly singular, even eccentric. But whether it amounts to anything clinical is another matter. Would you say she is acting out of character at the moment?’

  ‘Yes, definitely. The girl I fell in love with was fun loving, stable, selfless – someone I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.’

  ‘But the person she’s become?’

  He shook his head forlornly. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps I should postpone the wedding plans?’

  ‘That is something only you can decide, I’m afraid.’

  Beaumaris slumped in his seat, disappointed that I was unable to provide an instant solution.

  ‘It might help if I knew something of Janine’s background,’ I suggested after a pause. ‘What about her family?’

  ‘Parents live in Lincolnshire. Janine’s never really got on with them – they hardly ever speak. She has a younger brother, Toby. I met him once – seems affable enough. He’s a sculptor.’

  ‘Successful?’

  ‘Not yet. I bought one of his sculptures – he calls them “machines”.’

  ‘How about her friends?’

  ‘I get the feeling she’s keeping them away from me.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Well, I’ve only met one since we met, and that was by accident. She’s called Fatima – Turkish, I think. I called round to Janine’s flat one afternoon and she happened to be there.’

  ‘What’s she like?’

  ‘Don’t really know. By the time I came in she’d already disappeared into the bedroom. She’s in Purdah – not allowed to show herself to men without wearing a veil.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’

  After some reflection I said: ‘You know, I’m going to have to talk to Janine at length before I can give an opinion on this matter.’

  ‘Of course. The trouble is I don’t want her knowing I’ve hired a detective. I feel guilty enough about it as it is.’

  ‘That might be a problem.’

  ‘I’ve already given it some thought,’ announced Beaumaris with a surge of enthusiasm, ‘and I think I’ve got a solution. You could come to my house on the pretext of investigating a burglary. I own a number of Art Deco figurines – several thousand pounds worth, in fact. I’ll hide them away somewhere, and say they’ve been stolen. That way you could ask anything you want without arousing Janine’s suspicions. Does it make any sense?’

  ‘Y-es,’ I replied hesitantly, ‘I suppose it could work.’

  ‘Good!’ exclaimed my visitor with satisfaction.

  ‘But I’d like to bring along my partner, Mr. Rennie, if you have no objections. He’ll be properly briefed beforehand, of course. Would this weekend suit you?’

  ‘Perfect. I’ll make sure Janine’s around. And I’ll invite my sister along, to create a more natural atmosphere.’

  And so it was that on a bright, blowy Saturday morning Morris and I found ourselves heading up the M11 on a covert mission. The journey was a dull and featureless one, and by the time we neared our exit my associate had nodded off in the passenger seat.

  ‘We’re nearly there,’ I said, giving him a nudge. ‘Now, are you completely happy with the cover story?’

  ‘I think so,’ he replied, stretching his long limbs and yawning. ‘We’ve been hired to trace some Art Deco figurines. But I still think it’s a dud case. A neurotic woman who spends too much money and worries about her looks! Where’s the mileage in that?’

  ‘Ah, but what has caused Janine’s recent transformation of character? That is the fascinating question. I believe this case could just turn out to be a little gem.’

  ‘Well, I hope you’re right,’ muttered Mo, who had been in a peculiarly negative frame of mind all morning.

  I noticed he had withdrawn what looked like a theatre ticket from his jacket pocket, and was staring at it in an intense manner. Suddenly he tore it up with a snort of disgust.

  ‘Why did you do that?’ I asked.

  ‘It was for tonight. I was supposed to be taking Anita.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say, for God’s sake? I would have come on my own.’

  Mo shook his head. ‘You told me you needed my help. That was more important.’

  ‘Who is Anita, anyway? Have I met her?’

  ‘No, and I doubt you ever will, now. She wasn’t at all pleased about being put off.’

  Mo’s long, slightly unshaven chin seemed to be touching his knees.

  ‘Read the map – it will take your mind off things,’ I suggested cheerily.

  We left the motorway at Junction 9
and doubled back on ourselves. Then we wound through the elegant little town of Saffron Walden – famously founded on the spice, and still showing evidence of former civic pride and affluence. Three or four miles further east was a long, sprawling village where the houses were all colour-washed in a pleasing variety of pastel shades, so typical of the region. At the farthest end was a large thatched farmhouse, set apart in its own considerable gardens. A yew-flanked drive brought us to the front door. I parked next to a scruffy-looking Citroen 2CV.

  Soon an upright lady with snow white hair stepped out onto the gravel.

  ‘Welcome, gentlemen,’ she began, with a serene smile. ‘I’m afraid my brother’s been held up. He’s at the garden centre – again. Choosing umbrella frames for his weeping standards.’

  We were led, somewhat mystified by the jargon, straight into the dining room. A salad lunch had been prepared.

  ‘Please, help yourself, gentlemen. George specifically asked us not to wait. He shouldn’t be too long now. Oh, this is my husband, Lars.’

  A diffident, craggy-faced old man rose from his seat and shook our hands rather automatically. He had dim, watery blue eyes, and gave the impression of being extremely tired of life.

  ‘You are security experts?’ he enquired of Mo, in a Scandinavian accent.

  ‘Well, yes, we’re here about the missing figurines.’

  ‘Good.’

  With that monosyllable Lars retreated into sullen silence – obviously his preferred state. He chomped on his food like a cow.

  ‘You may want to take a look at the drawing room after lunch,’ Daphne suggested helpfully. ‘There are some nice things in there – good silver, and porcelain. I’ve been telling my brother for years that he needs to be more careful about security. The world is a wicked place these days, isn’t it?’

  ‘How right you are,’ I agreed solemnly.

  ‘It really makes my blood boil when I think of those lovely little figurines,’ she continued. ‘They had great sentimental value for George, you know. He gave them to Gloria – his late wife – on her fortieth birthday. I didn’t even realize they’d been stolen until yesterday. My brother keeps everything important to himself. Always has.’ She laughed to herself. ‘I only found out he was engaged from our family solicitor, you know! Ah, this looks like him now.’

  We broke off eating to peer out of the window. Beaumaris’s Volvo swept past us and headed for the garage. Minutes later the man himself walked into the dining room arm-in-arm with his fiancée.

  ‘Ah, good, I see you’ve started without me. Hello, Mr. Webster, Mr. Rennie. I appreciate you both driving up at the weekend. This is Janine, by the way.’

  Miss Yorke acknowledged us with a lightening-quick smile. She had a delicate, pleasing face, with full lips and dark red hair piled up in a stack. At first glance she appeared moderately tall, but I guessed that without her excessively high heels she would struggle to meet Beaumaris’s minimum height requirement.

  She took her place next to me and began to pick at the salad self-consciously. I studied her face. Her eyes were a little bloodshot, and every now and then her slightly pop-eyed stare would be interrupted by a flurry of blinking. That famous nose seemed perfectly in proportion, and bore no visible signs of the recent surgery.

  In between courses Beaumaris cleared his throat and announced: ‘Mr. Webster and his colleague will be asking us some searching questions over the next couple of days. You may think they’re too personal and intrusive, and have nothing to do with the theft. But can I humbly ask you all to co-operate fully? I assure you it’s all in the interests of recovering my property.’

  A murmur of acquiescence went up from the gathering.

  After lunch we were treated to a grand tour of the gardens, with Beaumaris acting as guide. Janine accompanied us and often chimed in – a Latin name here, a pest control tip there. Every time she made a contribution George would look at her with scarcely concealed adoration – he was clearly still besotted by her.

  We came at last to the rose garden, which was a bewildering maze of stone pavements weaving through and between pergolas, pillars, arches and trelisses. It must have covered an acre at least.

  ‘Unfortunately we’re a little early for most of the varieties. But not this one. This is my absolute pride and joy.’

  Beaumaris was pointing to a bush that could already boast a proliferation of glossy, well-packed blooms in a delicate pink.

  ‘Gloria’s Choice. That’s the official name.’

  ‘In honour of your late wife?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes. It’s a hybrid of wichuraiana. Took me years to breed. Painstaking business, you know.’

  ‘The scent is out of this world,’ enthused Janine, stooping down and holding a flower to her nostrils. ‘I hope you’ll name one after me one day, George,’ she added pointedly.

  ‘Of course I will,’ replied Beaumaris, patting her on the head.

  I could not help but notice Janine’s hair darkened near the roots.

  ‘Mr. Rennie, you asked to see the Hybrid Teas, didn’t you? They’re over this side – let me show you,’ offered Beaumaris, strategically steering Mo away. ‘Darling, could you take Mr. Webster through to the wild roses? You know as much about them as I do. We’ll meet you back at the house a bit later.’

  This was clearly a stage-managed opportunity for me to quiz Janine in private.

  She led me through an ornamental iron gate, into a less structured section of the garden. It consisted of rose bushes which had been left pretty much to their own devices.

  ‘Well, have you got any theories yet?’ she asked, cocking her head at me challengingly.

  ‘About the figurines?’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Actually, we believe the burglars had inside information. Someone close to Mr. Beaumaris may have talked to an outsider – tipped them off unwittingly. That’s how the thieves knew the lay-out of the house, and exactly where to find the valuable items.’

  Janine considered this in silence, pausing to inspect a broken branch.

  ‘Your fiancé is a very wealthy man, Miss Yorke. In my experience money tends to attract trouble. It’s inevitable, I’m afraid.’

  ‘So, how can I help?’

  ‘I need to know if you’ve discussed this house with anyone – friends, relations, anybody at all. Think carefully. What about your parents?’

  Janine gave me an icy stare.

  ‘We haven’t spoken for months.’

  ‘They know you’re engaged to George, presumably?’

  ‘No, not yet. I’ll have to tell them eventually, I suppose.’

  ‘What about brothers or sisters?’

  ‘I’ve got a brother. He’s visited the house once.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘But Toby’s completely trustworthy. Certainly not a criminal.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right. All the same it might be worth speaking to him. He may have been indiscreet without realizing it.’

  She shrugged. ‘Go and talk to him if you want. He’s very busy, though, I warn you.’

  I paused, and steeled myself before asking: ‘Is it true that you and George met through a dating agency?’

  Janine’s chin went up indignantly.

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘Well, he did, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Am I allowed no privacy?’

  ‘I’m sorry, but we do have to cover everything. This is all in the strictest confidence, I assure you of that.’ My emollient tone hardly seemed to pacify her, but I pushed on with the line of enquiry anyway. ‘Did any of the other men you dated seem suspicious in any way?’

  Janine looked blank. ‘No, not particularly.’

  ‘You haven’t got their contact details still, by any chance?’

  ‘Of course I haven’t. What a ridiculous idea!’

  ‘Can you remember anything about them that might help?’

  ‘It was a long time ago, Mr. Webster,’ she replied impatiently. ‘Is this releva
nt to the figurines?’

  ‘It could be. Anything could be.’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you. Meeting George has blocked out my recollection of the other people completely.’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed, with a sentimental smile, ‘that’s what love does, I suppose. Never fear, I can always look up what I need to know in the agency files.’

  ‘Aren’t they meant to be confidential?’

  ‘There are ways and means, Miss Yorke, in this computer age. You’d be surprised how easily one can access such information. It’s shocking, really, but it’s all part of my job.’

  Suddenly Janine stopped dead in her tracks and exclaimed: ‘I’ve got it!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My brother, Toby, mentioned some chap he’d met who was very interested in George’s antiques. What an idiot! Why didn’t I think of it before?’

  ‘Who was this person?’

  ‘I don’t know – one of Toby’s boozing acquaintances. He wanted to know all about the architecture of the house. Claimed to be into Art Deco stuff. Toby was a bit suspicious of him at the time.’

  ‘Well,’ I reacted, rather thrown off guard, ‘this could be the breakthrough we’ve been looking for. Thank you, Miss Yorke.’

  ‘I presume you’ll want to speak to Toby about it as soon as possible? I’ll try and arrange it.’

  ‘Oh, the sooner the better.’

  Janine looked at me very earnestly, her eyelids twitching madly. ‘Do you think this man could turn out to be the thief?’

  ‘It’s a distinct possibility. In fact, we ought to find Mr. Beaumaris and give him the good news straightaway!’

  Beaumaris found it hard to know how he should react. He leant against the mantelpiece in the drawing room with brows drawn, puffing nervously on a cigarette.

  ‘You’re quite sure this person was interested in Art Deco, specifically?’ he asked Janine, who was perching eagerly on the end of the sofa.

  ‘That’s what Toby said. You could look a bit more pleased, George. I’ve probably identified the thief for you!’

  He gave an awkward smile. ‘I’m delighted, of course, darling. I just want to get the details absolutely straight.’