‘Get Toby to tell you the whole story himself. You’ll have to wait a couple of days, though – he’s up in Bradford at the moment.’
‘In the meantime,’ I put in, giving Beaumaris a meaningful glance, ‘Mr. Rennie and I should look over the house, in case the burglar left any clues. We’ll review your security arrangements at the same time.’
‘Let me know if you need me,’ said Beaumaris, stubbing out his cigarette. ‘I’ll be in the study.’
We got to work immediately. Mo took the ground floor, whilst I took the first. The hunt for clues was entirely bogus, of course, but it had to be performed for appearance’s sake. After an hour or so I rejoined my colleague, and together we ventured into the grounds.
As soon as we were clear of the house Mo grabbed my arm.
‘What’s going on, Sherl? Who is this guy who’s supposed to have stolen the figurines? We’ve got a prime suspect for a crime that never happened!’
‘Well said, Mo. That is exactly what we have. It’s our misfortune that someone just happened to enquire about them. Perhaps I should have foreseen something like this, and planned for it.’
‘You can’t cover every eventuality,’ replied Mo, understandingly. ‘But do we really have to pretend we’re investigating the man?’
‘It would look pretty odd if we didn’t.’
Mo conceded the point with a thoughtful nod. ‘And what about Janine? Have you found out why she’s been behaving eccentrically? That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?’
‘Not much to report, as yet,’ I admitted.
Mo drew me nearer, and lowered his voice confidentially. ‘I managed to get some juicy gossip out of Mrs. Dando, the cook, while you were upstairs.’
‘Oh yes?’ I reacted, happy that Mo was taking a positive approach.
‘Yes, she was being very indiscreet – a bit tipsy, I think. Apparently George’s sister, Daphne, got a decent share of their father’s inheritance. She was worth quite a bit. That was until talkative Lars convinced her to invest in a hairbrained scheme in Denmark. She lost it all. Ever since then they’ve survived on handouts from brother George.’
‘Mm. That is interesting.’
‘And there’s something else. You see that small lake, on the other side of the orchard? Janine had a boating accident there not so long ago. Did you know that?’
‘No.’
‘She took out a leaky rowing boat, and nearly drowned. According to Mrs. Dando, Daphne knew it was dangerous – but failed to warn Janine.’
‘I see. Where was Beaumaris during all this?’
‘In Saffron Walden, seeing his dentist.’
Reading my friend’s features I could tell he had a theory and was itching to expound it.
‘What is your conclusion?’ I asked.
‘Obviously Daphne wants to get rid of Janine.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, at the moment she has a chance of inheriting her brother’s money when he dies. But if he marries he’s bound to leave virtually everything to his new wife. That’s a good enough motive, I would have thought.’
‘Why should Daphne expect to outlive her brother? She looks quite a bit older than him.’
‘Perhaps she intends to make sure he dies first.’
‘Murder?’
‘Why not?’ said Mo with widening eyes. ‘I think she probably caused Beaumaris’s first wife to have that fatal accident – tampered with her car.’
‘We seem to be heaping surmise upon surmise, here. In any case, I’m not sure your theory can explain Janine’s sudden vanity, or her desire to spend money like water.’
Mo drew up his wide shoulders. ‘I’ll have to work on that.’
Over supper I had a chance to make a re-examination of Daphne and Lars in the light of Mo’s fresh intelligence. Was it my imagination, or did I sense an antagonism towards Janine – this would-be interloper? It manifested in nothing more than an over-politeness, perhaps an unguarded facial expression – signals that could easily be misinterpreted, or overlooked entirely.
After the meal Beaumaris suggested bridge, and we all shuffled off to the drawing room.
I partnered our host, whilst Daphne partnered her husband. Janine was an interested observer, and Mo – not much of a bridge player at the best of times – read a magazine by the light of a standard lamp.
As the first few hands were played we could hear the wind working itself up almost into a gale; there was a constant melancholy whine as it blew down through the huge old chimney. After about an hour Daphne, who was dummy at the time, yawned showily.
‘Would you like us to call it a night?’ George asked her kindly. ‘You look done in.’
‘I am wilting a little,’ she admitted, rubbing her eyes. ‘But I don’t want to spoil the game for everyone else.’
‘Janine can take your place, can’t you, darling?’
‘Of course,’ replied George’s fiancée brightly. ‘I’m still not very good, though, so you’ll have to make allowances.’
Daphne got up and kissed her husband lightly on the top of his broad head.
‘I shall make myself a milk drink before turning in,’ she announced, sweeping regally out of the room.
We played out the hand, and I was in the process of totting up the scores, when there was a gut-wrenching scream from somewhere in the house.
‘What the hell’s that?’ exclaimed Beaumaris, jumping up.
‘Sounds like Daphne,’ said Janine, her eyelids going into another nervous spasm.
Lars, who had done more than justice to a bottle of port, hardly stirred from his chair, but the rest of us hurried towards the source of the noise. We met Daphne running back along the hall. She was deadly pale – there was no more colour in her cheeks than in her snowy hair.
‘What is it? What’s happened?’ demanded Beaumaris, grabbing his sister by the shoulder.
She was gulping, like a fish out of water, unable to speak for several seconds. Finally she managed to blurt out: ‘Eyes! At the window!’
‘Where?’
‘In the kitchen. It was horrible! Just eyes – nothing else. No face.’
‘Perhaps it was a ghost?’ theorized Janine darkly. ‘I always said this house was haunted.’
‘Come on,’ said Beaumaris authoritatively, signalling to Mo and me. ‘There could be an intruder. Let’s take a look.’
We made a thorough search of the kitchen, the pantry, and the boiler room, before stepping out onto the terrace and peering into the night.
‘She must have been hallucinating,’ muttered our client. ‘There’s nothing out here.’
We returned to the drawing room to find Daphne huddled on the sofa, trembling, and being comforted by Janine.
‘Are you quite sure about this, Daphne?’ asked Beaumaris. ‘Could it not have been a reflection, or a trick of the light?’
She shook her head vehemently. ‘No, somebody was out there, George, I swear. But only the eyes – no face. Didn’t you find anything?’
‘Not a sausage. Whoever it was obviously got scared and ran off into the garden.’
‘I won’t be able to sleep tonight,’ she warned, ‘or tomorrow night. Not until I know who it was, and what they wanted.’
Beaumaris let out a resigned sigh. ‘Shall we make a search of the grounds? Would that put your mind at ease?’
‘Not much point, if it is a ghost,’ objected Janine. ‘I believe in them, personally.’
A rather discursive debate on spiritual matters followed, after which it was decided that Mo, Beaumaris and myself should do a quick inspection of the garden using torches, just to be on the safe side.
It was a moonless night, and the buffeting north wind was uncomfortably chilly. We fanned out across the grass, the lights from the house helping us on our way. Once beyond their influence, however, we were completely reliant on the narrow beams of our torches.
I ended up in what I presumed was the rose garden. In the dark the arched pathways took on a decidedly eerie as
pect, and I was rather glad to emerge at the other side, onto the expanse of the croquet lawn. Striking out across it I heard the roar of a car engine up ahead.
‘This way!’ I yelled to the others, making towards the sound. Two red rear-lights became visible through the trees, receding rapidly towards the road, and then disappearing into the village.
‘Was that car in our drive?’ asked Beaumaris, running up to join me.
‘Yes, I’m pretty sure it was.’
‘So, there really was an intruder,’ panted Mo, who was a few yards behind us.
We trudged back to the house in silence, disappointed at having only partially resolved the mystery.
Janine’s svelte figure was silhouetted in the doorway.
‘Did you see anything?’ she asked eagerly, stepping out to meet us.
‘Well, it wasn’t a ghost – unless they drive cars these days,’ responded Beaumaris dryly.
Janine looked rather put out. She obviously relished the idea of a ghostly visitor.
CHAPTER TWO
The following morning Mo and I decided to return to London. It seemed that we were in danger of getting completely bogged down in a series of inexplicable events, and I wanted to take stock of things. Beaumaris was not too happy about the idea.
‘I really think you might have stayed on, Mr. Webster,’ he grumbled, seeing us to our car. ‘At least until you gave me a preliminary opinion.’ Lowering his voice to a whisper he added: ‘Time is running out. I need to know whether to cancel all the wedding arrangements. The guests have to be warned well in advance.’
‘Of course, I appreciate your predicament. Give me a ring this afternoon at Crawford Street, and we’ll discuss matters further.’
As we drove off I caught a glimpse of our client in the rear-view mirror. He was gazing disconsolately after us, his moustache drooping appreciably.
‘I feel rather sorry for the chap,’ remarked Mo, voicing my thoughts.
In fact it was nearly ten o’clock in the evening before Beaumaris called us.
‘I couldn’t get away until now,’ he explained.
‘No need to apologise,’ I remarked. ‘Frankly, I wanted some time to think about the case.’
‘And what have you come up with?’
‘That it may be necessary to put your fiancée under surveillance for a while – just until I find an explanation for her odd behaviour.’
‘You mean spy on her? No, that’s quite out of the question.’
‘Your scruples do you credit, but if we’re to make any progress I must observe Janine in her own environment. It could make the difference between a successful outcome and no outcome.’
After a good deal of soul searching Beaumaris consented.
‘Do what you have to do,’ he said grudgingly. ‘I’ve got to have some answers soon, or I’ll go mad. She’ll be in her flat in Hendon from Tuesday morning onwards. But for God’s sake don’t let her see you . . .’
Tuesday came, and we parked fifty yards or so from Janine’s place, wearing hats and glasses for disguise. Just after eleven she emerged and walked down the hill to Hendon Central Tube station. We caught the same southbound train, changed with her at Tottenham Court Road, and followed her as she got off at Bond Street.
‘Looks like another shopping expedition,’ Mo whispered, as Janine stopped to eye a jeweller’s window display. ‘Let’s hope she’s not feeling too extravagant today – for George’s sake. Mind you, the guy can afford it.’
She hovered outside one glitzy boutique after another, never actually entering any of them. Then she turned off into a more modest side street. There was a charity shop about halfway down, and it was into this that she finally disappeared, somewhat furtively.
After almost an hour she re-emerged, weighed down with shopping bags.
‘So much for designer labels,’ Mo hissed into my ear, as we followed her back onto the Tube. ‘None of the stuff in there costs more than twenty quid, I should think!’
‘Perhaps thirty, at the most,’ I guessed.
We shadowed Janine efficiently all the way back to her flat. As soon as she was inside her front door we headed for our car.
‘I think it’s time to shed the disguises,’ I announced.
‘Then what?’
‘We call on the lady, before she decides to go out again.’
‘Hang on, I thought this was a surveillance operation,’ complained Mo.
‘We’ve done enough surveillance for one day. Time is not on our side, and I’m desperate for solid data. I’m going to go through her belongings.’
Mo looked at me doubtfully. ‘How will you manage that, while she’s still in the place?’
‘We’re going to decoy her away for a few minutes,’ I replied breezily, getting into the car and removing my bobble hat: ‘You will have one of your convenient fits of cramp; just like when you’re losing at tennis. Simply curl up in agony on the floor. I’ll tell her that we must administer salt tablets to alleviate your suffering. There’s a chemist just up the road from here. She’ll toddle off to purchase said tablets, during which time I will conduct a search of the apartment. Any questions?’
‘Yes. What if she asks you to go to the chemist?’
‘I’ll be busy massaging the affected muscles. Anything else?’
‘What if she keeps salt tablets in the flat?’
‘Then we abandon the operation.’
Before Mo could dream up further objections I led him over the road to Janine’s door and pressed the bell. She appeared after a considerable delay, wearing a long black dress which still had the charity shop label attached to the sleeve.
‘Oh, hello!’ she exclaimed in surprise.
‘Sorry to turn up unannounced like this,’ I began. ‘Hope you don’t mind?’
‘No, of course not. Why don’t you come in?’
We climbed the stairs to her first-floor flat, which turned out to be very light and airy, though rather untidy.
‘Sorry about the mess,’ she apologised, clearing the sofa of magazines so that we could sit down. ‘Is this about the figurine-snatcher? Or the ghostly intruder? Or both?’
‘I have a theory that they might be one and the same person. Do you think it’s possible?’
‘Yes,’ she replied, having weighed the idea carefully, ‘I’d say it’s quite likely. Criminals often return to the scene of their crime, don’t they? Perhaps he left something incriminating behind, and had to come back for it? By the way, would you like some tea or coffee?’
‘Let me do it,’ said Mo, launching himself off the sofa. Suddenly he let out the most terrible howl and collapsed onto the carpet, clutching his calf muscle, and writhing about in apparent agony. The performance was a little overwrought, but convincing nevertheless.
‘My God!’ exclaimed Janine, horrified, ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Salt tablets – it’s cramp!’ I cried, kneeling beside him. ‘Have you got any?’
She shook her head.
‘Is there a chemist nearby?’
‘Yes, five minutes away. You want me to get them?’
‘Would you mind? I’ll try some emergency massage.’
Janine gathered up her handbag and was out of the door at top speed.
I ran to the window, and made sure she was out of sight, before going into the bedroom and beginning my search.
Several of the shopping bags from the charity shop had been hurriedly stuffed into a wardrobe. As to Janine’s other clothes, some of them may have looked expensive at first; but as they had no common manufacturer or style I suspected they were second-hand also.
Under the bed was a pile of books; most were on the subject of gardening. Know Your Roses, a large pictorial volume, caught my eye in particular. It was in good condition – a recent purchase. Others were from the local library; again, recently borrowed. There were more books displayed on a shelf in the living room, but none of these were gardening books.
I was just about to go through some corresponden
ce when Mo shouted out a warning.
‘You’ve got about thirty seconds, Sherl, she’s coming down the street!’
I swiftly returned everything to its place. Then we resumed our theatricals on the carpet.
A few moments later Janine burst through the door, out of breath, and brandishing a small package.
‘Salt tablets!’ she gasped.
‘Wonderful!’ I replied. ‘All we need now is water.’
‘Right.’
She hurried into the kitchen and returned with a glassful.
The medication was administered, and within five minutes Mo had made an impressive recovery.
‘I’m OK now,’ he assured, walking gingerly from one side of the room to the other. ‘I don’t know what I’d have done without you, Miss Yorke!’
‘Don’t mention it,’ she answered with a laugh. ‘I’m just amazed those tablets work so quickly,’ she added unsuspiciously. ‘Now, why don’t I make that coffee? After that we could go and see my brother. That is, if you’re feeling up to it?’
‘I’ll be up to it,’ replied Mo, shooting a glance in my direction. ‘Where does he live?’
‘Quite near – Muswell Hill.’
Toby Yorke, a long-haired, elongated version of Janine, lived above a newsagent. His ‘studio’ turned out to be little more than a sparsely furnished one-bedroom flat. It was given over completely to the creation of abstract sculpture, much of which seemed to consist of everyday items covered in cotton-wool.
‘I’m afraid I can’t stop,’ he warned, a little gruffly, as we trooped in.
An ironing-board was being given the cotton-wool treatment at that very moment.
‘Do you actually sell these things?’ asked Mo, tactlessly.
‘Now and then,’ he replied, between clenched teeth.
‘Tell them about the man in the pub, Toby,’ ordered Janine, settling down on a large floor-cushion. ‘The whole story.’
The sculptor finished what he was doing, rubbed his hands on a towel, then condescended to give us his full attention.
‘I met this bloke called Albert, in the Marlborough Arms – it was a couple of weeks ago now. He was extremely interested in George’s Art Deco collection.’
The Sherlock Effect Page 15
