The Sherlock Effect

by Raymond Kay Lyon

  ‘Albert who?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t think he ever mentioned his surname.’

  ‘And what kind of man was he?’

  Toby lit a cigarette and pondered. ‘Pretty dodgy, to be honest. I’d seen him in the Marlborough once before. He told me he’d recently come out of the army. But with hindsight it’s more likely he was doing time!’

  ‘Did you give him any information?’

  ‘Yes, unfortunately I was on the strong stuff that evening. I told him about the figurines. He kept asking whether George would sell. I said I thought it was highly unlikely. Then he wanted to know about the architecture of the house. That’s when I got a bit suspicious.’

  ‘How did the conversation end?’

  ‘He left, suddenly – without finishing his drink, I seem to remember. Haven’t seen him since.’

  Janine looked at me expectantly. ‘Well? What do you think?’

  ‘I think he’s our man alright,’ I declared.

  A few hours later we made our way over to the Marlborough Arms, on the off chance that this Albert would turn up again. Janine and her brother were both especially keen on the idea, and I could think of no legitimate reason to object.

  By ten o’clock it was becoming obvious that our man was not going to put in an appearance, which was a blessing. I didn’t really fancy having to interrogate him about a non-existent theft! However, the evening was far from being uneventful.

  We were just debating whether Albert might frequent one of the other pubs in the Muswell Hill area. Toby, Janine, and myself were facing the bar, but Mo, sitting opposite, could look out onto the street through the bay window. The curtains were not drawn, even though it was nearly dark.

  During a lull in our conversation I noticed Mo’s attention had been drawn to something outside. His eyes grew round with fear, his lean jaw dropped, and the colour drained from his face.

  ‘Did you see that?’ he exclaimed, pointing over my shoulder.

  ‘What?’ we all asked.

  ‘That face, at the window.’

  We turned round. There was nothing.

  ‘Was it another ghost?’ suggested Janine excitedly.

  Mo didn’t answer. I could tell he was genuinely shaken by what he’d seen.

  ‘What did it look like?’ I asked.

  ‘Just a pair of eyes – like Daphne saw that night,’ he murmured. ‘A woman’s eyes.’

  I got up from the table and headed for the door.

  Toby drained his glass and hurried after me. ‘Wait – I’ll come with you.’

  Stepping out onto the quiet street we heard rapid footsteps – someone was running away down a side alley. We sprinted off in pursuit. Toby easily outran me, and emerged onto a main road.

  ‘Too late!’ he declared, as I caught him up. ‘We’ve lost her in the crowd.’

  ‘No, over there!’ I shouted, pointing to a woman in flowing black garb who was dashing for a West End-bound bus on the other side of the street. She managed to jump onto it through a feat of athleticism. I looked around for a free taxi in which to continue the chase, but by the time one came along the bus was miles away.

  The next morning Mo rolled into the Crawford Street office an hour later than arranged. He appeared pale and drawn, and had dark rings under his eyes.

  ‘You don’t look as if you’ve had much sleep,’ I observed solicitously.

  ‘No, hardly any,’ he mumbled, slumping down on the sofa. ‘I’m absolutely knackered. Kept thinking about that face at the window.’

  ‘Never mind; we might be near to a solution of the mystery.’

  ‘Really? What’s happened?’

  ‘Quite a lot. For a start I had a call from our esteemed and long-suffering client early this morning. He wants us off the case.’

  ‘Great!’

  ‘As we’ve discovered nothing sinister about Janine he’s decided that she’s worth a risk. The marriage goes ahead as planned.’

  Mo shrugged. ‘That’s that, I suppose.’

  ‘However,’ I continued, adjusting the pipe-rack in front of me, ‘since then I’ve reviewed the salient facts, and come up with a theory which explains them. It’s a largely uncorroborated theory, and it entails putting two and two together to make five. But I am forced by circumstance to show my hand prematurely.’

  ‘In other words, it’s a guess,’ said Mo penetratingly. ‘Go on then, hit me with it.’

  ‘The whole thing revolves around Fatima, Janine’s muslim school friend – the one that Beaumaris encountered by accident. I believe – and this is a guess – that she suffers from an unsightly facial disfigurement which must be coverered up at all times. Recently Fatima came to Janine asking for financial help, in order to pay for expensive cosmetic surgery. Being a sympathetic and resourceful girl, Janine found a way to raise the money for her old friend. She pretended to Beaumaris that she wanted a nose job for herself.’

  ‘Which she never had?’

  ‘No, nor did she buy that wardrobe of expensive clothes. She bought second hand stuff that could pass as haute couture. Beaumaris’s money went straight towards Fatima’s medical expenses.’

  ‘Do you think it could have been Fatima that I saw at the pub window?’

  I nodded. ‘And Fatima that Daphne spotted outside Beaumaris’s kitchen. She was wearing a veil; not for religious reasons, but because the operation was only a partial success. The face was masked out, leaving only the eyes visible.’

  ‘But what the hell was she doing, peering at us through windows?’

  ‘Perhaps she wanted to speak to Janine, but couldn’t build up the courage to come inside and face the rest of us.’

  Mo took a few seconds to digest all this, and then asked: ‘Why don’t you put your theory to Beaumaris – see what he says? It can’t do any harm.’

  ‘Already have,’ I replied with a quick smile. ‘In fact I’d just come off the phone to him when you walked in.’

  ‘How did he react?’

  ‘Surprisingly well, actually. He said that if I was right he would admire Janine even more, because of her heartening compassion for a friend’s suffering. He’s going to put the whole thing to her when he sees her this afternoon, and then report back to me.’

  ‘Good – we’re making progress,’ said my colleague, stretching his legs out. ‘Now, if you have no objections I’m going to get some kip. Wake me up when he calls.’

  Ominously, there was no news from Beaumaris for two days. Then we received a letter from him which ran this way:

  Dear Mr. Webster,

  You may be pleased to learn that Janine has confirmed your theory in virtually every particular! A few years ago her schoolfriend (who is neither Turkish nor called Fatima, by the way) had an accident with a home tanning device, which left her scarred on the face. There was a lengthy waiting list for corrective surgery on the N.H.S.

  The friend, hearing that Janine was engaged to a wealthy man, approached her for help. The rest, as they say, is history.

  My only regret in all this is that my fiancée took such a dim view of my character, and assumed that I would be unwilling to finance the operation, which, I hear, has been 90% successful. I trust she will get to know me rather better after we are married. By the way, the schoolfriend has asked to remain incognito, at least until she feels able to confront the world again.

  I enclose a cheque, and two invitations to the wedding, as a small token of my heart-felt gratitude.

  Hope to see you both soon.

  Yours sincerely,

  George Beaumaris.

  ‘I’m going to frame this and stick it up on the wall – there, next to dear old Queen Victoria,’ declared Mo, waving aside my protestations. ‘No false modesty, Sherl. It will be a permanent reminder that two and two make five.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  The wedding ceremony was a quiet registry-office affair in Saffron Walden, blessed by lovely June sunshine. Beaumaris had invited a number of long-standing friends, as well as some extended fa
mily. Only Toby attended from Janine’s side, however, which gave the whole event an unbalanced feel. Presumably Mr. and Mrs. Yorke objected to their daughter’s match so strongly that they felt compelled to stay away.

  There were two other notable absentees: the disfigured schoolfriend, and Mary Catchpole, managing director of the now defunct Top Table Introductions.

  The bride looked suitably radiant, dressed in a pale pink lace-edged confection, while the groom was dapper, self-conscious, and fidgety.

  The reception was held back at Beaumaris’s house. A string quartet played on the lawn, and there was a marquee serving lavish refreshments. Lars, who had the honour of being best man, made a short speech, devoid of either humour or interest.

  Then Beaumaris took the microphone.

  ‘Ladies and gentleman, thank you all for helping to make this the happiest day of my life. I have decided not to tax your patience with a lengthy peroration, but there is one thing I would like to announce: I have lied to my wife.’

  There was a shocked murmur from the gathering.

  ‘I told her that due to certain financial constraints, as well as my aversion to flying, we would be unable to go abroard for our honeymoon. She had resigned herself – without a word of complaint, I may add – to spending just one night in a seafront hotel in Brighton. However, the truth is that we are booked to go from here straight to Heathrow and thence to a luxury hotel on the Côte d’Azur for a month!’

  There was great applause, and Janine reacted with a becoming mixture of surprise and delight.

  ‘I would like to apologise publicly for playing a practical joke on her,’ continued Beaumaris, turning affectionately to his wife, ‘and assure her that I don’t intend to make a habit of it in the years ahead!’

  More applause and laughter.

  He held up a hand. ‘And finally, I hope, and believe, that our married life will turn out to be a bed of roses, both metaphorically and literally. Thank you very much.’

  The groom resumed his seat and kissed the bride, to an enthusiastic and sustained ovation.

  Right on cue a gleaming white Rolls Royce Phantom cruised up to the house. The couple made their way to it through the euphoric crowd. As Janine settled into the back seat I thought I detected – just for a split second – a look of worry on her face.

  Mo didn’t notice, having been quite carried away by the festive mood.

  ‘Cheer up, Sherl, for pity’s sake!’ he exclaimed, waving energetically as the car swept off towards the village. ‘You’re not still brooding about the case? It’s over – solved. Do yourself a favour – join in with the spirit. Have another glass of bubbly.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mo. I was reflecting.’

  ‘What on? Can’t you just let it go?’

  I smiled weakly. ‘Yes, you’re probably right.’

  The fact was I had lost many hours of sleep in the last few weeks turning things over in my mind. Although the affair had been successfully resolved I was tormented by the notion that the solution had been too easy.

  It reminded me of an exam I once took, where I finished well ahead of my class-mates. Minutes before the end I realised, to my horror, that I’d missed out a whole page of questions! It even occurred to me to resume our surveillance of Janine, without informing Beaumaris. Mo talked me out of that idea. After all, reports of Janine’s recent behaviour were encouraging. There had been no more bizarre requests for money, or periods of uncharacteristic moodiness. In fact, she seemed to have reverted to her old self.

  And yet, that strange look on her face as she was being whisked away to honeymoon bliss had reactivated all my doubts . . .

  Just then Toby, who appeared to have overdone the champagne, lumbered towards us, glassy eyed.

  ‘Mr. Webster, isn’t it? The detective with the famous middle name? How are you, mate? Enjoying yourself?’

  ‘Oh, absolutely. And you?’

  ‘Too much, as you can see. But I have a bloody good excuse.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. Your sister happily married off. It must be a relief.’

  ‘Of course. But there’s another reason. I’ve just got my first big commission! Bradford City Council want a bronze for their new shopping mall.’

  ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘Only heard about it today. Didn’t even have time to tell Janine.’

  ‘When do you start work?’ enquired Mo.

  ‘I’m going up there tonight – staying for three days. There’s a lot of preparatory stuff to do before I can start. Well, I better get back to the bar. Nice to see you again. By the way, did you ever catch that thief – Albert?’

  ‘No,’ I replied, making sure I avoided Mo’s amused glance. ‘Unfortunately it looks like he’s got away with it.’

  Three days later I got a call at my flat – very early in the morning. It was George Beaumaris, and he was in quite a state.

  ‘It’s started all over again, Mr. Webster!’

  ‘What has?’ I asked, still more than half asleep.

  ‘Janine – she’s acting strangely. You did say I could call if anything went wrong.’

  ‘Yes, of course. What exactly is she doing?’

  ‘It started when we were driving to the airport. She remembered she’d left a window open in her flat by mistake, and asked if we could stop off there on the way. I told her it was out of the question, because we were running late and would miss our plane. She went berserk! But I put my foot down.’

  ‘Is there anything valuable in the flat?’

  ‘Not really. That’s why I couldn’t understand all the fuss. On the flight I suggested that she call Toby and ask him to pop round there and close the window. He has his own key, you see. Ever since we arrived in Nice she’s been phoning him every few minutes, but he’s never in. Yesterday she started ringing round his friends, but none of them knew where he was.’

  ‘I see. What’s the latest position?’

  ‘I’ve just woken up to find she’s left the hotel. There’s a note. Shall I read it to you?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘ “Dear George, have decided to return to London. Back soon. Don’t be cross. Love Janine.” She’s taken her suitcase, and two of my credit cards. I really thought we’d got over all this nonsense.’

  ‘Let me consider the matter. Can I ring you back?’

  ‘Alright, but don’t leave it too long. I really am at my wit’s end!’

  I sprang out of bed, had a wash, then phoned Mo. He was rather annoyed at being disturbed so early, and thoroughly unimpressed by the latest bulletin.

  ‘So, she’s gone off her head again. What can we do about it?’

  ‘I don’t know. That’s why I need your advice, Mo.’

  ‘It’s six-thirty in the morning, for God’s sake,’ he groaned.

  ‘Seven-thirty in Europe. Why do you think Janine is so desperate to go to her flat? Because of one open window?’

  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’

  ‘It seems like an over-reaction to me. Unless . . . ’

  I’d just had a ghastly thought.

  ‘Unless what?’

  ‘No, it couldn’t be . . .’

  ‘What?’ repeated Mo irritably.

  ‘Don’t ask me for an explanation, Mo, but we have to get over to the flat straight away.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yes. Right now. Get dressed and jump in a taxi. I’ll meet you there.’

  I hung up before my colleague could object, threw on some clothes, and shot out of the house. Luckily a cab hove into view almost immediately.

  ‘Northolt Road, Hendon,’ I instructed the driver. ‘Do you know any short cuts? I’m in a great hurry.’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ he replied evenly.

  ‘There’s a tip in it for you,’ I added, flourishing a ten pound note to encourage him.

  We took a promising-looking back street and promptly became snagged between two off-loading lorries. It held us up for what seemed like an eternity. By the time we finally made it to J
anine’s place Mo was already standing outside the door, looking thoroughly bored.

  ‘There’s no answer, Sherl,’ he remarked with a yawn, as I paid off the cabbie. ‘She’s obviously not in.’

  I jammed all of the bells at once. A disgruntled man in a string vest appeared after several minutes, and began to give me a piece of his mind. I brushed past him, bounded up the stairs, and tried Janine’s door. It was locked. With Mo’s help we managed to kick it in.

  The living room was empty, but there was orchestral music playing softly in the background.

  ‘Someone’s in,’ concluded Mo.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ I retorted.

  The door to the bedroom was shut.

  I took a deep breath, then eased it open and peered inside.

  There, amid the comparative gloom, was a woman, spread-eagled on the bed, lying quite still. She was fully clothed. Her wrists and ankles were tied to the legs of the bed, and she had masking tape stuck over her mouth. As she did not stir, even when I drew very near, I feared the worst.

  ‘Jesus!’ whispered Mo, who was just behind me. ‘Who the hell’s that?’

  I put my ear to the woman’s chest, and was relieved to hear a frail, irregular beat.

  ‘She’s alive, thank God,’ I said, pulling the masking tape off.

  ‘Help me untie her, will you.’

  ‘But who is she?’ repeated Mo.

  ‘Her name is Mary Catchpole.’

  ‘What! The woman who ran the dating agency?’

  ‘Exactly. Here, look very carefully at her eyes,’ I instructed, shielding the rest of her face with my hands. ‘Do you recognize her? No? She’s the “ghost” who gave you such a turn in the Marlborough Arms that night – the mysterious veiled woman.’

  ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I answered, unknotting the final cord. ‘Now, we’d better ring for an ambulance.’

  Once Mary Catchpole had been borne away on a stretcher I took the opportunity to continue with that unfinished search of Janine’s effects.

  I concentrated this time on her correspondence, and quickly came upon something useful: an envelope, addressed to her parents in Lincolshire, which had never been posted. Through this I obtained their telephone number – from Directory Enquiries.