Copyright © 2015 David Cargill
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For My Family:
Alan and Flo, Jane and Kieran, Jennifer, Katie, Rémy and Solène.
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
The Statue of Three Lies
Gauntlet of Fear
CONTENTS
Chapter 1: THE CINDERELLA MURDERS
Chapter 2: THE MUMMY’S CURSE
Chapter 3: CRAGANOUR, ABOYEUR AND ANMER
Chapter 4: NOTHING ROMANTIC ABOUT MURDER
Chapter 5: THE ARTIST’S DREAM
Chapter 6: A STAB IN THE DARK
Chapter 7: NOTHING IS IMPOSSIBLE
Chapter 8: THEATRE OF GHOSTS
Chapter 9: THE ELECTRIC THEATRE
Chapter 10: THOSE VOICES AGAIN
Chapter 11: THE LAST STRAW
Chapter 12: MOSTLY GHOSTLY
Chapter 13: NO CASE TO ANSWER
Chapter 14: BULLETS OR BLANKS
Chapter 15: IT’S THAT CURSE AGAIN
Chapter 16: THE SHOW MUST GO ON
Chapter 17: THE BEST AUTHORS ARE DEAD AUTHORS
Chapter 18: WHO HAD THE OPPORTUNITY?
Chapter 19: NOW DO YOU BELIEVE IN GHOSTS?
Chapter 20: WHO’S NEXT ON THE LIST?
Chapter 21: GHOSTS DON’T FIRE GUNS
Chapter 22: DARE WE DROP OUR GUARD?
Chapter 23: THE RUN-THROUGH
Chapter 24: WHEN THE LIGHTS WENT OUT
Chapter 25: SCARED TO DEATH
Chapter 26: THE GAME’S UP
Chapter 27: BUT NOT WITHOUT A PRICE
NOTES FOR CURIOUS MINDS
MY THANKS TO
Chapter 1
THE CINDERELLA MURDERS
Giles Dawson wakened with a start as the tranquillity of the moment was shattered. The devastating intensity brought him out of his reverie and for several seconds the normally resilient professor of stage magic and leading historian of the great illusionists had difficulty recognising his surroundings. Giles, the essential professor; absent minded, detached, intense, a cynic of all that appeared to be without proven evidence tried desperately to focus his attention on what was now happening. The racket emanating from the hallway was undoubtedly the cause of his awakening but what immediately followed was more disturbing as the door to his room burst open and a total stranger was bundled inside as if propelled on roller skates.
As Giles sat upright he couldn’t believe his eyes – the man entering the room was tall, well dressed, heavily built and dangerously out of breath. He appeared to be in his late sixties and the beads of sweat on his flushed face and the terror in his eyes suggested he’d been running away from something or someone who’d endangered his life.
‘For God’s sake help him into a chair darling and loosen his tie while I get him some water.’ The words came from behind this giant of a man and were voiced by the rapidly disappearing Laura.
‘Who the hell is he?’ Giles questioned the vanishing lady as he gently guided the gasping colossus to an armchair where he deftly removed the man’s tie and unbuttoned the top of his shirt. Hardly had this been done when Laura reappeared and a glass of water was thrust into Giles’ hand as the visitor scrabbled inside the breast pocket of his open tailored jacket and brought out a small box.
Without saying a word the stranger removed a pill from the box, placed it in his mouth, grabbed the glass and put it to his trembling lips. He took several gulps before handing the glass back then, with a deep sigh; he lay back and closed his eyes.
‘Phone 999 Laura and get an ambulance here fast. I think he could be having a heart attack.’ The words had hardly left Giles’ lips when the stranger, his eyes remaining closed, shook his head and raising an arm with the palm of his hand outwards appeared to be indicating that medical intervention was unnecessary.
Giles took Laura to one side. ‘Who the hell is he?’ he repeated, looking at his watch trying to determine time of day and so fathom his whereabouts.
‘I’ll explain in a moment sleepyhead. Once you’ve got your bearings, that is.’
The bleary-eyed Giles looked askance at his surroundings. According to his watch it was early afternoon and sunshine was flooding the room. The room was vaguely familiar though he couldn’t quite place it. Now it was coming back. Slowly but surely it was coming back. Slowly but surely it started to dawn on him. The house he was in had to be the country house near Lockerbie in south-west Scotland where he’d spent much of his youth. A youth where, as a boy, endless tales of magic and illusion were fed him by the owner, Jack Ramsden, a cabinet maker for stage illusionists. The house had been named after a magician but for whatever reason his fuddled brain couldn’t remember the magician’s name. But whatever was happening now was no illusion. ‘Why was I so deeply asleep?’ he asked.
‘The post-lunch dip, Giles. That’s what you call the snooze you often have after a satisfying mid-day meal. And yes, you normally have your siesta in this we call the library.’ Laura gently squeezed his hand in a reassuring kind of way.
Giles nodded and smiled as realisation filtered through. He’d been enjoying the dip until the sudden upheaval. ‘Who the hell is he?’ he asked yet again studying the stranger and shaking his head if unable to distinguish any identifying features.
‘Let me explain,’ she said nodding towards the figure in the armchair. ‘His name is Mark Armstrong and he is the gentleman who wants our help with stage illusions. For the play he’s promoting, Giles. Don’t you remember? You’re the one he hopes will help him. At the moment I think it’s he himself who requires the help.’
‘I’ve not the slightest doubt about that,’ Giles said, his concern deepening. ‘More like a huge dollop of magic and I’m not sure I can help him with that.’
‘I didn’t mean to disturb your catnap my dear but Mr Armstrong was in grave need of help. Keep an eye on him… he obviously doesn’t want us to get medical help. I’ll go and see if Doreen can rustle up something.’
When Laura left the room and closed the door Giles went over to the visitor who seemed more composed.
‘I think I owe you an apology my dear sir.’ The deep voice, in a cultured yet unmistakable Scouse accent, was spoken slowly but with sincerity by the stranger who was evidently making a remarkable recovery from whatever had endangered him. ‘I’m afraid I know what it is to be terrified out of a deep sleep.’ he said with mild breathlessness still evident.
Giles nodded acknowledgement as the door to the library opened once more but this time in a more sedate fashion for it was the dependable housekeeper, Doreen accompanied by Laura bringing in a trolley with cups and saucers and the delicious aroma of newly-baked scones.
‘Yes Mr. Armstrong, I’m afraid you did waken me out of a sleep,’ Giles said, placing the glass, he’d been holding, on to the trolley. ‘My name is Dawson, Giles Dawson.’
‘Then you must be the professor of stage illusions I was told might help me with my theatre production.’
‘That’s quite correct.’ Giles said. ‘I was in dreamland when I was rudely awakened out of a deep slumber… a slumber in which I was conjuring up visions of a rather unique goddess at the time.’ The sudden rattle of cups and saucers heralded the mystified surprise shown by both Doreen and Laura as Giles, with his blue eyes twinkling, continued to explain. ‘The Roman Goddess, Fortuna – the Goddess of Luck I believe. Wasn’t she the one who almost certainly was the source of the Latin proverb “Fortune favours the brave” and other similar translations? The translations of that Latin proverb were the raisons d’être after I got to grips on a recent assignment that was bordering on the impossible. As luck was on my side I owe Fortuna a great debt of gratitude. I rather wish I could say the same for you Mr Armstrong.’ The wry smile on Giles’ face and the wink he gave Laura as he turned to face her clearly demonstrated there was no malice in what he’d said.
‘And,’ said Laura, with a gentle sigh of relief and giving Doreen a smile as the housekeeper left the room, ‘since the solving of the circus problem my fiancé has not had to resort to the tobacco leaf to assuage any strong feelings of stress.’ She chuckled then gave Giles a benign kiss on the cheek.
‘Your fiancé?’ asked the visitor gradually getting his breath back.
‘Well our engagement was rather a rushed affair, wasn’t it Giles, my dear?’
‘Yes, I’ll give you that – but I didn’t want the forthcoming wedding to be of the shotgun variety,’ said Giles, a little sheepishly, his gentle grin broadening into a huge smile as he eased the recovering visitor into an upright sitting position. ‘After concluding the mysterious circus affair we had a short holiday in Spain. Malaga to be exact and a visit to Granada and the Moorish Palace at Alhambra brought our attention to the theatre while we also had time to make plans about future wedding arrangements.’
‘A wonderful part of Spain. Views overlooking the Sierra Nevada!’ The visitor seemed to perk up, his demeanour reflecting a recent period of exhilarating enjoyment as he paused before continuing his travelogue. His eyes took on a faraway look. ‘I happened to spend some time there last year. I found it the ideal place to put the final touches to my play… staying at the hotel – the Alhambra Palace with Andalusian food, good wine and perfect weather.’
‘Mention of Andalusian food reminds me of my recent experience with the accident-prone circus,’ said Giles, glancing at Laura; his steely eyes betraying very little of the torment he’d been under.
‘This circus, Professor Dawson. Let me just get this straight. Are you the same Dawson whose exploits were recently in all the newspapers? The detective who solved the bizarre locked-room murders at the circus, headlined by the press as Gauntlet of Fear? If so it must have played a major part in your life.’
‘Yes I’m afraid it did. That was where a young girl of exceptional talent performed mind-blowing tricks on her Andalusian mare. But that’s over and done with. At least I hope it is.’ Giles’ words were delivered in moody fashion before he shrugged his shoulders and straightened up. ‘My fiancée led me to understand you wished some help in devising a few stage illusions for use in a forthcoming play, Mr Armstrong, but I have to admit your health, on entering this room, rather suggested you may be more in need of assistance of a different nature. Would you care to elucidate?’
‘Please call me Mark, Professor Dawson.’ The guest struggled to adjust a non-existent tie as he spoke and his features took on a pronounced look of embarrassment. A look that Giles construed as having an element of foreboding. There was an ominous hiatus before Mark continued. ‘I beg your indulgence and would rather get to know if we can work together regarding my play before I confide the unusual circumstances causing my health problem. You may find what I tell you exceptionally bizarre and if you don’t mind I’d prefer to leave that till later.’
Giles and Laura glanced at each other – their curious frowns taking some moments to disappear before they nodded and turned towards their visitor. ‘No problem, Mark. You can count on us,’ said a now ebullient Giles, ‘and, for a start, let’s all be on first name terms.’
‘A splendid idea,’ reiterated Laura as she handed a small tray and napkin to Mark. ‘But I suggest we first sample Doreen’s baking and her home-made strawberry jam then you can explain everything about this play of yours.’
The gentleman, who only a short time ago appeared in danger of cardiac arrest, now seemed perfectly at ease as he ate his scones and sipped his tea.
‘Does this play of yours have a name?’ asked Giles.
Wiping his mouth with the napkin, Mark looked at his two hosts. ‘The play does indeed have a title. Little known I admit, as is the dramatist.’
‘Who is…?’ queried Giles.
‘Why me, of course. Mark Armstrong.’
‘And the title?’
‘Oh I’m just plain mister, Professor Dawson.’
‘No… the title of the play, Mark?’
Mark took his time before answering. ‘The title of the play,’ he said, glancing at his hosts expecting a reaction… ‘is The Cinderella Murders.’
Chapter 2
THE MUMMY’S CURSE
The incongruous use of the name Cinderella being coupled with murders came as a sudden shock to a bewildered Giles. ‘But I was led to believe the drama was to be an adaptation of the Grimm Brothers’ fairy tale.’ he said.
‘You’re quite right, Giles. The play is a three-act loosely based on the original fairy tale, Cinderella. The one by Charles Perrault and not the Grimm’s version.’ There was a pause before he continued, a thin smile playing upon his lips. ‘It is a mystery thriller – not the pantomime version… but with murder in the plot!’
Giles, disconcerted, paused before voicing his thoughts. ‘I must admit I was a bit reluctant about becoming involved with theatrical illusions for a stage play, especially as the production incorporates murder but it is my stock-in-trade. I’m ready and willing to help you. Hopefully, it’ll not need the assistance of that Roman Goddess.’
‘Not like the last occasion my dear,’ said a gratified Laura. ‘And so say all of us!’
‘Thank you, Laura. I think we’re all agreed on that but to get back to this play of yours, Mark. Have you a schedule you wish to follow?’
‘Yes I have but that may depend on several factors. I’ve already picked my cast and the first thing we have to do is have a full reading of the play. It would be of some benefit to you, Giles if you sat in on the reading. That will give you an idea where illusions may be used. I have my own idea about where I’d like an illusion to take place. You see this is a Mystery Thriller and I’d hope the audience would enjoy the mystery and gasp at the illusions as if they couldn’t believe their eyes.’ Mark turned to Laura, his eyes taking on a beseeching look. ‘To get back to the reading of my play by the cast do you think we could possibly have that reading here, Laura? After that the cast can continue learning their lines before we decide where we can hold stage rehearsals.’
‘That might not be such a bad idea, Mark. My mother would have no objections to that and I’m certain she’d love to sit in and hear the reading of a play. When she was younger she and my father went to see the Wilson Barratt Company when there was a season of their plays in Glasgow.’
‘Laura’s mother has always been interested in mystery and her life has revolved around illusions,’ added Giles. ‘Her husband, Jack, was the one who introduced me to magic. He was a cabinet maker for stage magicians and a damned good illusionist himself.’
‘Was?’ queried Mark. ‘So he’s no longer involved in producing such cabinets then?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Laura. ‘My father died almost fifteen years ago under strange circ
umstances… in this very room.’ She paused and, glancing at Giles, managed a faint smile, a hint of a glistening teardrop at the corner of her eye. ‘But that’s something we’ve come to terms with. And my dear Giles was the one who uncannily arrived at the truth and proved he was not only the perfect magician but a masterful detective to be relied on.’
Giles smiled tenderly at Laura. For a brief moment he relived something from the not-too-distant past before suddenly coming to a conclusion. ‘I’ve just come up with an idea,’ he said. ‘An idea that might be very interesting. Laura’s mother will be celebrating her birthday next month – Hallowe’en to be exact – and her birthday always had an illusion performed as the highlight. If I can come up with illusions that compliment your play, Mark, perhaps one could be tried out as a fitting tribute to her mother, Isabella, on that special evening?’
‘That sounds ideal, Giles. It fits in with all my plans and I was concerned that so many difficulties might scupper everything.’
‘Was that concern the reason for your obvious distress when you arrived?’
‘No! Just give me a few moments, Giles. I’ll explain everything once I’m convinced we can work together.’
‘Sorry! I don’t mean to rush you,’ Giles smiled and nodded. ‘Can I ask how you came to approach Laura for help?’
‘Indeed you can. As you’ve probably already guessed I come from the Liverpool area – the Wirral in fact – but my close friend for many years, Walter Bradley, comes from Carlisle. It was Walter’s idea that we write a play based on an original fairy tale but, if possible, with some spectacular effects to enhance the production. He knew that Laura was a choreographer working with clients for stage presentation particularly as magicians’ assistants. He suggested I should get in touch with her. When I contacted Laura she thought you might be just the person we needed.’
At the mention of the Wirral Giles was instantly reminded of his RAF days and his good friend Freddie. ‘I have a close friend,’ he said, ‘and the Wirral is where we first met. You mention this friend of yours came up with the idea of writing this play. Did you write it together?’
The Cinderella Murders Page 1
