The Statue of Three Lies

by David Cargill

  Shortly after going into his room he decided to go along to the bathroom where he made a cursory examination of the large cabinet that was fixed to the outside wall - but with no success! He brushed his teeth and went to bed determined to give the place a thorough going over in the morning before the others arrived.

  He’d been tired, probably over-tired because he didn’t sleep all that well and, when he awakened and got out of bed on that first day of December he looked out of the window at an overcast sky.

  He padded along to the bathroom in his bare feet, locked the door and started to go over the wall cabinet inch-by-inch.

  Everything seemed solid and secure. He pulled and pressed every small object he could see, but nothing moved.

  He decided to shave and think things over and, as he made the final stroke with the razor, his thoughts turned to Dr. Brussel and Professor Berkeley and how they might have tackled the problem. He figured they would look for a fixture that nobody would want to have the wrong way round.

  He splashed his face with cold water and dried it with the towel then returned to the cabinet to gaze at the structure. ‘Now what wouldn’t you want the wrong way round?’ he asked himself out loud.

  It stuck out like a sore thumb - the toothbrush holder; if it were the wrong way round the brushes would fall out. He might be wrong but it was, at least, a start.

  He tried to rotate the object but it wouldn’t budge. He tried turning it the opposite way and it responded after a little effort. The soft click, when he turned it upside down, was music to his ears.

  He pulled and the whole of the cabinet swung away from the wall to reveal a fairly extensive square opening on to a shaft that extended vertically the entire height of the house - the chimney from the library.

  Inside the shaft was a wooden platform, similar to a dumb waiter in a hotel, which appeared to be controlled by rope pulleys on the same lines as a block and tackle. He reached in and pulled on the rope and the platform moved silently downwards. He brought it back to the starting point and, after a few minutes more, decided he had seen enough to justify his theory - full marks to Brussel and Berkeley.

  He swung the cabinet against the wall and covered the opening, rotated the toothbrush holder to its original position and put the toothbrushes back in place. It was logical to assume that once someone was inside the shaft the cabinet could be pulled against the wall and locked from the inside.

  The locking device would be able to twist the holder into the correct position and everything would appear normal so long as brushes weren’t scattered around the floor; simply removing any brush before starting could easily prevent that. It was cunning, simplistic and required no death defying nerve that Ken Allen had displayed in the airshaft of the Boston Hotel all those years ago.

  The chimney had obviously been reconstructed internally to allow easy passage of the platform down to the area behind the safe from where access to the library could have been achieved. The elaborate reconstruction of the chimney and the installation of safe, bathroom cabinet and pulley-operated dumb-waiter that had come from an idea born at a magician’s convention had effectively been instrumental in causing the death of a master craftsman, who had remained alone in his library and awaited the secret entry of a fiend hell bent on his murder.

  He dressed and went down to the kitchen and thanked Doreen for the sandwiches she’d prepared the previous evening. He also warned her that, whatever happened throughout the rest of the day, she should put aside all family loyalties and not become emotionally involved.

  He accepted her offer of tea and hot buttered toast in the warmth of the kitchen then he went to the library where the props for the illusion were already assembled. He crossed to the fireplace and opened the safe using the Houdini combination and, as he replaced the diary he’d borrowed, he became aware that something was missing.

  There was no sign of the long thin-bladed stiletto dagger!

  The others started arriving just before eleven o’clock; Edgar and Sally were first followed shortly afterwards by Conrad and Mabel.

  There was a strained atmosphere in the house that even the chitchat and small talk was unable to break.

  Lunch was buffet style and when everyone had gathered around the table, prepared by Doreen, Giles made it clear that, as soon as it was dark enough, he wanted them to watch a rerun of the Tunnel of Witchcraft illusion they’d seen at Hallowe’en!

  When he’d had a bite to eat he went upstairs to his room - it was a little after 1.30 p.m. There was a playing card lying on the floor just inside the door; it was face down and the red patterned backing looked ominously like a warning of danger ahead.

  He picked it up and turned it over; it was the two of spades and, splashed across the white surface of the card, there was a message in red ink. It read: -

  Meet me in the cellar at 2.0’clock. Come alone - I have something to tell you!

  There was no signature, but wheels started turning in his fertile mind. ‘Oh, God, no!’ he said aloud. If, and it was arguably a big if, the playing card was being used as a means of fortune telling or Cartomancy, using normal playing cards instead of Tarot Cards, the card he held in his hands, the two of spades or “deuce of swords", signified deception!

  He hurried downstairs and found Freddie mingling with the family. He took him aside and said he had something important to do and asked if he would cover for him should anyone ask where he was.

  It was almost 2 p.m. when he checked his watch on the way to the cellar. The door opened at his touch but the place was in darkness. He tried the light switch but nothing happened - the cellar remained in darkness. He took out the small pencil torch that he’d thought he might need but it was only really effective at close quarters. There were no sounds in the place - no footsteps, no breathing - nothing! He picked his way along a row of familiar objects until he saw something that made him feel sick!

  In the faint beam of his torchlight it looked like a bundle of clothes stuffed half in and half out of The Iron Maiden that was lying on the floor but the hairs started to rise on the back of his neck as he almost fell over the bundle - a bundle that was solid to the touch.

  It was human and was lying in a grotesque position face upwards but the half-closed top of the Maiden hid the face. What Giles could see though was the long thin-bladed stiletto dagger that had been plunged deep into the chest, killing the person before the spikes could do the final damage.

  ‘God, what a bloody fool I’ve been,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘I should have expected this might happen - and now, dammit, I’m too late!’

  He lifted the spiked top of The Iron Maiden and, with his fingers, gently closed the lids on the sightless eyes that stared in death! Eyes that, in life, feared the dark and, grim-faced, he turned and left those eyes in the dead body that had belonged - to Edgar!

  Chapter 19

  THE WOMAN IN BLACK

  As dusk approached, on that fateful afternoon, the logs burning in the fireplace threw dancing shadows on the etched faces of those gathered in the lounge at Maskelyne Hall.

  Everyone, who had been there when Jack Ramsden died from a gunshot wound on that last day of October fourteen years ago, was there now. Everyone, that is, except Edgar Ramsden.

  Professor Giles Dawson and Freddie Oldsworth made the numbers up to ten. The Prof, still grim-faced and tight-lipped, took centre stage and started to address those around him.

  ‘I have specifically asked you all to come here as I think it is now time you heard the truth.’

  ‘I suppose you are going to tell us it was all done with mirrors!’ Victor said in his customary petulant voice.

  ‘You know,’ Giles almost laughed with a quizzical look on his face, ‘you might be a lot closer to the truth than even you believe! As we are all here...’

  ‘I’m sorry but that’s not true for a start,’ interrupted Sally. ‘Edgar has still to arrive! Don’t you think it is only fair to wait for him? Surely you cannot be that desperate to b
ask in the limelight!’

  ‘I agree with Sally,’ interposed a quietly spoken Isabella Ramsden. ‘After all, we have waited more than fourteen years for an acceptable explanation of my Jack’s death. Surely a few more moments won’t make that much difference!’

  ’I’m sure it won’t, Mrs. Ramsden. However I’m equally sure that it is not entirely necessary for Edgar to be here. I he paused, shrugging his shoulders as he sought the proper words, before continuing. ‘I happen to believe that he is indisposed and may not be in a fit state to contribute much to what I am about to say.’ He studied the sea of faces for any sign of response. No obvious reaction was apparent, yet someone in that group knew he’d been to the cellar and was aware that Edgar was dead!

  ‘Does that mean we are going to have the kind of “denouement” that Agatha Christie gets up to with her detectives at the end of her novels?’ Mabel said, clapping her hands with excitement.

  ‘I suppose so, Mabel. It’ll look something like that by the time I’m finished.’

  ‘Spooky!’

  ‘Our amateur is hardly a Hercule Poirot lookalike though, is he, Mabel?’ Conrad said.

  ‘And he certainly doesn’t fit the bill as a Miss Marple either!’ Victor said as he joined in the playful banter. Even as boys they had continually poked fun at the thought of Giles ever becoming a renowned exponent of the whodunit variety.

  Giles ignored the two brothers and turned towards Conrad’s wife.

  ‘To get back to what I hardly think is a laughing matter, Mabel; this is certainly going to be, to use your own description, the denouement. Or something similar, I suppose! What I really want to do is get at the truth and that’s been in rather short supply since I came back to Maskelyne Hall at Halloween. He pointed at Victor.

  ‘You mentioned the use of mirrors a short time ago and I must admit the phrase has always been associated with the illusions of the stage magician. But what we tend to forget is that the mirror gives back an image of whatever is placed in front of it and although the mirror image is, of course identical, it is, nevertheless, reversed. That is why we must never believe all we see, or think we see; nor should we believe all we read and, more importantly, we should question all we hear especially when it comes to reporting such misconceptions to others as was done in this particular case...eh, Mrs. Ramsden?’

  ‘How dare you, Giles! Are you insinuating that I have deliberately lied to you?’ The resentment in her voice was mirrored by the indignation of the old lady’s body language.

  ’On the contrary, Isabella. Everything you told me was, I believe, offered with the best of intentions. If it turned out to be not entirely accurate it was not wholly your fault!’

  ‘You’re talking in riddles again, Giles!’ Isabella snapped back. ‘I assure you that my account of what took place that night was the truth. So help me, God!’

  ‘No need to swear on oath, madam. We’re not yet in a court of law! It was all in good faith though...I grant you that!’

  Giles paused and watched the matriarch of Maskelyne Hall as she squirmed uncomfortably in her chair.

  ‘You see it took a trip to the United States to make me understand where I was going wrong and, even then, I stumbled on the circumstances that finally opened my eyes, quite by chance...but I am getting ahead of myself! Before I explain further I want you to witness a tableau of magic that should help to illustrate how I have arrived at my conclusions. I have asked Laura to re-enact the presentation she gave in the library on the evening of her mother’s last birthday. The entire spectacle has to be an exact replica of what took place that evening.’ He paused and looked at Laura who was nodding in agreement.

  ‘I have also invited Sally to assist Laura in the preparation and execution of her illusion just as she did on that occasion.’

  There was a sharp intake of breath from someone in the room as Giles mentioned the word “execution” but he was unable to identify the source.

  ‘It seems as if we are almost ready to be entertained as a family again but, before I ask you to accompany me to the library we’ll give Laura and Sally a few precious minutes to make sure everything is ready.’

  Both women left the room without further ado except for a whispered conversation between Laura and Giles. Giles looked around the room as the door to the hall closed. Mabel, whose girlish enthusiasm for a Poirot style solution had subsided, was biting her lip; Mrs. Isabella Ramsden, her feisty temperament barely visible, looked decidedly frail; Mrs. Gardner held hands with her husband George, both housekeeper and groom looking apprehensive; their unease appearing to be contagious as Conrad, who was standing quite close to them, seemed edgy and on tenterhooks.

  Across and to the other side Victor had lit a cigarette and was nervously removing a piece of loose tobacco from his pursed lips; his unblinking eyes stared incessantly at Giles as a snake does his intended prey.

  Giles took it all in as his gaze moved to the reliable Freddie Oldsworth. Freddie was looking back at him in cool appreciation; the kind of look a maestro of the theatre might give to a fledgling actor who was giving the performance of his wildest dreams, but without saying anything. The imperceptible nod of Freddie’s head, though, was reassuring. There was, however, no mistaking the anticipation in the clear steel grey eyes that more was to come from his professor friend and just how much he was looking forward to the final act.

  Giles looked at his watch.

  ‘Time to go!’ he said and led the others in the direction of the library.

  The library, despite the warmth from the central heating, had a sinister feel of impending doom. Laura was standing just inside the open doorway. As the others filed in from the hall she silently pointed to a row of chairs to the right of the door. The cocktail cabinet and writing desk had been shifted out of the way to accommodate the chairs and the long mahogany table and leather armchairs were now in front of the windows on the right wall where the framed poster of Chung Ling Soo still hung.

  The rearrangement of the furniture allowed the audience, seated on the chairs, unrestricted vision of Laura and the tunnel construction behind her that was placed diagonally in the far left corner of the room where the bookcase wall met the wall containing the other windows and the portrait of the Spanish Dancer. The light from the standard lamps was directed away from the tunnel towards the audience.

  Laura was dressed in a black frock and black stockings and was wearing elbow-length black gloves. Her shoes were also black and the rubber soles made no noise when she walked on the solid oak floor.

  The tunnel was the one Giles had seen twice before. Firstly when he explored the magician’s vast props cellar and then when he watched the illusion in the library on the evening of Mrs. Ramsden’s 70th birthday.

  When everyone was seated and Giles ready to address his audience he felt a tug at his sleeve. It was Freddie inclining his head in the direction of some empty chairs and whispering out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Edgar hasn’t shown up yet and George is missing as well.’

  ‘That’s quite all right. I’m aware of the situation,’ he whispered back. ‘No need to concern yourself!’

  Freddie moved to occupy one of the chairs and Giles had a quiet word with Laura before turning back to his audience to announce the start of the presentation.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began rather formally, ‘what you are about to watch you have seen before. This time however I want you to pay special attention to everything that takes place and make a mental note of anything that strikes you as significant. Please remain silent until the proceedings are over! Now sit back and suspend your disbelief!’

  He gave the signal to start and Laura repeated her movements of the previous illusion. She circled the caravan until she was back where she started. Climbing the steps at the front she picked up the black gown and hood from the front opening before covering the open front of the tunnel with some black material.

  She climbed down the steps and put on the gown that reached down to the floor. She
then covered her head with the hood that had the macabre painting of a skull on the face and repeated her circling of the tunnel-on-wheels, crossing behind the caravan, and reappearing a moment later on the other side. She returned to the front steps having completed a full circuit of the object on wheels and faced her audience.

  For a full ten seconds she stood, almost motionless, her head turning imperceptibly to allow the eyes in the painted skull to scan the seated viewers, before she turned to face the front steps. She climbed slowly and stood facing the black-screened entrance. Her gloved hands performed deft movements at head height as she stroked the area in the darkened opening and, as she stepped backwards, it was clear to see that she had transferred the image of the skull from her hood to whatever was now filling the area in front of her.

  On reaching the floor the figure turned to show that her black hood was now minus the skull. She bowed, glided silently to the open doorway of the library, left the room and closed the door behind her.

  Nobody moved; all eyes were focused on the white image of the skull floating ethereally against the inky blackness that was the front entrance to the box on wheels. The blackness with the face of a skull moved and started to descend the steps. In the diffused light from the standard lamps it was clearly a figure in black with eyes staring from behind the sockets of a skull. The figure stopped a few feet from the seated gathering; a hand moved upwards and, with a theatrical flourish, removed the hood. The figure in the black costume...was Laura!

  It was Freddie who started the applause. The sheer professionalism of the performance had been quite stunning. Before the clapping had died down Giles spoke.

  ‘Thank you Laura, that was deliciously baffling and something Jack Ramsden would have been very proud of.’

  He gave that irritating little cough of his, the clearing of the throat that invariably preceded his important speeches, before continuing.