‘He needed to know whether you were in contact with the police. So, wearing this rather dated blonde wig, he followed you around in a B.M.W., bought for cash. When he realized the Baskerville Agency was involved he decided we must be warned off. I was nearly run down in the process.
‘The scare tactic failed, but rather than cutting his losses he brought the deadline for payment forward. You see, half a million quid was simply too great a temptation to resist. If it hadn’t been for tonight’s hastily organised ambush your boyfriend, here, would have waltzed off with a total of £700,000 of your hard-earned cash – probably abroad.’
‘What about this note – saying they’d killed Jake,’ reminded Mo. ‘He wrote it himself?’
‘Yes, that was certainly a connoisseur’s touch. A master’s flourish. It was the perfect way to stop anyone enquiring after him, once he had gone abroad to enjoy the money.’
Jake’s sullen silence throughout my explication was enough to convince me that, in all material points, I was correct. Now it was time for the formalities.
‘May we call in the police, Miss Vine? There are some very grave charges to be answered here.’
‘Yes, call them. Why not?’ she replied, with a nonchalance that rang false.
‘You are prepared to give evidence against Jake?’
‘Don’t worry – justice will be done,’ she replied, heading for the door. ‘Now I’m going home.’
‘Will you let Morris drive you?’ I suggested.
But Vicki did not hear.
‘Better go after her, Mo. She’ll be in a state.’
‘What about him?’ asked my colleague, pointing to Jake.
‘I’ll take care of everything until the police arrive.’
The following evening we invited a few friends round to the Crawford Street parlour; an informal party to mark the successful resolution of our first case. It was a jolly enough occasion, though tinged with sadness, perhaps, at the thought of Vicki’s plight.
Once the last guest had departed, and we were starting to collect up the glasses, Mo turned to me with a solemn expression.
‘It was a great performance yesterday, Sherl. No, I mean it. You’ve totally justified my faith in you.’
‘Thanks for making the whole thing possible,’ I returned. ‘I couldn’t have done it without your support.’
Mo gave a self-deprecating snort. ‘It’s easy to re-create a Victorian setting like this,’ he said, waving a hand around our quaint apartment. ‘Much harder to do what you did.’
‘Not at all,’ I mumbled, disarmed by the sincerity of the accolade. Loth to appear falsely modest I added: ‘It’s certainly gratifying to find out that one’s theoretical grounding can bear practical fruit. There was always the distinct possibility that it might not. Talking of which, you’re probably wondering what led me to the solution?’
‘It had crossed my mind!’ laughed my colleague.
‘I’ve actually taken the trouble to itemize the anomalies which pointed me in the right direction. They’re here,’ I said, withdrawing a notebook from the desk drawer and tossing it over to him. ‘Feel free to glance over them.’
Mo peered squiffily at my entries. ‘I can’t quite decipher your scrawl, Sherl. What does that say? Drinking in the hock?’
‘Chinking in the lock! Perhaps I should have used the lap top.’
‘What’s the significance, anyway?’
‘Think back to the first so-called kidnap. Byron Silk heard a chinking noise as he approached the bedroom where Jake was supposedly imprisoned.’
‘Yes, I remember.’
‘He said it sounded as if Jake was picking at the lock – trying to escape. This puzzled me greatly at the time. Why would Jake attempt to escape when the kidnappers had already informed him he was about to be released? It made no sense.’
Mo showed that he understood the point.
‘Then there was the paper-chase which eventually led Vicki and Byron to the Bird’s Nest.’
‘Jake must have organised that too, I suppose.’
‘Yes, it kept them busy for several hours, driving from one end of the country to the other. Meanwhile, Jake stashed the £200,000 and returned to the cottage, in plenty of time to make it look as if he had been held prisoner there. However, the plan misfired because Vicki never went to Northampton; she got the publican to read the last instruction down the phone, remember. This meant she must have arrived at the cottage several hours before Jake intended her to arrive!’
‘Yes, I suppose you’re right.’
‘Jake panicked when he heard Vicki’s car arriving so early. He’d already stripped down to his underpants and disposed of the rest of his clothes, but several things had still to be done if the hostage story was going to hold water.’
‘He’d have to lock himself in, for a start,’ suggested Mo.
‘Exactly! And that was the chinking sound Byron heard – the bedroom door being locked from the inside.’
‘Of course!’
‘Jake’s other quirky behaviour started to become intelligible to me, also.’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as suddenly losing his voice directly after he was rescued.’
‘That seemed a bit odd to me, too.’
‘It was nothing to do with having delayed shock, of course.’
‘What, then?’
‘Well, let’s imagine the sequence of events. Byron enters the cottage, much earlier than Jake was expecting. He climbs the stairs to the bedroom. Jake manages to lock the bedroom door just in time, slips the handcuffs on his own wrists, and shouts “Get me out of here!” to create the impression that he’s been held prisoner. But the key mustn’t be found in the room with him, or the whole charade falls apart! He can’t throw it out of the window – that’s boarded-up. Byron is kicking at the door now – there isn’t a second to lose. What to do? In desperation, Jake tries to swallow the key. It’s too large, and won’t go down! When Byron finally bursts into the room Jake still has the key in his mouth.’
‘Which explains the mute act, I suppose,’ added Mo.
‘Yes, he couldn’t risk talking until he’d found a way of disposing of the key. In the end he feigns nausea, runs out to the bathroom, and spits the thing into the loo.’
‘Which is where you found it.’
‘In the cistern, actually. It was too heavy to be flushed away, despite many attempts.’
‘What a farcical situation,’ chuckled Mo, shaking his head.
‘Yes, but the more outré an event, the easier it is to reconstruct. That’s because the range of possible explanations is greatly narrowed. It’s a Holmesian axiom which still holds good.’
‘I’ll try to remember it, then,’ said Mo, smiling.
‘Actually, my suspicions about Jake were strengthened by the fact that, having claimed to feel sick, he ran straight to the bathroom, without hesitation.’
‘I don’t understand. Wouldn’t that be natural?’
‘All the doors on the landing were shut at the time. How could he possibly have known which room was the bathroom, if, as he later claimed, he had been blindfolded and confined to the bedroom throughout his period of captivity? This was just the kind of trifling inconsistency which led me to the truth.’
‘One thing you haven’t explained,’ said Mo, rubbing his long, narrow jaw thoughtfully. ‘Who was the grey-haired man that drove Jake away from the Italian restaurant?’
‘Oh, someone hired specially for the occasion, I imagine. He was no doubt told it was part of a practical joke. Anything else you want to ask?’
‘No, not at the moment. Now we wait for Jake’s trial, I suppose?’
‘Let’s hope it doesn’t turn into a media circus,’ I remarked.
Mo’s eyes brightened at the prospect, however. ‘Could mean valuable publicity for Baskerville’s. And for Vicki’s new album – it will probably go gold.’
I shrugged. ‘What is fame? an empty bubble; Gold? a transient shining trouble.’
<
br /> THE WARMINSTER ASSIGNMENT
CHAPTER ONE
‘Flying saucers?’ I croaked, sitting up in bed with a jolt.
‘Let’s use the more accurate term; UFOs,’ insisted Mo, pulling back the curtains to let a column of sunlight into the dimness.
Squinting, I gave a dismissive flick of the hand. ‘Hardly our field. To misquote the great man, this agency stands flat-footed upon the earth. The world is big enough for us; no little green men need apply!’
My moderate chuckle turned into a spluttering cough and then an explosive sneeze.
‘You don’t look at all well, Sherl,’ said my friend, backing away with his hand shielding his mouth. ‘Perhaps we ought to talk about this another time?’
‘No, no! You’ve started, so you’ll finish. I want the whole story.’
‘OK. We had a call this morning from Irene Hoyle, features editor at Science Issues.’
‘An authoritative journal, I believe.’
‘With an international reputation. Apparently one of their star journalists, Dominic Gill, has gone AWOL.’
‘Since when?’
‘Two days ago.’
‘Only?’
‘Yes, but they’re already getting worried. He was supposed to let Irene know if he could meet the deadline for next month’s edition. It was a crucial call, and he failed to make it, which is very unlike him.’
‘I see. What was he working on?’
‘An article about the current UFO “flap” in Wiltshire. No prizes for guessing the town.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Warminster, of course!’
The significance was, I confess, utterly lost on me.
‘You do know about Warminster, I presume? It’s the most famous place in Ufology; the UFO capital of the world. Did you never hear about the Warminster Thing in the sixties?’
‘Sounds like a low-budget horror film,’ I remarked.
Mo’s earnest enthusiasm overrode my flippancy, however.
‘It all started back in ’65. The locals reported weird pulses of energy coming down from the sky. People were even knocked to the ground. There was also a flood of UFO sightings. Ever since then Warminster has been the undisputed saucer mecca.’
‘You seem to have more than a passing interest in the subject,’ I observed.
‘Well, yes, I have,’ he conceded, shifting his weight self-consciously. ‘As a matter of fact I’ve been into Ufology since I was a teenager.’
‘You’re a believer, I take it?’
‘It’s not a question of belief, Sherl. I know they exist, and so do most of the world’s governments.’
‘Ah! The great conspiracy of silence!’
‘That’s what it amounts to.’
I grabbed a man-size tissue and blew hard. ‘Well, this is all very fascinating, but frankly I’d be loath to take on such a case.’
‘Too late, I’m afraid. I’ve already accepted.’
‘What!’ I yelled, stifling another sneeze. ‘You should have called me first, instead of turning up here and presenting me with a fait accompli!’
‘You were ill,’ whined Mo. ‘Irene needed a quick decision. She obviously thinks something pretty nasty has happened to Dominic.’
I gave my pillow an aggressive punch and drew up the duvet in high pique. ‘You’ll have to handle this on you own.’
Mo looked hurt. ‘OK, I will.’
‘Does this Hoyle woman want you to go to Warminster?’
‘Yes. Soon as possible.’
‘You’d better make a start, then, hadn’t you?’
Mo shambled towards the door, looking the picture of irresolution. ‘You will advise me, though?’
‘I’m always at the end of a telephone,’ I replied, magnanimously.
‘Right. I’ll keep you fully informed, then.’
‘Do that.’
‘Sure you’ll be alright here on your own?’
‘It’s flu, not the plague! Oh, and as you’re representing the agency perhaps you should borrow some clothes from my dressing-up chest? I suggest the frock-coat.’
‘Not my size,’ he mumbled, slinking out of the door before I could pursue the point.
After Mo had gone I became aware of a weight pressing against my legs. It turned out to be a pile of books about UFOs that my colleague had strategically left behind. For no other reason than to stave off boredom I dipped into one of them, before drifting off into a feverish sleep . . .
At around seven in the evening the phone rang. It woke me up with a start.
‘Hi! How are you feeling?’ asked Mo brightly.
‘Same as before. Or worse.’
‘You sound much better.’
I answered that with a torrential sneezing fit, and then enquired; ‘Where are you calling from?’
‘I’m staying at the Falcon Hotel – right in the centre of Warminster.’
‘Expensive?’
‘Yes. But there’s a good reason to be here. They’re building a conference hall at the back which will be entirely devoted to Ufology; the first facility of its kind in the country.’
I yawned. ‘Wonderful. What about Dominic Gill, the missing journalist – any leads?’
‘No, nothing concrete.’
‘Don’t be surprised if he simply rolls up. Journalists are autonomous creatures, you know. He’s probably happened on a more interesting story.’
‘No, I think there’s something strange going on. If you were here you’d agree with me.’
‘Would I?’
‘Yes, it’s the atmosphere – threatening, in a kind of indefinable way.’
‘I suspect you’ve been reading too much sensational literature, Mo. Like these books you so thoughtfully forgot to take with you.’
‘Read them yet?’
‘A few chapters, here and there.’
‘Convinced?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘Anyway, the bits about Warminster are marked – in case you get better and decide to come down. I was chatting to one of the locals in the bar just now. This flap is the biggest they’ve had in twenty years, you know. Last week two policemen saw a huge cigar-shaped object in the sky. They chased it in their patrol car for about twenty miles! And there was a C.E.2. case over at Upton Bray. Someone saw a dwarf-like humanoid.’
‘Is any of this relevant to Dominic Gill’s disappearance? Beware of letting your zeal for extra-terrestrials cloud your judgement, my friend. A man is missing. That’s all we know. Look for the mundane explanations first.’
‘OK. Tell me what my strategy should be.’
‘I’d find out where Dominic Gill was staying.’
‘I know that already, from Irene Hoyle. He’s rented a cottage just outside Warminster.’
‘Good. Ask the letting agent if you can look round the place – explain the situation. The poor chap may have topped himself for all we know. You’ve got a decent photo of him I hope?’
‘Yes, Irene gave me one before I left London.’
‘Excellent. Take it round to the local shops, pubs, and so-on. Ask if anybody’s seen him. Now, I’m going to take a couple of paracetamol and get an early night. Call me tomorrow with a progress report.’
I slept very late the next day – until nearly one o’clock. But it seemed to aid my recovery, because I felt marginally less like death than on the previous evening. Venturing unsteadily into my sitting room I discovered an email had been sent within the last hour. It was a bulletin from Morris, reading thus:
Dear Sherl,
I’ve shown the photograph to about two thousand people so far! No positive feedback – except from a woman called Kate Chormley, who’s staying at my hotel. She talked to Dominic Gill on a number of occasions, in the hotel bar. The last time was two days ago; he was drunk and started chatting her up. Then the hotel owner’s wife, Maggie Campbell-Farr, arrived on the scene and apparently began flirting with him right under Kate’s nose. Hotel gossip has it that Maggie and Dominic spent the n
ext three hours together in the honeymoon suite! I don’t know where all this sleaze gets us, though.
You may be pleased to hear that I took your advice, and went round to the letting agency. When I told the manager that Dominic might have committed suicide in the cottage he agreed to go over there with me. I think he was anxious to avoid any bad publicity. When we arrived the door was locked, and there was no sign of life. We got in using the agency’s keys, and did a quick search of all the rooms. There was no sign of Dominic. I noticed a few dirty plates and saucepans in the kitchen; it looked as if the washing up had been abandoned half-way through. There was a computer in the living room, which he was probably using to write his article. But I couldn’t see any discs, or manuscripts. The estate agent was hovering over me to make sure I didn’t steal anything, so I couldn’t really make a thorough examination.
Regards,
M.
Several hours later, just as Countdown was drawing to an end, the phone rang. It was Mo again, this time sounding breathless and disturbed.
‘Thank God you’re awake!’ he blurted.
‘Why? What’s happened?’
‘They’ve found a body.’
‘Where?’
‘In a field near Upton Bray – a mile outside town. It’s almost certainly Dominic’
‘Who discovered it?’
‘The owner of the farm, Mr. Lambert – one of the people I showed the photo to this morning. He called me immediately.’
‘And he’s made a positive identification?’
‘Yes.’
‘Has he called the police as well?’
‘Yes. I’m on my way over there, before the whole place is sealed off.’
‘Quite right. Observe as much as you can, then report back.’
As soon as I was off the phone I downed a couple more paracetamol, dressed hurriedly, then packed a bag. Fit or unfit I felt obliged to join my friend, now that events in Wiltshire had taken a considerably more serious turn.
Just as I was walking out of the front door the phone rang yet again.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s Mo. I’m standing right by the body now.’
The Sherlock Effect Page 5