The Statue of Three Lies Read online

  THE STATUE OF THREE LIES

  THE STATUE OF THREE LIES

  David Cargill

  Copyright © 2011 David Cargill

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Matador

  5 Weir Road

  Kibworth Beauchamp

  Leicester LE8 0LQ, UK

  Tel: (+44) 116 279 2299

  Fax: (+44) 116 279 2277

  Email:[email protected]

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  ISBN 9781848768413

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  For

  Sheila

  DEDICATION

  To the memory of JOHN DICKSON CARR (1906-1977) American Author of Distinction and undisputed Master of “Locked Room” Murder Mysteries.

  A lifetime of enormous pleasure, collecting and reading his work, was the inspiration that triggered this piece of fiction woven around an incident of fact.

  D.C.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  John W. Apperson: President - Society of American Magicians 2004-005 for unearthing Magazines of 1952 Golden Anniversary Convention in Boston, USA

  Bill Boles: The Boston Globe

  Henry F. Scannell, Reference Librarian, Microtext Department, Boston Public Library for factual information and clipping from Boston Globe June 1, 1952 - page 37

  Jennifer Smith, Government Documents Librarian, Boston Public Library for Local Climatological Data reports for November, 1966

  Boston Public Library: Telephone Reference Department for description of Library entrance in 1966

  Bob Carr, Sales & Marketing, Boston Park Plaza Hotel for history and description of Hotel that, in 1952 was the Statler Hotel and, in 1966, was the Statler Hilton

  Pam Carter, PA to Managing Director, St. James's Hotel and Club, for historical information about Simpson's-in-the-Strand

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1: DEATH BY MISADVENTURE

  Chapter 2: THE GENIE OF THE LAMP

  Chapter 3: THE MAN WHO COULD WALK THROUGH WALLS

  Chapter 4: “DID YOU SEE DR. HYDE?”

  Chapter 5: THE IRON MAIDEN

  Chapter 6: DO YOU BELIEVE IN GHOSTS?

  Chapter 7: A-HAUNTING WE WILL GO

  Chapter 8: DEAD MAN’S SHOES

  Chapter 9: THE CAT O’ NINE “TALES”

  Chapter 10: DINE WITH THE DEVIL

  Chapter 11: CIRCLE OF SUSPECTS

  Chapter 12: THE WHOLE TRUTH AND NOTHING BUT...?

  Chapter 13: THE PRIEST-HOLE

  Chapter 14: TUNNEL OF WITCHCRAFT

  Chapter 15: ATHENS OF AMERICA

  Chapter 16: HOW A BOTTLE OPENER CAN OPEN: MORE THAN BOTTLES

  Chapter 17: THE STATUE OF THREE LIES

  Chapter 18: APPOINTMENT WITH DEATH

  Chapter 19: THE WOMAN IN BLACK

  Chapter 20: EVIL UNMASKED

  Chapter 21: THE HANGING JUDGEMENT

  Notes for Curious Minds

  Quotations

  Chapter 1

  DEATH BY MISADVENTURE

  Wistful but frowning, Giles Dawson drew reflectively on his second cigar of the day, savoured the flavour, and blew smoke at the lilac-tinted pages in his hand. He stabbed the air with the glowing Havana as if trying to disperse the haze. The riddle in the letter perplexed him. The copperplate writing evoked echoes of happy days - worlds away from the shabby gentility here and now in the Club; of a childhood among friends, endless tales of mystery and magic and the voice of a young girl calling from his adolescence of almost twenty-five years ago. His furrowed brow deepened in academic concentration.

  As a member of The Magic Circle he found the clues intriguing, as fragrant as the writing paper, as insubstantial as the wisps of smoke dissipating into his prematurely greying temples. The letter was almost intimate - but cryptic.

  24 October 1966

  Maskelyne Hall

  Dear Giles, or should I call you Professor? A voice from the past!

  What is the room you leave without entering? What is the room you enter without leaving? Remember? Remember me? Laura. Jack Ramsden’s little girl - though not so little now.

  Remember those ancient riddles we loved to solve?

  As we get older, we begin to realise that the biggest riddle of all is

  Life. Or is it Death?

  But enough of the preliminaries. Now, I need your help.

  Remember Daddy - and how he died? Of course you do - though I'm sure you do not know the entire truth. But then neither do we. That's why I need your help.

  And remember the story you told me - about Chung Ling Soo, the Magician? How you said his accidental death could have been suicide by proxy - or worse. It has played on my mind for years. People can be so vile to each other. Daddy's death wasn't suicide. It was no accident either. More and more I'm forced to believe that his death was meant to happen. And now the past is closing in on us, and we have to deal with it.

  Please come back to Maskelyne Hall! Mother will be seventy on Hallowe'en.

  After fourteen years as a widow she doesn't want a party but the rest of us want to celebrate this occasion. And to do that we need to come to terms with...the past.

  You must come - as guest of honour and old friend of the family.

  You must come. Please! You have to. I desperately need your help.

  Help me prove that Daddy’s ‘fatal accident’, unlike Chung Ling Soo’s, was - Murder! Don’t let me down. Call me! The number hasn’t changed...help me! For God’s sake...

  Laura.

  The figure in the chair opposite had watched in silence for several minutes as his perturbed friend and associate since RAF days chewed on his cigar and stared unblinkingly at the words in front of him. Freddie Oldsworth was well aware that any interruption in similar circumstances was likely to be unproductive but caution was sacrificed as the brooding and darkening features opposite became more pronounced. He stirred from his sleeping sphinx position.

  ‘What’s puzzling you?’Freddie Oldsworth asked the question, ordered coffee and brandy, then settled back in the leather armchair, in the knowledge that it could well be long enough before he received a reply.

  ‘Puzzling me?’ Professor Dawson sounded vaguely distant and the normally enthusiastic glint in his blue eyes was missing. He stabbed the air with his cigar.

  ‘How I wish it could be that easy! What do you make of that?’ he said, cryptically, as he passed the letter across.

  Freddie Oldsworth brushed a hand through his mop of light brown hair, took the letter and fumbled for his spectacles, became aware of the slightly perfumed notepaper and started to read the mysterious contents.

  ‘Laura?’ Freddie had an impish look on his face as he tilted his head slightly and posed the question.

  Giles frowned, stared across at a Munnings’ print of Racehorses on the wall behind Freddie and, in a strangely disembowelled voice, said ‘Oh, Laura? Sorry...I was thinking about Lind...So sorry! Laura! Of course.. .Laura Ramsden!’

  ‘You cunning old fox! You’ll go, o
f course?’ Freddie warmed in anticipation.

  ‘Would you?’ The Professor took another puff of the cigar, looked Freddie straight in the eye and said, ‘Well! Would you? Hmm .yes, I suppose you would!’

  ‘Of course I would...Pretty girl...Well, is she or isn’t she?’

  The Professor nodded. ‘I suppose so!’ he said. ‘At least she was the last time I saw her.’

  ‘Well there you are then. You’ve solved most puzzles, conundrums, riddles and illusions in your time! Why not try your hand at murder?’

  Freddie sat back, clasped both hands behind his neck and continued his questioning.

  ‘Maskelyne Hall! Very, very interesting! Now that’s magic! Surely that needs an explanation, if I’m not mistaken!’

  ‘Okay, Torquemada, why the Grand Inquisition? Will it be the thumbscrews next?’

  ‘Just curious, that’s all. Anyone worth his salt and steeped in the history of magic would be more than curious at the naming of a house after one of the all-time greats!’

  ‘Well Freddie, just remember what curiosity did! One murder, if it was murder, will be more than enough of a problem without trying to solve the death of the cat as well!’

  The Prof knocked the ash from his cigar, lifted the glass of brandy that was pushed towards him, savoured the aroma before emptying the glass with one satisfying gulp and said, ‘Now...let me see! I have no intention of keeping you in suspense but it all seems so long ago.’

  At this point his voice had quietened almost to a whisper; the eyes had glazed over - nostalgia beckoned.

  ‘During the war years I grew up with the Ramsden family in Scotland. Jack Ramsden was almost a second father to me, hence the “old friend of the family” reference in the letter. His tales of Houdini’s exploits, without doubt, led to my fascination with stage magic.’ The Prof was again using his cigar - now unlit - to pointed effect.

  ‘We were all kids at a time of upheaval. Jack was a cabinetmaker using all of his ingenuity in the production of props for stage illusionists. He’d also started performing, with a young female assistant, at a time when Magic and Illusion, as a form of entertainment, was taking off again after a spell in the doldrums. We all grew up, as kids do, went our separate ways and kept in touch at rather infrequent intervals. Jack’s sudden death, in 1952, happened in the library of his home as he was setting things up as part of the preparations for his wife’s Birthday celebrations. That was on the 31st October; the exact day that Houdini died twenty-six years earlier in 1926.’

  The recollection of that coincidence had a strange effect on Giles. His eyes seemed to stare into the past as if searching for the ghostly figures of a bygone age.

  ‘I never got to know the full details, I was on a lecture-tour of Australia at the time, but it seems that Jack was alone, in what was effectively, a sealed room, when the trick went wrong. He was shot -just as Chung Ling Soo was in 1918 - the difference this time... there was nobody else in the room to fire the gun! Jack died that same night and the subsequent inquest brought in a verdict of...death by misadventure. Suicide had been considered but discounted. Isabella, Jack’s wife, was devastated. Her three sons and one daughter tried hard to pick up the pieces. Now, fourteen years later, a doubt is being thrown on the verdict. But murder? Unless.’

  The Prof picked up the letter, got up and turned to go.

  ‘Leaving so soon, Giles?’

  Giles stopped, absentmindedly stubbed his unlit cigar in the ashtray and said, ‘No, I won’t be long! I should be back in a wee while. I’m just going to use the phone.’ He cleared his throat, with that slightly nervous cough of his and said, ‘I’ll just let Miss Ramsden know of my intended travel arrangements!’

  The bright demeanour, non-existent for most of the evening, had returned. ‘Oh, Freddie, conjure up another couple of Cognacs! There’s a good fellow! You and I have some serious thinking to do!’ Then, with a voice charged with quiet menace, he said, ‘I’ve a strange feeling that, before long, I may be face to face with the devil!’

  Friday, 28th October 1966 - the ‘morning after the night before!’

  The London-to-Glasgow express pulled out of Euston Station on time. Only moments before, Professor Giles Dawson had been unceremoniously bundled out of the famous FX4 black cab, officially known as the ‘London’, after a hair-raising journey from his South-Kensington flat. The affable cabbie, who had skilfully negotiated the ‘London Lemmings’, pouring out of every Tube Station and across busy streets on their way to work, had been a magician “par excellence” who deserved the generous tip, freely given.

  With a cheery, “It’s your turn now, guv! So get yer skates on", ringing in his ears, The Prof only had time to purchase a couple of newspapers before clawing himself and his luggage onto an already-moving train.

  He sat down to get his second wind and reflect on the events of the previous evening. Gazing out of the compartment window he realised, for the first time that morning, how dull London was looking, as autumn gave way to winter: the thought of a few days in the Scottish countryside lifted spirits and rejuvenated a body that was suddenly in danger of disintegration, after the chariot race from taxi to train with the luggage trolley.

  ‘Luggage!’ he called out, turning a few heads in his direction. ‘Just talking to myself!’ he sheepishly offered as heads returned to morning papers.

  The realisation that his two bags, looking like part of an obstacle course, still lay where he had dropped them after clambering aboard had the effect of making The Prof stack them neatly in the proper rack.

  ‘Phew!’ he continued, aloud, ‘That should do the trick!’

  Loosening his tie The Prof caught sight of the newspaper headlines: all week the terrible disaster at Aberfan had shocked a Nation into communal grief and the previous evening, when Freddie and The Prof had the disaster on their minds; it was Freddie who’d introduced the subject of Premonition. It was always Freddie who introduced subjects like Premonition, Telepathy and Precognition. The Prof recognized his friend as a Wizard in the field of Extrasensory Perception and always marvelled at his insight and depth of research.

  During last night’s conversation, Freddie had predicted that a serious article would be published, in little more than a year, recording the many premonitions about the Aberfan Disaster. His strange tale, of a nine-year-old Welsh girl who, on the 20th October, told her mother she’d had a dream that, when she had gone to school it was not there— something black had come down all over it, was one such premonition. That little girl had died in the disaster. Solid and dependable; Freddie was always providing food for thought.

  He lived near Evesham in the Cotswolds with his wife Penny and their two young girls. He’d given up a promising career, as a Teacher of Mathematics, and decided to use his considerable knowledge, allied with his study of a unique system of Racehorse Ratings, in order to “beat the bookies” at The Sport of Kings. In view of the fact they were living in the Sixties The Prof was of the strong opinion that Freddie was less than accurate and should’ve been talking of The Sport of Queens.

  “So what!” was Freddie’s usual comment?

  He was not so much a gambler as a “seeker of value”. Two quotes of his: “If you wanna make money in a casino; own one!” and “It’s not gambling that’s stupid; it’s losing!” always brought a wry smile to The Prof’s normally worried face.

  Freddie liked to be “ahead of the field” and was a guy who could be readily consulted when facing a crisis that required some logical thought.

  From his window seat The Prof watched the dull uniformity of semi-detached London speed by and, eventually, give way to the dream of post-war suburbia. Thoughts turned again to the events of the previous evening after he’d returned from making the phone call.

  ‘Here - get a little of this down you and tell me all about it.’ Freddie had said, moving a brandy within easy reach of The Professor whilst cradling the other glass. He looked uneasy as he scanned his friend’s furrowed features.

&nbs
p; ‘You look as if you’ve just seen a ghost!’

  ‘Come to think of it, maybe I have! Laura was relieved to hear from me; she was so afraid I might be too busy to come.’

  ’You’re definitely going then?’ Freddie’s steel-grey eyes winked wickedly.

  ‘Yes, in the morning! Cheers, Freddie,’ The Prof took a sip of brandy. ‘She sounded...well... so mature and.!’

  ‘Did she say anything that might explain the letter? I mean - good heavens! It’s what, fourteen years since her father died - surely, after that time something serious must’ve happened to start the doubts?’

  ‘I asked her about that and...!’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She said her father didn’t commit suicide! If he had wanted to do that "he would’ve made a bloody good job of it!” Her exact words! Something about him being a Yorkshire man. She hinted that, although she couldn’t be more specific on the phone, she could now swear, “There was someone else in the room when the shot was fired!” That’s not all, Freddie; she sent a shiver down my spine when she suggested...that something else might have been there! Something that wasn’t human! Something.. .Invisible! And hell-bent on.. .murder! The problem was...how to prove it!’

  The two friends exchanged glances before the silence was broken.

  ‘She sounds a very determined young woman who either knows a lot more than she’s saying or she’s a bit over the top, clutching at straws and, dare I say it, perhaps looking for a man in her life?’

  The Prof had looked uncomfortable, as Freddie had added ‘Now, are you up for that, my lad? You know.. .this could be a racing certainty, Son!’The Prof had known Freddie long enough to know there was no such thing as a racing certainty; he also knew that Freddie, forever tongue-in-cheek, had a sincere wish for his ultimate success in the romantic stakes ever since.!

  At this point his gaze had returned to the Munnings’ print on the lounge wall and the distant memory of a tragic figure, in racing silks, lying on damp grass after a crashing fall in The Ladies’ Open at a Warwickshire Point-to Point! It all seemed - so long ago.!