The Hangman's Lair Read online

  Think, think, think. What was it Frye said? ‘I would still be risking the anger of the spirits. They might extract some penalty from me.’ Of course! He’s being really clever. He knows perfectly well he’ll never beat an experienced card player. So, when he loses, he’s now got a ready-made excuse: Oooh dear, the spirits didn’t like it. Oooh dear, they gave me the wrong messages, ever so sorry about that, deary deary me. Can I have my money now, please. Then Raphael is forced to pay up. WHAT! A! TWIT!

  What to do next: Demonstrate to Raphael how Frye is able to gather his information. Raphael simply CAN’T carry on with his scheme once he knows Frye is a fake. He just CAN’T. Can he?

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  BY THE END OF SCHOOL the next day, I’d told Izzy all about my conclusions. Then she’d done a bit of forehead slapping and a bit of ‘why didn’t I think of that’-ing. Then she’d phoned her uncle and arranged for the two of us to go over to The Pig and Fiddle as soon as lessons were finished to talk to him and her cousins and anyone else who’d listen.

  On the way over, Izzy handed me a set of printouts.

  ‘I did some checking in the IT suite at lunchtime,’ she said. ‘You need a licence to run a place like The Pig and Fiddle. If my uncle starts allowing gambling to go on, he’ll probably lose that licence and be in a lot of trouble on top of that. If the police discover what he’s planning, it’s game over. Literally.’

  ‘You think that’ll be enough to persuade him to call this whole thing off?’ I said.

  ‘No way,’ huffed Izzy. ‘He’s so convinced his scheme’s going to work, he’ll think it’s worth the risk.’

  ‘If the police mustn’t find out about this,’ I said, ‘then we won’t let on that we know about his scheme. Let’s keep it as quiet as possible. We’ll simply concentrate on exposing Frye as a fake, OK?’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Izzy. ‘That way, once we’ve made my uncle see the truth about Frye, he’ll cancel the game himself. That way he’ll think it was all his idea. He’s stubborn as well as gullible, remember.’

  Things were looking worse and worse for Izzy’s uncle. And once the Big Holiday Fund was gone, they’d look pretty miserable for Izzy’s aunt and six cousins too!

  By half past four that afternoon, Izzy and I were perched on stools in The Pig and Fiddle’s pub section, facing the bar and an assortment of people: there was Izzy’s uncle, the restaurant’s head chef (a skinny, ginger-haired man who was also convinced that Godfrey Frye was genuine) and Izzy’s six cousins, who ranged in age from early twenties down to about five.

  ‘This,’ said Izzy, pointing to each in turn, ‘is Coral, Jade, Sapphire, Ruby, Pearl and Emerald.’

  ‘Hello, cousins,’ I said. They waved.

  There were a handful of customers in the pub, mostly sitting towards the other side of the room. None of them took much notice of what I was saying.

  ‘OK,’ I announced. ‘Let’s talk about Godfrey Frye. Or rather, let’s talk about, er, let’s see now, you, Coral.’

  Coral was the eldest, a tall young woman with a tapering face, wearing a kitchen apron. She did a comical ‘Ooh, me?’ gesture.

  I became very serious. I closed my eyes and allowed my features to freeze in concentration. I held my hands to the sides of my head. ‘You are planning a journey. I see a green car, with . . . something on the passenger seat. No, it’s a rip in the fabric. Taped over. I see . . . is it a pet? It’s a toy, a little toy nodding dog, sitting on the car’s dashboard. It came from . . . a Christmas cracker. The green car is . . . being driven by a man with a scar on his arm. His name begins with a J. Is it James? No, it’s John. You are travelling towards . . . music?’

  I opened my eyes. Coral was staring at me, open-mouthed. ‘How the bloomin’ heck did —?’

  Emerald, the youngest cousin, tutted loudly. ‘Izzy must have told him, dum-dum.’

  Coral shook her head as if clearing out cobwebs. ‘Blindlingly obvious. Why didn’t I see that instantly?’

  ‘Because I dressed it up in all that mind-reading rubbish, that’s why,’ I said. ‘You weren’t expecting me to come out with that, so you took what I said at face value. Izzy told me about you and your boyfriend going to a rock festival next month and I simply muddied up the details a bit.’

  Uncle Raphael cleared his throat noisily. ‘Yes, good trick ‘n’ all that, but what does this have to do with Godfrey Frye, young man?’

  ‘You really don’t know?’ gasped Izzy.

  ‘Suppose someone bumped into you in the street,’ I said to Uncle Raphael. ‘Someone you’d never met. A complete stranger. And instead of simply apologising and walking on, they suddenly started saying that the instant you bumped into them they’d had a psychic glimpse into your mind. What if that person could immediately reel off information about you? What if they could describe where you live? What if they then claimed they could follow your life into the future? What would you think about that?’

  ‘I’d be amazed and astounded!’ declared Uncle Raphael. ‘And so would you be, young man!’

  ‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘But if that happened to you, which is the more reasonable explanation? That they read your mind? Or, that they’d found out about you in advance?’

  ‘You can’t dismiss the psychic arts as trickery,’ bumbled Uncle Raphael. ‘To quote Hamlet, There are more things in heaven and earth —’

  ‘Yesyesyes,’ I said. ‘I’m not saying that all out-of-the-ordinary things are rubbish. They need proper, scientific investigation. What I’m saying is that they’re open to trickery and they’re certainly open to trickery in the case of Godfrey Frye and his whispers from the dead.’

  ‘I’m afraid that really doesn’t wash,’ chuckled Raphael. ‘Godfrey Frye’s been abroad for years. He doesn’t know anyone in this area. There’s no way he could find out information about people in advance.’

  There are two ways; he has two sources of information,’ I said. ‘Number one. The local newspapers. More specifically, the local obituaries. It’s perfectly easy to find out the names of people in the area who’ve died recently and some other names and facts associated with them. Just read all the obituaries. Then, bingo, you can produce the names of dead relatives as if by magic.’

  ‘You’re barking up the wrong tree.’ Uncle Raphael smiled, clearly amused. ‘You couldn’t possibly link up what you’d read in obituaries with the random people who turn up in an audience to see your act.’

  ‘Ah!’ I said. ‘That’s where source number two comes in. Number two is Jimmy, the singer with The Fat Dads. He’s the local gossip. He knows everyone around here and everyone knows him. He’d be perfect for supplying Godfrey Frye with all kinds of information. About who’s in the audience, about what connections there are between different people, about endless things that are going on.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that my old pal Jimmy is in league with Godfrey Frye to pull the wool over everyone’s eyes?’ exclaimed Uncle Raphael.

  ‘Yes!’ I cried. ‘What Godfrey Frye is doing has been standard practice for fake mediums since Victorian times!’

  ‘He’s right,’ said Izzy. ‘It’s all in my research. Nineteenth century mystics used to go to amazing lengths to find out stuff. They’d also set up incredibly elaborate tricks to make it look like spirits were in the room.’

  ‘But not my friend Jimmy,’ said Uncle Raphael, sounding slightly hurt. ‘We’ve known each other for years. He’s a mate.’

  ‘He’s also a stage performer,’ I said. ‘Just like Godfrey Frye. He’s no fool. He’ll be well aware of just how these things work. Godfrey Frye will have turned up in this town deliberately looking for someone like Jimmy. The local know-it-all, the local everyone’s-friend. You find them wherever you go. All Frye has to do is sneakily get Jimmy on his side, possibly even pay him for info, and all of a sudden he’s got loads of personal facts at his fingertips. Think about it. All Jimmy’s got to do is take a good look around a crowded pub and he can pick out a couple of dozen peop
le he knows, or more. He tells Frye who they are, and what he knows about them. If he strikes lucky, Frye can cross-reference that info with stuff he’s got from the obituaries. If not, then any audience will still contain people who’ve lost some relative at some time. And ta-daa, Frye can go on stage, claim he’s talking to the dead and produce true facts about people in the audience.’

  Raphael sighed and shook his head. ‘No, no, no. Godfrey Frye’s results have been more impressive than that. He knows so much about people. If you were going to pull off a trick in that way, you’d have to gather absolutely vast oodles of data. Tonnes of it.’

  ‘But this is the guy’s job,’ I said. ‘He’s got a very strong motive to gather absolutely vast oodles of data. The trick is in using information cleverly.’ I had a sudden thought. ‘Aha! He picked out Izzy, the other night! Perfect example! There you are, he had information about Izzy and her mum and so he picked them out and started doing his mystic bit on them!’

  ‘But I’ve never spoken to him about Izzy,’ said Uncle Raphael.

  ‘Nooooo,’ I said, sliding my hands down my face in frustration. ‘He got it all from Jimmy. Izzy’s mum and Jimmy know each other. They were yattering together for ages last night.’

  That was how Frye knew about Saxby,’ said Izzy ‘Mum had talked to Jimmy about him. Jimmy told Frye. Frye heard “spirits” talking about him in front of me. Although, actually, I’m still not sure why.’

  ‘That’s easy,’ I said. ‘Frye’s a fake. He’s heard I’m a brilliant schoolboy detective. He doesn’t want any brilliant schoolboy detectives nosing around, revealing his methods, does he? So what does he do? He makes sure that you, Izzy, a friend of this detective, get told that there’s failure and disaster in my future.’

  ‘To scare you?’ said Izzy. ‘To put you off going anywhere near him? To make others doubt your deductions?’

  ‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘He didn’t know how much of a threat I’d be to him. So he played safe and tried to warn me off. Hah! Well, he didn’t reckon on who he was dealing with, did he? He didn’t reckon on Saxby Smart!’

  The moment I stopped speaking, I noticed that everyone in front of me was staring glumly over my shoulder.

  ‘So,’ said a slow, scratchy voice behind me, ‘you are the detective I’ve been hearing about, eh? Not Mr Lovecraft after all?’

  I turned, a prickling sensation creeping along the back of my neck. The bar stool creaked beneath me.

  Godfrey Frye was standing less than a metre away. His creased, parchment face loomed over me.

  I flashed him a cheesy grin. ‘Hello,’ I said weakly.

  ‘Good afternoon to you, Mr Frye,’ cried Uncle Raphael, scuttering out from behind the bar and skipping over to him like an eager puppy. ‘Saxby here has been quite the theatrical critic.’ He laughed, too long and loud.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Godfrey Frye. ‘I’ve never received quite such a cutting review. I’m glad I only heard the end of it.’

  Uncle Raphael laughed again, and again it was too long and too loud. The cousins and the restaurant chef seemed to have vanished into thin air. Izzy was looking sheepish.

  ‘How was the remainder of your evening yesterday, after our little head-to-head, as it were, Mr Frye?’ gushed Uncle Raphael. ‘And I trust today has been a restful one?’

  ‘Thank you, yes,’ said Godfrey Frye. ‘The spirits have allowed me some peace since breakfast time.’

  ‘Splendid, splendid,’ said Uncle Raphael.

  I thought about the way Godfrey Frye had been so cold-heartedly fooling people with his stage act. There was no way I was going to let the likes of him scare me. I gave a sort of half-huff, half-snort.

  ‘Do you have a cold, Mr Smart?’ said Godfrey Frye.

  ‘No, I’m snorting with derision,’ I said. ‘Spirits, eh?’

  ‘I have encountered many sceptics during my years of contact with the departed,’ said Mr Frye with an icy smile. ‘I have yet to meet one whom I could not convince in the end.’

  ‘Well, you have now,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry, but it’s all trickery. And quite simple trickery, at that.’

  ‘You accuse me of deception and yet you lied to me about your identity,’ said Mr Frye. ‘Which one of us is the trickster?’

  Uncle Raphael laughed so long and loud I thought he might burst a blood vessel. ‘Let’s leave Saxby and my niece to their own devices, shall we? If you’d like to follow me, Mr Frye, I have your contract ready with regard to the, ahh, business matter we discussed yesterday.’

  ‘But Uncle Raphael!’ cried Izzy. ‘Have you not listened to what Saxby’s said? Haven’t we proved to you that Godfrey Frye’s stage act is just that? An act?’

  Raphael shuffled uncomfortably on the spot. His gaze flicked around the room, resting everywhere except on us and Godfrey Frye. ‘Not at all. You’ve shown me how you would pretend to have Mr Frye’s psychic abilities, but Mr Frye himself has clearly demonstrated to audiences, in public, night after night, on that stage over there, that his skills bring wonder and joy to all who witness them. And that’s good enough for me.’

  Godfrey Frye took a step towards me. His piercing eyes glared into mine. It took every bit of selfcontrol I had not to look away.

  ‘Young people show such a lack of trust these days,’ he hissed. ‘Such a lack of faith. It’s quite disappointing, quite upsetting.’

  ‘Come along, then, old chap,’ said Uncle Raphael to Godfrey Frye. He began to lead Frye away, his arms waving this way and that, as if Frye was a bad-tempered goose that might wander off at any moment.

  ‘The, er, special event I mentioned,’ he said, as they moved away towards the backstage corridor. ‘It’s scheduled for tomorrow night, at ten.’

  ‘You’ve spoken to Mr Green?’ said Godfrey Frye.

  ‘I called him late last night,’ said Raphael. ‘It was only early evening over there, of course, because of the time difference. I told him about my idea and he was very keen, very keen. He arrives later today.’

  They vanished from sight, Raphael still herding Godfrey Frye like a nervous shepherd.

  ‘Right, that’s it,’ muttered Izzy. ‘We have to tell my uncle we know what he’s planning. There’s no other way now.’

  She hopped off her stool. I grabbed her arm before she could chase after him.

  ‘Wait!’ I said. Then I said ‘wait’ again, because no other words would squeeze out of my brain.

  I was staring into mid-air. If I’d been able to drop-stretch my lower jaw to the ground with a mighty clang, I definitely would have.

  ‘Good grief,’ I gasped, finally. ‘This whole case. I’ve got it completely wrong. I’ve been looking at it back to front the entire time!’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Izzy

  I gawped at her. ‘Your uncle is not the one who’s set this situation up.’

  ‘But this card game was his idea,’ said Izzy.

  I shook my head slowly. ‘Oh no it wasn’t. Godfrey Frye’s been behind it all along. What’s more, Frye is in league with this American gambler, this Mr Green. Frye and Green are in it together, to con your uncle out of all that money.’

  ‘But how do you know?’ said Izzy.

  Hurriedly, I took out my notebook to check that I was right. I read through yesterday’s conversation between Uncle Raphael and Godfrey Frye, the one I wrote down behind the sofa.

  ‘A couple of minutes ago,’ I said, snapping my notebook shut again, ‘Godfrey Frye said something which gave himself away. Your uncle didn’t spot it, but I did.’

  ‘What was it?’

  It was only a small detail. But it was something Frye couldn’t have said, unless he and the American were working as a team.

  Have you spotted it too?

  ‘Frye mentioned the American gambler by name,’ I said. ‘He referred to him as Mr Green. But your uncle had never told him what this man was called. Last night, he only mentioned that the gambler was an American. And he hasn’t spoken to Frye since last night, as was clear when
Frye came in just now.’

  ‘I see what you mean,’ said Izzy. ‘Frye must know who this Mr Green is.’

  ‘Why didn’t I see it earlier?’ I cried. ‘This is a deliberate con. Frye travels around doing his psychic act. Quite often, he’ll come across daft suckers who believe he’s genuine. Now and again, he’ll come across a daft sucker who also has a pile of cash.

  ‘At which point, he alerts his friend, Mr Green. Mr Green comes along, as if by coincidence, and just happens to let slip to Daft Sucker With Money that he’s a professional gambler. At which point, Daft Sucker With Money thinks to himself, a-ha, I’ve got a clever idea.

  ‘Ahhhggh! Frye must have been delighted when he met your uncle. The Pig and Fiddle is the perfect set-up for a con like this. A theatrical venue, attached to a hotel. These two con men make Daft Sucker With Money think it’s all his idea, so when it all goes belly-up, he doesn’t even realise he’s been conned. Frye has his ready-made excuse for losing – ooooh-er, the spirits were angry – and Green just has to nip in, win the money and nip out again.’

  ‘So Green will be cheating anyway,’ said Izzy

  ‘Absolutely,’ I said. ‘Any card game you like. They can let Daft Sucker With Money pick whatever he wants to play, it won’t matter.’

  ‘Right,’ said Izzy. ‘Now we really can go to Uncle Raphael. We can expose Frye and stop the game from happening.’

  I thought for a moment. ‘No. We can’t do that. Frye and Green – huh, if those really are their names - might have been pulling scams like this for years. If we send Frye packing, he’ll only go and start up somewhere else. We have to put them out of business.’

  ‘How? Frye’s on to you. Your cover’s blown.’

  ‘Er, not sure yet.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we just tell the police?’ said Izzy. ‘On second thoughts, we can’t do that either. For one thing, a con man as sharp as Frye might well smell a rat. And for another thing, my uncle might still get into trouble for setting the game up, even if it wasn’t really his idea.’