The Hangman's Lair Page 7

  We all headed off down the corridor, Harry stomping along in a cloud of suppressed rage. He jabbed me on the shoulder. ‘Don’t get too smug, Smart,’ he hissed. ‘The day’s coming when I’ll get my own back on you. And it’s coming sooner than you think.’

  He marched on ahead. I smiled to myself. ‘Oh, Harry!’ I called, before he stormed out of sight. ‘Don’t forget our deal. I’ll expect those books in the morning? OK?’

  He looked daggers at me for a moment, then stalked away, muttering under his breath.

  I walked home, making plans to sit in my Thinking Chair and write up my notes on the case. It was only when I arrived at my shed that I remembered I’d left its entire contents strewn across the lawn. Oh, I thought. Better get to work.

  Case closed

  CASE FILE TWELVE:

  WHISPERS FROM

  THE DEAD

  CHAPTER

  ONE

  ADULTS CAN BE STUPID. I mean really, seriously dum-dum stupid. They fight over the most ridiculous things, they invade each other’s countries and they make TV shows containing no jokes or car chases.

  It’s the weird things they’re prepared to believe which baffle me most: they read horoscopes, buy celebrity gossip magazines and listen to weather forecasts. You’d think they didn’t have a molecule of common sense between them.

  In my files are notes on a case I’ve labelled Whispers From the Dead. It’s a perfect example of how, sometimes, adults have to be saved from their own utter idiocy. It all started a couple of days after the events described in Diary of Fear.

  Since the previous weekend, I’d taken everything out of the garden shed, my Crime HQ. I’d chucked away a few broken bits and pieces, and put the rest back in again. I’d made absolutely sure that I was putting everything back in the most space-saving way possible: garden hose neatly coiled, lawnmower hung up on a big hook, paint tins carefully stacked according to size, and so on. I badly needed more space for my desk, my files and my Thinking Chair. It was bad enough being forced to share the shed with all that DIY and gardening stuff, but having to shove it out of the way all the time was adding insult to injury, as they say.

  However, now that everything was back inside the shed, I was beginning to wonder what exactly had gone wrong with my tidy-up plan. There seemed to be even less room in there than before! It didn’t make sense. Had someone sneaked along in the middle of the night and added the contents of their shed to mine? The gardening gear was now teetering in a massive pile, which looked like it was about to fall over and bury all my files under half a tonne of plant pots. My desk would not sit straight! One side was higher than the other, its legs propped up on a box of paint brushes. And the only way I could even fit my Thinking Chair in was to turn it one hundred and eighty degrees, so it faced the door. It just looked completely wrong!

  I was scrambling over the top of the desk (and suddenly realising that it blocked off the drawers of my filing cabinet) when there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in!’ I called. Or, rather, ‘Mff eeen!’ because I was rapidly slipping down the gap between the edge of the desk and the back of the chair.

  I heard the door open, and then the unmistakable sarcasm of my great friend Izzy sliced through the dusty air. ‘Do you point your bum at everyone who comes in here, or is it just me?’

  ‘Hummlee erp, um sperkk,’ I groaned. I think the way my hand was waggling wildly behind my back must have been what told Izzy I was saying, ‘Help me up, I’m stuck’. She took hold of the waistband of my trousers and hauled me free. I sat on my desk, flapping dust out of my hair. My glasses were dangling off one ear.

  ‘I’ve been rearranging things,’ I gasped.

  ‘Why?’ said Izzy, raising that trademark arched eyebrow of hers. ‘Weren’t you cramped enough in here before?’

  ‘I think the paint pots have been cloning themselves,’ I said. ‘I can’t get it all to fit.’

  ‘Why have you got your Thinking Chair facing the door?’ said Izzy. ‘It just looks completely wrong.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ I wailed. ‘I don’t understand it.’

  She clambered over the chair and joined me on the desktop. She perched by the shed’s perspex window, clearing herself a space in the dust before she sat down.

  I stared at the floor-to-ceiling jumble around me. I suppose it’s not just adults who can be really, seriously, dum-dum stupid. Even brilliant schoolboy detectives like me get it wrong sometimes.

  ‘I’ve got a case for you,’ announced Izzy.

  ‘Perfect,’ I said gratefully. ‘Anything to avoid having to think about this hideous mess for a while. How can I help?’

  Izzy, the school’s in-house genius and my Chief Research Brainbox, had helped me out on many past investigations. But this was the very first time she’d brought a new case to my attention. I was eager to hear the details.

  ‘Do you know The Pig and Fiddle?’ she said. ‘The big building in the centre of town?’

  ‘Er, yes, the pub? Didn’t you once tell me your relatives run it?’

  ‘That’s right, my uncle and aunt have owned it for about ten years. It’s a sort of pub, restaurant and hotel all in one. It’s got a very good reputation. They’ve had tourists from all over the world staying there, because of all the nearby castles and historic sites.’

  ‘I think I’ve seen adverts for the place,’ I said. ‘Don’t they have a theatre attached to it or something?’

  ‘Not quite,’ said Izzy. ‘One end of the pub part is a large stage. My uncle books all sorts of acts for evening performances. Comedians, pop groups, speciality acts, that sort of thing.’

  ‘What’s a speciality act?’ I said.

  ‘Oh, the more oddball stuff,’ said Izzy. ‘You know, sword swallowers, dancing dogs, jugglers. A few months ago they had a couple of absolutely brilliant quick change artists, who could zip through different costumes like lightning. Really clever.’

  ‘So these acts are a sort of daily show?’ I said.

  ‘Every evening at eight o’clock, yes. Some acts are only on for one night, some get booked for a couple of weeks or more. My uncle won’t let anyone else deal with the bookings - he loves all that. I think he really wanted to be a circus ringmaster!’

  ‘And I assume something’s gone wrong for one of these acts? Is that why you’re here?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Izzy. She hesitated, and her voice became quieter. ‘There’s a performer called Godfrey Frye. He’s been touring abroad for ages, apparently, and has never been here before. He’s been appearing at the nightly show for the past few days and he’s booked up until the end of next week.’

  ‘And . . .?’

  ‘And he’s the creepiest person on the face of the earth!’

  I shrugged. ‘Well, there’s no law against being weird, thank goodness.’

  ‘He’s a clairvoyant, a medium. He picks people out of the audience and starts seeing into their future.’

  ‘Sure, I’ve seen similar stage acts on TV,’ I said.

  Izzy shook her head. ‘There’s more to it than that. I went to last night’s show with my mum. This Godfrey Frye started talking about me. I’d never so much as set eyes on him before, but he knew things he couldn’t possibly have guessed. What’s more, he knew about you!’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘He said he’s communicated with spirits and been told your name. “A friend who fights crime,” he said. “You have a friend called Saxby.” If he’d said, “You have a friend called Tom,” or, “You have a friend called Sam,” well, that’s nothing, is it? That could just be guesswork. But your name?’

  ‘And did he predict my future?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, he did. And I’m really scared.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because,’ said Izzy, ‘he said your future was filled with failure and mistakes. He said he heard the voices of the dead speaking to him, and they’ve told him you’re heading for disaster!’

  CHAPTER

  TWO

 
; ‘HANG ON A MINUTE,’ I said. ‘Let’s . . . I mean . . . Couldn’t . . . Hang on a minute.’

  I suddenly felt as if my nervous system had been put through a shredder. It’s a pretty terrifying experience to . . . be told that . . . in your future . . .

  I batted my hands about to shoo away such ridiculous thoughts. ‘Oh, come on!’ I cried. ‘It’s a stage act! It’s all fake, it’s a trick.’

  ‘If he’s a fake,’ said Izzy, ‘he’s the best bloomin’ fake I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘Good grief,’ I cried, ‘you’re the most sensible, intelligent person I know. How can you let yourself be fooled by such nonsense?’

  ‘Normally, I would say it was nonsense. You know me.

  You know I don’t believe in astrology and superstitions, and all that mystical rubbish. But you weren’t there last night. I’m beginning to wonder whether I’ve been right or not. How could he know about me? And you? How?’

  ‘Weeeeeeell,’ I said. I pondered for a moment or two. ‘OK, I don’t know, but one thing’s for certain: he is not getting messages from beyond the grave!’

  Izzy sighed. She slumped, chin in hand, looking thoroughly miserable. ‘You’re right,’ she said, after another couple of sighs. ‘I’m being really silly. But I’m telling you, Godfrey Frye would give a block of concrete the jitters. He’s frightening. Never mind the audiences, he’s got half the staff at The Pig and Fiddle convinced he’s for real. The waiters in the restaurant talk about him in hushed whispers. And my uncle is the worst one of the lot!’

  ‘How so?’

  Izzy let out a long, slow breath through her teeth. She sounded like a paddling pool deflating. ‘Uncle Raphael is the reason I’m here. He’s always been gullible. He’ll believe whatever people tell him. He once got suckered by a crook who was pretending to be from the gas company. The man got away with the entire contents of the pub’s till.’

  ‘And he believes that Godfrey Frye really can talk to the dead and see into the future?’

  ‘Incredible as it sounds, yes,’ said Izzy. ‘And from what I hear, Godfrey Frye does nothing to contradict that impression. He claims he’s totally genuine. Well, he would, wouldn’t he? I’m getting worried. You see, normally, Aunt Mina’s around to give my uncle a kick up the backside and point out when he’s being a complete idiot. But she’s away at the moment. Her sister’s been ill and she’s looking after her.’

  ‘When’s she coming back?’

  ‘Nobody’s sure. She’s in New Zealand.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Can’t she give your Uncle Raphael a kick up the backside over the phone?’

  ‘My cousins haven’t told her. They don’t want her to worry, what with her sister’s illness and everything.’

  ‘Cousins?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, there are six of them,’ said Izzy. ‘They and Aunt Mina and Uncle Raphael all live on the top floor, above the hotel. The eldest two work in the restaurant.’

  ‘What do they think about Godfrey Frye?’

  ‘Half of them agree with me,’ said Izzy, ‘but he won’t listen to them.’

  ‘What about the other half?’ I said.

  ‘Hah! The other half are equally convinced Frye is a genuine psychic!’

  ‘Couldn’t you get someone else to deliver this kick up the backside? Your parents; someone like that?’

  ‘You don’t know Uncle Raphael,’ said Izzy. ‘The only person he’ll ever take advice from is my Aunt Mina. He’s almost as stubborn as he is gullible.’

  ‘But what exactly do you think Godfrey Frye will do?’ I said. ‘Steal from the till too?’

  ‘It’s not a question of what he will do,’ said Izzy sadly ‘It’s Uncle Raphael. Any other time, I might leave the whole situation well alone and let Raphael believe whatever he likes. But just recently, he’s been talking about the Big Holiday Fund. Apparently, it’s almost complete.’

  ‘What’s the Big Holiday Fund?’ I asked.

  ‘The family have been planning a trip to Florida, for all eight of them. Three weeks, all the theme parks, the lot. They’ve been saving up for years. Literally, years. This holiday is going to cost a small fortune.’

  ‘And now this small fortune is nearly ready to spend?’

  ‘Right. Any other time, if Uncle Raphael wanted to believe in some fortune-telling mystic, I’d say let him. If he wants to make himself look a twerp, fine. But right now, with a small fortune in his pocket . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, chewing at my lip. ‘Looks like a recipe for trouble, doesn’t it?’

  ‘He’s been dropping hints about some sort of huge payoff, some get-rich-quick scheme he’s thought up, and how they’ll soon be able to afford a holiday in Florida every year. I have no idea what this scheme might be, but I don’t like the sound of it one little bit. And I just know my uncle’s going to get Godfrey Frye involved in it.’

  I pondered for a moment or two, narrowing my eyes detective-style. ‘What sort of get-rich-quick scheme would somebody think up that needed a clairvoyant? One that involves knowing the outcome of something in advance, right?’

  ‘Yes, that’s logical,’ said Izzy

  ‘Does your uncle go in for gambling?’

  ‘What, you mean horses, cards, that sort of thing? Good grief, no. He thinks gambling is for total losers. He won’t even do the National Lottery. Aunt Mina says it’s the only sensible opinion he’s got!’

  ‘Perhaps it’s to do with stocks and shares, or changes in different world currencies?’ I said. ‘People chance money on unknown outcomes there, don’t they?’

  ‘I think it’s highly unlikely,’ said Izzy. ‘Raphael has trouble paying his bills on time, let alone understanding international financial markets.’

  ‘Predictions of “failure, mistakes and disaster” in my future, eh?’ I muttered. ‘Well, let’s see if this Godfrey Frye is right, shall we? Save me a seat at tonight’s show.’

  ‘Sure!’

  ‘And in the meantime, see what other information you can find about all that voices-from-beyond stuff in general. Start with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, who wrote the Sherlock Holmes stories. I’m sure I read in my ten-volume Encyclopedia of British Crime Detection that he got involved with mystics and mediums.’

  ‘And while I’m doing that,’ said Izzy, clambering back over my Thinking Chair, ‘you can get this shed sorted. I’ll see you later!’

  A Page From My Notebook

  This Godfrey Frye person is a mystery in more ways than one. For one thing, his ‘powers’ MUST be down to trickery - if they weren’t, he’d hardly be wasting them on a nightly performance at The Pig And Fiddle, would he? And yet . . .

  •How DID he get to know about me? WAS it all guesswork?

  •Did he get the info from Izzy? Did she let something slip that she wasn’t aware of?

  •A-HA! Could he have read one of my earlier volumes of case files? Hmm, probably not. Even if he had, how could he have known in advance that Izzy was in the audience?

  •In any case, why concern himself with ME at all?

  BUT! The Immediate Problem is Izzy’s uncle.

  •Even if Frye is a total phoney, it doesn’t mean he’s daft (except for claiming he’s not a phoney)! Perhaps he’ll turn down any involvement in this get-rich-quick scheme.

  Could Izzy be worrying for nothing?

  •What IS this get-rich-quick scheme Izzy’s uncle has got planned? And how at risk is the Big Holiday Fund?

  My Plan Of Action:

  1.See Frye’s act and spot the trickery.

  2.Find out what this mysterious scheme is and stop Izzy’s uncle making a terrible mistake.

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  THE PIG AND FIDDLE IS a large, impressive building on the corner of the market square. The main road through town runs past it on one side, and on the other is the first in a long line of tall houses.

  The whole of the outside is cleanly whitewashed, with a series of curling vines painted as a mural around the main entrance. A rectangular p
ub sign, showing a balloon-like piggy-wiggy dancing and playing the violin, juts out over the pavement, about four metres off the ground. Below it on the wall is a glass-enclosed board, on which are pinned details of the acts currently appearing in the nightly show, special offers in the restaurant and a couple of pictures of rooms in the hotel.

  I met Izzy and her mum under the sign. Izzy’s mum is just like her daughter in the same way that a small piece of cheese is just like the Sydney Opera House. In other words, not one tiny little bit. Isobel is all sparkly T-shirts and jangling bangles. Her mother always looks severe and no fun. That evening, she was wearing a business suit which said, ‘Don’t mess with me, buster’, and said it very loudly.

  ‘So, you think something dodgy is going on too, do you, Saxby?’ said Izzy’s mum.

  ‘We’ll just have to wait and see,’ I said.

  We made our way into the pub. It was a very large room filled to capacity with tables and chairs. There was thick red carpet on the floor and the gleam of brass was all over the place. Over at the far end was a raised area, screened off by a curtain and lit by stage lights suspended from the ceiling.

  The place was busy. I estimated around a hundred and fifty people were sitting at the tables, or at the long, shiny bar. Several family groups were scoffing chicken and chips or vegetable lasagne. I even recognised one or two kids from school.

  We found a table quite close to the stage. Izzy’s mum went to buy us a round of orange juice and Izzy told me about the research she’d been doing earlier on.

  ‘You were right about Sir Arthur Conan Doyle,’ she said. ‘In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, there was a lot of interest in clairvoyants and messages from beyond the grave. They called it spiritualism and Conan Doyle was a big fan. There was a famous magician and escape artist at the time called Houdini. He was friendly with Conan Doyle at first, but they fell out because Houdini kept on exposing various clairvoyants as tricksters. There’s a very long history of magic tricks being sucessfully passed off as psychic powers.’