The Sherlock Effect Read online

  THE SHERLOCK EFFECT

  RAYMOND KAY LYON

  All Rights Reserved

  Copyright © Raymond Kay Lyon 1997, 2017

  First published in 1997 by Alibi Books

  This edition published in 2017 by:

  Thistle Publishing

  36 Great Smith Street

  London

  SW1P 3BU

  www.thistlepublishing.co.uk

  To Marco and Shelly,

  for their support and advice.

  CONTENTS

  Origins

  Recent History

  The Fur Trade

  The Warminster Assignment

  The Persistent Admirer

  Gardener’s Questions

  The Balcony Scene

  ORIGINS

  My father, the late Reverend Allen Webster, was a conscientious man who tended his flock with good-humoured devotion. But he had long been obsessed with Sherlock Holmes, a monomania which had a renown throughout the parish, and even beyond. The moment that was to define my life came one week before I even entered the world.

  ‘If we are blessed with a boy,’ my father remarked, as he prepared for Matins, ‘I’d like to call him Sherlock. I know – it’s rather unusual. But must we always be slaves to convention?’

  Mother, who was generously endowed with common sense, would normally have quashed such a notion with a single withering look, but I believe she was suffering from a bad head cold at the time. She remonstrated, but only enough to force a rather messy compromise. In due course I became known, in the eyes of God and man alike, as Christopher Sherlock Webster. Can you imagine a more misconceived tribute to Conan Doyle’s creation? Shortly after my sixth birthday Dad called me into his study and showed me around his collection of books and memorabilia. Here was a pipe – the very one used by William Gillette during a 1900 performance of Sherlock Holmes at the Garrick Theatre in New York. And over there, an edition of The Strand magazine from 1891.

  ‘You’re a very special fellow,’ he said, in a conspiratorial tone, his portly frame looming over me. ‘Do you know why?’

  I shook my head, wide-eyed.

  ‘Because you have the same name as the most famous detective in the world! How about that?’

  As I recall, this did not seem a particularly impressive fact at the time. Only later, when my secret got out at school, did I begin to appreciate just how special I was.

  At first there was curiosity amongst my peers. But this soon degenerated into taunting and bullying. It became so unbearable that I was forced to play the comic detective, simply as a way to survive. I would stalk the playground with a magnifying glass, searching for non-existent clues. The memory still induces a frisson, even to this day.

  And of course, my education went west.

  ‘Do you know what’s wrong with the boy?’ my father would enquire vaguely, as he glanced over yet another indifferent end-of-term report. Mother would shrug, and ask me if I was happy at school. Of course, I would lie – it being the lot of children to suffer their agonies stoically and silently.

  However, whenever father offered to read me any of his beloved Holmes stories I would always decline – politely, but firmly. It was, I suppose, some kind of retaliation for having been so thoughtlessly burdened at the font. And it stung him.

  ‘Wait until he’s a little older,’ my mother would say. ‘He’ll come round in the end.’

  But the older I got the more emphatic my refusals became. Dad finally gave up on me in disgust, when I was about fifteen. Our relationship broke down completely at that point, and never recovered. Two years later he died – of an undiagnosed heart condition.

  Despite all these traumas I managed to secure a place at University College London to read philosophy. The course was, as I had hoped, amenable to the considered bluff – and bluff I unstintingly did.

  It was in a moment of characteristic idleness during my final year that I happened to pick up a Complete Sherlock Holmes in paperback. For the first time ever I forwent my prejudice and began to sample those atmospheric stories. It was a strangely cathartic experience, allowing me, in a strange way, to mourn my father – something I had hitherto been quite incapable of doing.

  Before very long I was a fully-fledged addict, working my way through the entire Holmes canon in a matter of weeks. After the finals I went home and made good use of the old man’s collection, which, notwithstanding our differences, he had willed to me. Mother was bemused by this miraculous volte-face. She called it my ‘Damascene conversion’, with more than a hint of irony.

  It certainly seemed as if Fate was dragging me, inexorably, towards that austere inhabitant of 221b . . .

  RECENT HISTORY

  Allow me, gentle reader, to bring this little autobiographical narrative forward ten years – to last summer, in fact. You will excuse my glossing over the abortive foray into pop music, the failed relationships with incompatible females, and the undistinguished employment record, which characterised that intervening decade.

  I was lounging in my cramped, stuffy Tufnell Park flat, entertaining nebulous ideas about careers, when the phone rang. It was none other than Morris Rennie, my old college pal.

  ‘Mo! A voice from the past! How the devil are you?’

  ‘I’ve got a little proposition for you,’ he declared, in that familiar nasal tone. ‘One of my uncles died last month. He’s left me just over thirty grand.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, what’s the proposition?’

  ‘You remember we used to talk about setting up an agency, that handled Holmes-type problems?’

  ‘Of course I remember.’

  ‘Are you still into that stuff?’

  ‘Very much so. In fact I now claim to be something of an authority on certain aspects of the subject.’

  ‘What was that thesis you wrote? The Empirical Method, Our debt to Hume and Holmes.’

  ‘I’m flattered you remember, after ten years. But it was mere juvenalia.’

  ‘Anyway, I’ve decided to back you. I’ll provide the startup capital, you look after the cerebral side.’

  ‘This is all very sudden.’

  ‘But are you up for it?’

  Despite being inwardly enthusiastic I managed to sound scrupulously objective. ‘It’s hardly a safe bet, Mo, financially speaking.’

  ‘Listen, I’ve been involved in three “safe bets” since we left college; they all went belly up – through no fault of my own. No, I want to try something more adventurous this time. Let’s just give it a go and see what happens.’

  I laughed. ‘It seems hard to refuse, when you put it as casually as that.’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, this is a serious business proposition.’

  ‘Alright. But you do realize I’ve had no practical experience of detection – it’s all been strictly theoretical.’

  ‘What about that cassette player which vanished from my room? As I recall you figured out who stole it; the fat psychology student – Craig somebody. He dropped that incriminating roach on the carpet.’

  ‘Yes, his method of rolling was quite distinctive – it gave him away immediately.’

  We drifted into student reminiscence for a while, before Mo brought me back to the matter in hand.

  ‘I don’t expect you to make a snap decision. Let’s meet up for a beer this evening and bounce a few ideas around.’

  Needless to say, the ‘beer’ turned into an all-night carouse, as is the pattern on such male-bonding occasions.

  The next morning I woke up in Mo’s Fulham pad, nursing a ferocious hangover. I could summon up only spectral recollections of where we’d been, or what we’d done. One thing, however, stood out with some vividity; I had
agreed to Mo’s proposition, on a strictly fifty-fifty basis.

  After breakfast we opened a bottle of bubbly to seal the bargain.

  ‘I’ve got a gut feeling this is going to take off, Sherl!’ he declared, with infectious enthusiasm. ‘You don’t mind if I call you Sherl still? It’s difficult to break the habit.’

  ‘It would be churlish of me to object – given your more than handsome investment. But Hazlitt was right when he called a nickname “the heaviest stone that the devil can throw at a man.” ’

  Over the next month our progress was swift, even precipitous. We acquired an ‘office’ in Crawford Street, consisting of three unfurnished rooms on the third floor of a Georgian terrace. It was the nearest address to Baker Street Mo could find at short notice, and by leaning out of the window one even got a glimpse of that celebrated thoroughfare.

  One Monday morning I returned from a visit to my sister’s place in the country to find our premises had been converted into a veritable museum of Victoriana! Gas lamps flickered on the walls, curious philosophical instruments abounded, and a clutter of Empire bric-a-brac covered the period furniture. An unseasonable fire crackled in the grate, before which lay a bearskin rug. The violin in the corner provided the finishing touch.

  ‘Not as costly as you might think,’ remarked Morris smugly, as I gazed about in undisguised awe. ‘Most of the items are on permanent loan from antique shops. I managed to convince them of the P.R. benefits.’

  ‘What P.R. benefits?’

  ‘We’ll be getting the media involved eventually.’

  I wasn’t at all happy about that idea. ‘Publicity is counter-productive for our work. But I have to admit, you’ve done pretty well – the effect is striking. One half expects Mrs. Hudson to potter in with a tea tray.’

  ‘Exactly. It’s all about image, this business.’

  ‘Really? How would you know?’

  ‘All business is the same,’ came the glib reply. ‘We must establish our market niche as early as possible.’

  ‘More corporate-speak! That’s fine, Mo, as long as you understand that deduction is an intellectual pursuit.’

  ‘Someone has to think about the bottom line,’ he insisted. ‘There aren’t any more rich uncles to fall back on, you know.’

  My friend paced the room, his lanky, besuited frame bent forward almost to defy gravity. The expression on that long, narrow face was sour.

  To avert a row I conceded that presentation was, of course, quite important. ‘But there are limits. For example, you wouldn’t want me to prance around in Victorian clothes, would you?’

  His frown dissolved into an impish grin. ‘You’ve been reading my mind again, Sherl. Have a look in that trunk, would you?’

  I lifted the lid and my worst fears were realized. Here was a complete wardrobe of Holmesian attire – frock-coat, deerstalker, smoking jacket etc.

  ‘Oh no you don’t!’ I cried. ‘You’ll never catch me in these!’

  ‘Just think about it for a moment. People will flock from around the world for a consultation. It’s a marketing man’s dream!’

  ‘In case you haven’t noticed,’ I remarked, firmly closing up the chest, ‘I’m five foot eight, several pounds overweight, and I’m certainly not blessed with aquiline features. How do we get round that? A crash diet? Plastic surgery? No, perhaps you’d better not answer that at the moment.’

  By the end of the week we had, miraculously, agreed upon the following draft of an advertisement, which was duly dispatched to the broadsheet newspapers:

  THE BASKERVILLE AGENCY

  Will Investigate All Mysterious and Bizarre

  Occurences

  Apply in confidence to:

  Christopher Sherlock Webster Esq.,

  237 Crawford St., off Baker St., London W.1.

  www.thebaskervilleagency.co.uk

  Let it be recorded that I was opposed to the inclusion of my middle name, simply on the grounds that it would seem gimmicky. Mo was adamant, however. He ranted on about the need for ‘strong branding’ and had the gall to say it was a ‘resignation issue’ for him. In the end I acquiesced, just as I knew I must on the sartorial issue. It might sound craven to you, but money tends to talk in these situations.

  All we could do now was sit back, like a couple of weekend anglers, and await the first gentle tug on the line . . .

  Early public reaction was far from auspicious. I fielded a steady trickle of telephone enquiries, none of which led to anything. Many believed the advertisement was a hoax, and complimented me on my sense of humour. Others expected to be offered some kind of ghastly Holmes-a-gram service to enliven their office parties. One old fool was even convinced I was recruiting for a mystical cult, and became extremely abusive when I denied it.

  However, hidden amongst all this chaff appeared such a grain of wheat as we had no right to expect so soon. The case in question is presented for your delectation in the following pages, along with four others.

  If I have tended to dwell upon my successes rather than my failures it is not out of egoism; rather an urge to demonstrate what may still be achieved through the uncompromising application of deductive logic.

  THE FUR TRADE

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘My name is Byron Silk,’ began the caller, speaking with a decided West Indian modulation.

  ‘How can I be of service?’ I replied urbanely.

  ‘I’m Vicki Vine’s personal assistant.’

  ‘Vicki Vine? You don’t mean the soul chanteuse?’

  ‘That’s right, the singer. She’s in a lot of trouble.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I commiserated. ‘Perhaps we could set up a consultation for her? I’m free most of this week.’

  ‘She’ll send the limo round to your place,’ said the man peremptorily. ‘Six thirty this evening.’

  ‘Alright. But couldn’t you give me something more to go on, Mr. Silk? I like to know roughly what I’m getting into.’

  ‘It may be a matter of life and death,’ he confided darkly.

  ‘Indeed? Is she in some kind of physical danger?’

  ‘Can’t say anything more on the phone.’

  ‘Very well. Tell her I’ll be ready at half past six.’

  The caller hung up, leaving me to consider whether he might in fact be some kind of crank. I decided it was unlikely.

  Mo dropped in about an hour later, and was understandably thrilled at the prospect of having a pop star as a client.

  ‘Let’s think about your clothes,’ he said, clucking round me like an old hen. ‘How about top-hat, frock-coat, pearl-grey trousers?’

  ‘If you insist.’

  ‘Try to butter her up a bit,’ he advised, pulling the items out of the costume-chest. ‘Massage her ego. Tell her she’s the best thing since Aretha Franklin. You can do that, can’t you?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ I replied non-committally, ‘if we decide to take the case on. It must depend on certain factors.’

  Mo looked outraged. ‘What do you mean? What factors?’

  ‘I mean her problem must be susceptible to those very methods of deductive analysis which we have been at pains to advertise.’

  ‘You’re having me on!’

  ‘I’m deadly serious. We must stick to our speciality – the bizarre, the recondite, the subtle. Otherwise the whole project is doomed from the outset. I’m sorry to be purist about this, Morris.’

  ‘Look, Sherl,’ said Mo, putting a hand on my shoulder matily, ‘we can’t afford to throw away a high-profile client like Vicki Vine. She could be the making of us. Just find out what kind of trouble she’s in, then tell her we’ll sort it out. If she needs protection we’ll hire some muscle.’

  I snorted my disgust. This was all beginning to sound too much like an episode of Minder.

  ‘Unfortunately I’ll have to leave in about half an hour,’ he added, glancing at his watch.

  ‘So you won’t be here when she arrives?’

  ‘Sorry. I’ve got this crucial m
eeting with my old business partner. We’re winding up the company, and I have to make sure it’s done properly. You’ll have to handle this on your own, I’m afraid.’

  As I sat alone in our Victorian theme parlour, surveying the desultory comings and goings of Crawford Street, I slowly began to come round to Mo’s way of thinking.

  ‘There’s money in this case, Watson, if there is nothing else,’ Holmes had once remarked, upon seeing a brougham and pair draw up outside. Even the great man, then, was not above occasional venality. In any case, Vicki Vine could well be said to be an ‘illustrious client’ in the modern context. She might even provide an entrée into the entertainment aristocracy.

  I walked over to the full-length mirror and inspected my dated attire. Although everything fitted remarkably well I still felt like a second-rate provincial actor who was struggling to grow into a new role.

  Over a hastily prepared tea, I scoured my Book of Hit Singles. It appeared that Vicki Vine’s recording career was even more illustrious than I had realized. There had been five top-twenty singles; including the well-remembered Blood Is Thicker Than Water, which peaked at number 5 in 2012. I rang her record company, Cresta, and learned from a helpful publicist that Vine had made lucrative inroads into the European and U.S. markets. Her first album had gone silver in the States. She’d enjoyed sales in excess of ten million units throughout the world. But as to her exact earnings to date my informant was understandably coy, preferring to say that Vicki need never ‘vocalise’ again.

  Having armed myself with this background knowledge I could do little else but sit, in costume, and make idle speculations as to the nature of the singer’s predicament.

  Eventually, two impatient hoots caused me to peer out through our genteel lace curtains. A maroon Jag XF with tinted windows had double-parked directly opposite. As no-one emerged from the vehicle I assumed that I was being summoned. I grabbed my topper, swallowed hard, and hurried out into the fierce July sun. My anachronistic appearance elicited amused and even worried stares from the public – but I strode manfully on towards the waiting limousine. The rear door opened. I slid in, and found myself shoulder-to-shoulder with one of Britain’s most successful black artistes.