Paul Magrs - Mystery Lady

Dodie looks ashamed. ‘My publisher, Mr Figgis. He’s rather small and eccentric.’ She sighs deeply. The publishing of her first novel was such a disappointment to her, I know. She puts a brave face on it. ‘The thing is,’ she sighs. ‘You bring out a book and you think your life is going to change overnight. Everything is going to be better, brighter, more perfect, for you are at last doing the thing that you have always longed to do. You are a published author. Unfortunately, reality hits pretty hard, soon afterwards, and not much has changed very much at all.’

Henry Duke is gazing at her admiringly. ‘How well you understand our strange profession. But you must realise, also, Dodie, that some publishers are simply rather better than others. Perhaps a thoroughbred like you ought not to be stabled with Mr Figgis of Morecambe after all?’

She beams at this suggestion. ‘Perhaps not.’

‘Of course, on the whole, I find the ‘Horrible Tales of Terror’ quite embarrassing, really. They were much more my father’s taste in books. I’d like to be pushing our list in a more literary direction… And you see, that’s what I feel about your work, my dear Dodie. You stretch the form. You push against the parameters of the tale of horror…’

‘Do I indeed?’ asks Dodie.

‘Oh, indeed. I think that the psychological insights in your story, let alone what you do to syntax, push your work into a different category altogether. It’s practically avant-garde…’

He’s flattering her something daft. What does this man want from my lovely Dodie?

And, do you know, as I watch him toadying, what I start to detect in the air… is fear. I’m very sensitive to such things. And… yes… he is scared of something. Someone or something has put the wind up him…

They’re talking about copy editing now and as Henry pours even more praise on Dodie, I can almost sense his aura vibrating.

I think my clever Dodie has detected it, too. She’s no slouch.

‘Why did you call me in, Mr Duke? It wasn’t just to discuss my work, was it?’

He looks haunted. ‘I’m afraid not, Dodie. You see, not only have I taken note of the quality of your work, I have recently become aware of your success in your little sideline career.’

She purses her lips. ‘My little sideline..?’

He smiles. ‘I have heard through the grapevine that you aren’t averse to tackling real-life mysteries. Not just fictional ones.’

‘And you have a mystery?’ she asks.

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘One of our authors is missing.’

‘What do you think of that, then?’ I asked Timothy later that afternoon. I knew he loved a good mystery, just the same as I did.

He looked suitably intrigued as I filled him in about my conversation with the handsome Mr Henry Duke, but his thoughts were mostly on his TV appearance that evening. He was somewhat nervous and so I’d suggested that we take a little walk around the circular inner courtyard of Television Centre, where the snow was still tumbling down.

‘So, he’s asked you to investigate a murder?’ Tim frowned.

‘A disappearance. This fellow has stopped returning calls or answering his post or opening his front door.’

‘Is that so unusual?’ Timmy asked.

‘Henry seems to think so. You see, this vanishing man is the first author in ‘The Horrible Book of Terror Volume 27’. You saw his name on the contents page I showed you last night. Vaughan Fretwell. There was one of those strange symbols by his name. A horrid little squiggle.’

‘I see,’ said Timothy, checking his watch and gazing up at the glass and concrete walls all around us. ‘What does it matter if some old short story writer has done a bunk?’

‘Henry Duke thinks there’s more to it,’ I told him. ‘He believes there’s something… queer about this whole anthology. He says he’s worried about the fates of everyone that Fox Soames has selected to be in this book. Including myself. He seems to have a feeling that we’re each of us in some kind of mortal danger.’

Timmy laughed. ‘He’s just after some publicity. Trying to drum up some real-life mystery…’

I stiffened at this. ‘Mr Henry Duke wouldn’t be so vulgar, Tim. He was genuinely concerned for my welfare and that of the other authors.’

‘It’s getting cold out here,’ Timothy said. ‘Let’s go back to the studio. They’ll be wondering where I’ve got to.’

Very confidently, he led the way back through the reception, where several suited figures and the glamorous receptionist nodded at him, recognising him at once. Cassandra was tapping me on my shoulder as I followed in his wake.

‘I don’t think he’s really listening, Dodie. Tell him about the manuscript! Tell him about the copy-editor!’

Oh, yes! Cassandra was right. I told Timothy about it as we stood in the middle of the vast, shiny floor of Studio One. Hot, complicated lights were being rigged all around us and the floor manager was walking several famous guests through their paces for tonight’s show. I vaguely recognised one or two people. They were in dressing gowns and hairnets and I nodded politely. Timothy was looking at me with great patience as he stood in the spot where the director had placed him.

‘I don’t get it,’ he said.

‘Helen Spedding, the woman who gave me the manuscript last night in the restaurant?’

‘With the big bosom?’ he asked. ‘Drank about six brandies and kept interrupting us?’

‘Yes, that’s her. Well, it turns out she’s bogus.’

Timmy boggled at me. ‘Ha! Well, I could have told you that last night. I knew there was something shifty about her.’

‘When I told Henry Duke about our encounter, and how she had given me the manuscript he claimed never to have heard of her. He said that the copy-editing was actually being done by their usual freelance chap, Arnold, or someone. He said that this Helen Spedding must have got her wires crossed. And yet she was in possession of the typescript, wasn’t she? And she gave it to me, and it was covered in those little runic symbols, wasn’t it?’

Now Timothy was shading his eyes and glaring up at the lights as the floor manager asked him to move a little to the left.

Timothy said, ‘Look, Dodie. It all sounds pretty odd to me. I’m not sure it’s as sinister as you and this Henry bloke are making out. And, well, I’m really busy right now. I’ve got to do this magic trick thing, live on air in about three hours. The actual magician they booked has been taken ill and I have to take his place. I haven’t even learned what it is I have to do…’

I sighed. He was quite right, of course. ‘Oh Timothy, sweetheart, I’m being terribly selfish, as usual. I’ll pop off at once and let you get on with the rehearsal”.

I kissed him and marched firmly towards the main door.

Cassandra caught up with me as I left the studio floor.

‘We are coming back to the live broadcast, aren’t we?’ she asked.

I nodded, and paused to reach around inside my shoulder bag. ‘Here we are…’ I said, unfolding the contents page and another few sheets of scribbled addresses that Henry Duke had given me.

‘Alright, so the first man on our list – the missing man, Vaughan Fretwell, doesn’t live a million miles from here. He’s in Shepherd’s Bush. We’ve got a couple of hours to kill before Timothy’s show begins. What say we leg it over there on a double decker and see what we can find?’

Cassandra looked absolutely thrilled at the thought of beginning a new investigation. We left Television Centre with a spring in our step and the man at the gates outside even saluted us. I paused to ask him the way to the nearest bus stop.