The Hangman's Lair by Simon Cheshire Page B

‘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.

C HAPTER
T HREE
    T HE P IG AND F IDDLE 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 pub 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