“Yes, miss, and locked. So were all the other doors leading out of the house.”
“Then he must have gone out by the window,” remarked Eileen, but she felt there was something quite irrational about the inference. Why should her uncle leave the house by the window? There was clearly no valid reason. The idea was ludicrous. She rose hastily from her bed with an air of resolution, and Fanny, leaving the room, went about her usual household duties.
Eileen breakfasted alone, and her first feeling of amazement at the sudden and unaccountable disappearance of her uncle was giving place slowly to a decided sensation of fear. She argued with herself that as yet there was no cause for alarm, but it failed to stem the slowly ebbing tide of her courage. Before lunch, with the aid of the three maidservants, she had made a thorough search of Old Hall Farm from the attics to the cellars; and Runnacles the gardener, with his assistant, had been through all the stables, outbuildings, and lofts. John Thurlow was not to be found. He had seemingly vanished without leaving a trace.
Just before lunch, Arthur Orton of Church Farm, their nearest neighbour, called about some repairs that were necessary to one of his barns, for Orton rented his farm from John Thurlow. He was shown into the drawing-room and there interviewed by Eileen.
He was a tall* wiry man with a lean, bronzed face and dark, flashing eyes beneath rather abundant and unruly eyebrows. The deep lines from the nose to the corners of his mouth, and the thin upper lip, slightly depressed where it met the lines from the nose, gave him a shrewd, cynical air, but whenever a smile lit up his face, it would alter its whole ascetic cast.
On Eileen’s entry, his glance swept over the graceful lines of her tall, well-proportioned figure and glowed warmly. His silent appreciation was not lost on Eileen, for she had experienced it before and found it agreeable. In spite of herself, a faint flush tinted her cheeks, and her unmistakable satisfaction was reflected in her countenance. For Eileen thought Arthur Orton an attractive man, and though there was something about his slightly saturnine air that disagreeably disturbed her, she had for some time been secretly fascinated by him. He was, moreover, a bachelor, a good farmer, ostensibly well-off, and reputed never to have been worsted in a business deal. In the parish of Yarham, he was not popular. He was reserved and inclined to be sarcastic, which was construed as equivalent to giving himself airs, but his worst fault, in combination with these, was that he was a stranger. Though he had now been at Church Farm for many years, he was a stranger for the simple reason that he had not been born in the parish of Yarham. Worse still, he was not a Suffolk man.
His arrival at Old Hall Farm at this critical moment was too much for Eileen Thurlow’s command of her troubled feelings. On his sympathetic remark that she looked as if she were upset about something, she frankly unburdened herself and told him the whole story of her uncle’s inexplicable disappearance. Overwrought by her morning’s excitement and worry, she ended her tale on the verge of tears. Arthur Orton was solidly comforting. He deftly brought bright common sense to bear on the subject, and contrived that a light-hearted breeze should blow away the portentous atmosphere of tragedy from Eileen’s outlook.
“When did you go to bed, Miss Thurlow?” he asked.
“I left my uncle in his study about ten o’clock.”
“Well, I and my man, Joe Battrum, saw Mr. Thurlow step into a car at about eleven o’clock, just as you enter Yarham village. We naturally thought it was his own car and paid no more heed to the matter. You say his car was never out of the garage yesterday. Then it must have been a friend’s car, and they’ve had a breakdown at some outlandish spot. In fact, the whole of Suffolk’s outlandish, so that’s easy. You mustn’t start worrying about nothing, Miss Thurlow. Your uncle’ll turn up when he’s downright hungry, or he’ll ring you up and let you know where he is and what’s happened. I wanted to see him about some repairs to my barn, but it’s not urgent and I’ll look in to-morrow. In the meantime, if there’s anything I can do, you’ve just to let me know. ’Phone me and I’ll be on your doorstep in no time. Don’t hesitate.”
“That’s awfully kind of you, Mr. Orton,” said Eileen sincerely. “I hope I haven’t worried you by telling you all my troubles.”
“My dear girl, there’s nothing like getting your worries off your chest. I’m very glad you’ve told me. I want you to think of me as a friend you can turn to when in trouble.”
Arthur Orton’s eyes met Eileen’s and his glance was suddenly charged with significance. He meant the word friend to be taken at an enhanced emotional value, and Eileen was unconsciously eager to accept it. Her lowered eyelids were an admission to him that she understood perfectly. Orton rose to go, but for some moments stood hesitant as if debating a course of action that was hovering uncertainly in his mind.
“You’ve searched everywhere, Miss Thurlow?” he asked suddenly. From the tone of his voice his thoughts were apparently not in his words.
“We’ve ransacked the whole place,” replied Eileen emphatically.
“The attics and lofts?” asked Orton, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
“Yes.”
The cellar as well? You have a wine cellar, I believe?”
“Yes, we’ve searched everywhere,” replied Eileen with finality. She was rather disappointed at these matter-of-fact questions. His hesitation had seemed to hint at the possibility of a more intimate expansion on the subject of friendship. That expansion had evidently been checked by caution or nervousness. His rather obvious questions came as a depressing anti-climax to her expectancy.
“Now you’re not to worry, Miss Thurlow,” he adjured finally. “Your uncle will turn up. Take my word for it.”
“But suppose he doesn’t return by to-morrow morning. Would you advise me to report the matter to the police, Mr. Orton?” asked Eileen.
Arthur Orton was apparently flattered by the question. It implied that she valued his advice. He saw himself once more as the friend in need. He at once assumed a gravely judicial air.
“Well, yes, I suppose it’s about the only thing you can do. Still, I shouldn’t be in too great a hurry, Miss Thurlow. Give the matter plenty of time. You mustn’t act hastily. Once the affair’s in the hands of the police, it becomes public property. It may even be broadcast, much to your uncle’s annoyance. He’s the sort of man who’d hate anything like that. Now this is Tuesday. If you don’t get word by Wednesday night, then I think it would be wise to go to the police. In the meantime, just try and keep control of your feelings, and should you want help, just ring me up.”
Eileen again thanked him, and as he was on the point of departure, held out her hand. He took it between both his strong hands, held it and patted it affectionately. In Eileen’s rather distracted state of mind it was a very comforting gesture; its intimacy diffused a subtle air of protection. She felt she needed protection. For the moment she was thrilled, but as soon as Arthur Orton had gone, her mind at once reverted to the strange disappearance of her uncle, and, in spite of Orton’s matter-of-fact encouragement, her fears returned with doubled force. Surely something dreadful had happened to Uncle John? She sat helplessly pondering over the matter after her lunch, a meal which she had eaten without the slightest zest. Surely their little séance of the previous night could have no possible bearing on this baffling affair? She wondered. It was certain there were evil as well as beneficent spirits. It would be impossible to say what power the former might not be able to exert, if once in touch with the living. One assigned no limits to a spirit s potentialities. Eileen found it inconceivable that anyone could commit murder or suicide, unless driven by something in the nature of a dynamically evil spirit. In everyday language people spoke of the insane as “possessed.” In Scripture, they were “possessed of a devil.” It seemed feasible that at any time anybody, even an innocent and quite worthy being, might suddenly be seized upon as a temporary habitation by some unclean demon. The thought opened up a vista of horrible possibilities, conjured up disagreeable verbal associations, such a
s ghosts, furies, banshees, wraiths, ogres, genii, even succubi and succubae! She felt she must banish these morbid thoughts, and, rising from her chair, decided she would walk into the village and call on Dawn Garford. It would do her good to get a breath of fresh air and talk matters over with a friend.
Dawn Garford was twenty-six years old and a widow. Her husband, an aviator, had been killed in a flying accident a year after their marriage. Her real name was Mrs. Button, but she was still known to the villagers as Miss Dawn Garford. Her husband had left her a competence, and she had come to live with her aunt in Yarham. She liked a country life, and in the country her modest income went very much further than in town.
Eileen Thurlow soon made her acquaintance and they had become friends, not because they were strongly attracted to one another, but simply because, in a village like Yarham, the scope for friendships was extremely limited. In temperament they were diametrically opposed. Dawn Garford was an assured, material woman with superabundant energy, a cheerful disposition, and an insatiable desire to exercise her charms on men. Her bold, forceful character and reckless bearing won Eileen’s admiration, for the simple reason that she, herself, was shy, modest and cautious.
On arriving at the Garfords’ house, a modern villa and incongruous in the general setting of Yarham, Eileen found Miss Julia Garford, Dawn’s aunt, in a mental and nervous state bordering on collapse. The arrival of a visitor seemingly revived her instantly, and she hurriedly led Eileen into the drawing-room.
“I’ve heard all about it,” she remarked eagerly. “The whole village knows about it, my dear. Now sit down and tell me all there’s to tell. I’ve been expecting you all afternoon. I’ve got my own troubles and something very important to tell you afterwards.”
Eileen briefly described the incidents surrounding the disappearance of her uncle. Omitting the story of the little séance and the spirit music, which she felt might be met with incredulity, perhaps even ridicule, there was very little to tell. Miss Garford asked innumerable questions, made rather fatuous suggestions, and finally asked:
“Do you think your uncle’s disappearance, Eileen, can have any connection with Clarry Martin’s?”
“But I didn’t know Clarry Martin had disappeared,” said Eileen with lively astonishment.
“Well, he has; he’s been missing since Friday last. His father and mother have kept the thing very dark. They naturally thought he’d turn up some time or another, but now they’ve had to let the secret out. I believe they’ve informed the police.”
“Doesn’t anybody know what’s happened to him?” asked Eileen, a look of bewilderment in her eyes.
“No. He was last seen talking to George Mobbs, the baker, just outside ‘The Walnut Tree’ Inn. They were old friends and had evidently been making merry all evening.”
“Dawn’ll be rather upset about it,” remarked Eileen, for Clarry Martin was one of Dawn Garford’s most persistent suitors.
“I don’t think it’ll worry Dawn much,” said her aunt with a mysterious smile. “Now, when she hears about your uncle, she’ll be greatly distressed, for she’s really very fond of him. I think he has a soft spot for her, too. People in the village are saying that it looks as if they’re going to make a match of it.”
“Oh, hardly that, Miss Julia. I don’t think their relations with one another have got as far as that,” said Eileen guardedly. “My uncle’s rather infatuated with Dawn, but I think Dawn treats the matter as a joke.”
“Well, the gossip was sufficient to make Clarry absurdly jealous. He quarrelled with Dawn a week ago, and since then they haven’t spoken to one another. Dawn confided in me that she thought Clarry Martin was going off his head. She is scared out of her wits about him. This morning she left Yarham, and has gone to stay with some friends down at Midhurst in Sussex until Clarry recovers his senses.”
Eileen Thurlow was very much perturbed at this information. She was astonished that the mild and middle-aged attitude of gallantry, adopted by her uncle with the incorrigibly flirtatious Dawn, had been marked enough to rouse village comment and waken Clarry Martin’s jealousy. She was about to make some direct reference to it, but desisted.
“Clarry Martin drinks too much,” she said casually in reply. “I think Dawn’s wise in steering clear of him.”
The conversation returned once more to the simultaneous disappearance of John Thurlow and Clarry Martin, but further discussion failed to shed any light on the mystery. After tea, Eileen, having promised to keep Miss Garford informed of any developments, took her leave and returned to Old Hall Farm.
On her arrival she learned that, during her absence, there had been no telephone calls, and no further news of her uncle had come to hand. She was grievously disappointed. All the time she had been talking to Miss Garford, she had been thinking that good news would greet her as she entered Old Hall Farm. A telephone message explaining what had happened and saying that everything was all right; that was what she had anticipated. She had even envisaged herself being annoyed for having been so easily distressed, so ready to read disaster into the unknown, when there was absolutely nothing to warrant such a gloomy outlook. For a while she was roused to a sense of anger against her uncle; he ought to have more thought for her feelings than to leave her in this painful uncertainty. He must know that his absence would cause anxiety, not only to her, but to everyone in the house. But this spasm of indignant exasperation disappeared when she remembered how exceedingly thoughtful her Uncle John always was in everything concerning her comfort and peace of mind. No, something really serious must have happened to him, or he would have managed to communicate with her by some means or other.
She ate her dinner in a mood of growing despondency, and began to wonder how she was going to pass the evening. She suddenly remembered that her uncle had, a day or so before, brought back from London a batch of books on spiritualism, and that they were lying on his desk in the study. She decided to bury herself in an easy chair in that comfortable room and spend the time reading. She felt she must detach herself from the present, get absorbed in her subject, and time would fly.
For a while she read with a lively interest Sir Edward Marshall Hall’s Evidences of Survival from Experiences with Automatic Writing, but the worries and preoccupations of the day had tired her mind, and she soon found that she was reading without concentration. She finally closed her book, and her thoughts reverted to Miss Julia Garford’s remarks about John Thurlow and Dawn Garford.
Now that she began to consider the matter, Eileen became aware that there was a large part of her uncle’s character and mental life that was hidden from her. It was not that he was unduly secretive, but that she herself had never been sufficiently curious about him. After all, there might be more in village gossip than she had surmised. For all she knew, her uncle might have proposed to Dawn Garford and been accepted. Unlikelier things had happened. He was fifty-five years of age and Dawn, twenty-six, but her uncle was younger physically and mentally than his years. The fact that he had a considerable fortune was one that Dawn, avid for the good things of life and not too romantic in her outlook, would certainly appreciate. No sooner had this thought flashed across Eileen’s mind, than she remembered that she, herself, was the sole beneficiary under her uncle’s will. If her uncle married, he would certainly alter the provisions of that will. She had not considered this point before.
Her thoughts then fastened on the subject of Clarry Martin’s disappearance. It was very strange that Clarry should have disappeared almost simultaneously with her uncle. They were, so village gossip said, rivals for the hand of Dawn Garford. Could this fact have any bearing on the coincidence? From these musings there suddenly sprang to her mind the thought of murder. Clarry Martin was, according to Julia Garford’s story insanely jealous of her uncle’s attentions to Dawn, but no, she could not think of Clarry Martin in the role of an assassin. Had her uncle any other enemies? The question brought to her memory a remarkable discussion that had taken place between her fat
her and mother about some youthful indiscretion of John Thurlow’s in India. She, herself, was then in her teens, and on the occasion was not thought to be listening too attentively to her parents’ conversation. What that indiscretion was, she had never been able to ascertain definitely, but she realized when she grew older that it savoured strongly of popular sensational fiction. There was something about a Hindu temple, a goddess called Kali, and she had a vague recollection that a beautiful native dancer flitted lightly on an atmosphere of veiled sexual hints across the stage of her parents’ discussion. That dancer’s husband, if she remembered rightly, had been murdered. Eileen had taken the trouble later to probe into the matter of the goddess Kali. Strangely enough, this divinity, at the time, interested her far more than the nature of her uncle’s indiscretion, or the part played by the beautiful native dancer. Kali, she discovered, was a goddess of destruction and death. She was black, had four arms, and the palms of her hands were red. Her face and breast were smeared with blood, and blood dripped from her tongue which protruded from her revolting, fang-like teeth. Formerly, human sacrifice was a part of her ritual. The sacrificial victim was imprisoned in her temple at sunset, and in the morning he was dead. Kali had sucked his blood during the night. Ghastly as this description was to Eileen in those impressionable years, it acquired some grander horror from the vague association with her Uncle John. Whatever had happened between Kali and her uncle, he had at least survived the ordeal triumphantly and bore no traces of the encounter.
This reversion of her thoughts to that early story of her uncle’s indiscretion, and the sudden recollection of the horror of Kali, began to fill Eileen with a vague and increasing terror. All sorts of tales of Eastern deities, of curses and mummies and rifled tombs, sacrilege and the unescapable vengeance of strange gods flitted incoherently through her mind. She decided that the best thing to do was to go to bed, try to sleep, and see what the morning would bring.
The Spirit Murder Mystery Page 3
