The Spirit Murder Mystery

by Robin Forsythe

  “I haven’t been sketching, Padre,” replied Vereker. “I’ve just been to Cobbler’s Corner on a much more exciting business.”

  “So you’ve heard all about it. When I received the news this morning, my thoughts immediately turned to you. If there’s anything mysterious about this affair, I said to myself, young Vereker will soon be up to his neck in the game of detection, instead of getting on with his work. Tell me, what do you think of it?”

  “I can tell you nothing yet beyond the fact that I think it’s a murder, perhaps a double murder. I’ve merely glanced at the bodies and the scene of the crime.”

  “Terrible, very terrible! I’m now on my way to Old Hall Farm to see Miss Thurlow about the whole affair and offer what consolation I can. Why not accompany me? She’s a very charming young lady. I’m sure you’ll like her, and perhaps you’ll learn something to help you in your work of investigation, if such is going to be necessary in the case.”

  “I should like to see and speak to Miss Thurlow very much, Rector, and was just wondering how I could get round to her diplomatically.”

  “Then I’m the very man you want. Can you come along now?”

  “Certainly. I hope Miss Thurlow will be able to see us. She may be too upset.”

  “She’s a young woman of great force of character, Vereker. She’ll not take this blow lying down. If my judgment of her is correct, she’ll be very much on the spot and eager to help clear up the terrible affair. Let’s waste no more time.”

  With these words, the Rev. William Sturgeon looked at the bicycle on which Vereker was leaning as he stood talking.

  “D’you think you could give me a lift, if I stand on the mounting step?” he asked. “I was only a light weight when I was at college, and no one could put on weight in a living like Yarham.”

  “It’s a borrowed bicycle,” remarked Vereker dubiously.

  “Then you needn’t hesitate!” exclaimed the rector with the prodigious laugh that he always reserved for his own jokes.

  A few minutes later, Benjamin Easy’s disreputable bicycle was coasting down the hill towards Old Hall Farm, Vereker grimly steadying it, and the Rev. William Sturgeon standing on the step of the back axle, with an almost seraphic smile on his face and his coat tails fluttering gaily in the morning breeze.

  Chapter Four

  On arriving at Old Hall Farm, the Rev. William Sturgeon and Vereker found Eileen Thurlow about to set out for Cobbler’s Corner in her uncle’s car. Though ostensibly suffering from the shock which the recent news had inflicted on her, she was completely in command of herself, and there was an air of resolution about her whole bearing. That fortitude was shaken considerably by the rector’s words of sympathy and condolence, and tears rose to her eyes in spite of her determined effort to suppress them. She soon recovered her composure, however, and, treating the rector as a trusted friend, she briefly narrated everything that had occurred at Old Hall Farm, pertinent to the disaster which had overtaken her relative.

  Vereker had been introduced to her as the well- known artist and amateur detective, and during her narration, she almost unconsciously addressed herself to him, as if desirous of helping him in every way in his task of investigating the case. On mentioning the subject of the spirit manifestation which she believed to have occurred on the night previous to her uncle’s disappearance, she was particularly pleased at Vereker’s very patient hearing and sympathetic questions about the details of that singular experiment; the more so, because the Rev. Sturgeon clearly showed his strong disapproval.

  “I warned you, Eileen, to have nothing to do with this cult of spiritualism. It’s a very dangerous cult in my opinion,” he had interrupted.

  A little later, she departed for Cobbler’s Corner, escorted by the Rev. Sturgeon, after giving Vereker a very cordial invitation to call on her at Old Hall Farm at any time, should he wish to consult her about any-thing connected with the mysterious tragedy. Thanking her sincerely, and congratulating himself on his ability to attain access to Old Hall Farm and probe further into Miss Thurlow’s strange story of the spirit manifestation, Vereker took his departure and returned to his rooms at “The Walnut Tree.”

  To say that he was beginning to be interested in the new case that had so unexpectedly thrust itself upon him, would be to understate the effect that it had on his restlessly inquisitive mind. He was filled with an excitement which manifested itself in the rapid and preoccupied manner in which he paced up and down his sitting-room in the inn, when alone and surveying the various details already known to him.

  His thoughts reverted to Miss Eileen Thurlow. Susceptible, as an artist, to feminine beauty, he admitted to himself that she was a very attractive young woman. Apart from her physical charms, there was something very engaging in the distinction and frankness of her mind. From fear of the general ridicule which any reference to the supernatural arouses in matter-of-fact, ordinary people, she might have been excused if she had omitted to mention the subject of the experiment in spiritualism which had prefaced the unaccountable disappearance of her uncle. She had described it very clearly and courageously in her determination to be explicit and comprehensive. On this controversial topic Vereker was very much in sympathy with her. He had always been interested in occult phenomena, and had gradually passed from a state of obstinate scepticism thereof to an admission of agnosticism. Lack of conversion, his spiritualistic friends had often assured him, was due to his habit of weighing evidence from a purely material point of view and to his almost hostile inquisitiveness. These characteristics had rendered him an unfavourable participant in any séance, and had led him eventually to drop his investigations into the phenomena altogether. The sudden resurgence of the subject of spirit manifestation in connection with a case of murder at once revived all his interest, and he felt that he was on the fringe of one of the most exciting experiences of his career.

  He recalled to his mind the appearance of many of the mediums whose stances he had attended, and at once recognized the peculiar mystical aspect of Eileen Thurlow’s eyes. They were to him a distinctive feature of the genuine psychic. However ordinary the general appearance and deportment of the mediums he had encountered, they had invariably possessed that strange, detached look in the eyes, a look suggestive of seeing through outward forms to some hidden reality beyond. Then he suddenly realized that he was anticipating matters. Perhaps this strange experience of Eileen Thurlow’s on the night of the disappearance of her uncle had nothing whatever to do with the tragedy that had followed. The violent deaths of John Thurlow and Clarry Martin might resolve themselves into one of the complicated murder mysteries which had engaged his detective powers on so many previous occasions. He must be patient and await developments without forming theories on insufficient data.

  The next two days he spent in a state of restless impatience, listening to the various and contradictory stories of the case as retailed to him by his acquaintances in the village. On the morning of the third day, his friend Manuel Ricardo wrote to him, saying that his visit to Yarham must be postponed, owing to unforeseen circumstances and that Gertie Wentworth certainly came under that category. He added that Vereker’s investigator’s outfit had been forwarded by L.N.E.R., and had been replenished with an extra electric torch, three batteries, and twopence worth of gum arabic. These had been purchased out of his own money, as Albert had refused to advance more than one pound without a confirmatory note from his employer. He affirmed that he would do his utmost to put in an appearance at Yarham before the murder quest reached the stage of a pitched battle with sub-machine guns. The letter, one of Ricardo’s habitually flippant effusions, concluded with the important news that the services of Scotland Yard had been called in to deal with the Yarham murder mystery, and that Inspector Heather, who had been detailed to take charge of investigations on their behalf, had rung up the flat and was on his way to the village.

  This final piece of information at once mollified Vereker’s annoyance with Ricardo’s irrelevancies
, and removed his sense of exasperation at his own forced inactivity. He felt that he would now be able to take an active part in this new battle against the forces of crime, and renew the old and exciting rivalry that accompanied his former investigations in conjunction with his friend Heather of the Yard.

  During this waiting for developments, Vereker had refrained from taking advantage of the invitation he had received from Miss Thurlow, but he had called on Doctor Cornard and discussed the case very thoroughly with him. He had also been kept in touch with the local police movements by his friend, Constable Godbold, under a promise of the strictest secrecy.

  Vereker had just thrust Ricardo’s letter in his pocket, when a railway van arrived with the case containing his investigator’s equipment. As he was about to take possession of this case, a police car suddenly ran into the cobbled square in front of “The Walnut Tree” Inn, and Inspector Heather stepped out. After an appreciative glance at the quaint architecture and beautiful setting of the old tavern, the inspector advanced towards Vereker with an expression of mock gravity on his round good-natured face.

  “This is not playing the game, Mr. Vereker. You’ve got a long start of me this time.”

  “I need it. Since our last duel, they’ve added the Hendon College to help you out of your little difficulties.”

  “You mean ‘The Brain Box’? Well, we’ll say we start equal then. What’s the beer like in ‘The Walnut Tree?’”

  “There’s no bad beer in Suffolk.”

  “Dear me, and yet they call it Silly Suffolk.”

  “The word in its old sense meant blessed or fortunate, Heather.”

  “Then it still holds good. I’m getting hungry. What’s for lunch?”

  “Cold lunch to-day. Have you ever tasted a haslet?”

  “Never. I hope it’s not a cocktail.”

  “No. I believe it’s made of pork. But let’s go in for lunch and you can sample a Suffolk haslet. Over it we can discuss this affair at Cobbler’s Corner.”

  The two men entered the inn, and when lunch had been served and they were alone, Heather at once brought the conversation to the business on which they were both engaged.

  “Now, Mr. Vereker, you’ve been here from the commencement of this affair. What d’you know?”

  “Nothing much so far, but I’ll tell you all about it, ab ovo.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You must ask them at Hendon. But to proceed. Some days ago, I believe it was on a Friday night, a man called Clarry Martin, who was on holiday in the village, disappeared. He belonged to Yarham, but lived and worked in London. Something to do with the motor business. Started as a mechanic and soon owned a large garage, show rooms, repair shop, etc. He was his own boss, and often came to Yarham to see his parents.”

  “You mean his best girl,” interrupted Heather. “Parents are seldom good for more than one visit a year nowadays.”

  “Perhaps you’re right. There’s a best girl in the case anyway. Her name is Dawn Garford.”

  “Dawn, eh? A real daughter of Eve, of course.”

  “Possibly so. I’m glad to see you’re in form, Heather, and as chirpy as ever. Well, Martin was very much in love with the young lady, and whether she returned his affection or not, I’m unable to say. But she encouraged him. However, he wasn’t the only suitor she encouraged. There were several others, it village gossip is to be believed.”

  “Strange world, Mr. Vereker,” commented Heather, lighting his pipe; “there’s never enough of a good thing to go all round. So Mr. Martin got his back up with the lady and there was a row.”

  “Exactly; and Mr. Martin disappeared. One of the other suitors was Mr John Thurlow, and rumour says that prior to his death it looked as if he were going to draw the prize in the sweep. He was a retired Indian merchant and reputed to be wealthy. He was much older than the lady, but his wealth probably discounted that item. Last Monday night he also disappeared from his place, Old Hall Farm. On Wednesday morning, both the missing men were discovered, as you know, at Cobbler’s Corner. They were dead.”

  “Thurlow with his head smashed in, and Martin shot through the shoulder. I’ll see the local police inspector this afternoon and get his full report on the case. Was there anything that particularly struck you, apart from what you’ve told me?”

  “I’ve left the most exciting bit till the last, Heather. On Monday night, Miss Thurlow and her uncle, both spiritualists, held a little séance in Mr. Thurlow’s study. It was an experiment as far as Thurlow was concerned. They extinguished the lights, and, according to the niece’s story, after a short period of silence, the room was suddenly filled with the strains of ghostly music. Thurlow was so astonished that he switched on the light. The music continued for a while and then died away. Miss Thurlow left her uncle in the study. She says she went into the garden to try and collect her thoughts before going to bed. Her trance state had upset her, and she feels that she was a bit distrait. So much so, that she doesn’t remember how long she stayed outside. She thinks about an hour. Eventually, however, she came to her full senses and found herself in bed. She says she never heard her uncle come upstairs to his room, and finally she fell asleep. Next morning, the servant discovered the electric light in the study still burning and the window wide open. All the doors of the house were shut and locked. She went upstairs to her master’s bedroom with his morning tea. The room was empty and the bed had not been slept in.”

  A frown had gathered on Inspector Heather’s brow, and he began to rub his chin thoughtfully.

  “You got the story of this séance business from the young lady?” he asked.

  “Yes”

  “Is she... is she loopy?” asked the officer in an impatient tone.

  “Not in the least. She’s a very sensible and charming young woman, in my opinion,” replied Vereker with emphasis.

  “If they’re charming, they’re always sensible, with most young men,” commented Heather and asked: “but you don’t think this spirit business had anything to do with Thurlow’s disappearance and murder?”

  “I’m not going to express any rash opinions at this stage, Heather. Miss Thurlow has asked me to come and see her, if I want to ask her any further questions. I’d like to get a little more information about this spirit manifestation. As you know, I’ve always been rather interested in the subject.”

  “God bless my soul, I’d forgotten that! Does the young lady call herself a medium by any chance?”

  “I’m not certain. She impresses me as a genuine psychic, if there is such a thing, and I can only presume there is from what I’ve read.”

  “You mean Psyche, I suppose. This is a bad beginning, Mr. Vereker. I don’t know what’s the matter with the younger generation. A sensible man like you—apart from your painting—paying any heed to this kind of bugaboo! That’s the word, pure bugaboo! Really, really, it’s too bad!”

  “Have you ever been to a séance with a genuine medium, Heather?”

  “Yes, but it’s many years ago now.”

  “What happened?”

  “We arrested the genuine medium. You’ve heard of the Farrow case?”

  “I’ve read of it. Spiritualists say it was a disgraceful business on the part of the police.”

  “That may be their opinion. I simply did my duty. Still, it’s no use discussing that affair now. It doesn’t affect the present case.”

  “And you’re no wiser on the subject to-day?”

  “I wouldn’t say that, but I can’t for the life of me see what this séance business has to do with Mr. Thurlow’s disappearance and murder. What connection do you see?”

  “None at present, but I feel that Miss Thurlow thinks there is, and I’m going to keep it in mind.”

  “Have you managed to get in touch with Miss Dawn Garford?”

  “No. She left Yarham on the morning of Tuesday, the very morning that Miss Thurlow discovered that her uncle had vanished. She has gone down to stay with friends at Midhurst, in Sussex.”


  “That sounds more significant to me than raising spooks,” commented Heather. “Do you know anything more about this Miss Garford?”

  “Very little. Village gossip says she’s in the habit of exceeding the speed limit. In a little place like Yarham, gossip’s guarded. A wink says what it’s unsafe to say. The worst of it is, you can’t translate winks explicitly.”

  “Just so. How is she fixed financially?”

  “Her late husband left her enough to live on.”

  “I thought you said she was Miss Garford.”

  “That’s how she’s known in Yarham. Her married name is Mrs. Button.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me she was a widow? It’s most important. They never hesitate to employ bodyline stuff to pull off an important match. How did she get on with the old boy’s niece?”

  “It seems they were quite good friends.”

  “Would her marriage to Thurlow have had any financial effect on the niece?”

  “I can’t tell you definitely. The rector, who was very friendly with the dead man, tells me that, by his will, Thurlow had left everything he possessed to his niece. His marriage might have altered that considerably.”

  “Almost a certainty. To put the matter very bluntly, by her uncle’s sudden death, Miss Eileen bags the dough. It’s an important point; it supplies a motive at once, and the spirit stuff may be eye-wash.”

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about that, Heather, but it doesn’t seem to me at present to be of much consequence. Still, we must dig deeper. We’ve got a lot to learn.”

  “Were Martin and Thurlow friends?” asked the inspector after a pause.

  “Certainly not after Martin found that Thurlow was his rival. But we mustn’t jump to hasty conclusions. On the face of it, it looks as if Martin had been shot through the shoulder by Thurlow, and in return slammed Thurlow over the head with the iron bar. It’s not as simple as all that. In the first place, the blow that smashed Thurlow’s skull was delivered from behind, and must have been dealt with considerable force. The iron bar, called a fold-drift in these parts, because it’s used for fixing up sheep folds, is a very heavy instrument. Martin certainly couldn’t have swung it after being shot with a Webley .45. I’ve had a long chat with Cornard on the subject, and he’s thoroughly mystified about the cause of Martin’s death. The wound was not what you’d call a deadly one, though he may have died of subsequent shock. But there are other points which need clearing up. Cornard says that there are marks on Martin’s wrists and ankles which show that he’d been bound hand and foot prior to death. As far as I can gather, your great expert, Sir Donald McPherson, will have to be called in to make an autopsy, and probably portions of the body will have to be submitted to the Home Office analyst, to see if poison enters into the business of Martin’s mysterious death.”