The Spirit Murder Mystery

by Robin Forsythe

  “Looks as if we’re up against a first-class mystery, Mr. Vereker,” remarked Heather, rising and preparing to leave the inn.

  “You’ll get a fuller account of the police findings from the local inspector, this afternoon, Heather. I’ll expect you to stick to our rules, and not hide any vital information from me. I can’t rise to brilliant intuitions out of a vacuum.”

  “I’ll play the game fairly, Mr. Vereker. I daresay, when you were left at Cobbler’s Corner by Godbold, you weren’t idle. You’ve spotted a thing or two you’ve not told me about, but that’s part of the contract. You’ve not said one word about this man, Ephraim Noy, who found the bodies. What about him?”

  “Now, Heather, you’re getting hot. The very name Ephraim is a deadly pointer, nearly as incriminating as Silas. He’s a mystery even to the village. He lives entirely alone in his new bungalow, and is about as communicative as a brick wall. His vocabulary doesn’t get much further than yes and no. No one seems to know where he came from, what he is or has been. Apparently he lives on investments, and is as free with his money as a Yorkshireman. Godbold was very suspicious about Ephraim’s chance discovery of the bodies, and looked handcuffs at him straight away. When questioned by the constable, he said he had nothing further to say about the matter, which didn’t concern him. If he were forced to make any further statement, he’d make it to a ‘responsible officer.’ Godbold exploded in choice Suffolk dialect, of which I couldn’t understand one word, but it didn’t upset Mr. Ephraim Noy.”

  Inspector Heather glanced at his watch, and as he left the room, remarked cheerily: “Au revoir, Mr. Vereker. I’ll see you some time this evening. In the meantime, while I’m getting the facts of this business from the Suffolk police, I hope you’ll work up a few of your best intuitions. You’ll need them all, if I’m not mistaken. What are you going to do this afternoon?”

  “You ought, as Oscar Wilde said, ask me what I’m going to think, Heather. My best intuitions come to me when I’m doing absolutely nothing at all.”

  “You might go and see this charming and sensible Miss Thurlow. You’re better than I am at dealing with genuine psychics. In fact, all women are a bit of a puzzle to me.”

  “First time I’ve heard you say so, Heather. In any case, the man who says he knows all about women, never knows the first thing about himself. I forgot to mention that there’s a very pretty cook up at...”

  But the inspector had disappeared through the dining-room door before Anthony Vereker could finish the sentence.

  Chapter Five

  Shortly after Heather’s departure, Vereker strolled lazily out of “The Walnut Tree” into the warm summer sunshine. He took the road skirting the village green and leading southwards to Hawksfield.

  All this portion of Suffolk about Yarham is dotted with villages of a few hundred inhabitants, with isolated farms scattered between. The population is almost entirely agrarian, and the conditions of life can soberly be called truly rural. It has an insidious charm, detachedly somnolent and meditative, and Vereker was under its almost uncanny spell. There was no settled plan in his mind, and if he had any objective, it was almost subconscious. He had chosen the road because it was perhaps more picturesque than any of the others winding tortuously out of Yarham. He was aware that there was little likelihood of meeting anyone he knew, because one can traverse any of the roads about Yarham for miles at any time of day without passing more than half a dozen pedestrians, a farm waggon, and an occasional motor car. He felt an overwhelming sense of remoteness from the hurrying world, and was conscious of that absence of distraction which leaves a man starkly facing his own thoughts. Yes, Yarham was conducive to quiet thinking and sound sleeping.

  He had not, however, walked more than a mile before he encountered Miss Eileen Thurlow. She had just emerged from a rough grassy lane which ran into the road at right angles. This lane, a primitive cart track called a “drift,” was an approach to Church Farm, lying about a mile from the road and inaccessible by any other means. In summer these drifts are passable on foot, but in winter the pedestrian can only wade through them in gum boots. Thus many farms are completely isolated, and no traffic passes them except that of their own farm waggons and servants.

  Miss Thurlow at once recognized Vereker.

  “I was just coming down to see you,” she said. “I’ve been expecting you to call at Old Hall Farm every day since your visit with Mr. Sturgeon.”

  “I’ve been going to do so, Miss Thurlow, but somehow or other...”

  “You didn’t like to trouble me in the circumstances. I understand. I’ve been wanting to talk things over with you alone, because I think you understand me. We’re only half a mile from the Old Hall. Would you care to come along now to tea, or have you some other engagement?”

  “I’m quite free and shall be glad to come. I hope you won’t mind my asking you all sorts of questions.”

  “I want you to, and I’ll answer them as best I can. I’m anxious to help you to clear up this terrible business of my uncle’s death. The police seem unable to make head or tail of it, and Inspector Winter treats me as if I were an imbecile. When I mentioned to him that my uncle and I had a séance on the night he disappeared, the man was positively insulting. He asked me abruptly what ‘the dooce’ had that got to do with the business.”

  “You’ve heard that Inspector Heather of Scotland Yard is now in charge of the investigations?” asked Vereker.

  “I read it this morning in the West Suffolk Post. I hope he’s politer than his local colleague.”

  “He’s a great detective, Miss Thurlow, and a particular friend of mine. I’m sure you’ll find him very tactful even on the subject of your séance.”

  “I’m glad to hear it, because I’m certain that our séance is in some way connected with what followed.”

  “Will you try to explain how?” asked Vereker quietly.

  “It’s difficult to explain clearly, but I think there’s a connection in either of two ways. But first may I ask if you believe in spiritualism, Mr. Vereker?”

  “It’s a subject on which I must plead ignorance. I’ve not had sufficient first-hand experience to say I believe in it definitely. From my reading, I’m inclined to think that the spiritualist has, on the whole, proved the soundness of his claims. Further than that I can’t go.”

  “What I want to know is that you’re not obstinately certain that it’s all nonsense.”

  “I’m never obstinately certain about anything, Miss Thurlow,” replied Vereker smiling.

  “I’m glad. To resume; the séance may have had an indirect connection with my uncle’s disappearance. After I said good-night to him, he may have left the house by the window, in search of something arising out of the séance. He probably thought the music had some material origin and was determined to find out...”

  “Pardon my interrupting, but why did he leave by the window?” asked Vereker.

  “We can only surmise that he did. Raymer, one of my maids, said that when she went downstairs next morning, all the doors were closed and locked. The study light was still burning and the window wide open.”

  “Your uncle possessed a revolver?”

  “Oh yes, he always kept a loaded one in the top left-hand drawer of his writing desk in the study.”

  “Of course, it’s not unusual to have a fire-arm for protection, especially in a lonely house, but was there any special reason for the precaution? Was he afraid of someone? Had he any enemies?”

  “I’m not very sure on that point. He spent a portion of his early life in India. When quite a youngster, I once heard my parents discussing some trouble Uncle John got into out there. It had something to do with an Indian dancing girl, her husband who was murdered, and a temple of the goddess Kali. Not long ago I tried to get my uncle to tell me about it, because it sounded interesting, but he denied all knowledge of the story. For some days after I had revived the memory, he was in a very jumpy state of nerves. It struck me that he was afraid there might be
some sequel to that affair even after the lapse of all those years. Just about that time, too, the man Ephraim Noy came to live in Yarham and called on my uncle. My uncle, however, said he didn’t want to see him, and Noy went quietly away. I don’t know why Noy called, or why my uncle refused to see him, but I’ve an idea that he knew Noy long before the man came and settled down in Yarham. Shortly after that visit, my uncle bought a revolver and put it in the drawer of his desk. He showed me where it was, and told me that if anything happened in his absence from the house, say a burglary, I was to take the weapon for self-protection if necessary.”

  “Did he show by any of his actions that he was afraid of Noy?”

  “No. After the incident of his calling at Old Hall Farm, my uncle didn’t seem to worry any more about him. Once, when his name cropped up in conversation, he merely said Noy was an unscrupulous and ungrateful brute, and the subject was allowed to drop. About the other connection which our séance may have with my uncle’s tragedy, I find it very difficult to talk. But I’m going to mention it at the risk of your thinking me superstitious or of incurring your ridicule. If you’re a spiritualist, Mr. Vereker, you must, of course, believe in evil as well as good spirits. Men are evil and good and their spirit counterparts are similar. By some chance he may have got in touch with an evil and vindictive spirit.”

  “But you surely don’t think an evil spirit could kill a man, Miss Thurlow?” asked Vereker, amazed at this suggestion, and regarding his companion with sharply awakened curiosity.

  “Why not?” asked Miss Thurlow with unruffled calm. “At a séance I’ve seen a heavy table, weighing sixty pounds, turned over as if it had been a toy, the medium being a fragile woman of sixty years. Then there’s the Biblical example of the Gadarene swine. Spirits, like their human counterparts, may be irrational, insane, even murderous. As I’ve said, it’s difficult to discuss the subject with people who’ve no knowledge of spiritualism. They simply think you’re a candidate for Bedlam.”

  “Yes, I confess that’s the general attitude,” commented Vereker thoughtfully.

  “Now Mr. Orton of Church Farm is inclined to agree with me that there may be something in the theory of an evil spirit. He is, of course, a confirmed spiritualist. I’ve just called on him, and he says that Old Hall Farm has always been associated with evil spirits. All the villagers know it, and the older ones can recount very strange things that have happened there.

  “Don’t you think that it’s merely country superstition?”

  “No, certainly not. People who live isolated lives, like the East Anglian peasantry, are in much closer touch with this hidden world or whatever you like to call it. There’s a lubberfiend who plays all sorts of mischievous pranks at Mr. Orton’s farm. Mr. Orton used to have great difficulty in keeping his men till he gathered his present staff, who are not scared by such things, and accept them as part of the many inexplicable things of life.”

  “Have you known Mr. Orton long?” suddenly asked Vereker.

  “Ever since we came here. His farm belongs to my uncle’s estate.”

  “What kind of a man is he, Miss Thurlow?”

  “He’s not a typical countryman. He’s much better educated, has been abroad a good deal, and is very musical. He’s a good farmer and a shrewd hard-headed business man, but rather reserved on the whole, especially where villagers are concerned.”

  “You get along well with him?”

  “Oh yes. To put it bluntly, I think—I think he rather likes me,” replied Miss Thurlow, smiling and blushing informatively.

  ‘‘Was he on friendly terms with your uncle?”

  “On the best of terms. He often came round in the evening to see my uncle and have a chat with him.”

  “Now I’m going to put rather a pointed question to you, Miss Thurlow. If you think me rude, just say so. Are the relations between you and Mr. Orton anything more than mere friendship?” asked Vereker, and furtively watched his companion’s face to see the effect of his words.

  Miss Thurlow’s lips were suddenly compressed and then twitched as if she were suppressing a smile. A merry light stole into her large brown eyes and faded out as quickly.

  “Nothing more than friendship at present, Mr. Vereker. I feel sure Mr. Orton admires me. A woman can always tell when a man admires her, though she rarely admits it from fear of being thought conceited. I’ve admitted it frankly, because I feel sure you think you ought to know. As for my feelings, well, at first he faintly repelled me. Now I’m quite certain I find him—er—likeable.”

  “Thank you. Now I’ve got over that difficult fence, I feel relieved. To return to the subject of spirits; have you ever seen a spirit, ghost, call it what you will, about Old Hall Farm?”

  “No, but Miss Garford tells me that villagers have seen an apparition on several occasions on the road between Old Hall and the village.”

  “You’re referring to Miss Dawn Garford?” asked Vereker.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re very great friends, I hear?”

  “Not exactly. I’m friendly with her rather through force of circumstances. There are so few women in Yarham with whom I have anything in common. She’s bright and amusing, and I enjoy her company.”

  “She lives with her aunt in the village, I believe?”

  “Yes, when she’s in Yarham, but she spends a great part of the year roaming about the home counties in her small car. She seems to have numerous friends and is apparently very popular. I don’t see very much of her altogether.”

  “Your uncle was fond of her?”

  “You’re an encyclopaedia of village gossip, Mr. Vereker,” exclaimed Miss Thurlow with a laugh. “Well, Uncle John was always very gallant in a charming, old-fashioned way where a pretty woman was concerned. He may have been more serious than that with Dawn. People seemed to think so. I didn’t, but then he probably concealed his feelings from me. Besides, I’m not at all observant in such matters.”

  “Let us suppose his intentions were serious, Miss Thurlow. Would his marriage to Miss Garford have affected you greatly?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Uncle John had made me his sole heiress by his will. That would certainly have been altered if he had married.”

  “Would you have suffered considerably from a financial point of view?”

  At this remark, Miss Thurlow laughed heartily.

  “Is that a leading question, Mr. Vereker? If I answered yes, you’d begin to think it confirmed some suspicion in your mind that I might be interested in my uncle’s death.”

  ‘‘No, it’s not a leading question, and your surmise isn’t quite accurate,” replied Vereker, rather embarrassed by this direct and disarming thrust.

  “In any case, I’m not going to answer the question as you want me to, or shall I say, expect me to. If my uncle had married and altered his will, I shouldn’t have inherited the whole of his estate. I wouldn’t, however, have cared very much, because I’m a woman of very simple tastes. I’m not fashionable, I don’t dress expensively, I don’t travel, I can do without a car. I think I’ll surprise you when I say I could live in the greatest comfort in the country on two hundred a year. I have that now. Still, don’t get it into your head that I’m not fond of money. I certainly am.”

  “I apologize, Miss Thurlow. I didn’t think you were such a philosopher,” said Vereker with a genial smile, “but still my question had quite another aim in view than wringing such a confession from you.”

  “May I ask what you were driving at, Mr. Vereker?”

  “I shan’t tell you. A detective, like a conjurer, must keep his methods to himself. But about Miss Garford. How did she stand in relation to Mr. Clarry Martin?”

  “I’m not sure. It was a subject on which she was always extraordinarily reticent, though I tried to chaff her into telling me. I’m fairly certain Martin was very much in love with her, but I don’t think she was with him. There was something else other than love between them. They shared some secret, I feel sure. I can’t tell you w
hy I feel sure, but there’s a strain of the clairvoyant in me; I have confirmed that on many other occasions. Now, Mr. Vereker, if you’re a detective, here’s where there is a baffling little mystery for you. It has probably nothing to do with the case on which you’re engaged, but it might pay you to probe into it.”

  “It may be quite important. In any case I shall leave no stone unturned, Miss Thurlow,” replied Vereker, thankful for the information.

  By this time, they had reached the gates of Old Hall Farm, and as Vereker was apparently lost in his own speculations, the conversation languished while they walked up the gravel drive leading to the house. Anthony Vereker’s eyes, however, were busily occupied in looking about him. The old, fourteenth century building with its wide sweep of surrounding lawn, its broad herbaceous borders, bright with flowers all bathed in summer sunshine; the surrounding woodland, motionless in the breathless air; the trim walks and beautifully shorn hedges were all eloquent of sane living and affluent refinement, rather than suggestive of evil spirits, mysterious happenings, and a terrible tragedy. To Vereker there was always something intensely satisfying about this type of English country house, and as he was admiring its air of gentle well-being, he could not help coupling it with its recent owner, John Thurlow. Whatever might be said of the acquisitive characteristics of the financial or merchant type, that type was certainly sensitive to beauty. Or was it merely the following of a tradition, a sheep-like treading along the paths laid down by a finer and more cultured generation?