Chapter Eight
At eleven o’clock on the morning following Vereker’s interview with Mr. Ephraim Noy, Runnacles, the gardener at Old Hall Farm, called at the inn with a note from Miss Thurlow. In it she informed Vereker that she had definitely decided to go up to London for a few days. Prior to her departure, she would like to carry out the experimental séance which they had discussed together on their last meeting. Could he call that evening about eight o’clock, and if Inspector Heather were willing, would he bring that officer along with him.
Vereker, knowing Heather’s attitude to the subject of spiritualism, felt that it would be idle to discuss the invitation with him again, and had finally decided to go alone, when he suddenly heard a loud and familiar voice in the entrance hall of the inn below.
“Algernon, where the blazes are you? Come out from behind that arras!”
Recognizing Manuel Ricardo’s voice, Vereker at once rose from his chair and hurried downstairs to meet his friend.
“Hello, Ricky, this is most opportune!” he said. “You’re the very man I want. Come up to my room. I’ve got something important to discuss.”
“What a lovely old tavern, Algernon!” said Ricardo, glancing around him. “I suppose they drink nothing but sack here. What about a gallon or so to start with?”
“I’m just having a morning coffee. That’ll refresh you after your journey.”
“From sack to coffee’s a bit of a descent, but as I’m your guest, and we have the whole day before us...”
“Now, Ricky, I want you to be serious. There’s no time for fooling,” said Vereker as they entered his private sitting-room. “In the first place, what brought you down here in such a hurry?”
“In the first place, I’d nothing better to do. Also, an evening paper, reporting on the Yarham business yesterday, labelled it ‘The Spirit Murder Mystery.’ A lovely headline that! I promptly read the report and found that spiritualism came into it. You know that I’m writing up my many and varied experiences on the subject, and I thought I’d gather my brightest chapter down here.”
“Excellent! We’re going to attend a little séance together to-night at Old Hall Farm. Have you read up the case?”
“I’ve read all that’s been divulged. Besides, I had a long chat with the landlord immediately I arrived. He served me up the story of the murder with my beer, as if it were part of the hospitality of ‘The Walnut Tree.’ I’ve got the hang of things in a general way, and I’m eager to assist in the unravelling.”
“Knowing your interest in the occult, I thought you’d turn up sooner or later. Of course, you’re a firm believer in spirit manifestation?”
“Look here, Algernon, there’s no necessity to go into all that with me at this date in history. I’ve attended innumerable séances. I’ve seen spirit forms materialize, I’ve heard direct voice manifestations, I’ve touched ectoplasm, I’ve been present when wax moulds were taken of a spirit’s hands... we’ll take all that as read. But what earthly connection has it with this wretched crime?”
“I’m glad you’re serious about the subject, Ricky,” said Vereker gravely. “Your experience in these matters ought to be helpful. As for the connection between spiritualism and this case, we’ve got to find that out. That it has some connection, either direct or indirect, I’m almost certain. On the very evening of Thurlow’s disappearance, he and his niece had an experimental séance. They both heard the sounds of organ music in Thurlow’s study at Old Hall Farm. There is, up to the present, apparently no material explanation of the phenomenon. We’re going to try and revive that phenomenon to-night. You and Miss Thurlow and myself. You’re not easily deceived in such matters and you’ve your experience to back you up. If we’re fortunate, we may learn something vital. I want you to be absolutely on the qui vive for any kind of fraud. Not that I think Miss Thurlow would stoop to trickery for one moment, but she, in turn, may be the victim of some kind of bunk.”
“This sounds promising, Algernon. None of your miserable cases has interested me so deeply before. Old Heather will be breathing fire like a dragon, I’ll bet.”
“Rather! He set aside the séance as wholly irrelevant. Then, in the midst of his ferreting, the subject of spirits turned up again as if to rattle him.”
“How?”
“A piece of paper, evidently a portion of a note, was found on Martin’s body. I’ve got a copy of that fragment. Tell me what you think of it,” replied Vereker, producing from his pocket the copy referred to and handing it to his friend.
Ricardo glanced at the sketch and read aloud to himself: “‘Dear Clarr... the spirit taps... soap box broken...’”
“‘Clarr’ refers to Clarry Martin, I presume?” he asked.
“Yes, Clarry is the man’s Christian name. It may be a version of Clarence, but I don’t know.”
“Of course, rapping sounds are one of the commonest of occurrences at stances,” continued Ricardo. “Most manifestations are prefaced by these curious raps, sometimes on the table, but frequently from all parts of the séance chamber. The thing’s as old as the hills. I daresay the Witch of Endor often called them forth, though she seems to have been a direct voice medium.”
“The writer calls it taps, but I suppose it’s the same thing,” commented Vereker.
“Undoubtedly, but I can’t for the life of me guess what’s hidden in the soap box,” continued Ricardo.
“No, nor can I at the moment, unless it’s soap. Possibly it was one of the properties used in the demonstration, but that little conundrum can wait. It may have nothing to do with our case.”
For some minutes Vereker was lost in thought, and then his eyes suddenly lit up as if he had struck on some new and illuminating train of speculation.
“Now, Algernon, you’ve been on the scene of action from the beginning. Give me some idea of what you think has happened. Do you think the two men killed one another?” asked Ricardo, breaking the silence.
“No, that seems an impossibility, and Heather, too, has dismissed the theory as untenable. The iron bar with which Martin apparently killed Thurlow, hasn’t a single finger print on it. The doctor thinks the bullet wound in Martin’s shoulder was inflicted after death. There were no signs of a struggle at Cobbler’s Corner. A man called Noy, who lives in a bungalow close to the spot where he found the bodies, told me that he heard and saw a motor car at that spot at about eleven o’clock the night before.”
“I take you, Algernon. You’ve figured it out that the bodies were planted there, so to speak.”
“I do, and that it’s possibly a double murder, committed somewhere else. I don’t know Heather’s findings, but I daresay he has tumbled to this too. The fight theory won’t hold water.”
“In any case, you must keep Heather in the dark, or he’ll be first past the winning post, Algernon. Good job I’m not his rival. I’d fake false clues for his utter confusion, even at the risk of imprisonment for obstructing the police in the execution of their duties.”
“I think I’ll score this time, Ricky,” replied Vereker with unmistakable eagerness. “If I win, that puts me one point ahead. But you’ve got to help me as you’ve done before. Heather naturally has an army of assistants and experts at his beck and call. You’re the only helper I’ve got. We don’t start fair, so to speak.
“Tell me if you’re going to cry about it, Algernon, and I’ll lend you my handky. You ought to know by now that his Boeotian myrmidons are no match for my brilliant wits. We’ll leave the whole bunch of pachyderms panting in the rear,” assured Ricardo with jocular confidence.
The conversation then reverted to the subject of spiritualism, on which Ricardo was well informed. The morning passed swiftly as he deftly traced out for Vereker’s information the history of the movement from its disconnected beginnings to its present day world-wide ramifications. Interested as Vereker had been in the subject, his knowledge of it was fragmentary, and centred chiefly on the records of specific mediums who had, at various times, become notor
ious through “exposures.” As Ricardo, with the eagerness of the enthusiast, described to him the work of Dr. Chiaia, of Professors Lombroso, Morselli and Porro in Italy; of Professor Butlerof in Russia; of Professor Richet and Dr. Geley in France; of Professor Zöllner at Leipzig; of Dr. Alfred Russell Wallace, Sir William Crookes, Sir Oliver Lodge and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle in England, he grew more and more interested, and began to look forward to the proposed séance at Old Hall Farm with increasing ardour and a more tolerant outlook.
After lunch, Ricardo, left to his own devices, decided to visit Yarham Church, a flint and stone building in the Perpendicular style, famous for its painted central roof and carved oak benches with their quaint poppy heads. He had hardly left the inn, when Inspector Heather returned and at once sought out Vereker.
“Well, Mr. Vereker, I see your assistant has arrived. What errand have you sent him on?” he asked.
“None. To start with, he has gone to admire church architecture.”
“I thought feminine architecture was more in his line. He’s an amusing cuss. I never know whether he’s joking or serious. Got any facts since I saw you last?”
“One or two, but you’re the fact merchant. Now spill the beans.”
“I’ve been getting a little information from Mr. Thurlow’s solicitors. I’ve seen a draft of the gentleman’s will, which will be proved shortly.”
“You’re on the money-motive hunt. Is there anything you can tell me without prejudicing your chances in our little game?”
“I may as well let you know, because there’s nothing to hide, and I mustn’t be too hard on a mere amateur. By the terms of his will, he left ten thousand pounds to Miss Dawn Garford, nice little legacies to the maid-servants, if still in his employ, a pension of two pounds a week to Runnacles, and the residue to his niece, Miss Eileen.”
“Was he a wealthy man?”
“Simply lousy with money. His estate, when published, will come as a thumping surprise to all his friends and acquaintances. He was known to be comfortably off, but he was secretive about money matters. He was always pleading poverty, in the way a virtuous man pretends to be a frightful devil. Altogether, his property runs into nearly half a million. A very large portion of it is in American securities.”
“So the money-motive gives you Miss Thurlow as the principal suspect, Miss Garford as the second, Runnacles as the third, and the servants as ‘also ran.’ Nothing very startling about that will, Heather. What’s your opinion?”
“It certainly doesn’t tell us much so far.”
“Unless you’re still convinced that Runnacles could bump off his boss for a pension of two pounds a week.”
“Now you’ve mentioned Runnacles, I’ve placed him since I saw you last. Rum fellow this gardener; he has done time.”
“Many people have done that without qualifying for the hangman’s rope. To revive an old joke, was it for pinching chrysanthemums?”
“In his younger days he was fond of poaching. As a sport it’s quite exciting, and I’ve a weak spot for poachers. But it generally winds up in a row with keepers. Runnacles got his term for a very savage attack on a keeper, near Thetford on the Norfolk border.”
“That’s a bad reflection on his sportsmanship. He couldn’t stand being licked at the game. What was he doing on the night of Thurlow’s disappearance, Heather?”
“His wife says he was at home all that evening and the next.”
“Of course, a man who resorts to violence once is generally capable of doing it again. How did he get on with Thurlow, his employer?”
“Very badly for some time now. Last year, he was found out in some petty business of disposing of his boss’s fruit to a local greengrocer, and Thurlow warned him that a repetition meant the sack. He has never been the same man since. I think he has been brooding over it, wondering whether he had been cut out of Thurlow’s will. He knew he was to benefit, and it’s a stupid thing to let anyone know you’ve left him money. It’s putting temptation in his way.”
“I feel that the case against Runnacles is a bit thin, Heather. Anything more sinister that you’re keeping back?”
“I haven’t dismissed Runnacles altogether, because there seems no definite line to take in this business at present.”
“You’ve definitely chucked the idea that Thurlow and Martin fought and killed one another?”
“I never entertained it. Circumstances put that out of court at once. And yet it’s not a robbery murder. Thurlow and Martin both had their watches and money intact. It’s a murder for revenge, or they were killed to stop their mouths. I’m rather inclined to the latter view myself.”
“You’re going to trace the iron bar to its rightful owner, of course?” asked Vereker.
“I don’t think. Lord bless us, Mr. Vereker, every farmer round here has one of these tools, and there are dozens of them in the cottages of Yarham. There’s nothing distinctive about such an instrument; no maker’s name even. The village smith has made hundreds in his time, and couldn’t identify any for certain as his handiwork.”
“I was afraid it was useless without a finger print. The man who wielded that bar was hardly a yokel. It’s not likely that a yokel would have thought of finger prints as a dangerous legacy to leave on a fold-drift.”
“That’s a good pointer in a general way, but what with thrillers and crime films, it’s dangerous to attach too much weight to it. The present generation knows more about finger prints than it does about philosophy. It shows clearly, however, that there’s a bit of theatrical fake somewhere. Someone wiped that fold-drift, I should say.”
“By the way, have you questioned Mr. Ephraim Noy, Heather?” asked Vereker after a pause in the conversation.
“Yes,” replied Heather, “and he gave me the same bit of important information that he gave you.”
“Ah, you’ve made that startling discovery!” replied Vereker with a smile.
“I don’t know so much about a startling discovery. The man’s a bluffer. What did you make of him and his yarn about that motor car?”
“I’m a bit puzzled about Ephraim Noy. The car story lends itself to the theory that the bodies were planted. We’ve both settled that point to our satisfaction. On the other hand, Ephraim may be a subtle strategist. He may be trying to hide his own participation in this business, for all we know. It would be a daring and clever bit of bluff, and I think he’s capable of it.”
“I, too, jumped to that, and I’m going to rake into his past history. He has been in America, I know, which reminds me that Thurlow’s solicitor put me on another suggestive line. Thurlow has had large American business dealings, or to be more precise, has had a hand in some big Wall Street gambles. ‘The game of stock gambling breeds undying hatreds, gives birth to implacable enemies.’ Those were his solicitor’s words, and he hinted that possibly someone, crazed with the loss of his dough, had come and bumped off the man he blamed for his ruin. I don’t know exactly what it means, but it had something to do with ‘stock washing.’”
“This solicitor’s a bit too dramatic for me, Heather. If I see that this case is going to widen till it swallows the continent of America, I’ll fling up the sponge and leave you to the job. Of course, it’s feasible that murder can spring out of stock gambling, but I’m almost certain that it didn’t on this occasion. Any other clue? that you’ve picked up?”
“Some threads of rope fibre adhering to Martin’s clothes. They’ve gone to be examined by one of our experts. They may, by some odd chance, tell us something worth knowing about the rope with which Martin was evidently bound before his death. One never knows!”
“This detection’s developing into a dull business, Heather. It becomes more and more like exercises in simple addition. Science is knocking all the imagination out of it. Little bit of rope, plus finger prints, plus marks on bullet, plus a spot of blood belonging to a certain blood group; sum total, the gallows! But now you’ve mentioned the man Martin, tell me, have you found out anything about his actions p
revious to his disappearance? He was seen speaking to Mobbs, the baker, outside this inn, that evening. You’ve questioned Mobbs, I presume?”
“I have.”
“Did he know where Martin was going? He was carrying an attaché case, and that looks as if he were bent on business.”
“Yes, but the inquiry didn’t prove very profitable, Mobbs said Martin was going to see Arthur Orton at Church Farm. Orton had bought a new motor lorry through Martin, and something had gone wrong with the rear axle. Martin was going to have a look at it and was carrying tools in his attaché case.”
“What time was this?”
“Just after ten, when ‘The Walnut Tree’ closed.”
“That’s one bright fact. Did he see Orton?”
“Yes, and put the defect in the rear axle right something simple about lubrication, I believe. Having finished his job, he had a drop of whisky with Orton and his housekeeper, said good-night and vanished into the blue.”
“No one else saw him after that?”
“Not that I can discover, but I’m making further inquiries.”
“By the way, Church Farm’s a good mile from the village, isn’t it?”
“More than that, nearly two,” replied Heather listlessly.
The Spirit Murder Mystery Page 10
