At this moment, Vereker tried to catch the inspector’s eye, but Heather seemed all at once to be lost in a brown study.
“Have you made a deep study of that barleycorn, Mr. Vereker?” he asked at length with a smile. “Has it spoken and hiccupped the whole show away?”
“When you begin to be funny, Heather, I know you’re trying to side-track me. I’ve been very interested in that barleycorn. I’ve examined it carefully under a magnifying glass, and it’s a very characteristic barleycorn, but since you’re inclined to be facetious about my bit of orthodox detection, I’m not going to tell you what I’ve discovered.”
“There’s only one use for barleycorns and that’s beer!” exclaimed Heather with one of his explosive laughs.
“What about barley water for infants and invalids?” asked Vereker.
“I’m not an infant, and I’ve never been an invalid so I can’t speak with authority,” replied Heather, and after some desultory conversation, sought the seclusion of his own room to “think things out.”
For some time, Vereker sat in his easy chair, reviewing all that he had learned about “The Spirit Murder Mystery,” as the daily Press had now labelled the case. The more he pondered on it, the more baffling and elusive the whole affair seemed. Up to the moment, there were no salient points on which he could hang tentative theories, and he could see that Heather was experiencing a similar difficulty in his more orthodox methods. Martin and Thurlow had both disappeared mysteriously, and of what had happened to them between the times of their vanishing and the discovery of their dead bodies, very little had so far been learned. There was an exasperating lack of witnesses, witnesses who might have been able to fill up this destructive gap in the time table of investigation. The difficulty arose partly from the locality in which the tragedy had occurred. The population was sparse, and by nightfall most of the villagers were in their cottages. Before ten o’clock nearly everyone was in bed, except the dozen or so men who frequented the village inn. Even the latter were only abroad in full force on a Saturday night. Against this drawback was the factor that the countryman is an acute observer. Nothing in the shape of human activity escapes his inquisitive eye, and had anyone encountered either Thurlow or Martin, even in the dark, after he had been reported missing, the incident would have been mentally registered.
This absence of material on which to work was depressing, and Vereker felt that little good could come from further speculation. Rising from his chair, he glanced at his watch and descended to the bar parlour of the inn. He found this room, with its spotless deal table and benches, its uneven brick floor, its oak mantelpiece with loudly ticking clock, its chintz curtained windows looking on to an old-time flower garden, a peculiarly attractive room. At the moment it was deserted, except for a grey-haired but burly looking villager in a loose jacket, breeches and gaiters, and heavy boots. His waistcoat was open, except for the two top buttons, and disclosed that he wore a broad leather belt as well as braces. His shirt was certainly not immaculate; his throat seemed restricted by an old and disreputable silk scarf; and his cap had been dragged into a quaint and distinctive irregularity by its owner’s forceful method of pulling it firmly on to his rather massive head. He had been sitting smoking a pungent smelling shag in that ruminative placidity which is characteristic of his class when at ease, but on Vereker’s entry, he lost some of his detachment, and commented on the weather as he measured up the newcomer with a swift, comprehensive glance. Vereker made an obvious remark about the loveliness of the day with an excellently simulated heartiness, and added that the warmth created a generous thirst. The villager, thereupon, emptied his pint mug and replaced it noisily on the table. Whether this action was a frank hint or entirely unpremeditated, Vereker was at a loss to guess, but he at once suggested that the stranger should allow his mug to be replenished. The invitation was accepted without undue alacrity, and after Benjamin Easy had left the room, Vereker soon found that the stranger was eager to talk.
He commenced on the subject of beer, of its present inferior quality and high price, of past and better brews, and from that swung round, after some divagation, to the topic of poaching. Having, with unerring intuition, made sure of the possible outlook of his companion on the morality of poaching (the term “stealing game” is not permissible), he admitted that he had been an inveterate poacher all his life, and on learning that Vereker was connected with the Press began to expand generously. A “writer bloke” had already published a book on some of his exploits, but by some error of judgment, had only “put down” the tamest of them, and so forth. It was during this phase of their conversation, that Vereker, prompted by an association of ideas, suddenly asked:
“Do you know a man called Runnacles in the village?”
“Known him all my life.”
“What sort of a man is he?”
“Toughish sort of chap, is Jim Runnacles. As clever a poacher as the next one, but you can’t trust him. He’d shop his best pal, if it was going to pay him to do it. And when you see him next, ask him if he knows Barney Deeks, that’s me.”
Barney Deeks winked, and by a subtle grimace informed Vereker in a general way that, at some time or other in the past, things had happened which would certainly prevent Jim Runnacles forgetting him. It did not take Vereker long to find out that Barney and Jim had been deadly enemies for many years, and the story of Runnacles’ attack on the gamekeeper was retailed with added detail, much to Runnacles’ dishonour as a poacher. Then came a piece of unexpected information, which showed Vereker that, in the art of sleuthing, time apparently wasted is often well spent. Barney Deeks had heard that the police had been inquiring about Jim Runnacles’ movements on the night that John Thurlow was murdered.
“He told the cop he had been at home all evening,” remarked Deeks with surprising vindictiveness. “His missus backed him up. It’s all a damned lie. I saw him on the road above Cobbler’s Corner, about eleven o’clock that very night. If I was a dirty tyke like Jim Runnacles, I’d go round and split on him, but that kind of thing’s not in my line.”
“But why should the police want to know about Runnacles’ movements?” asked Vereker.
“That’s more’n I can tell you, sir,” replied Deeks, as if the subject was beyond his depth and interest.
At this moment Ben Easy appeared at the door of the bar parlour, glanced at his watch, and fixed his eye ostentatiously on the clock. It was closing time, and, drinking up his beer, Deeks bade Vereker good afternoon and took his departure.
“This discrepancy in the gardener’s story ought to wake old Heather up!” said Vereker to himself, and retired to his own sitting-room.
About an hour later, he heard footsteps hurrying up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time, and next moment, Ricardo noisily entered the room.
“Well, Ricky,” said Vereker, turning to him, “had a good look at Yarham Church?”
“Most interesting hour I’ve spent for a long time. After examining the church’s exterior, I cast an inquiring eye at some of the oldest gravestones. Doesn’t sound a hectic sort of pastime for a summer’s day, but it’s a thrilling change from the cinema, and the shade of those primeval yews is delightfully cooling. I took a seat, well out of view of any chance visitor, on one of those old tombs that look like sarcophagi. It was perhaps rather disrespectful to the occupant, but time can play two diametrically opposed tricks; it can create reverence, and it can equally well banish it. I was getting into a sort of Gray’s Elegy atmosphere, when I heard a most musical feminine voice on the other side of the dense yew behind me. The voice was jabbering volubly to a male companion who seemed to be sparing of his words. And what d’you think was the topic of her conversation Algernon?”
“The Absolute,” suggested Vereker.
“No, Sir Anthony,” replied Ricardo with a smile; “it verged on the dissolute. She was talking about night clubs and road houses. I don’t think I’d have troubled to listen, only she mentioned Poppy Knatchbull, who runs the Blue
Bottle Club in London, so dangerously and profitably. Now, there’s only one Poppy Knatchbull, so I pricked up my ears. At this point, she dropped her voice to a whisper—and I was horribly disappointed. I learned nothing more of Poppy. On resuming in her normal tones, she mentioned three road houses very well known to me, and I became intensely interested in the speaker. Now what has this Arcadian Phyllis to do with road houses and night clubs? She’d shine there by contrast, but there’s something more than that behind it.”
“Your knowledge of road houses seems extensive and intimate, Ricky,” remarked Vereker.
“It dashed well ought to be. Three or four years ago I wrote up some lurid stuff on road houses for the Daily Report. A job entirely suited to my temperament! The illicit pleasures of mankind interested me at the time more than their upward march towards—er—shall we say, civilization? Scotland Yard’s war on the night life of London had driven the gay night-lifers into the more tolerant air of the country. Gambling, all-night drinking, bridge with high stakes, poker, roulette, dancing with pretty, young ‘dance hostesses,’ and so forth, were and are the attractions secretly provided by ye olde hostelries.”
“I can’t understand your interest in that raffish life, Ricky,” ventured Vereker.
“My dear Algernon, I was a special correspondent of the Daily Report. It was my work, and I had to serve it hot with mustard sauce. As a journalist, I have to look at man in the round and leave reformers to think of him in the flat. Besides, I was spending my employers’ money lavishly!”
“Let it pass as a virtuous defence and proceed, Ricky.”
“In any case, the exodus from London was, in some ways, an improvement. It knocked the cheap and sordid element out of the picture. The good old country inns, tucked away off the main roads, have profited. The questionable proprietors of London’s dens have been supplanted by sturdier, if not honester, hosts. The surroundings are genuinely antique and the air fit to breathe, the liquor, good and the food, generally excellent. Lastly, only people with means and motor cars can get out to these places of jolly entertainment.”
“What has money to do with the moral side of the issue?” asked Vereker, gravely.
“Good Lord, Algernon, the authorities must safeguard the poor! That’s why a betting slip in the street is vice and a telephone message from a swagger club, virtue. But to return to my subject. I became devilishly interested in this butterfly among the tombs and rose from my seat so that I could skirmish round and get a look at her. At that moment, an accident happened. I sneezed in spite of a painful effort at hush-hush. I believe it’s a world-wide custom to say ‘God bless you!’ when a person sneezes. The lady exclaimed: ‘Well, I’m damned!’ and next moment came round the yew with the lightness of a gazelle. By this time I was busy trying to read the inscription on the sarcophagus. Seeing she was eager to find out who I was, I turned my back gracefully on her. She took the hint and vanished. After she had given some instructions to her male companion, I saw her tripping away down the gravel path to the gate.”
“What was she like?” asked Vereker with roused curiosity.
“Venus Epistrophia. I cursed myself bitterly for having turned my back on her. As she reached the gate, she turned and called back to her companion, ‘Don’t forget. At the “Fox” next Monday!’ The male replied: ‘Right-ho, Dawn!’ and a few minutes later, I heard her car purring away into the wilderness. My brief glimpse or her face told me she was my kind of pet.”
“So her name was Dawn,” commented Vereker excitedly.
“By jove, Algernon, I hadn’t thought of that. Dawn, eh? It suited her; she was Aurora!”
“What about her companion?”
“I’m coming to him. After yodelling round a bit, I saw him enter the church and followed. We got into conversation. He saw me gazing with rapture at the saints in a stained-glass window, while my earthly thoughts were following that vanished motor car with the seraph inside it. He discoursed at length on the history of the church, and, noticing that I was a bit absent, asked; ‘Am I boring you?’ When a man asks if he’s boring you, he generally knows that he damned well is, but I professed complete absorption in his quatsch, as the Germans call it. Good word that, quatsch! Before long, however, he came to the piece de résistance of his lecture. It was a crypt, or underground vault, which the rector, the Rev. William Sturgeon, is exploring. My companion, who seemed upset by the rector’s activities, informed me that Sturgeon was a queer old fish. ‘Definitely so, I should say,’ was my reply, but his sense of humour soared above it, and he went on to say that Sturgeon had got it into his stupid old Suffolk head that King John’s treasure was buried somewhere in an underground passage, leading away from that crypt. I suggested that the Wash was the place for a Sturgeon to hunt for King John’s treasure, but again he overlooked my point with annihilating calm.”
“Perhaps he has a keen sense of the ridiculous,” suggested Vereker quietly.
“I began to suspect it, so I shut up.”
“How far has the padre got with his excavations?” asked Vereker, after a pause.
“He has partially knocked down the thick brick wall plugging the entrance to the magic tunnel, and had screened off his untidy work with a heavy curtain.”
“Who was the man you were talking to?” asked Vereker eagerly.
“The verger, who appeared in the last scene of the drama, called him ‘Mr. Orton,’ and he’s evidently one of the church council.”
“I’ve heard a lot about him. He’s a farmer in the district and was a friend of old John Thurlow. What did you make of him, Ricky?”
“Didn’t strike me as a farmer. I put him down as a rather cultured man with a pedagogic complex. I may be wrong. He dogmatized under cover of the expression, ‘of course, that’s only my opinion.’ We gradually drifted into an argument about modern music. I finally shut him up by saying that every man was entitled to his opinion, but that a kind deity ought to prevent some people from expressing theirs. He then got heavily sarcastic about the impertinence of the rising generation and left me to the mercy of the verger. The verger was more interesting. From him I got a long account of some obscure stomach trouble that ailed him. It appears that he has tried every known remedy, from hot water bottles to linseed poultices, to banish his pains. After much experimentation, he has found that mild and bitter ‘do ease ’em best.’ I parted with largesse for conversion into his pet anodyne and sauntered back to ‘The Old Walnut Tree.’”
Chapter Nine
Punctually at eight o’clock the same evening, Vereker and Ricardo arrived at Old Hall Farm, and were shown into John Thurlow’s study, where Eileen Thurlow sat reading. She rose and greeted her visitors, and, a few minutes later, all three were talking with the ease that comes of sympathy and understanding. Eileen Thurlow at once broached the subject of police investigations into the tragedy of her uncle’s death. It was a subject that Vereker had wished particularly to avoid in order to spare his hostess’s feelings, but intuitively guessing the reason for his compunction, she had at once assured him that death, to one of her faith, was merely a passing over from one soul state to another without complete severance of communication. She declared that such a conviction was an intense solace to the grief attendant on the loss of a dear relative. Under this encouragement, Vereker briefly narrated all that had so far been discovered, which was a bald précis of Inspector Heather’s investigation. Of his own secret work, he said nothing.
Turning to Ricardo, Miss Thurlow then led the talk on to spiritualism, and soon she and Manuel were involved in an eager exchange of their experiences. Under the warmth of a common enthusiasm, they quickly threw off that reserve which accompanies the meeting of strangers, and were soon laughing and chatting like old friends. Vereker, now silent but observant, sat listening to them with a sensation of being a spectator, unable wholly to share their understanding. He noticed, too, that they spoke of the various manifestations incidental to spiritualistic stances with the complete acceptance of belief. He,
himself, could never approach the subject without the introduction of the word “evidential,” a clear admission of the existence in his mind of doubts that required stilling, of questions that demanded answers. The spectacle of these two disciples discussing their common belief set him musing. He was soon mentally remote from their conversation, lost in a maze of wonder at the psychological aspects of belief. What gave rise to this static pose in the process of thought, this complete satisfaction that the mind has found truth? He asked himself the question. His mind reverted to the subject of early teaching, of instruction given with complete assurance, and thence wandered away to Dr. Pavlov and his experiments on dogs. Stimuli and reflexes!
The light of the summer evening faded and shadows stole into the dark, wainscoted room.
“I think we ought to try out our little experiment now, don’t you, Mr. Vereker?” suddenly came the question from Miss Thurlow.
“Yes, certainly. I’m quite ready,” replied Vereker, almost with a start, so abrupt had been the arrest of his wandering wits.
“You were miles away, Mr. Vereker,” commented Miss Thurlow, and turning to Ricardo, added: “I don’t pose as a fully fledged medium, Mr. Ricardo, so don’t be surprised if we fail to get results. I think I’m what is generally called a sensitive, and I hope to improve my gift with practice and experience. I’m convinced, however, that my uncle and I had a spirit manifestation in this room on the night of his disappearance, and I’m sure Mr. Vereker’s a bit sceptical about it. I hope it’ll happen again just to remove his doubts. I really believe this old house is visited by its past owners.”
“The manifestation was a musical one, I believe,” remarked Ricardo with such gravity that Vereker had some difficulty in suppressing a smile.
‘‘Yes, we both heard an organ playing very faintly but quite distinctly, and my uncle stepped out into the garden to make sure that it was not the church organ we could hear. We have no wireless and no gramophone in the house. To make doubly sure, I asked the organist next day if he had been practising and found that he had not been near the church.”
The Spirit Murder Mystery Page 11
