“And there’s not another house within a mile of Old Hall Farm,” concluded Vereker.
“Now I propose we just sit as we are, and I’ll try to go off into a trance state. I managed it perfectly on the last occasion and think I’ll be successful to-night,” said Miss Thurlow, and asked: “Are you both ready?”
Vereker and Ricardo assented, and Miss Thurlow, lying back in her chair, composed herself as if about to sleep. For about a quarter of an hour there was absolute stillness in the room, except for the soft ticking of a clock on the mantelpiece. Gradually the light outside waned and the room was filled with mysterious shadows. Ricardo sat calm and expectant: for him, a séance was not a new experience, and he accepted it in the matter-of-fact frame of mind which is usual with confirmed spiritualists at a sitting. To Vereker however, the whole occasion was fraught with an irritating sense of the abnormal. Something in his mental make-up suggested that, on his part, any participation in a séance arose from sheer curiosity, the desire to witness a wonder, rather than from any eagerness to come in touch with that mystery to which human death is the portal. And always there hung in his mind a vague mist of doubt which he had so far found impossible altogether to dispel.
All at once his attention was attracted by Miss Thurlow’s distressed breathing. Even in the dusk, he saw her frame quiver with sharp muscular paroxysms, and then her breathing became deep and loud. She had evidently passed into a state of trance.
“I feel a cool breeze blowing through the room,” remarked Ricardo, breaking the oppressive silence.
Vereker almost immediately thought he experienced the same sensation and glanced at the windows and doors. They were all closed.
“So do I,” he replied. “What does it signify, Ricky?”
“It’s a common occurrence at séances, and has been taken as a sign that the other side is trying to get in touch with us.”
Vereker said no more, but immediately began to wonder whether he had accepted Ricardo’s suggestion of that cool breeze as a fact. He was lost in thought about the vagaries of the human mind under the power of suggestion, when a small table in the centre of the room and close to Miss Thurlow, creaked as if subjected to some strong lateral pressure. Almost immediately afterwards, it gave out the sound of a sharp rap and this rap was followed by definite loud raps from various parts of the wainscoted walls.
“Amazing!” exclaimed Vereker, impressed in spite of himself by this strange but indisputable occurrence.
“An excellent beginning,” agreed Ricardo quietly, and he had hardly uttered the words, when the small table near Miss Thurlow moved and then toppled over with a crash.
“Good lord!” exclaimed Vereker. “What’s happened?”
“It’s all right, don’t move, Algernon. The medium is gathering power,” adjured Ricardo.
Vereker relapsed into silence, and for the next ten minutes neither spoke. He was now experiencing a feeling of awe and could have affirmed emphatically that something soft and smooth touched his cheek and then the back of his right hand. No further manifestation occurred, however, and as they sat patiently waiting, they heard Miss Thurlow’s heavy breathing slowly grow lighter and lighter till it returned to normal. At length, with a sigh, she raised herself to an upright sitting posture in her chair and was awake.
“Did you hear the music?” she asked immediately.
“No,” replied Ricardo, ‘‘but there was an excellent beginning of spirit rapping. With practice you’d be able to secure messages by the alphabetical method. In any case, you mustn’t be disheartened at this early stage, Miss Thurlow. You’re undoubtedly a psychic and must persevere. Of course, you were quite unconscious of what was happening?”
“Utterly unconscious,” replied Miss Thurlow, and reaching out her hand, switched on the electric light.
Rising from his chair, Vereker crossed the room and lifting up the occasional table that had fallen with a crash, set it upright on its feet. His inquisitive eye swept the floor in the vicinity of that table, and his hands swiftly passed over its polished surface in uneasy exploration. At the back of his thoughts hovered a disturbing scepticism.
“Good job there was no valuable china on it, Miss Thurlow,” he said as if to cover his bewilderment, “or you would have had to put in a claim for damages against your spirit control.”
“I didn’t know the table had been upset,” said Miss Thurlow with genuine surprise. “This is certainly a definite beginning!”
The words were spoken with a rising inflection of delight, and Vereker, his eyes riveted on her face, saw that she spoke with utter sincerity or complete self- deception. He was more disturbed than he would have cared to admit and felt that here he was possibly on the borderland of some new and strange world; that he had touched the fringe of some natural fact or occult human power, hitherto undreamt of by him.
An eager discussion of the incidents of the séance followed and gradually exhausted itself. Miss Thurlow once more expressed her regret that the strange music she herself had heard on former occasions had not recurred and proposed that, when she returned from her visit to London, they should make further experiments to recapture the phenomenon. To this, Ricardo and Vereker willingly agreed.
“When do you propose to leave Yarham, Miss Thurlow?” asked Vereker.
“To-morrow afternoon, and I hope you’ve not forgotten your promise to come and stay here while I’m away.”
“No. I shall move in to-morrow, if it’s convenient.”
“And I hope you’ll come with your friend,” she added, turning to Manuel Ricardo.
“I’d love to, Miss Thurlow,” agreed Ricardo, and added gravely, “but I must make one proviso.”
“And what’s that?” asked Miss Thurlow with surprise.
“That you leave the key of the wine cellar in my charge.”
“Ah, I’m glad you reminded me,” replied Miss Thurlow with a laugh. “There are some beautiful wines in that cellar. My uncle was a great connoisseur, though on the whole very abstemious. I’ll leave the key with you, Mr. Ricardo, and I hope you’ll see that Mr. Vereker doesn’t take too much of a good thing.”
“That would be impossible in my company,” replied Ricardo. “He’ll have to be clever to get his fair share.”
After making further arrangements to take up their residence at Old Hall Farm during Miss Thurlow’s absence and thanking her for her hospitality, Vereker and Ricardo bade their hostess good-night and set out for the inn.
For some minutes they paced in step along the road without speaking.
“Well, Algernon, what do you think of it?” asked Ricardo at length.
“Frankly, I don’t know what to think, Ricky,” said Vereker, and asked: ‘‘Do you honestly believe that Miss Thurlow didn’t knock over that occasional table?”
“My dear Algernon, this is almost blasphemous! Cynic, pagan, unbeliever! How dare you talk like that about an angel? If we were armed with swords, I should ask you to draw and defend yourself. Even if she’d deliberately kicked it over, I’d never admit it. Remember that she’s stunningly beautiful and is going to leave the wine cellar key in my charge!”
“You’re burking the question, Ricky. Be serious.”
“Well, Algernon, who can say? I didn’t see her kick it over,” replied Ricardo. “She was certainly near it, but if she’d touched it, we’d both have been fairly certain about it.”
“Then how do you explain the thing?”
“Well, some mediums have the power to move objects at a distance from them. The power is called telekinesis. At least, that’s an attempt at a rational explanation, but don’t expect any bright expositions from me. I can’t give them. I’ve seen things that are apparently beyond rational explanation—or rather, they left me guessing feebly.”
“Ah well, to-morrow I’m going to have a jolly good look at that occasional table and I’m going to explore Old Hall Farm thoroughly while we’re there. I’m disappointed that we missed an organ recital by some departed musi
cian, aren’t you?”
“Rotten luck, I call it. I’ve heard zithers and banjos twanged, and a few accordion notes played, but never an organ. It would be stupendous, and I’m certain Miss Thurlow didn’t imagine it.”
“In your instances the musical instruments were present in the room, weren’t they?” asked Vereker sharply.
“Certainly,” replied Ricardo.
“But there’s no organ within a mile of Old Hall Farm. This requires some explanation other than telekinesis.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” remarked Ricardo, “but then it’s somewhat on a par with the production of three or more different voices in the séance chamber by what is called a direct voice medium.”
“That organ gets my goat!” suddenly exclaimed Vereker.
“I’m glad I don’t keep a goat,” said Ricardo gaily, as he lit a cigarette. “But why should an organ worry you? Would it upset you to hear a spirit yiddle on a fiddle?”
“I wouldn’t object to Paganini or Spohr, but that’s beside the question,” mused Vereker in a calmer tone. “I’m afraid we’ve wasted an evening, Ricky, definitely wasted it.”
“You’re impatient, Algernon. You’ve just put your money on the horse: he may come in. All this spiritualism doesn’t seem to be in the line of your investigation so far, but you never know. As for wasting the evening, thank God we’ve wasted it so pleasantly. I could waste the rest of my days with Miss Eileen Thurlow!”
Chapter Ten
On retiring to his bed that night, Vereker found that sleep was impossible. A hundred fugitive and distracting thoughts swarmed through his mind, and he felt convinced that from this welter, by some psychological trick, a tangible theory would sub-consciously take shape. He had experienced this mental phenomenon on many previous occasions. It seemed as if in the hidden chambers of the brain disparate observations began to sort themselves out, a mysterious relationship began to assert itself, and like, by some strange magic, flew to like. Finally the irrelevant was precipitated and a bright intuition sprang forth with arresting power.
“Yes, that seems tentative but it points clearly; it gives direction!” he suddenly exclaimed with a note of exultation and began to wish that another day was born.
He rose, lit the lamp on his table, slipped on a dressing-gown, and produced his notebook and pencil. For the next hour he was busy jotting down all his observations and the inferences he had drawn from them. This process seemed to clarify his thoughts, and when he had finished, he thrust the notebook into his pocket, flung off his dressing-gown, blew out the lamp, and with a sigh of contentment and weariness sank once more into his comfortable bed.
“By jove, I think I’m on the trail at last!” he exclaimed, and a few minutes later was sound asleep.
Next morning at breakfast, Ricardo, after a swift glance at his friend, remarked: “You’re simply bristling this morning, Algernon. You’ve picked up some strong scent and look as if you’d suddenly give tongue. Yoicks! Say, guy, you’ve gotta put me wise!
“We’ve got to move into Old Hall Farm to-day, but there’s a lot to do before we go, Ricky. In the first place, I’m going to call on the Rev. William Sturgeon, and I’d like you, on some pretext, to interview Miss Dawn Garford, if she’s still in the village.’’
“Not my Dawn of yesterday?” asked Ricardo with surprise.
“Must be the same, Ricky; your butterfly among the tombs. A Painted Lady for choice, family nymphalidae.”
“From her conversation, I’d put her among the moths—Drinker, or Heart and Dart. But how do you know her name?”
“She’s a mysterious figure in this Yarham murder mystery. Martin was supposed to be frenziedly in love with her. Thurlow, too, was infatuated. Hence the first idea that the rivals fought and slew each other. She’s a young widow and her married name is Mrs. Button, but as she had only been wed a year when her husband, an aviator, met with a fatal accident, she’s known to the villagers as Miss Dawn Garford. Being eligible for further experiments in matrimony, she probably prefers to be called by her maiden name.”
“I don’t blame her. Dawn Button’s impossible and suggests a mushroom,” commented Ricardo, and asked: “But what’s the big idea?”
“There are several big ideas. You must find out as much as you can about her in your inimitable way.”
“Right-ho!” exclaimed Ricardo with gusto. “I shall be the special correspondent of the Daily Report, or rather, his assistant. I shall take up the line of the interviewer cringing at the feet of a theatrical star. What does she think of the modern girl? Does she chew gum or knit socks? What does she think of the Church’s attitude to divorce?”
“Take up any line you like, Ricky, but you needn’t ask her what she thinks of the London policeman. I don’t think you’ll learn much about her relations with Martin or Thurlow, but you can find out her plans for the future. I may want you to shadow her. She runs about in a small car, and you can buy, hire, or steal one from the nearest garage and keep in touch with her immediately she leaves Yarham. I’ve been told she’s very thick with Mr. Orton of Church Farm. Probe into that if she’ll let you. I think it’s most important. You’ve got a stiff job, Ricky; it’ll put you on your mettle.”
“To pun shockingly, I’m afraid it’ll be my mettle but your money, Algernon. First-class shadowing’s very costly. From the lady’s habits, I should say she frequents exclusive haunts, and that will suit me down to your allowance for expenses. Is she well-off?”
“No; as far as I can gather, she has enough to live on quietly in the country. Yet she gets about a lot and that requires money. You must find out how she manages to perform this miracle. I’m inclined to think she’s a smart business woman. The business is a mystery. I want you to get to know the nature of that business.”
“Find out a woman’s business! A tough proposition, Algernon! You remind me of old Donne and his:
‘Go and catch a falling star,
Get with child a mandrake root,
Tell me where all past years are,
Or who cleft the devil’s foot.’”
“Don’t funk it, Ricky! In any case, you’ve been trying to catch a star of the first magnitude for some time, so you’re in practice, so to speak. Perhaps you’d prefer to interview the Rev. Bill Sturgeon?”
“No. I come from a clerical family, and they’re not very entertaining. Their lives are pretty pictures in heavy gilt frames. I’d rather play Phoebus and chase the Dawn in my chariot. But you’d better leave it all to me, Algernon. Where does the lady hang out?”
“She lives with her aunt in one of those modern houses on the road leading out of the north end of the village. You’ll spot it without difficulty. It has rather a large garden and is the only one that boasts a garage.”
“Right. I’ll crank up after another cup of coffee. It’s much too early to flood the carburetter with whisky.”
“I’ll see you at lunch, Ricky,” said Vereker.
“You certainly shall, Algernon. I’m not in the mood to miss lunch even for the society of a pretty woman. By the way, do you think I should wear a bowler hat? What do interviewers usually wear to kill?”
“Anything you like, my dear Ricky. You’ve got a weakness for bowlers and they suit you. Au revoir.”
On arrival at the rectory, Vereker was at once shown into the Rev. William Sturgeon’s study. He found him poring over a battered copy of an old pamphlet, called “The Legend of Yarham.”
“Good morning, Vereker,” said the rector.
“I hope I’m not interrupting you over cooking up your sermon, Padre,” said Vereker.
“No, no. Sermons never give me any trouble. I’m a born preacher. I can choose my texts on Sunday morning and hold forth at desired length without difficulty at both services. My only fault is that on Sunday night I’ve completely forgotten what I’ve preached about during the day,” explained the rector, and gave vent to one of his bursts of hearty laughter. On recovering from his mirth, he continued: “I’ve just b
een reading up a pamphlet written and printed by a former rector of Yarham. He was an enthusiastic archaeologist, and I have a similar kink, but not to such a pronounced degree as my predecessor.”
“I hear you’ve been working on an old crypt in the church,” remarked Vereker.
“Yes, I’m getting quite excited about it. I’ve often wondered why that stone staircase in the church ended in a brick wall, and shortly after my induction to Yarham, I decided to explore it. But my time was taken up by my parochial duties and I let the thing slip. Then, some time back, I read an account of the quest for an altar of gold in the village of Rodbourne Cheney, near Swindon, in Wiltshire. The church of St. Mary in Rodbourne Cheney dates back to the twelfth century, as does our church in Yarham, and the account I refer to said that a stone staircase, leading to a tunnel, had been bricked up owing to the issue of foul gases from underground.”
“It looks as if the same thing had happened at Yarham.”
“Exactly. Now, at Rodbourne Cheney they have found that four vaulted passages lead from St. Mary’s to various points, Blunsdon Abbey being one. The abbey is three miles from the church, so you can see they were first-class tunnelers in those days.”
“But what were those tunnels for?” asked Vereker, deeply interested in the rector’s account.
“They were doubtless places for hiding in, or for escaping by, in troublous times. The monks, it is thought, used them later on for concealing the church valuables during the Reformation.”
“And do you expect to find hidden treasure in your underground passage?” asked Vereker with an incredulous air.
“One never knows,” replied the rector, eagerly rubbing his hands at the thought. “Our church needs a lot of restoration, and a few loads of valuables would come in very useful.”
“Is there any legend of hidden treasure?”
The Spirit Murder Mystery Page 12
