“I have asked the oldest inhabitant, and he says he never heard anything about treasure but a lot about ghosts. A ghost is not a negotiable instrument, even if I capture one. But my predecessor, a copy of whose pamphlet I have managed to get hold of, says that, according to an old village legend, King John’s jewels, which were supposed to be lost in the Wash, were left at Yarham. How this legend arose, it would be difficult to say, and the writer throws no light on the subject. A similar story is current that King John’s treasure is hidden in a subterranean passage between the church at Rockingham in Northamptonshire and Rockingham Castle. Yarham, you must remember, was in close touch with the great abbey of Bury St. Edmunds, and one of its abbots was lord of the manor here. At the high altar of Bury Abbey, the barons swore to recover the lost privileges granted by Henry the First’s charter, which was deposited for safety at the Abbey. Afterwards, King John signed that charter at Runnymede.”
“Have you any idea where the tunnel from Yarham church leads to?” asked Vereker eagerly.
“One of them, according to my predecessor’s pamphlet, runs to Riswell Manor, which is about two miles distant. He says he explored this for the greater part of its length, but found no royal treasure. ‘Instead of treasure,’ he naively puts it, ‘we found an army of rats and were nearly suffocated by the foul air.’”
“Then there are other unexplored tunnels?”
“I’m working on that presumption. In his account, the writer doesn’t definitely say so, but he leaves the reader to infer that there are. On this point, I again referred to Chinnery, our oldest inhabitant. He is ninety-three, by the way. He says that his great grandfather told him there were three tunnels. His great grandfather, I must add, was the workman who bricked up the entrance to these vaulted passages at the foot of the stone staircase in the church.”
On the rector’s invitation, Vereker then accompanied him to the church and inspected the brick wall, through the top of which he had already driven a large hole.
“I keep it covered with that heavy curtain to prevent the musty air from the tunnel entering the church too freely. When I’ve knocked down the wall, I’m going to buy a gas mask before I venture in. I daresay those vaulted passages are decidedly foul and may be actually dangerous.”
“When did you start to knock the wall down, Padre?” asked Vereker.
“The thirty-first of May, the only decent summer’s day we’ve had this year,” replied the rector.
After admiring the painted roof of the church and the quaintly carved poppy heads of the oak benches, Vereker thanked the rector for a most interesting morning and left him, hammer and chisel in hand, about to resume his attack on the partly demolished wall.
Returning to the village, he called on Mr. and Mrs. Martin, the parents of Mr. Clarry Martin. On explaining that he was a pressman and had nothing to do with the police, the Martins received him cordially and were eager to supply him with any information he might desire. Vereker found them simple, straightforward, country folk and soon made himself at home in their company. Deftly leading them from one topic to another, he elicited some important facts about Clarry Martin. Mrs. Martin, inclined to be more talkative than her husband, explained that Clarry had been one of the best of sons till he went up to London. Even then he had always been thoughtful of his parents, but a great change had come over him. He had been apprenticed as a youth to a copper-smith, but had forsaken that work for the flash and more exciting motor trade. He had learned to make money, and success had seemingly turned his head. He began to consider the village of Yarham a dull place, and its inhabitants a set of stupid yokels. He had got into a pleasure-loving set and become a boon companion of certain lost souls who danced, drank cocktails, and frequented picture houses. London had a terrible lot of sins to answer for. This had led to a neglect of his flourishing business, and latterly he had at times been short of money. To hasten his downward career, he had fallen in love with that impudent baggage, Mrs. Button, who called herself Miss Dawn Garford, as if she were ashamed of her dead husband. No good could come of being ashamed of the dead. Mrs. Martin could say with truth that Mrs. Button was no better than she ought to be. While leading on poor Clarry for her own selfish amusement, she was cunningly laying her snares for Mr. John Thurlow, in order to get her quick, greedy fingers on his money. Not content with this two-faced conduct, the shameless hussy had also become too intimate with Mr. Orton, the farmer. He, too, possessed considerable means, which clearly showed that Mrs. Button was nothing more nor less than a wretched little gold-digger.
Thence the conversation drifted to the police interrogation that had followed the discovery of Martin’s dead body at Cobbler’s Corner, and, during a pause, Vereker seized the opportunity of asking a question that had been in his mind during the whole interview.
“Was your son interested in spiritualism, Mrs. Martin?” he queried.
“Never heard him mention the subject in his life, replied Mrs. Martin. “He wasn’t interested in anything of that sort. Of that I’m certain.”
Vereker recalled to their memory the fragment of a note found in Clarry’s pocket, a note in which spirit rapping had clearly been referred to, but neither Mr. nor Mrs. Martin could shed any light on that mysterious point.
Well satisfied with his morning’s work, Vereker made his way back to “The Walnut Tree,” and just before lunch was served, Ricardo returned.
“Well, Ricky, you look flushed with victory,” remarked Vereker as they sat down to their meal.
“Mistaken, Algernon. I merely hurried back to lunch. This East Anglian air gives one a ravenous hunger.”
“Did you see Mrs. Button?”
“No, she left for London this morning. I interviewed her aunt, a middle-aged but well-preserved woman. To make her communicative, I treated her as if she were young enough for romance. It was a bad gambit, for she became kittenish. A mature woman who is kittenish ought to have a brutal relative to save her from the derision of strangers and the pity of her friends.”
“Your interview was a failure, I take it.”
“By no means, Algernon. When you suggested that I should see Miss Dawn Garford, I questioned the wisdom of it. You see, if it were necessary that I should subsequently shadow her, it would be fatal. She’d tumble to the game. I saw her face yesterday and her photograph this morning. I never forget a pretty face and that’s sufficient.”
“Have you got her London address?”
“No, but her aunt told me that Dawn would be at Barstow in Surrey, next Monday. There’s a famous road-house there, and she’s going to stay there for a day or two. I, too, shall be there if you can run to the hire of a decent car.”
“Certainly; see about one at once.”
“I’ve done so to save time. The local garage has a monster of speed which will suit me admirably.”
“Splendid! Your forte is shadowing, Ricky, and you’ve had quite a lot of experience.”
“Yes, Algernon, but the wisdom one acquires from experience is relative to the attendant circumstances. Nothing in life happens just the same way twice.”
“I hope you’re not making excuses for some prospective escapade with this charmer,” remarked Vereker nervously.
“Certainly not. No man is proof against falling in love. Give me my due; I never indulge in escapades. Passion without love is eating without hunger; it’s the worst depravity of your finest appetite.”
“Ricky, you’re pyrotechnic this morning. What’s happened?”
“I drank a bottle of Chambertin before lunch. As for my last epigram, I coined it about a month ago, and this was my first chance of trying it out. Sounds a bit laboured, but it’ll sparkle O.K. in stodgy company.”
“Did you learn anything of the relations between Dawn Garford and Clarry Martin?”
“Dawn liked him because he was such a simple fellow.”
“We all like simple people; they haven’t the intelligence to do us any harm,” remarked Vereker.
“Look here, A
lgernon, if you’re going to compete against me, I shall stop talking like an unsuccessful dramatist. Let’s stick to business now. I fished tor information about Dawn’s friendliness with Orton, but auntie wasn’t having any. Dawn seems to scatter her favours rather generously.”
“One of these moderns without any fixed morality,” remarked Vereker.
“A fixed morality’s the expression of a conscience that’s dead, Algernon, and has nothing to do with modernity. After seeing Orton, I should say that there’s nothing more exciting than business relations between the two. The burning question is, what’s the business?”
‘‘Just so, Ricky, and when you’ve finished your coffee, I think we’ll make our way up to Old Hall Farm. We must see Miss Thurlow before she leaves.”
An hour later, Vereker and Ricardo arrived at Old Hall Farm and found Miss Thurlow eagerly awaiting them. She was leaning over the entrance gate to the drive and seemed unduly excited.
“I’m so glad you’ve come,” she said as she greeted them. “A most extraordinary thing happened last night, and I wanted to tell you all about it before I left for London. I was lying awake long after midnight, when I thought I heard the sound of footsteps in my uncle’s study, which is just beneath my bedroom. I wondered who it could be and putting on a dressing- gown, I ran downstairs.”
“Very plucky of you, Miss Thurlow!” said Ricardo with admiration.
“I don’t know so much about that. I did it without thinking. In any case, I went straight into the study and switched on the light. There was nobody there, but the chairs, ornaments, clock, and the little table had all been moved into different positions in the room. As I had been the last person in the room I was thunderstruck! Then I thought I heard footsteps in the wine cellar beneath the study. As I was now too scared to investigate myself and didn’t wish to let the servants know what had happened, I locked up the study and went back to bed. I lay awake listening for another hour, but nothing further happened. Eventually I fell asleep, tired out. This morning I told Raymer, the maid, that I had locked up the study and that she needn’t bother to tidy it up until I came back. I then went down to the wine cellar, but found it locked as usual. It has a Yale lock, and I at once looked in a drawer in uncle’s bureau where he always kept a duplicate key, but the key was missing. I used the key myself the other day and have mislaid it. I’ve hunted high and low for that key but without finding it, so, Mr. Ricardo, if you want to sample uncle’s special vintages, you’ll have to burgle the wine cellar.”
“This is most exciting!” exclaimed Vereker with an eager light in his eyes. “Were any of the doors and windows of the house open?”
“No. I summoned up all my courage before going back to bed and tried every window and door. They were all securely fastened.”
“Amazing!” exclaimed Manuel. “It must have been a poltergeist.”
“Exactly what I thought but didn’t like to say so. I’m so glad you’ve suggested it, Mr. Ricardo. I’ve found a champion at last.”
“Yours to command, is the right phrase, I think, Miss Thurlow,” replied Ricardo, bowing with exaggerated courtesy. “I shall try and prove a worthy knight. The very thought of a poltergeist sharing the wine cellar with me fires my blood to the point of murder.”
“No one has been in the study since you locked it up, Miss Thurlow?” asked Vereker seriously.
“No. I thought I’d like you to see things as they were left. If it was a human being and not a poltergeist, he has probably left some clues.”
With these words Miss Thurlow entered the house and, followed by Vereker and Ricardo, led the way to the study. When she had unlocked the door, Vereker suggested that she and Ricardo stayed outside the room while he made a close examination of everything that might yield a clue to the mysterious intruder of the night before.
“All right,” agreed Miss Thurlow and added with a smile, “you’ll find me and my champion in the drawing-room when you’ve finished your job, Mr. Vereker. Mr. Ricardo and I think you’re wasting your time, because we’re convinced that a poltergeist leaves no clues.”
“All I hope is that a poltergeist doesn’t carry a corkscrew,” added Ricardo and accompanied Miss Thurlow into the drawing-room.
Left to himself, Vereker at once dropped to his hands and knees and began a systematic examination of the carpet with his magnifying glass. He had not proceeded far with his examination, when he suddenly rose, left the study, and entered the drawing-room. There he found Miss Thurlow and Ricardo looking at an album of photographs showing “spirit extras” on them.
“Can you let me see the shoes you wore last night, Miss Thurlow? Also the slippers or shoes you wore when you came downstairs to the study after you’d heard the—the—poltergeist?” he asked.
“I wore a pair of patent leather court shoes on both occasions,” replied Miss Thurlow and ran upstairs to fetch them. On returning, she handed a dainty pair of shoes to Vereker, who, after a cursory glance at the soles, handed them back to her.
“You’re a lightning sleuth,” remarked Miss Thurlow. “I thought you were going to put them under a microscope or something of that sort. What have you found out, Mr. Vereker?”
“That there’s no sign of chalk on the soles, and that the poltergeist has a remarkably small foot. You take size fives, and the poltergeist can squeeze her feet into threes. Does one of your servants wear size three in shoes?”
“No. Raymer has colossal feet. Payne wears my shoes when I’m tired of them. Cook is a monstrosity; she isn’t comfortable in anything smaller than skis.”
“Thanks, this is getting quite interesting,” replied Vereker and returned once more to the study. After a further examination of the carpet, he picked up from the mantelpiece a cut-glass ornament which Miss Thurlow said had been moved. On this he blew some chalk and mercury powder, a process which clearly revealed the impression of a thumb and two finger prints. A white china vase responded in a similar manner to treatment with graphite. Going back again to the drawing-room, he asked Miss Thurlow it she would lead him to the kitchen and pantries. Miss Thurlow, entering into the game of detection with zest, accompanied him. On entering the kitchen, Vereker asked the cook if he might have a clean tumbler on a tray. To assuage that genial woman’s roused curiosity, he remarked that the tumbler was rather large to conjure with but he’d make it do. Raymer was then asked to bring a soup plate, and Payne, a silver cream jug. Raymer was allowed to place the soup plate on the tray, but when Payne was about to do the same, Vereker suddenly remarked:
“I’ll take the cream jug. As it’s solid silver, I’ll make it vanish first.”
Returning to the drawing-room with the tray, Vereker at once set it aside and asked Miss Thurlow to press her finger tips on his silver cigarette case. When she had done this, he placed the cigarette case on the tray beside the tumbler, soup plate, and cream jug and having obtained a clean tea-cloth, carefully laid it over the tray.
“What’s the next step in the programme?” asked Miss Thurlow, as Vereker leisurely took a seat.
“I’ve finished work for the present,” he replied.
‘‘What a disappointment! I was waiting for you to say, ‘Hey, presto, begone!’ and lift the tea-cloth to show that everything on the tray had vanished.”
“I’m not a spiritualist, Miss Thurlow,” laughed Vereker. “I’m only going to make a study of finger prints to see that the poltergeist has fingers as well as feet.”
“I half guessed that was your conjuring trick,” replied Miss Thurlow, “but why did you prevent Payne from putting the jug on the tray?”
“Because she was holding the jug by its very small handle. When she gave it to me, she naturally clasped the bowl of the jug and turned the handle to me. I wanted a full impression of some of her fingers.”
“I’m now certain that all detectives are tricksters!” said Miss Thurlow with a smile, and after a glance at the clock, added: “I must get ready to start. Cornish will be round with the car in half-an- hour, so
I’ll leave you two gentlemen to entertain yourselves.”
With these words she left the room to dress for her journey, and before she entered her car to go to the station, reminded Vereker that he could ransack the whole house, if he thought it necessary for his investigation into the Yarham mystery. She also asked him if he would kindly see Mr. Arthur Orton of Church Farm on her behalf and tell him to get the repairs to his barns, which he had mentioned at their last interview, done by Cawston, the builder. Apologizing for this request, and with a final injunction that they were to make themselves at home, she bade Ricardo and Vereker good-bye, and a minute later her car had vanished out of the drive.
“You’ve made a very favourable impression, Ricky,” said Vereker jokingly, on Miss Thurlow’s departure.
“So has she!” replied Ricardo with a sigh.
“What about Gertie Wentworth now?”
“Faded out considerably. That’s the worst of an amorist; his heart’s a painful palimpsest and not an ordinary blood-pumping gadget.”
“Sigh no more, Ricky. Go and fix up definitely about that car at the local garage. Tell ’em you’ll buy it if necessary. You must be ready to start after Miss Dawn Garford in a couple of days’ time. I’m going to run down to ‘The Walnut Tree’ for my special camera and enlarging apparatus. We’ll have tea here at five and dinner at eight.”
“Sounds rather regal. For some months now, I’ve been on a bread and cheese lunch and a Cambridge sausage tea. A month or two at Old Hall Farm would put me in fettle for writing another domestic serial with strong love interest.”
Chapter Eleven
As he was entering the inn, Vereker was overtaken by Inspector Heather, who seemed considerably more cheerful than he had appeared of late.
“What has happened about the inquest?” asked Vereker.
“The inquest has been adjourned indefinitely. That gives us time to get on with our job, which is going to be a tough one,” replied the inspector.
“There’s a sanguine note in your voice, Heather. You’ve struck a hopeful trail?”
The Spirit Murder Mystery Page 13
