The Spirit Murder Mystery

by Robin Forsythe

  “Not if I know it,” replied Heather with well- assumed truculence. “We’re just beginning and I’m going to put up a stiff fight. I’ve got my eye fixed on a barrel of beer and that adds weight to my punch.”

  “Have you cut Runnacles completely out of your list, Heather?” asked Vereker after a pause.

  “No, he’s still running, but he has fallen behind. I tackled him about being on the road near Cobbler’s Corner on that Tuesday night, and he gave me a fairly reasonable explanation.”

  “Why did he lie about it and say he was at home all evening? Even his wife backed him up in the yarn,” asked Vereker.

  “He’s a bit of a simpleton in some ways. Having come up against the law and served a sentence before, he thought he’d be connected up with this case by a vindictive police force. He knew he was on the road either before or after those bodies were planted, and got the wind up. When I cornered him with Deeks’s statement, he owned up and told me why he had lied. He then promptly split on Deeks and his poaching. Deeks, however, is a much shrewder man. He at once owned up to poaching, knowing it would serve to clear him from any connection with the major crime.”

  “Did either of these men pass or see the car which Ephraim Noy has spoken about?” asked Vereker.

  “Deeks says no. Runnacles says a motor lorry passed him. He was a bit blinded by its headlights, but thought it was one of Orton’s lorries from Church Farm.”

  “Was it?” asked Vereker.

  “I questioned Joe Battrum and he didn’t think it could be. If it was, he wasn’t the driver, for he was in bed at that hour on Tuesday night.”

  That was somewhere about eleven o’clock?” asked Vereker quickly.

  “Yes.”

  “And you have asked Orton if one of his lorries was on the road at that hour?”

  “I did. He said that Runnacles must be mistaken, because both lorries were in the yard long before dusk on the Tuesday evening.”

  “What do you make of it, Heather?”

  “Can’t make head or tail of it. There’s a liar among them, I should say. I promptly pumped Joe Battrum’s missus before he could get back and coach her. She said that her husband didn’t get home till midnight on that Tuesday. On being pressed, however, she began to wobble and said it might be Wednesday. She couldn’t be sure. Sandy Gow, another of Orton’s men who drives a lorry, said he thought Joe had one of the lorries out late on Tuesday. Again, he wouldn’t be dead certain.”

  “It’s all so damned inconclusive, Heather,” agreed Vereker, and asked: “When did you see Orton?”

  “This afternoon. I ran up to Church Farm after lunch.”

  “What do you think of him?”

  “Seems a decent sort. Very generous with his liquor. Rather a superior type from what I could gather. While he was out of the room for a minute, I had a look at what he was busy on, for there were papers and books lying on his table. He was copying out music. I was surprised, because it’s a rum sort of hobby for a farmer.”

  “Did you notice the name of the composer of the music?” asked Vereker casually.

  “No, I’m blessed if I did, and in any case I’d have forgotten it if I had,” replied Heather.

  “Did you see Orton’s housekeeper during your visit?”

  “Yes, Mr. Vereker, I did. She brought in the whisky and what not for Orton and a jug of ale for me. Best beer I’ve tasted in Suffolk, and that’s saying a lot.”

  “Did you notice anything peculiar about the housekeeper?”

  “Can’t say that I did. She was good looking in rather a hard way, and seemed to treat her boss rather familiarly.”

  “That’s a prerogative of housekeepers, Heather. Was she tall, short, stout, or thin?”

  “Medium height, well-built; not slim and yet not stodgy; sort of comfortable like. I can’t describe her better than that. One thing I did notice particularly. She had very small and finely shaped hands. But why are you so interested in the lady, Mr. Vereker?”

  “I’d heard some village gossip about her and Orton, and I was naturally curious. You see, she has a rival in Miss Eileen Thurlow, and I was thinking that the latter, being an heiress, might put the housekeeper’s nose out of joint.”

  “That’s quite possible,” replied Heather, rising and stretching himself. “There’s an old saying, ‘He who has the money laughs,’ and there’s a lot in those old sayings. Well, I must be going. It’s getting late and I’ve a lot to do. When you’ve spotted the culprit in the Yarham murders, let me know and I’ll come along and put the darbies on him.”

  With these words, Heather took his departure, and Vereker strolled out into the beautifully kept gardens for a breath of fresh air, for he had been busy indoors all the afternoon. As he wandered round, lost in thought, he suddenly met Runnacles, the gardener who was putting away his barrow and tools prior to leaving off work.

  “Oh, Runnacles, I’ve just had a visit from the Scotland Yard inspector,” said Vereker. “He was telling me that you thought you had passed a motor lorry from Church Farm, near Cobbler’s Corner, on the night after Mr. Thurlow disappeared.”

  “That’s right, sir, but it was a good bit this side of Cobbler’s Corner,” replied Runnacles.

  “What made you think it was one of Orton’s lorries?”

  “General look of the thing, just as you can tell a man at night even though you can’t see him too clearly. Besides, I thought I heard Joe Battrum give a cough as he swung past me. There’s no mistaking old Joe’s cough; you can hear it a mile off.”

  “Thanks, Runnacles,” said Vereker, and was about to let the gardener depart, when the latter stood hesitant, as if eager to unburden himself.

  “If it’s a fair question, sir,” he finally stammered, “can you tell me why the inspector is so anxious about my comings and goings on that Tuesday night? I’ve told him fair I had nothing to do with the master being knocked on the head, and yet he comes asking me the same questions again and again.”

  “I shouldn’t get worried about it, Runnacles, replied Vereker amiably. “You’re not the only person to be questioned in this affair, and the inspector naturally asks you the same questions over and over again to see that you don’t contradict yourself. You mustn’t blame the inspector for trying to get at the truth; it’s his job.”

  Appearing considerably consoled by these words, Runnacles thanked Vereker and, picking up his barrow, proceeded on his way. A few minutes later, Raymer, the maid, came running into the garden to tell Vereker that he was wanted on the telephone. He hastened into the house, wondering who the caller might be. It was Manuel Ricardo.

  “That you, Algernon?” he asked, and on Vereker’s reply, added: “I’ve picked up the trail already. Also I’ve an idea about the nature of the lady’s mysterious business. I’ll be able to get confirmation of it from Poppy Knatchbull. After a good skirmish round, I’ll return to Yarham. How do you like being all alone in a haunted house?”

  “It’s rather depressing, Ricky, and I’m looking forward to your return. I’m dining alone to-night, which is anything but exhilarating, and I shall turn in early. Cheerio.”

  “Same to you, old horse. When does Miss Thurlow return to Yarham?”

  “I can’t say definitely.”

  “Didn’t she give you any idea?”

  “Only roughly. But why?”

  “Oh nothing, but isn’t she simply lovely? I can’t get her face out of my mind. Good-bye.”

  After dinner Vereker went into Thurlow’s study and, looking about for something to read, found the history of Yarham which Ricardo had left lying on the table. He picked it up and drawing an easy chair close to one of the windows, for it was still possible to read by the evening light, sat down and opened the book. Becoming interested, he read on till the falling dusk made it impossible to continue. Closing the book, he laid it aside and, being tired and somewhat depressed, closed his eyes and let his mind wander. In spite of himself, his thoughts took on a grey and cheerless hue, and an acute feeling of l
oneliness slowly gained possession of him. He opened his eyes and glanced round the room. Its sombre tones, which he had at first thought so restful, now by an association of them with the tragedy which had so recently overtaken Thurlow, took on a sinister and funereal significance. He closed his eyes once more, as if to shut out an unkindly and uncongenial world, and gradually his thoughts became more and more fugitive and incoherent till he fell sound asleep.

  He was awakened, he afterwards concluded, by a dim consciousness that a light had passed swiftly over his features. When he opened his eyes, however, they encountered an almost impenetrable darkness, and he guessed that he had slept soundly for some hours. He stretched himself lazily and was about to rise from his chair when, by some obscure process of his senses, he became aware of a human presence in the room. Without moving, he peered anxiously into the surrounding wall of blackness, in an effort to locate that strangely felt presence. Gradually, as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, various articles of furniture in the room fixed themselves dimly on his vision. Then, all at once, a human form took shape and was faintly silhouetted against the dark wainscoting. At first Vereker thought he must be mistaken, that this apparition was some extraordinary illusion springing out of a sharply roused mental expectancy. He closed his eyes and looked again. The figure was still visible, statuesquely motionless. A sharp sensation of fear assailed him. All his life he had been sceptical of anything in the nature of an apparition. In spite of all the “authentic” ghost stories he had read, notwithstanding the actual experiences related to him by several of his friends, he had always felt certain that such a phenomenon would never be seen by him. Had this, the incredible, come to pass? Was he at last to fall in line with all those who firmly believed in the supernatural, with all those who in past ages had gone in fear and dread of a world of spirits, good or evil, puckish or malignant? His scepticism was struggling desperately for mastery over a reluctant acquiescence in what he had always considered ignorant superstition, when his quick ear caught the faint creaking of a floor-board in the vicinity of the spectre. In a flash his dread of the dead gave place to the quick alarm roused by the possibly malicious intention of the living. Keeping his eyes fixed on that greyish white shape across the room, he suddenly realized that it bore some resemblance to the general carriage of Eileen Thurlow. This unaccountable assumption gave rise to another, and he thought he could recognize in the air of the room a faint trace of the scent which he knew she used. He was filled with a sense of utter amazement, but keeping control of his feelings, tried to rise very quietly from his chair. That chair was of wicker and creaked noisily as he moved, and at the same moment he discerned a quick movement on the part of the figure. Instinctively he thrust his hand into his pocket in search of an electric torch, but remembered to his dismay that he had left the torch on the hall table. The switch of the electric light was on the other side of the study by the door, close to which the figure stood. He decided at once to reach that switch and unmask the mysterious intruder. With a sudden bound he was on his feet and across the study floor, but before he had reached his objective, the figure had apparently dissolved and was gone.

  He stood in the now brilliantly lit room, listening intently. Faint sounds were audible in the passage beyond. He stepped quickly outside and listened once more. He thought he heard the sound of distant footsteps, and it appeared to him that those sounds came from the cellars below. Without a moment’s further hesitation he ran down the passage, descended the steps to the wine cellar, and entered. Switching on the light, he made a hurried search of the whole underground storage, but discovered nothing. The ill-lit cellars were apparently as he had found them on his last incursion into them. Greatly astonished, but now with a grave suspicion that the “manifestation” he had witnessed was a material one, he ascended once more to the ground floor.

  His amazing experience had given birth to a new idea, and he decided that in the morning he would pursue a line of investigation indicated by that conception. He glanced at his watch and found that it was half-past eleven. It was earlier than he had thought, but he felt that as he could do nothing further till daylight, he would go to bed. He had just entered the study once more when, to his surprise, he heard the sound of a car outside, and a few minutes later the front door bell rang. As the servants had retired, he answered the summons himself, thinking that some sudden impulse had driven Ricardo back to Yarham. The visitor, however, was Doctor Cornard.

  “I saw a light in the study as I was passing, Vereker, and thought I’d call. I’m not unwelcome, I hope,” said the doctor.

  “I’m jolly glad to see you, Doctor,” replied Vereker, and asked him to make himself comfortable. “Did you want to see me specially?”

  “No; just thought I’d drop in for a chat before going home. I’m a late bird and hope you’re one too. There’s absolutely nothing to do in this dismal hole of an evening, and I’m not a sleep hog.”

  “I’m very glad of your company, Cornard. I wanted someone to talk to. I’ve just had a most amazing experience.”

  “Oh, and what was it?” asked the doctor, settling himself in his chair and lighting his pipe.

  “I’ve seen a ghost!” said Vereker with a smile.

  “That’s a common experience in Yarham. The place is simply steeped in a belief in the occult. We live in the middle ages here. What can you expect?”

  Vereker then quietly narrated what had occurred, much to the doctor’s amusement and incredulity.

  “Your nerves are out of order, Vereker. I’d give this detection game a long rest,” he suggested at the conclusion of the story.

  “I don’t think my nerves had anything to do with it, Doctor,” argued Vereker and then, after a pause, suddenly asked: “Do you know Miss Thurlow at all well?”

  “Fairly well. She has been to me occasionally for small complaints. Nothing more serious than a bad cold or a touch of ’flu. Why do you ask?”

  “I wondered if you knew her general disposition and mentality,” remarked Vereker.

  “I think so. Strictly between ourselves, I think she suffers from a kind of dual personality. There’s the sweet, common-sense girl who takes life quietly and rationally and enjoys herself in an ordinary way. Then there’s the hysterical creature who messes about with the occult, with stances and spooks and all that damned nonsense. I’ve had a suspicion for some time that she’s an epileptic and does all sorts of things without afterwards being aware that she has done them.”

  “Good heavens! Do you think she’s sincere in her belief in spiritualism?”

  “Oh, most certainly! That’s the dangerous feature about it. And what’s more, once people get imbued with this belief, they’ll go to all sorts of extremes to convince other people of its truth. I’m perfectly certain that they’ll descend to trickery to gain their ends. Their mental attitude is paradoxical, for even in fraud they’re convinced they’re honest. I said ‘paradoxical’; it would be nearer the mark to say psychopathic.”

  “Would you say that my seeing a spook to-night was due to a psychopathic state of mind?” asked Vereker.

  “It looks damned like it, Vereker, unless someone was having a lark with you and playing a silly kind of practical joke.”

  “I’m certain that my ghost was living flesh and blood, Doctor. I heard the floor-boards creak beneath the movement of her weight; I fancied I smelt the scent she used; and I don’t think I’m quite cracked.”

  “I’d certainly hesitate to certify you, Vereker,” said the doctor with a laugh, and asked seriously, “But tell me, what’s the idea behind this ghost game?”

  “I haven’t the vaguest notion at present, Cornard, but I’m going to get to the bottom of it. It’s not the meaningless foolery that it appears on the surface.”

  “I don’t know so much about that,” argued the doctor. “No one but a born idiot would play such monkey tricks. If I caught the lady at it, I’d guarantee she wouldn’t do it again. But I’m keeping you out of bed and must get home. Kee
p me posted about further psychic experiences. Whatever they are, they’re exciting, and any kind of excitement is welcome in Yarham. Good-night.”

  A few minutes later the doctor had gone, and Vereker, switching off the light in the study, went upstairs to bed. He was in a very disturbed state of mind, but gradually he gained control of his thoughts, subsided into equanimity, and fell into sound and refreshing sleep.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The whole of next morning Vereker spent in a fruitless search for some trap-door, or means of entering and leaving Old Hall Farm, that was unknown to its occupants. The thickness of the wall on the south side of the entrance hall intrigued him, but after a careful investigation, he left the riddle unsolved and decided to pursue his inquiries into the Yarham mystery further afield. He passed through the village and continued his way northwards till he arrived at Ephraim Noy’s bungalow. The owner was rather surprised to see him, but invited him in.

  “In search of further sensational rubbish for your rag of a paper?” he asked when Vereker had seated himself.

  “No. I came to see you on a matter concerning yourself, Mr. Noy,” replied Vereker seriously.

  “How d’you mean?” asked Noy with a swift, anxious glance at his visitor.

  “While Miss Thurlow’s away from home, I’m staying at Old Hall Farm. Before leaving, she asked me to go through her uncle’s papers and diaries for her, and among those papers I found a letter from you to Thurlow. In that letter you refer to some affair in India in which he got mixed up many years ago. You appear to know all about that episode.”

  * Well, what the devil has it got to do with you?” asked Noy with sudden truculence.

  “Nothing whatever. I’m not interested in it personally, but as it may have some bearing on Thurlow’s murder, I naturally mentioned it to the police.”

  ‘‘You’re nothing but a damned busybody! What have my private relations with Thurlow to do with his murder?” asked Noy with rising anger.