“They’re stills for distillation. One’s a wash still and the other a spirit still. They were probably erected ages ago, but they’re still in working order. Now, stand-to with that automatic while I have a look at ’em.”
With these words Vereker clambered on to the brick furnace of the wash still and closely examined a piece of mechanism fixed near the apex of the pear-shaped vessel.
“Ricky,” he whispered with unmistakable glee, “I’ve found that the soap box is broken!” Jumping once more to the ground, he turned his attention to a small glass tank near the spirit still. After a brief inspection of this receptacle, he added, “And that the spirit taps need new washers.”
For a few seconds he stood still, his electric torch flashing hither and thither in front of him. Then, darting forward, he seized a square object in his hand, and bringing it across to Ricardo, remarked: “Just the very thing we need. A small attaché case. There are some copper-smith’s tools in it, but you can squeeze in the cap and strands of rope. Get a move on, old boy.”
Ricardo, producing the articles mentioned, hurriedly thrust them into the attaché case and closed it.
“Now let’s beat it, Ricky,” said Vereker with a swift final glance round the chamber.
“Anything to oblige, I’m sure,” replied Ricardo and following the excited Vereker, dashed back into the adjoining chamber.
Thence they rapidly made their way into the tunnel from which they had emerged, and keeping up a brisk walking pace, returned without further adventure to Old Hall Farm. On entering the study once more and closing the secret panel behind him, Vereker, breathless with excitement, sank lazily into an easy chair. Ricardo, even more breathless, wearily dropped the attaché case he was carrying on the floor, and flung himself full length on a divan.
“Something attempted, something done,” he muttered, “has usually earned me a sleepless night wondering whether an editor would reject it, but I hope you’re satisfied with our little exploit of this afternoon, Algernon.”
“My work on the Yarham murders is nearly complete. One or two more moves of the pieces and I think I’ll be able to say, ‘Checkmate,’” replied Vereker, who was sitting with his eyes fixed in an unfocussed stare, as if deep in thought.
“I know you’re very grateful and so forth, Algernon, but don’t trouble to thank me. It’s all in a day’s work, so to speak. It gives me great pleasure to have achieved this result so easily,” said Ricardo airily.
At this moment the maid entered and asked Vereker if he would like tea.
“Please, Raymer, and we’ll just have it in here, if it’s no trouble.”
“No trouble at all, sir,” replied the maid and disappeared. On her return, she said that Inspector Heather had arrived and would like to see Mr. Vereker.
“Show him in, Raymer, and bring another cup and saucer. The inspector will have tea with us.”
A minute later, Heather had entered the room.
“Well, Heather, how goes it? Got your man, Ephraim Noy, yet?” asked Vereker cheerily, for the inspector’s face was graver than usual.
“Not a trace of him so far. It looks as if one of his old confederates has bumped him off and disposed of the body,” replied Heather.
“That’s possible. Anything might happen to a man like Noy. I’m sorry he has vanished. We shall certainly want him later.”
“Have you heard the latest Yarham news, Mr. Vereker?” asked Heather with a note of eagerness.
“No; I haven’t been in the village. Ricardo and I have been very busy together in another direction. What’s the news?”
“You’ve heard of a man called Joe Battrum?”
“Yes; one of Orton’s men. What has he been up to?”
“His body was found in the pond behind his cottage, early this morning. He has been drinking very heavily of late. I’ve seen his wife, and she said he hadn’t been sober for two days. Last night, after threatening to do her in, and muttering all the time that he was being haunted by ghosts, he left the house. She thought he’d gone across to the pub for more liquor, but Easy says he didn’t call at ‘The Walnut Tree.’ He failed to return home, and early this morning, a neighbour going to the pond, found his body. His feet and legs were on the bank and his head in less than a foot of water. It might have been an accident, but to me it looks more like suicide.”
“Very strange, but I’m not surprised,” remarked Vereker. “His suicide, for I feel pretty certain it was suicide, may have some connection with our case.”
“I don’t see how you make that out,” remarked the inspector, looking up with sharply roused curiosity.
“It’s only surmise on my part, Heather—another of my intuitions. Now I’ve got some very startling news for you. I hope you’ve got a pair of handcuffs ready and also a box of fifty cigarettes,” said Vereker quietly.
“They’ll be ready in due course,” replied the inspector, “but don’t keep the news too long to yourself, or it’ll get stale.”
“It’s a long story all about the Yarham case, so make yourself comfortable. Bit by bit, I’ve pieced the fragments of the case together, and this afternoon I approached the climax.”
“Anything to do with spooks?” asked Heather with an attempt at ridicule.
“Yes; spooks and spirits come largely into the yarn. After we had begun our work on this affair, the first thing that set me thinking seriously was Miss Thurlow’s story of the mysterious music she and Thurlow had heard on the night of the latter’s disappearance. In good faith, Miss Thurlow ascribed it to spirit manifestation. Though I’m interested in spiritualism, I couldn’t quite swallow that theory. All along I’ve been seeking a material explanation of the mystery. To-day, thanks to my scepticism, we’ve solved it. You’ll remember that after Thurlow left this house for good, next morning the maid found all the doors of the house locked and only the window of this room open?”
“That was the maid’s yarn,” said Heather. “To explain it away Miss Thurlow had some fanciful idea about her uncle being able to decompose. Was that the word?”
“Dematerialize was her word. Neither you nor I thought much of the dematerialization idea, and yet neither of us could see why he should have left by the window. Personally, I felt certain he hadn’t left the house by the window, and if all the doors were locked next morning, there was only one conclusion possible. He must have departed by some secret exit.”
“We have no proof that he was good enough for translation,” remarked Ricardo, shaking his head gravely.
“Once I had conceived that idea,” continued Vereker, after telling Ricardo to “shut up,” “there came along a possible confirmation that it was correct. In the district it’s well known that there are underground tunnels radiating from the church to various points around. The rector was aware of this and was bent on exploring them. When I learned of their existence, I was convinced that therein lay a possible explanation of the organ music which Miss Thurlow and her uncle had heard, and which Ricardo and I were to hear subsequently. Now, in a book on the history of Yarham in Thurlow’s library, the rector found that the legend of three tunnels running from the crypt in the church was correct. One led to Riswell Manor; the second to Yarham Old Hall, in other words, this house; and the third had not been explored by the writer of the book. When I knew that this house was connected by a tunnel with the church, all doubt about the origin of the organ music disappeared. I was quite certain that the tunnel carried the sound. The reason why that music has only manifested itself within the last three months can now be given. The rector only pierced the wall sealing the entrance towards the end of May. This corresponds with the date given us by Miss Thurlow of the first ‘manifestation’ heard by her. This spirit music and tunnel, however, seem minor factors in our case. Their significance can only be appreciated if you remember that through them Thurlow’s mysterious disappearance can be accounted for rationally.”
“I thought you’d found out that the organist hadn’t practised on the nights when t
he music was heard,” interrupted Heather.
“That’s true, but if the organist didn’t practise on those nights, someone else must have done so. This was a question I could easily have answered by exhaustive inquiry. For the time being it was irrelevant to me who had played the organ, and the discovery would have taken up too much precious time. You see, the mysterious organ music was only an indirect factor in the whole business. The cardinal factor was the tunnel by which Thurlow disappeared. If I could find that tunnel, I argued, I might find out where he went to after disappearing. My mind was very much preoccupied with the idea of that tunnel, when visitations by a poltergeist and a spectre, confirmed the fact that there was a secret entrance to it in this house. The spectre left finger-prints and footprints which put her beyond the region of the supernatural. You follow me clearly, Heather?”
Quite clearly,” replied Heather, now deeply interested.
You’ve omitted to tell Heather of my brilliant deductions that the spectre was bandy-legged, wore high-heeled shoes, and had tiny feet,” said Ricardo.
“You’ve supplied the omission, Ricky, and I can add that her shoes were size three. But now I must go back a little. On Martin’s body was found a note, referring to a soap box being broken and also mentioning spirit taps. For a while, I accepted that note as being connected in some obscure way with the spiritualistic business on which Thurlow was engaged prior to his disappearance. From Martin’s parents, I learned that Clarry Martin had never mentioned the subject of spiritualism to them. It was not a subject in which he was interested at all. This gave me my first shock. Then, when I was discussing the subject with Ricardo, he referred to spirit rapping, and assured me that spirit raps were a common feature of a séance. I noted that he did not call them ‘taps,’ and it at once suggested to me that spiritualism might not be the subject referred to in the note. From ethereal spirits to material spirits seemed at first a big jump. I was averse to taking it; it seemed too far fetched. Still, I bore it in mind. At this point, Heather, you will remember my discovery of a malted barleycorn embedded in the soft chalky clay adhering to Martin’s boot.”
“I certainly do. I christened it ‘John.’ I wondered at the time why you were so interested in that seemingly useless item. Now I gather that it bore some relation to your thoughts.”
“Not at first, Heather. It fell into place subsequently. However, it gave me a sort of distant signal and I’m glad I didn’t altogether disregard it. To return to the subject: having got an alternative translation of the word, ‘spirits,’ I kept my eyes open in that direction. I knew, and you confirmed it, that illicit distillation was becoming rife because it offered such large profits to the distillers. In spite of keen excise supervision, it’s a most difficult kind of revenue leakage to discover. The process of distillation is childishly simple. It can be done on a fairly large scale in one room. Even a large kettle can be transformed into a spirit still without difficulty. In addition to all this, a sparsely inhabited county like Suffolk is, when you come to think of it, an ideal setting for such a business. Complete supervision over such an area is well-nigh impossible. The prime difficulty in illicit liquor traffic, however, is the distribution. I began to concentrate on the whole subject and wondered if I could find any trace of such traffic. At this time, too, the words ‘soap box’ suddenly jumped into my mind with a new meaning of cardinal significance. Some years ago, when I was painting in the Loch Lomond district, I visited a small distillery. It was what is called a pot-still distillery, to distinguish it from a patent or Coffey’s still distillery. The latter is a much more scientific affair, though connoisseurs profess that the spirits produced by it lack flavour, owing to the absence of certain essential oils which are not eliminated by the older and simpler process. Now, in the old process there are two stills, one called a wash still, and the other, a spirit still. On one of the stills is a contraption called a soap box. This gadget was pointed out to me and I’ve never forgotten it.”
“What’s the nature of this bally soap box?” asked Heather.
“It’s only a rectangular metal box into which a bar of ordinary castile soap is pushed. The hot liquid in the still melts the soap, and it forms a film of a fatty nature over the liquor in the still. The oily film prevents impurities in the wash being driven off in the spirit vapour. It’s merely a clever filter and the soap, of course, never permeates the final spirit.”
“What a memory, Algernon!” exclaimed Ricardo. “I always thank heaven that one of my greatest talents is a faculty for forgetting. I now see why you’re a confirmed bachelor and a most miserable creditor.”
“Having accounted for the soap box in that note, the words ‘spirit taps’ at once took on their correct interpretation,” continued Vereker, ignoring Ricardo’s interruption.
“It looks very simple now,” remarked Heather, “but it has been Greek to me ever since the note fell into my hands.”
“Having definitely reached the conclusion that illicit distillation had some bearing on our case, I began to keep my eyes well skinned. Then a gorgeous bit of luck came my way. Miss Thurlow had asked me to give a message to Arthur Orton of Church Farm. I called one afternoon as they were loading a motor lorry with sacks of barley. For a few minutes I watched Joe Battrum flinging up the sacks on to the lorry, while Sandy Gow, his mate, put them into position. Suddenly Orton came out of the house with a couple of two-gallon petrol cans and handed them up to Gow who stowed them carefully under a sack. This operation was carried out with such an air of concealment, that my suspicions were immediately roused. I decided to bear the fact in mind and wait my chance. That chance came sooner than I expected. Before setting out on his journey with that lorry, Battrum called, the same night, at ‘The Walnut Tree’ and had a meal and a pint. I got Ricardo to keep Battrum busy while I had a lock at the load on the lorry. Ricky did his job well, and during that time, I substituted a two-gallon can of petrol from our car for one of those hidden under the sacks of barley. I have it here and will let you see it later, Heather. When we got back, I poured a little of the contents of that can into a saucer and set fire to it. It burned with a clear blue flame. It was not petrol, but spirit!”
“Well I’m hanged!” exclaimed Heather. “But go on with your yarn, Mr. Vereker.”
“After reaching this point in my investigation, my thoughts reverted to those tunnels, and here came in the clue of the chalk on Thurlow’s dress shoes. As the soil of this district is loam, with a subsoil of clay over-lying the chalk some twenty feet below, Thurlow must have gone down some distance to reach that chalk. What more reasonable than that he had been through that long sought tunnel. Chalk, you must remember, is a perfect medium for a tunnel. I’ve spent many hours trying to find the entrance from this house to that underground subway, and this afternoon, I hit upon it. The spectre which I had seen in this room, Heather, vanished mysteriously from a point near that study door, and I centred my search on the wainscoting near the door. Success attended my efforts at last, and I discovered the spring that works the panel masking the entrance to the tunnel. Before showing you that panel, Heather, I must here give my friend Ricardo his due for some work well done on my behalf. His work put the final corroborative touch to my conclusions.”
“I like that corroborative touch, Inspector,” interrupted Ricardo. “With my usual skill I absolutely put the tin hat on the whole business. In short, I reduced Algernon’s vague fumblings after truth into something like Scotland Yard certainty. I know you’ll understand me, so I won’t say any more. Or shall I continue the thrilling story, Algernon?”
“Go ahead, Ricky, it’ll give me a rest.”
“You see, Heather, while Vereker was steeped in a study of spooks, I at once connected up with Miss Dawn Garford. I have an uncanny flair for getting hold of the right end of the stick, instanter. No shillyshallying, but one stark leap in medias res. Metaphors a bit mixed but they’ll have to do. Miss Garford was so good looking that I suggested shadowing her to see what her little game wa
s. Algernon concurred, probably to get me out of his way. After untold hardships and some very delicate and skilful work, I picked up the lady’s car travelling south. At this point I knew that she had discovered that the relentless Ricardo was after her. She doubled on her tracks to throw me off the scent. I doubled on them too. We doubled and redoubled till it suggested to me a vital clue—whisky! Then, just to make the game more exciting, I let her go. This, of course, was pure subtlety on my part. It lulled her into the belief that she had given me the slip. You can imagine her consternation when I reappeared in immaculate evening dress before her eyes at a night club in London, the same evening. It must have given her a ghastly shock, but there, I like to dramatize life.”
“What was the name of the night club, Mr Ricardo?” asked Heather.
“Seeing that its character is unimpeachable, I can tell you, Inspector; ‘The Blue Bottle.’”
“I know it. Respectable so far,” commented Heather.
“Therefore, so far, so good! Knowing the proprietress of this club, I immediately got into confidential conversation with her. To cut a long story short—I know you’ll be disappointed, but I can’t possibly reveal my methods to a professional rival—I elicited the fact that Miss Garford was touting illicit spirit to various clubs and road houses round London. This information was priceless to Algernon. It put mortar into the hands of a bricklayer who was standing gaping beside a pile of silly bricks. Immediately I divulged the secret to him, the air of frustration vanished from his face. He began to look like a human being with an aim in life. Sequel: after a little fiddling about with the wainscoting of this room, he discovered the entrance to the elusive tunnel. Resume Algernon, I’m dying for a cigarette after that sustained bit of narrative.”
“Immediately we discovered the entrance, Ricardo and I promptly began our exploration.”
“Not quite correct, Algernon. We lunched first. Accuracy is the handmaiden of truth and the fickle mistress of the liar. That’s why I’m always beautifully vague,” interrupted Ricardo.
The Spirit Murder Mystery Page 21
