The Spirit Murder Mystery

by Robin Forsythe

  “We tramped about a mile along the subway, which was leading us in the direction of the church,” continued Vereker. “Then we came upon an inter-secting passage which connected it with the central tunnel to Riswell Manor, and finally to the tunnel which had never been explored. This last tunnel was the one I was eager to investigate. It finally brought us to the object of my whole quest, namely, the spot which Thurlow eventually reached after he had disappeared from Old Hall Farm. At this spot the tunnel opened out into two large chambers. The first, on lower ground, contained a large wash back for brewing the wort or liquor made from barley. This was an exciting discovery, but more was to follow. After tripping over a heavy timber baulk lying on the floor, I flashed my lamp about and came across a cap and some short strands of rope.”

  “Was it Thurlow’s cap?” asked the inspector eagerly.

  “I think we can definitely say it was. The strands of rope, one of which was still attached to the balk of timber, were probably the strands that bound Clarry Martin’s wrists and ankles before he died.”

  “But the question is, what killed him?” remarked Heather.

  “On this point I’m not certain, but I infer that he died from carbon dioxide poisoning. The gas still pervaded the chamber when we visited it, but it would have been in much greater density when the wort was brewing in the vat. When yeast is added to wort, it converts the sugar content into alcohol and throws off carbonic acid gas in the process. I have an idea Martin was tied to that heavy post, and in his struggles the post snapped off at the base and he fell with it. Carbonic acid gas being heavier than air naturally collects along the floor, and Martin, lying prostrate and unable to free himself from his ligatures, would soon succumb to its effects. Carbon dioxide, being a narcotic poison, would produce the symptoms discovered by your pathologist, namely cerebral congestion and apoplexy. Cases, however, are extremely rare, and that would account for the guarded nature of the doctor’s report.”

  “That’s sound enough. We can almost take it for granted that that’s how Martin met his end,” commented Heather.

  “We then proceeded into the adjoining chamber which contained the stills. Here I discovered that my inferences about the note found on Martin were correct. The soap box was broken, and the spirit taps on the worm of the spirit still evidently needed new washers.”

  “What was the worm, Algernon?” asked Ricardo.

  “The worm is a spiral lead pipe which runs from the apex of the spirit still through a tank of cold water. This process condenses the spirit vapour into liquor. One of the taps opened on to a small glass testing tank filled with clear water. If the spirit is sufficiently refined, it drips into the tank of water and makes no visible impression. If it’s not pure enough, it turns the water milky. These details, however, are unnecessary. Just as we were about to leave, I caught sight of a case lying on the brick furnace of the spirit still. It contained tools, and I think I’m right in saying the attaché case belonged to Martin. He was carrying one on the night of his disappearance. And if you remember, Heather, Martin was apprenticed to a copper-smith before he took to the motor trade. Copper stills naturally come in the copper-smith’s line of business.”

  “Splendid, Mr. Vereker, and now we come to the main point! Martin, on that night, was, so he said, going to see Mr. Arthur Orton about some repairs to a motor lorry which he had sold him. Orton confirmed this. I take it that was camouflage, and that the distillery is below Church Farm. Martin was going to mend the stills.”

  “That’s fairly certain, Heather. When I saw the brick furnaces under the stills, I wondered where the smoke from them would issue when they were alight. Then I remembered that Orton was also a miller and ground his corn by steam. I guess the flues from those furnaces run into the small factory chimney which is such a landmark in the rural scenery of Yarham.”

  “Now we come to the crux of the business, Mr. Vereker. Why was Martin bound hand and foot? Who smashed Thurlow’s skull, and why did Thurlow shoot Martin when he was evidently a corpse?”

  “We’ve still got a lot of work ahead, Heather, and here I shall have to hand over the reins to you. But this is how I’ve figured things out. Martin, as you know, was not doing very well in the motor business. His finances were getting low. I suggest, of course, it’s only a guess, that he tried to twist money out of Orton. Orton resented this attempt at extortion on the part of Martin, whose knowledge of the distillery put him in a commanding position to indulge in a little blackmail. Martin, who was probably drunk at the time, was bound hand and foot and kept a prisoner in the chamber containing the wash back, till he sobered up and thought better of it. He struggled to get free and met his death as I’ve already described. As for Thurlow, after leaving Old Hall Farm, he made his way along the tunnel and by some mischance took the way we deliberately chose to-day. I reckon that, after solving the riddle of the spirit music, he explored the third and unexplored tunnel. He knew of the existence of these tunnels from reading his book on the history of Yarham. He arrived at length at the secret distillery and tripping, as I did, over the baulk of timber, fell. He was carrying his loaded revolver in his hand, in case of emergency, and as he fell it was discharged, and the bullet passed through Martin’s shoulder.”

  “Did you hunt for the bullet?” asked Heather.

  “Naturally. Taking a line from the lie of the timber post, I searched the wall of the chamber. This wall is of primeval chalk and has no brick facing. As you know, chalk walls support themselves. In it I found a hole, and following up this hole, I finally dug out the bullet with a jack knife. I have it here, Heather, and hand it over to you for examination under a comparison microscope. I think you’ll find that it was fired from Thurlow’s revolver.”

  Taking the bullet from his pocket, Vereker gave it to Heather, who, placing it in a matchbox, carefully stowed it away.

  “But the question is, who killed Thurlow?” asked Vereker.

  “I said the sparrow!” murmured Ricardo sleepily from his chair.

  “Arthur Orton, undoubtedly!” chimed in Heather. “Thurlow’s revolver shot brought him at once into the chamber and, seeing a stranger there, armed with a revolver, he tackled him. Thurlow evidently turned tail and was going to make a run for it, when Orton picked up the fold-drift and hit him over the head with it. I’m afraid I’ve lost the game to you this time, Mr. Vereker, and may as well buy those fags for you.”

  “Somehow, I can’t think of Arthur Orton as a murderer,” remarked Vereker, shaking his head. “From what I saw of the man—and here again I rely on intuition and my knowledge of psychology—he’s not the type. Although he resorted to this distillation business to make money, he was probably led into it by the presence of the plant under his farm. Any kind of smuggling has, apart from commercial gain, an extraordinary appeal to the mind that’s a bit romantic and loves to take a risk. Orton’s that type, I’m sure. He probably began the game for home consumption, and when he found it profitable, his business instincts took command, and he put the whole thing on a commercial basis. Miss Dawn Garford, with whom he was friendly, was let into the secret. Knowing her habits and her love of money, he chose an excellent agent for distribution. As for his murdering Thurlow to keep himself out of the hands of the law, I simply can’t swallow it. He would know that discovery would at the worst mean a very heavy fine, and he is doubtless well enough off to pay the damages. No, Heather, I don’t think you’ve spotted the murderer yet.”

  “Let me put you all right,” interrupted Ricardo, rising to a sitting posture on the divan. “As you all know, Joe Battrum, Orton’s man, must have been in the know with his boss. In fact, he carried out the delivery of orders taken by the charming Miss Garford. He was probably in the secret when Thurlow came on the scene. He was a thorough yokel and had a firm belief in the supernatural. Taking Thurlow for a ghost, he laid him out. From Runnacles, the gardener’s story Joe Battrum was with his lorry at Cobbler’s Corner, the night previous to the discovery of the bodies. Therefore, I dedu
ce that Battrum planted the bodies of Thurlow whom he killed, and of Martin who clearly met his death by a kind of misadventure. This killing of Thurlow preyed on the poor fellow’s mind. He began to think he was haunted by the dead man’s ghost, and finally, clean off his chump, committed suicide.”

  “Excellent, Mr. Ricardo! Not a bad theory, but as Battrum’s dead, he’s not of much use to me. I want to arrest somebody. I’m itching to do so, and it’ll have to be Orton for being an accessory, if not the actual murderer. I’ll stick to my guns, however, and put him down as the killer.”

  “Now that you’ve definitely placed your man, Heather, I’m going to make my suggestion. I have an idea that when Ephraim Noy came to Yarham, he came with a definite purpose. He had been in the liquor traffic in America; he resorted to it again on his return to England, and was caught and fined at Doncaster. Leaving Doncaster, he probably returned to London and tried the game again there. While engaged in it, he came across the Yarham firm of distillers. A man of his habits would be almost certain to meet some of Miss Garford’s customers. Seeing that it was a flourishing concern, he promptly traced its origin to this village. After the manner of the American gangster, he ‘muscled in.’ From the note found in his bungalow, we may take it that he succeeded. That note, like the fragment found on Martin, was evidently written by Orton. Now, Noy, as you know, Heather, was a man who had not hesitated to take human life in his previous career. This is a definite and very strong pointer in his direction. He was probably assisting in operations in the distilling chamber when Thurlow entered and fell and accidentally discharged his revolver. Picking up the fold-drift, Noy promptly ran into the adjoining chamber, where he was confronted by Thurlow. We are fairly certain he bore Thurlow a grudge. The men had known one another years ago, and when Noy turned up at Yarham, Thurlow definitely refused to have anything to do with him. This snub doubtless rankled bitterly and Noy wrote to Thurlow. Seeing that Thurlow paid Noy five hundred pounds shortly after receiving that letter, we won’t be far wrong in putting that transaction down as the result of blackmail. Face to face once more with Thurlow, and knowing that Thurlow was armed, Noy waited his chance and when his enemy had turned away from him, he struck the fatal blow. Heather, you’ll have to arrest Ephraim Noy, and if you’ve got sufficient evidence, charge him with Thurlow s murder.”

  “So that’s your solution, Mr. Vereker! I can’t agree with you. And how do you account for the recent row in Noy’s bungalow, the smashed furniture, and the blood spatters? Doesn’t it strike you that after Orton had written to him, advising him to quit, that Noy refused to budge. Say, Noy threatened to blow the gaff. There would be a fight. Orton doubtless came armed, killed his man, and has since disposed of the body, possibly in one of those secret tunnels. Now that I come to think of it, the letter was probably written after the row, to make it look as if Noy had taken the tip and cleared out. In support of my theory that Noy is not the murderer, there’s his story to us of seeing a motor car down at Cobbler’s Corner on the night previous to the discovery of the bodies. If he were the murderer, he wouldn’t be such a fool as to put us on to his own tracks like that.”

  “You’re now working purely on surmise, Heather. That’s my amateur method. It’s not like you and I think you’re a bit rattled because you know you’re whacked,” argued Vereker, smiling at the inspector. “Against your theory that Orton came to Noy’s bungalow and killed him to prevent him informing, it’s hardly likely that he’d have done so in broad daylight. I saw Noy in the morning. You visited the bungalow in the afternoon and came and told me a little later. Your theoretical murder must have occurred in the interval. Of course, it’s possible, but it’s hardly likely. I think Noy felt that we were on his tracks when he found me nosing round his shanty. His story about the motor car at Cobbler’s Corner was a ruse to fling us off the scent, for we knew that he had no motor car. He probably thought his story of that motor car would be corroborated by some other chance witness, and the fact would certainly tend to deflect suspicion away from himself. I feel sure Noy is very much alive, and it’s your job to find him. As for the smashing of his furniture and the blood stains about the room, it’s clear there was a fight. When you spoke to Battrum, did you mention that car lights had been seen on the road near Cobbler’s Corner?”

  “I did. Orton and he had told me, just after I took up this case, that they had seen Thurlow step into a car at the corner of Yarham green, on the night of his disappearance. When I learned that Noy had seen a car on the road at Cobbler’s Corner, I questioned Orton and Battrum again in the hope of getting some information about the appearance of the car and its number. I told them Noy had confirmed the presence of a strange car in the mystery.”

  “As you know, Heather, Runnacles said that he was sure that it was a motor lorry, and that Joe Battrum was driving it. Battrum may have taken it into his head that Noy had split on him and was trying to fling suspicion his way. He was drunk for some days before he committed suicide, and I daresay he thought he’d have it out with Noy. They probably quarrelled and came to blows. But all this is highly supposititious.”

  “Ah, Algernon, you’ve got the word correct! I once mixed it up with a medical term and have never forgotten it since,” interrupted Ricardo, laughing loudly at the recollection.

  For some moments there was silence, and then Vereker exclaimed, “I’ve still to find out the identity of the ghost who visited me in this room, when I was alone. On that point I’m still at sea.”

  “I can shed some light on that subject, Mr. Vereker,” said Heather. “When I first called on Mr Arthur Orton, I was met at the door of Church Farm by a buxom young woman. She is Orton’s housekeeper, and from what I can gather, has intentions of making the gentleman her husband. I have seen her again since then, and the first thing I noticed about her was her remarkably small feet. You were on the track of a lady with small feet, and this led me to look at her tootsies. You mentioned that the ghost’s feet were capable of wearing size three in shoes. I couldn’t say off-hand that Miss Shimpling, for that’s her name, wears size three, but it’s probable. In the light of your tunnel story, I reckon she’s your ghost. What do you think?”

  “That’s the lady. I’ve had her in my mind for some time, Heather, but have never had the chance of measuring her for shoes. Also, Clarke the cobbler, mystified me by saying that Miss Garford was the only woman in the village who wore size three in shoes, as far as he knew. The ghost, however, is a side issue, and I haven’t troubled myself much about her.”

  “But what was her motive?” asked Ricardo. “That ghost was the only person in the case that interested me after Miss Thurlow and Dawn Garford.”

  “I see the motive clearly now,” resumed Vereker. “In my first conversation with Miss Thurlow, she told me frankly that Orton admired her. He possibly admired her future wealth at the same time. She, in turn, was attracted by Orton. The housekeeper, if I am a judge of women, would soon tumble to the fact that there was just a chance of Miss Thurlow becoming Mrs. Orton. After Thurlow’s murder, the opportunity presented itself of scaring Miss Thurlow out of Old Hall Farm. She knew about the secret passage to this house and worked out her scheme. However, it’s not likely that Miss Thurlow will trouble her any more on that score. As for Orton, Heather, what are you going to do about him?”

  “I’m going to arrest him right away on suspicion. In any case, I’ve got him on the illicit distillation business, if not on the major count. Now, gentlemen, I think I’ll go and carry out that very pleasant task. It’s the first time for a long while that I’ve snapped the darbies on my man. My car’s down at ‘The Walnut Tree,’ and it’s not in first class order. It would take some time before I could get it seen to. You’ve got a car here, Mr. Ricardo?”

  “I have, and she’s fighting fit. ‘Gladys’ will be delighted to carry such a famous ’tec to make an arrest. Shall I get her ready?”

  “By all means, and if she’ll carry four passengers, she’s just the thing.”


  “You can squeeze yourself and prisoner into the dicky, Heather. You’ll probably like to sit on top of your prey, so to speak, so that’ll be O.K.”

  “Come along then, Mr. Vereker. We’ll all go together. As you’ve played the leading part in the case, you ought to be in at the kill.”

  “No, Heather, I’m not coming. I don’t like to be in at the kill on any occasion, and I’ve a decided aversion to seeing Orton arrested for murder. Though he’s doubtless an accessory and wanted for the job of illicit distillation, he has been driven into an awful hole by force of circumstances. He’ll have to face the music now, and that’ll be what he deserves, but I’m not going to chortle over his discomfiture. By the way, he’s fond of music and an admirer of Handel and Haydn. When you’ve cleared up the history of the Yarham case, I’m sure you’ll discover he was the mysterious organist, who first put me on the track of a solution of the whole business. I’ve got to thank his musical leanings for that first extraordinary clue. If he had thought his organ playing could be heard at Old Hall Farm, he’d have chucked it before he did.”

  “Perhaps he did guess,” remarked Heather. “He seemed to have a strong objection to the Rev. Sturgeon’s excavations.”

  “That arose from his fear that the rector would finally find his way to Church Farm, Heather. It was one of the factors that led me later to suspect that Church Farm was probably the terminus of the unexplored tunnel and the centre of the hooch factory.”

  “I must say that nothing escapes you, Mr. Vereker. But if I don’t hurry, the gentleman may escape me. He may get the wind up at any moment now and make a dash for liberty. Come on, Mr. Ricardo, we must go.”

  “Au revoir, Heather. Miss Thurlow returns to-morrow, I believe. At least, that was her intention. I shall sleep at ‘The Walnut Tree’ to-night, pack up, and after bidding the lady good-bye, return to my flat in town. I’ll see you both at the inn, later on to-night, I suppose. When you’ve finally caught the real murderer, Ephraim Noy, I’ll expect you to ring me up in London and fix a rendezvous. The bet was fifty cigarettes, Heather, and I’ll take the money now.”