“Oh no, not yet, Mr. Vereker. I was on Ephraim Noy to start with. Since then I’ve swapped horses with you, because I’m sure you were on Orton when you began. I’ve still got a chance of that barrel of beer. I may score my K.O. in the last round. Stamina’s my strong suit, and I still hope to administer the sleep wallop, as they call it. So long, for the present.”
Chapter Sixteen
About eleven o’clock the same night, Vereker sat in his private sitting-room in “The Walnut Tree.” He had packed all his belongings, and his interest in the Yarham murder had fallen almost to zero. To kill time, he was reading an essay of his favourite author, Ralph Waldo Emerson. Neither Ricardo nor Heather had returned, and he was wondering what had happened to them. Knowing his friend’s propensity for speed, he was disturbed by the thought that there might have been an accident. As time passed, he grew more and more anxious on that score. Then, to his relief, he suddenly heard the sound of a door being closed below. There followed the rapid ascent of familiar footsteps and the next moment Ricardo entered the room.
“I’m damned glad to see you back, Ricky! I expected your return long ago. When you didn’t turn up, I began to think you’d had a smash. What has kept you?”
“A smash, Algernon, but fortunately Gladys wasn’t involved.”
“A smash. What do you mean?”
“Let me begin at the beginning, Algernon. Once upon a time there lived in Yarham...”
“Shut up, and get on with the story!”
“Right-ho! After leaving you at Old Hall Farm, the inspector and I made our way straight to Church Farm. We moved somewhat, for Heather was blowing with impatience and rattling his handcuffs in a very irritating manner. He was the incarnation of law and order and you-must-do-what-you’re-told! We left the main road and turned up a lane that must have been made by the first barbarous inhabitants of Suffolk. Heather said it was called a drift. I’d like to know who put the ‘d’ into it. We bumped up this natural chasm at a great pace, and Heather began to cushion off the coach-work in thrilling fashion. It reminded me of a good rally at Wimbledon. Suddenly we saw a car approaching us from the farm. Orton was driving the car at a comfortable pace, but when he spotted the inspector in ‘Gladys,’ he promptly accelerated. The drift is wide, so I slewed well away from him, in case his intention was to bullock into us. Heather hailed him to stop, but he ignored the summons and fairly whizzed past us. ‘He’s smelt a rat!’ said Heather. ‘After him as fast as you possibly can, Mr. Ricardo. We mustn’t let him escape.’
“I spun the car round as if it was on a pivot, and after him we went, hell for rubber! Heather’s weight tested the springs to the utmost as we progressed like a chamois down the drift once more. When we got on the tarmac road, I felt happier and let ‘Gladys’ stretch herself. Orton was about a couple of hundred yards ahead of us, and by the way he let his bus rip, we knew our purpose had been discovered. Up went the speedometer, forty, fifty, sixty. I thought we’d overhaul him easily at that speed, but I was mistaken. He began to draw away, and I began to envy him the possession of his car. I had my misgivings about ‘Gladys’s’ ability to sustain the pace, and I think Heather guessed my thoughts.
“‘Take her muzzle off!’ he said grimly. ‘We must overhaul him at all costs.’
“‘She’s doing seventy now, Heather, but none too sweetly. I don’t think she can do much more,’ I replied.
“‘The blighter’s leaving us standing. Take off her muzzle, Mr. Ricardo!’
“‘I’ve taken off everything possible, Heather. She’s sprinting in her bloomers,’ I replied testily.
“‘Bust her if necessary,’ advised Heather feverishly, but that, of course, was a counsel of perfection. Still I was doing my best to follow his instructions. It seemed useless. Orton’s car began to increase the distance between us. Slowly but surely he was drawing away. It was damnable, Algernon. My excitement began to ebb and give place to a horrible feeling of being licked. You know when you’re beaten at boxing and are only waiting for the K.O. It was something like that. I was quite certain when we started in pursuit that ‘Gladys’ would wheel round her opponent like a bird of prey. Instead, she was being made to look like a penguin after a swallow. Our speedometer trembled up to seventy-five and we hung on to our man somehow. Fortunately the roads were clear of traffic and fairly straight. Corners we skated round on our outside edge. Mile after mile we slugged away after him, and it gradually began to dawn on me that we had got his measure.
“‘I think we can manage to keep him in sight, Heather,’ I remarked at length with a certain amount of satisfaction, for my spirits were beginning to rise once more. You know the effects of a bottle of Pol Roger at eleven o’clock in the morning. It was like that.
“‘Good lord, is that all we can do!’ groaned Heather dismally. ‘I thought this car was a greyhound. It’s more like an overfed Peke. I wish we’d taken my old bus.’
“This rattled me into my habitual flippancy. ‘Have you got a revolver, Heather?’ I asked. ‘What d’you want a revolver for?’ he queried. ‘I don’t want one,’ I replied, ‘but if you’re a good shot, you might puncture his rear tyres neatly. It has often been done—in fiction. If you’re a poor marksman, you could keep firing it behind us. The explosions would give us an extra kick.’ This reduced him to speechlessness, and he began twisting his moustaches savagely. I had barely got the words out of my mouth, when I noticed that we were beginning to creep up on our adversary. Either he was slowing down, or something had gone wrong with his car.
“‘We’re pulling up on him, Heather. What do you think has happened?’ I asked.
“‘A miracle!’ replied Heather curtly, but I could see he was getting buoyant once more. ‘Take her bloomers off!’ he roared hoarsely as he saw we were coming up with Orton at a magnificent rate. But we were soon to discover the reason for Orton’s slackening up. The road was getting narrower and twisting about in the usual Suffolk style. Then, all at once, there was a hairpin bend ahead and one of those prehistoric bridges common in these parts. I couldn’t see it, but we were to learn the fact a few minutes later. Orton possibly knew that feature of the landscape and was going to play for safety. But he was going too fast and couldn’t keep his car under control. He went into a skid, tried to skid out of it, and then there was an almighty crash! His bus bullocked into the old stone wall of the bridge tore it up like blotting paper, and did a somersault sideways. I had just a nice distance to let ‘Gladys’ come up panting to the scene of disaster. Heather popped out like a frog escaping from a duck, and I joined him with my instinctive, leisurely grace. We just managed to extricate Orton before his bus burst into flames. He was unconscious when we got him out. We both thought he was done for and were going to put him gently on the side of the road, when he opened his eyes and stared rather wildly at us.
“‘I agree with Samuel Butler when he says that Handel’s music...’ he began, but never finished the sentence. He had relapsed once more into unconsciousness.
“‘Looks as if he’s pegging out, Heather,’ I remarked.
“‘It does. Perhaps the best thing that could happen,’ replied Heather, and the hardened old devil’s voice was quite tender with sympathy.
“Heather then carried Orton to the grassy roadside beyond the bridge, took off his own jacket and tucked it under the poor fellow’s head. He made him as comfortable as possible, and having lit his pipe, sat down beside him. We waited there a few minutes to see if Orton would revive, but he didn’t. Then a big saloon car hove in sight, and Heather signalled the driver to stop. The car had no passengers, so he commandeered it as an ambulance and, putting the unconscious Orton comfortably inside, they drove off to the nearest hospital. Before he left, he gave me a message for you. ‘Tell Mr. Vereker, if I don’t see him to-morrow morning, I’ll ring him up when I return to London.’ I then got into my old traction engine and took my time coming home. That’s the end of the news summary.”
“Do you think Orton’s gone west?” as
ked Vereker after a brief silence.
“Couldn’t say, Algernon. He may be severely injured, or he may only be suffering from bad concussion. We’ll have to wait for Heather’s report.”
“Pity it wasn’t Ephraim Noy,” was Vereker’s sole comment, and rising from his chair, he added: “I’m going to turn in. We’ve had a purple day, Ricky!”
“No use my going to bed yet,” replied Ricardo. “I must let the effervescence die down a bit before I can sleep. I think I’ll have a cigarette or two and a bottle of ‘Guinness.’ That’ll pull my shattered frame together. Good-night, Algernon, good-night, goodnight!”
Next morning Vereker called at Old Hall Farm and found that Miss Thurlow had returned. She was eager to hear all that had happened in her absence, and Vereker told her briefly the whole story of his investigations into the Yarham mystery. She received a painful shock on learning of Arthur Orton’s implication in the affair, and was clearly disappointed at the material explanation of the “manifestations” which she had ascribed to spirit agency. She kept, however, a complete mastery of her feelings, and when Vereker, after thanking her for her hospitality, took his departure, she had evidently regained that remarkable serenity and composure which had distinguished her bearing from the beginning of the tragic affair.
One evening, some weeks later, Ricardo and Vereker were sitting in Vereker’s studio in Fenton Street, discussing the painter-detective’s latest picture.
“But, Algernon, you must admit that it lacks architectural form and significance. You’ve said clearly what you wanted to say in terms of paint, but you convey no distinct message teleologically!”
The shrill ringing of the door bell put an end to Ricardo’s joking at the expense of Art criticism, and Albert, Vereker’s batman, announced shortly afterwards that Inspector Heather had called.
“Show him in, Albert, and bring a large jug of beer and glasses,” said Vereker.
A few minutes later, Heather entered the studio and was promptly pushed into a small wicker chair by the boisterous Ricardo.
“It’s a bit inadequate for your bulk, Heather,” he said, “but I’ve always maintained that a big egg looks most imposing in a small basket.”
“Make yourself comfortable in the Minty, Heather. Help yourself to beer and tell us all the news. We’ve been expecting you now for over a week,” said Vereker.
Heather settled himself more comfortably in a larger chair, filled a pewter mug, and lit his rather massive pipe.
“You want to hear the rest of the Yarham murder story, I suppose,” he began. “Well, after I left Mr. Ricardo at the end of a most exciting run, I took Orton to the nearest hospital. He was very badly injured about the spine, but eventually regained consciousness and began to recover slowly. After a week or so, he was well enough to talk to me and discuss his share in ‘The Spirit Murder Mystery’, as the Press have called it. I must admit that his story bears out the accuracy of your deductions in the case to a marvellous degree, Mr. Vereker. I take off my hat to you!”
“You found you were wrong in ascribing Thurlow’s murder to him?” asked Vereker eagerly.
“One minute, let me tell you his story. He admitted he was the writer of the notes to Clarry Martin and Ephraim Noy. As you surmised, those stills were in the underground chamber under Church Farm, when Orton took over the place. They must have been there for ages, because the entrance to the vaults had been bricked up many years ago. Orton, out of sheer curiosity, demolished the wall sealing the entrance and discovered the ancient distillery. He started working it for the mere fun of the thing, and finding that the results were good, decided later on to run it for profit. This was as you had figured it out. Eventually he roped in Miss Garford as an agent for collecting orders. This she did very discreetly and eminently well and received a thumping big commission. Things were going on quietly and successfully, when something went wrong with one of the stills. Orton was no hand at repairing such a contraption, and Miss Garford introduced Clarry Martin into the business as a stand-by copper-smith. He carried out his duties secretly and well. The sky was again clear. Then that arch crook Ephraim Noy appeared on the scene. Somehow he’d got wind of the business in London, and promptly came to Yarham to inquire into it. It was directly in his line. He interviewed Orton and, as you’ve already described it, he muscled in. By this time, Orton was getting rather tired of the whole business. At first he had found it exciting and interesting, but the novelty gradually wore off and Noy took matters in his hands more and more. Orton became, so to speak, almost a sleeping partner. His love of music stole him away from his interest in whisky. By this time he would have liked to quit, but Noy had him in a vice and wasn’t going to stop the racket just because Orton had got sick of it. There was nothing for it but to carry on and hope that the cat wouldn’t get out of the bag. The cat, however, was going to give trouble long before they expected her to. Clarry Martin, crossed in love, took to drink, got into debt, and found himself faced with bankruptcy. He tried to beat off his creditors by extorting money from Orton. In this he was at first successful, but there came a time when Orton would give him no more. He thought he’d try the game on with Noy, but he didn’t know what a tough guy he was pitting himself against. On the night that he went up to mend the soap box and spirit taps, he was rather drunk and decidedly aggressive. He approached Noy for money, and on Noy’s refusal, threatened to twist his tail. Noy soon showed him that he had made a big mistake, and before Martin knew where he was he took a beauty on the point that knocked him senseless. When he recovered, he found himself bound hand and foot to a heavy post in the underground brewing chamber. He struggled, the post broke, and he fell with it. A stiff dose of carbonic acid gas had evidently collected along the floor of the chamber, which is not ventilated, and soon Martin was beyond recall. When Orton heard what had happened, he was beside himself, but after a couple of days of thinking over it, he foolishly agreed to keep his mouth shut about the business and carry on. He was also now thoroughly afraid of Noy, who put it to him that it was better to take a chance of being hanged than a certainty of being shot. The next step was to dispose of the body. It was decided to bury Martin in one of the tunnels. If this had been done, and Thurlow hadn’t been interested in spirit music, possibly nothing more would ever have been heard of Martin. But the very best laid plans go wrong. Now, Joe Battrum had been the first to discover that Martin had died at his post, so to speak. He was in the know, much to his own bewilderment. So he and Noy were just going to form up for a burial party, when to their horror and astonishment Thurlow blundered into the brewing chamber. As you’ve described it, Mr. Vereker, he fell, his revolver was discharged, and the bullet passed through Martin’s shoulder. Battrum, thinking that a ghost had appeared on the scene, bolted for all he was worth and never quite recovered his mental balance. Noy, realizing the deadly importance of what had happened, picked up a fold-drift and knocked Thurlow on the head, smashing his skull. The fat was now thoroughly in the fire, and the disposal of two dead bodies became the burning question. At first it was decided to bury them together in the tunnel, but after some discussion, Orton correctly pointed out that this would be a fatal mistake. Thurlow’s unexpected arrival at the secret distillery declared that there must be an entrance to the tunnels from Old Hall Farm. A search party would eventually come along and the whole ghastly secret would be out. The argument seemed irrefutable. So Noy and Orton racked their brains for a plan of disposal and finally thought of planting the bodies at Cobbler’s Corner. This, Joe Battrum and Ephraim Noy did next night. It was hoped that the story of the rivalry of the two men for the hand of Miss Dawn Garford would make it appear as if they had fought and killed one another. This was weak, especially when they had to reckon with detectives of our calibre, Mr. Vereker, but neither was in a state to think clearly. The rest of the yarn you both know.”
“But what about Orton? Has he recovered, Heather?” asked Ricardo.
“No, the poor chap died after all. He was mortally injur
ed, and though he seemed to make a bit of a recovery at first, he couldn’t maintain it. There came a bad relapse, and he snuffed out quite peacefully. As a matter of fact, I don’t think he wanted to live. He was, I found, very fond of Miss Thurlow and would never have been able to face things, had he recovered. The illicit distillation was bad enough, but to be accessory to a murder was beyond the limit.”
“Thinking back over the case, Heather,” said Vereker, “we can now see why Orton called at Old Hall Farm, the morning after Thurlow’s disappearance. He must have been eager to find out about the entrance to the tunnel and whether anyone in the house knew of it. He evidently learned little, but fearing that they would possibly discover that entrance in their search, decided that the bodies must be removed quickly from the distillery chambers. In a way he was right, because once we had discovered the tunnels, the finding of the bodies would only have been a matter of time. There’s another point I’d like to know more about and that’s the struggle that took place in Noy’s bungalow before he vanished.”
“That’s the one point on which you were a bit off the mark, Mr. Vereker. You thought Battrum had beat him up. I, too, was wrong, for I blamed Orton. The man who made a mess of Noy and his bungalow that midday was Barney Deeks. He had been employed by Noy to do some digging at his well. At the end of the week, when Deeks called for his wages, he found Noy about to depart. Noy tried to get out of what he had agreed to pay him, and a bit of spirited boxing took place. Deeks owned up to this to me, and seeing that he’d had his nose broken in the scrap, I gave him half a dollar to go to the pub and forget he had a nose.”
“What are you going to do about the ladies, Miss Garford and Miss Shimpling, Heather? Were they accessories?” asked Ricardo.
The Spirit Murder Mystery Page 23
