The Spirit Murder Mystery (7 page)

“Now, Mr. Vereker, you've been here from the commencement of this affair. What d'you know?”

“Nothing much so far, but I'll tell you all about it,
ab ovo
.”

“What's that?”

“You must ask them at Hendon. But to proceed. Some days ago, I believe it was on a Friday night, a man called Clarry Martin, who was on holiday in the village, disappeared. He belonged to Yarham, but lived and worked in London. Something to do with the motor business. Started as a mechanic and soon owned a large garage, show rooms, repair shop, etc. He was his own boss, and often came to Yarham to see his parents.”

“You mean his best girl,” interrupted Heather. “Parents are seldom good for more than one visit a year nowadays.”

“Perhaps you're right. There's a best girl in the case anyway. Her name is Dawn Garford.”

“Dawn, eh? A real daughter of Eve, of course.”

“Possibly so. I'm glad to see you're in form, Heather, and as chirpy as ever. Well, Martin was very much in love with the young lady, and whether she returned his affection or not, I'm unable to say. But she encouraged him. However, he wasn't the only suitor she encouraged. There were several others, it village gossip is to be believed.”

“Strange world, Mr. Vereker,” commented Heather, lighting his pipe; “there's never enough of a good thing to go all round. So Mr. Martin got his back up with the lady and there was a row.”

“Exactly; and Mr. Martin disappeared. One of the other suitors was Mr John Thurlow, and rumour says that prior to his death it looked as if he were going to draw the prize in the sweep. He was a retired Indian merchant and reputed to be wealthy. He was much older than the lady, but his wealth probably discounted that item. Last Monday night he also disappeared from his place, Old Hall Farm. On Wednesday morning, both the missing men were discovered, as you know, at Cobbler's Corner. They were dead.”

“Thurlow with his head smashed in, and Martin shot through the shoulder. I'll see the local police inspector this afternoon and get his full report on the case. Was there anything that particularly struck you, apart from what you've told me?”

“I've left the most exciting bit till the last, Heather. On Monday night, Miss Thurlow and her uncle, both spiritualists, held a little séance in Mr. Thurlow's study. It was an experiment as far as Thurlow was concerned. They extinguished the lights, and, according to the niece's story, after a short period of silence, the room was suddenly filled with the strains of ghostly music. Thurlow was so astonished that he switched on the light. The music continued for a while and then died away. Miss Thurlow left her uncle in the study. She says she went into the garden to try and collect her thoughts before going to bed. Her trance state had upset her, and she feels that she was a bit distrait. So much so, that she doesn't remember how long she stayed outside. She thinks about an hour. Eventually, however, she came to her full senses and found herself in bed. She says she never heard her uncle come upstairs to his room, and finally she fell asleep. Next morning, the servant discovered the electric light in the study still burning and the window wide open. All the doors of the house were shut and locked. She went upstairs to her master's bedroom with his morning tea. The room was empty and the bed had not been slept in.”

A frown had gathered on Inspector Heather's brow, and he began to rub his chin thoughtfully.

“You got the story of this séance business from the young lady?” he asked.

“Yes”

“Is she... is she loopy?” asked the officer in an impatient tone.

“Not in the least. She's a very sensible and charming young woman, in my opinion,” replied Vereker with emphasis.

“If they're charming, they're always sensible, with most young men,” commented Heather and asked: “but you don't think this spirit business had anything to do with Thurlow's disappearance and murder?”

“I'm not going to express any rash opinions at this stage, Heather. Miss Thurlow has asked me to come and see her, if I want to ask her any further questions. I'd like to get a little more information about this spirit manifestation. As you know, I've always been rather interested in the subject.”

“God bless my soul, I'd forgotten that! Does the young lady call herself a medium by any chance?” 

“I'm not certain. She impresses me as a genuine psychic, if there is such a thing, and I can only presume there is from what I've read.”

“You mean Psyche, I suppose. This is a bad beginning, Mr. Vereker. I don't know what's the matter with the younger generation. A sensible man like you—apart from your painting—paying any heed to this kind of bugaboo! That's the word, pure bugaboo! Really, really, it's too bad!”

“Have you ever been to a séance with a genuine medium, Heather?”

“Yes, but it's many years ago now.”

“What happened?”

“We arrested the genuine medium. You've heard of the Farrow case?”

“I've read of it. Spiritualists say it was a disgraceful business on the part of the police.”

“That may be their opinion. I simply did my duty. Still, it's no use discussing that affair now. It doesn't affect the present case.”

“And you're no wiser on the subject to-day?”

“I wouldn't say that, but I can't for the life of me see what this séance business has to do with Mr. Thurlow's disappearance and murder. What connection do you see?”

“None at present, but I feel that Miss Thurlow thinks there is, and I'm going to keep it in mind.”

“Have you managed to get in touch with Miss Dawn Garford?”

“No. She left Yarham on the morning of Tuesday, the very morning that Miss Thurlow discovered that her uncle had vanished. She has gone down to stay with friends at Midhurst, in Sussex.”

“That sounds more significant to me than raising spooks,” commented Heather. “Do you know anything more about this Miss Garford?”

“Very little. Village gossip says she's in the habit of exceeding the speed limit. In a little place like Yarham, gossip's guarded. A wink says what it's unsafe to say. The worst of it is, you can't translate winks explicitly.”

“Just so. How is she fixed financially?”

“Her late husband left her enough to live on.”

“I thought you said she was Miss Garford.”

“That's how she's known in Yarham. Her married name is Mrs. Button.”

“Why didn't you tell me she was a widow? It's most important. They never hesitate to employ bodyline stuff to pull off an important match. How did she get on with the old boy's niece?”

“It seems they were quite good friends.”

“Would her marriage to Thurlow have had any financial effect on the niece?”

“I can't tell you definitely. The rector, who was very friendly with the dead man, tells me that, by his will, Thurlow had left everything he possessed to his niece. His marriage might have altered that considerably.”

“Almost a certainty. To put the matter very bluntly, by her uncle's sudden death, Miss Eileen bags the dough. It's an important point; it supplies a motive at once, and the spirit stuff may be eye-wash.”

“I've been thinking a lot about that, Heather, but it doesn't seem to me at present to be of much consequence. Still, we must dig deeper. We've got a lot to learn.”

“Were Martin and Thurlow friends?” asked the inspector after a pause.

“Certainly not after Martin found that Thurlow was his rival. But we mustn't jump to hasty conclusions. On the face of it, it looks as if Martin had been shot through the shoulder by Thurlow, and in return slammed Thurlow over the head with the iron bar. It's not as simple as all that. In the first place, the blow that smashed Thurlow's skull was delivered from behind, and must have been dealt with considerable force. The iron bar, called a fold-drift in these parts, because it's used for fixing up sheep folds, is a very heavy instrument. Martin certainly couldn't have swung it after being shot with a Webley .45. I've had a long chat with Cornard on the subject, and he's thoroughly mystified about the cause of Martin's death. The wound was not what you'd call a deadly one, though he may have died of subsequent shock. But there are other points which need clearing up. Cornard says that there are marks on Martin's wrists and ankles which show that he'd been bound hand and foot prior to death. As far as I can gather, your great expert, Sir Donald McPherson, will have to be called in to make an autopsy, and probably portions of the body will have to be submitted to the Home Office analyst, to see if poison enters into the business of Martin's mysterious death.”

“Looks as if we're up against a first-class mystery, Mr. Vereker,” remarked Heather, rising and preparing to leave the inn.

“You'll get a fuller account of the police findings from the local inspector, this afternoon, Heather. I'll expect you to stick to our rules, and not hide any vital information from me. I can't rise to brilliant intuitions out of a vacuum.”

“I'll play the game fairly, Mr. Vereker. I daresay, when you were left at Cobbler's Corner by Godbold, you weren't idle. You've spotted a thing or two you've not told me about, but that's part of the contract. You've not said one word about this man, Ephraim Noy, who found the bodies. What about him?”

“Now, Heather, you're getting hot. The very name Ephraim is a deadly pointer, nearly as incriminating as Silas. He's a mystery even to the village. He lives entirely alone in his new bungalow, and is about as communicative as a brick wall. His vocabulary doesn't get much further than yes and no. No one seems to know where he came from, what he is or has been. Apparently he lives on investments, and is as free with his money as a Yorkshireman. Godbold was very suspicious about Ephraim's chance discovery of the bodies, and looked handcuffs at him straight away. When questioned by the constable, he said he had nothing further to say about the matter, which didn't concern him. If he were forced to make any further statement, he'd make it to a ‘responsible officer.' Godbold exploded in choice Suffolk dialect, of which I couldn't understand one word, but it didn't upset Mr. Ephraim Noy.”

Inspector Heather glanced at his watch, and as he left the room, remarked cheerily: “Au revoir, Mr. Vereker. I'll see you some time this evening. In the meantime, while I'm getting the facts of this business from the Suffolk police, I hope you'll work up a few of your best intuitions. You'll need them all, if I'm not mistaken. What are you going to do this afternoon?”

“You ought, as Oscar Wilde said, ask me what I'm going to think, Heather. My best intuitions come to me when I'm doing absolutely nothing at all.”

“You might go and see this charming and sensible Miss Thurlow. You're better than I am at dealing with genuine psychics. In fact, all women are a bit of a puzzle to me.”

“First time I've heard you say so, Heather. In any case, the man who says he knows all about women, never knows the first thing about himself. I forgot to mention that there's a very pretty cook up at...”

But the inspector had disappeared through the dining-room door before Anthony Vereker could finish the sentence.

Shortly after Heather's departure, Vereker strolled lazily out of “The Walnut Tree” into the warm summer sunshine. He took the road skirting the village green and leading southwards to Hawksfield.

All this portion of Suffolk about Yarham is dotted with villages of a few hundred inhabitants, with isolated farms scattered between. The population is almost entirely agrarian, and the conditions of life can soberly be called truly rural. It has an insidious charm, detachedly somnolent and meditative, and Vereker was under its almost uncanny spell. There was no settled plan in his mind, and if he had any objective, it was almost subconscious. He had chosen the road because it was perhaps more picturesque than any of the others winding tortuously out of Yarham. He was aware that there was little likelihood of meeting anyone he knew, because one can traverse any of the roads about Yarham for miles at any time of day without passing more than half a dozen pedestrians, a farm waggon, and an occasional motor car. He felt an overwhelming sense of remoteness from the hurrying world, and was conscious of that absence of distraction which leaves a man starkly facing his own thoughts. Yes, Yarham was conducive to quiet thinking and sound sleeping.

He had not, however, walked more than a mile before he encountered Miss Eileen Thurlow. She had just emerged from a rough grassy lane which ran into the road at right angles. This lane, a primitive cart track called a “drift,” was an approach to Church Farm, lying about a mile from the road and inaccessible by any other means. In summer these drifts are passable on foot, but in winter the pedestrian can only wade through them in gum boots. Thus many farms are completely isolated, and no traffic passes them except that of their own farm waggons and servants.

Miss Thurlow at once recognized Vereker.

“I was just coming down to see you,” she said. “I've been expecting you to call at Old Hall Farm every day since your visit with Mr. Sturgeon.”

“I've been going to do so, Miss Thurlow, but somehow or other...”

“You didn't like to trouble me in the circumstances. I understand. I've been wanting to talk things over with you alone, because I think you understand me. We're only half a mile from the Old Hall. Would you care to come along now to tea, or have you some other engagement?”

“I'm quite free and shall be glad to come. I hope you won't mind my asking you all sorts of questions.”

“I want you to, and I'll answer them as best I can. I'm anxious to help you to clear up this terrible business of my uncle's death. The police seem unable to make head or tail of it, and Inspector Winter treats me as if I were an imbecile. When I mentioned to him that my uncle and I had a séance on the night he disappeared, the man was positively insulting. He asked me abruptly what ‘the dooce' had that got to do with the business.”