The Spirit Murder Mystery (8 page)

“You've heard that Inspector Heather of Scotland Yard is now in charge of the investigations?” asked Vereker.

“I read it this morning in the
West Suffolk Post
. I hope he's politer than his local colleague.”

“He's a great detective, Miss Thurlow, and a particular friend of mine. I'm sure you'll find him very tactful even on the subject of your séance.”

“I'm glad to hear it, because I'm certain that our séance is in some way connected with what followed.”

“Will you try to explain how?” asked Vereker quietly.

“It's difficult to explain clearly, but I think there's a connection in either of two ways. But first may I ask if you believe in spiritualism, Mr. Vereker?”

“It's a subject on which I must plead ignorance. I've not had sufficient first-hand experience to say I believe in it definitely. From my reading, I'm inclined to think that the spiritualist has, on the whole, proved the soundness of his claims. Further than that I can't go.”

“What I want to know is that you're not obstinately certain that it's all nonsense.”

“I'm never obstinately certain about anything, Miss Thurlow,” replied Vereker smiling.

“I'm glad. To resume; the séance may have had an indirect connection with my uncle's disappearance. After I said good-night to him, he may have left the house by the window, in search of something arising out of the séance. He probably thought the music had some material origin and was determined to find out...”

“Pardon my interrupting, but why did he leave by the window?” asked Vereker.

“We can only surmise that he did. Raymer, one of my maids, said that when she went downstairs next morning, all the doors were closed and locked. The study light was still burning and the window wide open.”

“Your uncle possessed a revolver?”

“Oh yes, he always kept a loaded one in the top left-hand drawer of his writing desk in the study.”

“Of course, it's not unusual to have a fire-arm for protection, especially in a lonely house, but was there any special reason for the precaution? Was he afraid of someone? Had he any enemies?”

“I'm not very sure on that point. He spent a portion of his early life in India. When quite a youngster, I once heard my parents discussing some trouble Uncle John got into out there. It had something to do with an Indian dancing girl, her husband who was murdered, and a temple of the goddess Kali. Not long ago I tried to get my uncle to tell me about it, because it sounded interesting, but he denied all knowledge of the story. For some days after I had revived the memory, he was in a very jumpy state of nerves. It struck me that he was afraid there might be some sequel to that affair even after the lapse of all those years. Just about that time, too, the man Ephraim Noy came to live in Yarham and called on my uncle. My uncle, however, said he didn't want to see him, and Noy went quietly away. I don't know why Noy called, or why my uncle refused to see him, but I've an idea that he knew Noy long before the man came and settled down in Yarham. Shortly after that visit, my uncle bought a revolver and put it in the drawer of his desk. He showed me where it was, and told me that if anything happened in his absence from the house, say a burglary, I was to take the weapon for self-protection if necessary.”

“Did he show by any of his actions that he was afraid of Noy?”

“No. After the incident of his calling at Old Hall Farm, my uncle didn't seem to worry any more about him. Once, when his name cropped up in conversation, he merely said Noy was an unscrupulous and ungrateful brute, and the subject was allowed to drop. About the other connection which our séance may have with my uncle's tragedy, I find it very difficult to talk. But I'm going to mention it at the risk of your thinking me superstitious or of incurring your ridicule. If you're a spiritualist, Mr. Vereker, you must, of course, believe in evil as well as good spirits. Men are evil and good and their spirit counterparts are similar. By some chance he may have got in touch with an evil and vindictive spirit.”

“But you surely don't think an evil spirit could kill a man, Miss Thurlow?” asked Vereker, amazed at this suggestion, and regarding his companion with sharply awakened curiosity.

“Why not?” asked Miss Thurlow with unruffled calm. “At a séance I've seen a heavy table, weighing sixty pounds, turned over as if it had been a toy, the medium being a fragile woman of sixty years. Then there's the Biblical example of the Gadarene swine. Spirits, like their human counterparts, may be irrational, insane, even murderous. As I've said, it's difficult to discuss the subject with people who've no knowledge of spiritualism. They simply think you're a candidate for Bedlam.”

“Yes, I confess that's the general attitude,” commented Vereker thoughtfully.

“Now Mr. Orton of Church Farm is inclined to agree with me that there may be something in the theory of an evil spirit. He is, of course, a confirmed spiritualist. I've just called on him, and he says that Old Hall Farm has always been associated with evil spirits. All the villagers know it, and the older ones can recount very strange things that have happened there.

“Don't you think that it's merely country superstition?”

“No, certainly not. People who live isolated lives, like the East Anglian peasantry, are in much closer touch with this hidden world or whatever you like to call it. There's a lubberfiend who plays all sorts of mischievous pranks at Mr. Orton's farm. Mr. Orton used to have great difficulty in keeping his men till he gathered his present staff, who are not scared by such things, and accept them as part of the many inexplicable things of life.”

“Have you known Mr. Orton long?” suddenly asked Vereker.

“Ever since we came here. His farm belongs to my uncle's estate.”

“What kind of a man is he, Miss Thurlow?”

“He's not a typical countryman. He's much better educated, has been abroad a good deal, and is very musical. He's a good farmer and a shrewd hard-headed business man, but rather reserved on the whole, especially where villagers are concerned.”

“You get along well with him?”

“Oh yes. To put it bluntly, I think—I think he rather likes me,” replied Miss Thurlow, smiling and blushing informatively.

‘‘Was he on friendly terms with your uncle?”

“On the best of terms. He often came round in the evening to see my uncle and have a chat with him.”

“Now I'm going to put rather a pointed question to you, Miss Thurlow. If you think me rude, just say so. Are the relations between you and Mr. Orton anything more than mere friendship?” asked Vereker, and furtively watched his companion's face to see the effect of his words.

Miss Thurlow's lips were suddenly compressed and then twitched as if she were suppressing a smile. A merry light stole into her large brown eyes and faded out as quickly.

“Nothing more than friendship at present, Mr. Vereker. I feel sure Mr. Orton admires me. A woman can always tell when a man admires her, though she rarely admits it from fear of being thought conceited. I've admitted it frankly, because I feel sure you think you ought to know. As for my feelings, well, at first he faintly repelled me. Now I'm quite certain I find him—er—likeable.”

“Thank you. Now I've got over that difficult fence, I feel relieved. To return to the subject of spirits; have you ever seen a spirit, ghost, call it what you will, about Old Hall Farm?”

“No, but Miss Garford tells me that villagers have seen an apparition on several occasions on the road between Old Hall and the village.”

“You're referring to Miss Dawn Garford?” asked Vereker.

“Yes.”

“You're very great friends, I hear?”

“Not exactly. I'm friendly with her rather through force of circumstances. There are so few women in Yarham with whom I have anything in common. She's bright and amusing, and I enjoy her company.”

“She lives with her aunt in the village, I believe?”

“Yes, when she's in Yarham, but she spends a great part of the year roaming about the home counties in her small car. She seems to have numerous friends and is apparently very popular. I don't see very much of her altogether.”

“Your uncle was fond of her?”

“You're an encyclopaedia of village gossip, Mr. Vereker,” exclaimed Miss Thurlow with a laugh. “Well, Uncle John was always very gallant in a charming, old-fashioned way where a pretty woman was concerned. He may have been more serious than that with Dawn. People seemed to think so. I didn't, but then he probably concealed his feelings from me. Besides, I'm not at all observant in such matters.”

“Let us suppose his intentions were serious, Miss Thurlow. Would his marriage to Miss Garford have affected you greatly?”

“No, I don't think so. Uncle John had made me his sole heiress by his will. That would certainly have been altered if he had married.”

“Would you have suffered considerably from a financial point of view?”

At this remark, Miss Thurlow laughed heartily.

“Is that a leading question, Mr. Vereker? If I answered yes, you'd begin to think it confirmed some suspicion in your mind that I might be interested in my uncle's death.”

‘‘No, it's not a leading question, and your surmise isn't quite accurate,” replied Vereker, rather embarrassed by this direct and disarming thrust.

“In any case, I'm not going to answer the question as you want me to, or shall I say, expect me to. If my uncle had married and altered his will, I shouldn't have inherited the whole of his estate. I wouldn't, however, have cared very much, because I'm a woman of very simple tastes. I'm not fashionable, I don't dress expensively, I don't travel, I can do without a car. I think I'll surprise you when I say I could live in the greatest comfort in the country on two hundred a year. I have that now. Still, don't get it into your head that I'm not fond of money. I certainly am.”

“I apologize, Miss Thurlow. I didn't think you were such a philosopher,” said Vereker with a genial smile, “but still my question had quite another aim in view than wringing such a confession from you.”

“May I ask what you were driving at, Mr. Vereker?”

“I shan't tell you. A detective, like a conjurer, must keep his methods to himself. But about Miss Garford. How did she stand in relation to Mr. Clarry Martin?”

“I'm not sure. It was a subject on which she was always extraordinarily reticent, though I tried to chaff her into telling me. I'm fairly certain Martin was very much in love with her, but I don't think she was with him. There was something else other than love between them. They shared some secret, I feel sure. I can't tell you why I feel sure, but there's a strain of the clairvoyant in me; I have confirmed that on many other occasions. Now, Mr. Vereker, if you're a detective, here's where there is a baffling little mystery for you. It has probably nothing to do with the case on which you're engaged, but it might pay you to probe into it.”

“It may be quite important. In any case I shall leave no stone unturned, Miss Thurlow,” replied Vereker, thankful for the information.

By this time, they had reached the gates of Old Hall Farm, and as Vereker was apparently lost in his own speculations, the conversation languished while they walked up the gravel drive leading to the house. Anthony Vereker's eyes, however, were busily occupied in looking about him. The old, fourteenth century building with its wide sweep of surrounding lawn, its broad herbaceous borders, bright with flowers all bathed in summer sunshine; the surrounding woodland, motionless in the breathless air; the trim walks and beautifully shorn hedges were all eloquent of sane living and affluent refinement, rather than suggestive of evil spirits, mysterious happenings, and a terrible tragedy. To Vereker there was always something intensely satisfying about this type of English country house, and as he was admiring its air of gentle well-being, he could not help coupling it with its recent owner, John Thurlow. Whatever might be said of the acquisitive characteristics of the financial or merchant type, that type was certainly sensitive to beauty. Or was it merely the following of a tradition, a sheep-like treading along the paths laid down by a finer and more cultured generation?

“I see you like Old Hall Farm,” said Miss Thurlow, interrupting his thoughts.

“You're quite right; it's very beautiful,” replied Vereker.

“I can scarcely realize it's now my own,” continued his companion musingly.

“You intend to stay on here?”

“Certainly. I wouldn't dream of selling it. I love the place,” said Miss Thurlow emphatically, and they passed through the main door into a small entrance hall, in the centre of which was an antique gate-legged table furnished with a large cut-glass bowl of yellow roses.

“We'll have tea in my uncle's study,” remarked Miss Thurlow. “I feel sure you want to see that room.”

“You've guessed my thoughts again, Miss Thurlow. I'm convinced you're telepathic.”

Miss Thurlow smiled with an air of satisfaction and led the way into the room which Vereker was so eager to see.

“Now, Mr. Vereker, you must excuse me for a few minutes. Take a comfortable chair, or wander round and have a good look at everything. You'll be interested in those early English watercolours for one thing, and if you have any gift of psychometry, you'll probably learn more about the place than I could tell you.”

With these words and the promise that she would return as quickly as possible, she left the room.

On her departure, Vereker at once surveyed the charming oak-wainscoted room, and making a circuit of the walls, tapped them all gently with the knuckles of his right hand. He examined the joints in the wainscoting with particular care. Satisfied with this scrutiny, he then opened and closed the door leading out into the garden and inspected the lock. Then, rapidly crossing to the large window by which John Thurlow was supposed to have left the house on the night of his disappearance, he produced a magnifying glass and scanned every inch of the solid oak frame and the metal catch. He was busy over this task, when he was startled by the presence of Eileen Thurlow behind him, for in his preoccupation, he had not heard her re-enter the room.