The Spirit Murder Mystery

by Robin Forsythe

  “In the circumstances, she oughtn’t to have troubled about those repairs at all. She has been through a rather terrible experience. Do you know when she’s coming back?”

  “Not definitely, but she’s only going to be away a few days.”

  “Gone to her solicitors, I reckon. She comes into a nice little fortune by her uncle’s death, I hear.”

  “I couldn’t say,” replied Vereker cautiously.

  “May I offer you a drink now you’re here, Mr. Vereker? From the way you came, I should say you cut across country. It’s a rough journey and you’ll be feeling you need a refresher.”

  “Thanks, if I’m not putting you to any trouble,” replied Vereker.

  “No trouble at all; it’ll be a pleasure,” replied Orton and turned towards the farm-house.

  The front door of the farm-house opened on to a spacious hall, beautifully furnished with a few genuine antique pieces, showing that its tenant was a man of taste as well as of ample means. Opening a door on the left of this hall, he led Vereker into a dining-room in the centre of which was an old oak refectory table, surrounded by high-backed carved oak chairs. The whole furnishing of the room was in keeping with its oak beams and plain distempered walls and struck a note of old-world dignity and charm. Noticing Vereker’s air of appreciation, Orton smiled with undisguised satisfaction.

  “You like my dining-room?” he asked.

  “I certainly do,” replied Vereker sincerely.

  “It’s a nice room. I’m very fond of it. These old houses have a way with them that’s hard to resist. They get under your skin. Shall I bring you whisky, or would you prefer wine?”

  “Whisky, thanks.”

  “Good. I can offer you something very special in whisky,” replied Orton and left the room.

  During his absence, Vereker took the opportunity of looking round the room, and on a small oak table in a corner, he noticed a pile of uniformly bound books. Books give such an insight into the tastes of their owners, that Vereker could not resist looking more closely at these. To his astonishment, they were bound volumes of music, and on their backs were the names of the composers, Handel, Haydn, Beethoven, Mozart, etc. At once Vereker remembered that Miss Thurlow had said that Orton was fond of music, and he was pondering on this bent, rather an unusual one in a farmer, when Orton returned with a tray in his hands. On the tray were glasses, a greybeard, a siphon of soda, and a jug of water.

  “My housekeeper has gone to Sudbury for the afternoon, so I’ve got to look after things myself,” he explained.

  Orton picked up the greybeard, poured out whisky into one of the glasses to Vereker’s nod, and told him to help himself to the “dilution.” During this operation Vereker seized the chance of more closely observing his host. He was a man of about forty years of age, lithe and strong, with a hard, clean-cut face, and a glance like a hawk. The face was unequivocally handsome, but there was a cynical, almost distrustful cast about it, which seemed to say that he knew his fellow- men and harboured no illusions about their shortcomings. After a stiff glass of spirit the outlines of his face softened genially, and he spoke with greater freedom and frankness. Choosing the subject of painting, he probed Vereker as to his aims in that art, and showed a surprising knowledge and appreciation of its technique, past and present. Then noticing that his guest had glanced at the grandfather clock in a corner of the room, he remarked:

  “I see you’re eager to get back to Old Hall. If you dine at eight, you’ll be there in nice time. But I should keep to the drift; the going’s easier and just as quick in the long run. When you’ve got an hour or so to spare, look me up again. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed our chat.”

  Secretly glad of the invitation and promising to return, Vereker rose to go. As they made their way to the front door, Orton suddenly halted in the hall, as if arrested by the recollection of something important that he had forgotten.

  “I don’t know whether Miss Thurlow has told you anything about her future plans, but I’d like to know whether she’s going to stay on at Old Hall Farm, Mr. Vereker.”

  “She told me very definitely that she was going to stay, and I don’t think I’m abusing her confidence in repeating it.”

  “Ah, so she’s going to stay. I had an idea she’d get away from the place after what has happened. Between ourselves, I’d like to buy up the property, including this farm. I mentioned the matter to my old friend Thurlow, but he didn’t want to sell. Perhaps Miss Thurlow will change her mind later. She is young, and Yarham’s no place for a young woman like her to bury herself in. She ought to get about and see a bit of the world. Money won’t be any hindrance to her now.”

  On stepping out from the front door, Orton summoned one of the two men who were still busy with the motor lorry in the yard, and on his coming up, turned to Vereker:

  “Battrum will show you the way round to the drift, Mr, Vereker,” he said, and then addressing Battrum, added: ‘‘When you’ve done that, Joe, see and get that lorry away. It’s high time it was on the road.”

  Escorted by Battrum, who led the way without speaking a word, Vereker passed through the white entrance of the farm into the drift. Anxious not to be late for dinner, he quickened his pace immediately and had nearly reached the main road, when he met the Rev. William Sturgeon.

  “Good evening, Vereker. I see you’ve been up at Church Farm. Is that man Orton at home?”

  “I’ve just left him, Padre. You seem ruffled. What’s the matter?”

  “Ruffled? I should say I was ruffled. It’s enough to make a saint shy his halo about with intent to do grievous bodily harm. Thank your stars you aren’t a parson with a parish like Throston-cum-Yarham. It’s a life of strife, I tell you, and that fellow, Orton, is at the bottom of all the trouble.”

  “What’s the trouble?” asked Vereker, suppressing with difficulty a desire to laugh.

  “My congregation have sent me in a petition asking me to brick up the wall which I’ve spent hours in knocking down. They complain that the foul smell issuing from the tunnel is making attendance at services impossible. As if a farmer wasn’t used to a wide assortment of stinks! It’s all a put-up job, and Orton is the ringleader of the obstructionists. They’ve not got one atom of historical curiosity in their thick heads. After all the work I’ve done too! I tell you it’s no joke chiselling through a four foot brick wall; and yesterday, to make things more unpleasant, I hit my thumb with the hammer. However, I must catch Orton while he’s at home. I’m going to give him a jolly stern lecture. A member of the church council, too!”

  With this threat, the Rev. William Sturgeon pulled out his handkerchief, mopped his perspiring brow, and hurried on to battle like a Christian soldier.

  On returning to Old Hall Farm, Vereker found a two-seater sports car standing on the gravel approach in front of the house. The bonnet of the car was lying across the leather-cushioned seats, and an oily and begrimed Ricardo was bending over the engine with a box-spanner in his hands.

  “I suppose you’ve been trying her out, Ricky. I expected to see you at five o’clock,” said Vereker.

  “Yes, I wanted to see how she behaved. Not a bad old bus. She was a bit difficult to start up. Her plugs were none too good, so I’ve fitted some new ones. Now if you just look sternly at her, she flaps her wings.”

  “Was she expensive?”

  “Dirt cheap, Algernon. If you don’t want to keep her as a pet, you can sell her later on and get most of your money back. Or you can let me have her on the hire-purchase system.”

  “The latter alternative meaning that I’ll get damned little of my money back,” added Vereker.

  “You horrid, cruel man! I felt that retort coming along like a steam-roller. Unlike the car, my reimbursements would be slow but sure. But look at the advantages you gain. You’ll have added a miniature flying squad to your detective bureau. And think of it—the car’s yours till the last farthing has been paid by me!”

  “I’ll think over your proposition, Ricky,” replied
Vereker dubiously. “In the meantime, let’s go in and get ready for dinner.”

  Chapter Twelve

  After dinner Vereker returned to the study and continued his task of looking through the papers in John Thurlow’s bureau. Ricardo, reclining in an easy chair, was reading a battered old volume which he had found in one of the well-stocked book-shelves that ranged along two sides of the room. It was a history of Yarham, published in the early part of the nineteenth century.

  Pausing for a few moments in his work, Vereker glanced at Ricardo and saw that he was engrossed in his book.

  “Got hold of something interesting, Ricky?” he asked.

  “A history of Yarham.”

  “Anything about the church in it?

  “That’ll come later on. The writer jumps off with a heavy wad of the early history of East Anglia in general. I’m now learning all about an immigration of Flemish weavers to Yarham in the twelfth century. Mind-bleaching stuff! It’s so dry that I think I’ll go and explore the wine cellar. As I pointed out to you at dinner, no connoisseur would spoil a good wine by drinking it with a meal. Now’s the hour to savour a really heroic vintage!”

  “By jove, this is tremendous!” interrupted Vereker with startling vehemence.

  “What’s tremendous?” asked Ricardo, turning round sharply.

  “A letter from Ephraim Noy among Thurlow’s papers. It’s—it’s of cardinal importance!”

  “Who the devil’s Ephraim Noy?” asked Ricardo with bewilderment.

  “Heaven above, don’t you remember? The man who discovered the bodies of Martin and Thurlow at Cobbler’s Corner.”

  “Ah yes, now I recollect. What’s his letter about?”

  For some minutes Vereker did not reply, for he was reading the letter with eager concentration and undisguised excitement. Then he laid the double sheet flat on the bureau and turned towards his friend.

  “Looks like blackmail, Ricky. After upbraiding Thurlow for refusing to see him on his arrival at Yarham, Noy goes on to say that he still remembers a very unpleasant little affair that happened in India many years ago. In that affair, Thurlow played some obscure but important role. Whatever the affair was and whatever Thurlow’s part in it, the result was the murder of a man whose wife, Suvrata, was a Nautch dancing girl. Thurlow was in some way mixed up with that dancing girl, because Miss Thurlow has a hazy recollection of her parents discussing the affair when she was in her ’teens. Noy points out that it would be very disagreeable for Thurlow if the details of that bygone episode with Suvrata were made known in Yarham, where he was held in such high esteem. To obviate this, he would be well advised to call at the bungalow any evening and have a quiet chat over the business.”

  “Isn’t that simply diabolical!” exclaimed Ricardo vehemently. “The vermin! He ought to be boiled in oil. Poor Thurlow, as I figure it, arrives in India with all the charming illusions of a young Englishman. He sees a Nautch-girl dancing and falls over head and ears in love with her. Can you blame him? Imagine the atmosphere: Indian moons and mysticism, tom-toms and jasmine blossoms, bangles and brown limbs and—and the shadow of the Taj Mahal, for I can think of nothing else at the moment. Again, the very word Nautch-girl breathes warmly; it makes a susceptible person’s knees tremble. I’d be bowled out first over. Then some stray lunatic, probably another frenzied lover, despatches the charmer’s husband, and Thurlow’s name is dragged into the ghastly business. After the whole affair is decently buried and forgotten, this ghoul rakes it up in the hope of squeezing cash out of poor old Harlequin, who subsequently in a chastened mood offered his prayers to Mammon instead of Venus!”

  “Just one minute, Ricky, and we’ll make sure,” said Vereker, as he glanced at the date of Noy’s letter and then ran through the counterfoils of one of a bundle of old cheque books.

  “Here’s a cheque for five hundred pounds made out to Noy a week after that letter,” he exclaimed at length, and added: “Looks almost too accommodating to be true. I say, Ricky, get out that bus of yours and run me down to ‘The Walnut Tree.’ I’m going to give Heather this tit-bit. He’ll be delighted, for he rattles handcuffs whenever the name of Ephraim Noy is mentioned.”

  “An unpleasant sound for anyone, but what noise annoys a noisy Noy, etc. Why are you going to tell Heather? You ought to keep him in the dark, Algernon.”

  “The information may have that effect,” replied Vereker with a mysterious smile, ‘‘so hurry up!”

  “Right-ho! We’ll think about the wine on our return. I had put ‘Gladys’ to bye-bye, but I won’t be long waking her up again. She’ll run us down to ‘The Walnut Tree’ while you’re shutting her door.”

  Ten minutes later “Gladys” purred into the yard of “The Walnut Tree” Inn, and Vereker stepped out as she came to rest. In the yard, at the time, stood a motor lorry ostensibly laden with sacks of grain. One glance at this lorry informed Vereker that it was the property of Arthur Orton of Church Farm, and he surmised that the driver was snatching a meal before starting on a lengthy night journey. For some moments he stood hesitant and then crossing to the window of the tap-room, peered through into the brightly lit interior. Hastening back to Ricardo, who had just turned the car round in readiness for leaving the yard, he took him by the arm and led him towards the door of the inn.

  “While I’m discussing business with Heather, Ricky, wait in the tap-room for me. In there, you’ll find the driver of the lorry that’s standing beside your car. Engage him in conversation if you can, stand him drinks, do anything to keep him there till I rejoin you.”

  “Say boy, have you got a gat handy?” asked Ricardo dramatically.

  “Don’t play the fool, man! I’m deadly serious. Have you a spare can of petrol in the car?”

  “You’ll find two in the dicky, but I’m not going in there if you’re going to fire the place. What d’you want petrol for?”

  “I’ll tell you later. Now put a jerk into it before it’s too late. The lorry-driver’s name is Joe Battrum by the way.”

  Entering the inn, Vereker went up to Benjamin Easy, the landlord, and asked him if Inspector Heather was in his room. Ben Easy wasn’t certain, and leaving the bar hurried upstairs to find out. He reappeared a few minutes later to say that Inspector Heather was away and had left word with Mrs. Easy that he wouldn’t be back in Yarham till next day.

  “Tell him I want to see him some time to-morrow, Ben. It’s most important,” said Vereker.

  “Very good, sir,” replied the landlord, and Vereker, returning hurriedly to the yard, peered again through the tap-room window. Seeing Ricardo in earnest conversation with Joe Battrum, he made his way quickly back to the yard of the inn. There he lifted himself up by the tail-board of the motor lorry, and clambered on to the sacks of grain that constituted its load. Thrusting his hand between the sacks in the centre of the load, his fingers came in contact with the handle of a petrol can. With some difficulty he moved a superimposed sack and dragged out the can. Jumping down from the lorry, he crossed to “Gladys,” pushed the can into the dicky, and in a few minutes had substituted one of Ricardo’s cans of petrol for the one he had abstracted from the lorry. Breathless from exertion, he entered the inn, thrust his head into the tap-room and called out:

  “Come along, Ricky, we must get back. There’s no time to waste!”

  Hurriedly drinking his beer and wishing Joe Battrum good-night, Ricardo joined his friend, and a minute or so later, with a roar from her exhaust, “Gladys” was speeding back to Old Hall Farm.

  “What’s all the hurry for, Algernon?” asked Ricardo when they were on their way. “Did you see the inspector?”

  “No, he’s away and won’t return till to-morrow. Things are warming up, Ricky, and I’ll have to hustle. I feel somehow that Heather has struck the trail, and I want to show him a clean pair of heels.”

  “Where has he gone?” asked Ricardo.

  “Left no word, but I’ve a shrewd idea.”

  On arriving at Old Hall Farm, Vereker extracted one
of the petrol cans from the dicky of the car.

  “I’m going to keep this petrol. I shall need it for several jobs I have on hand. Get another can for yourself at the garage,” he said to Ricardo, who was looking at him with questioning eyes.

  Taking the can with him, Vereker entered the house and immediately repaired to the study. Later on, Ricardo, having tucked up “Gladys” for the night, sauntered into the room. To his surprise, he found Vereker pouring a little of the contents of the petrol can into a china saucer.

  “What’s the experiment, Algernon?” he asked. “Reminds me of a demonstration in ‘stinks.’”

  “In a way, it is,” replied Vereker, as he screwed the stopper of the can firmly down and placed the can in a corner of the study. Taking an automatic lighter from his pocket, he applied its flame to the liquid in the saucer. At once that liquid ignited and burned with a clear blue flame.

  “Rum kind of petrol!” remarked Ricardo, on at the performance with roused interest. “What have you mixed it with?”

  “Brains, Ricky, brains, as Whistler said on a historic occasion,” replied Vereker with an eager light in his eyes, as he watched the blue flame flicker and die out in the saucer.

  “I didn’t think you’d have any to spare for a bally burnt offering,” remarked Ricardo, and seeing that Vereker was apparently not disposed to be communicative, he picked up the history of Yarham. Sinking into the depths of a comfortable chair, he lit a cigarette and commenced to read.

  Some time elapsed before Vereker, with a note of seriousness in his voice, broke the silence.

  “I think you’d better get on the tracks of Miss Dawn Garford to-morrow, Ricky. The sooner you discover what she’s up to, the better. It’ll fill a big gap in my theory about the Yarham mystery.”

  “This is Saturday and she won’t be in Barstow till Monday,” replied Ricardo, looking up from his book.

  “I know, but I want you to call at all the roadhouses she mentioned when speaking to Orton in Yarham churchyard. If you pick her up at any point, stick to her like a terrier. Also, you can look up your old friend Poppy Knatchbull at ‘The Blue Bottle.’ Take a high hand with her and pretend you are acquainted with Dawn Garford’s business. If it’s above board, she’ll soon let you know what it is. Don’t be afraid to chuck your money about in order to ingratiate yourself. I’ll let you have a substantial cheque, which you can cash at my bank in London.”