The Spirit Murder Mystery

by Robin Forsythe

  “I hope for your sake they’ve nothing to do with Thurlow’s murder. Now, Mr. Noy, there’s no need to lose your wool. Doesn’t it strike you that this dancing girl business may have some connection with it? It’s possible that someone who was wronged at the time may have at last taken his revenge.”

  “Rot! The affair is past and done with. This revenge idea is sheer moonshine. People don’t take revenges in real life unless they’re bughouse.”

  “I think you’re right, but of course, there’s just a chance that a lunatic killed Thurlow.”

  “Bunk, sir, bunk!” replied Mr. Noy emphatically.

  “Well, Mr. Noy, your opinion on that episode is worth having,” said Vereker diplomatically.

  “Take it from me, Mr. Vereker,” continued Noy, considerably mollified, “that that Indian affair has nothing to do with the present case, nothing at all.”

  “Do you know all the details of the Indian business?” asked Vereker.

  “I certainly do. I was instrumental in clearing Thurlow’s character when he was under suspicion of being mixed up with the murder of the woman’s husband. I tell you, it was a narrow squeak for old John. He was very grateful to me for my help.”

  “You were a good friend,” suggested Vereker pertinently.

  “I certainly was. I told you when you last saw me that I knew nothing of Thurlow. I did so to safeguard myself, because I didn’t want to be dragged into any police inquiry into his murder. My own record is none too good, and once you’ve been in trouble, the police are biased against you. I’ve had enough trouble in my life without getting into any more.”

  “You had a rough time in the States, I believe,” remarked Vereker.

  “My God!” exclaimed Noy with a groan. “Is that all going to be raked up again. I suppose this Scotland Yard man has been poking his long snout into my past history.”

  “You might have expected that, Mr. Noy, and the best thing is to be quite frank with the police. If you try to beat them off with falsehoods, they’ll only suspect you of implication in this Yarham affair.”

  “But how do you know all about this?” asked Noy, after a pause.

  “I’m not at liberty to answer that question,” replied Vereker.

  “Ah, I see! As I said before, you pressmen are always hand in glove with the police. Well, you can tell the inspector from me that I’ve got a clean sheet on this count. I admit I got mixed up in a booze racket in Chicago some years ago, and our gang bumped off some of the rival guys. Over here you think that’s just ordinary murder. It isn’t. It’s only a kind of warfare on a small scale. A gangster is nothing more nor less than a hired soldier. You stand to be shot at and you shoot first if you can. Then one of our men, Gumshoe Jim, got into serious trouble. He was always too ready to flash a gat, that is draw a gun, and he knocked off a harness bull.”

  “What on earth’s a harness bull?” asked Vereker.

  “When I get excited I fall back into American slang,” remarked Noy apologetically. “A harness bull’s a policeman in uniform. That was more than I could stand, so I chucked the racket. I managed to make a getaway and returned home to England. I thought I was safe here but bless my soul...” Ephraim Noy left the sentence unfinished and ran his fingers wearily through his unkempt hair. “Have they got a line on the man who did this Yarham job?” he asked after a pause.

  “That I can’t say; I’m not in the know. Have you any idea of what lies behind it?” asked Vereker.

  “No, but only a year or so ago, Thurlow did some sharp work through agents on the American stock market. I only have that on hearsay, but there may be some truth in it. Somebody’s probably got his own back.”

  “You never quarrelled with him yourself?” asked Vereker.

  “Never in my life. Thurlow was very good to me. When I came and settled down here, I found out he was living in Old Hall Farm. I went to look him up, but he didn’t want to renew our old friendship. I was rather sore about the way he did it. Simply turned me away from the door. He might have been more tactful. In the heat of temper I wrote and reminded him of that Indian affair, and told him I could make the place pretty hot for him. Not that I meant it. Later on I met him and apologized. He found out that I was in rather low water, and gave me a cheque for five hundred to set me on my feet. He was a generous man when he liked. That was the last time I ever spoke to him. If I knew anything about this dirty business of his murder I’d put the police wise right away.” ’

  “Has the inspector been to see you?” asked Vereker.

  “No. Did he say he was coming?” queried Noy anxiously.

  “I’m almost certain he’ll question you about the Indian affair,” replied Vereker guardedly, “but as far as I can see, you’ve nothing to fear on that score. I should also be perfectly frank with him if he probes you on your activities in America, because he’s sure to know all about them.”

  “I guess he does. In any case, he can do nothing to me about that now,” replied Noy, but his tone lacked conviction.

  For a few minutes he sat lost in his own thoughts. From the expression on his face it was evident to Vereker that there was something on his mind that was troubling him.

  “There’s a question I’d like to ask you, Mr. Vereker,” he said at length, “but you needn’t answer it unless you like.”

  “Put the question, Mr. Noy, and I’ll soon let you know,” replied Vereker eagerly.

  “Did the inspector mention my name in connection with some trouble at Doncaster some time ago?” queried Noy and looked at Vereker with anxious eyes.

  “No, he didn’t, but don’t persuade yourself that he’s ignorant of it because he didn’t mention it to me. What was the nature of the trouble?”

  “If you don’t know, I’m not the man to tell you. I daresay the police ferreted that out when they were going into my past history in America,” replied Noy, and by turning the conversation on to the well that he was having sunk behind his bungalow, indicated that his secret was not going to be wrested from him.

  A little later, on Noy’s invitation, Vereker accompanied him to the well shaft and inspected the progress that had been made in that operation. Feeling that no more information was to be gained by prolonging his visit, he bade Noy good-morning and took his departure.

  On returning to Old Hall Farm, he learned from one of the maids that Ricardo had rung him up on the telephone during his absence. Ricardo had given no message, but said he would ring up again about lunch-time. The maid had hardly left Vereker when the telephone bell rang again, and he answered it himself.

  “That you, Algernon?” came the query.

  “Yes, Ricky, anything important? Where are you?”

  “London. I’ve made thumping good progress and am returning to Yarham to-morrow.”

  “Seen Miss Garford?”

  “Not yet, but when I do I’ll put her through a mild form of third degree. I’ll tell you all about that when I see you.”

  “D’you think she has any connection with this Yarham case?”

  “At present I see no connection myself, but when you bring your amazing powers to bear on the matter, perhaps you’ll spot the connection.”

  “Good. I want you to do another job for me at once, Ricky. Go along to the British Museum Reading Room and get permission to hunt through the newspaper files. Go back two or three years. Our friend Ephraim Noy got into some trouble at Doncaster some time back, and it may have been reported in the London Press. If it was at all valuable from a news point of view, you’re almost certain to run across it. Copy it out and bring it along with you. So long. I’ll see you to-morrow.”

  “Right-ho!” came Ricardo’s reply. “I’ll get on with the job right away. I’ll just have time to finish it and take Gertie Wentworth out to Crawley for tea. She thinks my car’s quite a dandy projectile. Good-bye!”

  Vereker had hardly laid down the receiver when the front door bell rang, and a few minutes later the Rev. William Sturgeon was ushered in.

  “I though
t I’d call and see how you were getting on, Vereker,” he said. “Solved the Yarham mystery yet?”

  “Not quite, but I’ve made a little progress. It’s about lunch-time. Will you stay and lunch with me?”

  “My dear boy, that’s what I came for. Timed it beautifully,” replied the rector with his boyish laugh. “Old Hall Farm always puts up an attractive meal, and on the quiet, I’m a bit of a gourmet. Heard from Miss Thurlow?”

  “No; have you?”

  “She never writes to me. When is she coming back?”

  “I’m not quite certain. By the way, Rector, do you know the lady very well?”

  “Yes, I think I can say I do. I knew her parents, too. Why do you ask?”

  “Is there any mental trouble in the family?”

  “Nothing very serious. Her mother, you know, suffered from minor epilepsy. That’s bad enough, but it didn’t affect her general health to any degree. She was all right as long as she took care of herself and lived quietly. I think they call the trouble petit mal.”

  “Has Miss Eileen any tendency that way?” asked Vereker anxiously.

  “Never shown any to my knowledge. Old Cornard thinks it may develop. That’s why I’ve tried to get her to discontinue this cult of spiritualism. It will do her no good. But she’s rather a strong willed young lady, and in some things it’s useless to advise her. She goes her own way in spite of everyone.”

  For some minutes Vereker was lost in thought. His mind had reverted to the strange apparition of the night before and its general resemblance to the height and build of Miss Eileen Thurlow. He had, of course, only seen that figure in the gloom of an unlighted room, and yet the resemblance had struck him forcibly. But he could not, by any stretch of imagination, see why Eileen Thurlow should carry out this ridiculous deception. Against his theory that it might be she, was the incontrovertible evidence afforded by the finger prints he had discovered on certain ornaments and articles of furniture, after a previous visit of what Eileen Thurlow had called a “poltergeist.” Those finger prints were certainly not hers and could hardly have been faked. Faked finger prints were in the same category as faked footprints, a very remote possibility.

  “Hello, what have you got here?” suddenly asked the rector, his exclamation rousing Vereker rudely from his reverie.

  “Oh, that book; it’s a history of the village. My friend Ricardo, while he was here, picked it out when looking over the books in Thurlow’s library.”

  “And I’ve been on the track of this volume for ages. It’s long since out of print and has no value, but it gives a very full history of the village, especially of my church. Are you reading it?”

  “When I had nothing else to do, I dipped casually into it, but it’ll be of more interest to you than me.”

  “I’ll borrow it if I may. Miss Thurlow wouldn’t mind, and I’ll let her have it back when I’ve finished with it.”

  The rector relapsed into silence as he pored over the pages of his discovery. After a few minutes he began to fidget excitedly in his chair and then, unable to contain himself any longer, remarked: “So that’s the truth about the tunnels leading from the church!”

  The exclamation at once roused Vereker to attention. The history of those tunnels had intrigued him considerably for some time, but for reasons quite different from the rector’s.

  “What does it say?” he asked eagerly.

  “That there are three tunnels leading from the crypt at the foot of the stone steps. The writer explored two of them; the one leading to the right and the one leading directly ahead from the central vault. The central one leads to Riswell Manor. This I knew. The one to the right to Old Yarham Hall. The third tunnel was not explored.”

  “Where is Old Yarham Hall?” asked Vereker.

  “This house is the old hall or manor. When the Honington family died out, it became a farm and then got its present name, ‘Old Hall Farm.’ Subsequently its fortunes went up in the world and it reverted to a country house, which it has been ever since.”

  “By jove, that’s most interesting!” exclaimed Vereker in undisguised excitement.

  “It is, and to think that that man Orton has put an end to my idea of exploring those underground passages. He’s an obstructionist of the worst type.”

  “Why? What has happened?

  “He organized the villagers into petitioning me to have restored the brick wall that I was demolishing. I kicked against it at first, but when they threatened to take the matter further afield, I reluctantly agreed to have it rebuilt. There’s a man on the job now.”

  “Pity!” agreed Vereker, “but I don’t think you’d have discovered King John’s treasure there. You’ve not lost much, Rector. You’ve got the history complete except for one tunnel.”

  “Yes, but that blessed tunnel will worry me for the rest of my life. It’ll keep me awake at night thinking of what it may conceal. Apart from royal treasure, there may be priceless church plate hidden away in it.”

  “Why don’t you suggest that the wall be demolished and a stout wooden door put in its place. That would serve the purpose of plugging the entrance almost as well as a wall,” suggested Vereker.

  “Now I hadn’t thought of that. A splendid ideal But, alas, where are the funds to come from? I can’t afford to have the wall replaced by a stout door,” complained the rector with a hopeless air.

  “Look here, Padre, if you’re going to spend sleepless nights for the rest of your life over that tunnel, I’ll foot the bill, provided you can get the consent of the authorities and the goodwill of the parishioners. It’ll be my contribution to your next Easter offering.”

  “This is most generous of you, Vereker, most generous, and I’m very grateful,” said the rector beaming with pleasure. “I hope you didn’t think I was cadging for assistance when I referred to the operation being beyond my means.”

  “Not at all,” replied Vereker. “I’m interested in that blessed tunnel myself.”

  “Because I’m so used to cadging that I do it unconsciously now,” added the rector with a broad grin. At this moment the gong sounded for lunch, and rising to his feet with alacrity he exclaimed, “I’ve been waiting for that. Not one moment too soon. Hungry as a hunter, too. This is one of my lucky days. Everything going along merrily in the right direction. It’s really good to be alive!”

  After lunch the Rev. Sturgeon, taking the history of Yarham with him, set out for Church Farm to interview Mr. Arthur Orton and suggest the erection of a stout wooden door to serve the purpose of the brick wall in the crypt. Vereker, after a brief rest, called at “The Walnut Tree” in the hope of finding Heather. In this he was unsuccessful, for Heather had just left the inn to meet the local inspector. As he stood talking to Benjamin Easy at the bar, the burly figure of Joe Battrum lurched unsteadily in and demanded a pint of mild and bitter.

  “No, Joe, can’t be done. You’ve had enough and that’s saying a mighty lot,” replied Ben firmly.

  “Can’t be done?” stuttered Joe, staring with wild, bloodshot eyes at the landlord.

  “No. Can’t be done. You take my advice Joe and get along home. Best place for you.”

  “Go to hell!” exclaimed Joe, and without further argument, turned round and staggered out of the inn.

  “Battrum has caught the brewer early in the day,” remarked Vereker.

  “Yes, and he’ll be back again before long. Either he’s as obstinate as a pig or he forgets I’ve refused to serve him. Not often Joe has one over the eight, but when he does he’s a confounded nuisance.”

  “Gets pugnacious, I suppose,” remarked Vereker.

  “Yes, and he seems half mad. This morning he was sitting alone in the tap-room, talking to himself about seeing ghosts at Church Farm. I don’t think he’s very strong in the head. Said something about going to chuck up his job, but I dessay he’ll think better of it in the mornin’. They allus do.”

  Shortly after this incident, Vereker left the inn. As he paced back along the road, his thoughts
reverted to the rector’s discovery in “The History of Yarham” that one of the tunnels from the church led to Old Hall Farm. At the moment he had at once guessed that that tunnel, if the historian’s statement were correct, would probably account for the mysterious organ music which had been ascribed by Miss Thurlow to spirit manifestation. To add force to this theory, that music had begun to manifest itself, according to Miss Thurlow’s statement, towards the end of May of that year, and this date corresponded with that of the piercing of the brick wall by the Rev. Sturgeon in his archaeological activities. The sole argument against this theory was the organist’s denial of having played the organ on the nights of the manifestation. Vereker decided to make further and stricter inquiries on this detail, now that a rational explanation of the phenomenon had presented itself. The existence of such a tunnel, too, would elucidate the mystery of the secret entry and exit used by some person as yet unknown in playing, first the poltergeist and later, a ghostly apparition. The pressing problem now was to discover where in Old Hall Farm the entrance to that tunnel lay. Once discovered, it might yield some definite information as to how John Thurlow disappeared prior to his murder. As he pondered on this point, it flashed on him with sudden illumination that Thurlow must have discovered that entrance to the tunnel when seeking a material explanation of the mysterious organ music.

  “By jove, things are beginning to take shape at last!” he exclaimed and resolved to spend the remainder of the afternoon in a very careful exploration of Old Hall Farm.

  On his return to the house he set to work, starting with the servants’ wing which he had not yet thoroughly searched. When the dinner hour arrived, he had completed this portion of his task without any discovery. After dinner, though tired, he was about to resume his task when Inspector Heather called to see him. The inspector, in spite of his effort to suppress any sign of it, was unmistakably excited.

  “Come along, Heather, cough it up. I can see by the sprightly tread and the upward twist of your moustaches that you’re bursting to tell me something. Help yourself to a whisky and let it rip!”