The Spirit Murder Mystery (20 page)

“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.”

“To-morrow being the sabbath, I won't be able to fondle the dough till Monday, Algernon,” commented Ricardo.

“I'll give you sufficient to tide you over.”

For some moments Ricardo looked at his friend with an affectionate but puzzled expression on his face.

“You're a rum old stick, Algernon,” he said at length. “On most occasions you're as careful as a French peasant, and then, on some thankless game like this, you're a Jubilee Plunger. I'm not raising any objections to chucking your money about, mind you. I love ingratiating myself in a congenial atmosphere with the right kind of people, but your attitude leaves me guessing. I can't understand a man spending his money through a proxy.”

“I'm busting it on my only hobby, Ricky. Thanks to my guv'nor's financial genius, I've been left, as you know, with a very substantial income. My pictures, by an irony of fate, sell well, just because I don't need the money. I live very quietly. I've no use for fine clothes. My flat's not too expensive. I merely keep on old Albert because he's such a trustworthy simpleton and would probably be selling matches if he wasn't looking after me. My only extravagances are a little good wine, this detection, and lending you money which you intend to repay when you've written something bad enough to sell well.”

“I must say you're very confiding, Algernon. The kindly way you put it brings a blush to my hardened cheeks. Still, the intention to pay you back's a great driving force in my life. It urges me on to write a story that is a story. Bung full of human interest, sincere love, charm, and wish fulfilment. In the meantime, papa's cheque is due and every time I see his illegible signature, it impresses me with the dignity and nobility of fatherhood. You shall have that cheque. You've been a good friend to me, Algernon, but I'm getting Uncle-Tom's-Cabinish...”

“Among Thurlow's papers, I've come across Miss Dawn's London address—a flat in Clarges Street,” said Vereker, interrupting his friend and handing him a card. “Nice address for a young lady of limited means. You might nose round and see what sort of a place she runs.”

“By jove, Gertie Wentworth's place is in the same block, Algernon,” replied Ricardo excitedly, as he glanced at the card. “Those flats are luxurious!”

“You needn't trouble to call on Gertie Wentworth,” said Vereker with a frown.

“She may know something about Miss Dawn Garford,” suggested Manuel gravely.

“Not enough to repay me for the loss of my time and your sense of direction,” said Vereker, and paused to let the admonishment sink in. He was about to return to his task at Thurlow's bureau, when he suddenly sat bolt upright in his chair.

“D'you hear anything, Ricky?” he asked excitedly.

For some moments Ricardo sat with all his senses alert and then, in a voice from which he could not restrain a note of awe, replied: “I think I hear the sounds of an organ. Do you?”

“That was my impression,” replied Vereker. “Let's stop talking and listen.”

“Switch off the light, Algernon,” said Ricardo in a whisper. “If it's a manifestation, darkness is more suitable.”

Vereker, rather to oblige his friend than with any faith in the efficacy of his suggestion, switched off the light and resumed his seat.

Both men now sat listening in the pitch-dark room, and as they strained their ears, there came in faint gusts the unmistakable sound of an organ being played with no mean skill. At times those waves of sound surged up with vibrant strength and then faded away again until they were barely audible. Rising from his chair, Vereker silently crossed the study floor, opened the door leading out on to the lawn, and stepped out into the starlit night. There, he was unable to detect any clue to the origin of the amazing phenomenon that was manifesting itself in the study. Rejoining Ricardo, who sat dumbfounded in the dark, he listened intently for some seconds and then proceeded from the study to the hall outside, closing the door behind him. Again he found that he had passed beyond the range of that weird music. Taking an electric torch from his pocket, he made his way to the steps leading down to the cellar and descended as noiselessly as possible. Opening the door of the cellar silently, he passed in and quickly flashed his torch in all directions. The bright circle of light danced over the walls and floor and flickered in reflection from the bottles stacked in the bins, but revealed nothing that could suggest the agency from which that strange organ recital sprang. With a growing feeling of awe, he passed from the wine cellar into the empty adjunct beyond. Here, everything was as he had seen it on his last visit; and he was about to retrace his steps, when he again heard the faint, far-off strains of an organ. Standing still, and overwhelmed with astonishment, he listened intently. The sound seemed to him to be trembling in the motionless air with increased volume; whole passages were at intervals clearly audible, and somehow those passages seemed very familiar to him. Passing round the cellar, at every few paces he placed his ear against the walls, but this device disclosed nothing and only left him more bemused than before.

“Amazing!” he soliloquized. “I must have a good look into this to-morrow.”

He had hardly uttered the words, when the faint music ceased altogether with disconcerting abruptness. Now an oppressive silence reigned, and the damp, musty air of the cellar seemed to grow chilly and sinister. His mind reverted to the séance in which he had taken part with Ricardo and Miss Thurlow. He remembered the cool wind that had apparently blown through the dark study without any explicable source of origin; he recalled the loud and vibrant tapping that had resounded from the table and the surrounding wainscoting. He called to mind Ricardo's narration of his strange experiences; of seeing actual materialization; of hearing several loud voices speaking together; of witnessing the movements of objects beyond the possible reach of the medium. His scepticism was badly shaken, and with a faint but undeniable inrush of dread, he hastened from the empty adjunct into the wine cellar proper and reached the outer door. He was about to pass out and close the door, when, regaining control of his feelings, he experienced a sharp spasm of annoyance that he had allowed himself to be overcome by an unreasoning fear of the unknown. With an air of resolution, he quickly retraced his steps and, glancing along the tickets affixed to the woodwork of the bins, drew out a bottle of choice claret. Thrusting it in his pocket, he left the cellar, quietly closed the door, and ascended to the study. There he found that Ricardo, having switched on the light, had calmly resumed his reading of the history of Yarham.