The Spirit Murder Mystery (24 page)

“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!”

“Things are beginning to happen, Mr. Vereker,” replied Heather. “What do you think's the latest?”

“Don't keep me in suspense, Heather. I'm trembling to hear the latest.”

“Well, I thought I'd run up to the bungalow this evening and put Mr. Ephraim Noy through a few mental jerks. I was going to give him a strenuous half-hour about his past life in America.”

“Before you go any further, Inspector, can you tell me if Noy got into any trouble up at Doncaster in Yorkshire some time back?”

“Yes, he did, but it wasn't anything very serious, that is, serious in comparison with the crime of murder. He was collared by the excise authorities for being in possession of illicit spirits. On searching his rooms they found a small spirit still and a barrel of wash. The Government chemist analysed a sample and reported it to be crude stuff, real fire water. Noy was fined heavily, and paid the fine in lieu of going to prison for six months. You see, he had gone back to his American tricks. It had become a bad habit with him.”

“Does that sort of distillation pay?” asked Vereker.

“You bet it does. Spirits made in such a way cost only half a crown a gallon at the most. The workers in an industrial area like whisky, but can't afford to buy it at present prices. The illicit distiller can manage to get a return of a pound for every bob he spends. The game is so profitable that it is increasing at an alarming rate. In 1934 the Customs and Excise made a big haul in Edmonton, another up at Skipton in Yorkshire and another at Hampstead. In 1936 at Liverpool and at Sheffield.”

“Thanks, this is most interesting information, but what about our friend Noy? Have you caught him at the liquor game again?”

“No. I went up to the bungalow with malice prepense. To my surprise the front door of the shack was wide open. I knocked but got no answer. Then I strolled round the garden to make sure that Ephraim wasn't among the gooseberry bushes. Returning to the bungalow, I took the liberty of walking right in. Not a soul about the place. I entered the living-room and found it in a state of terrible disorder. Chairs upset, table knocked over, broken crockery all over the floor and splashes of blood on the floor and wallpaper.

“And did you find Noy's dead body?” asked Vereker, unable to restrain his impatience.

“No, not a sign of Noy. Whatever had happened, he had vanished. There had evidently been a terrible struggle and serious wounds inflicted, judging from the quantity of blood about.”

“I saw and spoke to him this morning,” explained Vereker. “He was all right then, though rather disturbed at the idea of a further police interrogatory. He was frank enough with me about his doings in America and hinted that you probably knew all about his exploits at Doncaster. It's a rum business. What do you think has happened, Heather?”

“God knows,” replied Heather.

“Do you think someone has done him in and removed the body?” asked Vereker.

“That explanation struck me as probable. Again, there may only have been a desperate fight, and Noy has made himself scarce. It probably has some connection with this Yarham business. I've always thought that Noy was implicated in it. I didn't quite like the man's story of his discovery of the bodies of Thurlow and Martin. Godbold, the local constable, was of the same opinion, and he's a shrewd chap is Godbold. No frills or fancies about him. Godbold's line is hard facts!”

“He'd appeal to you, Heather,” remarked Vereker with a smile. “Relying on my stupidly unorthodox methods, I can't at present connect up Noy with the Yarham murders. Tell me just how you arrived at your theory that he had a finger in the pie.”

“I think I've got a little clue to his connection,” replied Heather complacently. “You'd call it an evidentiary item. Evidentiary was always one of your favourite words. It used to annoy me till I got used to your funny habits.”

With this remark, Heather produced from his pocket a sheet of note-paper and handed it to Vereker.

‘‘Have a squint at that and tell me what you think of it,” he added.

Vereker read the note, which ran: “Situation getting worse. Advise you to clear out.”

“By jove, Heather, I apologize. This has some indirect bearing on our case. It's written in exactly the same block capitals as the note found on Clarry Martin's body. What are you going to do about it?”

“I've sent out a message to all stations round to keep a look out for Noy. I've given them a description of the man, and he's such a striking figure that you could spot him in a Derby crowd. Once we lay hands on Uncle Sam, as you called him, things'll begin to hum.”

“Possibly, and possibly not,” commented Vereker quietly, “but I wish you luck, Heather. By the way, when we made our usual bet, I didn't stipulate the size of the cask of beer that I was prepared to pay for. I now make it nine gallons.”

“Nine gallons be hanged! Nothing less than thirty-six will liquidate your debt, Mr. Vereker.”

“I'll risk it, Heather. Make it thirty-six, but you must make your packet of ‘Players' into a fifty box.”

“Agreed,” replied Heather. “You seem confident of winning, Mr. Vereker. Made any new discoveries?”

“Several important ones. I believe I've discovered the explanation of the spirit music heard by Thurlow and his niece on the night of Thurlow's disappearance. I'm not quite certain, but I think I've spotted the mysterious musician. I've an inkling as to how Thurlow vanished from the house without the trouble of dematerializing. Then there's the poltergeist to be explained away, and since I spoke to you last I've seen a ghost.”

“Great Scott!” exclaimed Heather. “I see you're going to make a thorough ass of yourself in this case, Mr. Vereker. What with a poulterer's ghost, spirit music, and seeing spooks, I don't know what's come over you. You used to be quite sensible, too, in some things. By the way, if you'd like to have a look at the mess in Noy's bungalow, you'd better do so now. I can let you have the key to the place. I locked up everything and brought the keys with me. You might pick up a few hints that would put you on the right track, instead of wasting your time on spooks. Might I ask when and where you saw your last spectre?”

“In this very study, Heather. I had fallen asleep and was wakened by a flash of light on my face. I wasn't particularly anxious to see a ghost, but when I opened my eyes and got used to the darkness, I spotted her. It was certainly a woman. I reckoned that the lady was going to run through the poltergeist programme once more, and having flashed a small electric torch round the room, was surprised to see me asleep in this easy wicker chair. She must have heard me move, and it must have disclosed to her that I had wakened and was taking notice. She, therefore, stood deadly still for a few moments, probably stiff with fright at the thought of being discovered. I put my hand in my pocket for my electric torch, but remembered I'd left it on the hall table earlier in the evening. There was nothing for it but to try and reach the electric light switch on the other side of the room. I was sitting by the window, you see. I made a desperate bound to get to that switch, but she was gone like a flash. I didn't see her go, because I was intent on getting at the electric light switch without crashing into any of the furniture. I'm pretty certain, however, that she slipped through the half-open door. I stepped into the dark passage outside immediately and was quite certain that I heard the sound of scurrying footsteps below. I jumped to the conclusion that she had made her way into the wine cellar, and I scuttled down after her as fast as I could. I was either too late or had taken the wrong turning, for she wasn't in the cellarage.”

“So you knocked the neck off a bottle to get over your disappointment, I suppose,” commented Heather airily.

“I felt like it, I can assure you. Anyhow, I'd made a thorough botch of my job, and what's more I haven't got to the bottom of the mystery yet.”

“It must have been a real ghost after all, Mr. Vereker,” said the inspector with mock gravity. “But about this key to Noy's bungalow. Are you going to take it and have a look around the place?”