The Spirit Murder Mystery (28 page)

“Well I'm hanged!” exclaimed Heather. “But go on with your yarn, Mr. Vereker.”

“After reaching this point in my investigation, my thoughts reverted to those tunnels, and here came in the clue of the chalk on Thurlow's dress shoes. As the soil of this district is loam, with a subsoil of clay over-lying the chalk some twenty feet below, Thurlow must have gone down some distance to reach that chalk. What more reasonable than that he had been through that long sought tunnel. Chalk, you must remember, is a perfect medium for a tunnel. I've spent many hours trying to find the entrance from this house to that underground subway, and this afternoon, I hit upon it. The spectre which I had seen in this room, Heather, vanished mysteriously from a point near that study door, and I centred my search on the wainscoting near the door. Success attended my efforts at last, and I discovered the spring that works the panel masking the entrance to the tunnel. Before showing you that panel, Heather, I must here give my friend Ricardo his due for some work well done on my behalf. His work put the final corroborative touch to my conclusions.”

“I like that corroborative touch, Inspector,” interrupted Ricardo. “With my usual skill I absolutely put the tin hat on the whole business. In short, I reduced Algernon's vague fumblings after truth into something like Scotland Yard certainty. I know you'll understand me, so I won't say any more. Or shall I continue the thrilling story, Algernon?”

“Go ahead, Ricky, it'll give me a rest.”

“You see, Heather, while Vereker was steeped in a study of spooks, I at once connected up with Miss Dawn Garford. I have an uncanny flair for getting hold of the right end of the stick, instanter. No shillyshallying, but one stark leap
in medias res
. Metaphors a bit mixed but they'll have to do. Miss Garford was so good looking that I suggested shadowing her to see what her little game was. Algernon concurred, probably to get me out of his way. After untold hardships and some very delicate and skilful work, I picked up the lady's car travelling south. At this point I knew that she had discovered that the relentless Ricardo was after her. She doubled on her tracks to throw me off the scent. I doubled on them too. We doubled and redoubled till it suggested to me a vital clue—whisky! Then, just to make the game more exciting, I let her go. This, of course, was pure subtlety on my part. It lulled her into the belief that she had given me the slip. You can imagine her consternation when I reappeared in immaculate evening dress before her eyes at a night club in London, the same evening. It must have given her a ghastly shock, but there, I like to dramatize life.”

“What was the name of the night club, Mr Ricardo?” asked Heather.

“Seeing that its character is unimpeachable, I can tell you, Inspector; ‘The Blue Bottle.'”

“I know it. Respectable so far,” commented Heather.

“Therefore, so far, so good! Knowing the proprietress of this club, I immediately got into confidential conversation with her. To cut a long story short—I know you'll be disappointed, but I can't possibly reveal my methods to a professional rival—I elicited the fact that Miss Garford was touting illicit spirit to various clubs and road houses round London. This information was priceless to Algernon. It put mortar into the hands of a bricklayer who was standing gaping beside a pile of silly bricks. Immediately I divulged the secret to him, the air of frustration vanished from his face. He began to look like a human being with an aim in life. Sequel: after a little fiddling about with the wainscoting of this room, he discovered the entrance to the elusive tunnel. Resume Algernon, I'm dying for a cigarette after that sustained bit of narrative.”

“Immediately we discovered the entrance, Ricardo and I promptly began our exploration.”

“Not quite correct, Algernon. We lunched first. Accuracy is the handmaiden of truth and the fickle mistress of the liar. That's why I'm always beautifully vague,” interrupted Ricardo.

“We tramped about a mile along the subway, which was leading us in the direction of the church,” continued Vereker. “Then we came upon an inter-secting passage which connected it with the central tunnel to Riswell Manor, and finally to the tunnel which had never been explored. This last tunnel was the one I was eager to investigate. It finally brought us to the object of my whole quest, namely, the spot which Thurlow eventually reached after he had disappeared from Old Hall Farm. At this spot the tunnel opened out into two large chambers. The first, on lower ground, contained a large wash back for brewing the wort or liquor made from barley. This was an exciting discovery, but more was to follow. After tripping over a heavy timber baulk lying on the floor, I flashed my lamp about and came across a cap and some short strands of rope.”

“Was it Thurlow's cap?” asked the inspector eagerly.

“I think we can definitely say it was. The strands of rope, one of which was still attached to the balk of timber, were probably the strands that bound Clarry Martin's wrists and ankles before he died.”

“But the question is, what killed him?” remarked Heather.

“On this point I'm not certain, but I infer that he died from carbon dioxide poisoning. The gas still pervaded the chamber when we visited it, but it would have been in much greater density when the wort was brewing in the vat. When yeast is added to wort, it converts the sugar content into alcohol and throws off carbonic acid gas in the process. I have an idea Martin was tied to that heavy post, and in his struggles the post snapped off at the base and he fell with it. Carbonic acid gas being heavier than air naturally collects along the floor, and Martin, lying prostrate and unable to free himself from his ligatures, would soon succumb to its effects. Carbon dioxide, being a narcotic poison, would produce the symptoms discovered by your pathologist, namely cerebral congestion and apoplexy. Cases, however, are extremely rare, and that would account for the guarded nature of the doctor's report.”

“That's sound enough. We can almost take it for granted that that's how Martin met his end,” commented Heather.

“We then proceeded into the adjoining chamber which contained the stills. Here I discovered that my inferences about the note found on Martin were correct. The soap box was broken, and the spirit taps on the worm of the spirit still evidently needed new washers.”

“What was the worm, Algernon?” asked Ricardo.

“The worm is a spiral lead pipe which runs from the apex of the spirit still through a tank of cold water. This process condenses the spirit vapour into liquor. One of the taps opened on to a small glass testing tank filled with clear water. If the spirit is sufficiently refined, it drips into the tank of water and makes no visible impression. If it's not pure enough, it turns the water milky. These details, however, are unnecessary. Just as we were about to leave, I caught sight of a case lying on the brick furnace of the spirit still. It contained tools, and I think I'm right in saying the attaché case belonged to Martin. He was carrying one on the night of his disappearance. And if you remember, Heather, Martin was apprenticed to a copper-smith before he took to the motor trade. Copper stills naturally come in the copper-smith's line of business.”

“Splendid, Mr. Vereker, and now we come to the main point! Martin, on that night, was, so he said, going to see Mr. Arthur Orton about some repairs to a motor lorry which he had sold him. Orton confirmed this. I take it that was camouflage, and that the distillery is below Church Farm. Martin was going to mend the stills.”

“That's fairly certain, Heather. When I saw the brick furnaces under the stills, I wondered where the smoke from them would issue when they were alight. Then I remembered that Orton was also a miller and ground his corn by steam. I guess the flues from those furnaces run into the small factory chimney which is such a landmark in the rural scenery of Yarham.”

“Now we come to the crux of the business, Mr. Vereker. Why was Martin bound hand and foot? Who smashed Thurlow's skull, and why did Thurlow shoot Martin when he was evidently a corpse?”

“We've still got a lot of work ahead, Heather, and here I shall have to hand over the reins to you. But this is how I've figured things out. Martin, as you know, was not doing very well in the motor business. His finances were getting low. I suggest, of course, it's only a guess, that he tried to twist money out of Orton. Orton resented this attempt at extortion on the part of Martin, whose knowledge of the distillery put him in a commanding position to indulge in a little blackmail. Martin, who was probably drunk at the time, was bound hand and foot and kept a prisoner in the chamber containing the wash back, till he sobered up and thought better of it. He struggled to get free and met his death as I've already described. As for Thurlow, after leaving Old Hall Farm, he made his way along the tunnel and by some mischance took the way we deliberately chose to-day. I reckon that, after solving the riddle of the spirit music, he explored the third and unexplored tunnel. He knew of the existence of these tunnels from reading his book on the history of Yarham. He arrived at length at the secret distillery and tripping, as I did, over the baulk of timber, fell. He was carrying his loaded revolver in his hand, in case of emergency, and as he fell it was discharged, and the bullet passed through Martin's shoulder.”

“Did you hunt for the bullet?” asked Heather.

“Naturally. Taking a line from the lie of the timber post, I searched the wall of the chamber. This wall is of primeval chalk and has no brick facing. As you know, chalk walls support themselves. In it I found a hole, and following up this hole, I finally dug out the bullet with a jack knife. I have it here, Heather, and hand it over to you for examination under a comparison microscope. I think you'll find that it was fired from Thurlow's revolver.”

Taking the bullet from his pocket, Vereker gave it to Heather, who, placing it in a matchbox, carefully stowed it away.

“But the question is, who killed Thurlow?” asked Vereker.

“I said the sparrow!” murmured Ricardo sleepily from his chair.

“Arthur Orton, undoubtedly!” chimed in Heather. “Thurlow's revolver shot brought him at once into the chamber and, seeing a stranger there, armed with a revolver, he tackled him. Thurlow evidently turned tail and was going to make a run for it, when Orton picked up the fold-drift and hit him over the head with it. I'm afraid I've lost the game to you this time, Mr. Vereker, and may as well buy those fags for you.”

“Somehow, I can't think of Arthur Orton as a murderer,” remarked Vereker, shaking his head. “From what I saw of the man—and here again I rely on intuition and my knowledge of psychology—he's not the type. Although he resorted to this distillation business to make money, he was probably led into it by the presence of the plant under his farm. Any kind of smuggling has, apart from commercial gain, an extraordinary appeal to the mind that's a bit romantic and loves to take a risk. Orton's that type, I'm sure. He probably began the game for home consumption, and when he found it profitable, his business instincts took command, and he put the whole thing on a commercial basis. Miss Dawn Garford, with whom he was friendly, was let into the secret. Knowing her habits and her love of money, he chose an excellent agent for distribution. As for his murdering Thurlow to keep himself out of the hands of the law, I simply can't swallow it. He would know that discovery would at the worst mean a very heavy fine, and he is doubtless well enough off to pay the damages. No, Heather, I don't think you've spotted the murderer yet.”

“Let me put you all right,” interrupted Ricardo, rising to a sitting posture on the divan. “As you all know, Joe Battrum, Orton's man, must have been in the know with his boss. In fact, he carried out the delivery of orders taken by the charming Miss Garford. He was probably in the secret when Thurlow came on the scene. He was a thorough yokel and had a firm belief in the supernatural. Taking Thurlow for a ghost, he laid him out. From Runnacles, the gardener's story Joe Battrum was with his lorry at Cobbler's Corner, the night previous to the discovery of the bodies. Therefore, I deduce that Battrum planted the bodies of Thurlow whom he killed, and of Martin who clearly met his death by a kind of misadventure. This killing of Thurlow preyed on the poor fellow's mind. He began to think he was haunted by the dead man's ghost, and finally, clean off his chump, committed suicide.”

“Excellent, Mr. Ricardo! Not a bad theory, but as Battrum's dead, he's not of much use to me. I want to arrest somebody. I'm itching to do so, and it'll have to be Orton for being an accessory, if not the actual murderer. I'll stick to my guns, however, and put him down as the killer.”

“Now that you've definitely placed your man, Heather, I'm going to make my suggestion. I have an idea that when Ephraim Noy came to Yarham, he came with a definite purpose. He had been in the liquor traffic in America; he resorted to it again on his return to England, and was caught and fined at Doncaster. Leaving Doncaster, he probably returned to London and tried the game again there. While engaged in it, he came across the Yarham firm of distillers. A man of his habits would be almost certain to meet some of Miss Garford's customers. Seeing that it was a flourishing concern, he promptly traced its origin to this village. After the manner of the American gangster, he ‘muscled in.' From the note found in his bungalow, we may take it that he succeeded. That note, like the fragment found on Martin, was evidently written by Orton. Now, Noy, as you know, Heather, was a man who had not hesitated to take human life in his previous career. This is a definite and very strong pointer in his direction. He was probably assisting in operations in the distilling chamber when Thurlow entered and fell and accidentally discharged his revolver. Picking up the fold-drift, Noy promptly ran into the adjoining chamber, where he was confronted by Thurlow. We are fairly certain he bore Thurlow a grudge. The men had known one another years ago, and when Noy turned up at Yarham, Thurlow definitely refused to have anything to do with him. This snub doubtless rankled bitterly and Noy wrote to Thurlow. Seeing that Thurlow paid Noy five hundred pounds shortly after receiving that letter, we won't be far wrong in putting that transaction down as the result of blackmail. Face to face once more with Thurlow, and knowing that Thurlow was armed, Noy waited his chance and when his enemy had turned away from him, he struck the fatal blow. Heather, you'll have to arrest Ephraim Noy, and if you've got sufficient evidence, charge him with Thurlow s murder.”