The Spirit Murder Mystery (30 page)

“‘I agree with Samuel Butler when he says that Handel's music...' he began, but never finished the sentence. He had relapsed once more into unconsciousness.

“‘Looks as if he's pegging out, Heather,' I remarked.

“‘It does. Perhaps the best thing that could happen,' replied Heather, and the hardened old devil's voice was quite tender with sympathy.

“Heather then carried Orton to the grassy roadside beyond the bridge, took off his own jacket and tucked it under the poor fellow's head. He made him as comfortable as possible, and having lit his pipe, sat down beside him. We waited there a few minutes to see if Orton would revive, but he didn't. Then a big saloon car hove in sight, and Heather signalled the driver to stop. The car had no passengers, so he commandeered it as an ambulance and, putting the unconscious Orton comfortably inside, they drove off to the nearest hospital. Before he left, he gave me a message for you. ‘Tell Mr. Vereker, if I don't see him to-morrow morning, I'll ring him up when I return to London.' I then got into my old traction engine and took my time coming home. That's the end of the news summary.”

“Do you think Orton's gone west?” asked Vereker after a brief silence.

“Couldn't say, Algernon. He may be severely injured, or he may only be suffering from bad concussion. We'll have to wait for Heather's report.”

“Pity it wasn't Ephraim Noy,” was Vereker's sole comment, and rising from his chair, he added: “I'm going to turn in. We've had a purple day, Ricky!”

“No use my going to bed yet,” replied Ricardo. “I must let the effervescence die down a bit before I can sleep. I think I'll have a cigarette or two and a bottle of ‘Guinness.' That'll pull my shattered frame together. Good-night, Algernon, good-night, goodnight!”

Next morning Vereker called at Old Hall Farm and found that Miss Thurlow had returned. She was eager to hear all that had happened in her absence, and Vereker told her briefly the whole story of his investigations into the Yarham mystery. She received a painful shock on learning of Arthur Orton's implication in the affair, and was clearly disappointed at the material explanation of the “manifestations” which she had ascribed to spirit agency. She kept, however, a complete mastery of her feelings, and when Vereker, after thanking her for her hospitality, took his departure, she had evidently regained that remarkable serenity and composure which had distinguished her bearing from the beginning of the tragic affair.

One evening, some weeks later, Ricardo and Vereker were sitting in Vereker's studio in Fenton Street, discussing the painter-detective's latest picture.

“But, Algernon, you must admit that it lacks architectural form and significance. You've said clearly what you wanted to say in terms of paint, but you convey no distinct message teleologically!”

The shrill ringing of the door bell put an end to Ricardo's joking at the expense of Art criticism, and Albert, Vereker's batman, announced shortly afterwards that Inspector Heather had called.

“Show him in, Albert, and bring a large jug of beer and glasses,” said Vereker.

A few minutes later, Heather entered the studio and was promptly pushed into a small wicker chair by the boisterous Ricardo.

“It's a bit inadequate for your bulk, Heather,” he said, “but I've always maintained that a big egg looks most imposing in a small basket.”

“Make yourself comfortable in the Minty, Heather. Help yourself to beer and tell us all the news. We've been expecting you now for over a week,” said Vereker.

Heather settled himself more comfortably in a larger chair, filled a pewter mug, and lit his rather massive pipe.

“You want to hear the rest of the Yarham murder story, I suppose,” he began. “Well, after I left Mr. Ricardo at the end of a most exciting run, I took Orton to the nearest hospital. He was very badly injured about the spine, but eventually regained consciousness and began to recover slowly. After a week or so, he was well enough to talk to me and discuss his share in ‘The Spirit Murder Mystery', as the Press have called it. I must admit that his story bears out the accuracy of your deductions in the case to a marvellous degree, Mr. Vereker. I take off my hat to you!”

“You found you were wrong in ascribing Thurlow's murder to him?” asked Vereker eagerly.

“One minute, let me tell you his story. He admitted he was the writer of the notes to Clarry Martin and Ephraim Noy. As you surmised, those stills were in the underground chamber under Church Farm, when Orton took over the place. They must have been there for ages, because the entrance to the vaults had been bricked up many years ago. Orton, out of sheer curiosity, demolished the wall sealing the entrance and discovered the ancient distillery. He started working it for the mere fun of the thing, and finding that the results were good, decided later on to run it for profit. This was as you had figured it out. Eventually he roped in Miss Garford as an agent for collecting orders. This she did very discreetly and eminently well and received a thumping big commission. Things were going on quietly and successfully, when something went wrong with one of the stills. Orton was no hand at repairing such a contraption, and Miss Garford introduced Clarry Martin into the business as a stand-by copper-smith. He carried out his duties secretly and well. The sky was again clear. Then that arch crook Ephraim Noy appeared on the scene. Somehow he'd got wind of the business in London, and promptly came to Yarham to inquire into it. It was directly in his line. He interviewed Orton and, as you've already described it, he muscled in. By this time, Orton was getting rather tired of the whole business. At first he had found it exciting and interesting, but the novelty gradually wore off and Noy took matters in his hands more and more. Orton became, so to speak, almost a sleeping partner. His love of music stole him away from his interest in whisky. By this time he would have liked to quit, but Noy had him in a vice and wasn't going to stop the racket just because Orton had got sick of it. There was nothing for it but to carry on and hope that the cat wouldn't get out of the bag. The cat, however, was going to give trouble long before they expected her to. Clarry Martin, crossed in love, took to drink, got into debt, and found himself faced with bankruptcy. He tried to beat off his creditors by extorting money from Orton. In this he was at first successful, but there came a time when Orton would give him no more. He thought he'd try the game on with Noy, but he didn't know what a tough guy he was pitting himself against. On the night that he went up to mend the soap box and spirit taps, he was rather drunk and decidedly aggressive. He approached Noy for money, and on Noy's refusal, threatened to twist his tail. Noy soon showed him that he had made a big mistake, and before Martin knew where he was he took a beauty on the point that knocked him senseless. When he recovered, he found himself bound hand and foot to a heavy post in the underground brewing chamber. He struggled, the post broke, and he fell with it. A stiff dose of carbonic acid gas had evidently collected along the floor of the chamber, which is not ventilated, and soon Martin was beyond recall. When Orton heard what had happened, he was beside himself, but after a couple of days of thinking over it, he foolishly agreed to keep his mouth shut about the business and carry on. He was also now thoroughly afraid of Noy, who put it to him that it was better to take a chance of being hanged than a certainty of being shot. The next step was to dispose of the body. It was decided to bury Martin in one of the tunnels. If this had been done, and Thurlow hadn't been interested in spirit music, possibly nothing more would ever have been heard of Martin. But the very best laid plans go wrong. Now, Joe Battrum had been the first to discover that Martin had died at his post, so to speak. He was in the know, much to his own bewilderment. So he and Noy were just going to form up for a burial party, when to their horror and astonishment Thurlow blundered into the brewing chamber. As you've described it, Mr. Vereker, he fell, his revolver was discharged, and the bullet passed through Martin's shoulder. Battrum, thinking that a ghost had appeared on the scene, bolted for all he was worth and never quite recovered his mental balance. Noy, realizing the deadly importance of what had happened, picked up a fold-drift and knocked Thurlow on the head, smashing his skull. The fat was now thoroughly in the fire, and the disposal of two dead bodies became the burning question. At first it was decided to bury them together in the tunnel, but after some discussion, Orton correctly pointed out that this would be a fatal mistake. Thurlow's unexpected arrival at the secret distillery declared that there must be an entrance to the tunnels from Old Hall Farm. A search party would eventually come along and the whole ghastly secret would be out. The argument seemed irrefutable. So Noy and Orton racked their brains for a plan of disposal and finally thought of planting the bodies at Cobbler's Corner. This, Joe Battrum and Ephraim Noy did next night. It was hoped that the story of the rivalry of the two men for the hand of Miss Dawn Garford would make it appear as if they had fought and killed one another. This was weak, especially when they had to reckon with detectives of our calibre, Mr. Vereker, but neither was in a state to think clearly. The rest of the yarn you both know.”

“But what about Orton? Has he recovered, Heather?” asked Ricardo.

“No, the poor chap died after all. He was mortally injured, and though he seemed to make a bit of a recovery at first, he couldn't maintain it. There came a bad relapse, and he snuffed out quite peacefully. As a matter of fact, I don't think he wanted to live. He was, I found, very fond of Miss Thurlow and would never have been able to face things, had he recovered. The illicit distillation was bad enough, but to be accessory to a murder was beyond the limit.”

“Thinking back over the case, Heather,” said Vereker, “we can now see why Orton called at Old Hall Farm, the morning after Thurlow's disappearance. He must have been eager to find out about the entrance to the tunnel and whether anyone in the house knew of it. He evidently learned little, but fearing that they would possibly discover that entrance in their search, decided that the bodies must be removed quickly from the distillery chambers. In a way he was right, because once we had discovered the tunnels, the finding of the bodies would only have been a matter of time. There's another point I'd like to know more about and that's the struggle that took place in Noy's bungalow before he vanished.”

“That's the one point on which you were a bit off the mark, Mr. Vereker. You thought Battrum had beat him up. I, too, was wrong, for I blamed Orton. The man who made a mess of Noy and his bungalow that midday was Barney Deeks. He had been employed by Noy to do some digging at his well. At the end of the week, when Deeks called for his wages, he found Noy about to depart. Noy tried to get out of what he had agreed to pay him, and a bit of spirited boxing took place. Deeks owned up to this to me, and seeing that he'd had his nose broken in the scrap, I gave him half a dollar to go to the pub and forget he had a nose.”

“What are you going to do about the ladies, Miss Garford and Miss Shimpling, Heather? Were they accessories?” asked Ricardo.

“Only to the distillation racket. Orton swore that neither of them had the faintest inkling as to how Thurlow and Martin met their deaths. We shall get hold of Miss Garford very soon. We've got a man on her spoor already. She'll be fined heavily for her share in the game, but seeing that she's in for a legacy of ten thousand pounds, that won't break her back. Miss Shimpling admitted frankly that she knew all about the secret liquor traffic but had no hand in the business whatever. She had always tried to get Orton to chuck it up before he was discovered.”

“And what has happened to Ephraim Noy, Heather?” asked Vereker.

“You'll be delighted to hear we caught him hiding in London, Brixton way, yesterday,” replied Heather triumphantly.

“Got a hanging case at last, Heather! You ought to be thoroughly satisfied now,” remarked Vereker.

“I don't know so much about that, Mr. Vereker. Noy may escape the gallows by the skin of his teeth. He has admitted knocking Thurlow on the head with that iron bar, but he'll put up the defence that he did it in self-defence. Thurlow was armed with a revolver and had already fired one shot. Noy was indirectly the cause of Martin's death, but can truthfully say he didn't kill him. We must wait and see and I hope the prosecuting counsel's a brilliant man. I'm not too happy about it all. Besides, I've had to buy you a box of fifty cigarettes.”

Heather tossed the box of cigarettes to Vereker and buried his grief under an upturned tankard.

THE END

Robin Forsythe was born Robert Forsythe in 1879. His place of birth was Sialkot, in modern day Pakistan. His mother died when a younger brother was born two years later, and ‘Robin' was brought up by an ayah until he was six, when he returned to the United Kingdom, and went to school in Glasgow and Northern Ireland. In his teens he had short stories and poetry published and went to London wanting to be a writer.

He married in 1909 and had a son the following year, later working as a clerk at Somerset House in London when he was arrested for theft and fraud in 1928. Sentenced to fifteen months, he began to write his first detective novel in prison.

On his release in 1929 Robin Forsythe published his debut,
Missing or Murdered
. It introduced Anthony ‘Algernon' Vereker, an eccentric artist with an extraordinary flair for detective work. It was followed by four more detective novels in the Vereker series, ending with
The Spirit Murder Mystery
in 1936. All the novels are characterized by the sharp plotting and witty dialogue which epitomize the more effervescent side of golden age crime fiction.

Robin Forsythe died in 1937.

Missing or Murdered