The Spirit Murder Mystery (9 page)

“This is the window by which your uncle left the house on the night of his disappearance?” he asked mechanically.

“I only presume he did,” replied Miss Thurlow.

“But he must have done so, if all the doors were locked.”

“That's the matter-of-fact explanation, Mr. Vereker, but who can say? Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, I think, put forward a theory that Houdini had some power of dematerializing and then materializing again to perform some of his amazing tricks. Houdini professed to be a conjurer and was hostile to spiritualism probably to keep his secrets inviolate. My uncle may have stumbled suddenly on some knowledge of the kind on that occasion.”

“It seems rather a far-fetched explanation,” remarked Vereker with a sense of uneasiness. He began to feel that Miss Thurlow was deliberately trying to be incomprehensible.

“I merely suggest it as a possible alternative, because it seems ridiculous for the owner of a house to climb out of the window when there's a door handy,” replied Miss Thurlow.

“I agree, but I'm going to use up every matter-of- fact explanation before proceeding to something highly improbable. The difficulty I'm confronted with is that I can't for the life of me see why he should go out by the window when there was a door handy.”

“The alternative theory is highly improbable to you, because you've not accustomed your mind to it yet, Mr. Vereker. For instance, do you believe a table is solid?”

“Scientifically I know it's not, but I know I can't put my hand through it,” replied Vereker smiling.

“Exactly, but that's simply because you don't know how. Neither the table nor your hand is solid; they are merely, so scientists assert, composed of ions and protons of electricity. The matter-of-fact man will accept this wonder, but he won't accept any spiritualist theory. It seems rather inconsistent to me.”

“Well, we won't quarrel on the point,” continued Vereker. “For the present, I'm going to assume that your uncle left by the window. For the sake of argument, we'll say he chose that course, because it was quicker than unlocking the door.”

“I hadn't thought of that explanation,” remarked Miss Thurlow with a note of surprise. “Of course, he might have been in a desperate hurry.”

“That's so, but we want to know why. If we could just get hold of that why, we'd have made one step forward in our solution of the problem.”

“Ah, well, here's the tea,” exclaimed Miss Thurlow, as a maid brought in a tray and laid it on a small table in the centre of the study. “A cup of tea ought to brighten you up to making brilliant deductions,” she added with a laugh.

“Your uncle didn't belong to the hatless brigade, Miss Thurlow?” asked Vereker, after a pause.

“No. He often sat about the house with a cap on. Said he believed in keeping his head warm. But why do you ask?”

“He was hatless when his body was found, and I shall be glad if you can check up whether one of his hats or caps is missing.”

“I'll do that immediately after tea. I ought to have thought of it before, but, there, I'm not a detective.”

“Then there was an iron bar, called a fold-drift, found lying between the bodies of your uncle and Martin. I believe this tool is generally used for making post holes for light fencing. Did it belong to Old Hall Farm?” asked Vereker, helping himself to blackberry jelly.

“I'm certain it didn't,” replied Miss Thurlow emphatically. “Inspector Winter asked me that question. I spoke to Runnacles, our gardener, about it and he said he had never seen one about the place, though it's possible there may have been one in one of the out-houses.”

For some moments Vereker sat lost in speculation. Suddenly looking up, he asked: “Have you a wireless set, Miss Thurlow?”

“No; my uncle had an unreasonable dislike for radio. He always called it a ‘damned annoying contraption,' and said it was the refuge of an age that had neither conversation nor good taste.”

“He also disliked gramophones?”

“Yes, but now I guess what you're getting at, Mr. Vereker. You're seeking a simple solution of the strange music I've often heard in this house and that my uncle and I both heard on the evening of his disappearance.”

“No; I'm only eliminating simple explanations,” replied Vereker.

“I've eliminated the only possible one already,” continued Miss Thurlow. “My uncle thought it might be the church organist practising. The church is nearly a mile distant. We can never hear the organ, even when there's a service, and on that night the church organist, Mr. Veevers, wasn't practising.”

“That seems pretty conclusive,” commented Vereker and asked: “When did you first hear this strange music, Miss Thurlow?” 

“About two months ago. On the thirty-first of May, to be precise. The date is fixed in my mind because it was then that I first detected that I possessed psychic powers.”

“You're sure it's not a kind of aural illusion?”

“How can it be when my uncle heard it, too. Look here, Mr. Vereker, to settle any doubts there may be in your mind, I suggest that one evening we have a little séance on our own. I feel sure I can get a repetition of that spirit music. Personally, I'm convinced, but Pm dying to convince you. Are you game?”

“Certainly, Miss Thurlow. I was eager to ask you if you'd consent to another experiment, but didn't like to do so.”

“We'll say that's settled then. We'll make arrangements later, and if you'd care to bring a sympathetic friend along with you, all the better. Do you think Inspector Heather would like to join us?”

“I couldn't say, but knowing the inspector as I do, I'm sure he'd make an intractable member of the circle. He has already told me since his arrival that he thinks spiritualism's a kind of bugaboo.”

“Then we'd better leave him out, but you must use your own discretion after talking the matter over with him. Now, I've an idea you'd like to make a thorough examination of the house, and I've a suggestion to make. I shall have to go up to town in a day or two to see my uncle's solicitors and visit my dressmaker. I shall be away for two or three days, and while I'm absent, I'd like you to come and stay in Old Hall Farm. You can then explore the place from top to bottom. The house staff will be at your service, and Runnacles will do anything you want done outside.”

“This is very generous of you, Miss Thurlow. I don't know how to thank you,” remarked Vereker sincerely.

“You can thank me after the horrid business is all over and done with, Mr. Vereker. I want to help you in every way I can, and I feel somehow that you'll be more successful than the police in the matter. There's another thing that may help you indirectly. I'll leave the keys of my uncle's desk with you, and you can glance through his diaries and papers. I don't know whether you'll find anything in them bearing on this mystery, but one never knows.”

Vereker again thanked Miss Thurlow very warmly, and a little later, took his departure. Before leaving, he learned from his hostess that one of her uncle's caps was missing, a fact which definitely settled that John Thurlow, on the night of his disappearance, had put on a cap before setting out from Old Hall Farm.

On returning to “The Walnut Tree,” Vereker found Benjamin Easy sitting in the empty tap-room, smoking his pipe in that lugubrious meditation which was his habit when there were no customers in his inn. Vereker, taking a seat, ordered a pint of beer to dispel the landlord's depression, and on his return with the brimming mug, asked him if he knew Mr. Arthur Orton of Church Farm.

“Don't know much about the gentleman,” replied Ben, puffing at his pipe with awakening animation. ‘‘He seems to be well-off. He farms well, but a man with capital can allus farm well if he likes. That don't say he makes a fortune out of it. One thing I like about him. He's the fust farmer I've met who don't grumble about farming.”

“Is he a bachelor or a widower?” asked Vereker.

“He has a housekeeper,” replied Easy.

“Well, I didn't expect him to manage his house himself, Ben,” commented Vereker.

“Perhaps you didn't,” replied Ben, and was portentously silent.

“Ah, I see. You mean that there's something between the two.”

“They say she has a mind to make him her husband, but one never can be certain.”

“Does he ever come in here?” asked Vereker.

“Very seldom and then doesn't help me much to pay my way.”

“He's abstemious, eh? You don't seem to like the gentleman, Ben.”

“Can't say as I do or I don't. Never had much to do with him. They say he drives a hard bargain.”

“What do his men think of him?” asked Vereker.

“Ah, now you're asking something. He's a hard master, and his men come and go, all except Joe Battrum and Sandy Gow. They say he's all right, especially Gow, but he's a Scotchman and as tight as his boss.”

“Have you heard that Church Farm is haunted, Ben?” asked Vereker with a smile.

“Haanted be damned!” exclaimed Ben vigorously. “On that score I think Orton be crazed. He believes in ghosts and all that. So do Joe and Sandy, but I think they do it to oblige the master, so to speak.”

“Then you don't believe Church Farm is haunted, Ben?”

“My father farmed it for twenty years, and I was brought up there. We never saw no ghosts. Still, it's a rum old house, and if there be such things as ghosts it ought to be haanted. The only thing that haanted us was how to pay the rent to the old squire.”

“Have you heard anything about Orton and Miss Thurlow?” asked Vereker at a venture.

“Lor bless me, yes. He's setting his cap at the young lady, they say. He wants to marry the farm, I reckon. Still, I don't know. He's very thick with young Miss Garford, too. She's allus running up to Church Farm. There's summat queer about it all, especially with Miss Garford.”

“In what way, Ben?” asked Vereker, glancing up at the landlord's furrowed brow.

“Well, his housekeeper don't seem to mind Miss Garford. Don't strike me as reasonable. Most housekeepers would be jealous.”

“What sort of a woman is the housekeeper?”

“A nice looking gal, and what's more they say she's boss.”

At this juncture a heavy step sounded outside the door of the inn, and a few seconds later, the burly figure of Inspector Heather entered the room.

“You've come back at the right moment, Heather. I suppose yours is a pint of bitter as usual?” said Vereker.

“I'll need more than that, Mr. Vereker,” said the inspector with an unusually grave air. “This is the damnedest case I've ever had anything to do with. I'm getting depressed already. Still, I've found that the fifth pint always completely alters my point of view, so I mustn't get disheartened. I'll start with one at your expense.”

Benjamin Easy rose and left the tap-room to get the necessary drink, and on his departure, the inspector laid his hand on Vereker's shoulder.

“I think we'd better retire to your sitting-room. This place will begin to fill up shortly, and we'll have to move in the middle of an interesting discussion. What d'you think?”

“It would certainly be better, Heather,” agreed Vereker, and when the inspector had drunk his beer, they left the tap-room and ascended the stairs to Vereker's private sitting-room.

“Now, Heather, shake yourself and tell me all you know. You've heard something from Inspector Winter that puzzles you, and you're not happy.”

“To tell the truth, I'm not feeling very clever to-day. Too much work of late. There's the Barton murder case still in the air. We came to a full stop in our investigations. And now this one looks as if it's going to turn nasty. It's enough to drive a man to drinking grape-fruit!”

“You badly missed my help on the Barton case. I've a lovely theory about it which meets all the difficult points. Pure deductions of course, but I love pure deductions. Like pure mathematics, they never disillusion you.”

“What I don't like about pure deductions is that they never hang a man. But to get to the case we're on. There are several rum points about it. First, it seems impossible that Martin died from the effects of his bullet wound. Second, the wound shows that he was shot from behind. Third, it's evident that he was bound hand and foot before he died. Fourth, the police surgeon is almost certain that the bullet wound was inflicted after death.” 

“The last point is always a bit problematical, but if it's the doctor's opinion, that's something to go on,” remarked Vereker, lighting a cigarette.

“Can you tell me why Thurlow should want to shoot a dead man?” asked Heather lugubriously.

“One good reason is that the dead man couldn't shoot back. Are you satisfied that Thurlow fired the shot?”

“Looks darned like it. His right hand gripped the revolver firmly, and only one cartridge had been discharged. We couldn't find the bullet, though we searched every inch of the ground for hundreds of yards around.”

“A shocking waste of time, Heather 1” declared Vereker emphatically.

“Why a waste of time? We want the bullet to prove that it was discharged from Thurlow's revolver. It's important.”

“You didn't let me finish what I was going to say. It was a shocking waste of time searching for the bullet at Cobbler's Corner.”

“I agree. And there's another question requires an answer. Where are the ropes that bound Martin's wrists and ankles?”

“I reckon they'll be somewhere near the bullet, Heather.”

“You mean that someone took the trouble to find the bullet and remove the cords? Who would do that and why?”

“It's evident that someone removed the cords. About the bullet, I've got a little theory. As it's pure theory, it won't interest you at this stage.”