The Spirit Murder Mystery Read online

  The morning brought Runnacles, the gardener, at seven o’clock to Old Hall Farm. It was an hour earlier than his specified time for commencing work. He demanded to see his mistress at once, and Fanny Raymer ran upstairs, wakened Eileen, and told her of Runnacles’ unusual request. Eileen, immediately aware that the gardener was the bearer of important news, slipped on her dressing-gown and came down to hear what he had to say.

  Runnacles’ information was brief and momentous. The dead bodies of Mr. John Thurlow and Mr. Clarry Martin had been found lying within a few feet of one another on the piece of waste land called “Cobbler’s Corner,” about half a mile to the north of Yarham village. They had been discovered by Ephraim Noy, who lived in the new bungalow, not a hundred yards from Cobbler’s Corner. He had informed the village constable, and the village constable’s wife had immediately informed Runnacles’ wife. That was all. Runnacles could furnish no further details beyond the fact that the village constable had at once cycled out to Cobbler’s Corner. Before leaving, he had said he would call at Old Hall Farm as soon as practicable and give Miss Thurlow full particulars of the tragedy.

  On learning this terrible news, Eileen Thurlow did not faint, as one might have expected of a woman of her sensitive and delicate stamp. She quietly dismissed Runnacles and went back to her bedroom to dress. Her mind, by some strange process, seemed to her to have become suddenly detached from her body and to be floating, calmly and quite alert, in some region not actually mundane. As she dressed, she happened to glance out of her bedroom window into the garden below. The sky was cloudless, and the garden was all bright and sparkling in the cool morning sunshine. Her uncle was dead. Clarry Martin was dead. In the language of spiritualism, they had passed over. Nature didn’t seem to heed. Nature seemed frigidly remote and indescribably beautiful. A great mystery!

  Chapter Three

  Anthony Vereker, known as Algernon unabbreviated to his friends, looked critically at the numerous landscape sketches both in oil and watercolour that he had completed since his arrival in Yarham, and then carefully packed them all away with his painting gear in a leather trunk in his bedroom. This operation of putting away his work was performed with some of the solemnity of a funeral rite. For several days he had not handled a brush or opened a sketch book. His inspiration seemed to have burned itself out temporarily, and he knew that it was futile to continue painting in this mood. It was merely exercising a craftsman’s skill; its only result could be competently executed but uninspired work. That dying fire of inspiration had been finally quenched by the lighting up of his old passion for detection, for in the very village of Yarham certain startling events had occurred. Those events constituted a mystery the solution of which promised to tax the powers of Anthony Vereker, amateur detective, to their limit. It was the first occasion, too, in his experience, on which he happened to be near the scene of a baffling crime at the time of its commission.

  Vereker had had his first introduction to the beauties of the Constable country during his investigations with Inspector Heather into the mysterious murder at Marston Manor. At the time, he had made up his mind to explore all this southern half of Suffolk in search of landscape subjects, and his lengthy stay at Yarham was the result of that decision. He had just fixed a date for his return to London, and had written to his friend Manuel Ricardo to meet him at Liverpool Street Station. That letter had suggested a mild celebration of his return to civilization after such a prolonged sojourn in the wilds of East Anglia.

  Fate had, however, decreed otherwise.

  The morning after he had posted that letter to Ricardo, Vereker was mildly interested at hearing of the strange disappearance from Yarham of two of its inhabitants, Mr. John Thurlow and Mr. Clarry Martin. He heard the news from Benjamin Easy, landlord of “The Walnut Tree” Inn, where he was staying. Always interested in village gossip, he had managed to elicit from Ben Easy, by very diplomatic questioning, the fact that the two men were reputedly rivals for the hand of the sprightly and charming Dawn Garford. Ben had imparted this information with such an air of profound secrecy, that Vereker was obliged to assume that he had been favoured with vastly important confidences. He tried hard to appear as if he felt highly honoured. Ben and he discussed the affair with the furtiveness of two conspirators, and as a result, Vereker gradually learned that Ben was convinced that Mr. Thurlow had eloped with Miss Garford, and that Clarry had gone back to London, where he lived and worked, a broken-hearted man!

  Early on Wednesday morning, however, the startling news of the discovery of the dead bodies of John Thurlow and Clarry Martin on the waste land at Cobbler’s Corner went round the village like wildfire. The attendant circumstances were so extraordinary, that it was not clear to anyone how the two men had really met their deaths. At a first and casual glance, it looked as if they had killed one another in a brief but deadly combat. John Thurlow’s skull had been smashed by a peculiar iron bar, called a fold-drift in this portion of the county of Suffolk. This bar lay near the outstretched hand of Clarry Martin, but not actually in his grasp. In John Thurlow’s right hand was a .45 army pattern Webley revolver, with one cartridge of the complement of six, discharged. The bullet had passed through Martin’s trapezius muscle, above the clavicle bone of the right shoulder. Even to a layman it was apparent that such a bullet wound could hardly have proved fatal. Other features about the bodies of the two men, not at first apparent to a casual eye, came to light subsequently on a closer examination by Doctor Cornard, and rendered the whole business more baffling than ever.

  The news of this amazing tragedy, apart from its overwhelming effect on the village of Yarham, seemed to galvanize the jaded Vereker into a feverish burst of activity. Rising from the breakfast table, at which he had just seated himself, he hurried round to the post office telephone box, and at once rang up his friend, Manuel Ricardo, who was as usual occupying Vereker’s flat in Fenton Street, London, W.

  That you, Ricky?” he asked on hearing a feeble and somewhat sleepy, “Hello!”

  Yeah!” came the reply in an exaggerated American intonation. Ricardo was annoyed at having been wakened at such an hour, and knew that this buffooning would act as a mild irritant on his friend.

  “For heaven’s sake be serious, Ricky, and speak English. I mean the authorized version.”

  “I sure will, chief, but I’m rather crazy about the revised version since I visited lil ole New York. Now what have yer gotta say, boy? Make it snappy for I’m dangling on this end of the line in my pyjamas and bare feet.”

  “I want you to cancel our little engagement. I shan’t return to town next week, Ricky. Sorry and all that, but I’m right on the scene of a most amazing double murder, or rather, that’s what it looks like at the moment...”

  “Don’t go into details, Algernon,” came the immediate interruption; “I can’t stand a double murder on an empty stomach. I’m sorry you’ve decided to postpone our beano for the sake of mere detection. This criminal investigation’s getting a complete mastery over you. You’re becoming an addict. We’ll have to lock you up at Hendon.”

  “Are you very busy just now?”

  “No, I’m at a loose end. I’ve just completed my new serial for the Daily Report, and am making a desultory study of popular Victorian fiction. I’ve just read a beauty: The Morals of May Fair, by the author of Ought We to Visit Her? We can’t compete with that nowadays, Algernon. There’s no May Fair to speak of, and if there is, it hasn’t any morals. Modern frankness has knocked all the delightful shudder out of allusive wickedness...”

  “You’d better come to Yarham. You’re just idling. It’s a dangerous thing for a man of your temperament. I’ll expect you down to-morrow night. There’s a good fast train...”

  “Impossible, Algernon. I’m taking Gertie Wentworth to the Broughtons to-morrow night. They’re flinging a beer and sausage party.”

  “Who on earth’s Gertie Wentworth? It’s the first time you’ve mentioned her name.”

  “It won’t be the l
ast; it’s worth repeating. Algernon, a new star has swum into my ken! She’s of the first magnitude.”

  “Ricky, you’re hopeless!”

  “On the contrary, I’m afraid I’m over sanguine. She’s fabulously rich.”

  “Then you won’t come to-morrow?”

  “No, definitely. By the way, Gertie has a most fascinating cast in her left eye...”

  “Yes, yes,” interrupted Vereker petulantly. “I believe it’s a bewitching defect in a wealthy woman. Can’t you get out of this infantile beer and sausage business?”

  “It would be difficult. Nothing short of a death in the family would work as an excuse. Hilda Veasey threw me over because my favourite aunt died twice within six months. No more fictional obituaries for the present. My memory’s only a selling plater and not good enough for classic lying. Too risky!”

  “When will you be free?”

  “When Gertie finds me out. But seriously, what do you want me to do?”

  “I want you to come down here and help. It’s going to be an interesting and difficult case. From the look of things, I foresee considerable danger.”

  “Then I shall be with you the day after to-morrow. My latest craze is to live dangerously. I’ve started by discarding the use of safety matches.”

  “I’ll expect you by the fast train leaving London at two. You might bring the case containing my investigator’s equipment. It’s in the wardrobe in my dressing- room. Inside the lid of the case is pasted a list of the equipment. Just check it up and see that nothing’s missing. Two or three items you’ll have to renew. Wax candles is one. Get an extra electric torch and several batteries. And I feel there’s no gum arabic.”

  “A necessary article, Algernon. You really can’t ask anyone to stick ’em up without a pinch of gum arabic.”

  “That reminds me. Bring my two Colt automatics and a box of ammunition.”

  “What about a gas gun, to be thoroughly up-to- date?”

  “You’ll be an excellent substitute, Ricky!”

  “One minute, Algernon. I’ll jot that down for my article on the difference between wit and impudence. Anything else?”

  “Not that I can think of at the moment.”

  “May I remind you that I’m short of money? Can you see your way clear...”

  “Good lord, Ricky, haven’t you got your fare down here? I suppose you’ve squandered your last bob on observing this star of the first magnitude.”

  “I’m glad you said ‘squandered,’ Algernon. A cynic would call it a highly speculative investment.”

  “A cynic wouldn’t be such a fool as to credit you with any worldly cunning. Is my man, Albert, in?”

  “I smell him cooking the breakfast. Haddocks this morning, I think.”

  “Ask him to advance you five pounds on my account. That’ll have to cover your beer and sausage evening with your latest discovery and get you down here.”

  “What about the wax candles, electric torch, batteries and so forth?”

  “You must allow for those and keep a strict note of the amount.”

  “Really, Algernon, your financial methods are Procrustean. A measly fiver won’t stretch from Gertie Wentworth to gum arabic. Something—something’ll snap!”

  “You must make it do. I can’t waste any more time just now. Ring up Geordie Stewart of the Daily Report and tell him I’m their special correspondent at Yarham. Au revoir!”

  Vereker banged up the receiver and hurried out of the post office. Borrowing Benjamin Easy’s bicycle, he made his way quickly to Cobbler’s Corner, the waste land on which the bodies of John Thurlow and Clarry Martin had been discovered by Ephraim Noy.

  Arriving on the scene, he found Godbold, the village constable, in command with Ephraim Noy as sole attendant. No one else was present, for though bad news travels fast in other parts of the world, neither it nor anything else travels fast in Suffolk. Speed is an irrelevance in Eden.

  Godbold, pocket-book and pencil in hand, was, in spite of an air of importance engendered by the high occasion, looking distinctly worried. Murder, within the area of his authority, was an unprecedented experience for him. Just before Vereker’s arrival, he had surreptitiously glanced through his “Police Code” and refreshed his memory, now vague, on the instructions detailed under the heading “Murder.” During this perusal, he had turned his back guiltily on Ephraim Noy. He was thinking it was a bit difficult to remember everything connected with a constable’s duties. He knew all about the Diseases of Cattle Act, of Cattle Straying under the Highway Act; he was intimately conversant with the Prevention of Poaching Act, and the orders applicable to the County under the Wild Birds Protection Act. But murder? It wasn’t quite reasonable to expect...

  “Good morning, Godbold,” said Vereker, as he came up with the harassed official.

  “Good morning, sir. You’re the very gentleman I want.”

  “Anything I can do to help?” asked Vereker genially, for Godbold and he were good friends.

  “I want you to take charge here, sir, till I run down to the village and ’phone the sergeant and Doctor Cornard. It’ll be some time before the sergeant can turn up, but I’ll be back as soon as I can. I’d have asked Mr. Noy, but I don’t know the gent very well, and he don’t seem too bright in any case. You know what’s happened, I suppose?”

  “I do, and I’m acting as the special correspondent of the Daily Report in the case.”

  “Very good, sir. Now I want you to prevent any unauthorized person from...”

  “I know all the rules and regulations, Godbold. Don’t trouble to repeat them. I’ll see to things till you return. Do you think it’s murder?”

  “Mighty like it, sir!”

  “Any footprints?”

  “None, sir; the ground’s as hard as iron after the long drought, and the grass like chaff. Worn’t any dag (dew) last night either. But I must be going.”

  “Right,” replied Vereker, and the constable, mounting his bicycle, disappeared at his usual, comfortable, patrolling pace towards Yarham village.

  Vereker, on his departure, crossed the few yards of sun-scorched grass that separated the bodies from the winding lane that made a hairpin bend round the small stretch of waste land, called Cobbler’s Corner. Meticulously observing all the rules so necessary on such an occasion, he nevertheless made a hurried but searching scrutiny of the two bodies and the mise-en-scène. Having jotted down all the details that struck him as vital, he took up his position on the road and awaited the return of Constable Godbold.

  A few villagers with time on their hands for adventure soon appeared, but were sternly ordered not to leave the highway. With the habitual regard for authority characteristic of countrymen, they gathered together in a group and tried to elicit some information from Mr. Ephraim Noy, who, calmly smoking his pipe, had taken up his position on a five-barred gate leading into a meadow opposite Cobbler’s Corner.

  Mr. Ephraim Noy, they discovered, was a man of few words. He told them briefly that he had found the two bodies, lying in their present positions, as he crossed the Corner on his way into Yarham, an hour or so previously. He refused to discuss the matter further. It wasn’t his business, and he plainly hinted that it was theirs in a much less degree. Leaving him perched on the gate, calmly observant but uncommunicative, they fell to discussing the tragedy among themselves. In this occupation, somewhat arid at the moment owing to meagreness of detail, they were quietly engaged, when Constable Godbold returned in company with Doctor Cornard.

  Godbold at once relieved Vereker of his command and thanked him, adding that the sergeant and inspector would arrive later, accompanied by an official with his photographic equipment. Feeling that the proceedings were now in order, and that the weight of responsibility was slowly but smoothly moving from his own broad but diffident shoulders to those of his superiors, Godbold’s face had resumed its habitual expression of official dignity and smug competence.

  Vereker, having chatted for a few minutes with Doctor Cornard, who
se acquaintance he had made shortly after his arrival in Yarham, decided to return to the village inn for breakfast. He was hungry. Besides, he was well aware that, not being acquainted with Sergeant Pawsey or Inspector Winter, he would have little chance of acquiring any further information about the tragedy than his own sharp eyes had already given him.

  “Good morning, Doctor,” he said as he picked up his bicycle, which was lying on the grass at the roadside.

  “You’re not going, Vereker?” asked the doctor, who had just glanced at the bodies and satisfied himself that life was extinct. “I thought you said you were interested in detective work.”

  “So I am, but not as a mere onlooker. I’ve seen all I want to see at present, but I’d like to have a chat with you later, strictly sub rosa of course.”

  “Come in any evening. I have a meal at seven o’clock sharp; I can’t call it dinner. You’ll be welcome. The padre was telling me about your fame as an amateur sleuth, and I’d like to hear your views.”

  Thanking him for his proffered hospitality, Vereker mounted his machine and left the strange little group of people that had gathered and stood curious and expectant at Cobbler’s Corner.

  On his way back to the inn, his thoughts were actively engaged on the subject of Miss Eileen Thurlow, John Thurlow’s niece. She was the first person he would like to see and question, but he was conscious of the difficulties attendant on such a delicate task. She would certainly be interrogated later by the police, an unpleasant enough experience for a young woman, possibly prostrate with grief, without the preliminary intervention of one whom she might consider a meddlesome stranger, or a hustling newspaper correspondent. Chance, however, was to smooth his oath in an unexpected manner, for as he ran into the outskirts of the village, whom should he encounter but the Rev. William Sturgeon.

  James Sturgeon, son of the rector, had been a college friend of Vereker’s, and his father on hearing of Vereker’s arrival in Yarham had soon made himself known. On now recognizing Vereker, he at once hailed him and asked him where he had been sketching during the morning.