The Spirit Murder Mystery (11 page)

“This is not criminal investigation; it's a jig-saw puzzle,” commented Heather, and consoled himself with a draught of beer.

“But you don't mean to tell me that this fragment of paper hasn't revealed something to you already?” asked Vereker seriously.

“Nothing as yet. It may be in code. That's my impression, and till we get hold of the code, it'll simply remain damned nonsense.”

“Of course it may be in code, Heather, but I don't think so. A message between two persons would almost certainly follow one of the ordinary systems of what is called cryptography, or cipher writing. Most systems are based on two methods, namely, the transposition of letters, and the substitution of letters. A key-word is all that is necessary for the receiver to decipher the message. This note is in actual words and not in groups of letters without meaning, except to the initiated. It might, however, be in what is called lexicon cipher. The correspondents have copies of the same dictionary, of which the pages are divided into two columns of words. The key to a word in the letter is the word opposite it in the adjacent column of the dictionary,”

“I don't know anything about the subject, but what about Bentley's code, which is used by commercial houses?”

‘‘Yes, Heather, I know, but Bentley's is a code for saving telegraphic and cable expenses. Anyone with a Bentley in his pocket can decipher the message. No, I'm almost certain it's a straightforward message in intelligible English. What we want is the remainder of the message.”

“Well, that's something to be thankful for. But what d'you make of it? You seem to be an expert in these matters.”

“So far I can make nothing of it, except that there's something shady about it.”

“Shady's the right word!” commented Heather with a twinkle in his eyes.

“You're brightening up under the effects of our Suffolk brew, Inspector. But I wasn't punning. Apart from spirits, there's something distinctly shady about that note, and we must bear it in mind.”

“What is there about it that strikes you as peculiar?” asked Heather.

“Before answering you, I must ask if your sketch of the fragment of paper and the writing is facsimile.”

“Yes, as near as I could get it in a hurry.”

“Well, even if it's not in code, it shows that the writer wrote his note in block capitals. Either he was determined that there should be no difficulty about reading his message, or he was attempting to conceal his ordinary handwriting. I'm inclined to think the latter.”

“That's a toss-up. Why should he want to conceal his handwriting?”

“I know no more than you; just an intuition again. But there are a few things I'd like to be clear about, Heather, before I start serious work to-morrow morning. First, has the doctor expressed his opinion about the times when death occurred to the two men?”

“Not definitely, but he thinks that Martin had been dead about three days, and Thurlow about twenty-four hours prior to the alleged time of their discovery by Noy. Mark the word, alleged!”

“Good. About the case Martin was carrying when he set out from home on the previous Friday; was the case empty? If not, do you know what it contained?”

“No, and I don't suppose we'll find out till we find the case.”

“His parents didn't know where he was going?”

“So they told Inspector Winter. Martin said he might be rather late returning home and they were not to sit up for him, but he didn't say whom he was going to see, or what his business was. He was always rather secretive, and his parents never pressed him with questions.”

“I must probe a little further into these details; they look promising. I've told you, Heather, about the chalk sticking to Thurlow's shoes. Well, there was a considerable amount of clay adhering to Martin's boots. The weather has been very dry, and yet that clay was certainly very moist when the man trod in it. I detached a small fragment from the arch of the boot, between heel and sole, and I've examined it very carefully.”

“What secret did it give up?”

“The fragment was composed of clay with traces of chalk, but imbedded in the mixture was one barley-corn.”

“I hope you christened it ‘John,'” said Heather with a grin, “for there are acres of barley about.”

“I certainly will; it would be appropriate. I'm glad to see you cheering up, Inspector. But to continue; was there anything about the state of the men's clothes that struck you as remarkable?”

“They were filthy. Anyone would think that both had been rolling about in pig-wash.”

“Exactly, and there was no evading the curious smell of that pig-wash, or whatever it was. That fact might suggest that there had been a desperate struggle, but from the nature of the wounds and the absence of any other sign of a scuffle, I don't think we can infer that either had struggled before being killed. On the elbow of Martin's jacket, moreover, there was some yellowish substance which might be informative, if we could make out its nature.”

“Come now, Mr. Vereker, own up. You've guessed what that stuff is.”

“I've a shrewd idea, but your laboratories at Hendon will certainly put you wise on the point, unless you know already.”

“No, I don't, but talking of Martin, there's one important thing I've forgotten to mention. The doctor says he had punished quite a lot of whisky, and may have been drunk when he passed out.”

“Ah, that's significant. It would account for the absence of any sign of a struggle before he died. It might also account for his getting his clothes in such a mess. The explanation doesn't apply to Thurlow. He was, I hear, practically a teetotaller. But who was the last person to see Martin? I hear that he was seen with George Mobbs, the baker, outside this inn about ten o'clock at night. They had evidently met earlier, spent the evening here, and then Martin had gone about his business. Nobody seems to have seen him after that. Where did he go to?”

“Don't ask me,” murmured the inspector.

“There's only one explanation, Heather,” continued Vereker with a furtive smile. “He, too, must have vanished into thin air—dematerialized.”

“What with spirit rapping and ghostly music and soap boxes smashed and decomposition, or whatever you call it, I'm getting tied up in knots!”

“That's because you're a shocking materialist, Heather. You really must change your whole mental attitude to this business. The case is a special one, and you must adapt yourself to it. It would do you good to read my old friend Emerson's essay, called ‘The Transcendentalism'. I always keep one of Ralph Waldo's volumes in my pocket; it makes a splendid pillow book. Listen to what he says. ‘The materialist, secure in the certainty of sensation, mocks at fine-spun theories, at star-gazers and dreamers, and believes that life is solid... the idealist, in speaking of events, sees them as spirits...'”

“One minute, Mr. Vereker, I'll just finish my beer,” interrupted Heather, and putting his empty mug down on the table, added, “I'll see you sometime to-morrow. Good-night!”

“Good-night,” replied Vereker, laughing, and on Heather's departure, closed his volume of Emerson, thrust it into his pocket, and produced an ordnance survey map of the Yarham district.

“Now let's have a look at the geography of the place!” he said to himself, as he spread out the map on the table and began to study it with concentration. “Lovely things, maps! They'll completely oust fiction in the near future.”

Next morning, Vereker breakfasted alone. Before going to bed on the previous night, he had made a close study of the map of the district and noted carefully all the roads, lanes, and field-paths in any way connected with the thoroughfare that swept round and enclosed Cobbler's Corner. After that survey, he had decided to revisit the scene where the bodies had been discovered, and explore the surrounding district on foot.

The morning was fine, with an almost cloudless sky and a gentle breeze that promised to temper the sultriness of a perfect summer day. Vereker ate his breakfast with gusto. There was an alertness and excitement in his manner, and a brightness in his eye which declared he was in that cheerfully aggressive mood that an intricate problem always roused in him. There was something in the very air which seemed to promise good fortune.

Lighting a cigarette, and picking up a stout ash stick, he set off, and, after half an hour's walk, arrived at the small stretch of waste grass land, which for some reason unknown to any of the inhabitants of the parish, was called Cobbler's Corner. Not a soul was in sight when he arrived, and the hard, drought-baked ground, with its covering of coarse, sere grass bore no impression of the tread of the numerous villagers who had crossed and recrossed it on the previous day after the police had finally left the scene. Measuring the distance from the road as he paced, he proceeded rapidly to the spot where the bodies of John Thurlow and Clarry Martin had lain. Coming to a standstill, he glanced about him, his eye roving from one point to another in casual observation. Then drawing his map from his pocket, he took his bearings with reference to the village and to Old Hall Farm. They lay almost in a direct line to the south. He noted a field-path that left the road, crossed the meadow opposite the angle of Cobbler's Corner, and made its way to the outskirts of the village, effecting a very appreciable short cut. That field-path was reached by climbing over the gate on which Ephraim Noy had sat when Vereker first came on the scene, the day before.

The sudden recollection of Ephraim Noy at once made him turn round and look up the road running north. That road presented a fairly stiff gradient from Cobbler's Corner, and just above the summit, through surrounding foliage, could be seen the red asbestos tiled roof and the upper portion of a window in the gable of Noy's bungalow. It was barely a hundred yards in a direct line from the point at which Vereker stood.

The sight of Ephraim Noy's bungalow immediately filled Vereker with a lively curiosity to see the place and its owner. After another careful scrutiny of the ground around him, he passed through a gap in the hedge into the adjoining meadow and made a straight line for the bungalow. As he paced up the steep, grassy slope, he was smiling to himself, for he was carrying out a rapid mental adjustment which always secretly amused him. He was putting on the armour of the journalist, assuming the “hide of brass” which is essential to a successful interviewer. With some, it is a natural shield against the onslaught of a hostile personality; the arrows of insolence glide off it without inflicting any hurt. With Vereker, naturally sensitive, that impervious defence had to be forcibly created by cold reasoning and vigorous self-exhortation. By the time he had reached the fence and recently planted hedge which divided Noy's demesne from the meadow, Vereker had prepared himself to meet the most frigid rudeness with unshakable imperturbability.

The first object that interested him and brought a sharp exclamation of surprise to his lips, as he stood surveying the bungalow and its surroundings, was a large heap of greyish white earth, some seven feet high, that lay a few yards from the back entrance. Just visible over the piled-up earth, could be seen the top of a heavy wooden tripod, to which was attached a pulley and rope. Working his way round, Vereker came to a point from which he could see that this tripod stood directly over a shaft which descended into the earth. He at once knew that these were the outward signs of the operation called “sinking a well.” Without further hesitation, he calmly stepped over the young privet hedge, barely three feet nigh, and crossed over the still undisturbed meadow grass which formed the bungalow's back lawn, to the mouth of the shaft. The shaft was from five to six feet in diameter, and he could clearly see its bottom some forty feet below. He glanced at the section of earth through which the shaft had been sunk, and noticed the heavy surface loam, under which lay a bed of clay superimposed over the basic chalk. This was the first chalk he had seen in the district, for in this part of the county the long westerly chalk slopes pass well beneath the London clay and crag. At once there flashed across his memory the fact that John Thurlow, just prior to his murder, must have trodden on chalk, and he carefully examined the chalky earth that had been excavated from the well and flung up in an unsightly heap near its mouth. Vereker's close inspection of that chalk debris yielded no information, and approaching the well, he was just considering a descent by the rope attached to the pulley, when he heard a footstep on the gravel path behind him. Swinging round on his heel, he came face to face with Mr. Ephraim Noy, who, with his hands behind his back and an ugly frown knitting his brow, eyed him up and down with marked displeasure. At this close view of him, Vereker was immediately struck by the remarkable resemblance of Ephraim Noy to “Uncle Sam,” Punch's pictorial personification of the United States of America. The likeness was so close that Vereker was obliged to smile, and he was wondering who had given the original artist the idea for that caricature, when its counterpart spoke.

“Well, young man, may I ask how you got in here?” he said with ironical politeness.

“Just stepped over your hedge at the back,” replied Vereker bluntly.

“Would you mind just stepping back over the hedge to oblige me?” asked Mr. Noy.

“Certainly,” said Vereker with a rapid investment of himself in his journalist's hide. “I'm sorry if I happen to have annoyed you.” He was about to say, “Mr. Noy,” but the sound sequence reminded him of a music hall song in which a certain Mrs. Moore is urged to desist from drinking any more, and he deftly substituted, “Sir.” After a pause he continued: “But I'm rather interested in the geology of the district and couldn't resist having a look at your well shaft.”

“I don't see anything very interesting in a well shaft,” remarked Mr. Noy with an air of being mollified much against his will.