The Spirit Murder Mystery (16 page)

“That organ gets my goat!” suddenly exclaimed Vereker.

“I'm glad I don't keep a goat,” said Ricardo gaily, as he lit a cigarette. “But why should an organ worry you? Would it upset you to hear a spirit yiddle on a fiddle?”

“I wouldn't object to Paganini or Spohr, but that's beside the question,” mused Vereker in a calmer tone. “I'm afraid we've wasted an evening, Ricky, definitely wasted it.”

“You're impatient, Algernon. You've just put your money on the horse: he may come in. All this spiritualism doesn't seem to be in the line of your investigation so far, but you never know. As for wasting the evening, thank God we've wasted it so pleasantly. I could waste the rest of my days with Miss Eileen Thurlow!”

On retiring to his bed that night, Vereker found that sleep was impossible. A hundred fugitive and distracting thoughts swarmed through his mind, and he felt convinced that from this welter, by some psychological trick, a tangible theory would sub-consciously take shape. He had experienced this mental phenomenon on many previous occasions. It seemed as if in the hidden chambers of the brain disparate observations began to sort themselves out, a mysterious relationship began to assert itself, and like, by some strange magic, flew to like. Finally the irrelevant was precipitated and a bright intuition sprang forth with arresting power.

“Yes, that seems tentative but it points clearly; it gives direction!” he suddenly exclaimed with a note of exultation and began to wish that another day was born.

He rose, lit the lamp on his table, slipped on a dressing-gown, and produced his notebook and pencil. For the next hour he was busy jotting down all his observations and the inferences he had drawn from them. This process seemed to clarify his thoughts, and when he had finished, he thrust the notebook into his pocket, flung off his dressing-gown, blew out the lamp, and with a sigh of contentment and weariness sank once more into his comfortable bed.

“By jove, I think I'm on the trail at last!” he exclaimed, and a few minutes later was sound asleep.

Next morning at breakfast, Ricardo, after a swift glance at his friend, remarked: “You're simply bristling this morning, Algernon. You've picked up some strong scent and look as if you'd suddenly give tongue. Yoicks! Say, guy, you've gotta put me wise!

“We've got to move into Old Hall Farm to-day, but there's a lot to do before we go, Ricky. In the first place, I'm going to call on the Rev. William Sturgeon, and I'd like you, on some pretext, to interview Miss Dawn Garford, if she's still in the village.''

“Not my Dawn of yesterday?” asked Ricardo with surprise.

“Must be the same, Ricky; your butterfly among the tombs. A Painted Lady for choice, family
nymphalidae
.”

“From her conversation, I'd put her among the moths—Drinker, or Heart and Dart. But how do you know her name?”

“She's a mysterious figure in this Yarham murder mystery. Martin was supposed to be frenziedly in love with her. Thurlow, too, was infatuated. Hence the first idea that the rivals fought and slew each other. She's a young widow and her married name is Mrs. Button, but as she had only been wed a year when her husband, an aviator, met with a fatal accident, she's known to the villagers as Miss Dawn Garford. Being eligible for further experiments in matrimony, she probably prefers to be called by her maiden name.”

“I don't blame her. Dawn Button's impossible and suggests a mushroom,” commented Ricardo, and asked: “But what's the big idea?”

“There are several big ideas. You must find out as much as you can about her in your inimitable way.”

“Right-ho!” exclaimed Ricardo with gusto. “I shall be the special correspondent of the
Daily Report
, or rather, his assistant. I shall take up the line of the interviewer cringing at the feet of a theatrical star. What does she think of the modern girl? Does she chew gum or knit socks? What does she think of the Church's attitude to divorce?”

“Take up any line you like, Ricky, but you needn't ask her what she thinks of the London policeman. I don't think you'll learn much about her relations with Martin or Thurlow, but you can find out her plans for the future. I may want you to shadow her. She runs about in a small car, and you can buy, hire, or steal one from the nearest garage and keep in touch with her immediately she leaves Yarham. I've been told she's very thick with Mr. Orton of Church Farm. Probe into that if she'll let you. I think it's most important. You've got a stiff job, Ricky; it'll put you on your mettle.”

“To pun shockingly, I'm afraid it'll be my mettle but your money, Algernon. First-class shadowing's very costly. From the lady's habits, I should say she frequents exclusive haunts, and that will suit me down to your allowance for expenses. Is she well-off?”

“No; as far as I can gather, she has enough to live on quietly in the country. Yet she gets about a lot and that requires money. You must find out how she manages to perform this miracle. I'm inclined to think she's a smart business woman. The business is a mystery. I want you to get to know the nature of that business.”

“Find out a woman's business! A tough proposition, Algernon! You remind me of old Donne and his:

“Don't funk it, Ricky! In any case, you've been trying to catch a star of the first magnitude for some time, so you're in practice, so to speak. Perhaps you'd prefer to interview the Rev. Bill Sturgeon?”

“No. I come from a clerical family, and they're not very entertaining. Their lives are pretty pictures in heavy gilt frames. I'd rather play Phoebus and chase the Dawn in my chariot. But you'd better leave it all to me, Algernon. Where does the lady hang out?”

“She lives with her aunt in one of those modern houses on the road leading out of the north end of the village. You'll spot it without difficulty. It has rather a large garden and is the only one that boasts a garage.”

“Right. I'll crank up after another cup of coffee. It's much too early to flood the carburetter with whisky.”

“I'll see you at lunch, Ricky,” said Vereker.

“You certainly shall, Algernon. I'm not in the mood to miss lunch even for the society of a pretty woman. By the way, do you think I should wear a bowler hat? What do interviewers usually wear to kill?”

“Anything you like, my dear Ricky. You've got a weakness for bowlers and they suit you. Au revoir.”

On arrival at the rectory, Vereker was at once shown into the Rev. William Sturgeon's study. He found him poring over a battered copy of an old pamphlet, called “The Legend of Yarham.”

“Good morning, Vereker,” said the rector.

“I hope I'm not interrupting you over cooking up your sermon, Padre,” said Vereker.

“No, no. Sermons never give me any trouble. I'm a born preacher. I can choose my texts on Sunday morning and hold forth at desired length without difficulty at both services. My only fault is that on Sunday night I've completely forgotten what I've preached about during the day,” explained the rector, and gave vent to one of his bursts of hearty laughter. On recovering from his mirth, he continued: “I've just been reading up a pamphlet written and printed by a former rector of Yarham. He was an enthusiastic archaeologist, and I have a similar kink, but not to such a pronounced degree as my predecessor.”

“I hear you've been working on an old crypt in the church,” remarked Vereker.

“Yes, I'm getting quite excited about it. I've often wondered why that stone staircase in the church ended in a brick wall, and shortly after my induction to Yarham, I decided to explore it. But my time was taken up by my parochial duties and I let the thing slip. Then, some time back, I read an account of the quest for an altar of gold in the village of Rodbourne Cheney, near Swindon, in Wiltshire. The church of St. Mary in Rodbourne Cheney dates back to the twelfth century, as does our church in Yarham, and the account I refer to said that a stone staircase, leading to a tunnel, had been bricked up owing to the issue of foul gases from underground.”

“It looks as if the same thing had happened at Yarham.”

“Exactly. Now, at Rodbourne Cheney they have found that four vaulted passages lead from St. Mary's to various points, Blunsdon Abbey being one. The abbey is three miles from the church, so you can see they were first-class tunnelers in those days.”

“But what were those tunnels for?” asked Vereker, deeply interested in the rector's account.

“They were doubtless places for hiding in, or for escaping by, in troublous times. The monks, it is thought, used them later on for concealing the church valuables during the Reformation.”

“And do you expect to find hidden treasure in your underground passage?” asked Vereker with an incredulous air.

“One never knows,” replied the rector, eagerly rubbing his hands at the thought. “Our church needs a lot of restoration, and a few loads of valuables would come in very useful.”

“Is there any legend of hidden treasure?”

“I have asked the oldest inhabitant, and he says he never heard anything about treasure but a lot about ghosts. A ghost is not a negotiable instrument, even if I capture one. But my predecessor, a copy of whose pamphlet I have managed to get hold of, says that, according to an old village legend, King John's jewels, which were supposed to be lost in the Wash, were left at Yarham. How this legend arose, it would be difficult to say, and the writer throws no light on the subject. A similar story is current that King John's treasure is hidden in a subterranean passage between the church at Rockingham in Northamptonshire and Rockingham Castle. Yarham, you must remember, was in close touch with the great abbey of Bury St. Edmunds, and one of its abbots was lord of the manor here. At the high altar of Bury Abbey, the barons swore to recover the lost privileges granted by Henry the First's charter, which was deposited for safety at the Abbey. Afterwards, King John signed that charter at Runnymede.”

“Have you any idea where the tunnel from Yarham church leads to?” asked Vereker eagerly.

“One of them, according to my predecessor's pamphlet, runs to Riswell Manor, which is about two miles distant. He says he explored this for the greater part of its length, but found no royal treasure. ‘Instead of treasure,' he naively puts it, ‘we found an army of rats and were nearly suffocated by the foul air.'”

“Then there are other unexplored tunnels?”

“I'm working on that presumption. In his account, the writer doesn't definitely say so, but he leaves the reader to infer that there are. On this point, I again referred to Chinnery, our oldest inhabitant. He is ninety-three, by the way. He says that his great grandfather told him there were three tunnels. His great grandfather, I must add, was the workman who bricked up the entrance to these vaulted passages at the foot of the stone staircase in the church.”

On the rector's invitation, Vereker then accompanied him to the church and inspected the brick wall, through the top of which he had already driven a large hole.

“I keep it covered with that heavy curtain to prevent the musty air from the tunnel entering the church too freely. When I've knocked down the wall, I'm going to buy a gas mask before I venture in. I daresay those vaulted passages are decidedly foul and may be actually dangerous.”

“When did you start to knock the wall down, Padre?” asked Vereker.

“The thirty-first of May, the only decent summer's day we've had this year,” replied the rector.

After admiring the painted roof of the church and the quaintly carved poppy heads of the oak benches, Vereker thanked the rector for a most interesting morning and left him, hammer and chisel in hand, about to resume his attack on the partly demolished wall.

Returning to the village, he called on Mr. and Mrs. Martin, the parents of Mr. Clarry Martin. On explaining that he was a pressman and had nothing to do with the police, the Martins received him cordially and were eager to supply him with any information he might desire. Vereker found them simple, straightforward, country folk and soon made himself at home in their company. Deftly leading them from one topic to another, he elicited some important facts about Clarry Martin. Mrs. Martin, inclined to be more talkative than her husband, explained that Clarry had been one of the best of sons till he went up to London. Even then he had always been thoughtful of his parents, but a great change had come over him. He had been apprenticed as a youth to a copper-smith, but had forsaken that work for the flash and more exciting motor trade. He had learned to make money, and success had seemingly turned his head. He began to consider the village of Yarham a dull place, and its inhabitants a set of stupid yokels. He had got into a pleasure-loving set and become a boon companion of certain lost souls who danced, drank cocktails, and frequented picture houses. London had a terrible lot of sins to answer for. This had led to a neglect of his flourishing business, and latterly he had at times been short of money. To hasten his downward career, he had fallen in love with that impudent baggage, Mrs. Button, who called herself Miss Dawn Garford, as if she were ashamed of her dead husband. No good could come of being ashamed of the dead. Mrs. Martin could say with truth that Mrs. Button was no better than she ought to be. While leading on poor Clarry for her own selfish amusement, she was cunningly laying her snares for Mr. John Thurlow, in order to get her quick, greedy fingers on his money. Not content with this two-faced conduct, the shameless hussy had also become too intimate with Mr. Orton, the farmer. He, too, possessed considerable means, which clearly showed that Mrs. Button was nothing more nor less than a wretched little gold-digger.

Thence the conversation drifted to the police interrogation that had followed the discovery of Martin's dead body at Cobbler's Corner, and, during a pause, Vereker seized the opportunity of asking a question that had been in his mind during the whole interview.