The Spirit Murder Mystery (19 page)

As he rapidly turned over a mass of papers of no importance to his quest, he suddenly came across a book of printed receipts and, running through the counterfoils, his eye was arrested by the counterpart of a receipt issued to Arthur Orton for the half-yearly rent of Church Farm. This incident at once reminded him of Miss Thurlow's request that he should tell Orton to proceed with the repairs to his barns. He glanced at his watch. It was nearly six o'clock, but there would be sufficient time to fulfil his promise to Miss Thurlow and be back at Old Hall Farm for dinner at eight. Locking up the drawers of the bureau, he left the study and shortly afterwards was pacing briskly along the main road to the village. Before reaching the drift which ran from this road up to Church Farm, he decided, from his knowledge of the district, that by crossing several meadows he could cut off an angle and shorten his journey by half a mile. Vaulting a gate leading into a meadow, he began his tramp across the rising pasture land towards his destination. In the distance, above the timber-clad hill, he could see the small factory chimney of Orton's steam corn mill.

Half an hour later, he found that by his plan of avoiding the drift he was unable to approach the farm by its main entrance, and to reach the dwelling-house he was obliged to pick his way through the miry yard and cattle sheds lying behind it. As he was skirting a pond to reach the farm-yard, he noticed that a motor lorry standing in the yard was being loaded with sacks of grain. Two farm labourers were busy on this operation, and as Vereker watched with admiration the ease with which the burlier of the two men lifted the sacks on to the lorry while his companion arranged the load, a third man suddenly joined them. He was, by his dress and manner, evidently Arthur Orton, the master, and in his hands he was carrying two two-gallon cans of petrol. These cans he, in turn, handed to the labourer in the lorry, who carefully secreted them under a sack of grain. At this moment Orton happened to glance in Vereker's direction and almost started on seeing him. Recovering from his surprise, he gave some order to the two men and came slowly forward to meet his unexpected visitor.

“Well, sir,” he said as he glanced suspiciously at Vereker: “Did you want to see me?”

“If you're Mr. Arthur Orton,” replied Vereker amiably, “I certainly do.”

“My name's Orton, but if you're a traveller for cattle foods and such like, I warn you that you'll be wasting your time. I don't want anything in that line at present.”

“No, I'm not going to try salesmanship on you, Mr. Orton,” continued Vereker smiling. “I merely came to deliver a message. I'm staying at Old Hall Farm during Miss Thurlow's absence in London, and she asked me to tell you to go ahead with the repairs to your barns which you spoke about when you saw her last. Cawston was the name of the builder she suggested, if I remember rightly.”

“Oh, thank you. I'll write to Cawston to-night. You're a stranger to Yarham, aren't you?”

“No, not quite; I've been here nearly two months now. My name's Vereker.”

“Ah yes, I've heard the rector speak about you. You were at college with young James Sturgeon.”

“Yes, we've been friends for many years now.”

“I didn't know that Miss Thurlow was going to London,” remarked Orton thoughtfully. “When did she leave?”

“This afternoon. She wished to apologize for not having let you know about the barn repairs herself. The matter slipped her memory.”

“In the circumstances, she oughtn't to have troubled about those repairs at all. She has been through a rather terrible experience. Do you know when she's coming back?”

“Not definitely, but she's only going to be away a few days.”

“Gone to her solicitors, I reckon. She comes into a nice little fortune by her uncle's death, I hear.”

“I couldn't say,” replied Vereker cautiously.

“May I offer you a drink now you're here, Mr. Vereker? From the way you came, I should say you cut across country. It's a rough journey and you'll be feeling you need a refresher.”

“Thanks, if I'm not putting you to any trouble,” replied Vereker.

“No trouble at all; it'll be a pleasure,” replied Orton and turned towards the farm-house.

The front door of the farm-house opened on to a spacious hall, beautifully furnished with a few genuine antique pieces, showing that its tenant was a man of taste as well as of ample means. Opening a door on the left of this hall, he led Vereker into a dining-room in the centre of which was an old oak refectory table, surrounded by high-backed carved oak chairs. The whole furnishing of the room was in keeping with its oak beams and plain distempered walls and struck a note of old-world dignity and charm. Noticing Vereker's air of appreciation, Orton smiled with undisguised satisfaction.

“You like my dining-room?” he asked.

“I certainly do,” replied Vereker sincerely.

“It's a nice room. I'm very fond of it. These old houses have a way with them that's hard to resist. They get under your skin. Shall I bring you whisky, or would you prefer wine?”

“Whisky, thanks.”

“Good. I can offer you something very special in whisky,” replied Orton and left the room.

During his absence, Vereker took the opportunity of looking round the room, and on a small oak table in a corner, he noticed a pile of uniformly bound books. Books give such an insight into the tastes of their owners, that Vereker could not resist looking more closely at these. To his astonishment, they were bound volumes of music, and on their backs were the names of the composers, Handel, Haydn, Beethoven, Mozart, etc. At once Vereker remembered that Miss Thurlow had said that Orton was fond of music, and he was pondering on this bent, rather an unusual one in a farmer, when Orton returned with a tray in his hands. On the tray were glasses, a greybeard, a siphon of soda, and a jug of water.

“My housekeeper has gone to Sudbury for the afternoon, so I've got to look after things myself,” he explained.

Orton picked up the greybeard, poured out whisky into one of the glasses to Vereker's nod, and told him to help himself to the “dilution.” During this operation Vereker seized the chance of more closely observing his host. He was a man of about forty years of age, lithe and strong, with a hard, clean-cut face, and a glance like a hawk. The face was unequivocally handsome, but there was a cynical, almost distrustful cast about it, which seemed to say that he knew his fellow- men and harboured no illusions about their shortcomings. After a stiff glass of spirit the outlines of his face softened genially, and he spoke with greater freedom and frankness. Choosing the subject of painting, he probed Vereker as to his aims in that art, and showed a surprising knowledge and appreciation of its technique, past and present. Then noticing that his guest had glanced at the grandfather clock in a corner of the room, he remarked:

“I see you're eager to get back to Old Hall. If you dine at eight, you'll be there in nice time. But I should keep to the drift; the going's easier and just as quick in the long run. When you've got an hour or so to spare, look me up again. I've thoroughly enjoyed our chat.”

Secretly glad of the invitation and promising to return, Vereker rose to go. As they made their way to the front door, Orton suddenly halted in the hall, as if arrested by the recollection of something important that he had forgotten.

“I don't know whether Miss Thurlow has told you anything about her future plans, but I'd like to know whether she's going to stay on at Old Hall Farm, Mr. Vereker.”

“She told me very definitely that she was going to stay, and I don't think I'm abusing her confidence in repeating it.”

“Ah, so she's going to stay. I had an idea she'd get away from the place after what has happened. Between ourselves, I'd like to buy up the property, including this farm. I mentioned the matter to my old friend Thurlow, but he didn't want to sell. Perhaps Miss Thurlow will change her mind later. She is young, and Yarham's no place for a young woman like her to bury herself in. She ought to get about and see a bit of the world. Money won't be any hindrance to her now.”

On stepping out from the front door, Orton summoned one of the two men who were still busy with the motor lorry in the yard, and on his coming up, turned to Vereker:

“Battrum will show you the way round to the drift, Mr, Vereker,” he said, and then addressing Battrum, added: ‘‘When you've done that, Joe, see and get that lorry away. It's high time it was on the road.”

Escorted by Battrum, who led the way without speaking a word, Vereker passed through the white entrance of the farm into the drift. Anxious not to be late for dinner, he quickened his pace immediately and had nearly reached the main road, when he met the Rev. William Sturgeon.

“Good evening, Vereker. I see you've been up at Church Farm. Is that man Orton at home?”

“I've just left him, Padre. You seem ruffled. What's the matter?”

“Ruffled? I should say I was ruffled. It's enough to make a saint shy his halo about with intent to do grievous bodily harm. Thank your stars you aren't a parson with a parish like Throston-cum-Yarham. It's a life of strife, I tell you, and that fellow, Orton, is at the bottom of all the trouble.”

“What's the trouble?” asked Vereker, suppressing with difficulty a desire to laugh.

“My congregation have sent me in a petition asking me to brick up the wall which I've spent hours in knocking down. They complain that the foul smell issuing from the tunnel is making attendance at services impossible. As if a farmer wasn't used to a wide assortment of stinks! It's all a put-up job, and Orton is the ringleader of the obstructionists. They've not got one atom of historical curiosity in their thick heads. After all the work I've done too! I tell you it's no joke chiselling through a four foot brick wall; and yesterday, to make things more unpleasant, I hit my thumb with the hammer. However, I must catch Orton while he's at home. I'm going to give him a jolly stern lecture. A member of the church council, too!”

With this threat, the Rev. William Sturgeon pulled out his handkerchief, mopped his perspiring brow, and hurried on to battle like a Christian soldier.

On returning to Old Hall Farm, Vereker found a two-seater sports car standing on the gravel approach in front of the house. The bonnet of the car was lying across the leather-cushioned seats, and an oily and begrimed Ricardo was bending over the engine with a box-spanner in his hands.

“I suppose you've been trying her out, Ricky. I expected to see you at five o'clock,” said Vereker.

“Yes, I wanted to see how she behaved. Not a bad old bus. She was a bit difficult to start up. Her plugs were none too good, so I've fitted some new ones. Now if you just look sternly at her, she flaps her wings.”

“Was she expensive?”

“Dirt cheap, Algernon. If you don't want to keep her as a pet, you can sell her later on and get most of your money back. Or you can let me have her on the hire-purchase system.” 

“The latter alternative meaning that I'll get damned little of my money back,” added Vereker.

“You horrid, cruel man! I felt that retort coming along like a steam-roller. Unlike the car, my reimbursements would be slow but sure. But look at the advantages you gain. You'll have added a miniature flying squad to your detective bureau. And think of it—the car's yours till the last farthing has been paid by me!”

“I'll think over your proposition, Ricky,” replied Vereker dubiously. “In the meantime, let's go in and get ready for dinner.”

After dinner Vereker returned to the study and continued his task of looking through the papers in John Thurlow's bureau. Ricardo, reclining in an easy chair, was reading a battered old volume which he had found in one of the well-stocked book-shelves that ranged along two sides of the room. It was a history of Yarham, published in the early part of the nineteenth century.

Pausing for a few moments in his work, Vereker glanced at Ricardo and saw that he was engrossed in his book.

“Got hold of something interesting, Ricky?” he asked.

“A history of Yarham.”

“Anything about the church in it?

“That'll come later on. The writer jumps off with a heavy wad of the early history of East Anglia in general. I'm now learning all about an immigration of Flemish weavers to Yarham in the twelfth century. Mind-bleaching stuff! It's so dry that I think I'll go and explore the wine cellar. As I pointed out to you at dinner, no connoisseur would spoil a good wine by drinking it with a meal. Now's the hour to savour a really heroic vintage!” 

“By jove, this is tremendous!” interrupted Vereker with startling vehemence.

“What's tremendous?” asked Ricardo, turning round sharply.

“A letter from Ephraim Noy among Thurlow's papers. It's—it's of cardinal importance!”

“Who the devil's Ephraim Noy?” asked Ricardo with bewilderment.

“Heaven above, don't you remember? The man who discovered the bodies of Martin and Thurlow at Cobbler's Corner.”

“Ah yes, now I recollect. What's his letter about?”

For some minutes Vereker did not reply, for he was reading the letter with eager concentration and undisguised excitement. Then he laid the double sheet flat on the bureau and turned towards his friend.

“Looks like blackmail, Ricky. After upbraiding Thurlow for refusing to see him on his arrival at Yarham, Noy goes on to say that he still remembers a very unpleasant little affair that happened in India many years ago. In that affair, Thurlow played some obscure but important role. Whatever the affair was and whatever Thurlow's part in it, the result was the murder of a man whose wife, Suvrata, was a Nautch dancing girl. Thurlow was in some way mixed up with that dancing girl, because Miss Thurlow has a hazy recollection of her parents discussing the affair when she was in her 'teens. Noy points out that it would be very disagreeable for Thurlow if the details of that bygone episode with Suvrata were made known in Yarham, where he was held in such high esteem. To obviate this, he would be well advised to call at the bungalow any evening and have a quiet chat over the business.”