The Spirit Murder Mystery (2 page)

John Thurlow sat at a table in his low-ceilinged study at Old Hall Farm, smoking his pipe, his closely cropped hair gleaming in the light of an electric reading lamp in front of him. On the table were several books dealing with the subject of spiritualism. One of these lay open before him, and from the expression on his face and the way in which he kept relighting his pipe, it was evident that he was reading it with great concentration and eagerness.

A few feet from the table, with her back to it so that the light from the reading lamp could fall on her own book, his niece, Eileen Thurlow, reclined in an easy chair. She was a tall, slim woman in her early twenties with a pale face and shining, raven-black hair. Her features were delicately moulded, and the pallor of her face was relieved by a pair of large, luminous brown eyes, eyes with that peculiar aspect of depth which is generally associated with the character of a dreamer. Her mouth was small and well-formed and her chin, firm. If any judgment of character can be based on physiognomy, one might conclude that, whatever propensity for dreaming Eileen Thurlow possessed, she was also endowed with considerable resolution and a capacity for action. Men found her attractive at first, but were soon repelled by a mental aloofness and frigidity which seemed to imply that they did not greatly interest her. Her uncle, relatives, and friends declared that at times she was difficult to understand, and it was generally accepted among them that Eileen was “a bit mysterious.” This reputation had been fostered among them by Eileen's confirmed belief and sustained interest in what is called spiritualism. She belonged to a spiritualistic circle, attended séances, felt that she, herself, had certain mediumistic powers, and, though never eager to proselytize, was always ready to discuss the subject with anyone who approached it seriously. On the obstinate sceptic, she would waste no time, and with those who attempted to be facetious, she could be bitingly sarcastic.

Her uncle, John Thurlow, had at first viewed this manifestation of interest in the psychic on Eileen's part with some concern. Not that he doubted the existence of occult phenomena, for he had spent a large part of his business career in India, but he was afraid that such things might have a morbid effect on her mind and be deleterious to her physical health. During the years of what he always called his “exile in the East,” he had passed through a phase in which the cult of Yoga had deeply interested him, and he had never quite shaken off the spell of wonder it had exercised over his mind. That sense of wonder was inextricably mixed up with some vague idea that at the core of Yogism lay some secret power which, once attained, could secure material success in mundane affairs. His business, however, had slowly but surely relegated his preoccupation with Yoga to the background of his mind, and it was now, in his years of retirement, transmuted by his niece's activities into a sudden interest in spiritualism.

At first it was a tentative interest of which he was rather ashamed, for he was acutely sensitive to ridicule. During this period, the jocular remark by one of his friends, “Well, John, seen any spooks lately?” was enough to make him utter a flat denial that he was at all interested in the subject. But gradually he outgrew this tentative phase and began to acquire the courage of conviction under the influence of his niece's faith and his own delving into the subject.

The book which lay on the desk in front of him and which he was reading so eagerly was Sir William Crookes's, “Researches in the Phenomena of Spiritualism,” for the general bias of John Thurlow's mind was sceptical and he was, he felt, approaching his subject from a sound, scientific point of view. He achieved considerable satisfaction from this reflection; the scientific approach was a subtle screen against ridicule. Not that he knew much about any science except that of making money, but the very word science seemed to have an almost hypnotic effect on his powers of reasoning. For the opinions of famous scientists in any branch of learning he had a deferential awe, and any statement of theirs, no matter how guarded or theoretical, he would swallow with unquestioning credulity.

All at once he rose from his chair, paced up and down the room to stretch his limbs, and as abruptly sat down again.

“Well, Eileen, I'm at last convinced that there is something in spiritualism!” he exclaimed, turning his chair round to his niece as if eager to discuss the subject.

Eileen closed her own book with an air of satisfaction and looked at her uncle with a smile playing about the corners of her lips.

“Belief must be largely a matter of temperament, Uncle. I never required conversion. I must have been born in the faith, so to speak. You've only reached conviction after quite a lot of persuasion and study.”

“Well, Eileen, you see, I want scientific proof. I'm naturally sceptical and cautious. But to be half converted, one has only got to think for a moment of the famous scientists who've been confirmed believers in spiritualism. There's Sir William Crookes, whose book I'm reading. There's Sir Oliver Lodge and Camille Flammarion and the rest of them. I'm absolutely convinced at last. You might humbug the ordinary man in the street, but you can't humbug trained observers and exact thinkers.”

“I suppose not,” replied Eileen somewhat listlessly and, after a pause, added, “but now you're fairly certain that there is such a thing as spirit manifestation, you've only got to keep your mind open and you'll get some actual proof, visual or aural. This old house, in which people have lived continuously for hundreds of years is particularly favourable for such. You're almost certain to hear the faint strains of music which I've repeatedly heard for some time now. I should say a former occupant of this house was a keen musician.”

“You're quite sure that this spirit music isn't just fancy? I often have all sorts of tunes running through my head, but I can't say I actually hear them. They're quite different.”

“No, no, it's not imagination on my part. I distinctly hear music; it's very faint, but quite audible.”

“Can you distinguish the instrument?” asked John Thurlow, after a moment's reflection.

“What a strange question to ask!” exclaimed Eileen with genuine surprise. “Now that point never struck me. I was so excited by the manifestation that I didn't worry about the instrument. When I come to think of it, I must say the music sounded like the faint notes of a church organ.”

“The church is a mile away, and even when the wind is in this direction, it's impossible to hear the church organ. Can't be that, for I've checked it up since you first told me of the phenomenon. When did you hear it last?”

“On Tuesday night and it was particularly clear. I was sitting in this room when it occurred. You were out having a chat with Doctor Cornard.”

“Yes, I remember. Strangely enough, our talk turned on the subject of spiritualism. I had a hot argument with him. He flatly says he thinks it's all rot. I mentioned this book of Sir William Crookes's to him, and he declared that a famous scientist was usually a specialist in one subject and therefore more easily gulled than the average, level-headed person.”

“He puts himself in the latter category with complacent conceit, I suppose. Did you tell him of this music that I've distinctly heard on several occasions?”

“Well, yes, I did. I hope you don't mind.”

“Not at all. What did he say?”

“Hinted that the church organist was practising at the time and that some condition of the atmosphere, or the wind, carried the sound as far as Old Hall Farm. He sought a material explanation and wouldn't hear of any other.”

“The church organist wasn't practising on Tuesday night. I took the trouble to ask him,” replied Eileen quietly.

“Oh, indeed! That's a splendid point. I wish I'd known it. I could have flattened Cornard out beautifully,” remarked John Thurlow eagerly.

“It's no use arguing with Doctor Cornard, Uncle. He's one of those men who make up their minds on such a subject without any inquiry. Perhaps it would be fairer to say his education and training have unconsciously made up his mind for him. I think doctors on the whole are a very cynical lot.”

For some moments John Thurlow sat in thoughtful silence and then remarked: “I wish I could hear this spirit music you talk about. I wonder when it'll occur again.”

“I think we might hear it at any time, if we could only get ourselves into the proper mood. You must be
en rapport
, as they say, or you'll never hear it. These occult phenomena must be diligently sought for, or they remain beyond your physical senses. It's a case of seek and ye shall find. I was speaking to Dawn Garford the other day and she made a shrewd remark on the subject. She said that the average man, who figuratively sticks to the tarred highway, certainly won't find mushrooms. You've got to get off the beaten track and hunt for them.”

“A good illustration. I've a great respect for her opinion. She's always bright and sensible,” said John Thurlow, and asked: “But how am I to get
en rapport
, as you put it?”

“Well, you must experiment. Let's try it out to-night. Put out the light and we'll sit and listen, firmly believing we'll get in touch with this discarnate musician. I feel certain that I have the gift of mediumship. When I first heard the music, I was in a very peculiar frame of mind. I wouldn't call it a trance, but something like the periods of ecstatic reverie which occur to people with psychic gifts.”

“Do you think it wise, Eileen?” asked John Thurlow, looking at his niece with an air of half-scared hesitancy.

“If you're really curious about the matter, there's nothing like making an experiment, Uncle. No harm can possibly come of it. I'm willing to try it out. All the well-known cases of genuine mediumship began with a home circle, and I should like to convince myself I've got the power. Relatives don't stoop to humbugging one another, even if it were possible.”

“By jove, I think we ought to try!” exclaimed John Thurlow with sudden eagerness. “I feel a bit nervous, though I don't just see what there is to be scared about.”

“If we find that our experiments prove unpleasant or dangerous, we can certainly chuck them up,” remarked Eileen.

“Of course, of course,” replied John Thurlow and for some moments sat lost in thought. His eyes wandered round the quaint old room with its dark oak beams and wainscoting. Through his mind was passing the thought that for hundreds of years all sorts of people had lived and moved and talked and wept and laughed and loved and quarrelled in that very room. The whole house was impregnated with the spirit of the bygone and bore the indelible imprint of the activities and designs of people long since dead and forgotten. He glanced through the open window at the dark blue sky, now spangled with stars. A vague sense of mystery and wonder stole into his musing. From the particular, his thoughts broadened out to the general. The universe was altogether inexplicable, even to science. How and why did it begin? Whither was it progressing? Where and how would it all end? What relation did this earth and its teeming millions of lives bear to that star-scattered space? Was that vast ethereal sweep peopled by the spirits of all past time? Futile questionings! He turned to his niece and asked: “Shall I put out the light?”

“Certainly, Uncle. For some unknown reason, darkness seems to favour any kind of manifestation. All spiritualists agree on that score. I daresay there's some natural law behind it. When you've done so, sit perfectly still and listen. I'm going to try and get in touch with what is called a spirit guide. I ought to have a spirit guide; all mediums have.”

John Thurlow rose from his chair, pressed up the switch on the wall at his left hand, and sat down again. When his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he could vaguely discern the various pieces of furniture about the room, and, glancing at his niece, he saw her form clearly outlined by the white organdie muslin dress she was wearing. That dress seemed almost luminous as it caught the faint light filtering in through the windows. Her pale face was a grey smudge above the dress.

“Are you all right, Eileen?” he asked.

“Yes. Let's begin. Try and keep your mind quite free from any distracting train of thought. You'll find it difficult. Now please don't talk any more.”

John Thurlow settled himself in his chair and tried to keep his mind quite free from distracting trains of thought. Yes, it was more difficult than he had surmised. His right hand, in his jacket pocket, was fondling the smooth bowl of his briar pipe, and a strong desire to smoke assailed him. Under the urge, he was on the point of asking Eileen whether smoking would militate against favourable conditions, when his attention was suddenly arrested by his niece's heavy, stertorous breathing. He was on the point of asking her if she were all right, but remembered her strict injunctions against speaking and desisted. He sat and listened to that laboured inhalation and exhalation for some moments and wondered if she had gone into the trance state usual with mediums. He was beginning to feel decidedly nervous. Everything was so still and eerie, and he was slowly being overcome by a strong conviction that at any moment some uncanny manifestation might occur, some horror materialize before his eyes. He resolved to keep a firm control over himself and all his faculties alert. He would confront any such wonder in a true scientific spirit of observation. He must not allow himself to be disturbed or thwarted by such an infantile thing as fear. What was there to be afraid of, in any case? Eileen was certainly complete mistress of herself. No trace of fear in her behaviour! But perhaps she was now quite unconscious, in that cataleptic state which is the usual trance of the medium.

He listened again to her breathing. It was painfully heavy, but now quite rhythmic. Had she fallen asleep? He couldn't resist the impulse to ask her.

“You awake, Eileen?” he queried in a whisper.