The Spirit Murder Mystery (14 page)

“I have.”

“Did he know where Martin was going? He was carrying an attaché case, and that looks as if he were bent on business.”

“Yes, but the inquiry didn't prove very profitable, Mobbs said Martin was going to see Arthur Orton at Church Farm. Orton had bought a new motor lorry through Martin, and something had gone wrong with the rear axle. Martin was going to have a look at it and was carrying tools in his attaché case.”

“What time was this?”

“Just after ten, when ‘The Walnut Tree' closed.”

“That's one bright fact. Did he see Orton?”

“Yes, and put the defect in the rear axle right something simple about lubrication, I believe. Having finished his job, he had a drop of whisky with Orton and his housekeeper, said good-night and vanished into the blue.”

“No one else saw him after that?”

“Not that I can discover, but I'm making further inquiries.”

“By the way, Church Farm's a good mile from the village, isn't it?”

“More than that, nearly two,” replied Heather listlessly.

At this moment, Vereker tried to catch the inspector's eye, but Heather seemed all at once to be lost in a brown study.

“Have you made a deep study of that barleycorn, Mr. Vereker?” he asked at length with a smile. “Has it spoken and hiccupped the whole show away?”

“When you begin to be funny, Heather, I know you're trying to side-track me. I've been very interested in that barleycorn. I've examined it carefully under a magnifying glass, and it's a very characteristic barleycorn, but since you're inclined to be facetious about my bit of orthodox detection, I'm not going to tell you what I've discovered.”

“There's only one use for barleycorns and that's beer!” exclaimed Heather with one of his explosive laughs.

“What about barley water for infants and invalids?” asked Vereker.

“I'm not an infant, and I've never been an invalid so I can't speak with authority,” replied Heather, and after some desultory conversation, sought the seclusion of his own room to “think things out.”

For some time, Vereker sat in his easy chair, reviewing all that he had learned about “The Spirit Murder Mystery,” as the daily Press had now labelled the case. The more he pondered on it, the more baffling and elusive the whole affair seemed. Up to the moment, there were no salient points on which he could hang tentative theories, and he could see that Heather was experiencing a similar difficulty in his more orthodox methods. Martin and Thurlow had both disappeared mysteriously, and of what had happened to them between the times of their vanishing and the discovery of their dead bodies, very little had so far been learned. There was an exasperating lack of witnesses, witnesses who might have been able to fill up this destructive gap in the time table of investigation. The difficulty arose partly from the locality in which the tragedy had occurred. The population was sparse, and by nightfall most of the villagers were in their cottages. Before ten o'clock nearly everyone was in bed, except the dozen or so men who frequented the village inn. Even the latter were only abroad in full force on a Saturday night. Against this drawback was the factor that the countryman is an acute observer. Nothing in the shape of human activity escapes his inquisitive eye, and had anyone encountered either Thurlow or Martin, even in the dark, after he had been reported missing, the incident would have been mentally registered.

This absence of material on which to work was depressing, and Vereker felt that little good could come from further speculation. Rising from his chair, he glanced at his watch and descended to the bar parlour of the inn. He found this room, with its spotless deal table and benches, its uneven brick floor, its oak mantelpiece with loudly ticking clock, its chintz curtained windows looking on to an old-time flower garden, a peculiarly attractive room. At the moment it was deserted, except for a grey-haired but burly looking villager in a loose jacket, breeches and gaiters, and heavy boots. His waistcoat was open, except for the two top buttons, and disclosed that he wore a broad leather belt as well as braces. His shirt was certainly not immaculate; his throat seemed restricted by an old and disreputable silk scarf; and his cap had been dragged into a quaint and distinctive irregularity by its owner's forceful method of pulling it firmly on to his rather massive head. He had been sitting smoking a pungent smelling shag in that ruminative placidity which is characteristic of his class when at ease, but on Vereker's entry, he lost some of his detachment, and commented on the weather as he measured up the newcomer with a swift, comprehensive glance. Vereker made an obvious remark about the loveliness of the day with an excellently simulated heartiness, and added that the warmth created a generous thirst. The villager, thereupon, emptied his pint mug and replaced it noisily on the table. Whether this action was a frank hint or entirely unpremeditated, Vereker was at a loss to guess, but he at once suggested that the stranger should allow his mug to be replenished. The invitation was accepted without undue alacrity, and after Benjamin Easy had left the room, Vereker soon found that the stranger was eager to talk.

He commenced on the subject of beer, of its present inferior quality and high price, of past and better brews, and from that swung round, after some divagation, to the topic of poaching. Having, with unerring intuition, made sure of the possible outlook of his companion on the morality of poaching (the term “stealing game” is not permissible), he admitted that he had been an inveterate poacher all his life, and on learning that Vereker was connected with the Press began to expand generously. A “writer bloke” had already published a book on some of his exploits, but by some error of judgment, had only “put down” the tamest of them, and so forth. It was during this phase of their conversation, that Vereker, prompted by an association of ideas, suddenly asked:

“Do you know a man called Runnacles in the village?”

“Known him all my life.”

“What sort of a man is he?”

“Toughish sort of chap, is Jim Runnacles. As clever a poacher as the next one, but you can't trust him. He'd shop his best pal, if it was going to pay him to do it. And when you see him next, ask him if he knows Barney Deeks, that's me.”

Barney Deeks winked, and by a subtle grimace informed Vereker in a general way that, at some time or other in the past, things had happened which would certainly prevent Jim Runnacles forgetting him. It did not take Vereker long to find out that Barney and Jim had been deadly enemies for many years, and the story of Runnacles' attack on the gamekeeper was retailed with added detail, much to Runnacles' dishonour as a poacher. Then came a piece of unexpected information, which showed Vereker that, in the art of sleuthing, time apparently wasted is often well spent. Barney Deeks had heard that the police had been inquiring about Jim Runnacles' movements on the night that John Thurlow was murdered.

“He told the cop he had been at home all evening,” remarked Deeks with surprising vindictiveness. “His missus backed him up. It's all a damned lie. I saw him on the road above Cobbler's Corner, about eleven o'clock that very night. If I was a dirty tyke like Jim Runnacles, I'd go round and split on him, but that kind of thing's not in my line.”

“But why should the police want to know about Runnacles' movements?” asked Vereker.

“That's more'n I can tell you, sir,” replied Deeks, as if the subject was beyond his depth and interest.

At this moment Ben Easy appeared at the door of the bar parlour, glanced at his watch, and fixed his eye ostentatiously on the clock. It was closing time, and, drinking up his beer, Deeks bade Vereker good afternoon and took his departure.

“This discrepancy in the gardener's story ought to wake old Heather up!” said Vereker to himself, and retired to his own sitting-room.

About an hour later, he heard footsteps hurrying up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time, and next moment, Ricardo noisily entered the room.

“Well, Ricky,” said Vereker, turning to him, “had a good look at Yarham Church?”

“Most interesting hour I've spent for a long time. After examining the church's exterior, I cast an inquiring eye at some of the oldest gravestones. Doesn't sound a hectic sort of pastime for a summer's day, but it's a thrilling change from the cinema, and the shade of those primeval yews is delightfully cooling. I took a seat, well out of view of any chance visitor, on one of those old tombs that look like sarcophagi. It was perhaps rather disrespectful to the occupant, but time can play two diametrically opposed tricks; it can create reverence, and it can equally well banish it. I was getting into a sort of Gray's Elegy atmosphere, when I heard a most musical feminine voice on the other side of the dense yew behind me. The voice was jabbering volubly to a male companion who seemed to be sparing of his words. And what d'you think was the topic of her conversation Algernon?”

“The Absolute,” suggested Vereker.

“No, Sir Anthony,” replied Ricardo with a smile; “it verged on the dissolute. She was talking about night clubs and road houses. I don't think I'd have troubled to listen, only she mentioned Poppy Knatchbull, who runs the Blue Bottle Club in London, so dangerously and profitably. Now, there's only one Poppy Knatchbull, so I pricked up my ears. At this point, she dropped her voice to a whisper—and I was horribly disappointed. I learned nothing more of Poppy. On resuming in her normal tones, she mentioned three road houses very well known to me, and I became intensely interested in the speaker. Now what has this Arcadian Phyllis to do with road houses and night clubs? She'd shine there by contrast, but there's something more than that behind it.”

“Your knowledge of road houses seems extensive and intimate, Ricky,” remarked Vereker.

“It dashed well ought to be. Three or four years ago I wrote up some lurid stuff on road houses for the
Daily Report.
A job entirely suited to my temperament! The illicit pleasures of mankind interested me at the time more than their upward march towards—er—shall we say, civilization? Scotland Yard's war on the night life of London had driven the gay night-lifers into the more tolerant air of the country. Gambling, all-night drinking, bridge with high stakes, poker, roulette, dancing with pretty, young ‘dance hostesses,' and so forth, were and are the attractions secretly provided by ye olde hostelries.”

“I can't understand your interest in that raffish life, Ricky,” ventured Vereker.

“My dear Algernon, I was a special correspondent of the
Daily Report
. It was my work, and I had to serve it hot with mustard sauce. As a journalist, I have to look at man in the round and leave reformers to think of him in the flat. Besides, I was spending my employers' money lavishly!”

“Let it pass as a virtuous defence and proceed, Ricky.”

“In any case, the exodus from London was, in some ways, an improvement. It knocked the cheap and sordid element out of the picture. The good old country inns, tucked away off the main roads, have profited. The questionable proprietors of London's dens have been supplanted by sturdier, if not honester, hosts. The surroundings are genuinely antique and the air fit to breathe, the liquor, good and the food, generally excellent. Lastly, only people with means and motor cars can get out to these places of jolly entertainment.”

“What has money to do with the moral side of the issue?” asked Vereker, gravely.

“Good Lord, Algernon, the authorities must safeguard the poor! That's why a betting slip in the street is vice and a telephone message from a swagger club, virtue. But to return to my subject. I became devilishly interested in this butterfly among the tombs and rose from my seat so that I could skirmish round and get a look at her. At that moment, an accident happened. I sneezed in spite of a painful effort at hush-hush. I believe it's a world-wide custom to say ‘God bless you!' when a person sneezes. The lady exclaimed: ‘Well, I'm damned!' and next moment came round the yew with the lightness of a gazelle. By this time I was busy trying to read the inscription on the sarcophagus. Seeing she was eager to find out who I was, I turned my back gracefully on her. She took the hint and vanished. After she had given some instructions to her male companion, I saw her tripping away down the gravel path to the gate.”

“What was she like?” asked Vereker with roused curiosity.

“Venus Epistrophia. I cursed myself bitterly for having turned my back on her. As she reached the gate, she turned and called back to her companion, ‘Don't forget. At the “Fox” next Monday!' The male replied: ‘Right-ho, Dawn!' and a few minutes later, I heard her car purring away into the wilderness. My brief glimpse or her face told me she was my kind of pet.”

“So her name was Dawn,” commented Vereker excitedly.

“By jove, Algernon, I hadn't thought of that. Dawn, eh? It suited her; she was Aurora!”

“What about her companion?”

“I'm coming to him. After yodelling round a bit, I saw him enter the church and followed. We got into conversation. He saw me gazing with rapture at the saints in a stained-glass window, while my earthly thoughts were following that vanished motor car with the seraph inside it. He discoursed at length on the history of the church, and, noticing that I was a bit absent, asked; ‘Am I boring you?' When a man asks if he's boring you, he generally knows that he damned well is, but I professed complete absorption in his quatsch, as the Germans call it. Good word that, quatsch! Before long, however, he came to the
piece de résistance
of his lecture. It was a crypt, or underground vault, which the rector, the Rev. William Sturgeon, is exploring. My companion, who seemed upset by the rector's activities, informed me that Sturgeon was a queer old fish. ‘Definitely so, I should say,' was my reply, but his sense of humour soared above it, and he went on to say that Sturgeon had got it into his stupid old Suffolk head that King John's treasure was buried somewhere in an underground passage, leading away from that crypt. I suggested that the Wash was the place for a Sturgeon to hunt for King John's treasure, but again he overlooked my point with annihilating calm.”