The Spirit Murder Mystery (18 page)

“After a period of being mixed up with a gang of hoodlums, as they call them across the water, Ephraim turned police informer or ‘stool-pigeon.' Then things became too hot for him and he skipped it back to England.”

“How does John Thurlow or Clarry Martin come into the story, Heather?” asked Vereker.

“On his arrival in England, Noy made it his duty to hunt up Mr. Thurlow. Many years ago, in India, they had business relations together, but the exact nature of those transactions we can't find out. We've an idea that Thurlow helped him with money on his return to England from America, but of this we're not certain.”

“His settling down at Yarham, close to John Thurlow, seems a bit mysterious,” suggested Vereker.

“Yes, and we're busy on that line. There was probably blackmail or something like it hiding behind the scenes. I'm going to give Mr. Ephraim Noy a bad half-hour when I see him.”

“I don't like the look of the man, Heather, but that's neither here nor there. Anything more of Runnacles?”

“Nothing much. He told us that on the Tuesday night, that is the night after Thurlow's disappearance, he was at home all evening with his wife. This was a lie. He didn't get home till early in the morning. The same happened on Monday night, the night of Thurlow's disappearance.”

“A Mr. Barney Deeks told you so, Heather,” said Vereker with a smile.

“How do you know Mr. Barney Deeks?” asked the inspector with a start of surprise.

“Met him casually in the tap-room of this inn. He told me that he knew Runnacles was out past Cobbler's Corner on Tuesday night. He had passed him on the road between ten and eleven o'clock, which to my mind implicates Deeks as much as Runnacles.”

“You suspect Deeks's honesty?” asked the inspector.

“No. I think he was telling the truth, but the man's stupid and a bit of a braggart. He's an old-time poacher and proud of it. Likes publicity in his old age and hopes to be paid in beer for a good news story. He bears Runnacles some grudge. It's a little poaching vendetta, if you ask me, and arises out of professional jealousy. To return to more important things, Heather; have your pundits at Hendon, ‘The Brain Box' I think you called it, let you know the nature of the substance that was on the sleeve of Martin's jacket?”

“It was yeast!” replied Heather with a laugh. “On the night of his disappearance, if you remember, he was seen with Mobbs, the baker. We've questioned Mobbs, and he admits that Martin had been chatting with him in the bakery before they crossed to ‘The Walnut Tree' for the evening. That afternoon Martin must have put his elbow into the yeast while he was in the bakehouse.”

“Sounds conclusive, Heather. And the strands of rope found on Martin's coat, what about them?”

“Only strands of sisal fibre from which some ropes are made. They seem to lead nowhere. Might be more important if we could find the rope itself.”

“Of course. Also Martin's attaché case and Thurlow's cap. That reminds me, were any keys found in Thurlow's pockets?”

“Yes, I have them here. I'm going to return them to Miss Thurlow. There are a few papers and a notebook, which will be handed over later. You might tell her.”

“Is there a key to a Yale lock on the bunch?”

“Yes; anything important about it?”

“Most important, Heather. Miss Thurlow has asked me to stay up at Old Hall Farm during her absence in town, and that's the key of the wine cellar.”

“You can have the bunch on one condition, Mr. Vereker; that I may call on you every evening. But what are you going to do at Old Hall Farm? I thought you were busy on the Yarham murders?”

“I'm going to ghost hunt in my spare time. It's getting so exciting that it's keeping me off the main job. To be serious, I've got permission to go through John Thurlow's private papers, and the key of the bureau is probably on the bunch.”

“Now you're talking sense. I expect you to tell me if you find anything important.”

“Most assuredly, Heather. We travelled along the same lines in ‘The Ginger Cat Mystery,' as I like to call our last case, but this time we seem to be on totally different tracks.”

“Perhaps it's better,” laughed Heather. “If you recollect, we made rather a hash of that affair and were both wrong in our final deductions.”

“In spite of my harping all the time on the one important clue. I was led astray by my homage to your experience, Heather.”

“That be damned for a tale! We were both led astray by our own confounded conceit. This time I'm going to put it across you good and hearty.”

“I'll congratulate you if you do and stand you a barrel of the best beer you can drink.”

“Thanks, and I'll put down my usual stake on the contest. If you score, it's another packet of ‘Players' for you.”

For some moments Vereker was silent and then remarked: “There's one thing that intrigues me mightily about this case, Heather, and that's the planting of those bodies at Cobbler's Corner.”

“It struck me as a bit theatrical, and I haven't got quite used to the idea yet,” remarked the inspector.

“There are a hundred places where they could have been dumped that would have been safer for the dumper. Say, in one of the numerous coverts about here. In that case they mightn't have been found for some weeks, perhaps months. What do you make of it?”

“Want of time was the principal factor, I should say,” replied Heather. “Perhaps it was the murderer's intention to dump them in the big covert above Noy's bungalow. He was possibly on the way and somehow got the wind up at the last moment and decided to get rid of the cargo. I'm presuming that the bodies were taken to the spot in a car, or some other vehicle.”

“That's how I worked it out. I'd like to know what Runnacles and Deeks were doing on that road at eleven o'clock on Tuesday night.”

“I'll tell you if it'll help you, Mr. Vereker. Runnacles had been to Sudbury and missed the last bus home. He walked back the ten miles, but took the shortest cut by that road. Deeks made no bones about his purpose. He was going up to the covert to see what had happened to some rabbit snares he had laid the night before.”

“Seems all above board, Heather,” commented Vereker.

“You never know. Neither Runnacles nor Deeks is any relation of George Washington's, if you ask me. Then there's another important point I must give you. One of my men has been to Martin's London digs. On his dressing-table was an empty envelope which had been through the post. The address was in block capitals like those in the fragment of the note we found in Martin's pocket.”

“By jingo, that's important, Heather! Where was it posted and when?”

“It was posted in Yarham two days before Martin left London for this village.”

“I suppose it's impossible to find out who posted that letter?” asked Vereker casually.

“We did our best. You see, in a small village like Yarham, the postmistress can see everyone who drops a letter into the post-box, and as she isn't overburdened with mails, I thought there was just a chance she might remember. I asked her. She remembered taking the letter out of the box and noticing that the address was in block capitals as she cancelled the stamp. She couldn't be sure who posted it, but she has a vague idea it was Miss Dawn Garford, or Mrs. Button, to give her her proper name.”

“And was it?” asked Vereker eagerly.

“Apparently not. We asked Mrs. Button when she was in Yarham the other day, and she denied it. She said that the postmistress must have imagined that it was she, because Clarry Martin was supposed to be her lover. She said she had not written to Martin for months, and, in any case, never used block capitals when writing a billet-doux.”

“A smart defence, suggesting that the postmistress was led into error by an association of ideas,” commented Vereker.

“She went one better than that,” added Heather. “I asked her if she'd mind writing out ‘soap box broken' in block capitals for me. She thought this a huge joke and assented readily. Her block capitals were nothing like those on the scrap of paper in my possession.”

“She may have disguised her block capitals,” suggested Vereker.

“I'm not such a bonehead as all that, Mr. Vereker. After talking to her for a while, I asked her if she'd repeat the experiment. She did, and I compared the two attempts. They were exactly similar. When a person fakes handwriting, he can never fake it exactly the same way twice unless making a copy with a specimen of the first before him.”

“Then it's obvious that she didn't write that note.”

“As certain as it's possible to be,” concluded Heather.

“But it doesn't prove that she didn't post it,” added Vereker.

“We've only got the lady's word for it, and she seemed to be speaking the truth. But there's another thing that's troubling me sorely, Mr. Vereker, and that's your barleycorn. Did you find out anything special about it?

“Yes; the barleycorn was malted. You know the process of putting barley on a heated metal floor and keeping it moist till it begins to grow. When the corn throws out little roots, it's ready. This increases its sugar content, and after drying it's called malt.”

“I don't see much in your discovery. What has it got to do with Martin's murder?”

“Possibly nothing at all, but where did he pick it up?”

“There are several maltsters within a few miles of Yarham, and their motor vans run through the village nearly every day. No, that bit of investigation leads us nowhere.”

“It seems useless, Heather, but so is half the work done in any complicated case,” agreed Vereker and, glancing at his watch, added: “I must get back to Old Hall Farm for tea. Shall we see you to-night?”

‘‘No; I shall be too busy. When you've discovered the best wine in the cellar, let me know, and I'll make a point of calling.”

“I won't forget, but before I leave you there's one point I've remembered. Has your pathologist, Sir Donald Macpherson, given any definite opinion on how Martin met his death?”

“Being rather uncertain, he has given a very guarded opinion. Experts are mighty cautious. Only the general practitioner feels he has to be certain. The bullet wound, if received during life, could hardly have proved fatal. He was almost certain it was inflicted after death. There were no signs of poison in the stomach. On the other hand, there was considerable cerebral congestion, which points to apoplexy, but this symptom might be the result of some obscure narcotic poisoning. He inclines to the latter suggestion. The venous system was filled with dark coloured blood. There were no signs of a struggle, beyond the bruises left by his attempt to free himself from the cords which undoubtedly bound his hands and feet prior to death. Make what you like of that, Mr. Vereker. To me it's simply Greek.”

“I'm not a medical man, and it doesn't tell me much, but I'll bear the narcotic poisoning in mind. By the way, I'm going to look through some of Thurlow's private papers to-night. If there's anything important among them, I'll let you know. So long Heather.”

Leaving the inspector, Vereker walked leisurely back to Old Hall Farm. As it was now four o'clock and Ricardo had not returned from his visit to the local garage, Vereker found that he had an hour on his hands before tea would be ready. Taking the bunch of keys which Heather had handed over to him, he went into the study and after a few trials, found the master key which opened all the drawers of Thurlow's bureau. Glancing through the contents of one of the drawers that had been unlocked, he came upon an odd Yale key which had evidently been thrust hastily among the papers.

“Probably a key to the wine cellar,” he mused and, taking it out, compared it with the single Yale key on the bunch in his possession. They were exactly similar, and without further examination of the drawers, he promptly made his way down to the wine cellar. He tried the loose key and found that his surmise was correct. Opening the door, he glanced at the Yale lock and observed that the door could be opened from the cellar side by turning a coin-shaped knob with a milled edge. The lock was exactly similar to thousands fitted to the front doors of ordinary suburban houses. Switching on the electric light, he glanced round the cellar with its neatly stocked bins. Small cards were fixed to the woodwork of these bins and bore the names, dates, etc., of the special wines they contained. At the moment, however, Vereker was not interested in wines, and taking from his pocket a powerful electric torch, for the cellar installation consisted of one lamp of low power, he made a swift examination of the four walls. In one of these walls was a door-shaped opening into a further cellar. Passing into this adjunct, which was considerably larger than its neighbour, he discovered that it was empty, except for a pile of wooden boxes and a heap of the straw jackets in which wine bottles are encased for transit. After a brief scrutiny of the walls of this musty and cobweb-festooned chamber, he was making his way back to the cellar containing the bins, when, flashing the ray of his torch along the floor, he noticed a white streak between two of the large paving stones. At once he halted and examined this streak.

“Chalk, by jove,” he exclaimed and after a careful inspection, stood erect and began to whistle an air from an old Viennese opera that he loved. It was a sure sign that he was suppressing considerable excitement. Seemingly fired by this discovery, he made a close survey of the whole of the floor, except that portion covered by the heap of empty wooden cases and straw bottle-jackets. He then pursued his task into the adjoining cellar until he reached the door leading up to the ground floor of the house. Evidently thoroughly satisfied with his investigation, he closed the door, which automatically locked itself.

In the study once more, he sat for some time at John Thurlow's bureau, his hands thrust in his trousers pockets, his eyes gazing unfocussed at the wainscoting in front of him. Then, pulling himself together with an effort, he resumed his task of going through the contents of the drawers.