Free The Spirit Murder Mystery by Robin Forsythe

nothing at all.”
    â€œYou might go and see this charming and sensible Miss Thurlow. You’re better than I am at dealing with genuine psychics. In fact, all women are a bit of a puzzle to me.”
    â€œFirst time I’ve heard you say so, Heather. In any case, the man who says he knows all about women, never knows the first thing about himself. I forgot to mention that there’s a very pretty cook up at...”
    But the inspector had disappeared through the dining-room door before Anthony Vereker could finish the sentence.

Chapter Five
    Shortly after Heather’s departure, Vereker strolled lazily out of “The Walnut Tree” into the warm summer sunshine. He took the road skirting the village green and leading southwards to Hawksfield.
    All this portion of Suffolk about Yarham is dotted with villages of a few hundred inhabitants, with isolated farms scattered between. The population is almost entirely agrarian, and the conditions of life can soberly be called truly rural. It has an insidious charm, detachedly somnolent and meditative, and Vereker was under its almost uncanny spell. There was no settled plan in his mind, and if he had any objective, it was almost subconscious. He had chosen the road because it was perhaps more picturesque than any of the others winding tortuously out of Yarham. He was aware that there was little likelihood of meeting anyone he knew, because one can traverse any of the roads about Yarham for miles at any time of day without passing more than half a dozen pedestrians, a farm waggon, and an occasional motor car. He felt an overwhelming sense of remoteness from the hurrying world, and was conscious of that absence of distraction which leaves a man starkly facing his own thoughts. Yes, Yarham was conducive to quiet thinking and sound sleeping.
    He had not, however, walked more than a mile before he encountered Miss Eileen Thurlow. She had just emerged from a rough grassy lane which ran into the road at right angles. This lane, a primitive cart track called a “drift,” was an approach to Church Farm, lying about a mile from the road and inaccessible by any other means. In summer these drifts are passable on foot, but in winter the pedestrian can only wade through them in gum boots. Thus many farms are completely isolated, and no traffic passes them except that of their own farm waggons and servants.
    Miss Thurlow at once recognized Vereker.
    â€œI was just coming down to see you,” she said. “I’ve been expecting you to call at Old Hall Farm every day since your visit with Mr. Sturgeon.”
    â€œI’ve been going to do so, Miss Thurlow, but somehow or other...”
    â€œYou didn’t like to trouble me in the circumstances. I understand. I’ve been wanting to talk things over with you alone, because I think you understand me. We’re only half a mile from the Old Hall. Would you care to come along now to tea, or have you some other engagement?”
    â€œI’m quite free and shall be glad to come. I hope you won’t mind my asking you all sorts of questions.”
    â€œI want you to, and I’ll answer them as best I can. I’m anxious to help you to clear up this terrible business of my uncle’s death. The police seem unable to make head or tail of it, and Inspector Winter treats me as if I were an imbecile. When I mentioned to him that my uncle and I had a séance on the night he disappeared, the man was positively insulting. He asked me abruptly what ‘the dooce’ had that got to do with the business.”
    â€œYou’ve heard that Inspector Heather of Scotland Yard is now in charge of the investigations?” asked Vereker.
    â€œI read it this morning in the West Suffolk Post . I hope he’s politer than his local colleague.”
    â€œHe’s a great detective, Miss Thurlow, and a particular friend of mine. I’m sure you’ll find him very tactful even on the subject of your