The Secret of High Eldersham

By Miles Burton

A mystery set in a sleepy village peopled by mistrustful residents. When the landlord Samuel Whitehead, a former London police sergeant is found murdered, Scotland Yard is called in. Detective Inspector Young finds that people are reluctant to give information and during his investigations he uncovers a witches coven and drug smuggling. It all culminates in an exciting finale with a satisfying end...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Reading Essentials
• Release date: May 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9788834126660

Miles Burton

MILES BURTON was a pseudonym of Cecil Street (1884-1964), a British soldier who became a prolific novelist in the 1920s. He was the author of approximately 140 detective novels, of which the most highly regarded were published under the names Miles Burton and John Rhode.

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The Secret of High Eldersham 

by Miles Burton

First published in 1930

This edition published by Reading Essentials

Victoria, BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany

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The Secret of High Eldersham

by Miles Burton 

To

A. H. and P. R.

my godmothers

Chapter I

Nobody knew better than Mr. George Thorold, the senior partner of Thorold and Son, the well-known Gippingford brewers, that in these days of highly-taxed beer it would not be an easy matter to find a tenant for the Rose and Crown. Consequently, when Hugh Dunsford called to see him and announced his intention of giving up the house, Mr. Thorold listened to him with a slight frown upon his handsome features.

It’s like this, you see, sir, explained Dunsford, an elderly man, short of stature, and with that curious furtive, half-mistrustful air not uncommon among the natives of East Anglia. There’s not a decent living to be made at the Rose and Crown, and that’s a fact. I’m not saying that the place wasn’t a little gold-mine before the war, but those times are gone. A chap can’t afford his couple of pints of an evening with beer at the price it is, leastways the chaps about High Eldersham can’t. I might hold on if I was a single man, sir, but you see there’s the missus and the family to think of.

Yes, I know how difficult things are for the tenants of the smaller houses, replied Mr. Thorold. You know that we would do everything we could to keep you. What do you think of doing when you give up the Rose and Crown?

Dunsford coughed awkwardly. Well, sir, I did hear that old Hawkins, of the Tower of London in this town, was going to retire. And I was going to make so bold as to ask you, seeing that it’s one of your houses, if you’d consider me in his place. There’s a fine trade to be done there, and I could manage it proper, with my boy Dick and the missus to help me.

Mr. Thorold picked up a pencil that was lying on his desk, and began to trace a series of complicated geometrical figures on a piece of paper that lay before him. It was true that Hawkins intended to retire in the following September, and it was certain that Dunsford, whose father before him had been a tenant of the brewery, would make an excellent landlord for the Tower of London. But the problem of the Rose and Crown presented itself with all its manifold difficulties. It stood in an isolated spot, and customers were few and far between. There was nothing about the house to tempt a man who wanted to earn money by the trade. And besides, it would take a stranger—a foreigner, as High Eldersham dubbed any one not born in the immediate neighbourhood—months, perhaps years, to establish that confidence so essential between a landlord and his local customers.

Well, Dunsford, said Mr. Thorold after a long pause, you and your parents have been friends of the brewery far too long for me to stand in your way, even if I wanted to. Of course you can have the Tower of London if you want the house, and I shall be very glad to know that it is in such good hands, and to have you here in Gippingford. But I’m sure I don’t know who I shall get to take your place at the Rose and Crown. You don’t happen to know of anybody out your way who would like it, do you?

Dunsford shook his head, No, sir, that I don’t, he replied.  ’Tisn’t as if the place had a bit o’ land with it, so as a chap could pick up a bit with a few cows or something o’ that. There isn’t nobody round High Eldersham way as could do any good with the Rose and Crown, trade being what it is. Why, as I tell you, sir, I can’t myself.

Then I’m sure nobody else could, remarked Mr. Thorold, with a smile. Well, I shall have to see what can be done, that’s all. Since you are here, we may as well go into the matter of your tenancy of the Tower of London.

When Dunsford had gone, Mr. Thorold sat for some time elaborating the design he had commenced, and thinking of the Rose and Crown. That it had long ceased to be profitable he knew well enough, and his only surprise was that Dunsford had not come to the same conclusion earlier than this. The house was unfortunately placed. It was about twenty miles from Gippingford, the county town, and stood upon the old coach road running northwards. At one time it had been a favourite spot for changing horses, but with the advent of the car its popularity had departed, since it was neither imposing or romantic enough to attract the attention of the passing motorist. Further, within recent years a new main road had been built, absorbing the through traffic and reducing the old coach road to little more than a country lane. The result was that few strangers entered the portal of the Rose and Crown.

It had to depend, therefore, for its trade upon the inhabitants of High Eldersham, a straggling village upon the banks of the River Elder. But here again the Rose and Crown was unfortunate. The population of High Eldersham was in any case very small, not more than two or three hundred in all. And the more substantial people, farmers and so forth, were almost without exception chapel folk, who would have lost caste among their neighbours had they been seen entering so disreputable a place as a public house. The purchase, on market days in Gippingford, of whisky by the case, for consumption behind drawn blinds, they regarded, however, as a perfectly natural and respectable proceeding. Besides these, the population of High Eldersham consisted mainly of labourers, and they, as Dunsford had said, could not afford more than an occasional visit to the Rose and Crown. Finally, still further to add to the disadvantages of the house, it was situated some little distance from the village itself, which lay a mile or more away, at the end of a side turning branching off from the coach road opposite the Rose and Crown.

But, as Mr. Thorold was well aware, it was not the material drawbacks that presented the most serious problem. There is always a comparatively large number of people whose highest ambition is to become the tenant of an inn, and from among these there would be no difficulty in choosing a landlord for the Rose and Crown. But Mr. Thorold had a long experience of strangers as tenants in East Anglia. However hardworking and conscientious they might be, however keen to promote trade, the receipts of their houses had a way of falling off until they were perforce compelled to relinquish their tenancy. And this curious distrust of strangers, common throughout East Anglia, was particularly active in remote villages like High Eldersham. Yet Dunsford had said that no local man would take the Rose and Crown, and he knew every soul in the village and for miles around. There was nothing for it but to advertise.

Mr. Thorold devoted considerable pains to drawing up the advertisement. As an afterthought, he added the words, the house would suit a pensioner, and smiled grimly as he did so. It was no use accepting a tenant who had not some source of income independent of the takings of the house. The man would either give notice after his first quarter or go bankrupt. The advertisement was inserted in the Gippingford Herald, and for the next few days Mr. Thorold was inundated with replies, most of which, from the obvious unsuitability of the applicant, he consigned to the waste-paper basket.

Among the replies which he laid aside for consideration was one that especially appealed to him. The applicant described himself with refreshing brevity. Whitehead, Samuel Edward, aged 55, late sergeant Metropolitan Police, retired on pension, widower, no children. Would like to take the house if it had half an acre or so of garden.

Now, as it happened, the Rose and Crown had a very good garden, which Dunsford, an enthusiastic gardener himself, had always kept in very good order. Further, a police pensioner would make a very desirable tenant, there would be little fear of any irregularities taking place which might endanger the licence. After considering the matter carefully, Mr. Thorold wrote to the address in Hammersmith given by Whitehead, and asked him to come to Gippingford for an interview.

Whitehead came, exactly at the appointed hour, and Mr. Thorold was very favourably impressed. Whitehead, in spite of his height and girth, which were well beyond the ordinary, even for a policeman, looked active and alert. He was respectful and eminently self-possessed, and his cheerful face positively radiated good nature. Just the man for the place, thought Mr. Thorold. If anybody could get on with those queer High Eldersham folk, he could. It seemed almost a pity to exile such an excellent man to a place like the Rose and Crown.

I ought to warn you, Mr. Whitehead, that the Rose and Crown does not do a very extensive trade, said Mr. Thorold. You may find at first that the profits do not quite come up to your expectations.

That won’t worry me, sir, replied Whitehead. My pension is more than enough to keep me, and I’m anxious to get out of London and amuse myself growing a few flowers. I thought of taking a cottage somewhere till I saw your advertisement. Then I thought that a pub would be more cheerful, seeing that there would be somebody to talk to.

The interview ended by Whitehead signing the lease of the Rose and Crown.

This had happened five years ago. Whitehead had entered into possession of the Rose and Crown in September, when Dunsford and his family had moved to the Tower of London, in Gippingford. And there he had remained, apparently perfectly contented with his lot. Rather to Mr. Thorold’s astonishment, the beer consumption at the Rose and Crown, after showing a decline for the first few weeks of the new tenant’s occupancy, had gradually risen to the average figure it had shown in Dunsford’s time. And Mr. Thorold’s traveller, whose business it was to visit all the houses belonging to the brewery, reported that that new chap Whitehead seemed to be getting on very well.

Almost exactly four and a half years after Whitehead’s first day as landlord of the Rose and Crown, on the evening of March 31st, Constable Viney, the High Eldersham village policeman, was cycling back home at the conclusion of his round. His way led him past the Rose and Crown and he had intended to go in and have a word with Whitehead, with whom he was on very good terms. However, his duties had taken him longer than he expected, and it was after eleven o’clock when he reached the door of the inn. Whitehead, as he knew, was in the habit of going to bed soon after closing time, ten o’clock, and the constable decided that it was too late to knock on the door.

He was about to pass on when he caught sight of a flicker of light in the window of the bar. Perhaps Mr. Whitehead had not gone to bed after all. Viney approached the window and looked in. The curtains were drawn, but did not meet by half an inch or so. Through this narrow aperture Viney could see that the lamp was out but that the fire was still burning. This was the light which he had seen.

Viney was on the point of turning away when a flame leapt up from the dying fire, illuminating the room with its flickering light. A massive wooden arm-chair was drawn up in front of the fire, and in this was the motionless figure of Mr. Whitehead, in an attitude of complete relaxation, his head fallen forward upon his breast. Viney smiled. He had known Mr. Whitehead doze off in his chair after a hard day’s work, before this. He rapped smartly upon the window, but Mr. Whitehead did not stir. Viney almost fancied he could hear him snoring.

Had it not been that the constable felt an urgent desire for a drink, he would have gone on home, and left Mr. Whitehead undisturbed. As it was, he knocked again, seeming in the still night to make enough noise to rouse the whole neighbourhood. But Mr. Whitehead made no sign of having heard him, and suddenly something in his attitude sent a thrill of apprehension running down the constable’s spine. No man could sleep through a noise such as he had just made, nor could he rest quietly in such a position. Filled with the conviction that Mr. Whitehead must be ill and in need of assistance, Viney hesitated no longer. He tried the door, but it was locked. There was nothing for it but more desperate measures; if Mr. Whitehead objected, he would pay for the damage himself.

He returned to the window, and put his elbow through a pane of glass. Then he reached for the catch, and opened the window. After a short struggle, he wormed his way through, and stood on the floor of the bar. Mr. Whitehead showed no signs of being aroused by these proceedings. The flame had died down by now, and the room was illuminated only by the dull glow of the fire. Viney put his hand on Mr. Whitehead’s shoulder, only to withdraw it with a startled cry. At his touch Mr. Whitehead slid from his chair and collapsed in a heap in front of the fireplace. But Viney hardly heeded him. He fumbled for his torch, and cast its rays upon the hand which had rested for an instant on Mr. Whitehead’s shoulder. He had not been mistaken. The horrible stickiness which covered it was blood.

Chapter II

Constable Viney, in spite of the uniform he wore, stood appalled and trembling in the face of his gruesome discovery. During the years in which he had been stationed at High Eldersham his police duties had been confined to a more or less benevolent supervision of the villagers, punctuated by occasional stern warnings to farmers guilty of the offence of allowing their cattle to stray upon the highway. In the whole of his experience he had known nothing like this. For several seconds he stood rooted to the floor of the bar, a mere ordinary mortal, utterly thrown off his balance by the sudden presentment of tragedy and horror.

It was with a violent effort that he pulled himself together and turned his torch upon the body of Mr. Whitehead. That it was a body and not a living man he knew by instinct. His soul recoiled from the idea of touching it again in the vain hope that any spark of life yet remained. His senses registered the simple facts, that Mr. Whitehead was dead, that his clothes were soaked in blood, that a pool of the same sinister fluid had spread beneath the chair and over the hearth. And then it occurred to him with sudden urgency that he must take steps, at once, without delay.

The thought was welcome, beyond anything else that he could imagine. It meant that he must leave this little low room in which he felt the numbing atmosphere of fear, and hurry to the village for help. He walked swiftly to the door and tried the handle. It was locked, as he might have known. Mr. Whitehead, law-abiding publican as he was, invariably locked the door of the bar at closing time, ten o’clock. But the key was not in the lock. For an instant Viney hesitated. In all probability it was in Mr. Whitehead’s pocket. But in his present state he could not bring himself to seek it there. He climbed out of the window as he had entered, shut it carefully behind him, and pedalled frantically along the road that led to the village. The sharp night air braced his strained nerves like a tonic.

He made straight for the house of Doctor Padfield, and rang the bell. To his relief the doctor himself answered the door, a tall spare figure, whose hand, holding an uplifted candlestick, trembled slightly. He regarded the constable with a puzzled stare, as though unable to account for his sudden appearance. It was not until after an appreciable pause that he spoke. Well, Viney, what is it? he asked in a curiously deadened voice. Come in, don’t stand in the doorway like that.

Viney stepped into the hall, in darkness but for the candle in the doctor’s hand, and closed the door behind him.

It’s Mr. Whitehead, up at the Rose and Crown, sir, he replied in a low tone, in which his excitement was still audible. He’s dead, sir, covered with blood, looks to me as if he had been murdered.

If he had expected Doctor Padfield to display any excitement at this news he was disappointed.

Dead, is he? said the doctor discontentedly. What’s the good of coming to me, then? I can’t bring dead men back to life!

Viney stared at the doctor, completely taken aback by his nonchalance. Well, sir, he replied, even if you can’t do that, at least you can tell what killed him. My instructions are always to call a doctor in when a man’s found dead. But, of course, sir, if you won’t come—

Oh, I’ll come, interrupted Doctor Padfield carelessly. The Rose and Crown, you say? That’s barely a mile away. It will be as quick to walk there as to waste time getting out the car, especially as it is a fine night. Wait a minute while I get my bag.

May I use your telephone, sir, while you are getting ready? asked Viney.

Certainly, if it amuses you, replied the doctor. There you are, in that corner.

He left the hall abruptly, taking the candle with him. Viney, left in the dark, had recourse to his torch, and with its assistance found the telephone instrument. He put a call through to the officer on duty at Gippingford Police Station and reported. I’m all alone here, sir, as you know, he concluded. If you could send some one to take charge, I’d be grateful.

The answer must have been satisfactory, for Viney replaced the receiver with an air of relief. At that moment Doctor Padfield returned and the two set out on the road towards the Rose and Crown, Viney leading his bicycle. Doctor Padfield seemed irritable and morose, and after one or two attempts to engage him in conversation Viney desisted from the attempt. They pursued their way in silence until they reached the inn.

If you’ll wait a moment, sir, I’ll open the back door, remarked Viney, as he prepared to scramble once more through the window. The front door is locked, and I haven’t found the key yet.

He entered the bar and cast a hasty glance at the body. It was lying in the same position as he had last seen it, and he hastened out through the back to admit Doctor Padfield. The key of the back door was in the lock and he turned it. The door opened, and Doctor Padfield strode in, apparently without taking the slightest notice of his surroundings.

Better stay where you are till I get a lamp lit, sir, remarked Viney. I saw one in the back kitchen as I came through. He fumbled with a box of matches, and appeared carrying an ordinary paraffin lamp, which threw curious and grotesque shadows on the bare walls. Followed by Doctor Padfield, he led the way into the bar, and held the lamp so that its light fell on the huddled figure of Mr. Whitehead. There you are, sir! he exclaimed in an awed voice.

Put that damned lamp down on the table! commanded Doctor Padfield sharply. Can’t you see that it’s shining right in my eyes? That’s better. Now then, bear a hand and help me to get the man’s coat off. Ah, that’s the trouble, is it?

They had taken Mr. Whitehead’s coat from his shoulders, exposing the back of his waistcoat. The fabric showed a cut, about an inch and a half long, and round this was soaked in blood. It was evident, even to Viney’s inexperienced eye, that the dead man had been stabbed with a broad-bladed knife, apparently driven into his left shoulder from behind.

For the first time that evening Doctor Padfield showed some symptoms of interest. A very neat stroke, he commented. Very neat indeed. The man who struck that blow knew his job. It must have been almost immediately fatal. Who was it, Viney?

I don’t know, sir, replied the constable, startled by the directness of the question. I found him like this, and then came straight along to fetch you, sir.

Doctor Padfield shrugged his shoulders. Well, it’s your job to find out who killed him, not mine, he said. I can’t do anything, as I told you before. I’m going home to bed. You’ll find me in my house till ten o’clock in the morning, if you want me. And with that he strode out of the room, without bestowing another glance at the dead man. Viney, left alone, could hear his footsteps on the road until the sound of them was swallowed up in the distance.

He glanced at his watch. It was barely midnight, and he knew that he could not expect his colleagues from Gippingford for some time yet. It was his obvious duty to remain with the body, that was certain. But not necessarily in the same room. He could not face the prospect of a prolonged vigil in that ghastly bar. He wandered out into the back passage, where his eye fell upon a barrel of beer, ready tapped. After a moment’s hesitation, he picked up a pint pot, filled it, and drank the contents off at a draught. This done, he laid the pot down with a sigh of content. He felt distinctly better.

His wits, so rudely scattered by his tragic discovery, began to return to him. Suddenly it occurred to him that here was his chance to distinguish himself. A murder had been committed, of that there could be no possible doubt. Knives did not get driven into people’s backs by accident, he reasoned. Nor could it be a case of suicide. He took out his truncheon, and, holding it as a knife, tried to stab himself with it in the back of his left shoulder. Well, it could be done, though it would be very awkward. But then, if Mr. Whitehead had done it himself, the knife would have been left in the wound, or, at all events, would have fallen on the floor somewhere near the body. No, it was a case of murder, right enough.

The thought that he was actually concerned in a real murder case thrilled him. He tried to remember, from his perusal of the sensational Sunday newspapers, how those super men, the chiefs of Scotland Yard, acted in similar circumstances. So far as he could make out, they interrogated a number of people until they found a clue. But here, in this lonely house, there was nobody to interrogate, and he felt himself at a loss. He took out his note-book and entered a few brief particulars in rather a shaky hand. Then, finding inaction impossible, he began to wander about the house, seeking rather aimlessly for traces of the murderer. At last a bright idea struck him. Motive! That was it, that was what all great detectives established immediately a crime was discovered. The till was in the corner of the bar, he knew. He had often seen Mr.