The China Cottage by August Derleth

While the ordinary intellect may accept the pattern of coincidence without question, one of superior acumen is apt to prove it a happenstance which beclouds the view.

* * *

“My esteemed brother,” said Solar Pons as I walked into our quarters one autumn morning for breakfast, “has a mind several times more perceptive than my own, but he has little patience with the processes of ratiocination. Though there is nothing to indicate it, it was certainly he who sent this packet of papers by special messenger well before you were awake.”

He had pushed the breakfast dishes back, having barely touched the food Mrs. Johnson had prepared, and sat studying several pages of manuscript, beside which lay an ordinary calling card bearing the name Randolph Curwen, through which someone had scrawled an imperative question mark in red ink.

Observing the direction of my gaze, Pons went on. “The card was clipped to the papers. Curwen is, or perhaps I had better say ‘was’, an expert on Foreign affairs, and was known to be a consultant of the Foreign Office in cryptology. He was sixty-nine, a widower, and lived alone in Cadogan Place, Belgravia, little given to social affairs since the death of his wife nine years ago. There were no children, but he had the reputation of possessing a considerable estate.”

“Is he dead, then?” I asked.

“I should not be surprised to learn that he is,” said Pons. “I have had a look at the morning papers, but there is no word of him there. Some important discovery about Curwen has been made. These papers are photographs of some confidential correspondence between members of the German Foreign Office and that of Russia. They would appear to be singuarly innocuous, and were probably sent to Curwen so he might examine them for any code.”



“I assumed,” said an icy voice from the threshold behind me, “that you would have come to the proper conclusion about this data. I came as soon as I could.”

Bancroft Pons had come noiselessly into the room, which was no mean feat in view of his weight. His keen eyes were fixed unswervingly upon Pons, his austere face frozen into an impassive mask, which added to the impressiveness of his appearance.

“Sir Randolph?” asked Pons.

“Dead,” said Bancroft. “We do not yet know how.”

“The papers?”

“We have some reason to believe that a rapprochement between Germany and Russia is in the wind. We are naturally anxious to know what impends. We had recourse to Curwen, as one of the most skilled of our cryptologists. He was sent the papers by messenger at noon yesterday.”

“I take it he was given the originals.”

Bancroft nodded curtly. “Curwen always liked to work with the originals. You’ve had a chance to look them over.”

“They do not seem to be in code,” said Pons. “They appear to be only friendly correspondence between the foreign secretaries, though it is evident that some increase in trade is being contemplated.”

“Curwen was to have telephoned me early this morning. When seven o’clock passed without a call from him, I put in a call. I could not get a reply. So we sent Danvers out. The house and the study were locked. Of course, Danvers had skeleton keys which enabled him to get in. He found Curwen dead in his chair at the table, the papers before him. The windows were all locked, though one was open to a locked screen. Danvers thought he detected a chemical odour of some kind: it suggested that someone might have photographed the papers. But you shall see Curwen. Nothing has been touched. I have a car below. It isn’t far to Cadogan Place.”

The house in Cadogan Place was austere in its appointments. It was now under heavy police guard; a constable stood on the street before the house, another at the door, and yet another at the door of the study, which was situated at one corner of the front of the house, one pair of windows looking out toward the street, the other into shrubbery-grown grounds to a low stone wall which separated the building from the adjacent property. The house was Georgian in architecture, and likewise in its furniture.

When the study door was unlocked. it revealed book-lined walls, the shelving broken only by windows and a fireplace. The walls framed what we had come to see — the great table in the centre of the room, the still-lit lamp, the motionless form of Sir Randolph Curwen, collapsed in his armchair arms dangling floor-ward, his head thrown back, his ace twisted into an expression of agony. Beside him stood, as if also on guard, a man whom Bancroft Pons introduced as Hilary Danvers.

“Nothing has been disturbed, sir.”

Bancroft nodded curtly and waved one arm toward the body. “Sir Randolph, Parker. Your division.”

I went around immediately to examine the body. Sir Randolph had been a thin, almost gangling man, A grey moustache decorated his upper lip, and thin grey hair barely concealed his scalp, Pince-nez, one eyeglass broken, dangled from a black silk cord around his neck He appeared to have died in convulsive agony, but there was certainly no visible wound on his body.

“Heart?” asked Pons.

When I shook my head, he left me to my examination and walked catlike around the room. He examined the windows, one after the other, tested the screen on the hall-opened window to the grounds, and came to a pause at the fireplace, where he dropped to one knee.

“Something has been burned here,” he said. “Part of the original material?”

Bancroft said peevishly, “A cursory examination suggests that someone burned papers with figures on them, as you can see. We’ll collect the ashes and study them, never fear.”

Pons rose and came around to the table. He stood to scrutinize it, touching nothing. Most of its top was spread with the papers from the Foreign Office; these were divided into two piles, with one sheet between them, this one evidently being the paper Curwen was reading when he was stricken. A pad of notepaper, free of any jottings, was at one side of this paper. The perimeter of the desk was covered by an assortment of items ending with a small white, rose-decorated cottage of china, with an open box of incense pastilles beside it. Curwen’s chair had been pushed slightly back from the table and around to one side, as if he were making an attempt to rise before death overtook him.

“Well, Parker?” asked Pons impatiently.

“A seizure of some kind,” I replied. “But I fear that only an autopsy can determine the cause of death precisely. If I had to guess, I’d say poison.”

Pons flashed a glance at his brother. “You mentioned an odour on entrance.”

“We believe the odour emanated from the incense burner,” Mr. Danvers said.

“Ah, this,” said Pons, his hand hovering over the china cottage. He gazed inquiringly at Danvers.

“We have tested for fingerprints, Mr. Pons. Only Sir Randolph’s were found.”

Pons lifted the cottage from its base, where, in a little cup, lay the remains of burned pastilles. He bent his face toward the cup and sniffed. He looked up with narrowed eyes, picked up the base of the china cottage, and thrust it at me.

“What kind of scent might that be, Parker?”

I followed his example and sniffed. “Almond,” I said. “They make these pastilles in all manner of scents.”

Pons put the china cottage back together and picked up the box of pastilles. “Lilac,” he said dryly.

“The room was locked, Mr. Pons,” put in Danvers. “No one could possibly have got in, if you’re suggesting that someone came and poisoned Sir Randolph.”

“Child’s play,” muttered Bancroft impatiently. “What did he find in the papers that someone should want to kill him? Or burn his findings?”

“You’re irritable today,” said Pons. “There’s nothing here to show that Curwen found anything m the papers.”

“On the contrary, there is everything to suggest that somehow someone managed entrance into this room, killed Sir Randolph, and burned his notes.”

“Why not take them along? If he were clever enough to enter and leave a locked room without a sign to betray him, he must certainly have known that something could be determined from the ashes. I believe the papers in the grate were burned by Sir Randolph himself. He tore off what was on his pad and what had accumulated in his wastebasket under the table, emptied the wastebasket into the fireplace, and set fire to the contents. The ashes are substantial. There is among them at least a page or two from the Times, no reason for burning which I could adduce on the part of a foreign agent. Yours is the Foreign Office approach, all intrigue and espionage.”

“It is indeed,” said Bancroft shortly.

Pons turned again to the china cottage. “If I may, I should like to take this back to Praed Street.” He picked up also the box of pastilles. “And this.”

Bancroft stared at him as if he were convinced that Pons had taken leave of his senses.

“This is bone china,” Pons said, with a hint of a smile at his lips. “Of Staffordshire origin, it dates, I should say, to the early nineteenth century. This china, though translucent, will tolerate a surprising amount of heat.”

“Pray spare me this lecture,” said Bancroft icily. “Take it.”

Pons thanked him dryly, slipped the box of pastilles into his pocket, and handed the china cottage to me “Handle it with care, Parker. We shall examine it at our leisure at 7B.” He turned again to his brother. “Sir Randolph lived alone. Surely there were servants?”

“A Mrs. Claudia Melton came in to clean the house twice a week,” said Bancroft. “And there was a man-servant by day, Will Davinson. He prepared Sir Randolph’s meals and tended to the door. He has come in, if you wish to question him. If so, let us get about it at once.”

Bancroft signalled to the constable who stood at the threshold, and he led us out of the room to the rear quarters. In a combination Kitchen and breakfast room, there sat waiting a middle-aged man who, immediately on our entrance, clicked his heels together, standing like a ramrod.

“Mr. Davinson,” said the constable. “Mr. Solar Pons would like to ask you some questions.”

“At your service, sir.”

“Pray sit down, Mr. Davinson.”

Davinson regained his chair and sat waiting expectantly. His eyes were alert and conveyed the impression of youth the rest of his body belied.

“You were Sir Randolph’s orderly in the war?” asked Pons abruptly.

“Yes, sir.”

“You had reason then to know his habits very well?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He seems to have been addicted to the burning of incense.”

“He has burned it for as long as I’ve known him.”

“You will have had occasion to ascertain how many pastilles a day he customarily burned.”

“Sir, he released the fragrant smoke only when he retired to his study. This was usually in the evening. He seldom burned more than three in an evening, and commonly but two.”

“His favourite scent?”

“Lilac. But he also had pastilles scented with rose, almond, thyme, and, I believe, lavender. He always had a good supply.”

Pons took a turn down the room and back. He stood for a few moments in silence, his eyes closed, his right hand pulling at his earlobe.

“Sir Randolph was a reclusive man?”

“He saw very few people.”

“Whom did he see in the past fortnight?”

Davinson concentrated for a moment. “His niece, Miss Emily Curwen. She had come to London from her home in Edinburgh and came to call. That was perhaps a trifle over two weeks ago.”

“No matter,” said Pons. “Go on.”

“Mr. Leonard Loveson of Loveson & Fitch in High Holborn. That was a business matter. Sir Randolph held a mortgage on their place of business.”

“Sir Randolph held other such mortgages?”

“I was not in Sir Randolph’s confidence, sir, but I believe he did.”

“Go on, Mr. Davinson.”

“Well, then there was a great-nephew, Ronald Lindall, the son of Miss Emily’s sister, also from Edinburgh; he was at the house six days ago, paying a courtesy visit, I took it.”

“Anyone else?”

“Yes,” said Davinson hesitantly. “There was a legal gentleman two days ago, all fuss and feathers. They had words, but briefly. Sir Randolph soothed him and sent him off. I believe the matter concerned another of Sir Randolph’s mortgages.”

“He was a hard man?”

“No, sir. Quite the contrary. More than once he remitted interest due him — even cancelled it. And on one occasion he forgave a small mortgage. No, sir, he was far too easy a man to deal with. Some of them took advantage of him.”

Pons took another turn around the room. “Of these people, which were familiar visitors?” he asked.

“Mr. Loveson.”

“You had not seen Miss Emily before?”

“No, sir. Sir Randolph had spoken of her, but she had not visited at any time that I was in this house.”

“You admitted her?”

“Yes, sir. Sir Randolph never answered the door. If I had gone, unless he had an appointment, he did not answer the door at all.”

“Will you cast your mind back to Miss Emily’s visit? How did she seem to you?”

“I don’t follow you, Mr. Pons.”

“Was she composed — sad, gay, what?”

“She seemed to be a trifle agitated, if I may say so. But that was when she left, Mr. Pons. When she came in she was very much a lady.”

“She and her uncle had words?”

“I could not say.” Davinson was suddenly prim.

“Mr. Lindall, now.”

“He was a somewhat truculent young man, but apologetic about disturbing Sir Randolph. They had a pleasant visit. Sir Randolph showed him about the house and garden, and he took his leave.”

“Mr. Loveson. Do you know, is the mortgage a large one, presuming it has not been settled?”

“I don’t know, but I had the impression that it is quite large.” Davinson swallowed and cleared his throat. “I must emphasize again, Mr. Pons, that while Sir Randolph did not take me into his confidence, I was able to come to certain conclusions about his affairs.”

“One could hardly expect otherwise of a companion of such long standing.”

Davinson inclined his head slightly as if modestly accepting faint praise.

“The gentlemen from the Foreign Office,” Pons said then. “Did you admit them?”

“No sir. They came after I had gone to my flat.”

“You answered the telephone while you were here. Do you recall any appointments after your hours during the past two weeks?”

“The foreign gentleman, three nights ago.”

“Did he leave his name?”

“No, sir. He asked to speak with Sir Randolph. He spoke in a German accent. Sir Randolph was in his study. I made the signal with the buzzer, and Sir Randolph took the call. I stayed on the wire just long enough to be sure the connection had been made.”

“You heard their conversation?”

“Sir only enough to know that Sir Randolph was very much surprised — I took it, agreeably. Afterward, he came out and instructed me to prepare some sandwiches and chill some wine, so I knew he expected someone to come in during the evening. I assumed it was the foreign gentleman.”

Pons nodded. “Your leaving arrangements were by your choice, Mr. Davinson?”

“No, sir. That was the way Sir Randolph wished it. He never wanted to be valeted, didn’t like it. But he needed someone to do the ordinary things in the house during the day.”

“You have your own keys?”

“Yes, Mr. Pons.”

“Sir Randolph was secretive?”

“Only about his work. He was a gentleman who, I should say, preferred his own company to that of anyone else. He treated me very well. Indeed, if I may say so, I should not be surprised to find myself mentioned in his will. He hinted as much to me on several occasions, and that ought to be proof enough that he was not unnecessarily secretive.”

“Thank you, Mr. Davinson. I may call on you again.”

“I want to do anything I can to help, sir. I was very fond of Sir Randolph. We were, if I may say so, almost like step-brothers.”

“Was that not an odd way of putting it?” asked Bancroft, when we were walking away from the kitchen. “One says, ‘we were like brothers’. Step-brothers, indeed!”

“Probably not, for Davinson,” said Pons. “I fancy it was his way of saying they were like brothers one step removed on the social scale, Sir Randolph being a step up, and he a step down.”



Bancroft grunted explosively. “You’ve frittered away half an hour. To what conclusion have you come?”

“I daresay it’s a trifle early to be certain of very much. I submit, however, that Sir Randolph was murdered by someone he had no reason to fear. He appears to have been a cautious man, one not given to carelessness in the matter of his relationship with the public.”

“You have some ingenious theory about the murderer’s entrance into and exit from the locked room, no doubt,” said Bancroft testily.

“I should hardly call it that. Sir Randolph admitted him, and Sir Randolph saw him out, locking the doors after him. Until we have the autopsy report, we cannot precisely know how Sir Randolph was done to death.”

“We are having the papers gone over once again.”

“A waste of time. You Foreign Office people think in painfully conventional patterns. I submit the papers have nothing to do with it.”

Bancroft protested, “Surely it is too much to believe that Sir Randolph’s possession of these papers at the time of his death amounts only to coincidence?”

“It is indeed an outrageous coincidence,” said Pons. “But I am forced to believe it.”

“Is there anything more here?” asked Bancroft.

“If possible, I should like to have a copy of Sir Randolph’s will sent to 7B without delay.”

“It will be done.”

Back at our quarters, Pons retired with the china cottage and the box of pastilles to the corner where he kept his chemicals, while I prepared to go out on my round. When I left 7B, he was in the process of breaking apart one of the scented pastilles; when I returned two hours later, he had broken them all apart and was just rising from his examination, his eyes dancing with the light of discovery.

“Sir Randolph came to his death by his own hand.”

“Suicide!”

“I have not said so. No, one of the pastilles contained cyanide. It was prepared and placed among the pastilles in the box on the desk, unknown to him. Since he used not less than two pastilles a day and not more than three, and the box contains normally two dozen pastilles, we can assume the poisoned pastille was placed there not more than twelve days ago. From the ashes in the china cottage it is possible to determine that the cyanide was enclosed in inflammable wax, and this enclosed in the customary formula. Sir Randolph fell victim to a death trap which had been laid for him by someone who both knew his habits and had access to his study.”

“I thought it poison. What was the motive?”

“It was certainly not the papers, as was evident the moment I concluded that the incense burner was the source of Sir Randolph’s death. That faint odour of almond, you will remember, was indicative.”

“His estate then?”

“We shall see. Only a few minutes before your return a copy of Sir Randolph’s will arrived. I was about to examine it.”

He crossed to the table, took up the sealed envelope laying there, and opened it. He stood for a few moments studying the paper he unfolded. “An admirably clear document,” he murmured. “To his faithful servant, Will Davinson, twenty-five hundred pounds. To Miss Emily, ‘who is otherwise provided for,’ the sum of five hundred pounds. To Mrs. Claudia Melton, two hundred pounds. The bulk of his estate distributed equally among five charitable institutions. All mortgages forgiven!”

“There is certainly not much in the way of motive there,” I said.

“Murder has been committed for as much as ten pounds,” said Pons. “And less. But hardly with such care and premeditation. I fancy the stake was considerably more than two or five hundred pounds.”

“Davinson has motive and opportunity.”

“He could hardly deny it,” observed Pons with a crooked smile.

“He knew he was mentioned in the will. He told us as much.”

“Rack up one point against his having planned Sir Randolph’s death.”

“I recall your saying often that when all the impossible solutions have been eliminated, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” Parker continued, “Davinson spoke of a foreigner, a German, who visited Sir Randolph only a few days before his death.”

“We have only Davinson’s word for it,” said Pons.

“If not the papers from the Foreign Office, we seem to be left with only Sir Randolph’s estate for motive,” I pointed out, with some asperity.

“His estate seems to be well accounted for.”

“The mortgage holders!” I cried.

“I have thought of them. Even before I saw this document, I suggested that some inquiry be set afoot about them. But a venture to predict it will be disclosed that Sir Randolph did not hold many unpaid mortgages, and that the total sum involved is not as large as Davinson, for one, believed.”

“The man Loveson?”

“I have not forgotten him. His will very probably turn out to be the largest outstanding mortgage. He may have had motive in addition to having opportunity. The probability, again, is remote, for it must surely have occurred to him, should any thought of killing Sir Randolph have crossed his mind, that his motive would be instantly perceived. Moreover, we have Davinson’s word for Sir Randolph’s lenience with his debtors, and this is given adequate support by the terms of Sir Randolph’s will, forgiving his mortgages. No, there is something else here of which we have as yet no inkling, something that induced his murdered to go to great pains to prepare a deadly pastille, secrete it among those on the table during the time of his visit with Sir Randolph — or his secret entry into the house, if it were that — and then be safely away when his victim by chance selected the poisoned pastille for use. it was all very carefully premeditated; there was nothing impulsive about it. That is why, patently, the papers have nothing to do with the matter, for whoever put the pastille into the box did so well before even Sir Randolph knew that he would be sent the papers for examination. By the same process of deduction, the foreign visitor lacked motive — if there were such a visitor.”

“And if not?”

“Then, I fear, we should have to put Davinson through it. But there is little reason to doubt Davinson’s story. A foreign visitor to Sir Randolph is not unlikely. And Davinson does not seem to me to be capable of so elaborate a plan.”

“Who then?”

“We must consider that Davinson was gone by night. Sir Randolph was alone. He could have given entry to anyone he pleased, regardless of what Davinson believes.”

“Well, then, we get back to motive.”

“Do we not?” So saying, Pons sank into a reverie, from which he stirred only to eat, with a preoccupied air, a lunch Mrs. Johnson sent up. He still sat, smoking pipe after pipe of his abominable shag, when at last I went to bed.

Pons’ hand at my shoulder woke me while it was yet dark.

“Can you spare the day, Parker?” he asked, when I sat up. “We have just time to catch the four o’clock from King’s Cross for Edinburgh.”

“Edinburgh?” I queried, getting out of bed.

“I have an unyielding fancy to learn what the late Sir Randolph and his niece had words about. We lose a day by travelling later. The four o’clock brings us into Edinburgh by one-thirty this afternoon. We shall have ample opportunity to make our enquiries of Miss Emily Curwen. You will have hours to sleep on the train.”

“Miss Emily!” I cried. “For five hundred pounds? Preposterous!”

“Unlikely, perhaps, but hardly preposterous,” retorted Pons. “Poison, after all, is primarily a woman’s weapon, so she is a suspect.”

Pons had already summoned a cab, which waited below. As soon as I had dressed and made arrangements for my locum tenens to call on my patients for the next two days, we were off for King’s Cross station, which we reached just in time to catch the train for Scotland.

Once in our compartment and northward bound out of London, Pons sank again into cogitation, and I settled myself to resume the sleep Pons had interrupted.

When I woke in the late morning hours, Pons sat watching the lovely countryside flow by. We had crossed the Scottish border, and soon the familiar heights of Arthur’s Seat, the Salisbury Crags, the Braid Hills and Corstorphine Hill would come into view. Here and there little pockets of ground mist still held to the hollows, but the sun shone, and the day promised to be fine.

The tranquil expression of Pons face told me nothing.

“You cannot have been serious in suggesting that Miss Curwen poisoned her uncle,” I said.

“I am not yet in a position to. make that suggestion,” replied Pons, turning away from the pane. “However, a curious chain of events offers itself for our consideration. There is nothing to show that Miss Emily visited her uncle at any time previous to her recent visit. Then she comes, they have words, she hurries off distraught. Does not this suggest anything to you?”

“Obviously, they quarreled.”

“But what about? Two people who have not seen each other for many years, as far as we know, can hardly, on such short notice, have much to quarrel about.”

“Unless there is a matter of long standing between them.”

“Capital! Capital, Parker,” said Pons, his eyes twinkling. “But what ancient disagreement could exist between uncle and niece?”

“A family estrangement?”

“There is always that possibility,” conceded Pons. “However, Miss Emily would hardly have come, in that case, unannounced and without an invitation to do so.”

“Perhaps, unknown to Davinson, she had been invited to come,” I said.

“Perhaps. I am inclined to doubt it. Miss Emily yielded to the impulse to confront her uncle to ask some favour of him. His failure to grant it angered her and she rushed off.”

“That is hardly consistent with the premeditation so evident in the careful preparation of a poisoned pastille,” I couldn’t help pointing out. As usual, it was superfluous.

“Granted, Parker, But there’s nothing to prevent such premeditation in the event that the favour she asked her uncle were not granted.”

“What could it have been that, failing its granting, only his death would serve her?” I protested. “If a matter of long standing, then, why not longer? No, Pons, it won’t wash, it won’t at all. I fear you have allowed your latent distrust of the sex to darken your view of Miss Emily Curwen.”

Pons burst into hearty laughter.

“Where are we bound for? Do you know?”

“Miss Emily lives in her father's house on Northumberland Street, in the New Town. I took time yesterday to ascertain this and other facts. She and her sister were the only children of Sir Randolph’s brother, Andrew. Her sister married unwisely, a man who squandered her considerable inheritance. Both the elder Lindalls are now dead, survived by an only son, Ronald, who is employed in a bookshop on Torphichen Street. But here we are, drawing into Edinburgh.”

Within the hour we stood on the stoop of the house on Northumberland Street. Pons rang the bell three times before the door was opened, only a little, and an inquiring face looked out at us there.

“Miss Emily Curwen?”

“Yes?”

“Mr. Solar Pons, of London, at your service. Dr. Parker and I have come about the matter of your uncle’s death.”

There was a moment of pungent silence. Then the door was opened wide, and Miss Curwen stood there, unmistakably shocked and surprised. “Uncle Randolph dead? I saw him within the month. The picture of health!” she cried. “But forgive me. Come in, gentlemen, do.”

Miss Emily led the way to the drawing room of the old-fashioned house, which was certainly at one time the abode of wealth. She was a woman approaching fifty, with a good figure still, and betraying some evidence in the care she had taken with her chestnut hair and her cosmetics of trying to retain as much of a youthful aspect as possible.

“Pray sit down,” she said. “Tell me of uncle’s death. What happened? Was it an accident?”

“Perhaps, in a manner of speaking, it was,” said Pons. “He was found dead in his study.”

“Poor uncle!” she cried, unaffectedly.

She seemed unable to fix her eyes on either Pons or myself. Her hands were busy plucking at her dress, or lacing her fingers together, or carrying her fingers to her lips.

“Perhaps you did not know he left you five hundred pounds?”

“No, I did not.” Then her eyes brightened quite suddenly. “Poor, dear uncle! He needn’t have done that. Now that he’s gone, I shall have it all! All!”

“Somewhat over a fortnight ago you called on your uncle, Miss Curwen.”

“Yes, I did.” She grinned.

“You found him well at that time?”

“I believe I have said as much, sir.”

“You left him upset. Was he unkind to you?”

“Sir, it was the old matter. Now it is resolved.”

“Would you care to tell us about it?”

“Oh, there’s no secret in it, I assure you. Everyone knows of it here in Edinburgh.” She tossed her head and shrugged, pitying herself briefly. “Uncle Randolph was as hard a man as my father. My older sister, Cicely, made a very bad marriage in our father’s eyes. He had settled her inheritance on her, and when he saw how Arthur wasted it, he made certain I could never do the same. So he put my inheritance, fifty thousand pounds, in trust, and made Uncle Randolph guardian of the trust. I could have only so much a year to live on, a pittance. But the world has changed, and everyone knows that it is not so easy to live on a restricted income as it was twenty-five years ago when my father died. But now all that’s over. Now that Uncle Randolph’s dead, what is mine comes to me free of his or anyone’s control.”



“You must have had assistance, Miss Curwen,” said Pons sympathetically.

“Oh, yes. My nephew, my dear boy! He’s all I have, gentlemen. He has cared for his old aunt quite as if I were his own mother. I’ve been very much alone here. What could I do, what society could I have, on so limited an income? Now all that is changed. I am sorry Uncle Randolph is dead, but I’m not sorry the restrictions on my inheritance are removed.”

Pons’ glance flickered about the room, which looked as if it had not quite emerged into the twentieth century. “A lovely room, Miss Curwen,” he observed.

“My grandfather planned it. I hate it,” she said simply. “I shall lose no time selling the house. Think of having fifty thousand pounds I might have had when I was in my twenties! Oh, Mr. Pons, how cruel it was! My father thought I’d do the same thing my sister did, even after I saw how it went with them.”

“I see you, too, are given to the use of incense, Miss Curwen,” said Pons, his gaze fastened to a china castle.

“Any scent will serve to diminish the mould and mildew, gentlemen.”

“May I look at that incense burner?” persisted Pons.

“Please do.”

Pons crossed to the mantel where the china castle rested, picked it up, and brought it back to his chair. It was an elaborate creation in bone china, featuring three lichen-covered turrets, and evidently three burners. Carnations adorned it, and a vine of green leaves, and morning glories. Its windows were outlined in soft brown.

“A Colebrook Dale marking on this Coalport castle identifies it as prior to 1850 origin,” said Pons.

Miss Curwen’s eyebrows went up. “You’re a collector, sir?”

“Only of life’s oddities,” said Pons. “But I have some interest in antiquities as well.” He looked up. “And what scent do you favour, Miss Curwen?”

“Rose.”

“One could have guessed that you would select so complimentary a fragrance, Miss Curwen.”

Miss Curwen blushed prettily as Pons got up to return the china castle to the mantel, where he stood for a few moments with the opened box of pastilles in his hand, inhaling deeply the scent that emanated from it. He appeared to have some difficulty closing the box before he turned once more and came back to where he had been sitting. He did not sit down again.

“I fear we have imposed upon you long enough, Miss Curwen,” said Pons.

Miss Emily came to her feet. “I suppose you will take care of such legalities as there are, gentlemen?”

“I fancy Sir Randolph’s legal representatives will do that in good time, Miss Curwen,” said Pons.

“Oh! I thought...”

“I am sorry to have given you the wrong impression. I am a private enquiry agent, Miss Curwen. There is some question about the manner of your uncle’s death; I am endeavouring to answer it.”

She was obviously perplexed. “Well, there’s nothing I can tell you about that. I know he was in what looked like perfect health when I last saw him.”

She did not seem to have the slightest suspicion of Pons’ objective. and walked us to the door, where she let us out. From the stoop, we could bear the chain being quietly slid back into place.

“I must hand it to you, Pons,” I said. “There’s motive for you.”

“Poor woman! I’ll wager she’s dancing around by herself in celebration now,” he said as we walked back down to the street. “There are pathetic people in this world to whom the possession of money is everything. They know little of life and nothing of how to live. Presumably Andrew Curwen was such a one; I fear Miss Emily may be another. One could live well on the income of fifty thousand pounds one had a mind to, but Miss Emily preferred to pine and grieve and feel sorry for herself, a lonely, deluded woman. I shall be sorry to add to her loneliness, but perhaps her wealth will assuage her. But come, Parker, we have little time to lose. We must be off to the police. With luck, we shall be able to catch one of the night trains back to London.”

Inspector Brian McGavick joined us when Pons explained his need. He was in plain-clothes, and looked considerably more like an actor than a member of the constabulary.

“I’ve heard about you, Mr. Pons,” said McGavick. “This morning, on instructions from the Foreign Office. I am at your service.”

“Inspector, you’re in charge here. I have no authority. I shall expect you to take whatever action the events of the next hour or two call for.” He outlined briefly the circumstances surrounding the murder of Sir Randolph Curwen. By the time he bad finished we had arrived in Torphichen Street.

“Let us just park the car over here,” said Pons, “and walk the rest of the way.”

We got out of the police car and walked leisurely down the street to a little shop that bore the sign, Laidlaw’s Books. There Pons turned in.

A stout little man clad almost formally, save for his plaid weskit, came hurrying up to wait on us.

“Just browsing, sir,” said Pons

The little man bowed and returned to resume his place on a stool at a high, old-fashioned desk in a far corner of the shop. The three of us began to examine the books in the stalls and on the shelves, following Pons lead. Pons soon settled down to a stall containing novels of Sir Walter Scott and Dickens, studying one volume after another with that annoying air of having the entire afternoon in which to do it.

In a quarter of an hour, the door of the shop opened to admit a handsome young man who walked directly back to the rear of the shop, removed his hat and ulster, and came briskly back to attend to us. Since Pons was nearest him, he walked directly up to Pons and engaged him in conversation I could not overhear until I drifted closer.

“There is merit in each,” Pons was saying. “Scott for his unparalleled reconstruction of Scotland’s past, Dickens for the remarkable range of characters, however much some of them may seem caricatures. I think of establishing special shelves for each when I open my own shop.”

“Ah, you’re a bookman, sir? Where?”

“In London. I lack only a partner.”

“I would like to be in London myself. What are your qualifications?”

“I need a young man, acquainted with books and authors, capable of putting a little capital into the business. Are you interested?”

“I might be.”

Pons thrust forth his hand. “Name’s Holmes,” he said.

“Lindall,” said the young man, taking his hand.

“Capital?” asked Pons.

“I expect to come into some.”

“When?”

“Within the next few months.”

“Ample time! Now tell me, Mr. Lindall, since I am in need of some other little service, do you know any chemistry? Ever studied it?”

“No sir.”

“I asked because I saw a chemist’s shop next door. Perhaps you have a friend there who might make up a special prescription for me?”

“As a matter of fact, I do have. A young man named Ardley. Ask for him and say I gave you his name.”

“Thank you, thank you. I am grateful. In delicate little matters like these, one cannot be too careful.”

Lindall’s interest quickened. He ran the tip of his tongue over his lips and asked, “What is the nature of the prescription, sir?”

Pons dipped his hand into his coat pocket, thrust it out before Lindall, and unfolded his fingers. “I need a little pastille like this — with cyanide at the centre, to dispose of old men and middle-aged ladies.”

Lindall’s reaction was extraordinary. He threw up his hands as if to thrust Pons away, stumbled backward, and upset a stall of books. Books and Lindall together went crashing to the floor.

“Oh, I say! I say now!” called out the proprietor, getting off his stool.

“Inspector McGavick, arrest this man for the murder of Sir Randolph Curwen, and the planned murder of his aunt, Miss Emily Curwen,” said Pons.

McGavick had already moved in on Lindall, and was pulling him to his feet.

“You will need this poisoned pastille, Inspector. I found it in a box of rose pastilles in Miss Emily’s home. You should have no difficulty proving that this and the one that killed Sir Randolph were manufactured for Lindall at his direction.” To Lindall, Pons added, “A pity you didn’t ask after my Christian name, Mr. Lindall. Sherlock. A name I assume on those special occasions when I feel inordinately modest.”

In our compartment on the 10.15 express for London Pons answered the questions with which I pelted him.

“It was an elementary matter, Parker,” he said, confused by the coincidence of Sir Randolph’s possession of the Foreign Office papers. The death trap had been laid for him well before anyone at all knew that he would see the papers in question. This motive eliminated, it became necessary to disclose another. Nobody appeared to dislike Sir Randolph, and it did not seem that any adequate motivation lay in the provisions of his will.

“We were left, then, with Miss Emily’s curious visit, angrily terminated. She went to London to appeal to her uncle for an end to the trust. She came back and complained to her nephew — her ‘dear boy’ who is ‘all’ she has — her designated heir, as an examination of her will certainly show. In a fortnight, familiarized with Sir Randolph’s habits by Miss Emily, he paid him a visit on his own, managed to slip the poisoned pastille into his box, and was off to bide his time. He had had two made, one for his aunt, and felt safe in slipping the other into her box of pastilles. He might better have waited, but he had not counted on the death of Sir Randolph being taken for anything but a seizure of some kind. He underestimated the police, I fear, and greed pushed him too fast. ‘The love of money, Parker,’ is indeed ‘the root of all evil.’ ”

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