Solar Pons: The Final Cases

1

“A beautiful day, Parker!”

“Indeed, Pons!”

My friend Solar Pons and I were strolling down Regent Street and the sunlight sparkling on the glittering displays in the elegant windows of the shops had prompted my companion’s apposite remark. It was indeed a perfect day in early June and as it was my locum’s turn to take my rounds and evening surgery I had readily agreed to a morning stroll from our lodgings at 7B Praed Street.

“A never-ending source of fascination; the study of mankind in the raw, Parker.”

“Perfectly true, Pons.”

“For example, take that gentleman staggering toward us on the opposite pavement. What do you make of him?”

I frowned across the road toward the source of Pons” interest.

“Strange indeed. Pons.”

“Is it not. Parker. Let us just have a small display of that ratiocinative power you have been cultivating of late.”

“You do me too much honour. Pons.”

I frowned again at the man who was dancing about in such an extraordinary manner. He was a little, peppery, red-faced man in formal clothes and with a silk cravat. He carried a stick and from the opening and closing movements of his mouth, he appeared to be muttering imprecations of some sort. He made savage slashing gestures in the air with his stick and his whole manner was so strange and eccentric that the passers-by on his side of the street were giving him a wide berth.

“Some sort of lunatic, Pons?”

“Perhaps, Parker. Let us rather say a man under stress.”

“That much is obvious, Pons.”

Solar Pons smiled wryly.

“Touché, Parker. The pupil will soon be outstripping the master. But just look more closely. Does not the solution rapidly present itself?”

I looked again at the peppery little man dancing about on the opposite pavement. A dark-coated person had appeared at the doorway of a shop on the far side of the way and appeared to be wringing his hands.

“I give up, Pons. I find it quite impossible to find any logical reason for such goings-on.”

Solar Pons’ eyes twinkled as he stood regarding the small knot of spectators and the little red-faced man.

“It is a fairly common occurrence, Parker. The Duke of Porchester has been having a little altercation with his tailor. There is nothing like sartorial disagreement to provoke anger among certain members of the haut monde, my dear fellow. And when I see such an ill-fitting jacket on an otherwise impeccably groomed gentleman, his rage becomes understandable.”

I gazed at Pons open-mouthed.

“How on earth can you tell all this from a cursory glance across the street. Pons?”

“By using my eyes, Parker, and drawing the correct conclusion from the data so presented to me. It is not so very difficult but one needs to relate the circumstances to their background. I also have the advantage of knowing something of the relationships involved.”

“Relationships, Pons? And how could you know this angry gentleman is the Duke of Porchester?”

“Well, Parker, if you will kindly direct your glance to the adjacent kerb you will see a very palatial vehicle known as an Isotta-Fraschini. The irate gentleman was certainly on his way towards it, for the chauffeur was opening the door for him when the Duke changed his mind.”

“How do you know he is the Duke, Pons?”

“For the simple reason that his coat of arms is emblazoned on the door panel. It is extremely distinctive and unmistakable even at this distance. I have made something of a study of such heraldic emblems and the three griffons and the pomegranate are unique in heraldry. My attention was then directed to the gentleman himself and I recognised him from the recent photographs in the newspapers.”

“Newspapers, Pons?”

Solar Pons smiled benevolently at the red-faced gentleman, who was now dancing angrily halfway between the car and dark-coated man in the doorway.

“There has been some controversy in Savile Row, Parker.”

“I must confess I am all at sea, Pons. What has Savile Row to do with Regent Street? And what is that tailor’s shop doing there, for that matter?”

“Ah, there you have unwittingly hit the crux of the affair, Parker. The Duke is a sharp if eccentric dresser and he had quarrelled with every tailor in Savile Row. The only tailor to suit him was Barker of Barker and Fromset. In the end the Duke persuaded this old and distinguished firm to move their principal premises into Regent Street. From what I gather he has provided the money himself. But it has apparently not taken long for him to fall out with his new partner. Ah, there is Mr Barker extending the olive branch.”

As he spoke the dark-coated man advanced from the doorway of the tailor’s establishment, making placatory gestures. The Duke shrugged and the other made some adjustments to his jacket. A few seconds later, the two men disappeared into the shop, the chauffeur slammed the door of the sumptuous motor vehicle and Regent Street resumed its normal placid appearance, the flow of pedestrians going smoothly forward.

“A grotesque little drama, Parker, not without elements of French farce,” said Solar Pons reflectively. “And certainly enlivening our walk. A microcosm of the human comedy, one might say.”

“There is no getting round you. Pons,” I said. “If anyone other than you had sketched such a story for me, I should have been highly sceptical.”

“You are at liberty to check the facts. Parker, if you wish. We have only to step over the way, as the Duke is not unknown to me.”

I smilingly declined the offer.

“I have no doubt everything you said is correct, Pons. It is only that I occasionally find your infallibility somewhat galling.”

Solar Pons gazed at me sombrely from his deep-set eyes and shook his head.

“Hardly infallible, Parker. I have had my share of failure. It is just that I seldom venture an opinion until I am absolutely sure of my ground.”

We were both silent until we had reached the lower end of Regent Street and were skirting Piccadilly Circus. Pons glanced at his watch as we turned down into Hay market.

“Such a promenade is a great stimulator of the appetite, Parker. What do you say to a spot of lunch at Simpson’s?”

“The idea is an admirable one, Pons.”

“Is it not, Parker. Simpson’s it is. Then I really must return to Praed Street as I have a client coming to see me at three o’clock. Are you free this afternoon? If so, I would like you to be present.”

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Pons. Something interesting?”

“I have high hopes, Parker, high hopes.”

And he said nothing further on the matter until we had returned to 7B.

2

It was just a quarter-past three and Pons was showing signs of impatience when Mrs Johnson, our amiable landlady, announced my companion’s visitor. The tall, pale young woman she ushered in bore a marked look of suffering on her features. She would have been extremely attractive otherwise, with her tawny yellow hair that fell over her shoulders, her full lips and white, perfect teeth. As it was, she had a drawn expression about the face and a lurking fear in her hazel eyes, which glanced quickly about her as though half-afraid of what she might see.

“I fancy the young lady could do with some tea, Mrs Johnson,” said Pons, looking at our visitor sympathetically and ushering her over to a comfortable chair.

“I will see about it at once, Mr Pons,” said our landlady, bustling out.

“It was good of you to see me, Mr Pons,” said the young lady in a low, cultured voice, sitting down and taking off her long white gloves. She was plainly but well dressed in a high-busted suit, fashionably cut, of some light material appropriate to the weather, and appeared more at her ease by the minute.

“From your letter it seemed that your problem was so grave it could brook no delay,” said Solar Pons. “Miss Stuart, this is my very good friend and colleague, Dr Lyndon Parker. Miss Elizabeth Stuart of Grassington, Parker.”

I came forward to shake the young lady’s hand. We waited a few minutes. Pons talking of trivial matters, obviously to put the girl at ease. When Mrs Johnson had brought the tea-things and withdrawn. Pons passed a cup to our client and seated himself in his favourite chair. His deep-set eyes never left her face.

“For the benefit of Dr Parker, Miss Stuart, it might be as well to recapitulate the contents of your letter. I shall need a great many more details before being able to come to any definite conclusions but it would appear a problem which presents unusual points of interest.”

Miss Stuart sipped her tea, a frown furrowing the smoothness of the brow.

“It is rather more than that, Mr Pons,” she said.

Solar Pons smiled wryly, tenting his lean fingers before him.

“Pray take no offence, Miss Stuart. I speak purely from the viewpoint of the private consulting detective. It is obvious that you have been through a good deal.”

“Indeed, Miss Stuart,” I added. “You have our sympathy.”

The girl smiled shyly. The shadows seemed to lift from her face.

“I am sure of that, Dr Parker. Oh, gentlemen, if only you knew how I have suffered these past months.”

“Pray tell us about it in your own words,” Solar Pons invited.

He leaned back in the chair, the sunlight at the window turning his alert, aquiline features to bronze.

“Well, gentlemen,” the girl began hesitantly, “as I indicated in my letter, I live in a small village near Haslemere in Surrey, where my father was Rector.”

“Was, Miss Stuart?”

The girl nodded, the sadness returning to her face.

“Father died suddenly, under tragic circumstances, about two years ago. Fortunately, the house in which we live belonged to my parents and was not part of the living or I do not know what Mother and I would have done. Father had small means and had contributed to a pension fund and we have contrived to manage, with my teaching work.”

“I am glad to hear that, Miss Stuart,” I commented. “It is very often difficult when the head of the family dies under such circumstances.”

“What were the circumstances?” interjected Solar Pons crisply.

The girl looked momentarily startled.

“I do not quite understand, Mr Pons.”

“Of your father’s death, Miss Stuart.”

“There was a crash one evening, during the winter-time. Mother ran in, Father was in the study, consulting some old books. He was lying near the bookcase, quite dead by the time Mother got to him, a Bible open at his feet. She swore he had been frightened by something, there was such a look of terror on his face.”

“I see.”

Solar Pons’ face was sombre as he stared at the girl.

“What was the medical opinion?”

“Our family doctor said it was a heart attack. Mr Pons. Such an expression was common in angina cases, he said.”

“That is perfectly true,” I interposed. “Though I can imagine your mother’s distress.”

“It was a difficult time, Dr Parker,” the girl said quietly. “But it was not of that I

wished to speak. You have my letter there, Mr Pons?”

“Indeed,” said my companion, producing a pale blue envelope from his inside pocket and opening it. “You speak here of terrifying, inexplicable events which have afflicted you and your mother. Pray tell us about them.”

“They began back in the winter,” the girl continued. “On a dark day of wind and driving rain. Our house, though a pleasant Georgian edifice, is quite near to the churchyard and from some windows, particularly the study, looks out on a sombre view of ancient trees and tombstones with the church beyond.”

She paused as though the recollection of something too deep for words had disturbed her. I took the opportunity of rising in the brief interval to pour her another cup of tea. Miss Stuart sipped gratefully for a few moments before resuming.

“I had heard a tapping sound some while before but had thought little of it, because of the noise of the wind. Mother was lying down upstairs before dinner. Hannah, our housekeeper, was in the kitchen. It was a little after dark and I had been reading by the fire in the parlour. I suddenly heard a loud cracking noise. It was somehow connected with the tapping sounds and appeared to come from my father’s study.

“I ran in, conscious of wind and flapping curtains. A great shadow seemed to sweep across the room. I put on the electric light and was startled to see that the French window was open and banging in the wind. I secured it and drew the curtains. It was only then that I became aware that some books, tumbled possibly by the wind, were lying on the carpet. I replaced them on the shelves and tidied up.”

Solar Pons had sat intent during this recital, his eyes never leaving Miss Stuart’s face.

“You saw no-one, Miss Stuart?”

The girl shook her head.

“Not on this occasion, Mr Pons. But from the latter incidents, it now seems evident that someone had slipped the catch of the study window. I thought at the time that it had been left unsecured.”

“I see. Pray continue.”

“Well, Mr Pons, I thought little of the incident at the time. Two days passed and again I was reading in the parlour. It had been dark for an hour or so and I had reached the end of my book and decided to seek another from the library in the study. As I neared the door, however, I heard the same tapping as on the previous occasion. I refrained from switching on the light and walked into the room. Then there was a scratching noise from the direction of the window.

“It had a thick curtain over it, Mr Pons. I walked across and pulled back the curtain. There was just enough light for me to see a hideous hand pressed against the glass. It was something I shall never forget. Mr Pons. This misshapen hand with a white scar on the thumb, furtively trying to force the window in the night.”

There was an awkward silence as our client broke off. Solar Pons leaned forward in his chair, a sympathetic expression on his face.

“As I said, you have obviously been through a great deal, Miss Stuart. Such an experience would have been enough to unnerve anyone. You summoned the police, of course?”

The girl nodded.

“Naturally, Mr Pons. The cry I made obviously startled the man trying to break into the house because the hand was immediately withdrawn. Our local police Sergeant was soon around and he and a constable searched the grounds and churchyard but nothing was found.”

“There was no footprint or trace outside the window?”

Miss Stuart shook her head.

“There is a flagged terrace outside the French window, Mr Pons, which would have retained no imprint. Both my mother and I were upset and shaken by the occurrence and I then remembered the earlier incident. The Sergeant felt it might have been a passing vagrant, though he gave me the impression he thought me merely a fanciful woman. When you see the house, Mr Pons, as I hope you will, you will realise it is rather gloomy.”

“Quite so. Miss Stuart. The police discovered nothing, then?”

“The Sergeant had inquiries made but there was no trace of the man with the scarred thumb. More than a month had passed and though I had not forgotten the incident, it had faded a little from my mind when something else happened. It was late January and I was coming back from the village where I had been shopping. I had gained the garden and was about to put the key in the front door when I heard a scream from the direction of my mother’s room.

“I rushed upstairs and found my mother in a state of collapse. She had been in her bedroom and had gone to her window, which was uncurtained. There was a great deal of light shining from the kitchen window below which fell across the flagged area of the garden. Standing four-square in the light below her was an evil-looking man with a beard. My mother said he turned his eyes up toward her as she looked out and she had seldom seen such malevolence on a human face. In fact she said it was more like a wild beast than a human being.”

Solar Pons tented his fingers in front of him and leaned forward in his chair.

“So this man would have been in the garden at about the same time you were putting your key in the front door?”

“It would seem so. Mr Pons. I telephoned the police, put on the porch light and rushed out into the garden with one of my father’s walking sticks, but could see nothing.”

“That was extremely brave but very unwise,” said Solar Pons sombrely.

“I realise it now, but I was so indignant on my mother’s behalf at the time, Mr Pons.” said our fair visitor. “Another search was made; again it resulted in nothing. I was beginning to have a feeling of persecution by this time. Why should this creature be hanging about our house and what could he hope to achieve by breaking in? We are not rich and there are many more imposing houses in the district. Though my mother and father collected some nice pieces of china and silver, there is little at The Old Rectory to attract a thief and my father was certainly not rich in monetary terms.”

“Pray compose yourself, Miss Stuart,” said Pons soothingly. “This is what I hope to find out.”

“Then you will take the case, Mr Pons?”

“By all means, Miss Stuart, though I would prefer you to repeat the story to its end in order that Dr Parker should be fully au fait with the circumstances.”

“Certainly, Mr Pons,” the fair girl said, a flush on her cheeks, looking quickly at me.

“Nothing else happened until about mid-April. Again, it was dusk. I had been for a walk across the heathland, which has very pretty views. I came up the garden path, but walking in the strip of lawn alongside. It was nearly eight o’clock and a beautiful evening and I suppose I did not want to break the spell by making a noise.

“There was only the sound of a few birds going to their nests and a trace of light still lingered in the sky. I was up near the front door when my spaniel, who had been with me, suddenly barked. At the same moment the door of an old garden shed we have, up near the kitchen entrance, opened, blocking the view along the flagstone walk. Someone went away, walking very quickly in the dusk. By the time I got to the shed there was only a vague shadow going through the gate to the churchyard. The dog rushed off barking excitedly, but returned in a very short while, looking crestfallen.”

“Hmm.”

Solar Pons sat pulling the lobe of his right ear with his right hand as he frequently did when concentrating.

“You looked in the shed?”

“I did, Mr Pons. There was nothing of any significance that I could see. An old box had been pulled out, undoubtedly for someone to sit on. It crossed my mind that someone had been keeping observation on the house through a crack in the door, waiting until dark.”

“An exceedingly unpleasant business!” I said, unable to contain myself any longer.

“I am inclined to agree with you, my dear Parker,” said Solar Pons, frowning at Miss Stuart. “Once again, you displayed commendable courage. Did you inform the police on this occasion?”

Our visitor shook her head.

“I am afraid I did not, Mr Pons. I have little faith in them by now, and they already regarded me as a fanciful and over-nervous female. It did not seem likely to me that they would be any more successful in tracing the man than on the previous occasions. But I made sure the doors and windows were securely bolted and barred whenever we retired for the night. I did not mention the matter to my mother either, as she had already suffered considerable fright.”

Pons consulted the sheet of paper in his hand.

“That brings us to two nights ago, Miss Stuart.”

“It has been a heatwave the past two weeks, as you know, Mr Pons. The day had been sweltering and all the doors and windows into the garden had been left open. Mother took the dog out for a walk and to visit friends on Saturday night. It was Hannah’s day off and I was alone in the house.

“I sat in the study reading, curled up in a big wing chair. Dusk came on and the light faded. I stopped my reading but sat on in the chair without the light, it was such a beautiful evening. There was no sound but the faint rustle of the breeze, bringing with it the perfume of flowers from the garden.

“I was still sitting there, half-drowsing in the dusk and the silence, when I heard a faint rustling noise. Something made me behave with caution. I slowly turned in my chair and peeped over the back. I was sitting in shadow and in any case could not have been seen because the chair is a big, high-backed one. Someone was in the room with me, Mr Pons.

“I shall never forget it to my dying day. The person was standing behind one of the bookcases up toward the French windows, carefully searching through the shelves, because I could hear the furtive sound of books being taken from and replaced upon them. Then, as I looked more closely, half-paralysed with fright, something white caught my eye. The man was evidently reading something, holding the book with his left hand. With his right he supported himself by holding on to the edge of the shelf facing me. Mr Pons, the patch of white was the same misshapen hand with the scar upon the thumb!”

3

“Great heavens!” I could not help ejaculating. “What did you do?”

“Screamed, of course,” said our visitor with commendable frankness. “Screamed with all my might, gentlemen. There was a bang, as though a heap of books had fallen to the floor and a man came scrambling out from behind the shelving, into the light. He was so agitated he collided with the edge of the French doors. He turned his head quickly back over his shoulder. It was a bearded face, all seamed and lined with evil passions, Mr Pons. The yellow eyes glared hatred and he hissed something back at me as I jumped up from the chair and rushed to the light-switch. Then the creature was gone and there was nothing but the scratching echo of footsteps down the flagged path and the squeak of the garden gate. Of course, I ran out into the sanity of the street but there was nothing there. It was just as though The Old Rectory is haunted, gentlemen.”

A long silence was broken at length by Pons.

“It is a remarkable story, Miss Stuart, and it presents a number of features of outstanding interest, as well as a line of reasoning I am inclined to follow. From what you tell me in your letter, you did not call the police on this occasion either?”

Miss Stuart’s eyes were sceptical.

“Certainly not, Mr Pons. I took some advice from a friend in legal practice in the village. I did not, of course, tell him the facts I have just outlined to you. But he immediately advised me to enlist your aid.”

“You have done wisely. Miss Stuart.”

Pons rose from his seat and paced up and down the room, his empty pipe in his mouth.

“You have no idea what this person could have wanted in your father’s study?”

“No idea, Mr Pons. I cleared up the fallen books before Mother came home. I did not wish to alarm her again. She has gone on a short holiday this week, which was why I suggested a meeting today.”

“You examined the books before you replaced them on the shelves?”

“Certainly. Mr Pons. They were of no importance. Merely old parish records and the like.”

“I see.”

Solar Pons seated himself again opposite our client.

“What is your reading of this affair. Miss Stuart?”

The young woman, who was obviously now more at ease in our company, put down her empty cup.

“A bibliophile, perhaps, who is out to steal what he can. There are some quite valuable books belonging to Father, and the French windows are the most obvious access from the churchyard side of the garden.”

Solar Pons shook his head.

“I think not. Miss Stuart. A bibliophile, even one with criminal tendencies, would hardly behave in such a manner. There is something far deeper involved here. What say you, Parker?”

“Undoubtedly, Pons,” said I. “Though I cannot think what at the present moment.”

Solar Pons smiled.

“It is a wise man, Parker, who refrains from committing himself at such an early stage of the game. Are you free to accompany me to Surrey? You have no objections to Dr Parker accompanying us, Miss Stuart?”

“Good heavens, no, Mr Pons. I should be delighted. Mother is away, as I have said and Father’s old room is always empty. There will be plenty of space for you both, if you do not mind simple cooking.”

Solar Pons smiled warmly across at me.

“I can assure you we are not in the least fastidious, Miss Stuart. How are you placed. Parker?”

I rose to my feet.

“My locum owes me a favour or two, Pons. I have no doubt he will be agreeable to taking over for a further day or so.”

Solar Pons rubbed his hands together with enthusiasm.

“Excellent! That is settled, then. If you will give us an hour, Miss Stuart, we will be entirely at your service.”

“I am most grateful, Mr Pons. There is a train just before five o’clock, if that will suit.”

She hesitated a moment and then went on, almost shyly.

“If only you knew what your coming means to my mother and myself, Mr Pons. It is almost as though a ghost is hovering over the house.”

Pons smiled sympathetically and put his hand on the young lady’s arm.

“You must not impute too great a power to me, Miss Stuart. My friend Parker is apt to let his enthusiasm run away with him when chronicling my modest adventures. And we may draw a blank.”

The girl shook her head.

“I do not think so, Mr Pons.”

Solar Pons’ eyes were fixed unwinkingly upon her.

“You believe this man will come back again, Miss Stuart?”

Our client lowered her eyes.

“I feel certain of it, Mr Pons.”

“And yet earlier you felt a casual intruder might have been involved. That does not sit with my reading of the situation.”

Miss Stuart looked temporarily embarrassed.

“I do not really know what to think. Mr Pons. Sometimes I feel the strain will be too much for me altogether. You see, Mr Pons, my mother has been far from well since my father’s death. I have had to hide my deepest feelings from her. If she really knew what I suspected she would be close to collapse.”

Solar Pons nodded.

“Do not distress yourself, Miss Stuart. I understand. You have to pretend to your parent that nothing sinister is involved. Yet you really feel there is a deeper motive behind it all.”

The young woman smiled gratefully.

“That is it exactly, Mr Pons.”

Solar Pons rubbed his thin fingers briskly together and looked at me approvingly.

“Well, Parker, I fancy we are a match for any intruder, tramp or no. And just bring along your revolver if you will be so good.”

He chuckled as he turned back to our client.

“The sight of Parker’s stern features over the muzzle of that weapon is a great pacifier of the baser passions, Miss Stuart.”

Within the hour we were on our way to Surrey and Pons sat silent, his sharp, clear-minted features silhouetted against the smiling countryside which flitted past the carriage windows in the golden evening sunshine. We alighted at a small, white- painted country station where a pony and trap was evidently awaiting our arrival and having stowed our overnight bags, we were soon clattering through the undulating terrain which was permeated with the clean scent of pines.

The tall, taciturn driver did not say a word the whole journey after his grunted greeting to Miss Stuart and we were almost at our destination before our client herself broke silence.

“We are just coming to the village of Grassington, Mr Pons. We live some way from Haslemere, as you see.”

“Indeed, Miss Stuart,” said Pons, shovelling blue, aromatic smoke from his pipe back over his shoulder, his eyes focused on the huddle of roofs which lay ahead over the patient back of the glistening roan in the shafts.

“It would be harder to imagine a more delightful spot.”

It was, as my companion had indicated, like something out of a picture postcard. A small, timbered High Street, the houses ancient and beamed; a huddle of shops; an ancient square sleeping in the sunshine; contented villagers strolling in the early evening air; and the tower of the ancient Norman church dominating it all. We rattled briskly down the main street, passing a handsome tile-hung inn with its gilded sign of the maypole and turned into a narrow side-street, the horse evidently knowing the way without the driver’s signalled instructions on the reins.

The Old Rectory turned out to be a handsome, rambling, tile-hung edifice, of L-shaped construction, set back from the wall of the old graveyard in a large and charming garden but one that was rather shadowed too much by old and massive trees which kept much of the light and air from it.

As we drew up in front of the white-painted gate which bore the name of the house in black curlicue script, I saw that in winter the house would have a melancholy aspect, not only from the trees but from the churchyard, whose lugubrious marble images of angels and cherubs stared mournfully over the low, lichen-encrusted wall.

“Come along, gentlemen!” said Miss Stuart, her spirits quite restored as she led the way up the flagged path while the pony clopped its way round to a stable at the rear of the premises. The white-painted front door was already being opened by a cheerful, middle-aged woman with her hair scraped back in a bun.

“This is Hannah, our housekeeper and very good friend,” our client explained. “This is Mr Solar Pons and Dr Lyndon Parker, who will be staying with us for a few days.”

“Delighted to meet you, gentlemen,” said Hannah shyly, extending her hand to Pons and then to me. “I am sure that I will do my best to make you comfortable.”

Solar Pons smiled, looking round approvingly at the light and comfortably appointed tiled hall into which we had been ushered.

“You will not find us fastidious, Hannah, I can assure you.”

“No, certainly not.” I added, aware of Miss Stuart’s smiling face turned toward me. She seemed to have recovered her spirits greatly.

“Tell me, Hannah,” Solar Pons continued, “Miss Stuart has told me something of the troubles you have been undergoing the past few months. What is your reading of the situation?”

“Well, sir,” said the housekeeper hesitantly, glancing at her mistress as though for tacit approval. “It is not really my place to give an opinion, but there is something strange and sinister about it. I know Miss Stuart will forgive me, but why should the same man — and it is the same man by all accounts — return again and again to this house to commit mischief. It isn’t natural. And I will swear on the Bible that he is no common burglar.”

Pons nodded significantly, glancing from the housekeeper to Miss Stuart.

“Well said, Hannah. That is exactly my opinion and I am glad to have it confirmed by one so obviously sensible and level-headed as yourself. If you can remember anything specific about these events which you feel might assist me. I should be glad of any confidence you might care to make.”

“Certainly, sir,” said Hannah, taking our cases and retreating up the wide staircase with them. “And I am so glad that you could come.”

Pons remained staring after her for a moment. Then Miss Stuart led the way through into a long drawing-room, whose windows, open to the garden with its drowsy hum of bees in the late afternoon, spilled golden stencils of light across the carpet.

“We will take tea immediately, gentlemen, if you wish. And then I presume you would like to examine the study, Mr Pons.”

Solar Pons sat down and tented his thin fingers before him, his eyes raking the room.

“By all means, Miss Stuart. And then I have a fancy to take a stroll about the church before dark.”

Our client, who sat by the empty fireplace, which was filled with a great bowl of scarlet roses, smiled. She patted the small, bright-eyes spaniel which had wandered in from the garden.

“Anything you wish, Mr Pons.”

Solar Pons leaned forward as the housekeeper reappeared with a tea-trolley.

“Please do not raise your hopes too high, Miss Stuart. Nothing may happen while we are here. But I will do my best.”

“You are being too modest, Pons,” I said. “I am sure you will soon have the answer to these baffling events.”

“As always, you do me too much honour, Parker.”

And he said nothing more until we had finished our tea.

4

Afterward, Miss Stuart conducted us to a large, handsome room on the ground floor, whose French windows opened on to the flagged terrace of which she had already spoken.

“This is the study, Mr Pons,” she said nervously.

My companion nodded.

“Where all these alarming things happened, Miss Stuart. Well, perhaps now we are on the ground we shall make sense where all has seemed opaque hitherto.”

“Let us hope so, Mr Pons.”

Solar Pons looked round keenly, his eyes running over the serried ranks of musty ecclesiastical volumes, many in leather bindings, which ranged across from floor to ceiling. In the corner was the tall leather wing chair in which our client had sat on the fateful evening she had heard the intruder furtively rummaging among the books. But tonight, in this beautiful June weather, the library was a pleasant, placid place, with the mellow sunlight coming in through the open French windows and bringing with it the scent of roses.

Solar Pons had his powerful magnifying lens out now and ranged round the room, watched in silence by Miss Stuart. He moved swiftly down the shelves, his keen eyes darting here and there and then moved out on to the terrace, examining detail quite invisible to me. He straightened up, dusting the knees of his trousers and came back into the room.

“This is where you say the bearded man stood, Miss Stuart?”

“Exactly, Mr Pons.”

Pons turned to me. He stood about four feet in from the French windows, in front of a long, free-standing bookcase which made a shadowy aisle and divided this portion of the large room in two.

“And whereabouts were the books you spoke of, Miss Stuart?”

“On the third shelf. Here, Mr Pons.”

The fair-haired girl was at our side now and gravely took down a section of books about a foot long.

“As near as I can make out, Mr Pons, these were the books dropped only two nights ago. It all seems so vivid and horrible and yet it could have been years back.”

“Quite so. Miss Stuart,” I murmured. “It is often so with a shock to the nervous system.”

Pons took the proffered books from Miss Stuart’s arms and carried them over to an oval mahogany table, examining them carefully, frowning in concentration the while.

“Hmm. There does not seem much out of the way here, Miss Stuart. Commentaries on the Epistles; The New Psaltery; The Holy Bible, King James edition; Travels in the Holy Land.”

Miss Stuart shook her head.

“As I said, Mr Pons. All the rare editions are in this central case down near the fireplace.”

She motioned Pons forward as though she would have shown him but my companion held up his hand.

“Nevertheless, Miss Stuart, we will persist here for the moment, if you please. What do you make of it, Parker?”

I went forward to the table and glanced over his shoulder.

“As you say, Pons, it does not look very interesting.”

I took up the Bible but moved round the table rather awkwardly, with the result that the book fell, spilling out two or three slips of paper on to the floor. Pons stooped quickly to pick them up.

“Hullo! What have we here?”

Miss Stuart glanced casually at the material Pons held.

“Probably some jottings of my father’s. He was always scribbling commentaries and annotations on odd slips of paper. He often worked on his sermons that way.”

Pons sat down at the table and smoothed out the pieces of paper, his brow furrowed.

“You might look in the other volumes, Parker.”

I did as he suggested but there was nothing else other than two dusty bookmarks. Solar Pons went on sifting through the papers, deep concentration on his face.

“I am inclined to agree with you, Miss Stuart. A printed programme for a Sunday School outing; some notes for a sermon; an account for Bibles supplied by a religious organisation. This looks like something different, though.”

He held up a sheet of white notepaper which bore what looked like a set of inked verses with numbers. Pons looked at it in silence, his eyes bright.

“Is this your father’s hand, Miss Stuart?”

The girl took the paper, smoothing it out, her face puzzled.

“No, Mr Pons. This is certainly not Father’s hand, though it has a certain familiarity. But I cannot recollect ever seeing it before. Perhaps it came with the Bible. Father often bought second-hand books and they sometimes had strange things in them.”

Solar Pons nodded.

“Perhaps you are right. However, I will keep this paper if you have no objection. And in a little while Parker and I will take a stroll over to the church.”

“Certainly, Mr Pons. You will find me in the drawing-room when you return.”

And with a quick smile, Miss Stuart quitted the room through the French windows and we were alone. Solar Pons sat, his brows heavy, the slip of paper on the table in front of him.

“Just take a look at this, Parker.”

I sat down next to him and stared at the lettering.

“It looks like a set of Bible verses, Pons.”

“Does it not, Parker. Corresponding to the text in this Bible, no doubt.”

“Nothing unusual about that, surely, Pons.”

“Perhaps not. But kindly peruse it if you will have the patience.”

I did as he bid but I must confess I was no wiser when I had finished. This is what I read:

I handed the slip back to Pons.

“I am afraid it means nothing to me, Pons.”

Solar Pons smiled, thrusting the paper into his pocket.

“Yet much may be made of it, if one reads the riddle aright, Parker. May I commend to your attention that excellent English novelist, J. Meade Faulkner. His adventure yarn Moonfleet is one of the finest in the language, excepting only Stevenson.”

“You astonish me. Pons.”

“It would not be the first time, Parker. But let us just stroll to the church. It is such a fine evening and we must take advantage of the light.”

He led the way through the French windows and after signalling to Miss Stuart, who was standing near the garden gate talking to a tall fair-haired man in the roadway, and indicating our intentions, he hurried down the pathway which led to the church. I followed and we strolled through the slumbering old graveyard, with its grey, tumbled tombstones, along a red-brick causeway to the entrance of the Norman edifice.

The huge iron key was in the lock of the massive, studded door and it sent echoes reverberating from the interior as Pons pushed it back on its hinges. The building was a surprisingly large one and paved with huge flagstones in which memorial slabs were set. The inscriptions were worn away with the feet of the centuries and as I puzzled over one pious Latin obituary, Pons wandered down the central aisle, his progress sending back echoes from the vaulted ceiling.

When I rejoined him he was standing at the entrance of a small side-chapel, pondering over a white marble statuary group. It represented five or six children with long hair which appeared to be streaming in the wind.

“Rather sombre, Pons,” I observed.

“Not surprising, Parker,” said my companion drily. “This is an early nineteenth century stonemason’s version of the Darnley children, daughters of a large landowner hereabouts, who were unfortunately drowned in a boating accident in 1816.”

“I see.”

I pondered the melancholy description in black lettering on the marble base while Pons wandered aimlessly about the chapel, stopping here and there to gaze absently at the floor. We had just turned away when there sounded the beat of footsteps from the curtained vestry to one side and a black-bearded face, from which two red- rimmed eyes stared suspiciously into ours, came rapidly towards us.

It surmounted a massive body clad in a black surplice and a silver cross glittered on the chest. The atmosphere was one of veiled hostility though the voice was civil enough.

“Isaac Stokesby, Rector of this parish. Might I ask what you are doing here?”

“Merely imbibing the atmosphere of this wonderful old building,” said Solar Pons courteously. “Solar Pons. My friend Dr Lyndon Parker. We are the guests of Miss Stuart whose house is across the churchyard yonder.”

The Rector drew back and a subtle change of expression flitted across his features.

“Forgive me, gentlemen. There have been some strange goings-on in the village these past months and I always keep a careful eye on strangers.”

He extended a powerful hand to each of us in turn.

“A very wise precaution, Rector,” said Solar Pons warmly. “Miss Stuart has already told us something of the matter. What do you make of it?”

The Rector shrugged, his dark, bearded face impassive.

“A vagabond, no doubt. But I always keep the church locked after dark. I would be grateful if you would turn the key when you have finished.”

“By all means. Come, Parker, we must not keep the Rector from his duties.”

As we walked back through the darkling church. I turned to see the tall, bearded figure still staring somewhat suspiciously after us. Solar Pons rubbed his thin hands with satisfaction. He turned the big heavy key of the main door behind us and stood pensively in the mellow evening sunshine.

“Well, Parker?”

“He seems somewhat of a strange character. Pons,” I ventured.

“Does he not? And a rather unusual one for such a quiet spot.”

“What do you mean, Pons?”

We had resumed out aimless strolling through the churchyard and Pons paused a moment before replying, shading his eyes as he gazed after the fair-haired man who had been talking to our hostess.

“A military man, Parker,” he resumed. “One accustomed to giving orders and commanding men.”

I stared at my companion in puzzlement.

“How do you make that out. Pons?”

“He had the ribbon of the Military Cross on his surplice, Parker. He obviously served in the late war and the M.C. does not come up with the rations. If I mistake not the Rev. Isaac Stokesby has seen some heavy trench fighting.”

“A strange vocation for a man of the cloth, Pons. I should have thought he would have been a chaplain.”

“Army chaplains tend the wounded and dying under heavy fire, Parker, and there are many heroic deeds recorded in their annals. But he may have decided to become ordained after the end of the war. It is sometimes so.”

“In revulsion against man’s inhumanity, Pons?”

“Very possibly, my dear fellow. Now I suggest a stroll to the village inn before putting a few more questions to Miss Stuart over supper.”

5

The large oak-timbered lounge bar of The Cresswell Arms was full on this warm, summer evening and Pons and I enjoyed our tankards of cold cider, the scent of jasmine coming in heavy and cloying with the breeze through the open windows. The tall, fair-haired man to whom Miss Stuart had earlier been talking was standing at the bar and had nodded agreeably as we came up to give our order.

Now he made his way to the side-table where we sat and introduced himself.

“Major Alan Kemp, gentlemen. I live just across the green there and am a friend and neighbour of Miss Stuart. I understand you are staying at The Old Rectory.”

“Indeed, Major Kemp.”

Pons rose and introduced me and the Major sat down at Pons’ invitation.

“Allow me to re-fill your glass.”

“That is very kind, Mr Pons. A Scotch and soda if you please.”

The Major chatted amiably as we waited for Pons to return from the bar.

“Your first visit to Grassington, Mr Pons? Your good health, sir.”

Major Kemp raised his glass in a polite toast as Pons and I reached for our second tankards of cider.

“Yes,” I volunteered. “It seems a pleasant spot.”

“It is that,” the Major agreed.

With his sandy moustache, faded blue eyes and fresh cheeks he seemed the very epitome of the retired military man. A red setter slouched on the tiled floor at his feet. Kemp wore a suit of well-cut tweeds, his dark blue shirt, open at the throat, adding an informal touch, while his right hand toyed casually with a leather dog leash as we talked.

“You have known Miss Stuart long?” asked Solar Pons, his deep-set eyes raking round the room.

“Several years, Mr Pons. We are quite good friends. I was so sorry to hear she had been upset.”

“A nasty shock for a lady,” Pons added. “Are there any tramps hereabouts?”

Kemp shrugged.

“We get our share through occasionally. My theory is that the intruder was most likely to have been a gypsy. There are several encampments in the neighbourhood.”

“Indeed.”

Solar Pons’ eyes were thoughtful as he stared at the Major.

“That is a possibility, of course. You mentioned that to Miss Stuart?”

The Major hesitated. He drained his glass and stood up. To my mind his expression had changed in some subtle way. There was a darker red suffusing his cheeks.

“It does not seem as if I am in the lady’s confidence. She has newer friends in whom to place her trust it appears.”

He jerked his head stiffly, with an embarrassed expression.

“Good day, gentlemen.”

And he strode out of the bar. I gazed after him blandly.

“What odd behaviour, Pons. Do you think he can have anything to do with this bizarre business?”

“Possibly, Parker. He certainly seems piqued that we are staying at The Old Rectory.”

“Perhaps he is an admirer of the lady himself, Pons.”

My companion stared at me gravely.

“It is just possible, Parker. She is certainly a very attractive young woman.”

Our conversation passed on to other matters and dusk had fallen when we walked back to our hostess’ house. An excellent cold salad supper had been prepared in the dining room, served by the housekeeper, and during the meal Pons kept up a bantering conversation with Miss Stuart in which all reasons for our being there were avoided. There was a lull as the fruit and coffee were brought in and I chose the interval to remark on our conversation with Kemp.

It was my impression that Miss Stuart coloured a little as she looked from me to Pons.

“Major Kemp? I hope you did not discuss your business here, gentlemen?”

“Certainly not. Miss Stuart,” I ventured. “The Major seemed concerned about you. He volunteered that the man you saw may have been a gypsy.”

A troubled look passed across the fair girl’s face.

“It is possible, Dr Parker. As the Major said, there are a number of camps.”

“Exactly where?” interjected Solar Pons. “Though gypsies are not the problem.”

“Two to my knowledge on the edge of Cresswell woods. Another down at the old quarry, south of the village.”

“I see.”

Solar Pons nodded, his thin fingers tented before him on the oak table top.

“Tell me. Miss Stuart, are you quite alone in the world? Except for your mother, that is?”

Our hostess bit her lip.

“There is no-one to speak of, Mr Pons. My father’s brother Jeremy used to stay here, years ago. Father did not speak much of him. He was the black sheep of the family, I believe.”

She smiled.

“In the classical tradition he emigrated to Australia, I understand.”

“I see. You would have been a child at the time?”

“Indeed, Mr Pons. I remember there was a quarrel between them on one occasion, which was unusual, because my father was a very mild man. After that, Uncle Jeremy no longer came here. I have no doubt my mother would know more.”

“Pray do not bother, Miss Stuart. It is just that I wish to get a complete picture of your household.”

Pons glanced at the cased grandfather clock in the corner of the dining room.

“I have a mind to take a moonlit walk after that excellent supper, Parker. Would it be possible for me have a front door key, Miss Stuart?”

“By all means, Mr Pons.”

Miss Stuart looked a little startled and Pons smiled to reassure her.

“It is not yet nine o’clock. We shall be no more than an hour or two and in any event will be back inside these walls well before midnight.”

The girl passed a hand across her face.

“I should appreciate it, Mr Pons. There are only the two of us here you see and after what has happened…”

Her voice faltered and she stopped. Solar Pons rose from the table and put his hand gently on her arm.

“You are in no danger now, Miss Stuart. Just lock all your doors and windows and leave the front door on the latch. I will securely lock and bolt in on our return. Come, Parker.”

I followed Pons up to his bedroom somewhat bemused and waited while he rummaged in his suitcase. He produced a small electric torch in a Bakelite case and a flat packet tied in oiled silk.

“I think this will do nicely for our little expedition, Parker. You have your revolver?”

“Certainly, Pons.”

“Come along then, my dear fellow.”

I followed him downstairs and cut through the garden with increasing puzzlement. We hurried down the path towards the churchyard.

“But where are we going, Pons?”

“To the church, of course, Parker. The key to the whole situation lies there.”

“You amaze me, Pons.”

Solar Pons chuckled.

“That is only because you have not included Meade Faulkner on your reading list. I will explain later. In case I am wrong.”

“You are seldom wrong, Pons.”

“More often than you think, my dear fellow.”

We hurried up the path between the gravestones in the brilliant moonlight, the homely sounds of the small village of Grassington behind us coming sharp and clear on the warm summer air. There was an agreeable smell of mown grass in the churchyard and the faintest trace of orange-red lingered in the west, as though the sun were reluctant to depart. Gas lamps bloomed in the roadway which skirted the church and we waited as a small group of excited young people — evidently the stragglers from a tennis party — chattered their way along the road.

All was quiet except for the distant drone of a motor car as we came up to the massive porch door.

“How on earth are we to get in, Pons?”

To my astonishment my companion produced a huge iron key from his coat pocket. His eyes were twinkling as he inserted it into the lock.

“I abstracted it earlier, my dear fellow. The Rector asked me to make sure to lock it, you remember.”

“We are more likely to be seeing the inside of the village constable’s lock-up than the church. Pons,” I said a little irritably.

“Tut, Parker, you stand too much upon your dignity. It is a failing I have often observed among the medical profession. Pomposity, like a distended stomach, is all the better for being deflated.”

I thought it best not to answer that and a few moments later we were within the darkened church. I waited until Pons had re-locked the main door and then crept quietly after him down the central aisle, the pale and cautious disc of his torch-beam dancing across the stone-flagged floors. Pons had a slip of paper in his hand and consulted it quietly as we came to the chapel entrance.

“Let us just work this out, Parker. It should not take long.”

He handed me the torch and I waited while he again consulted the paper, his lean, eager face alive with interest.

“Ah, yes. It is quite clear. Here are the children. If you would be so good, Parker, as to shine the beam on to the floor here.”

I did as he said, considerably puzzled by my companion’s strange behaviour. Pons went beyond the Darnley statue, his lips moving noiselessly. He walked along the line of heavy paving stones within the chapel. He gave a small exclamation of satisfaction and bent swiftly to the floor. I joined him, shining the beam of the torch on to a large slab which bore faded carving. One name could be vaguely made out and Pons waited patiently while I deciphered it.

“Why, Pons, this appears to be the entrance to the family vault of the Cresswell family!”

“Does it not, Parker. Ah, yes, it should not be too difficult.”

To my astonishment Pons placed the torch on the floor where he could see to work and selected what appeared to be a slim cold chisel from the small pack he had brought from his bedroom. He went round the edges of the slab, frowning the while, until he finally inserted the end of the tool into the faint hairline between the slab and the surround. I put my hand upon his arm.

“Heavens, Pons, you surely do not intend to break into the vault?”

“That is most certainly my intention,” Solar Pons replied coolly. “Just stand back, there’s a good fellow.”

I did as he bade, considerably perturbed, my eyes darting about the dark interior of the church, now silvered with moonlight, while the harsh grating noise as Pons commenced work denoted the pressure he was putting to bear upon the slab.

“There, Parker, if you would be so kind as to add your considerable weight…”

I quickly put my hand beneath the edge of the slab, which Pons had levered from the floor and we swiftly lifted it out on to an adjoining flagstone. It was immensely heavy but did not appear to be bonded in any way, though considerable quantities of dust fell into the gaping hole disclosed. I gingerly directed the beam of the torch downward, exposing a flight of ancient steps. Pons was already through and he reached up to take the torch from me.

I followed him down. The air was dry and musty with a faint aroma as of cloves. We had not gone more than two or three yards before Pons gave a sharp exclamation.

“I do not think we need go into the vault proper, Parker. Unless I am much mistaken this is what we are looking for.”

He pointed downwards to where a large bundle wrapped in sacking lay against the wall, in one of the broad stone steps. He approached and lifted one end. There was a chinking noise and he grunted at the weight.

“I think it will take the two of us, Parker.”

He pulled aside the sacking and exposed what looked like a large wicker picnic basket. I got my hands under the end and tested the weight. As Pons had indicated, it was considerable. Pons took the torch under his arm and we each lifted one end of the sacking-wrapped hamper. Though it was only a few yards to the vault entrance, I was already perspiring by the time we got there.

Once in the church it was easier, for we could both stretch properly, which we had been unable to do in the confines of the staircase. Only a quarter of an hour had passed before we replaced the slab. Pons was most meticulous about restoring the area to its former state and was not satisfied until we had carefully brushed the dust back into the cracks round the slab.

I was impatient to be off but he was at last satisfied and we carried our heavy burden back through the darkened church to the main door. There was no-one about and Pons locked it behind him.

“What will you tell the Rector?” I asked.

“That I inadvertently took the key with me,” said my companion.

He smiled.

“It is only a white lie, after all.”

We got back through the churchyard without mishap. Miss Stuart’s house was in darkness except for two lights in the upper storey of The Old Rectory, which undoubtedly came from her bedroom and that of the housekeeper. Pons led the way through into the study, after ostentatiously locking and bolting the front door.

We put our burden on a large oak table in a corner of the library, pulling the heavy curtains across the windows before switching on the lights. We waited five minutes in case Miss Stuart came downstairs but the silence continued unbroken. When he was satisfied that we were unlikely to be disturbed, Solar Pons sat down at the table and lit his pipe.

Blue clouds of aromatic smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling in the warm air as he gazed at the object on the table almost dreamily. He carefully unwrapped the sacking, revealing the big, dusty old hamper.

“What do you make of it, Parker?”

“I am completely in the dark, Pons.”

I sat down at the table opposite Pons and studied my friend’s lean, ascetic face carefully.

“Victorian hamper, Parker. Not much used. Probably kept normally in the box- room of a large mansion.”

“That’s all very well, Pons,” I replied. “But what does it contain? No doubt you already know, judging by your mysterious antics tonight.”

Solar Pons smiled, his eyes dancing with mischief.

“Gold and silver undoubtedly. Patience, friend Parker. You will know as much as I do within a few minutes.”

The handles of the hamper were secured with thick cord but Pons produced a folding knife from the kit of tools in his oilskin pack and swiftly cut them. He opened the lid. I craned forward to look into the interior but was disappointed at seeing nothing but a plain white cloth.

Pons carefully eased the edges of the cloth outward; they had become stiff with the years. I then realised that it was nothing more than a bed-sheet, though the linen was not of ordinary quality. I gave a gasp as the cloth fell away for the overhead light winked back in a thousand reflections from gold and silver surfaces. The whole of the interior of the hamper was stuffed with silver plate; massive silver candlesticks; gold coins; statuettes and other objects d’art.

Tissue paper had been carefully placed between the various items but it looked as though the packing had been hastily disturbed, for the owner had undoubtedly thrown the sheet over the top of the material without first covering it with tissue. Pons carefully lifted out a solid silver statuette of a prancing horse, one of a pair, golden sovereigns cascading to the table as he did so.

“Good heavens, Pons!” I exclaimed. “These things must be worth thousands.”

Solar Pons nodded, his eyes narrowed.

“Many thousands, Parker. These snuff-boxes in the corner are by Faberge, unless I miss my guess. Just take a look at this.”

I glanced at the base of the silver statuette Pons was holding. Apart from the hallmark, something was incised in the surface. It took a moment or two to make it out.

“It looks like a maypole. Pons.”

“Exactly, Parker. The same sign as the inn. And the same title.” “I do not follow, Pons.”

“Tut, Parker. Learn to use your ratiocinative processes. These are the armorial bearings of the Cresswells.”

“But why would they want to put these things in their family vault. Pons?” Solar Pons concealed his rising irritation superbly. “Undoubtedly they did not, Parker. This treasure has been stolen.”

6

There was a long silence between us. broken eventually by the church clock striking eleven. As its echoes died away Solar Pons replaced the statuette in the hamper, together with the gold sovereigns.

“Miss Stuart must know nothing of this for the time being, Parker. At least until we have secured our man.”

I stared at Pons in rising irritation.

“I am sure I do not know what you are talking about. Pons.”

Solar Pons finished re-wrapping the hamper in sacking.

“You shall know a good deal more before you leave this room, my dear fellow. Just hand me down that gazetteer from the shelf behind you.”

I gave him the volume and he studied it, his brows knotted in concentration through the wreaths of tobacco smoke.

“Ah, here we are. Cresswell Manor. The seat of the 1st Baron Cresswell. Well, we do not require all that ancient history. Ah, here we are. Last of the line, Sir Roger Cresswell, Grenadier Guards, killed in heavy fighting during the first months of the last war. Unmarried, therefore no issue. The empty house was burned down in a mystery fire in 1915. That is significant, Parker.”

“I do not see why. Pons.”

“That is because you are not applying your mind properly to the problem. It limits the time factor, do you not see. The mansion did not exist after 1915. Therefore, I have only to look between the turn of the century and the outbreak of war.”

“For what. Pons?”

“For the date of the robbery, Parker.”

Solar Pons had produced his sheet of paper from his pocket and was studying it intently. I recognised it as that taken from the Bible earlier. Pons passed it over to me. Once again I read the baffling set of verses.

I shook my head.

“This still means nothing to me, Pons.”

“Simply because you are not using your God-given faculties, Parker. Kindly reach down that same Bible from the shelf there.”

I crossed over to fetch it, Pons opening the heavy volume.

“Just check St Mark, if you would be so good.”

I did as he suggested. I looked up again, conscious of the ironical expression of his eyes.

“Why, Pons, this verse does not match at all.”

“Exactly, Parker. Which is why I directed your attention to that excellent novel, Moonfleet. There the author uses a similar device to indicate hidden valuables. The thing is the simplest of codes.”

I looked at the verses again.

“You mean there is another book with the correct verses?”

Solar Pons shook his head.

“No, no. The non-existent verses merely indicate the word-order. Do not underline the verses there, for I have another use for that paper, but indicate them on a separate sheet. What does that give you?”

I jotted down the words with mounting excitement. I now read:

“Good, heavens, Pons! I see what you mean. It is a cipher.”

“It was obvious, Parker. No Rector would have written such corrupt textual references. Therefore the material in the Bible had not been written by him. I saw at once that ‘temple’ could refer to the church. When we visited the building earlier today I at once noted the statue of the Darnley children. From there it was child’s play. The message referred to the three top paving stones by the statue, and then the five most outmost from that, which brought us to the vault slab of the Cresswell family.”

“Excellent, Pons.”

“Elementary, my dear Parker. We still have only half the puzzle. It now follows that the gold and silver for which one was invited metaphorically to dig was stolen. It is equally evident that the sinister, bearded man of Miss Stuart’s encounters is searching for this booty. But who left the message in the Bible and why; and whether he is connected with the searcher is another matter. I have my own ideas on that but they must just wait until we have firmer data.”

I gazed at Pons open-mouthed.

“You knew all that before ever we went to the church today. Pons?”

“It was reasonably self-evident, Parker.”

Solar Pons sat drawing on his pipe in the heavy silence which followed. The house was quiet except for the faint creaking of timbers and I was absorbed in my own thoughts. Solar Pons rose at length and looked at the clock.

“A brief nightcap, I think, Parker. Things will be clearer in the morning, when I must devise some method to bring our man to us. In the meantime, if you would be kind enough to help me get these things to my room, the sooner they are under lock and key the better.”

We breakfasted early the following morning, the brilliant sunlight streaming in through the open windows. The country air was increasing my appetite and I ate a hearty meal. Pons was silent as we sat drinking our coffee, his deep-set eyes apparently fixed on the tower of the church through the trees. Our hostess sat watching us intently. Eventually she broke the silence.

“You have come to some conclusions, Mr Pons?”

“I have indeed, Miss Stuart. And I must ask for your full co-operation.”

“Anything you say, Mr Pons.”

Solar Pons smiled thinly.

“It may sound a little peculiar to you, Miss Stuart, but it is, I think, the only way to bring the intruder who is haunting this house out into the open. What is the evening paper for this area? One that would certainly be read by the local inhabitants?”

“Apart from the national evening newspapers, Mr Pons, there is only the Surrey Observer. Their nearest office is in Godalming.”

“Excellent, Miss Stuart. Perhaps we could hire a car in the village?”

“The local taxi man is reliable, Mr Pons. As you know he is to be found at the railway station most days.”

Our client’s eyes were fixed upon my companion’s face with great intensity.

“What is your plan, Mr Pons?”

Solar Pons had taken an envelope from his pocket and was scribbling something on the back of it with great vigour.

“I wish to insert the following advertisement in the Observer, Miss Stuart. Would I be in time for this evening’s edition?”

“You would if the advertisement is at the office by midday, Mr Pons. That would be early enough for the edition which is out by six o’clock. We get it locally a little after that, as our newsagent collects it from the train.”

“I see. It is a great impertinence, Miss Stuart, but I wish to insert the following announcement. I would be glad of your co-operation.”

Miss Stuart glanced at the paper Pons handed her and gave a start of surprise.

“It is extraordinary, Mr Pons. I am in complete agreement, of course, but I do not know what Mother would say.”

Solar Pons chuckled.

“She is away, fortunately, my dear young lady. Let us just get Parker’s opinion.”

Miss Stuart handed the envelope to me and I read Pons’ announcement with increasing bewilderment. It was headed RARE BOOKS and ran: CLERGYMAN’S LIBRARY for sale. Rare, ecclesiastical and other books at reasonable prices. View any time without appointment. Stuart, The Old Rectory, Grassington, Surrey.

I looked up at my companion.

“Extraordinary, Pons.”

“Is it not, Parker. Yet I feel this might be just the item to tempt our friend.”

Miss Stuart’s eyes were sparkling.

“You think the man who broke in might read this and visit here openly in the guise of a rare book dealer or purchaser?”

“Exactly. Miss Stuart. I must force his hand. He must be desperate by this time and will probably grasp at what he would consider a golden opportunity. We cannot just sit here for the next few weeks hoping he might attempt to break in again.”

“Of course not, Mr Pons. You certainly have my permission.”

“Thank you, Miss Stuart. I would like you and your housekeeper to remain here all the time, of course, and Parker will be on hand. You must explain that no list has been prepared and let people browse around the study shelves as they wish. Most will be genuine bibliophiles so you need fear no attempts at pilfering.”

“But suppose someone steals that Bible, Pons?” I asked.

“That is exactly what I wish them to do, Parker,” said Solar Pons. “And to that purpose I shall replace that slip of paper exactly as you found it just as soon as we have finished breakfast. I must also consult the bound files when we visit the newspaper office. They would have records there. Miss Stuart?”

“Certainly, Mr Pons. It is a large office.”

“Excellent.”

Solar Pons glanced at his watch.

“We have much to do his morning, Parker. I would be obliged if you would arrange for a taxi to take us to Godalming. In the meantime I must ring Bancroft at the Foreign Office. And Jamison also.”

“What on earth for, Pons?”

Solar Pons smiled enigmatically.

“To put one or two small inquiries afoot, Parker. This ghost of the Rectory, as Miss Stuart calls him, has created a good deal of terror. Now we must close the net around him.”

7

It was indeed, as Pons had hinted, a busy morning. We drove swiftly to Godalming where Pons spent an hour closeted at the newspaper office. After placing his advertisement he was shown to a small glassed-in office where the bound files of the journal were kept. I left him there to buy one or two items for my comfort, for I did not know how long we were likely to be at Grassington, and when I returned some time later I found him in fine fettle.

He rubbed his thin hands together in satisfaction, his deep-set eyes blazing with excitement.

“There you are, Parker. I was not far wrong in my assessment.”

I followed his pointing forefinger to the news item he indicated in the musty volume of 1912 open before him. It was headed:

I read the article with increasing interest. It went into great detail and itemised the valuables stolen with considerable exactitude. There was no doubt in my mind as I finished the account that the missing articles were those Pons had recovered from the church vault the previous night.

“Ten years ago, Pons. It does not say who was responsible for the theft.”

Solar Pons looked at me mockingly.

“That was too much to hope for, Parker. I have been through the subsequent issues with great care but apart from items in the police inquiries, there is nothing. But then I did not expect it.”

His quizzical eyes were turned fully toward me.

“And there would be little on which to stretch my peculiar talents, Parker.”

“Perhaps not, Pons, but it would have been helpful, nevertheless.”

Solar Pons laughed shortly, folding his sheaf of notes and putting them in his pocket.

“You were ever practical, Parker. But I have a few ideas up my sleeve. We must not forget the sight which caused Miss Stuart’s father to drop dead of shock.”

I looked at my companion in amazement.

“You think that is connected with these events. Pons?”

“Undoubtedly, Parker. It was what drew my attention to a number of significant factors. But I am hoping that my calls to Inspector Jamison at Scotland Yard and to Brother Bancroft will produce something pertinent.”

He glanced up at the clock on the wall opposite.

“You must stay close to the Rectory from five o’clock onwards, Parker, if you would be so good.”

“Certainly, Pons, if you think it necessary.”

“It is vitally important. In fact, I would prefer you to deal with any visitors who may come to look at the books. Of course, our bait may not draw anyone this evening, but it is my experience that rare book collectors seldom miss such an opportunity. They usually descend in droves, sometimes within the hour of an advertisement appearing. I am relying on you, Parker.”

“You may count on me, Pons. What will you be doing this afternoon?”

“Well, when I have taken the calls I am expecting I shall be off on a short tour of the district. I have a mind to visit one or two of the gypsy encampments in the neighbourhood.”

“But you said that gypsies had nothing to do with it, Pons.”

“That is perfectly correct. And it is just because gypsies are not connected with the affair that I wish to visit the camps.”

I shrugged as Pons got up from the table.

“As you wish, Pons. But the matter still remains dark and impenetrable to me.”

Solar Pons put his hand on my shoulder.

“Do not say so, Parker. Just keep your eyes and ears open and I am sure all will become clear before long.”

His face became more grave.

“I must urge upon you, Parker, the seriousness of this business. The man who is after this fortune is ruthless and cunning. He will not become dangerous unless thwarted. Whoever calls this evening — whatever your suspicions — I must impress upon you the paramount importance of not giving him any inkling that his purposes are known.”

“I understand, Pons. I must just give people the run of the library. But supposing our man takes that piece of paper from the Bible?”

Solar Pons shook his head impatiently.

“As I have already indicated, I am relying on him doing so, Parker. You must remain in the library, of course. And do try to give some intelligent answers about the books. There will undoubtedly be genuine dealers present. The most valuable books are in the locked glass bookcase near the far window. Only the genuine bibliophile will go there. The person who hangs about the shelves near the French windows will either be a cleric; an enthusiastic amateur who is interested in all old books as opposed to first editions; or the man we want. Just leave him alone. We shall know soon enough when that paper has been taken. He can do nothing until after dark, in any event.”

“Certainly, Pons.”

Solar Pons seemed satisfied and when he had called at the commercial office of the newspaper to thank the lady in charge of the files we left the building and took our taxi back to The Old Rectory. Pons’ remarks about Miss Stuart’s father had aroused many impressions in my mind; to tell the truth I had quite forgotten this aspect in the excitement of our discovery and with the passing of the hours toward the time when the newspaper advertisement would appear, my apprehension grew.

The roots of the mystery appeared to lie in happenings which had occurred ten or more years ago and the longer I thought about it the more impenetrable did the matter appear. Of course, I knew that the people who had robbed Cresswell Manor had apparently buried their booty in the church, but why the Rev. Stuart should die of shock in his library; or who the bearded man with the scarred thumb might be was beyond my poor capabilities. I tried to apply Pons’ methods in my own humble way but soon had to give up.

And how had the coded messages appeared in the Rector’s Bible in his own study? The more I thought about it the more tangled it became and it was with relief that I saw the lean, spare figure of Pons reappear in the garden after his walk. His carriage was alert and his eyes were sparkling as he came through the French windows into the library. He had earlier taken the two calls from Jamison and Bancroft Pons but had not volunteered any information and I knew better than to ask.

“Well. Parker,” he said. “We progress.”

“I am glad to hear it, Pons.”

My companion sank into one of the wing chairs by the empty fireplace, now filled with a blaze of summer flowers, and stared at me quizzically.

“I think I not only know the reasons why Miss Stuart’s bearded man appeared so frequently in this room, but I have his name.”

I gazed at Pons open-mouthed.

“This is incredible, Pons.”

“Pray do not exaggerate, Parker. Once I had the right direction in which to work it was merely a question of narrowing down.”

He tented his thin fingers before him and fixed his gaze over toward the open French windows behind my back.

“Your walk has been productive, then?”

“It was not without its rewards, Parker. The exercise was certainly beneficial. Two of the sites were occupied by true Romanies. The third encampment, that in the quarry, was filled with a heterogeneous collection of didecais and travellers. It should serve our purpose well enough.”

I glanced at Pons with rising irritation. He read the expression in my eyes and his lips curled in a faint smile.

“Just a few hours more, Parker. My theories are not proven yet.”

He glanced over at the clock in the corner.

“And now, Parker, the time is almost six o’clock. Miss Stuart has her instructions. The housekeeper will refer any callers to you and you know my thoughts on the matter.”

“Certainly, Pons.”

Pons crossed over to the far bookshelves and checked the Bible we had replaced there. Then he closed and locked the French windows, shooting the bolts for good measure. He glanced round the room, as though setting the scene.

“Let me just recapitulate. The newspaper reaches Grassington in a quarter of an hour or a little after. If our man is as alert as I think him we might expect him as early as seven o’clock. Though he may not take the bait until tomorrow.”

He crossed over toward the door.

“Oh, by the bye, any telephone calls you may regard as being from genuine dealers. Those in which the callers require appointments for tomorrow or succeeding days I should certainly class as bona fide and pass them on to Miss Stuart.”

“Very well, Pons. What will you be doing?”

“I shall remain in my room, Parker, where I shall have a very good view of people walking up the front path without myself being observed. It would not do for our man to connect me with the energetic walker of this afternoon.”

I could not repress a faint snort of impatience.

“Very well, Pons. No doubt this will all become clear in time.”

“No doubt, Parker. I trust you to play your part.”

Solar Pons quitted the room swiftly and I heard his quick, athletic tread on the stairs. He had no sooner closed the door of his chamber when I heard the shrill of the telephone from the hall outside. A few moments later the face of Hannah, the housekeeper, appeared nervously at the library door.

“Some London book dealers, sir. Shall I fetch Miss Stuart?”

I nodded and went to pick up the receiver.

“Brackett and Prall of Pall Mall here, sir,” said the bland voice at the other end. “Your advertisement in the Surrey Observer has been brought to our attention by a dealer in Guildford. Would it be convenient for us to arrange an appointment for tomorrow morning?”

I found Miss Stuart at my elbow and thankfully relinquished the instrument. I went back into the library and sat down at the table by the window. I attempted to read a book but I confess my mind was not on the lines. My purpose there in the library: the black mystery surrounding the death of our client’s father: the bearded man who seemed to haunt the Rectory and grounds: the stolen hoard of silver buried in the church vault; and the responsibility Pons had placed upon me all combined to set my brain whirling.

I got up after a while and paced up and down the pleasant library, my mood widely at variance with the mellow sunlight which streamed through the windows. Twice more the telephone jangled in the hall outside and then Miss Stuart put her head round the door to say that two more rare book dealers hoped to come the following day.

It was almost seven o’clock when the front door-bell rang. I was just going out when Hannah crossed the hall in front of me, a tall, familiar figure behind her. He smiled somewhat crookedly at me.

“Ah, Dr Parker, I saw the advertisement in the paper just now. Miss Stuart told me nothing about selling up her father’s books.”

“It was a sudden whim,” I explained. “Please go in and browse about at your leisure.”

“Thank you, doctor.”

I watched Major Alan Kemp cross the hall with his firm, athletic stride and disappear within the study. I was about to join him when there came another ring at the door-bell. Hannah looked at me with widening eyes.

“Allow me this time,” I said.

I opened the door to reveal the massive, bearded face of the Rector, the Rev. Isaac Stokesby. He wore a neat grey suit with his clerical collar beneath and he seemed considerably surprised to see me. He waved a copy of the Surrey Observer in my face.

“I have just seen Miss Stuart’s advertisement, doctor. It seemed to me a good opportunity to add some ecclesiastical volumes to the church library. I trust it is not inconvenient…?”

“By no means. Rector. Do come in. You know the study. You will find Major Kemp already there.”

“Indeed,” said Stokesby coolly.

He hesitated, as though he would have changed his mind but apparently thought better of it.

“Perhaps you would be good enough to tell her I am here.”

“I will tell Miss Stuart,” I said.

When I returned with our client two other visitors had called: they were already in the study. I smiled encouragingly at Miss Stuart.

“It seems Mr Pons’ stratagem has proved effective, Dr Parker.”

I nodded.

“There is usually very sound method behind his even more extravagant actions, Miss Stuart. Will you join them in the library?”

“Let us both go, doctor.”

“As you wish.”

As we entered the handsome room with the mellow rays of gold pouring in from the garden outside, the study seemed like nothing more than a public library. Two gentlemen in grey suits were examining volumes on the table and talking in hushed tones. The Rev. Stokesby had the locked bookcase open and was handling a leather- bound Bible reverently. I could not see the Major for a moment but then saw him up near the French windows where Pons and I had replaced the Bible with its corrupt texts.

Miss Stuart hurried forward and was soon engaged in animated conversation with her guests. I was about to join her when there came yet another ring at the front door. This time the caller was a small, dapper gentleman, impeccably dressed in a dark suit and wearing lavender coloured gloves. He smiled amiably and searched in his pocket, as though looking for a card.

“Dear me, I seem to have forgotten them. Jethro Carpenter. Rare book dealer at your service. Would it be possible to view the collection mentioned in the advertisement?”

“By all means,” I said. “Your colleagues are already in the library.”

I led the way through and introduced the fifth man to the assembly. The room now seemed crowded and as the conversation proceeded I was able to study the other two men who had been admitted by Hannah.

One was a short, bearded man with a pronounced limp, named Judson Higgins. Though well dressed in expensive clothes and wearing white gloves, there was something sly and furtive in his appearance which I didn’t take to. He had cold grey eyes beneath his whitening eyebrows and his thick hair was liberally dusted with silver. He had a high, mincing pedantic voice and was engaged in a shrill altercation with his companion.

This was a giant with red hair and a carefully trimmed moustache. He was about thirty-five years old and very strong and vigorous. But his eyes blinked mildly beneath his thick-lensed spectacles with tortoise-shell frames and he seemed more amused than otherwise at his colleague’s comments on the quality of the books in the late Rector’s library.

The Rev. Isaac Stokesby stood near Miss Stuart up near the empty fireplace, his dark eyes regarding the scene before him in an almost contemplative manner. The Major stood the other side of our client and seemed about to say something but was unable to gain her attention.

Jethro Carpenter contented himself with inclining his head to the company and then darted swiftly forward to the bookcase at the far end of the room, which I understood contained the rare volumes. I declined to join in the conversation but, mindful of Pons’ stricture, tried to observe without appearing to take any notice.

I kept away from the bookcase near the window and as the housekeeper served coffee and biscuits to the guests an hour later, it was obvious that everyone in the room had had ample opportunity, at one time or another, to approach the Bible containing the message unobserved. The shelving was so arranged that it concealed the browser from the people standing near the fireplace; though that corner of the room was clearly in view from the French windows.

It was nearly nine o’clock before the last of the visitors had departed; no-one else had come and it was with some relief that Miss Stuart and I exchanged glances as Hannah showed the last of the bibliophiles to the door. This was the Rector and I retained an impression of his sardonic, bearded face, the beard tinted with gold with the dying sun as he hurried through the garden.

“Well. Dr Parker.” said our hostess gravely, as we re-entered the library, “I have several orders for books here and I only hope I shall be able to explain satisfactorily why they are not for sale when the would-be purchasers call again.”

“I am afraid we have put you to some inconvenience. Miss Stuart. But I am sure Solar Pons would not have suggested this arrangement without good cause.”

The girl flashed me a brief smile.

“I am certain you are right, Dr Parker. Now. I think we have earned a glass of sherry.”

She went over to pour while I unlocked and opened the French windows, letting sweet-scented air and the cheerful song of birds into the somewhat stuffy study. As I came back down the room I went to the Bible which was apparently the source of so much mystery and took it down from the shelf. I opened it and went through the slips of paper at the back. I felt a tingle of excitement as I re-examined them more thoroughly.

“Good heavens! The Bible verses are missing.”

“I should be extremely disappointed if they were not, my dear fellow.”

Solar Pons was regarding me from the open study door, his eyes bright and alert. He rubbed his slender hands together as he came over to join us. Miss Stuart poured him a glass of sherry and we moved instinctively toward the dining room.

“Dinner will be served almost immediately, gentlemen,” said our hostess. “I will not ask any further questions tonight. I hope you are hungry, as Hannah has prepared something special.”

“We must do justice to it, Parker,” said Solar Pons, his eyes twinkling over the rim of his glass. “We can do nothing till after dark but we must be in position not later than 10.30p.m.”

Miss Stuart smiled wryly.

“Well, I do not know what you propose, Mr Pons, but I drink most heartily to your success.”

We all three raised our glasses.

8

I shifted my cramped position, my muscles cracking with the unwonted movement. Solar Pons put his hands to his lips in warning.

“We must just be patient, Parker. Our man is cunning and persistent. And he is extremely dangerous. You have your pistol?”

I nodded.

“You are certain he will come, Pons?” I whispered.

“I would stake my reputation on it, Parker. He has no reason for suspicion and we now know he has his hands on the thing he most covets.”

“But will he read it aright. Pons?”

Pons smiled, glancing up at the moonlight which straggled through a stained glass window far above our heads. We crouched in the shadow of a large statuary group in the side-chapel of the church, facing the entrance. All was silent apart from the deep tick of the clock which told the passing of the hours. It was almost midnight and for the past hour the entire village of Grassington seemed to have been asleep. Not even the distant rumble of a passing motor vehicle had disturbed our vigil.

“Our man will read the message correctly, Parker. He knew what he was looking for before ever he came to The Old Rectory. It is hardly likely that he would not know the simple code employed.”

I shook my head.

“Perhaps, Pons. But I must confess I am baffled. Any of those people tonight could have been the man in question. But all of them had something suspicious about them if one read their actions a certain way.”

Pons inclined his head.

“There is something of the eccentric in every collector of whatever type, Parker. It is endemic to the breed.”

He broke off, his whole form rigid, his head forward in a listening attitude. I had heard nothing and opened my mouth to make some rejoinder when he stopped me by putting his hand on my arm. Then I heard what his sensitive ears had already caught. A faint creaking noise from somewhere far off in the church. It ceased and the silence resumed.

Pons moved over and put his mouth up against my ear.

“He has entered through a side door, Parker. An artist with a jemmy, evidently.”

I eased my cramped legs and drew the pistol from my pocket, throwing off the safety-catch and laying it down carefully on the cool stone flags at my side.

“I am quite ready, Pons.”

We waited for a few minutes more, sitting immobile, straining our ears to catch the slightest noise. Then I caught the scrape of a boot on the flagstones somewhere in the main body of the church.

I was unable to conceal a slight start at a vague shadow sliding through the moonlight which dappled the interior of the nave. I saw by Pons’ expression that he had already noted it. I reached out silently and picked up the loaded revolver, holding it on my lap. My companion had his torch at the ready as the dark, stealthy figure drew nearer, moving with the utmost caution and circumspection. There was something almost obscene about this furtive intruder into this holy place at dead of night.

We both moved tighter into the wall in the deepest part of the shadow but our precautions were not needed: the figure that advanced through the chapel entrance on tip-toe, holding a slip of paper in its hand, was far too preoccupied to give more than a casual glance at his surroundings. He stopped still, as though deep in thought, and then turned toward us.

A shaft of moonlight spilling through the glass of one of the upper windows of the church fell clear upon his features and I could not repress a slight shudder. I felt Pons’ fingers tighten on my arm and I lifted my pistol so as to be ready for any eventuality. The evil yellow face with the thick beard and burning eyes stared round menacingly and I understood for the first time what an ordeal Miss Stuart must have gone through.

I had no doubt in my own mind that this was the library intruder surprised by both her and her mother and the shock must have been severe indeed under the circumstances. Even here, with Pons at my side and the comforting feel of the revolver butt against my palm, the face exuded such menace that I felt the perspiration start out on my forehead.

The figure let fall an exclamation and then paced excitedly about, studying the flagstones. It went past the memorial to the children of which Pons had made so notable a use and then measured out the identical path already followed by my companion. The intruder knelt with another muffled gasp and I heard the chink of metal; then a low grating noise as he started to lever up the flagstone.

It was just at that moment that there came a loud noise at the main door of the church. Pons swore under his breath and let go of my arm. The crouching figure by the open hole in the chapel floor gave a convulsive leap into the air. It reached into its hip pocket as the beam of Pons’ torch danced out to settle on that horrific face. The man gave a snarl of rage and raised his hand.

“Quickly, Parker!” Pons snapped.

I was already on my feet, bringing the pistol up. I squeezed the trigger, the flash of flame from the muzzle seeming to light the church interior while the report echoed thunderously under the vaulting. I had aimed for the shoulder and my aim was true. The figure spun, clutching its left hand to its right forearm and something clattered to the floor.

The front door of the church thundered back on its hinges as the bearded man blundered into some wooden chairs in the aisle. I was already racing after him but Pons was quicker still. Our quarry was up near the door when Pons brought him down with a running tackle. The two men landed asprawl at the feet of the gigantic Rector of Grassingtom, the Rev. Isaac Stokeby.

Eyes wide, he stared at the amazing tableau before him, while my torch beam continued to dance over the two struggling men on the floor. The Rector moved to a light switch and the interior of the church was filled with mellow radiance. The Rev. Stokesby’s jaw dropped and his face was mottled with anger.

“Mr Pons! Dr Parker! What is this war-like intrusion into God’s place?”

Pons got to his feet and dusted himself down. He gave a wry smile at the figure struggling in pain on the flagstones.

“Pray do not distress yourself. Rector,” he said calmly. “God’s will moves in mysterious ways, as the Bible says somewhere.”

The Rector looked at my companion belligerently.

“That is all very well, Mr Pons, but you will find this difficult to explain. There have been things going on here, as I told you, and I determined to keep watch. I noticed that you had abstracted the door key, which aroused my suspicions. Then tonight I saw your torch beam. I determined to wait until you came out to see what you were up to. But you were so long I decided to come in.”

“Fortunate indeed that you waited, Rector,” said Pons crisply. “This man was armed and desperate. And if you had run into him in the churchyard you would undoubtedly have scared him off.”

He stepped back.

“Your department I think, Parker.”

I knelt and made a cursory examination.

“A broken arm, Pons. Shock and loss of blood, of course. I can do little here.”

Pons straightened up as I helped the bearded man to his feet and bound his wound with my handkerchief. All the fight seemed to have gone out of him. The Rector temporarily appeared to have been stricken speechless. As our prisoner’s face came more fully into the light I could not resist an exclamation.

“Why, Pons, he is wearing a mask!”

Solar Pons chuckled.

“Is he not, Parker. Let us just have your views on his identity.”

I had no hesitation.

“Why, Judson Higgins, the rare book dealer, Pons. He is about the same build and I noticed particularly that he wore gloves when he came to The Old Rectory last night.”

I seized our prisoner’s right hand and pointed out the misshapen white scar on the thumb. Solar Pons smiled at me encouragingly.

“Excellent, Parker. You will make a detective yet.”

Without preamble he seized the bearded mask our prisoner was wearing and tore it from him. I must confess I have never been so surprised or disappointed in my life. The face revealed was that of a complete stranger; a hard-faced, crop-headed man with battered features like a boxer, now reddened and perspiring from the constriction of the mask and the warmth of the evening. He kept his grey eyes sullenly on the floor. Pons’ own eyes danced and he smiled at the Rector.

“If I am not much mistaken, Mr Munro Slater, late of H.M. Prison, Dartmoor. Known to us as Jethro Carpenter, rare book dealer.”

“But how was that possible, Pons?”

“Merely a clever make-up, Parker. And he was the only other of the book dealers who physically fits the bill. I have checked and Judson Higgins has a genuine limp.”

He turned to the bearded churchman who was glaring impatiently at both of us.

“We owe you an explanation, Rector. We must first get this man to the local police. Then, if you are agreeable and despite the lateness of the hour, we must arouse Miss Stuart from her bed, and this matter must be settled once and for all.”

9

“Coffee, Mr Pons?”

Our client looked fresh and charming in her dressing gown and not like someone who had been awakened only half an hour before by the housekeeper in such a dramatic manner. It was half-past one in the morning but such was Pons’ energy and vitality and such was our curiosity to hear the explanation for the weird business which had culminated so dramatically in the church that we took no heed of the time.

We sat at a round table at the far end of the study, the windows open to admit the sweet-scented night air, but with the curtains tightly drawn. The Rector, somewhat mollified, now that Pons had told him something of the circumstances, sat opposite drinking coffee while Pons and I were diagonally across from Miss Stuart presiding at the silver pot. Anyone who could have seen us at that hour would have found the sight decidedly strange.

Solar Pons put down his coffee sup and tented his fingers before him as he looked round the table with suppressed excitement.

“I am sorry to have roused you at such an inopportune hour, Miss Stuart, and what I am going to say may cause some distress.”

Our client looked at us wide-eyed.

“Distress, Mr Pons?”

Solar Pons nodded.

“It concerns your family and does not reflect very well on one of its members. Under these circumstances, if you would prefer the Rector to withdraw, I am sure he would understand.”

Miss Stuart looked round the table in bewilderment, then clenched her jaw firmly.

“I have no secrets from the Rector, gentlemen. And I am sure that what is said here tonight will remain within these four walls unless there is good reason for making it public.”

“Well said, Miss Stuart. I did not expect you to give any other answer.”

Solar Pons looked at the fair-haired girl with a reassuring expression and sipped his coffee before replacing the cup in the saucer.

“This story begins a long time ago, Miss Stuart. In fact, it goes back to your childhood, one might say.”

Miss Elizabeth Stuart looked at Pons wide-eyed.

“You astonish me. Mr Pons.”

My companion leaned back in his chair and began to light his pipe at our client’s extended permission.

“As soon as you visited me at 7B Praed Street and told us your strange story, it was self-evident that your bearded visitor had a definite purpose in view. Two visits by the same burglar might be coincidence but a whole series, with nothing stolen, was so bizarre a circumstance that I rapidly came to the conclusion that the intruder was searching for something. Something hidden within this study.”

Solar Pons put his match down in a crystal ash-tray on the table and puffed a cloud of fragrant blue smoke at the ceiling. He stared at it almost dreamily through the misty atmosphere.

“I had formed two conclusions before I left London, Parker. The first I have already mentioned. The second was that the man engaged in such a desperate search was disguised.”

I looked at Pons in astonishment.

“You cannot mean it. Pons!”

My companion shook his head impatiently.

“It was self-evident, Parker. Miss Stuart had called the police. Inquiries had been made in the neighbourhood, on more than one occasion. But no-one had seen a bearded man with an evil face and with a distinctive scar on his thumb. It was surely impossible for such a person to come and go in a small village like Grassington, even at night, without being seen. Therefore, it was elementary that he was disguised. As we have seen, our captive wore a mask. Not so much to conceal his own identity as to create a false one. So that even if he were seen it did not matter. His scarred thumb could easily be concealed by gloves or a piece of sticking plaster whenever he went out in his own persona.”

“That is all very well, Pons, and we now know the reason, but what was behind the whole charade?”

“Patience, Parker. The genesis of the affair goes back a good many years, and this is why we have to be discreet. It all began. Miss Stuart, in your childhood. Your uncle, Jeremy Stuart. You spoke of him as the black sheep of the family, if I recall your words correctly. And mentioned that he had emigrated to Australia. The expression black sheep usually carries the connotation of being a wild young fellow. Unfortunately, Jeremy Stuart was an habitual criminal and so far from emigrating he fled the country to avoid the police. In Australia he served a lengthy prison sentence for burglary and it was some years before England saw him again.”

Miss Stuart had gone pale and she gazed at Pons with trembling lips. Pons put out his hand and clasped her own.

“Have no fear, Miss Stuart. Everything is over and done with. I am sorry to distress you but the truth must out. as I think the Rector would agree.”

The Rev. Stokesby nodded sombrely. His burning eyes, which never left Pons’ face, now wore an expression of approbation. The girl smiled faintly.

“I am sorry, Mr Pons. It is a shock to find that an apparently respectable family contains such a hidden secret. But it explains much that was mysterious and troubled about my father.”

I gave Miss Stuart an approving glance.

“It is no disgrace, Miss Stuart,” I assured her. “Many families contain a member who goes wrong in one way or another. You are not responsible for your uncle and it is certainly not your family’s fault that he turned out so badly.”

“Well said, Parker,” interjected Pons warmly. “And I am sure in his own way, Miss Stuart, your father did everything to redress the balance by his Christian work and charity in this parish.”

“I can certainly endorse that, Mr Pons,” said the Rev. Isaac Stokesby. “I have never heard such testimony as the terms used by the people of Grassington about my predecessor.”

Miss Stuart blushed.

“You are most kind, gentlemen. I promise I will not give way again, no matter what revelations you have to make about my uncle. Please proceed.”

Solar Pons gave our client an encouraging look and went on as though he were thinking aloud.

“When your uncle eventually returned to England he sought refuge with his brother. It was while he was staying here at The Old Rectory that a daring scheme came into his mind. It was no less than the major robbery of valuables belonging to Sir Roger Cresswell of Cresswell Manor. He obviously carried it out with the aid of criminal associates. The gang escaped with valuables worth over £100.000. The haul would be worth considerably more now.”

The Rector stared at Pons open-mouthed.

“How do you know all this. Mr Pons?”

My companion shrugged.

“From my own deductions and the records of Scotland Yard. Friend Jamison has his uses, eh, Parker?”

“Undoubtedly, Pons. But I must confess I am in the dark over a number of things.”

“Patience, Parker. It will take only a few minutes to unravel the remaining threads.”

Pons turned to Miss Stuart.

“What do you remember of your uncle from your childhood, Miss Stuart?”

“He seemed very kind and amiable, Mr Pons. He was very fond of antiquities and was often in the church and churchyard.”

Solar Pons smiled.

“It was undoubtedly his researches in your church. Rector, which led him to the Cresswell vault.”

“Eigh?”

The dark, bearded face looked startled.

“I am afraid, Mr Stokesby, that you will find your church in some disorder tomorrow. Miss Stuart’s uncle, when he committed the robbery at Cresswell Manor in 1912. had the foresight to prepare a hiding place no-one would suspect. He hid the valuables in a hamper at the entrance to the Cresswell vault in the side chapel of the church. It has been there to this day and in fact Parker and I have only recently recovered it. This is what our visitor was looking for. Sir Roger Cresswell was killed on the Somme and buried in France and as he was the last of the line the vault was never opened again.”

There was a thunderous silence in the study and the Rector stared at Solar Pons as though he had been struck dumb. Pons blew out more fragrant smoke and continued imperturbably.

“I do not know how closely he took his criminal associates into his confidence, but I am willing to bet that your uncle was the undisputed leader and told no-one of the hiding place. He obviously prepared his groundwork well and secured the spoils at dead of night while your father and family were asleep. He could easily have taken the keys to the church from your father’s study.

“The gang had scattered far and wide, of course, but Stuart, as the Rector’s brother and a guest at The Old Rectory would have been above suspicion. From what I have been able to learn from Scotland Yard, your father quite naturally kept his brother’s scandalous activities quiet. It is equally obvious that he did not really know anything about them, though he suspected much and at last came to realise his brother’s callous and criminal nature. But Stuart is a common enough name and it is no great feat of reasoning to deduce that no-one in Grassington would ever have known that their Rector’s brother and honoured guest was in reality a hardened criminal who had served prison terms in Australia.”

Pons got up and paced about as though impelled by the darting quicksilver of his thoughts.

“I am asking you to take a good deal on trust tonight, Miss Stuart, but I have no doubt at all that everything I am telling you is true in all but the most trivial detail.”

“But how on earth did you know the late Rector’s brother was involved, Pons?” I asked.

Solar Pons shook his head.

“It was the merest suspicion at first, Parker. It arose from a remark of Miss Stuart’s regarding a quarrel between the brothers. I could not put a date to it at this distance in time but I became more and more convinced that the breach between the two men came about at the time of the Cresswell Manor affair. Jamison was invaluable here. He said that a convict named Jeremy Stuart had been suspected of the Manor robbery but the police had never been able to prove anything.

“It was while robbing a country house after leaving Grassington that he was caught by the police and sentenced to prison. The Governor at Dartmoor also mentioned Stuart and as I went over the chain of events and the dates, everything fitted. There was no doubt that Stuart for his part had kept his relationship with the Rector at Grassington a secret.”

“In order that he could come back and collect the stolen property, Pons?”

“Naturally. Parker. And just in case anything went wrong he left a clue to its location on a slip of paper in the old Bible in the study here. He undoubtedly read that Sir Roger had been killed and buried in France and realised the vault had never been opened.”

Pons again pulled out the sheet with the enigmatic verses and passed them across to Miss Stuart and the Rector. He briefly enumerated the code and pointed out the message he had deciphered.

“All this explains the painful events on that night two years ago when your father met his death. Miss Stuart. We are unlikely to know now the precise reason Stuart came back. He had escaped from Dartmoor and was at liberty for several months. He may have returned to Grassington for the hidden valuables; more likely to take refuge with the brother he hoped would not refuse him the Christian charity he had always found.”

Miss Stuart gazed at Pons, her lower lip trembling.

“That was why Daddy…?” she began.

“A heart attack through shock,” Pons said quietly. “I cannot prove it but I am certain your father was near the window and had actually picked up that very Bible, all unconscious of the message hidden within it. The shock of seeing his brother, an escaped convict, at the window was too much for him. Not only that but the disgrace his wife and daughter would have to face if the scandal ever came out. He had forbidden his brother ever to set foot in the house again and here he was. probably with the police hot at his heels. His heart was weak and he collapsed and died. The expression on his face, which you described so graphically, Miss Stuart, is common in cases of sudden death from heart failure, as you have already indicated, Parker.”

“Just so, Pons. But how do you arrive at this conclusion?”

“With the aid of friend Jamison. Prompted by me he did some research in the criminal records. The Dartmoor escape of Stuart took place just two days before the Rector died under such tragic circumstances. And brother Bancroft and the present Governor of Dartmoor have been most helpful. Stuart was recaptured some time afterwards, in the London area, and returned to the Moor.”

“But what has all this to do with the man, Munro Slater, Pons?”

“I am coming to that, Parker, if you will give me time.” returned Pons reprovingly.

He turned back to our client.

“So here we have a rascally brother: stolen money hidden in the church of a devout and admirable Rector; the good brother unfortunately dead: a set of clues to the location of the Cresswell Manor haul hidden in the Bible in the study; and a complete stranger searching for it. What does that suggest to you, Parker?”

I pondered for a moment, my eyes on the ceiling.

“Why, that Jeremy Stuart could not come himself, Pons.”

Solar Pons chuckled.

“Excellent, Parker. You constantly astonish me and are becoming a credit to my training.”

He ticked off points on his fingers.

“Let us just recapitulate briefly. The bearded intruder who haunted The Old Rectory had one interest only, the library. He appeared to favour only one portion of the library shelving. That led us to the Bible with its hidden message. I immediately seized on the simple code which led us to the church and to the hidden valuables. They bore the arms of the Cresswells. The newspaper account gave us the details of the robbery, the date and so forth. A call to Bancroft and Jamison furnished me with all the background information. You have said just now that Jeremy Stuart could not come for the money himself, Parker. He is dead, unfortunately, or perhaps, in view of the distress he caused Miss Stuart’s family, fortunately would be a more appropriate term.”

There was a deep silence. I stared at Solar Pons, taking in the lean, alert features and the sparkle in his eyes.

“He died in prison, Pons?”

Solar Pons nodded.

“Exactly. Parker. In Dartmoor a year ago. But before he died in the prison infirmary he imparted his secret to another member of the gang, Munro Slater.”

“I see, Pons. And Munro Slater has only just been released from prison.”

“Not quite, Parker. Last winter. But the manifestations at The Old Rectory began just a few weeks after his release.”

“This is remarkable, Mr Pons,” put in the Rev. Stokesby. His face wore an expression of amiability, the first I had seen since we had made his acquaintance.

“But why did Stuart simply not tell Slater where the material was buried. Pons?”

Solar Pons shook his head.

“Stuart had had a stroke. He might well have recovered. He was cunning to the end. Besides, there was a nurse at the bedside. He was able only to articulate to his companion in crime the address and the fact that he must look in a Bible in the study. I had that from Slater himself at the police station. He has decided to confess everything.”

“But there had been no strangers in the vicinity. Pons?” I objected. “Particularly men with beards.”

Solar Pons held up his hand.

“I would not have expected there to be, Parker. The beard was an obvious disguise. There remained the scar on the thumb as described by Miss Stuart but that could easily have been hidden in a number of ways; by gloves, a bandage or even as our man masquerading as a workman, with his hand smeared with paint. I had to look elsewhere. You may remember I showed interest in gypsy bands in the neighbourhood. I had a most illuminating walk in the district yesterday. Two of the camps were occupied by genuine Romanies. I discounted them immediately.”

I looked at Pons with a puzzled expression.

“Why so. Pons?”

“For the simple reason that the world of the real Romany is the most exclusive and hermetically sealed there is. No-one in those circles would admit a stranger to their midst. My attention was immediately drawn to the only remaining encampment in the area, that occupied by travellers, tinkers and other itinerants. A little money soon obtained me the information I needed. I met one of the scrap-dealers along the road. He told me of a man who had come among them some months earlier and who paid rent for an empty caravan. His food was fetched from the village and he seldom went out. I realised I should have to provide some bait to bring him to my hook and drafted the advertisement for the newspaper, with the result we have seen.”

Miss Stuart smiled and gazed at Pons with undisguised admiration.

“It is amazing, Mr Pons. I do not know how to thank you.”

Solar Pons chuckled.

“It has been reward enough, taking such a pleasant holiday in Grassington in such admirable weather. But I fear we must break things short and return to town tomorrow. Jealousy is one of the major passions and I should not like to risk a confrontation with the Major…”

The girl blushed a becoming pink and the Rector’s teeth glinted whitely in his beard.

“I do not know what you mean, Mr Pons.”

Solar Pons glanced at me, his eyes dancing.

“I think you do, Miss Stuart. The Major’s admiration for you is undisguised and I would not like to think my presence here would give him cause to fear a rival.”

He moved toward the door.

“We will make arrangements tomorrow to get the Cresswell valuables back to their rightful owners, though as the line has died out they may be regarded by a Coroner’s Court as treasure trove.”

“In that case I think Father would wish me to share the money with the church,” said Miss Stuart, turning to the Rector with a ready smile.

“Well, well. Parker, it would appear that poetic justice has been done,” said Solar Pons. “In the meantime a good night’s sleep would not come amiss before facing the rigours of the metropolis.”