Solar Pons: The Final Cases

1

“There is nothing so boring as London on a winter’s day, Parker!”

Solar Pons stirred in his chair by the fireside in our cosy sitting-room at 7B Praed Street and looked with disgust at the greasy yellow swathes of fog which hung at the window. I glanced at him sympathetically.

“I cannot remember having heard you say so for a long time, Pons. As Samuel Johnson once remarked…”

Solar Pons smiled faintly, uncoiling himself in the chair, his lean, feral face momentarily transformed.

“I am quite aware of what the good doctor said, Parker. You do well to rebuke me but it is extremely chafing to the spirit when the services of a private consulting detective are apparently no longer needed in this great metropolis.”

I glanced over at the clock on the mantel. It was just turned three o’clock on a bleak January day and the traffic of London came muffled and seemingly far away through the fog. I had completed my rounds in the morning and as things were unusually quiet among my patients had decided to spend the afternoon catching up on some paperwork among my records.

Now I put down the file on which I had been working.

“Would you care for a walk, Pons?”

“No, no, my dear fellow. I am sorry to disturb you so. Your patience is admirable under the circumstances. I must be the most trying of companions.”

“On the contrary. Pons!” I protested. “Such records of your cases as I have already published have found a vast public which would not agree with your diagnosis.”

Solar Pons made a little clicking noise in his throat.

“Tuppance coloured, Parker,” he said severely. “I have always warned you against the somewhat romantic view you take of my little adventures.”

He looked at me searchingly with his deep-set eyes.

“Always write for the ten per cent of mankind who know what one is talking about.”

“I must confess I find you rather harsh in your judgements this afternoon, Pons,” I said, conscious of being somewhat put out. Pons’ face changed expression immediately.

“I trust I have not caused offence by my thoughtless words, Parker. It is just that I feel you do me too much honour in those memoirs you have already seen fit to print.”

I accepted the implied apology and was about to murmur some commonplace when there was a sudden and violent disturbance in our placid little world. For the front door slammed below and then there came the heavy tread of boots on the stairs. With but a peremptory rap, the door of our sitting-room was flung open with a crash and a gigantic, bearded man stood glowering in the threshold.

“Which of you is Solar Pons?” he said in a loud, harsh voice, his little pig-like eyes gleaming malignantly. Bright droplets of water stood out like jewels in the checked cape and overcoat he wore and he turned a heavy walking stick in his gnarled, thickened hands as though he intended to use it on one or other of us. I had started up from the table in alarm but Pons motioned me down easily.

“I am he. sir,” he said smoothly. “And this is my friend, Dr Lyndon Parker.”

The enormous man shook his head impatiently.

“I am not interested in that, Pons. My business is with you.”

“Indeed,” said Solar Pons coolly. “If you will kindly shut the door and take a seat like a normal civilised person we will endeavour to relieve you of your ill-temper.”

The big man shook his head like a bull and glowered again.

“This is not a social visit,” he snapped. “I am Edmund Roseacre. That should mean something to you!”

“It means nothing to me.”

Roseacre opened his mouth in astonishment and then snapped it tightly shut.

“Don’t lie to me, Pons! I know my niece has been here. By heaven, if you interfere in my affairs, I’ll not be responsible for the consequences!”

He took a threatening step forward and raised the stick. Solar Pons smiled faintly, his eyes steel-hard.

“You are offensive, crude and vulgar, sir. Kindly remove yourself from my quarters.”

Roseacre stared at Pons as though he could not believe his ears. Then he threw back his massive head and gave a hard, unbelieving laugh.

“I have heard of your ingenious ways, you interfering police jackanapes! It won’t do, Pons, it won’t do! Produce my niece at once and I will take her back to Surrey. Lies! All Lies!”

Solar Pons gave the big man a mocking glance which seemed to enrage him further. He still held the stick high and now he stepped in front of Pons, his eyes glowing with anger, and brought it down. Before I could move Pons was out of his chair with incredible swiftness. His right hand was like a blur in the air. Suddenly the giant stumbled and the stick was no longer in his hands. There was a sharp crack as Pons broke it across his knee. He hurled the two fragments back at Roseacre’s chest. The giant staggered, his eyes clouding with surprise and something like fear. A thin thread of blood trickled down his chin where the jagged end of the stick must have caught him.

“If you are not out of here within five seconds I will break you like that stick and throw you down the stairs,” Solar Pons said quietly.

Roseacre backed away, stupefied. Then he collected his wits.

“You have not heard the last of this, Pons!” he cried hoarsely.

He withdrew and descended the staircase like an enraged animal. The front door’s slam seemed to shake the whole house. Solar Pons stood for a moment. Then he stooped, picked up the two broken portions of stick and put them in the umbrella stand. He closed the door and stood looking down at me. He burst into laughter.

“He is a most charming fellow, this Edmund Roseacre, Parker.”

“Indeed, Pons,” I said indignantly. “And you were complaining that London was unnaturally dull.”

Pons crossed to the fireplace and picked up his pipe from the mantel. He lit it, tiny stipples of light from the bowl making strange patterns in his ascetic features.

“Well, I am not complaining now, Parker,” he said quietly. “Truly we have not heard the last of this.”

“How so, Pons?”

My companion shrugged.

“You heard what this amiable gentleman said. He mentioned his niece visiting us. I would submit that his own appearance was premature.”

I looked at him sharply.

“You think the niece is still to come?”

“It is entirely possible, Parker.”

He sat down in his chair, frowning and shovelling out great clouds if aromatic blue smoke over his shoulder.

“It was a good thing Mrs Johnson was out, Pons,” I said. “She would have been frightened to death.”

“Roseacre is a frightening character,” said Pons. “But I think I could have mastered him at a pinch, as big as he is.”

“I am convinced of it,” I said. “And I think he thought so too.”

Solar Pons looked at me coolly.

“Well, Parker,” said he. “One or other of us would have needed medical attention when the fracas was over.”

“Thank heaven it did not come to that,” I remarked and put my files by for the day.

“I believe Master Roseacre would have received a surprise had it done so, Parker,” observed my friend.

“You really believe the niece will come now?”

“I should be disappointed if she did not. It must be an urgent matter for her to brave this brute’s anger. I think it is merely a matter of mistaken timing. She is probably walking the streets getting up her courage to come here.”

I strolled over to the window.

“Poor girl.”

“You may well say so, Parker. She is in all probability alone with no-one to advise her and the area beyond Godalming is a lonely part of the country.”

I looked at Pons in surprise.

“How do you know that, Pons?”

“Because I have made a study of various types of terrain common to different areas of the British Isles. Roseacre himself said he would take her back to Surrey. When I see that particular type of sand and gravel in the toecaps of his shoes, it is not so very difficult to narrow down the area.”

“You are omniscient, as usual. Pons.”

My companion shook his head impatiently.

“I am far from that, Parker. But I would wager that this type of sand came from one of two particular quarries.”

He pointed to the ferrule of the broken cane which protruded from our umbrella stand.

“It is a distinctive, darkish-yellow, with lighter streaks running through it. It is peculiar to a particular two-mile stretch of heathland beyond Godalming. There are few houses in that district so I immediately concluded that Roseacre lives in a lonely spot. There is a large sample of sand adhering to the inner ring of this ferrule if you would take the opportunity to examine it.”

I did so and turned back to my companion.

“You are right. Pons. If you say so I have no doubt of it.”

Solar Pons smiled thinly and put down his pipe on the table.

He looked reflectively at the swirling fog at the window.

“We must just possess our souls in patience for a while longer.”

2

Another half-hour passed before the hall door below slammed, this time far less dramatically than on the previous occasion. The familiar footsteps of our landlady, Mrs Johnson, ascended the stairs followed by a lighter tread.

“Mr Pons! I have found this young lady on the doorstep in some distress and have taken the liberty of bringing her up.”

“By all means, Mrs Johnson. Let her come in and I would be obliged if you would fetch some tea as I have no doubt she would appreciate a cup on such a bitterly cold day.”

“Certainly, Mr Pons.”

The slim, fair girl who came into our chamber at the heels of Mrs Johnson looked so pale, so cold and so wretched that my heart went out to her. Normally she would have been attractive, even extremely pretty, but her long blonde hair was all wet with the clammy breath of the fog and she has such a white, set expression on her sensitive features and such fear and lurking uneasiness in her troubled eyes that I at once led her to a warm place by the fire and myself took the sodden raincoat from her as she was as unresisting as a child.

Solar Pons looked at her with solicitude while Mrs Johnson bustled about, bringing up a tray with tea-things from her quarters below in an astonishing short space of time. There was silence for a while, the girl sitting looking into the fire, twisting a handkerchief in her thin fingers, while Mrs Johnson poured the tea for the three of us and set out toast and slices of cake for our visitor. It was not until Mrs Johnson had almost put the cup of tea into her hand that she roused herself, looking gratefully from our landlady to Pons and then to myself.

“You are in safe hands here.” said Solar Pons gently. “Drink your tea and take your time. This is my friend and colleague, Dr Lyndon Parker.”

The girl smiled a strained smile and gave a slight inclination of the head.

“I must apologise for my rudeness, gentlemen, and for my appearance in your chambers without an appointment. I have not eaten since early this morning. My name is Evelyn Brentwood.”

“Poor child,” put in Mrs Johnson with a shake of her head and then she withdrew with her usual tact and discretion, asking Pons to ring if there was anything further he required. As soon as the door had close behind her Pons glanced at the girl drinking her tea and eating the toast, still with a slight trembling of her hands and body, and then shot an interrogatory glance at me.

“Nothing but shock, lack of food and exposure to this inclement weather,” I diagnosed. “Miss Brentwood will be better in a little while.”

Indeed, merely a few minutes had passed and I had only time for one cup of tea when the girl stirred, shook herself as though she had just become truly conscious of her surroundings and smoothed her hair down with her right hand in that feminine gesture that is instinctive to the species.

“I do not know what you must think of me. Mr Pons. I do not usually arrive on people’s doorsteps in this manner.”

“There is no hurry, Miss Brentwood,” Pons said soothingly. “We have nothing but time today. You come from Surrey, I take it?”

The girl looked at Pons in astonishment.

“Why. yes, Mr Pons. From a small hamlet called Peas Pleasance, near Godalming.”

Pons shot me a triumphant glance from his deep-set eyes.

“Just so. You have an uncle called Edmund Roseacre?”

The change in the girl at the mention of the name was startling. All the colour fled from her face, leaving it white and haggard, and she would have started up if I had not laid a restraining hand on her arm.

“How could you possibly know this?”

“Because he has already been here,” said Pons evenly.

“Here, Mr Pons? Here? Then all is known…”

She looked round like a hunted animal.

“There is no need to be alarmed,” said Pons gently. “I must confess he is not a very likeable gentleman. I had to teach him a lesson in manners.”

The girl’s blue eyes opened wide as she stared at my companion.

“What do you mean, Mr Pons?”

“Why nothing, my dear young lady. I broke his stick and sent him packing.”

He indicated the umbrella stand with a wry chuckle. I was watching Miss Brentwood closely and could have sworn that her face lightened perceptibly.

“What Pons means is that he broke the stick, threw it in your uncle’s face and cut his chin,” I said. “He took himself off extremely smartly after Pons had threatened to throw him down the stairs.”

The girl breathed deeply, her eyes shining, as she stared at Pons.

“I do not believe it,” she said softly.

“Nevertheless, it is true enough,” I said.

Pons turned an irritated look upon me.

“You make too much of it. Parker. The man was a bully and a windbag. He deserved to be taught a lesson.”

The girl glanced at the fragments of the broken stick.

“It is his cane right enough, Mr Pons. I never thought I should live to see the day when someone would be brave enough to stand up to him.”

“Had you better not tell us exactly what it is that troubles you?” encouraged Solar Pons. “Apart from the obvious fact that you have an uncle whose manners leave a great deal to be desired.”

The girl smiled faintly at this and the colour was now coming back into her face.

“Of course, Mr Pons. I really do not know which way to turn. I came out early this morning and caught the first train to town. I have been wandering about for hours plucking up enough courage to come here.”

“Which explains your uncle’s appearance first on the scene,” I put in.

Miss Brentwood shuddered.

“He must have been watching me and followed, as he always does.”

“You live with your uncle, then?”

Solar Pons tented his fingers in front of him, his penetrating eyes fixed immovably on her face. Miss Brentwood nodded.

“My parents died when I was a child, Mr Pons. Ever since I can remember I have lived with my uncle, Edmund Roseacre. first in the North of England; latterly at an old house called The Priory on the fringe of a tiny village called Peas Pleasance. At first things were well enough and I was looked after by an old family nurse but of late years things have become intolerable.”

“In what way, Miss Brentwood?”

“My uncle has changed a good deal in character, Mr Pons. He has lived in the East and has always been overbearing, being used to ordering large numbers of native servants. But during the last three years he has become morose, silent and occasionally violent. He has turned into a recluse, locking himself in his room for hours at a time and drinking a good deal.”

Solar Pons changed position in his chair, the smoke from his pipe going up in slow, lazy whorls toward the ceiling of our sitting-room.

“Can you place this change with any accuracy, Miss Brentwood? For instance, could it possibly have been connected with any particular event?”

The girl furrowed her brow and remained silent for a moment or two. Pons’ thin fingers, like the antennae of an insect, drumming softly on the table before him.

“It does seem to me now, looking back, that this change began some time after Mr Marcus visited him.”

“Mr Marcus?”

“He is my parent’s London solicitor. Though Uncle Edmund was my guardian, Mr Marcus had control of the estate in trust for me when I became of age.”

“I see. Is it a large estate?”

“I do not really know, Mr Pons. My father owned a rubber plantation in the East and there was money in the family before that. I suppose there is a good deal of money coming to me, one way or the other, but I have never thought much about it.”

“And how old are you now, Miss Brentwood?”

“Twenty, Mr Pons. I shall be twenty-one in six months’ time.”

Solar Pons made a small inclination of the head in the girl’s direction.

“When you shall presumably inherit the estate?”

“That is correct, Mr Pons. Mr Marcus is a very close-mouthed man but he told me once that it was my parents’ express wish that I should not know the full extent of my fortune until I had attained my majority. I could, I suppose, have consulted the will through the Public Records Office, but I have always respected my parents’ wishes in the matter.”

“Quite so,” said Pons, turning his pipe over and over in his hand as though he were intently examining the stem. “Perfectly proper.”

“But how did you come to find my friend, Miss Brentwood?” I interrupted.

The girl turned her troubled eyes to me.

“I did not wish to involve the police. Then my uncle would know. Apart from that no official policeman would believe my fanciful tale. In the end I confided in the Rector of Peas Pleasance, the Rev. Dr Cubitt. He said that Mr Solar Pons was the most famous and most successful consulting detective in England and gave me your address.”

“A wise man, your Rector,” I said solemnly.

Solar Pons smiled.

“Tut, Parker, you can do better than that with your ironic sallies. You say your story is a fanciful one, Miss Brentwood. Pray tell it.”

Our fair visitor flushed.

“Forgive me, Mr Pons. I am forgetting the threads. It has been such a terrifying and confused night and the day has been hardly less so. I hardly know where to begin.”

“You said, I think, that your uncle changed toward you. Miss Brentwood?”

“About three years ago, after a visit by Mr Marcus. The visit itself was extremely unusual and I can remember only one other occasion, in my childhood, when the lawyer came to the house.”

Solar Pons pulled thoughtfully at the lobe of his right ear.

“That is extremely interesting, Parker.”

“I do not see why, Pons.”

“Because you do not carry things through to their logical conclusion. It was a rarity. Twice only in twenty years! Surely it has great significance.”

“You may be right, Pons.”

“I am right, Parker. Continue, Miss Brentwood.”

“As I have said, Mr Pons, my uncle was always savage-tempered and difficult. After this he became morose and sometimes even violent towards me.”

“He never struck you?”

“No, Mr Pons, but he would smash things in his temper and I lived in fear of him. If it had not been for our old housekeeper. Mrs Bevan, I think I would have run away years ago.”

Solar Pons had a sympathetic look in his eyes.

“But you never tried to do so?”

“No. Mr Pons. I had no other living relative, no money and nowhere to go. And even in my miserable state I could see that it was essential for me to complete my education in order that I could take my proper place in society when I became of age and inherited my estate.”

“What do you consider your proper station in society?”

The girl looked surprised.

“I do not really know, Mr Pons. I had hoped — still hope. I suppose — that there would be some letter from my parents, some explanation when the will came to be read. That was why I was so excited at a third visit by Mr Marcus a few days ago, with my inheritance only six months away, as it were. But before I come to that I wish to speak of other things which have puzzled and terrified me over the years.”

“They all stem from the period you mentioned, three years ago?”

“I believe so, Mr Pons. On that occasion Mr Marcus came to visit and stayed two days. That in itself was quite unprecedented. Though nothing specific was said I believed the visit to be connected with my inheritance, for Mr Marcus brought deed boxes and briefcases with him and was closeted with my uncle for long hours. There appeared to be some argument and there were loud voices raised. Mrs Bevan was quite agitated at times and I know she fears my uncle.”

“You have no other servants or helpers at the house, Miss Brentwood?” Pons interjected suddenly.

The girl shook her head.

“No, Mr Pons. It was my uncle and his temper, you see. No-one would stay, not even the gardener.”

“I fear you have had an extremely lonely life. Miss Brentwood,” I said, all my sympathies roused. “Have some more tea.”

I rose to pour for her and after accepting the re-filled cup with a grateful smile our visitor continued with her story.

“This is all very strange and disconnected, I am afraid, Mr Pons, but in the terrible events of the last few days I have been forced to look back right to the beginning.”

“It is essential that you should do so. That is the only way to get the complete picture.”

“Well, Mr Pons, I was naturally disquieted and more upset than ever over these quarrels but imagine my surprise when I went down to breakfast on the second day to find my uncle smiling and affable. Mr Marcus had gone back to London on an early train — I thought it curious but I did not dare ask about it, particularly as my uncle was in an unusually jovial mood — and certain legal difficulties over which they had quarrelled had been cleared up.”

“My uncle disappeared somewhere after lunch and I took my dog Pip out for a walk as was my custom. We returned near tea-time and I was surprised to see my uncle working in the garden. My uncle told me the gardener had left after a violent quarrel and he had decided to attend to the garden himself in future. He disliked gardening normally with the result that the grounds were badly neglected after that.”

Solar Pons’ eyes were very bright now and he leaned forward in his chair, fixing his gaze intently in Miss Brentwood’s face.

“There is a high hedge at the side of The Priory which divides the orchard area from the more formal part of the garden which contains lawns and a rose-garden which is one of my favourite places to walk. Pip had gone on ahead and when I passed through the gate in the hedge I was surprised to see that some of the rose bushes had been taken up at the far end and a new terrace laid along the middle to join the two sections of paving. My uncle was hot and in an ill temper and not too pleased to see me. I thought.

“He got angrier and angrier when I started asking questions about the work and Pip was running up and down the beds and rooting about among the roses. Uncle Edmund roared at the dog and threw a piece of paving stone at him and I became extremely upset. That evening, at dinner Uncle Edmund was strangely quiet and he did something he rarely did.”

“And what was that, Miss Brentwood?”

“Apologised for his outburst of temper, Mr Pons. He said he had much to occupy him over the affairs of my inheritance and his quarrels with the lawyer had upset him more than he cared to say.”

“He did not particularise as to what they were?”

“No, Mr Pons. My mind was a little more relieved after this but the following morning Mrs Bevan came to me very white in the face to say that my little dog was lying dead in the driveway. He had been seen in the wood thereabouts, in some difficulty, and had dragged himself home, poor little thing. He was quite dead when I got to him. It was my belief he had been poisoned somehow; the farmers in the district are extremely careless about this sort of thing when laying down bait for vermin — and my distress could be imagined. Even my uncle was affected and insisted on burying Pip himself in the rose-garden. I would not have another dog for fear of a repetition of the tragedy.”

“Hmm.”

Solar Pons was silent for a moment, his eyes brooding and far away.

“There are a number of interesting points about Miss Brentwood’s narrative so far, Parker.”

“Are there not, Pons,” I returned. “I am so sorry, Miss Brentwood. You have had an unfortunate and difficult life, it appears.”

“You may well say so, Dr Parker. However, I have not wanted for material things, unlike some people, so I should not perhaps make too much of my life with my uncle. As I have already indicated, things have got worse of latter years, my uncle becoming increasingly morose and irritable. Sometimes he would sit and then start at a knock at the door, as though he feared for something. In the summer-time he took to sitting for hours together on a bench in the rose-garden. I have often seen him staring at the spot where Pip is buried, as though contemplating my little pet’s fate and have sometimes thought that with all his rough and primitive ways, I have perhaps judged him over-harshly.”

“Perhaps,” said Solar Pons succinctly.

“This was the situation which obtained until recent times, Mr Pons. Then, one day about a fortnight ago, my uncle mentioned that we were to have another visit from Mr Marcus.”

“He did not give you the details?”

Our client shook her head.

“Not in so many words, Mr Pons. But as I said it had occurred to me that, with my twenty-first birthday only six months away, it might have something to do with the legacy.”

“Quite so.”

“Mr Marcus arrived the day before yesterday. Though it was some three years since I had seen him, I found him much changed.”

“How so?”

Our client stopped, obviously in some difficulty.

“He seemed much thinner and different somehow, to what I remembered of him. Also, his voice seemed harsher.”

Solar Pons glanced at me.

“Curious, Parker.”

“Oh. it is often so as people grow older, Pons.” I returned. “Particularly as Miss Brentwood was only eighteen when she last saw him. Her memory might be at fault.”

“Perhaps, Parker, perhaps.”

Solar Pons sat quite still, his eyes fixed on the fog outside the window, the blue smoke from his pipe ascending slowly toward the ceiling.

“Dr Parker may well be right,” said the girl, with an apologetic smile at my companion.

“Anyway, the pattern of three years was repeated. I heard voices quarrelling from Uncle’s study that evening. Long arguments were going on. Mrs Bevan was quite worried when I told her and twice went to the study on the pretext of trivial errands.”

“With what result?”

“She said that Marcus and my uncle sat with documents on the desk between them and were bitterly quarrelling over something. She heard the word will mentioned once and estate twice. They stopped when she rapped on the door and Uncle Edmund received her messages with very ill grace. But it had the effect of stopping the row and it was obvious things were patched up when they appeared for supper.”

“Nothing was said about the object of Marcus’ visit?”

“No, Mr Pons. And as I have already indicated, I knew better than to ask.”

Miss Brentwood shivered suddenly and huddled closer to the fire.

“Now I come to the most horrible and inexplicable part of my story, Mr Pons. I felt tired and excused myself at about eleven o’clock and went to my room. The Priory is a strange house and has exterior shutters in the French style, as one of its architectural features. Apart from being gloomy it still has gas-light which does not add to its cheerfulness. I was preparing for bed when I heard footsteps passing the door of my room.

“A short while later the gas chandelier in my room flickered and the intensity of the light was lowered. I knew then that it was Mr Marcus whose footsteps had passed my door.”

“How so, Miss Brentwood?”

“Because he has been given the room directly over mine, Mr Pons. He had evidently just lit his own gas which had taken pressure from mine. It is something to do with the old system we have and the pipes are corroded with age.”

“I see. What then?”

“I could hear Mr Marcus pacing about over my head, as though he were agitated over something; perhaps the late row with my uncle. After a bit I took no further notice and prepared for bed. When I turned out the gas I could still hear the footsteps and they were the last thing I heard when I went to sleep. I had not drawn the shutters at my window and a clear, brilliant moonlight flooded into the room.”

Miss Brentwood paused as though the recollections were too painful for coherent thought.

“I was awakened, Mr Pons, in the early hours of the morning, by a terrible cry. At first I did not know where I was or if I were dreaming or awake. But the moonlight still shone glassily into my room and the echo of that horrible scream seemed still to hang in that air. My heart was thumping and I could hardly breathe but I forced myself out of bed. Then I heard a strange squeaking noise, Mr Pons.

“I was over at the window by this time. There came a slithering noise as of something falling and a terrifying crash. I went to the window in alarm and as I did so a horribly distorted face stared at me through the glass. Mr Pons, it was the corpse of Mr Marcus, with a rope round his neck, dangling in mid-air!”

3

There was a deep silence in the room now as the girl reached the climax of her horrific story.

“Good heavens!” I said. “No wonder you look pale and drawn after such a dreadful experience.”

“Bizarre, indeed,” said Solar Pons grimly, laying down his pipe in the ashtray at his elbow.

“Mercifully, I lost consciousness, Mr Pons.” the girl went on. “I say mercifully deliberately because if you knew what a shock the experience gave me I think I would have gone insane had not consciousness left me. When I recovered I was in bed in my room, with Mrs Bevan there, looking anxiously after me. I had had a nightmare, apparently, and had been sleep-walking. I had fallen with a heavy sound; my uncle, who was passing the room on his way to bed, had heard me and had got me back into bed. I could not be brought back to consciousness and so the doctor was summoned early in the morning, who diagnosed a mild concussion. It appeared I had hit my head in my fall but had not sustained any serious injury.”

“But you did not believe it a dream?” said Solar Pons.

Miss Brentwood shook her head.

“It was too vivid for that. When I found the strength I staggered out of bed and looked out of the window but of course there was nothing there. Everything was normal in the house, apparently. I was told by Mrs Bevan that Mr Marcus had gone back to London early that morning.”

“Mrs Bevan heard nothing during the night?” said Solar Pons, with narrowed eyes.

Miss Brentwood shrugged.

“She is hard of hearing in any event, Mr Pons, and apart from that had her own quarters on the other side of the corridor.”

“I see.”

“I lay in bed all day yesterday, Mr Pons. Apart from feeling ill I was terrified that I might be going out of my mind. The apparition of Mr Marcus hanged might have been a dream, but it was so vivid, you see. And I had a dread on me that if I slept last night I might see it again.”

“I understand that, Miss Brentwood,” I said. “It is a common symptom in such cases of shock.”

“My uncle looked in to see me last evening and was pleased when I told him I felt much better. I did not tell him anything of the incident and in any event I am too frightened of him to raise his anger deliberately. But before I went to sleep last night I took a draught and got Mrs Bevan to close the exterior shutters. I passed a good night and woke early, probably because I had been dozing all the previous day.”

Miss Brentwood paused almost as though the recollection were too much for her.

“I rose in the dawn and crept downstairs. It was turned six o’clock and the morning newspapers had just come. Imagine my terror and bewilderment when I read that Mr Marcus had been found hanged in his London house the previous night!”

I gazed at Miss Brentwood in stupefaction and even Pons’ iron calm seemed breached.

“This is extremely interesting, Parker,” he said evenly. “I do not know when I have been so absorbed in a problem.”

The girl looked at Pons pitifully.

“You do not think I am mad, Mr Pons? That I could have dreamed Mr Marcus’ suicide at The Priory while he was actually hanging himself in London?”

Solar Pons shook his head.

“It is extremely unlikely in my experience,” he said, little glints of excitement dancing in his eyes. “Pray do not alarm yourself further.”

Our client shot him a grateful glance.

“There is little more to be told, Mr Pons. I had put on my outdoor things as though I intended to flee, as I felt I could not endure that hateful house a moment longer. But as I opened the front gate I heard a noise in the back garden. It was not yet properly light but there was enough glimmer in the east to see my uncle pacing endlessly up and down the rose-garden. I went straight to the Rector and found him already up, despite the earliness of the hour. Without going into details I hinted that I had a problem that could only yield to skilled help and he advised me to come to you.

“I took the first available train but so frightened am I of my uncle that I have been wandering about all day until now, undecided; still wondering whether I have been the victim of hallucination. I cannot make up my mind whether I have seen a vision; whether danger hangs over me or whether it is past. What has my uncle to do with this? Or did I dream it all?”

“Pray calm yourself, Miss Brentwood,” said Pons, taking up his pipe again. “You have told us a strange and sombre story with a finale that would have shattered stronger nerves than yours. That your uncle does not think you fanciful is obvious, or he would not have followed you here. You may be in danger but I fancy it is now past. You say Marcus has hanged himself? Well, if that is so. it may bode ill for your legacy, Miss Brentwood.”

The girl turned a face to him in which surprise was mingled with something like contempt.

“The legacy does not matter, Mr Pons. I hope I have not given the impression that I am a mercenary person. Where my sanity and my future are concerned, money does not come into it.”

“Well spoken.” said I.

Solar Pons smoked on moodily, shovelling out blue plumes over his shoulder.

“But how could my uncle have traced me, Mr Pons?” the girl asked.

My companion shrugged.

“That is the easiest thing in the world, Miss Brentwood. He may have seen you going out at the gate in the early hours of the morning and followed you to the Rector’s house. An innocent query in that direction would have given him the information he sought. I take it you laid no constraint on the Rector in the matter?”

Our client shook her head.

“By no means, Mr Pons. I did not wish to give the impression that I distrusted my uncle. These things get back too easily in a small village.”

“Quite so.”

Solar Pons breathed out another swathe of blue smoke.

“Of course, he might merely have followed you to the station and have caught the same train. Would that be possible?”

“Quite possible, Mr Pons. I had no eyes for anything or anybody with the shock I had suffered. Then again, I asked a policeman outside the tube station the best way to this address. If my uncle was close behind me might have gained my query from the officer.”

“Perhaps,” muttered Solar Pons. “But that is of mere academic interest now. The important thing is that he suspects you of coming to me. Which might put your life in danger.”

“Heavens, Pons!” I interjected. “Miss Brentwood has been frightened enough already.”

“I am sorry for that, Parker, but it is no good blinking the facts. These are deep waters and there is little time to lose.”

“But what does it all mean, Mr Pons?”

“It means that I will take the case most willingly, my dear young lady. The first thing we must do is to accompany you to Surrey by the first available train and make sure that your uncle’s temper does not get the better of him. He may say nothing, of course.”

“How do you make that out, Pons?”

My companion shot me an irritated glance.

“For the simple reason that it was obvious when he arrived that we knew nothing of his niece. He will be off balance, to say the least. If he questions his niece about a visit to Praed Street he will give away his hand.”

“Whatever that is, Pons?” I said bitterly. “I must confess I am all at sea.”

Solar Pons smiled faintly.

“You have often had a heaving deck beneath your feet, friend Parker,” he said jocularly, “but I have always brought you safe to shore, have I not?”

“That’s true,” I conceded.

Solar Pons rose briskly from his chair.

“Is there a hostelry thereabouts, where Parker and I could put up for the night?”

“There is the Green Dragon in Peas Pleasance, Mr Pons.”

Pons shook his head.

“I think not, Miss Brentwood. That would be too close for comfort in a tiny hamlet. I think it will have to be Godalming. We would be within easy striking distance from there, providing we can hire a car.”

He reached out a lean forefinger and took down his large-scale map from a shelf near the mantel.

“Can you find the time to come to Surrey, Parker?”

“I have already found the time, Pons,” I said. “I will just make my arrangements and will be ready within the half-hour. But I am still worried about Miss Brentwood.”

“So am I, Parker,” said Solar Pons sombrely, looking down at the frail figure of the girl. “She must have a story ready for her uncle. I would suggest a sudden impulse to get away from the house as a result of her illness and concussion. Have you any friends in London, Miss Brentwood?”

“I have an old school friend who lives in Park Street, Mr Pons.”

“There you are. then.”

Solar Pons had a smile of triumph in his face.

“You must first telephone our friend and get her to corroborate your story, should your uncle check. You went to this lady at Park Street, but owing to your confused state of mind you got lost. Roseacre will think you asked the policeman the way to Park Street and that he misheard the direction for Praed Street. Of course, if he has already been to the Rector, that will not do. But I am convinced he will not question you too closely or he will give his game away.”

“What game. Pons?”

“All in good time, Parker,” said Solar Pons imperturbably.

“And now, if you will excuse me, while Miss Brentwood is telephoning, I will just take a few minutes to throw some things into a bag and we will be off. And bring your revolver, Parker. We might well have need of it.”

4

It was already dark when we alighted from the train at Godalming in the early evening and the thin mist was persisting. I pulled up my collar round my frozen ears and assisted the girl across the platform. Pons had telephoned for a hire-car and the driver was already in the station forecourt. We adjourned to the waiting room while I signed the necessary papers and paid my deposit and Pons and the girl had already ensconced themselves in the interior when I returned to the vehicle.

I drove on into the town and we stopped at The Blue Boar while Pons and I registered, were shown to our rooms and deposited our luggage. We had left the girl in the hotel lounge and over a drink in that comfortable, warm and panelled room she seemed to recover her normal girlish spirits. Solar Pons toasted her over the rim of his glass.

“These are passing shadows. Miss Brentwood,” he said. “To better days.”

“I heartily concur. Pons.” I added, sipping my whisky and soda gratefully.

Pons sat down in our alcove with its leather banquettes and crossed his thin legs.

“We must just plan our campaign, Miss Brentwood. Is Mrs Bevan to be trusted?”

“Indeed, Mr Pons. She is quite devoted to me.”

“Excellent. So she would be discreet if Parker and I arrived at the house during your uncle’s absence?”

“Absolutely, Mr Pons.”

“I hope I can rely on that, because it is vitally important. Now, what is The Priory like? For example, can your quarters be seen from the public road?”

“Oh, indeed, Mr Pons. There is only a moderate-sized lawn between the house and the front gate. The main garden is at the rear.”

“So your room is in front?”

“Yes. The central window on the first floor.”

Solar Pons nodded in satisfaction.

“You mentioned shutters at your bedroom window. It would be of the greatest assistance to us if you would fasten the shutters over your window, day or night, whenever your uncle is absent from home. Parker and I will then be able to see if the coast is clear without venturing farther than the main road and can act accordingly.”

“First-rate, Pons,” I said enthusiastically. “I could not have thought of a better scheme myself.”

“I am sure of it, Parker,” my friend returned.

“What are your immediate plans, Mr Pons?”

“Parker and I will take you home now, Miss Brentwood. We will come back on foot at about ten o’clock tomorrow morning and look for your signal. Is there any other way we can approach the house other than from the main road?”

“There is a small lane which loops round the back garden, Mr Pons; but of course, you will not be able to see the signal from there.”

Pons was silent for a moment.

“Well, we will meet that when we come to it. In the meantime I think a small reconnaissance this evening, when we take Miss Brentwood back, will not come amiss. And do not worry. With the story we have concocted and your friend’s corroboration by telephone, I do not think your uncle will dare arouse suspicion by causing a scene this evening.”

“Let us hope you are right, Pons.”

A few minutes later we left the comfort of the hotel and, directed by the young lady, drove out slowly by narrow lanes through the darkness and mist to the hamlet of Peas Pleasance. As our client had indicated, it was a strange and lonely countryside and it was not difficult to imagine how friendless and bleak her childhood and young womanhood must have been in this desolate spot.

After a while we passed through the hamlet of scattered houses and turned right at a small village green. On Miss Brentwood’s direction I steered the car into the entrance of a narrow lane, ran it in under the shadow of some trees and stopped.

“It will be best if we walk from here, Dr Parker,” Miss Brentwood whispered. “It is only a few hundred yards.”

Pons nodded, knocking out his pipe and turning up the collar of his overcoat against the bitterly cold air. We walked on the grass verge in silence, the lights of the small hamlet rapidly disappearing behind us. The mist was thickening, if anything, and our feet rustled in the dead leaves in a melancholy fashion. The only other sound that broke the silence was the occasional shriek of a distant owl.

A darker bulk broke through the mist ahead. I think I have seldom seen a more God-forsaken dwelling. A great, gaunt Gothic house with staring windows whose shutters looked like blinkers; the mist weaved in eddies round the eaves, there came the sombre drip of water from somewhere and a solitary light burned high up in the mass of the building.

“That is The Priory, Mr Pons,” the girl said, “though it is surely unnecessary for me to tell you that.”

“A forbidding place indeed,” said Pons, turning to me.

The girl smiled faintly.

“Perhaps so, gentlemen, but I have been used to it since childhood and you will find it cheerful enough in daylight.”

“Perhaps.” said Pons absently. “Good night, Miss Brentwood. Be of good cheer. We will stay to see you safely in.”

The girl shook hands with us, her manner quite transformed from that of the afternoon.

“Good night, gentlemen, and thank you again. Until tomorrow.”

“Until tomorrow.”

Solar Pons’ eyes were fixed on her retreating form. Presently we heard the slam of the front door and a short while later light sprang up in the front hall. Pons stood for a short while listening intently but all remained quiet. He turned away with a sigh.

“A brave young woman, Parker.”

“Indeed, Pons. This is a black business.”

He nodded at me through the mist as we started to walk back.

“Black enough. And dangerous enough. Though I think the crime has already been committed. It is two-fold and our man hoped to cover his traces.”

I looked at him sharply as we got into the car and I started the engine.

“How do you mean, Pons?”

He shook his head, fumbling in his pocket for his pipe, which he re-lit slowly.

“I would rather not speculate without more data, Parker. Let us hear your thoughts on the matter.”

I concentrated on steering through the white wall ahead. The lights of the small hamlet of Peas Pleasance showed up briefly and then died behind us.

“My thought are entirely jumbled, Pons. We have a young girl brought up by a brutal and domineering uncle. A legacy. A lawyer whose corpse appears at her window in the middle of the night, twelve hours before he is found hanged in London. To say nothing of poisoned dogs and rose-gardens.”

“But surely that suggests something to you. Parker?”

“It is a madhouse, Pons, from my point of view, though my heart goes out to this unfortunate woman.”

“Do not say so, Parker. She is fortunate indeed.”

“I cannot get your meaning.”

“Oh. surely it is plain enough,” he said, throwing his spent match out of the partly opened window at his side.

“Miss Brentwood may have lost a fortune but has gained another.”

“Another, Pons?”

“Her life, Parker, her life!” Solar Pons rapped. “Things could so easily have gone the other way. And very usually do in these cases. Ah, here is The Blue Boar again. I shall be glad of my bed on such a night as this.”

5

I was up early the next morning and Pons and I breakfasted in a snug oak-beamed bar. During breakfast Pons had been studying his large-scale folding map and later we drove out to Peas Pleasance intending to try the back lane of which Miss Brentwood had spoken. It was still bitterly cold at half-past nine and the mist lingered but a watery sun shone through and the day promised to be dry.

Pons was silent as we drove, his pipe emitting intermittent jets of smoke as though my companion were some engine or high-speed pump which was working at full pressure. His lean, feral face was lost in thought and presently he folded the map, his jaw set in a grim line.

“We must be extremely careful by daylight. Parker. If word gets about that strangers are in the vicinity it will make our task doubly difficult. And if our quarry spots us then the game will be up indeed.”

“I understand, Pons. Have you any special instructions?”

He shook his head.

“We must play this as the dice fall. You have your revolver, of course?”

“You insisted on it, Pons,” I said, tapping my breast-pocket.

He chuckled.

“I fancy you will find its menace a little more practical than wrestling physically with a gentleman built like a Hercules.”

“There is that, Pons,” I said, drawing the car into the mouth of a narrow lane, at his sudden admonition.

“This will do nicely, Parker,” he breathed as I idled the machine across the grass and behind a screen of heavy trees which shielded it from the road.

We got down and walked back toward the road, our feet making crisp noises in the frosty grass. Through the mist I could see the black mass of The Priory rising before us. As Miss Brentwood had said, it looked a little less menacing by daylight, though it was too solitary by far for one of my gregarious tastes.

Pons enjoined silence as we rounded the curve of the lane where it rejoined the minor road we had taken last night. We walked quietly in the grass at the roadside. There was no-one about; indeed, no other houses, which was admirable for our purposes. Nothing was stirring and not even the note of a bird broke the bleak, dead silence.

We were passing toward the front of the mansion now, a thick, densely-grown hedge masking our presence. Pons caught my arm. A moment later I saw the firmly closed shutters across the centre, first-floor window.

“We are in luck, Parker. The front door, I think, with no concealment.”

I opened the large iron gate which stood ajar and when we were upon the uneven brick path that led between the lawns to the main entrance, Pons stopped suddenly and surveyed the facade of the house.

“I see the shutters of the second-floor window over that of Miss Brentwood’s room are also closed. Parker. I commend that to you as being highly significant.”

He said no more and a moment later the heavy front door of the house opened and Miss Brentwood flew toward us, animation and relief entirely transforming her features.

“Oh, welcome, gentlemen! I am so pleased to see you! My uncle said nothing last night and completely accepted my explanation of my London trip, just as you said he would. He has gone to town himself today, by an early-morning train and I do not expect him back until late this evening. We have the whole day before us! Have you breakfasted this morning?”

Solar Pons smiled down into the earnest little face that was raised to his.

“We have breakfasted, Miss Brentwood, thank you, but some coffee would not come amiss. Eh, Parker?”

“By all means, Pons,” I said, following them into the large, gloomy hall of The Priory where Mrs Bevan, a tall, angular, middle-aged woman with a good-natured face was waiting to receive us.

“You were never more welcome, gentlemen,” she said expressively as she greeted us and it was obvious by the way she looked at our client that she knew a good deal of the story.

However, she said nothing more but bustled off to make the coffee while Miss Brentwood led us into a gloomy, oak-panelled dining-room whose sombreness was offset to some extent by its large windows which opened onto the rose-garden of which she had already spoken.

Solar Pons wandered over to the casement and looked out at the misty garden and terrace where frost sparkled in among the roots of the short-cut grass.

“So that is the place?” he said absently.

“Yes, Mr Pons,” said out client. “That is where poor Pip is buried. Will you not come by the tire?”

Solar Pons seated himself on a long wooden bench which jutted out at one side of the brick fireplace while Miss Brentwood and I ensconced ourselves on a more comfortable-looking banquette on the other side. A cheerful fire burned but the whole stamp of the place had a hard, masculine feel about it. with but small concession to the more feminine tastes of the girl.

We drank the coffee in silence and after Mrs Bevan had withdrawn Pons plunged immediately into business.

“We cannot count on more than an hour or so here, Miss Brentwood, despite what your uncle may have said. I would like to examine your bedroom, of course, but I fear we must leave not later than half-past eleven. It would not do to be caught here uninvited by your uncle.”

“Of course not. gentlemen,” said Miss Brentwood but it was evident from her expression that she was disappointed.

Pons turned to me.

“I must return to London for a few hours later today. Parker. I rely on you to hold the fort at The Blue Boar where I would appreciate you holding yourself in readiness, in case Miss Brentwood needs you.”

He smiled reassuringly at the girl.

“You have only to telephone and Dr Parker will be at your side in a few minutes.”

“Must you go, Pons?” I said, dismay in my tones.

“It is vitally important,” said Solar Pons. “I have to make some inquiries in town which can only be done on the spot. I should be back by late afternoon. Then, if my suspicions prove correct, and your uncle is still away, we will return here. Do not forget the signal.”

We were back in the hall now and Mrs Bevan was waiting to escort us to the first floor. Pons was silent, his deep-set eyes shooting glances into every corner as we ascended the stairs.

“This is my room, Mr Pons.”

Our client ushered us into a prettily-decorated chamber which faced the road. Pons went straight to the window, reaching in his inner pocket for the small leather case which contained his powerful magnifying lens.

“This is the spot where you had such a terrifying experience?”

Our client nodded, recollection of her fright still showing in her eyes.

Pons went back to the bed and surveyed the room from there. At an almost imperceptible nod from Miss Brentwood, Mrs Bevan left the room.

“May I open the window?”

“By all means, Mr Pons.”

Solar Pons pulled back the catch and slid the sash upward. He opened the shutters and leaned to the right, carefully examining the brickwork. His eyes were gleaming as he re-closed the window.

“I think I have seen enough here. I would now like to examine the apartment occupied by Mr Marcus.”

We found Mrs Bevan waiting for us on the landing and we ascended in single file to the top floor of the house. There were two doors immediately facing us, in a dimly-lit passage.

“My uncle’s room is just opposite,” Evelyn Brentwood volunteered. “Mrs Bevan’s bedroom is near mine of the floor below.”

“Just so,” said Solar Pons, trying the handle of the door leading to the room occupied by the unfortunate Mr Marcus. “It is locked, I am afraid.”

“That is unusual, Mr Pons.”

Mrs Bevan was at my companion’s side. She frowned at the lock.

“The keys are usually left on the inside, so that the occupant may secure the door at night.”

“Of course. That is the normal habit of the majority of mankind.”

Solar Pons laid his finger alongside his nose and glanced at me.

“But we are not dealing with the majority of mankind here. Parker.”

“No. Pons,” I agreed.

My companion turned back to Miss Brentwood.

“Did your uncle say why he went to London today?”

“Unexpected business.”

“Perhaps to check on his niece’s story?” I put in.

“Perhaps, Parker, perhaps. Or to inquire about Marcus’s death. He would have to do that.”

“That is not all,” Mrs Bevan volunteered. “Mr Roseacre would not let me in to clean the room yesterday. He said Mr Marcus had made rather a mess by spilling ink when working on his papers and that he would clean it himself.”

“Indeed.”

Solar Pons was silent for a moment.

“A curious ménage, would you not say, Parker, where the master himself carries out the domestic duties usually devolving in the housekeeper. Not to mention the gardener’s. I am afraid we must get into that room somehow, Miss Brentwood. It is vitally important.”

“Perhaps I can help. Mr Pons.”

Mrs Bevan stepped forward with a large bunch of keys.

“I have a duplicate for most of the keys of the house on my key-ring here.”

She fitted a large old key in the lock, her face below the iron-grey hair concentrating as she put pressure on it.

“There we are, Mr Pons.”

The door gave with a click and Pons stepped through into pitch-darkness.

“Thank you, Mrs Bevan. If you would light the gas, Parker, I would prefer the ladies to leave us for a while.”

“Just as you wish, Mr Pons.”

I got out my box of matches and by dint of striking two or three found a chandelier roughly where Miss Brentwood’s narrative had led me to believe it would be. As its yellow light sprang up, Pons quickly closed the door behind us. He looked wryly at the rumpled bed with the indentation of a head in the pillow.

“So much for Edmund Roseacre’s domestic duties, Parker,” he said ironically.

As I moved away from the chandelier my boot struck against something.

“Good heavens, Pons! The floor is covered with glass.”

“So it is, Parker,” said Solar Pons softly.

His eyes were shining as he advanced toward the window.

“I should have been surprised had it not been. That was why the shutters were kept closed.”

He looked at the shattered window thoughtfully.

“His victim was still conscious and put up an unexpected struggle. One would expect scratches on the body.”

“What on earth are you talking about, Pons?”

“Nothing, Parker. Nothing that will not keep for a few hours.”

He stared at the window for some seconds more, examined the floor carefully, then turned to me.

“You may extinguish the chandelier, Parker. Not a word to the ladies, mind.”

When I had done as he asked and waited in the landing while Mrs Bevan re- locked the door, it was obvious from the disappointment in the faces of our companions that Pons’ remarks had far from satisfied their curiosity.

“I will take that, if you please, Mrs Bevan,” said Pons, holding out his hand for the key.

Mrs Bevan looked at her mistress and then, at a subtle signal in the eyes, unclipped the key from the ring and relinquished it to Pons.

“This is vitally necessary, Miss Brentwood,” said Solar Pons as we descended. “I have only one more thing to see and then we must bring this extremely enlightening visit to a close.”

We said goodbye to the mystified Miss Brentwood and her housekeeper at the door. The mist was thicker than ever and Pons swiftly led the way round the side of the house. He opened the small ornamental gate that led to the rose-garden. I stood in the mist and watched him while he looked thoughtfully at the clipped twigs that represented summer’s abundant rose-bushes and paced the flag-stone terrace with its ornamental bench.

He gave particular attention to a small strip of terrace about eight feet long which looked slightly newer than the rest.

“That is where the little dog is buried, Pons?” I said.

“Indeed, Parker.”

He finished at last, which was a relief for I was chilled to the bone.

“Let us away, Parker. There is evil here and the sooner we lay it to rest the sooner will this unfortunate girl be released from dangerous malignant influences.”

6

While Pons was away I passed one of the gloomiest and most boring days I can remember, broken only by the excellent lunch at The Blue Boar. Afterwards I spent the leaden hours in the hotel smoking-room, looking out at the mist, waiting for a telephone call from Miss Brentwood, which would have been agitating: or another from Pons, which would have been reassuring.

At last, at five o’clock, hours before I had expected it, there came the call and I drove immediately to Godalming to pick up Pons from the station. He was fresh and alert and in excellent spirits, rubbing his hands with excitement as he stepped into the car.

“Well, Parker, all has gone well and I have my case more or less complete!”

“You astonish me, Pons.”

I accelerated out of the station yard and drove in the direction of the hotel. But before we got there Solar Pons laid his hand on my arm.

“I think we will drive straight to The Priory, Parker. This is too good an opportunity to miss. If Roseacre is still absent in London we might clear up this business tonight.”

I gave him a look in which my incredulity must have shown for he said at once. “I have never been more serious, my dear fellow.”

“What have you been up to, Pons?”

“I have been to Lincoln’s Inn; to Marcus’ old house; to the London Mortuary buildings at Islington; have spoken with Inspector Jamison and have interviewed half a dozen of the longest old fellows in the law that you have ever laid eyes on.”

“Good heavens, Pons! But to what purpose?”

“The achievement of justice, Parker. And during the pursuit of that elusive quality I have uncovered murder and fraud.”

“How does Jamison come into it, Pons?”

Solar Pons chuckled.

“The good inspector is improving. Parker. He was reading the post-mortem report when he noticed the mention of cuts on the body. He was at the mortuary when I arrived there.”

“Cuts on the body?”

“Of course. It is obvious, is it not?”

And he said nothing more until we arrived at Peas Pleasance, wrapped in mist and darkness. When we had parked the car I saw to my satisfaction and Pons’ also that the shutters were still folded blankly across Miss Brentwood’s bedroom window.

“Ah, Parker. There is still time. Even if Roseacre returns it will not matter so long as he does not come into the garden.”

He consulted his watch.

“We need one uninterrupted hour. And I must first give Miss Brentwood some instructions and borrow some tools from her.”

“Tools, Pons?”

My companion smiled at my mystified expression.

“A pick and a shovel should do nicely. After all. I have sent many scoundrels to do similar labour on the Moor; why should I not do penance in my turn?”

“You are in a curious mood tonight, Pons,” I grumbled as he knocked at the front door of The Priory.

“Am I not, Parker? Ah, Miss Brentwood, we shall not be long now in clearing this matter up. If I could just have a word.”

He disappeared in the dimness of the hallway and I heard the muttered colloquy. When Pons re-joined me, buttoning his coat against the bitter cold, he carried an oil- lamp.

“The implements are in a tool-shed at the back of the house, Parker. We will go there first.”

I followed in behind as he led the way at a fast pace. The moon was rising, clearly visible beyond the mist which now extended only to tree-top height.

Pons selected a pick and handed me a spade without a word. I trailed behind him numbly as he led the way. I looked on appalled as Pons removed his overcoat and laid it down on the garden bench. He squared his shoulders and brought the pick-axe down on the packed earth.

“Good heavens, Pons!” I cried. “You are surely not going to dig up the rose- garden. What if Roseacre comes back?”

“I expect him to,” said Pons calmly. “We shall have ample warning as Miss Brentwood will switch on the dining-room lights if he should appear.”

“That is all very well, Pons.” I grumbled. “But what do you expect to find? And how are we going to explain?”

Solar Pons leaned on the pick and smiled at me through the mist.

“Regarding the first question. Parker, I should have thought the answer obvious. As to the second, the answer to the first will render the latter superfluous.”

I gave up and watched in a sort of numb despair as he dug down about two feet.

“You might give a hand, my dear fellow,” he said reproachfully. “Just shovel the earth up on to the terrace there for the time being.”

I did as he bade and on the next few minutes forgot the biting cold of the night in the unwonted exercise. I shall never forget the strangeness of the scene; the dim light of the lantern Pons had borrowed from our client; the darkness of the night; the loneliness of the situation: the drifting mist; Pons’ lean figure bent to its exertions: and, above all, the knowledge that we were here clandestinely, engaged in illegal activities.

In another quarter of an hour Pons had enlarged the hole he had made and had taken up the central section of terrace. I was engaged in shovelling the half-frozen earth away and when I had banked it up clear of the scene of operations I turned back to be greeted by my companion’s admonition.

“Careful, now, Parker. We should be coming to something soon.”

I felt the hairs at the nape of my neck begin to rise at his words but I bent forward as he scraped carefully at the disturbed earth, behind us the dim black bulk of The Priory completely without lights on this side. Something appeared wrapped in sacking and Pons gave an exclamation of satisfaction.

“What do you make of that, Parker?”

“Bones of a small dog,” I said shortly.

“Pip, yes.”

Solar Pons looked at me grimly.

“We must go deeper yet, Parker. Time is short and we must hurry.”

7

It was eleven o’clock and still there was no sign of Roseacre. Pons and I sat in the darkened dining-room, the kitchen door at our back, my own mind filled with horror and sombre knowledge. We had made our toilet and eaten since our sinister excursion in the rose-garden and to every question from Miss Brentwood and Mrs Bevan Pons had returned a tight-lipped blankness.

Now, understandably puzzled, our client had retired to her room, fully-dressed to await the events of the evening while Mrs Bevan, barred from the kitchen, whose access door at her end was locked, sat in her pantry awaiting the return of her employer. Pons had smoked in silence, the glow from the roseate bowl of his pipe making it appear as though his ascetic features hung suspended in the gloom before me. At last I broke the silence.

“You think he will come, Pons?”

“I am convinced of it, Parker. He would need to go to London today to glean what news he could of the impending inquest and the circumstances surrounding Marcus’ suicide. Oh, he will come, Parker, make no mistake about it.”

He had hardly finished talking before the hard, hurried sound of footsteps came to us over the frozen ground of the crisp night outside. I tightened my grip on the butt of the revolver as a thunderous knocking sounded at the front door. A few moments later we heard the progress of Mrs Bevan across the hall and then a coarse, loud voice.

“Food, woman, food! I am half-starved after my freezing journey.”

The door of the dining-room was flung open to admit a shaft of yellow light and the massive, bull-like form of Roseacre lurched in. He had not seen us for we sat in high-backed chairs near the glowing embers of the fire but we could see his silhouette swaying in the doorway and beyond him, the calm face of Mrs Bevan. Though she knew we were there I again saluted her as a brave woman.

“Food, woman, food!” Roseacre reiterated, smashing one huge fist down on to the dining-table. Mrs Bevan disappeared and Roseacre moved forward, swearing under his breath. He lit the gas at the third attempt and the room was flooded with yellow light. A moment later, as his muddled vision cleared, Roseacre started back with a hoarse scream of pure terror, his trembling legs hardly able to support him.

“Who is there?” he called, shading his eyes against the lustrous glow of the chandelier.

“Nemesis, Mr Roseacre,” said Pons evenly. “No, it is not a ghost, though only a guilty conscience could turn your features to putty like that.”

“Pons!”

This time a bellow of rage and the half-drunken brute with the coarse, reddened features started forward immediately, only to be brought up abruptly as I levelled the revolver steadily at him.

“Do not hesitate to shoot, Parker, should it be necessary,” said Solar Pons equably. “The world will be well-rid of a thorough-going scoundrel and no court in the land would convict.”

Roseacre gave a strangled cry and then half-fell into an easy chair, plucking at his collar as though it had grown too tight for him.

“What does this mean?” he croaked when he had found his voice.

“It means the end of the road, Roseacre. The finish of a rogue, a bully, a liar, a cheat and a murderer!”

The big man stared sullenly at Pons, the mists of drink clearing from his eyes. I kept the revolver trained evenly upon him.

“You will sit and listen,” said Solar Pons, walking about the sombre dining-room, as though intent on the pictures on the walls. “You ask what this means and why I am here. Legally, no doubt I have no business on your property. Morally, I have every reason, as well as the sanction of your niece who is most concerned in this matter.”

“So I was right!” exclaimed Roseacre. “This is Evelyn’s doing! By God, when I have finished with her…”

“Do not blaspheme your maker’s name into this,” said Solar Pons sternly. “It is you who have finished with everything. I will tell you a story. Parker; a story about a loud-mouthed, coarse braggart who had run through a fortune of his own and saw an easy way to get his hands on his niece’s money in an effort to retrieve the immense sums he had lost through gambling and debauchery. Unfortunately, he has all but succeeded in ruining my client’s estate, though something may yet be retrieved from the wreck.”

“I do not follow you, Pons.”

“It all hinges on the events of three years ago, Parker,” said Solar Pons, looking down at the crumpled figure of Roseacre with an expression in his deep-set eyes that made him quail.

“Marcus, as you know, was both Roseacre’s lawyer and that of his niece. He was an honest man and resisted all Roseacre’s efforts to get his hands on Miss Brentwood’s money. When he was invited to stay on that fatal weekend they quarrelled bitterly. Roseacre struck him, whether intentionally or not, only he could tell us. As you have already diagnosed, his skull was shattered and he died almost instantaneously.

“In that extremity Roseacre conceived a desperate plan that would not only save him from the gallows but retrieve his squandered fortune. Some time before, he had made the acquaintance of another unscrupulous scoundrel called Reginald Ashley Fawkes. Fawkes was not only down on his luck; an adventurer like Roseacre, but a skilled forger and an unscrupulous criminal who had already served one prison term.”

Roseacre sat as though turned to stone, one hand supporting his heavy head as he stared sightlessly into the dying fire.

“Roseacre put his plan into effect at once. Working at the dead of night, when the small household was asleep he buried Marcus’ body in the rose-garden. He told our client Marcus had left The Priory by an early train and went post-haste to London to put the second part of his scheme in motion.

“Fawkes. who was not unlike Marcus in general build and appearance, took the identity of the murdered man though we may be sure Roseacre did not forge a weapon for his ally by telling him this. Fortunately for him, Marcus was a life-long bachelor with no living relatives and few friends, so the thing was not as difficult as might have been feared.

“Fawkes, who had been coached by Roseacre. rang his practice and told his chief clerk that urgent business called him to Argentina. He told him to pay off the other clerks and dispose of the practice: after deducting his own expenses the clerk, whose name was Maitland, was to send the money to a numbered bank account in Geneva. All these instruction were confirmed by letter.”

“Forged by Fawkes, of course!” I said. “How do you know all this, Pons?”

My companion smiled.

“I notice Roseacre does not deny it, Parker. Because he cannot! I have not been idle today. I went to Lincoln’s Inn and made some inquiries about Marcus, when I gleaned the foregoing useful facts.

“Mr Maitland himself was most loquacious on the matter. There was more, of course. The bogus Marcus did not give up all his responsibilities. He merely transferred them to another address in London, and Miss Brentwood’s estate continued to be administered from there. Roseacre, we may be sure, did not tell his accomplice how much money was involved, but the excellent percentage he allowed the bogus Marcus kept that gentleman silent and contented for the last three years.

“Skilfully forged documents were issued and the bank had no suspicion because Roseacre had other official notepaper printed giving Marcus’ new address and so things went on.

“Back at the priory, of course, our client noticed some changes. She has already told us about the dismissal of the gardener; Roseacre himself taking over those duties; the construction of the terrace and, above all, the matter of the dog.”

“The dog, Pons?”

“Of course, Parker! That was vitally important and I saw immediately its significance. The quarrel, the early morning departure of Marcus, the dog scratching in the rose-borders. Roseacre feared it would give away his guilty secret.”

“So he poisoned it. Pons!”

“Of course, Parker,” said my companion. “It stood out a mile. Where Miss Brentwood saw only compassion and thoughtfulness, I saw the man revealed for the debased monster he is. No wonder the wretch sat on the bench there and looked at the rose-garden by the hour. He was terrified that someone would dig it up and reveal his ghastly crime and so he had to mount guard on it, summer and winter. He haunted the dining-room which overlooks it. as Miss Brentwood has since told me.”

“So the burial of the dog…?”

“Merely provided a convenient excuse for his compassion. Now we come to the more recent events. The girl’s uncle, worried at her approaching majority, and for other reasons, decided to invite Fawkes to the house in the guise of the lawyer, to prepare the ground. Not surprisingly, the girl found him changed from her recollection, though, as Roseacre hoped, her suspicions were not aroused. As Miss Brentwood has already told us, the two men quarrelled that night over the will.

“I do not yet know the exact reason for the quarrel but we shall have it from this creature before the night is out.”

Roseacre ground his teeth. It was an astonishing sound in the sombre atmosphere of that gaslit room.

“Do not depend on it, Pons.” he snarled.

Solar Pons regarded him coolly and having made sure that my revolver was sighted in our prisoner’s bulky form, he turned back to me.

“Quarrel they did. Perhaps over the fake Marcus’ role with Miss Brentwood’s legacy imminent. How was he to explain where most of the money had gone? Perhaps they quarrelled over the money still remaining. Fawkes being unconscious of its true extent? Or did Fawkes want the remaining sum in consideration of his silence?”

Another gritting of teeth on the part of our silent prisoner.

“The latter, Mr Pons.”

Pons inclined his head.

“Thank you. You have spoken the truth about something at last. The quarrel passed but the matter was still unresolved. Late at night Roseacre crept to Fawkes’ room and tried to strangle his sleeping partner with a cord. Fawkes woke up and a struggle ensued. Roseacre had already secured the rope to the end of the bed. The wretched man tried to escape, even to the extent of throwing himself through the window.

“He went through, breaking the glass, as we have already seen. Parker. He screamed, which woke up Miss Brentwood in the room below who was naturally horrified to see his dying figure arrive in front of her window. Fortunately for Roseacre she fainted with the shock. He was able to haul up the body and tidy the room. Mrs Bevan was hard of hearing and in any case slept some way away and would have heard nothing. His niece was another matter.

“He descended to her room and found her lying concussed. This gave him time to remove the body to an outhouse and. I submit, to the boot of his car, where it remained throughout the doctor’s visit.”

“How do you know all this, Pons?”

“The sequence of events in the unfortunate Fawkes’ bedroom was perfectly clear. Parker. I immediately noted the indentations of the rope in the soft wood of the bedhead and there were marks on the floor where the bed had been dragged by the weight of the dying man’s body.

This was, of course, the squeaking noise heard by Miss Brentwood. You saw me examine the brickwork outside her room, Parker. There were clear traces where the man’s feet had scraped across the wall. Roseacre would, of course, have cleared the broken glass from the garden.

“Naturally, Roseacre had then to draw the shutters across the window to avoid the broken panes being seen outside and to make some excuse to Mrs Bevan for clearing up the room itself. It was obvious to me immediately that Miss Brentwood had suffered no dream or hallucination, though her uncle himself acted skilfully enough partly to convince her that she had.

“Now, Parker, hear this. Roseacre does not dare repeat his experiment in the rose- garden. So he drove to London in the dark hours of the night, leaving his niece in care of Mrs Bevan, the body of his victim in the boot of the car. He went straight to Fawkes’ house at Chapel Court, using the dead man’s own key. Here he had some hours undisturbed.

“He was able to stage quite a convincing if somewhat grim piece-de-theatre. After he had hanged Fawkes’ body from a beam in his bedroom, he burned a great many of his papers and documents on the grate, including some photographs of the dead man which might have proved incriminating. Fortunately, like most criminals, he overdid it. He undoubtedly threw the police suspicions in the right direction. He left enough material in the deed-boxes to make it plain that the fake Marcus had swindled his clients of money from their estates, including that of Miss Brentwood. He certainly removed any material that might have incriminated himself.”

“How did he overdo it, Pons?”

“Because, Parker, no man committing suicide, in my experience at least, would bother to burn his own photographs. Incriminating papers, old love-letters, certainly. That is understandable and natural. But self-love dies hardest of all and though a suicide for love might destroy a beloved’s photograph, I have never yet met a case where the victim of such a tragedy destroyed his own. However, this was not the only detail which guided me to the truth.

“I had already gone to the mortuary because, of course, I needed police cooperation to gain access to the premises at Chapel Court. I found Jamison already viewing the body.”

“Extraordinary, Pons.”

My companion nodded, ignoring the bowed figure in the easy chair by the fireplace.

“None other, Parker. He is nothing if not dogged. The scratches made by the broken window on the body of the corpse had worried the police surgeon and now it puzzled him. We were able to pool our ideas to mutual advantage. The finger-prints of the corpse were taken and it was soon established that Marcus was Fawkes, who had a police record, remember. On our visit to Chapel Court Jamison showed me a scrap of one of the photographs. It bore a few fragments of lettering and I was able to identify it as the cipher of Leibnitz, the portrait photographer in the Strand. Jamison went there and their records clinched the matter.”

“You certainly had a busy day, Pons!” I exclaimed in admiration.

“Did I not, Parker,” said Solar Pons, his eyes grim as he looked at Roseacre, who seemed somewhat to have recovered his spirits. Now he drew himself up and passed a hand across his haggard face.

“You are going to find this rigmarole rather difficult to prove, Mr Pons. Most of it is supposition and entirely unsupported. And as for your preposterous story about the rose-garden…”

“You were extremely clever,” Solar Pons interrupted. “You went to the police today — as you would have to give evidence at the inquest — and you bluffed it out magnificently there.”

He went to stand in front of the dining-room door as he spoke.

“But Jamison already had his suspicions. He had been to the bank and found the disordered state of affairs in the estates of Marcus’ clients. Fortunately for your niece she still has £13,000 of the £100,000 remaining and the sale of the house and contents will raise a considerable further sum so she should not be too badly off.”

Roseacre had recovered himself completely now. He drew himself up, his eyes blazing.

“You are mad, Pons!”

Solar Pons shook his head.

“We will see who is mad.”

Roseacre gave us a sneering smile.

“There is nothing in the rose-garden!”

He moved so quickly that I was taken unawares: his iron hand was on the revolver which exploded harmlessly at the ceiling. I went backwards in the big easy chair all of a tumble and as I staggered up Roseacre rushed toward the kitchen door, his only escape route.

“After him, Parker!”

I was at Pons’ heels as Roseacre kicked open the door to reveal the gas-lit interior and the ghastly cry he gave rings in my cars yet. He sagged against the door panel, his face drained of all colour. Beyond him, on the bare-scrubbed kitchen table was the remains of the rotted thing in the tarpaulin, all eaten and burned with lime, that we had excavated from the garden earlier that evening.

“You devil, Pons!” he croaked with ashen face, his trembling lips hardly able to articulate the words. “Everything you said was true.”

“I regret the Grand Guignol conclusion,” said Solar Pons evenly, “but it was entirely necessary. I hope you got everything, Jamison?”

To my astonishment a large cupboard at the side of the kitchen opened and the solid form of the Scotland Yard man. together with a burly constable appeared in the opening.

“I am obliged to you, Mr Pons,” said Jamison. “We could never have cracked this without knowing events at this end. As you suggested, we watched the stations and managed to shadow our man without arousing his suspicion. He stayed at the Green Dragon long enough for us to beat him here, with the help of Mrs Bevan.”

“You were perfectly correct, Roseacre,” said Solar Pons coolly. “The corpse of the real Marcus was not buried in the rose-garden. Or rather in the spot to which you had carefully drawn Miss Brentwood’s attention. We dug there tonight and found nothing but the dog, just as you intended if suspicion ever fell upon you. It was a considerable blow to me, I can assure you.”

Solar Pons paused, his implacable gaze fixed in the ashen face of the murderer.

“But then I remembered something that Miss Brentwood said. Even in death your littlest victim, your niece’s pet dog which you poisoned, pointed undeniably to your guilt. Miss Brentwood said that the rose-bushes had been dug up. So they had, but not from the area where you had deliberately laid the new terrace. Your niece said that the dog had been scratching about among the border up at one end. You had buried the corpse in quicklime in a place no-one would ever think of looking. It was beneath the bench on which you sat day after day in summer-time staring no doubt ironically, at the spot where you had buried the dog. I might never have realised it but for the fact that this ordinary wooden garden bench was secured at each end in two massive slabs of masonry. Something so out of the normal that it aroused my suspicion. You could not feel safe unless you were actually sitting on the corpse of your victim. One would pity you were your crimes not so atrocious.”

Roseacre gave a muffled cry and pushed past us with extraordinary strength and agility, scooping up my revolver from the floor as he ran. I rushed after him but he had already slammed his heavy study door behind him. Pons put his hand on my arm.

“No matter, my dear fellow. It is better this way.”

The heavy thunder of the explosion sounded astonishingly loud in the silence of the night. As Jamison and the constable put their shoulders to the panel Pons led me through the hallway. The fair, frightened face of our client looked over the banisters.

“What does that mean, Mr Pons?” she said tremulously.

“It means, my dear young lady, that henceforth you can live your life in the sunlight. If you will be good enough to fetch Mrs Bevan. Parker, we will escort these ladies back to town. The Priory is no place for a young heiress with such a happy future.”