Solar Pons Versus the Devil's Claw

Nine: PONS INVESTIGATES

Solar Pons was the first to break the oppressive silence.

“An interesting little problem,” he observed blandly. “And one in which I am sure you will have no objection to my assistance. What do you make of it, Parker?”

I was aware of the somewhat stupefied expression on our host’s face and hastened to reply.

“It is only one more baffling strand in a case which is already almost nonsensical in its complexity.”

Solar Pons pulled gently at the lobe of his left ear, his eyes gazing almost dreamily into the depths of the fire.

“I would not put it quite like that, Parker, but I must confess I have not been so taken with the details of a crime for some time. I am sure you will forgive me, gentlemen. Professional enthusiasm, you know.”

“Of course, Mr Pons. I quite understand. I will have Tolpuddle show you to your rooms, gentlemen, and then perhaps Inspector Stone would join us for lunch.”

“Delighted,” said the Inspector. “But first, Dr Parker, perhaps you would just care to familiarise yourself with our surgeon’s findings.”

“By all means,” I said, taking the buff envelope from him. But Solar Pons was already on his feet at the slam of the front door.

“All in good time, Mr Mulvane. It is only half-past eleven at the moment. If you have no objection, I would like to go over the ground before lunch-time.”

“Of course,” said Mulvane getting to his feet. “Tolpuddle will take the bags to your rooms.”

The butler had already entered the great hall and stood discreet and almost anonymous in the dusky shadow.

“Very good, sir. Lunch is at one o’clock, if that meets with your requirements.”

“Excellent,” said our host. “I will lead on, then, if the Inspector has no objection.”

“It is your property, sir,” said the police officer politely as we all buttoned our coats.

Once outside in the biting air we waited a moment while Stone retrieved a thick tweed overcoat from the front passenger seat of his car. With his carefully-trimmed moustache and blond hair, turning slightly grey at the temples, he looked like a military man who had retired to the country. I had formed quite a favourable impression of him so far and I could see that Pons was of the same mind.

Mulvane led the way along the vast timbered facade of the house which crouched like some ominous symbol above us. Green moss and lichen discoloured the ancient red tiles of the roof and the whole place had a brooding atmosphere which I found difficult to shake off. This was partly due to the great banks of rhododendron and evergreen shrubbery which seemed to pen the house in and encroach on the gravelled drive which was sadly overgrown with weeds here and there.

But Pons seemed completely unaffected by this ambience and strode along behind Mulvane, his keen eyes taking in every aspect of the scene. The air was still bitterly cold and there was a thin mist rising here, diffusing the rays of the weak winter sun which had now fully emerged.

“This is the small lane which leads to the side-gate?”

He had paused where the drive divided, the main part going on, as I could see, to a group of red-brick and timbered stables and outbuildings fronted by a cobbled yard; to the left a path led through the dense shrubbery in the direction of the high wall of the estate.

“That is so, Mr Pons. Do you wish to see that part?”

Pons shook his head.

“I think not, Mr Mulvane. It will tell me little that I do not already know. I merely wish to get the geographical details of the estate clear in my mind.”

Our small party strode on, breath smoking from mouths, feet rasping crisply in the bonded gravel in the biting air. Pons was walking with our host now and I fell into step with Inspector Stone who wisely kept his own counsel and looked about him with bright and intelligent eyes.

We were still some way off the courtyard area, from which I could hear the sharp tapping of a hammer, when I became aware of a thickening of the mist away to the right. The trees thinned at that point and I could see the faint sun shimmering on a reflective surface below the haze. Mulvane turned at that moment, as though I had asked a question.

“That is the area of the old ponds, gentlemen. They are of immense depth and were originally for the stocking of fish for the estate. Unfortunately, they are responsible for much vapour and humidity hereabouts, as you can see and my uncle often spoke of having them drained.”

Pons nodded, his thin fingers hunched into his ulster, his hooded eyes on the ground.

“They certainly add to the oppressive atmosphere of the estate,” I ventured.

Mulvane inclined his head in the affirmative.

“Peters has a number of interesting ideas to improve things, doctor. I may give him his head.”

“I should like to see him again,” said Pons shortly. “In fact, I would like to see everyone connected with the estate if that were possible.”

“It can easily be arranged, Mr Pons,” said Mulvane. “Perhaps this afternoon would suit for the estate and domestic staff. I have invited Peters and his wife to join us for dinner this evening, if that is agreeable to you.”

“Admirable, Mr Mulvane.”

We were now approaching the outbuildings and stables and our feet rang crisp and clear on the icy stones of the courtyard. The door of a cottage to our left was suddenly flung open and a strong, well-made man in early middle-age gave Mulvane a respectful salute.

He said nothing but glanced at our small group keenly as we passed. Beyond the outbuildings could be seen the thick belt of trees Pons’ client had mentioned, and I now saw where the high wall at the left took a curious crook-leg to separate the domestic quarters from the old graveyard.

Presumably the small lane continued along in that direction but was, of course, completely hidden from us by the thick screen of shrubbery. The tapping of the hammer from the interior of one of the sheds continued now as we walked on. Pons had his chin sunk on his breast and his eyes fixed idly on the ground but I knew that his sharp gaze missed nothing.

“Tell me, Mr Mulvane, why was it that the butler could hear this high scream from the porch of the house while the people living in the stable area heard nothing?”

Mulvane shrugged.

“A good question, Mr Pons, and one I am afraid it is impossible for me to answer.”

“Why so?”

“It was very late at night when all this happened, Mr Pons, and our people are in the habit of retiring early. They have to be up betimes in the mornings. So far as I know the police questioning elicited nothing on that point.”

“That is so,” Inspector Stone put in.

He glanced at Pons’ impassive back curiously.

“No-one in the cottages heard anything. I have the depositions here if you would care to see them, Mr Pons.”

“I think not,” said my companion carelessly, following the general direction of the path, which had curved to accommodate the changed angle of the estate wall.

“It may be that someone could have heard it but was too embarrassed to mention it.”

“Embarrassed, Mr Mulvane?”

“You must realise there has been something of a reign of terror about Chalcroft, Mr Pons. The people here are rather superstitious and fanciful, full of old country tales and lore; perhaps they heard the scream and were too frightened to investigate.”

“You may well be right,” said Pons casually. “It is an interesting point, nevertheless, and one which tends to confirm my general theories.”

“And what might those be?” Inspector Stone asked quickly.

Pons inclined his head back over his shoulder and gave the C.I.D. man a somewhat mocking glance.

“All in good time, Inspector,” he murmured.

We had now come to the place where the screen of trees fell away and an old stone wall loomed up before us, broken at the end of the path by pillars bearing ornamental urns and flanking the two open halves of a massive, rusted iron gate with elaborate scrollwork. Pons was alert now and Mulvane and I fell back as Inspector Stone hurried forward to point out salient features to Pons.

There was a large square of canvas lying some yards from the gates and as Pons and the officer went forward, the helmeted head of a police constable suddenly ejected itself from the bushes.

“Ah, it’s you, Inspector,” said the young officer with the handlebar moustache, evident relief on his pinched features. “It’s been regular monotonous, sir.”

“But necessary,” said Stone sharply.

Then, his manner relenting, he glanced at Mulvane.

“If it’s all the same to you, Mr Mulvane, Entwhistle could get an early lunch now as we shall be around here for some time.”

“By all means, Inspector. Just ask your man to apply to Tolpuddle. Everything is laid on.”

“Thank you, Inspector.”

The young officer hurried eagerly up the path and was lost to view. Pons was already kneeling by the canvas sheeting and had drawn it back and to one side. He had his powerful lens out and was going over the frozen ground minutely, completely absorbed in the curious markings before him.

I knew better than to interrupt him at such a time but the Inspector had no such inhibitions.

“What do you make of it, Mr Pons?”

My companion’s lean, feral face expressed nothing but absorbed attention.

“Interesting, Inspector.”

I had joined them now but kept well back, observing the claw-marks in the ground. As Mulvane had indicated to us in his drawings they were singular indeed. They were deeply indented despite the intractable nature of the soil, which was completely bonded with frost and even the canvas covering had not melted the area, so severe was the weather.

One curious aspect of the configuration was that they were not only deep as though something of tremendous weight had stepped there but they were striated, as though some monstrous creature had repeatedly scratched round the old man’s body. Naturally, there was no mark where the body had actually lain, so it was impossible, I should have said, to pick out any signs of a struggle. The claw-marks seemed to begin about the body and made a rough, fan-shaped pattern before wandering away toward the cemetery gates.

Pons had finished now and was on his feet while the Inspector re-arranged the canvas. He next knelt by the gates themselves and examined the broken chain and padlock.

“Smashed with some tool or other, Mr Pons?” observed Stone. “That was my conclusion, at any rate.”

“You were undoubtedly correct, Inspector,” returned Pons, his deep-set eyes searching the sombre area of gravestones and monuments carefully. The lichen-encrusted tombs made a depressing background and it was not difficult to imagine the effect the place must have had on a young man like Mulvane at dead of night under such circumstances.

The teacher licked his lips nervously as though the same thought had occurred to him and stepped closer to our small group. The claw-marks went along the gravel path between the tombs, though they were now several yards apart. Pons was smiling thinly as he followed the Inspector.

“You are on to something, Pons.”

“I am reaching some conclusions, Parker. What are your own?”

“Why it seems as though the thing is making gigantic hops in its progress through the cemetery.”

“Does it not, Parker. Ah, this must be the tomb of which you spoke, Mr Mulvane.”

“That is correct, Mr Pons. It contains the sarcophagi of Hezekiah Hardcastle and his family. Five monuments in all.”

“A cosy little family group, Parker,” said Pons, his eyes twinkling. “I am sure you will forgive my levity, Mr Mulvane, but as I see by the inscription that the late Mr Hardcastle died in the eighteenth century, the event is far enough removed to avoid offence.”

“By all means, Mr Pons,” said the teacher, smiling a little. “Anything that will bring some relief to this business is welcome.”

Pons laid a hand on his shoulder.

“We progress, Mr Mulvane. I begin to see light where all was impenetrable before. You say there was no trace of the claw-marks in the vault itself?”

“No, Mr Pons. The wet marks faded out before they reached the interior of the burial chamber. And, of course, the marks within the vault itself have long since dried.”

Pons nodded almost absently.

“You saw them yourself, Inspector?”

“Indeed, Mr Pons. They were approximately similar to the impressions you have already noted.”

We had now reached the entrance to the tomb of which my companions were speaking and lichen-encrusted steps descended some fifteen feet to the rectangular doorway.

“An odd puzzle for the zoologists, Parker,” Pons murmured. “A clawed creature which apparently flies from the trees to settle near Mr Hardcastle’s body. It then scratches up the area all round the body; hops or flaps its way through the graveyard; pauses to dip its claws into water — I have not forgotten your ponds, my dear fellow! — and then simply disappears within the tomb. A remarkable animal; one might almost say mythological.”

He chuckled.

“Too good to be true, in fact. What do you say, Parker?”

“I, Pons? I am all at sea.”

“No matter. Just bear my observations in mind. Lead on, Inspector, if you please.”

The C.I.D. man had already produced an oil lamp from a recess at the tomb entrance and he lit it quickly with a match, trimming the wick until it gave an even yellow glow. Pons looked at him sharply.

“This was not the lantern Mr Mulvane saw within the tomb?” “No, Mr Pons. This is one of a number I had brought from the stables on the night of the murder.”

Pons nodded, his eyes darting round the smooth stone tunnel in which we found ourselves. I saw that the floor was covered with dust but it was also heavily indented with the marks of many boots. Stone noticed Pons’ glance and said quickly, “It proved impossible to avoid walking in here, Mr Pons. As you can see, the passage is so narrow.”

Pons’ eyes were very alert now in the golden light of the oil lamp which Stone was carrying. Our shadows were thrown, heavy and distorted, on the smooth white walls.

“Tell me, Inspector, did you happen to notice the state of this floor when you first arrived?”

Stone frowned, his disengaged hand stroking his chin.

“There were already marks in the dust here, as though a number of people had passed along.”

Pons smiled with satisfaction.

“Excellent,” he said shortly.

We followed closely behind the Inspector as he led us through the corridor. It was warm and dry, as Mulvane had already told us, and even in company it was an eerie place. Every now and again Pons would dart aside and examine the walls or parts of the floor with his powerful lens but he said nothing and his pale, lean face was completely absorbed in his observations.

After a short distance we turned a slight curve and came to the burial chamber of which Pons’ client had told us. It was a large, dry chamber, surprisingly warm and with smooth, plastered walls. There were niches here and there which had once, I suppose, contained floral tributes or garlands of some sort because in two of them were tall vases made of some heavily tarnished and discoloured metal.

The large circular space contained some five tombs of white stone or marble, with elaborately carved figures, urns and ceremonial flowers. I saw that Pons did not waste time on the pompously worded inscriptions in red and black lettering but instead focused his attention on a large, flat area in one part of the chamber. The tombs were on plinths set about in a semicircle but there, almost at the centre, was a sheltered space.

“Was this where you saw the camp bed and the stove, Mr Mulvane?”

“Yes, sir,” said the young teacher quietly. “And the oil lamp was standing on top of the first tomb here.”

“I see.”

Pons pulled at his ear-lobe with a thin, febrile hand.

“Perhaps you would be kind enough to place the Inspector’s lantern exactly as you remember it on that evening.”

Mulvane nodded and took the lamp from the C.I.D. man, its wick sending our shadows scampering and scurrying on the low, arched roof.

Pons stood back, his deep-set eyes raking round the funeral chamber, his silhouette elongated and sharp-etched against the wall.

“Excellent.”

He next turned his attention to the floor, getting to his knees and going over the area at the far side of the mausoleum with his powerful pocket lens. There was suppressed energy in his body and a glint of excitement in his eye that affected me too.

“You have found something, Pons?”

“A few indications, Parker, which tend to support some tentative theories I am forming. Look at those scratches there. What do you make of them?”

I joined Pons and peered intently through the lens he held out for me.

“They are scratched, Pons. The Devil’s Claw, perhaps?” “Perhaps,” he said enigmatically, getting to his feet and dusting down the knees of his trousers.

“Could I see, Mr Pons?”

It was Inspector Stone, his eyes shining.

“By all means, Inspector. Just take the lens if you will.”

Pons shot me a wry glance as the police officer went minutely over the floor in his turn.

“Extraordinary, Mr Pons. As Dr Parker says, they do look like those claw-marks we have already seen.”

“And yet there is a subtle difference, my dear Inspector. I commend it to you,” said Pons softly.

“You have formed some conclusions, Pons?”

Solar Pons rocked gently back on his heels, his sharp eyes raking the chamber.

“One or two, Parker. This place is very dry, for example. The marks on the floor are significant. There is a distinct smell in the air, faint but unmistakable.”

I sniffed tentatively. Now that my friend had mentioned it there was something rather musty. It reminded me of a fishmonger’s shop for a moment.

“You do not think it could be those fish-ponds in the grounds, Pons?”

My companion shook his head.

“Hardly, Parker. Fish-ponds have no such distinctive aroma and if they did the odour would not penetrate here. These small points taken together tend to significantly strengthen Mr Mulvane’s story. But we shall have to wait for events to crystallise before we are able to postulate a viable hypothesis.”

I saw Inspector Stone make a wry grimace in Mulvane’s direction and a slight feeling of amusement swept over me, even in the charnel gloom of that sombre place.

“Have you seen enough here, Mr Pons?”

“For the moment, yes, Inspector.”

We followed the trim figure of the police officer out from the foreboding atmosphere of the place. Pons was silent until we had quitted the passage and were waiting at the entrance for Mulvane to rejoin us.

“Tell me, Mr Mulvane,” said my companion. “Is there any other entrance to this graveyard?”

Our host looked startled I thought but he pointed off through the misty silhouettes of the tombs and monuments that stretched into the middle distance.

“There is a side gate farther round. It is not used nowadays but I believe in earlier times gravediggers and women utilised it to avoid opening up the main entrance.”

He smiled apologetically.

“Social etiquette was very formal in those days, as you no doubt know.”

“Just so,” said Pons equably. “I should like to see it if you have no objection.”

“By all means, Mr Pons.”

The three of us fell in behind Mulvane as he led the way round the high wall of the cemetery perimeter. After a minute or so we came in sight of a strong iron gate set into the wall. Pons went down on his haunches, examining the ironwork and hinges with great attention, his lean, feral face alive with interest.

“Hullo!” he said suddenly.

Inspector Stone’s strong face was intent and concentrated as he joined my companion.

“You have found something, Mr Pons.”

“Indeed, Inspector. These hinges have been oiled and greased recently. I commend the fact to your attention.”

He unlatched the heavy iron wicket, moving it noiselessly to and fro in its metal sockets.

“How ridiculous!” cried Mulvane. “Who on earth would want to do that?”

“Who indeed,” said Pons softly, his keen eyes looking off to the far distance.

“What is that handsome house yonder?”

Mulvane had drawn nearer as Inspector Stone bent to examine the gate in his turn.

“Yeoman’s. My estate manager and his wife live there. It is an Elizabethan property and they have made extensive improvements.”

“I can imagine,” said Pons. “Perhaps it would be possible to pay Mr and Mrs Peters a visit.”

Before our host could reply there came a thudding vibration of the turf across the parkland and a white horse ridden at a headlong pace by a tall, willowy woman with dark hair flying, erupted from the mist.

“Why, there is Mrs Peters now!” cried Mulvane. “Come along, gentlemen. There is no time like the present.”