Solar Pons Versus the Devil's Claw

Ten: THE MAID’S STORY

The slim beauty on the white horse had reined in her mount and was regarding us curiously.

“Mr Mulvane. Delighted to see you, sir.”

Mulvane reached up to shake her by the hand and she then descended, her fine, dark eyes fixed on us.

“These are my friends, Mr Solar Pons and Dr Lyndon Parker, who have come to help in the matter of my uncle’s death. Inspector Stone I think you already know.”

The dark eyes were clouded now.

“Ah! A terrible business and one which has brought much sorrow to the estate. Honoured, gentlemen.”

She held out a small, dainty hand to each of us in turn. She had the very faintest accent but anyone could tell by the dark mass of hair and the vivid configuration of the beautiful, sensual face that she hailed from the Latin countries.

“My husband was speaking of the matter only this morning, gentlemen. You have not seen him, Mr Mulvane?”

Our host nodded, his eyes fixed on the tall, slim woman’s face. I should have said she was about thirty or thirty-two and her well-cut riding habit was spattered with mud as though she had ridden her mount through the shallows of one of the ponds. Otherwise, the ground was too hardened with frost to throw up mud in that way.

Pons said nothing but I knew his keen, deep-set eyes were taking in every detail of the remarkable woman before us. I say remarkable advisedly because there was a quiet, resolute strength and a sort of smouldering, passionate nature inherent in her which gave a vividly exotic flavour to the mundane Buckinghamshire scene. I wondered how a man like Peters had come to meet her.

“Within the hour, Mrs Peters. He has gone down to the forty- acre wood.”

“Ah!”

She gave a brilliant smile to each of us in turn.

“I will go there then, gentlemen. I have something to say to him.”

“You have not forgotten you are both dining with us this evening?”

Again the brilliant smile.

“I would not miss it for anything… Until eight.”

The quick clasping of hands and then Mulvane helped her to the saddle and she was galloping off into the far distance, hair flying, teeth bared, until the mist had swallowed her up. For a long time thereafter we could hear the sound of the white horse’s progress until all was still again.

“A remarkable woman, Pons.”

He glanced at me shrewdly.

“Indeed, Parker. You may well say so.”

He turned back to Stone.

“What do you make of that gate, Inspector?”

Stone gave him a curious, tight-lipped smile.

“I am reserving judgement, Mr Pons. But I have my own theories.”

“Admirable, Inspector. You are of a cut after my own.”

The Inspector coloured slightly and shuffled his feet. When we were well in the way back to the house I fell in with Pons at the rear of the small procession.

“What do you really think of the lady, Pons?”

“I was glad to have the opportunity of observing her at close quarters. A great beauty.”

And he said no more. Back at the Manor, Tolpuddle announced lunch in gravely lugubrious tones and after we had changed our clothing and made our toilets in the palatial panelled rooms our host had assigned us, we descended to an excellent repast, served by Tolpuddle himself, assisted by a pretty clear-complexioned girl whose downcast eyes and timid demeanour could not conceal her innate vivacity or her attractive exterior. Following lunch we returned to the Great Hall.

After we had smoked by the fire for a while, Pons suddenly rose and went through the hall into old Hardcastle’s office. At Mulvane’s invitation, Stone and I followed a short distance behind. It struck a little cold in there and I observed as much to Pons.

“Nothing has been touched in the office since my uncle’s death,” Mulvane volunteered. “I thought it best and I had the Inspector’s full approval.”

“That is correct, Mr Pons,” said Stone. “Our people have been over the room thoroughly and I think there is little more to be observed. By all means light a fire if you wish, Mr Mulvane, as we have finished here.”

He came forward, extending his hand to my companion.

“An honour to work with you, Mr Pons. I have to get back to my office now but I will return tomorrow, when I will be at your disposal.”

“I am obliged, Inspector,” said Pons absently, his keen eyes looking beyond the stocky figure of the C.I.D. man to the maid who had answered the bell Mulvane had just pressed. I noticed it was the same girl who had served us lunch.

When Mulvane had given his orders for a fire to be lit and the girl and Stone had both left the room, Pons went round the big, panelled chamber with long strides, his eyes stabbing keenly into the shadowy comers, across the sombre, well-worn furniture; and the oak-panelled walls. As Mulvane had said the place was used literally as an estate office and the shabby condition of the fittings here bore out its years of hard use.

Mulvane sank into a big wooden-backed chair, keeping tactfully silent. I smoked placidly, while keeping alert in case Pons should need my services. He opened one or two drawers in a desultory manner, glanced across at the door, which was standing ajar, and used his lens on the desk top, the murdered man’s chair and a section of bare boarding just beyond the worn pile carpet.

Presently he went over to the big stone fireplace and raked about with a steel poker among the cold ashes of the fire. He gave a low exclamation, holding up a scrap of paper and I hurried over to see what he had found. It was a piece of blue notepaper, only a few inches across, much charred at the edges, and obviously part of a much longer letter or note.

Pons’ eyes were shining as he handed it to me.

“What do you make of this, Parker?”

I stared at it for long moments, conscious of the sudden racing of my heart. I made out, in flowing handwriting, the four letters Ange, the charred edge of the paper intervening. There was then a blank space in the roughly triangular fragment, followed by the single sentence, “I must see you”. Mulvane had joined us and we were standing in a tense group before the grate.

“It could be a woman’s handwriting,” I began.

“Undoubtedly, Parker. Anything else?”

“Addressed to Mr Mulvane’s uncle? Perhaps to lure him out of the house at night?”

“Excellent, Parker! You improve by the minute.”

Warmed by his words and encouraged by the approbation on Mulvane’s face I went on.

“The old man undoubtedly intended to destroy the letter but a fragment remained unconsumed by the flames. The fire was not lit again due to the police investigation, hence this part of the letter survived.”

“And those four letters above?”

“Angela, perhaps?”

Young Mulvane’s mouth opened in astonishment and he glanced toward the door as the sound of the maid’s footsteps came back. He turned to Pons and observed in a low voice, “This girl’s name is Angela Coutts”.

“Why, Pons…” I began, but he held up a warning hand.

The girl had approached us now but instead of making the fire she put down the copper bucket of coals, wood and paper and stood twisting her hands hesitantly.

“Excuse me, Mr Mulvane, but I should like to speak to Mr Pons on a rather delicate matter.”

“By all means, Angela.”

The girl glanced at my companion.

“I understand you wish to question all the staff shortly, Mr Pons. I would prefer to see you now, privately, if that were possible.”

She spoke in a well-modulated, refined voice and Pons looked at her keenly.

“By all means. You have no objection, Mr Mulvane?”

“I? Certainly not.”

The girl screwed up her face as if she were going to cry and then hurried on quickly as though her courage would fail her.

“I am sorry to speak so in front of Mr Mulvane, who has always been kind and courteous but Mr Hardcastle was a hard and horrible man. I have to earn money to help my widowed mother and jobs are difficult to come by or I would have left long ago.”

Pons smiled sympathetically at the girl.

“You may speak freely here,” he said gently. “What you say will not go beyond these walls.”

Angela Coutts turned her face to the floor and then went on again.

“I just wanted to say that there were many occasions when Mr Hardcastle made improper suggestions to me.”

Her cheeks were burning now.

“I am engaged to be married, sir, but even if I were not, no decent girl would have entertained for a moment what Mr Mulvane’s uncle proposed. I know nothing of his death but I must confess that I am not sorry he has gone. It has lifted a great shadow from the house.”

I looked quickly at Pons, who stood quietly, his eyes fixed on the slim form of the young maid.

“I shall have to ask you certain questions during my general examination presently,” he said softly, “but you may rest assured that they will not touch upon the matter of which you have just spoken.”

The girl looked at him gratefully, her expression lightening.

“Thank you, sir,” she said with quiet dignity and then bent to the grate.

Mulvane had already walked over toward the doorway where Pons and I shortly joined him.

“It is disgraceful, Pons!” I said heatedly.

“Is it not, Parker. But the matter does throw light into some dark comers if Mr Mulvane will not take my remark amiss.”

The young teacher shook his head.

“You may rest assured, Mr Pons, that there was no love lost between my uncle and myself. The maid’s revelations can do little more to blacken his memory.”

He left the room with an angry set to his shoulders. I then drew Pons aside so that we could talk a little more privately.

“May it not be, Pons, that this girl has seen you may establish a sordid connection between her and the uncle and has sought to disarm you by an assumed confession.”

Solar Pons stood still, the smoke from his pipe curling upward toward the hall ceiling, for we had now quit the study and stood to one side, watching the flickering flames from the great fireplace sending dancing shadows jumping across the ceiling beams.

“It may be so, Parker,” he murmured abstractedly. “You really are improving, my dear fellow.”

“You are making fun of me, Pons.”

My friend shook his head, his deep-set eyes shrewd and concerned.

“Not at all. Pray do not think so. You are constantly turning my mind in fresh directions. I find that both helpful and refreshing.”

Before I could make any rejoinder our host was coming back toward us, his sandy hair a ruddy colour in the lamplight, his face harassed and uncertain.

“So much has happened today, Mr Pons,” he muttered apologetically, “that I quite forgot to tell Tolpuddle about the placings for tonight.”

“The dinner, you mean?”

“Yes, Mr Pons. I must apologise to you also and I hope my arrangements will not incommode you. I have in fact invited other people in addition to Mr and Mrs Peters. There is the young lady from Chalcroft College, of whom I have already spoken” — and here his face changed colour again — “and my colleague, the music master. I thought the presence of others not directly involved in this tragedy would lighten the atmosphere.”

Solar Pons smiled enigmatically.

“By all means, Mr Mulvane,” he murmured. “I shall be delighted, and no doubt Dr Parker also. Their comments may throw fresh light in dark comers. Eigh, Parker?”

“Most certainly,” I assented.

Solar Pons rubbed his thin, febrile fingers together energetically.

“And now, Mr Mulvane, if you would be good enough to get your man to strike that gong in the comer I should like to question the servants at length if you have no objection.”