Solar Pons Versus the Devil's Claw

Twelve: IN THE GRAVEYARD

I was up betimes the next morning and had joined Pons at the breakfast table a little after eight o’clock. It was a fine, bright day with hazy sun though there had been a severe frost and ice rimed the small-paned windows of the dining room, despite the heat given off by the log fire. It had been a cheerful and entertaining meal the previous night and I felt I had gained a little more knowledge of our companions before the evening was over.

I had had no time to discuss the case with Pons and he had disappeared immediately to his room as soon as we and Mulvane had seen the parting guests to the door. It was after midnight by then. Mr and Mrs Peters had come in their closed car but the other two guests had arrived by taxi from the College and the estate manager and his wife had insisted on taking them back.

I had slept well though I had pondered a while on Pons’ somewhat cryptic remarks and now I was full of questions as I joined him in front of the silver dish covers that Tolpuddle was just removing to reveal the heaped mountains of bacon and sausages from the hot-plates covered with fried eggs. Pons enjoined silence with a subtle flicker of his eyelids and we restricted our conversation to commonplaces until the maid had left the room and Tolpuddle had resumed his station at the huge sideboard out of earshot.

Our host had not yet put in an appearance and it was as though we were quite alone in the vast apartment.

But Pons maintained his silence and it was not until we had almost finished out repast that Mulvane put in an appearance. He looked a little less tense than yesterday, I thought.

“My apologies, gentlemen. I do hope you have been looked after.”

“Excellently,” said Pons. “You have remembered my instructions from last night?”

“Indeed, Mr Pons. You have only to ask at the cottage.”

“And you will evince no surprise or confusion no matter what I choose to say publicly about the will?”

Mulvane sat down at the head of the table, waiting until Tolpuddle had placed the heaped plate before him and withdrawn to his station by the sideboard.

“I am entirely in your hands, Mr Pons. If only this horrible thing were lifted from my mind and heart.”

My companion finished off his coffee and put the empty cup down in a silence only broken by the distant crackling of the fire.

“Have courage, Mr Mulvane,” he said soothingly. “We shall soon put matters to rights, have no fear.”

“I am indeed reassured to hear you say so, Mr Pons. You will be back in time for lunch?”

“I hope so. In the meantime I would be glad if you could remain here in case Inspector Stone rings with any message. You will find us at Chalcroft. The village is not very large, I fancy. And a telephone message would reach us via the post office. I will call in there well before lunch-time.”

“Very well, Mr Pons. It shall be as you say.”

I had listened to this conversation with mounting curiosity but now I was considerably surprised and not a little irritated when Pons rose abruptly from the table, reaching for his pipe. I had not quite finished my coffee and I was forced to gulp it down quickly, to our host’s evident amusement.

“Adieu, Mr Mulvane,” Pons said crisply.

I trailed behind him into the hall where the maid reappeared with our thick outdoor clothing. Pons silenced my protests with a penetrating glance from his deep-set eyes.

“I apologise for my abruptness, Parker, but as I have already observed we have much to do today. And I must bait the trap before dark.”

We had already crossed to the door of the porch and the girl was out of hearing now.

“I do not know what you are talking about,” I grumbled. Pons allowed himself a thin smile.

“It would not be the first time, Parker.”

Then we were outside in the freezing air. To my surprise my companion shunned the driveway and went to the right, along the great facade of the Manor which loured over us, and set his course toward the stables. There was a thin mist rising from the cobbles but despite the bleakness of the day, the weak sun obscured by haze, there was much evidence of life from the estate employees; the clatter of footsteps on the setts; the noises of livestock; a hammer sounding from a forge and once, as we passed a half-open doorway, we saw two men intent on their task of cutting up logs on a mechanical saw-bench.

A tall, broad-shouldered man with mutton-chop whiskers was waiting for us in front of the last cottage in the row. He saluted as Pons came up and produced a huge metal tool, rather like an enormous pair of garden shears.

“Mr Mulvane told me you would be needing these, sir.”

His piercing grey eyes looked at Pons with intense curiosity but he asked no questions.

“If you would leave them yonder when you have finished I will get one of my men to pick them up in due course.”

“Very good, Smithers. And thank you.”

The man saluted again and turned away as Pons carried the heavy tool in his gloved right hand, moving aside into the shadow of the trees as we followed the estate wall along. In a few moments more we came to the misty outline of the cemetery gates. As we drew closer we could see that they were closed and chained.

Pons’ eyes were bright and penetrating as he stared about him, the only sound now the melancholy cawing of rooks from the area of the distant lakes.

“Exactly as I thought, Parker.”

He bent to examine the chain and padlock which secured the two halves of the gate.

“These are new, Parker. You remember the chain had been broken before and the gate was already open.”

“Inspector Stone? Or Mulvane…?” I began.

Pons shook his head, a faint smile on his lips.

“This has been done by other hands, my dear fellow. By people who do not want their affairs examined too closely.”

I must confess I felt a slight prickle of excitement as I stared about me in this decayed and sombre place. But Pons seemed oblivious to the atmosphere. He bent quickly, fitting the curved ends of the huge metal pincers round the links of the heavy chain. There was a metallic click and the two broken segments of one link fell away. Pons cleared them with a grunt of satisfaction. Then he put the pincers down on a nearby stone mounting block and put all his strength to the right-hand wing of the gate.

The hinges went round with a wild shrilling that set my teeth on edge. The sound was so unexpected and penetrating to the eardrums that I staggered back, putting my hands over my ears. Pons laughed shortly at my expression.

“How did you know about this, Pons?” I asked, staring at the huge pincers on the stone.

Pons pulled gently at his left ear-lobe in a gesture I had grown to know well.

“Intuition merely, Parker. But the pieces are beginning to come together. There is your screaming! That is what Mulvane heard in the dead of night near the cemetery wall.”

I stared at him in astonishment.

“You are right, Pons!”

“Am I not, Parker?”

“But what was the point?” I said. “Surely not to draw attention to what was going on here.”

Solar Pons shook his head impatiently.

“You are tackling the question from the wrong end, Parker. Remember those little ratiocinative lessons which you have been good enough to accept from my hands.”

I took a step toward him.

“It was a signal, Pons?”

“Good,” he observed. “It is my opinion that it served a twofold purpose. To let the person approaching know that for some reason or other it was not safe to go there. And perhaps to frighten any of the superstitious locals who might be about at that late hour.”

“There is something diabolical here, Pons,” I muttered.

“You are right, Parker,” he said equably, setting the gate screaming on its hinges again. Nothing stirred in the silvery mist that blurred the huddled gravestones of the old burial ground. Then Pons replaced the gate as he had found it and fixed the padlock and chain so that it looked, at a cursory glance, as though it were still secure; then he moved so swiftly along the cemetery wall that I was hard put to keep up with him. In a minute or so the wicket gate loomed up out of the mist. My companion bent and examined the iron structure with bright eyes. It was unlocked and as he tested it with his right hand it went round on smoothly greased hinges, just as it had on the previous occasion.

“Singular, is it not, Parker?” he said softly.

“I don’t follow, Pons.”

Then I saw his drift and before he could reply I went on. “Ah, yes, the main gate. Obviously, no funerals have taken place here for many years. But this small gate is probably used by estate workers when they cut the grass and tidy the area.”

Pons had a thin smile on his face as he sucked on-his empty pipe stem.

“Perhaps, Parker, perhaps,” he said slowly.

He led the way back through the side lane to the postern gate in the estate wall, enabling us to join the main highway a good deal farther down.

After a brisk walk of some twenty minutes, during which we were both silent, we passed the imposing entrance gates of Chalcroft College and soon after came once again into the main street of Chalcroft itself, which now presented a scene of bustling animation. I realised it was Saturday and people were busy about their shopping, while smart motor vehicles and pony carts were drawn up in front of the imposing inns, including The Three Cardinals, and public houses we had passed on our arrival.

Accustomed as I was to the somewhat eccentric behaviour of my companion I was nevertheless more than surprised when he asked me to wait on the pavement while he went into a large ironmonger’s shop. I saw him through the window engaged in an earnest conversation with a black-coated assistant and in a few minutes he had emerged carrying a small brown paper parcel tied with string. There was a look of suppressed excitement on his sharp, feral features that had not been there before.

“I have just two more calls to make in the middle of the village, Parker.”

“The lawyer’s?”

He nodded.

“And the library. I see it is just before us. Let us enter without further delay, though I fear it may be too small for the type of reference work I seek.”

He led the way forward to the imposing sandstone building and while he occupied himself in a prolonged conversation with a forbidding-looking young woman wearing horn-rimmed spectacles in the reference section, I occupied myself with a perusal of that morning’s Times in the reading room, which was separated from the reference area by a clear glass screen. Presently he rejoined me with a wry expression on his face.

“It is as I thought, Parker. The work I seek is not held in stock. We shall have to call in at the Post Office opposite; it would be too tedious and time-consuming to have to return to London for such a relatively simple matter. But as it is vital to my inquiries I must try to get the answer today.”

I followed him into the small, wood-framed post office building and after Pons had had a short conversation with the postmaster, Sheldon, a portly middle-aged man in a faded grey suit, he entered a large wooden booth set against the near wall. The only other person at the dark mahogany counter was an elderly woman filling in some sort of official-looking form, and as the postmaster had retreated into a large glass cubicle which I supposed was his private office, I had little to do but watch pedestrians passing in the street outside. My reveries were interrupted by Pons beckoning me into the booth; it was a spacious structure with a wooden shelf and two wooden stools and I seated myself while my companion waited for his connection.

“There is nothing private about this, my dear fellow,” he said. “But I would not wish my inquiries to get about the district so I would appreciate it if you could warn me if anyone approaches too closely.”

I slewed my stool toward the glass window and kept watch while Pons was obviously connected, judging by the clicking noise from the telephone. He glanced round quickly, lowering his voice to a whisper.

“London Library? I wish to speak to Professor Brewer. Yes, I will hold.”

He spoke to me over his shoulder.

“If you have a sheet of paper and a pencil I would be obliged, Parker.”

I rapidly searched my pockets.

“Will this envelope do?”

“Admirably.”

His party was on the line and after a few pleasantries Pons asked, “Have you any volumes on legend and superstition? I’m looking for anything pertaining to an old folk tune, The Devil’s Waltz.”

I looked at him sharply but he had his eyes fixed through the glass window of the booth, his hand held over the mouthpiece of the telephone. Presently Brewer came back again and the conversation resumed. Pons drew in his breath.

“Admirable, John. I thought as much. Would you mind reading it to me?”

The pencil fairly danced across the paper as he covered the envelope with his minute, precise writing.

“Yes, yes,” he was saying. “All I wanted to know. We must have dinner together some time.”

His eyes were gleaming as he put the receiver down.

“We progress, Parker. I will explain in good time.”

He was out of the booth before I could say anything and I regained the street while he paid the postmaster. A few moments later he rejoined me on the pavement, returning my pencil and placing the envelope with his notations with great care into his wallet.