Solar Pons Versus the Devil's Claw

Fourteen: CHALCROFT COLLEGE

“Just why are we going here, Pons?” I said, having difficulty in keeping up with my friend’s brisk pace along the frosty road. It was early afternoon and the ornate gates of Chalcroft College were beginning to compose themselves from out the mist.

“It is as well to maintain the social niceties, Parker,” he replied airily. “We have already met Mr Vincent Tidmarsh in the elegant setting of our host’s mansion. It is only fitting that we pay a return call on his home ground.”

“Good heavens, Pons,” I mumbled. “You surely do not suspect the music master of being involved in this?”

My companion turned a bright eye upon me.

“I suspect no-one and everyone, my dear fellow. I have a desire to glance at his own library. According to Mulvane he has an extraordinary taste in rare books.”

“Ah!” I said. “A pretext, Pons. You really mean to see if there is a lady teacher on the College staff whose Christian name is Angela? You have not forgotten the fragment of that half- burnt note in old Hardcastle’s study?”

Pons took the empty stem of his pipe out of his mouth. “Sometimes you really amaze me, Parker,” he said evenly. Before I could reply, a young man, tightly muffled against the bitter weather, rode a bicycle out of the main gates of the College and slowed to a halt at Pons’ signal.

“Could you direct me to Mr Tidmarsh’s quarters?”

“Ah, the College music master. I understand he is in this afternoon. Go straight past the chapel and his study and library are in the first quadrangle on the right.”

Pons thanked our informant and a few moments later we had passed an imposing chapel which looked as though it had been designed by Lutyens and turned into a quadrangle of handsome sandstone buildings with oriel windows. I followed Pons up a flight of stone steps and through the big oak doors where we found ourselves in an echoing corridor, filled with the sound of distant footfalls and voices.

“The real essence of academe, Pons,” I felt impelled to remark.

“As you say, Parker.”

My companion tapped politely on a pine-panelled door which bore Tidmarsh’s name in gold lettering. There was no reply and we went through into a handsomely appointed study with a large green-leather topped desk with elaborate gilt tooling; row after row of mahogany filing cabinets; and comfortable matching green leather wing chairs.

“It seems as though Mr Tidmarsh has found himself a comfortable billet, Parker.”

“Indeed, Pons.”

“As our man is not here it would appear that the music room itself is through yonder door.”

He was walking across the room when he gave a sudden exclamation and altered course toward a massive glassed-in bookcase against the far wall. I followed him and saw row after row of heavy leather-bound volumes. Pons had opened one door of the case and I glanced at the titles.

“The Essence of Jarloism, Pons? What does that mean?”

“An obscure 18^th-century Swedish sect, Parker. Our man is nothing if not esoteric. I should imagine this is his own private library. One may learn much from a man’s preference in reading material.”

“As you say, Pons.”

He was easing out volume after volume now and he paused to remark over his shoulder, “I’d be obliged if you would open the music room door a crack to see if our friend is about. I would not wish him to think that we are prying into his private affairs. As we are, of course,” he added with a tight smile.

I did as he bade and opened the door an inch or so.

“Mr Tidmarsh is sitting at one of the far desks studying papers under a shaded lamp,” I whispered. “There are about a dozen students present.”

“Good,” said he.

He gave a sharp exclamation at this point.

“You have found something, Pons?”

He held up a red cardboard folder and I crossed quietly to read the title on the cover: THE LEGEND OF THE DEVIL’S CLAW.

“Good heavens!” I said.

“You may well say so, Parker.”

He went through the typed sheets swiftly.

“But this is not conclusive. It is merely a copy of the entry in the volume about which I telephoned the British Library.”

“But this may be more to the point,” I said, reaching out for another volume.

“Ancient Folk Tunes of Old Ireland, Pons!”

“You are quite right, Parker,” Pons commented, with a twinkle in his eye. “I think we have learned something this afternoon.”

He quickly replaced the material in the case, closed the door and turned the key. We went out the Librarian’s study the way we had come in, walked along the corridor outside and entered the music room by the main doors. Tidmarsh had seen us coming and got up quickly and came toward us, holding out his hand with a ready smile.

“Dr Parker! Mr Pons! This is indeed a pleasant surprise. Though I do not know what brings you here this inclement afternoon.”

“Merely a social call, Mr Tidmarsh,” said Pons easily. “We were out for a walk and came though the College gates on impulse.”

He glanced round at the intent figures bent over their desks.

“I understand all the students had left for the Christmas vacation.”

Tidmarsh gave a short laugh. “Oh, these young men all live within a radius of about seven miles. Some are studying, others merely reading for pleasure.”

He shrugged. “I should imagine some of them may be bored by being cooped up at home in such weather as this. But will you not step into my study, gentlemen, for a glass of sherry. I keep a good cabinet full of healing waters, if I do say so myself.”

“You are very kind, Mr Tidmarsh,” I said.

“Not at all, gentlemen, not at all.”

We followed him straight back to the far end of the library and he ushered us through the door into his study. We were soon ensconced in two deep leather chairs while the music master bustled about with glasses and a decanter.

“I think you will find this excellent, gentlemen. I get it in cask from a firm in St James.”

“Indeed,” Pons said gravely, taking a tentative sip. “You have not exaggerated, sir.”

“Certainly not,” I said.

Tidmarsh suddenly paused as though on a sudden impulse.

“I have something interesting to show you, gentlemen. No, please don’t get up.”

He crossed over to the glass-fronted bookcase and took down the folder with the red cover, which I instantly recognised.

“The Legend of the Devil’s Claw! I think you will find it of great interest. Obviously the source of these silly tales that are circulating following poor Mr Hardcastle’s mysterious death. I had it copied through a friend of mine, a professor at the British Library.”

“Extraordinary,” Pons murmured, giving me a warning glance over the rim of his glass.

He took the folder Tidmarsh extended to him and pretended to study it intently, as though it was the first time he had seen it. Presently he passed it to me.

“Most interesting,” he told our host.

“What do you make of it, Mr Pons?”

My companion shrugged, holding his glass up to the light, with an appreciative expression on his face.

“This really is the most superb sherry.”

“Allow me to press you to another glass. But you have not answered my question.”

“It was a difficult one,” Pons said slowly. “There are a number of very tangled threads in this case. I cannot pass any judgement at the present time.”

Tidmarsh got up from his own chair to replenish Pons’ glass and then did the same for me. He resumed his seat and raised his own glass in silent salute to the two of us.

“That is most disappointing, Mr Pons. I had expected something extraordinary, given your reputation.”

Pons gave him a wry smile. “I am not a miracle worker, Mr Tidmarsh. I only wish I were. I have seen too many distressed people in my consulting room over the years. I am thankful to say I was successful in a goodly percentage of those cases but inevitably there were others where I was not able to arrive at a veritable truth. This may be one of them.”

Tidmarsh took another delicate sip at his glass. His eyes looked blank and his pallid face accentuated the black moustache.

“I am indeed sorry to hear you say so, Mr Pons.”

“C’est la vie,” Pons murmured, turning again with an appreciative air to his sherry glass. He looked across at me with a sharp, penetrating gaze.

“Tell me, Mr Tidmarsh,” he said abruptly, “what do you think of this murderous attack on Mr Peters? I presume you have already heard about it?”

A shadow passed across the music master’s face.

“Yes, indeed. Mr Mulvane telephoned me at lunch-time. I did, in fact, call at Yeoman’s an hour or so ago, but Mrs Peters said her husband was resting and recovering, so I did not actually see him. A terrible accident, perhaps?”

Pons shook his head.

“Hardly an accident, Mr Tidmarsh. A man cannot receive a terrific blow on the head out of a clear sky when he is standing on the bank of a pond with no other human being apparently nearby. You can testify to the ferocity of the attack, can you not, Parker?”

“Certainly. It was a murderous blow and the push that propelled the unfortunate Mr Peters through the ice was intended to be the coup de grace in my opinion.”

Tidmarsh bit his lip.

“I did not quite understand, gentlemen. Mulvane was somewhat reticent on the telephone and as Mrs Peters did not volunteer any detailed information I put her reaction down to her overwrought condition.”

“Quite understandable,” said Pons crisply. “But you may take it that the situation is as I have already described it. Just another strand in this bizarre tangle.”

He got up with a quick movement, putting his glass down on a polished mahogany table at his elbow.

“But we have already taken up far too much of your time. This was purely a social visit and I have no doubt your students will need to call on your expertise even though this is a Saturday afternoon. Good day to you.”

Tidmarsh got up to shake hands with both of us.

“You have given me much food for thought.”

We were back in the corridor again before Pons spoke.

“Well, I am waiting for your impressions, my dear fellow.”

“I cannot make it out, Pons. I was sure Tidmarsh was a prime suspect until he suddenly produced the dossier on the Devil’s Claw and it has thrown all my suppositions awry.”

My companion gave me a crooked smile.

“Ah, there are your imponderables, Parker. They always throw one off the track. Human nature is often unpredictable. That is why the current problem is so fascinating.”

“I am glad you think so, Pons,” I grumbled. “I must confess I am all at sea.”

He gave me one of his enigmatic smiles.

“It would not be the first time…”

He paused.

“There, if I am not mistaken, is Miss Masterson in the far distance. A fortuitous meeting, as it turns out. One may learn a great deal from a lady; things that would never occur to a man.” “As you say, Pons. I presume from her presence here that she must live in the College.”

“That is so, Parker. According to Mulvane her home is somewhere in the north of Scotland.”

“Ah, that explains it.”

The young lady had reached us now, somewhat flushed and animated but her eyes were shining. Evidently she had not heard the news about Peters. I wondered why Tidmarsh had not told her but perhaps there had not been time. It was obvious why Mulvane would not have wished to worry her further. She shook hands formally and then fell into step with us along the corridor.

“It is good to see you again, gentlemen. Your coming has been such a relief and I know that Hugh sets great store on your intervention in this terrible business.”

“That is good to know, Miss Masterson, but one must not expect too much. I have no supernatural powers, whatever the popular press may say.”

But there was a twinkle in his eye to which Miss Masterson responded at once.

“I have followed your cases, Mr Pons, and the splendid chronicles of the doctor here and I know you would not be persevering unless you could see some light in this affair, however dim.”

I must confess her praise at my humble auctorial efforts brought a flush to my cheeks but neither my companion nor our fair interlocutor seemed to have noticed.

“That’s as may be, Miss Masterson. But I am glad we have run into you. I would like to ask you a question or two in order to clear up a few points.”

“By all means, Mr Pons.”

As though by common consent we three had drawn into an angle in the corridor though there was no-one in view in all the echoing length of the passageway to be witness to the conversation.

“I wanted to ask about old Mr Hardcastle’s will. Mr Mulvane has not yet seen a copy, I presume?”

The girl shook her head.

“I am not really sure, Mr Pons. This whole thing had been such a shock that there was little time to consider such matters. Though I do believe that Hugh said that the old man’s will was kept in a tin box in his office. Hugh had some expectations of inheriting the estate and I told him many months ago, that as he was Mr Hardcastle’s only surviving relative, he was sure to inherit.”

She paused and then went on with a smile.

“Unless he cares to leave everything to a cats’ and dogs’ home!”

She passed a pink tongue across her full lips and both Pons and myself were constrained to return her smile.

“I am certain that that would never be the case, Miss Masterson,” said Pons. “I fancy he would want things to carry on as before, though I am certain that Mr Mulvane’s regime will be far more liberal than the old man’s.”

The girl pushed a lock of fair hair back from her eyes before turning to look over her shoulder to make sure the whole sweep of the corridor was empty.

“You can be sure of that, Mr Pons.”

“Especially if you were the mistress of Chalcroft Manor,” said my companion with a grave face.

The girl flushed and looked from one to the other of us.

“Ah, you have noticed that, Mr Pons. Apparently nothing escapes your attention.”

“I do try to keep my eyes open,” Pons replied. “Incidentally, I would prefer you to keep this conversation to yourself for the moment. I would not wish Mr Mulvane to misinterpret my motives in inquiring about the will.”

“Certainly, sir. I quite understand. But there was something else you wished to ask?”

“Only in general terms, Miss Masterson. It was just whether you had seen or heard anything suspicious about the estate over the past few months. I presume Mr Mulvane has taken you into his confidence regarding his problems.”

The girl bit her lip and turned her eyes to the floor. The rime of frost on the window pane opposite cast a stippled light across her features but without destroying their beauty.

“I knew he was troubled, Mr Pons, but he did not want to involve me too deeply in this business as he knew I would only worry on his behalf.”

“I see. Perfectly natural, Miss Masterson. You may be sure I will keep you au fait with any progress in the case as matters develop.”

“I am most grateful. And now, if you have no further questions, I have an appointment in the village. Doctor, Mr Pons.”

Again she shook hands formally and had then gone along the corridor, with quick, hurried steps, as though her heart were lightened.

“A nice girl,” I said as we once again returned to the bitter air of the outdoors and left the ornate gates of Chalcroft College behind us as we strode back along the misty lane that led to Chalcroft Manor.

“Apparently she has not heard about Peters.”

Pons turned sombre eyes to me.

“I should imagine he had no wish to worry her further. She is already burdened with Mulvane’s troubles, far more than she shows on the surface. Let us hope that I will be able to set all her fears at rest in due course.”

And he lapsed into silence as we strode on through the mist.