Solar Pons Versus the Devil's Claw

Sixteen: DEADLY POISON

There was the hesitant sound of footsteps as Pons pulled at the iron bell-chain in the massive oak porch of Yeoman’s. Though light still lingered in the afternoon sky, a pallid mist hung over the old graveyard through the distant trees, and the harsh, discordant cawing of rooks added to the sombreness of the day. Yeoman’s was a typical hall-house of the mid-fifteenth century, I should have said, though I am no expert in such matters, and I was admiring the beautiful dark timbering against the white plaster walls, when there came the sliding of bolts behind the stout iron-studded front door.

It went back on smoothly-oiled hinges and Mrs Sarita Peters stood hesitantly in the opening. She looked white and drawn, as well she might have been, since I last set eyes on her. Gone was all her brilliance and vivacity and she almost sagged against the door-post as she caught sight of my companion and myself.

“I am sorry to trouble you, Mrs Peters,” said Pons in a reassuring voice. “But Dr Parker and I were concerned about Mr Peters’ condition and have called to see how he is.”

“Of course, gentlemen! Do come in. It is really good of you. I am afraid the maid leaves early on these dark winter afternoons as she has to walk back to Chalcroft now that my husband is indisposed, although my housekeeper lives in. Please step into the drawing room.”

We crossed the magnificent timbered hall which reached to roof height and found ourselves in an elegant apartment furnished mainly with highly polished antique furniture, the black and white alternation of oak beams and plaster walls enlivened with vivid water colours of what I took to be South American scenes.

“May I offer you anything, gentlemen? I am afraid I am forgetting my manners due to these recent terrible events.”

Pons smilingly declined.

“My colleague was concerned about your husband’s condition and would like to make an examination of Mr Peters if that would be convenient to you both.”

“By all means, Mr Pons. I believe Dr Parker said he merely needed warmth and rest. I have given him soup last night and today and then he went to sleep again. He may still be asleep but do go on up, doctor. Have you any medicine with you that I ought to give him.”

“Nothing but a sleeping draught,” I said, handing her a small packet of the powder, with the dosage written on it. “Such a strong constitution will recover of itself with rest, sleep and regular meals.”

“Andrew is certainly strong,” said Mrs Peters, some of the vivacity returning to her face and manner. “Though who could be behind these dreadful events? What do you make of it, Mr Pons?”

My companion shrugged.

“I have only just arrived on the scene, Mrs Peters. The case certainly presents some baffling aspects. Do you mind if I smoke?”

She shook her head, the mass of black hair glistening dully in the firelight.

“Not at all, sir. Our bedroom is the first door on the right at the head of the stairs, doctor.”

“Thank you.”

I went quickly across the vast hall, and up the oak staircase with its massive newel posts carved with the heads of dragons. I looked in at the bedroom she had indicated. Peters appeared to be fast asleep and I was about to withdraw when I realised that the room was deathly cold. I then saw that one of the big diamond-paned windows was wide open to the bitter air. I crossed to it quickly and found it had been secured open by its iron latch. As I went to close it, I could have sworn I saw a dim figure hurrying away between the trees surrounding the graveyard. Then it had disappeared in the mist.

Somewhat perturbed I hastily closed and secured the window and pulled the thick curtains to. I then went across to the bed and examined my patient carefully. His face was deathly cold. I was certain that had the window been left open for some hours longer the situation might have proved fatal. I went back downstairs with a heavy foreboding. Mrs Peters got up from the fireplace as I came in.

“Mr Pons and I have been having an interesting conversation. Is all well, Dr Parker?”

“Certainly, Mrs Peters. He is sleeping peacefully. I did not disturb him.”

“Ah, that is good.”

There was relief on her face.

“Will you not stay for tea, gentlemen?”

Pons shook his head.

“No, thank you, Mrs Peters. We have already taken up too much of your time.”

Our gracious hostess showed us to the porch and stood looking anxiously after us as we went down the small lane. As soon as the front door slammed I halted Pons and drew him into the side of the building. He listened with a grim expression as I outlined the situation I had just discovered. He had re-lit his pipe and its bowl made angry red stipples on his strong features.

“You did well not to mention it to the lady, Parker. No need to alarm her unnecessarily. What about the figure you saw moving away?”

“It was certainly a man, Pons,” said I. “But I could not make out the detail.”

“Well, there was nothing you could have done, old fellow. Peters is safe enough now. But just let us look about the house.” He led the way round the huge timber structure and we circled it cautiously. After going in a semi-circle in the fading light we found two more heavy oak doors. The one on the far side of the house was securely locked. We returned to the other, which was equidistant between the two extremes of this solidly built mansion. Pons gently tried the huge iron latch. The door gave inward revealing huge oak treads leading upward.

“The back stairs,” Pons breathed softly.

He mounted the stairs quietly while I waited outside. He was on his knees now, busy with his magnifying glass. He returned smiling.

“Our man came this way. Well, well, Parker. Things are becoming more interesting by the hour.”

“The person who tried to murder Peters and probably succeeded with Hardcastle?” I said.

We were back on the narrow lane again, going past the end of the graveyard.

“Perhaps, Parker, perhaps,” he said slowly. “It is more than likely that having failed with Peters he was trying to finish the job by making it look like natural causes. Pneumonia might well have ensued. You were wise not to alarm Mrs Peters. It would have caused unnecessary distress and put the would-be murderer on his guard.”

He puffed vigorously at his pipe as we set off down the lane back toward the Manor.

“But why Peters? What possible motive could he have for trying to kill him? Perhaps he had some hold over Peters and was trying to blackmail him?”

Pons’ eyes twinkled in the misty light.

“Your theories do you credit, Parker, but it is hardly likely. Blackmailers do not kill the goose that lays the golden egg. No, there is something infinitely deeper here, that will obviously take some while to unravel.”

“And why was that door unlocked?” I said. “Though the housekeeper will undoubtedly lock it last thing at night. Will you be telling Inspector Stone?”

“Of course. I gave him a promise and I am sure he would be equally open with me. But we must restrict this latest incident to the three of us. If only Peters were in a fit state to be questioned, he might be able to throw some light on the matter.”

“That is regrettable,” I admitted.

When we arrived back at the house the alert figure of Inspector Stone greeted us in the Great Hall. He pumped our hands most warmly.

“What news, Mr Pons?”

My companion drew him aside near the fireplace where the flickering flames cast strange patterns on their faces. It was a long conversation and when they rejoined me, Stone’s square- jawed face beneath the blond hair looked pensive.

“I am much obliged to you, Mr Pons. These latest developments certainly need looking into.”

Pons lifted up an admonitory finger.

“But please remember what I said about not disturbing Mrs Peters. We must interview Andrew Peters in private once he has recovered. Otherwise we may alert the person responsible for the attack upon him.”

“Certainly, Mr Pons. You have my word on it.”

Stone shook both our hands again and began shrugging on his heavy overcoat. Mulvane had appeared from somewhere behind us and now he strode forward, Tolpuddle hovering in the background.

“Will you not stay for dinner, Inspector?”

“Very kind of you, I am sure, Mr Mulvane, but unfortunately I have many other pressing duties. You may be sure I will telephone tomorrow, even though it be Sunday, and no doubt Mr Pons will apprise me of any developments in the meantime.”

“Certainly, Inspector,” said Pons firmly.

“What news?” I asked, after Mulvane and the police officer had disappeared through the front door.

“Merely routine matters, my dear fellow,” he rejoined. “You know how the official force works.”

“You have told him everything you know?”

He inclined his head with a wry smile.

“A slight correction, Parker. I have told him everything I have observed, plus your own story of Peters and the man you saw hurrying away through the mist. I have not told him of the conclusions I have drawn from the data so presented.”

His smile grew broader as he took in my expression.

“Do not worry, Parker. Stone is a very smart officer. He is quite capable of drawing his own conclusions, and he has the advantage of the official force at his back.”

I was about to reply when Mulvane returned to the hall, locking the front door carefully after him. He came across to us, rubbing his hands together and held them out to the welcoming flames of the log fire that burned so cheerfully in the hearth.

“Dinner will be in an hour, gentlemen. In the meantime please join me in the study for a drink beforehand. There is an excellent fire in there.”

“Delighted,” I said, for I was still chilly from our walk in the freezing cold. When we were ensconced in comfortable armchairs, flanked by phalanxes of leather-bound books, Mulvane busied himself with a silver tray and glasses on his desk.

“Whisky or sherry?”

“I will take Whisky, if you please.”

“And you, Mr Pons?”

“I will take the sherry. I need to keep a clear head for my ratiocinative activities.”

He smiled mischievously at me as I took the cut glass tumbler from Mulvane.

“I say, Pons,” I grumbled. “Mr Mulvane will think me a toper if you go on in this manner!”

Mulvane joined in my companion’s laughter. The former went back to sit behind his desk with his own glass, his expression serious again.

“Are you any further on, Mr Pons?”

“I am making some progress,” said Pons, lighting his pipe at our host’s extended invitation. Mulvane lit one of his own cheroots but I refrained from smoking as I found it dulled the taste of the Whisky. It was an excellent blend, as I had expected. “You have not yet found the will?”

Mulvane shook his head.

“Not yet, Mr Pons. But I have high hopes.”

“A tin box should be easy to find,” I ventured.

Mulvane gave me a wry grimace.

“Normally it would be, doctor, if this were an ordinary suburban villa, say. But Chalcroft Manor is a vast place, as you can see. My uncle could easily have secreted it in one of the attics, for example.”

Pons leaned forward in his chair and picked up his glass from the small octagonal walnut table in front of him.”

“Yes, but you are forgetting one thing, Mr Mulvane.”

“And what is that, Mr Pons?”

“Why, if someone leaves a will — especially if it is a single copy — it would be pointless hiding it if nobody knew where it could be found. Surely your uncle would have left some notation or a written description as to its whereabouts.”

Mulvane brought his fist down on the surface of the desk with a crash that momentarily startled me.

“By heaven, I had not thought of that, Mr Pons. Perhaps I have been searching for the wrong thing!”

Pons nodded.

“There is another strange aspect also. That huge door to the family vault. There is no lock on it or means of securing it. Singular is it not?”

Mulvane’s face cleared.

“Oh, that is easily explained, Mr Pons. There was a lock and a mighty big one. But it rusted away in the course of time and my uncle never bothered to replace it. It was hardly likely that anyone would wish to visit such a charnel place.”

“I see.”

The rest of the evening passed in a moody silence. Pons was busy making notes in his room so I did not disturb him as I knew that sometimes he preferred to commit his ideas to paper. I browsed in Mulvane’s extensive library where Tolpuddle brought me a decanter of sherry before the dinner hour. I did not see Mulvane all this time but I imagined he was continuing his search for the missing will in various comers of the house, The dinner hour had passed with commonplace conversation and we were still at the table at ten o’clock, an excellent repast concluded, when there came such a dramatic interruption that the memory of the events following are with me yet.

It erupted with a tremendous thundering tattoo that emanated from the great front door. As one we rose from the table and hurried out into the hall, where Tolpuddle was already unbolting it. I was close behind him and was suddenly seized by a dread premonition. A gust of bitterly cold air came in and then a hideous, distorted face was thrust into my own. I must confess I reeled backward with the shock and then saw that the visage was that of the wretched Andrew Peters. I say wretched because the estate manager was, to my trained eye, in extremis.

He still had the bandage round his head and his eyes were staring, his face blue and cyanosed. He was trying to speak but collapsed into my arms, white froth dribbling from the comers of his mouth.

“Good God, doctor!” Mulvane gasped as he and Pons joined me while the startled Tolpuddle closed the front door. I knelt by the dying man — for it was obvious to me that he had not long to live — and tried to make sense of the incoherent mumblings that came from his mouth.

Pons had found a cushion and I placed it beneath Peters’ head and bent to his lips as he was painfully struggling to say something. I could just make out the words, “I know who is responsible — ” and then he was unable to articulate further. By the alert expression on ray companion’s face I knew he had heard also.

“Is there anything you can do, Parker?” he said urgently. “This is vitally important.”

I shook my head.

“I am afraid not, Pons. There is little anyone could do for the poor fellow. It is my expert opinion that someone has administered a slow-acting poison. He displays all the symptoms of it.”

“How appalling!” Mulvane ejaculated through trembling lips. “This is truly dreadful.”

“You may well say so, Mr Mulvane,” said Pons, kneeling by my side.

“Can you speak, old chap?” I gently asked the dying man.

Peters’ eyelids flickered, he made a feeble attempt to grasp the lapels of my jacket, but the effort was too much for him. His teeth glistened in the dark beard and the blue eyes were glazed. A tear rolled down his cheek — a poignant last reaction, which I have often observed in the dying — and he fell back lifeless on the flagstones. Mulvane seemed beside himself and made an involuntary move toward the fireplace, where the telephone stood, while Tolpuddle was also overcome.

“No, no, Mr Mulvane!” Pons snapped peremptorily. “On no account must we inform the widow of this tragedy by telephone. Parker and I will call at the house just as soon as I have informed Inspector Stone and we have carried this poor fellow into one of the ground floor rooms and locked the door. There will have to be a post mortem and a police investigation, of course, but I am certain my colleague’s diagnosis will prove to be correct. I have the utmost faith in his judgement in medical matters.”

“But how on earth could this have happened?” said the distraught Mulvane, gratefully accepting the Whisky Tolpuddle presented to him, while urging the dazed butler to take one himself.

After Pons and I had carried the body into a ground floor salon and placed it on a divan before covering it with a sheet Tolpuddle produced from somewhere, Pons had a staccato telephone conversation with Inspector Stone. He had to get his home number but that energetic officer said he would be with us within the hour, together with the police surgeon, a sergeant and two constables. Pons came back from the telephone with a face taut and grim. He took Mulvane quickly aside.

“Not a word to Miss Masterson, Mr Mulvane. We do not want her troubled at this time of night. She will have to know in due course but she is already concerned at your own safety. Promise me you will stay here until we return. This creature may strike again.”

Mulvane shook his head.

“Nothing would induce me to step outside tonight, Mr Pons. I am afraid I am becoming like my uncle regarding these horrible events. Everything is blackness, I am afraid. You will give Mrs Peters my deepest sympathy, of course, and assure her — though it will seem trivial to her at this stage — that her tenancy of Yeoman’s is secure and it is my hope that she will stay on and help to continue her late husband’s work.”

“By all means, Mr Mulvane. Your attitude does you great credit. Inspector Stone will probably be here by the time we return. I presume you have enough accommodation to provide sleeping quarters for him and his men if they wish to stay the night.”

“Certainly, Mr Pons. We shall all feel much safer for their presence.”

Pons nodded.

“We will be off, then.”

As we crossed the hall, Pons whispered to me, “You might fetch your revolver, Parker. It is probably a needless precaution but it is as well to be prepared as the nights are long and dark at this time of year.”

I rejoined him in the hall a few minutes later and we set off down the misty lane, hearing the slamming of the great door behind us. Pons had a powerful flashlight with him and shone its brilliant beam into the dark shrubbery as we proceeded on our sombre errand.

“It is all my fault, Pons,” I said bitterly.

“Why so, Parker?”

“It was that open door,” I said. “Someone obviously returned and administered a relatively slow-acting poison — I suspect strychnine — to the wretched Peters before escaping down the back stairs.”

“You are certainly right there but no blame can be attached to you. It was my understanding that Mrs Peters or at least her housekeeper would make all secure at the house before they retired for the night. It would seem an obvious precaution in view of all the horrifying events of the recent past.”

“That may well be so, Pons,” I said. “I still cannot believe it. And old Hardcastle’s funeral has not yet even been arranged.”

“It is ironic, old fellow,” he said, still flashing the torch carefully from side to side. “He will no doubt join his own ancestors in the same vault, close to where he met his death.”

I could not resist a slight shiver at this.

“Why did not Mrs Peters give the alarm when the murderer returned? I assume it was the same man I saw earlier today.”

“No doubt, Parker. But I should imagine that Mrs Peters, in view of her husband’s injuries and general condition, would have slept in another room, though perhaps looking in on the invalid from time to time.”

“Well, here we are almost at Yeoman’s at last,” I said as we caught a glimpse if faint light through the trees that fringed the graveyard. “There are times, Pons, when I hate, both as a medical man and as a human being, to be the harbinger of bad tidings.”

Pons gave me a wry smile in the light of the torch.

“You are certainly right there, my dear fellow.”