Solar Pons Versus the Devil's Claw

Eighteen: PONS IS ENIGMATIC

Late down as I was, Pons was later still. We two and Mulvane ate breakfast in a strained silence and the atmosphere was not improved by the thick fog that curled at the windows. Afterward, Mulvane excused himself and went out on various errands about the estate, after expressing his intention of calling to offer his condolences in person to the unfortunate widow. Later, Pons sat smoking by the fire in our client’s study, while I settled in a comfortable chair opposite, trying to pay some attention to that morning’s Times, which had just been delivered.

Presently Tolpuddle appeared at the door to say that my companion was wanted on the telephone. He returned in ten minutes or so, rubbing his thin hands together, an alert expression on his face, that told me he was making progress on the case, most aspects of which were baffling to me.

“That was Stone. An able officer. There has been a preliminary post mortem on Peters. As I thought, you have been proved right, old fellow. Though the pathologist, of course, would not commit himself definitely until he has completed all his tests, all the indications are that some slow-acting corrosive poison was administered to the unfortunate Peters in liquid form as he lay asleep. It would taste like medicine but would start its deadly action within ten minutes or so. That was why Peters found the strength to run here not only to get medical help but to indicate the murderer. If only he had stayed conscious for another few minutes.”

“It is indeed unfortunate, Pons,” I observed.

“However, we must raise our edifice with whatever bricks are to hand,” he said, sinking back into his fireside chair. “Just let me have your thoughts on the case. Sum it up, if you will, as succinctly as may be. I always find your observations invaluable, even though sometimes they may be a little wide of the mark.” “Very good of you to say so. Old Hardcastle was murdered, possibly to get possession of Mulvane’s estate, by a person or persons unknown, as they say. Though terrified of a secret sect called the Ram Dass Society, he nevertheless went out late at night to the old graveyard on numerous occasions. Though the weather was bitterly cold, he had earlier been naked when found near the vault, apparently stabbed with something like a thin stiletto, and then dressed in his own clothes afterward. Local people have been alarmed by the activities of some beast which leaves strange tracks known locally as the Devil’s Claw. The same marks were found round the body of a dead tramp in the woods, as well as that of old Hardcastle.

“A weird tune whistled in the graveyard at dead of night turns out to be an old Irish air known as The Devil’s Waltz.

“Vincent Tidmarsh, the music master at Chalcroft College not only has a typescript of the legend but probably knows about the old air from the book of ancient Folk Tunes of Old Ireland we found in his bookcase. Conversely, he was quite open about these things, and himself drew them to our attention.”

“Admirable, Parker,” said Pons as he sat with his eyes closed, ejecting a fragrant plume of smoke from his pipe. “Pray continue.”

“Then we have a number of equally baffling things,” I went on. “Wet claw-marks on a bitterly cold night when everything was frozen solid. The same claw-marks going into the vault and not returning. A secret chamber, in which the murderer secreted himself, until the hue and cry had died down?”

“Perhaps, Parker, perhaps,” said my companion dreamily, his eyes still closed, though I knew his brain was working at full speed.

“The strange perfume in the vault. His lawyer in the Bahamas for several weeks at this crucial time, so that we are unable to find out who is the beneficiary. No such will lodged at Somerset House. And we must not forget the malicious rumours spread about Chalcroft to blacken Mulvane’s character.”

“You are right on track, old fellow.”

Warming to his implied praise, I pressed on.

“Miss Masterson knows nothing of the matter but Mulvane is extremely worried, both for his own safety and hers. The attacks on Peters are equally baffling. No less than three attempts on his life by an extremely daring murderer, who struck again and again, finally being successful. So daring, in fact, that he risked going to Yeoman’s not once, but twice.”

“I commend that unlocked door to you, Parker,” Pons put in sharply.

I stared at him open-mouthed.

“You surely do not suspect someone inside the house? The maid or the housekeeper, perhaps?”

“We must not overlook any possibility.”

“We are involved in a diabolical web of intrigue and murder, Pons,” I said.

“Are we not?” he replied with satisfaction in his tones.

I did not reply to that as I realised that my companion was working within parameters that were normal to him, though abnormal and baffling to the man in the street. That did not mean to say that Pons was devoid of pity for the people involved; on the contrary, he had deep sympathy where the victims of crime were concerned, but he had an iron will and always kept his inner feelings well under control.

“Then we have the note in the grate, Pons. Whoever made the assignation was writing to Ange, if I remember correctly. One of the maids is called Angela.”

Pons gave a short, barking laugh.

“You are not still on that tack, Parker. I thought we had disposed of that supposition. And you have got the facts the wrong way round, old fellow. The note was to old Simon Hardcastle, not from him. And as for Ange… try Angel. A term of affection used among lovers, I am told.”

“You may be right, Pons,” I mumbled.

“Undoubtedly,” said he in a rather smug voice. “But you are certainly correct in your admirable summing-up of the case, so far as it goes.”

“Have I missed anything out, Pons?” I asked.

“There are a few other indications worth pursuing, Parker, but I think we may leave these aside for the moment. As you know I dislike working without sufficient data.”

“As you wish. But where do we go from here?”

Pons tented his thin fingers in front of him and stared moodily into the fire.

“That is rather up to our opponents. At the moment we are working with one hand tied behind our backs.”

“Opponents, Pons?”

He smiled grimly in the firelight.

“I fancy this is a case where thieves fell out. I sense a conspiracy somewhere to get hold of the estate.”

“Good Lord, Pons!” I cried. “You surely do not think Peters may have been involved in something underhand?”

“I exclude nothing. Money talks and there is a vast sum involved here with the Manor itself and such a huge estate. Apart from any money the old man may have left. Hardcastle is eliminated. That leaves only Mulvane in the way of a fortune. Desperate men — as we have seen in action so far as Peters is concerned — may do anything under pressure, especially when the stakes are high. Do not forget that Peters was more or less master of the estate and its financial affairs — albeit under the direction of the old man. Mulvane only relatively recently came into the picture. Things may have been stirring in envious minds for years. Supposing an unscrupulous colleague put suggestions in Peters’ mind. This is all supposition, of course, as nothing can now be proved, unless any documentary evidence turns up, and I very much doubt that.”

“You mean someone subordinate to Peters who worked on the estate?”

“It is not beyond the bounds of possibility, Parker. Conversely, there is another theory. That Peters, absolutely in charge of the estate in its day-to-day running, stumbled on to something suspicious. A plan hatched by a cunning mind, as I have formerly intimated, to get hold of the Hardcastle fortune.” “You cannot mean it, Pons!”

“I am deadly serious, Parker. He would probably not have confided in anyone, until his suspicions were confirmed. But then suppose that the murderer himself suspected that Peters was a threat and decided to remove him from the scene to avoid exposure. We are dealing with a devilish plot here, old fellow. Unless he makes a false move it is difficult to see how we can make progress until he reveals his hand.”

“You have given me much food for thought, Pons.”

“There is, of course, yet another aspect,” my companion went on, leaning forward in his easy chair.

“And what might that be?”

Pons smiled affectionately.

“I feel we should leave things as they are for the moment. I do not wish to overburden your mind with too many possibilities.”

“As you say, Pons,” I deferred. “We have certainly a number of avenues to explore.”

“We are in a difficult position now,” he went on, “especially if Mulvane is in danger, because we do not know from what direction it may come.”

“Heavens, Pons!” I said, starting forward in my chair.

“If young Mulvane is alone about the estate…”

“Calm yourself, Parker,” Pons said, smiling. “Stone has assigned Sergeant Matthews from Chalcroft Police Station, to guard him and accompany him whenever he ventures outside these walls. He will be safe enough in such hands, if I’m any judge of character.”

“That is good, Pons. You had me worried for a moment.”

“I am afraid you have been worried since this case began. You have your revolver safely locked away in your valise?”

“Of course. And the chambers are empty. But surely you do not…?”

He shook his head.

“It is better than being wise after the event, Parker.”

And he lapsed into silence until Tolpuddle appeared to announce that lunch was served.