Solar Pons Versus the Devil's Claw

Twenty-Two: NIGHT ON THE TOWER

After a few minutes’ brisk walk across the icy surface of the lane Pons began to swing round in a wide circle to avoid the stable area and the dimly-lit windows of the cottages. Soon we had cautiously skirted the edges of the ponds and were nearing our destination, the breath smoking from our mouths.

“I still do not know why you did not take me into your confidence,” I whispered.

Pons replied, “You are so straightforward and transparent in everything you do, that you might have given things away by your demeanour. You would probably have been thinking all evening about the announcement I was going to make. This is not a criticism, Parker, but a tribute to your character. And you know that you are a very bad actor when it comes to concealing your true feelings.”

“That is all very well, Pons,” I grumbled, but he took me sharply by the arm and put a finger to his lips, silencing my protests.

We were now very close to the ancient tower and I could already see its faint outline through the wavering curtain of the mist. When we had gained the foot of the great stone spiral staircase we drew to a halt. Pons put his mouth close to my ear and whispered, “I dare not use the flashlight so we shall have to be very careful climbing these steps. Keep close to the wall. If our man saw lights here he would immediately become suspicious. I do not think anything will happen for an hour or two but we cannot take the risk.”

I nodded and followed him up the winding stair. Progress was very slow for it was a dangerous place but a little light filtered in from the arrow slits in the outer wall so that eventually, as our eyes became accustomed to the lowered intensity of illumination, we made better progress. After what seemed an age, cold air blew on our faces, and we came out on the platform which led to the battlements at the top of the tower.

What can I say about that night, except that it was one of the longest of my life. We could not talk and it was as if I were alone with my thoughts, which would have been sombre enough in daylight, so caught up was I in the web of horror that had been hanging over Chalcroft Manor ever since our arrival. Pons was just a dim figure to my left but I knew that his alert brain was working on many of the problems that had so baffled me. Only his gentle breathing gave evidence of his presence and I knew that his empty pipe was back in his mouth, the stout stick to his left.

I had put down my revolver on top of a large slab which lay on the floor of the tower and which was close to my right hand in case of emergency. The hip flask lay on the paving between us and despite my thick overcoat the chill from these ancient slabs was beginning to penetrate my whole body. I must have dozed for a while and when I came to myself it was to hear the first strokes of midnight sounding from the stable clock, its reverberations made even more mournful by the echoes from the frozen ponds.

Then I caught the faint movement as Pons reached for the flask between us and a few seconds later it was put into my hand. I gulped the raw spirit gratefully and felt warmth beginning to creep back into my frozen limbs. I replaced the chained stopper and put down the flask without making a sound. Somewhere far off an owl hooted and its hunting cries were later answered from a different direction. The time dragged by, each minute seeming an eternity but at last one o’clock struck. The only sound for the next hour was the thin barking of a dog; it was probably miles away but the sound was remarkably clear through the frozen air. I had begun to think that we were on a fool’s errand when I felt Pons’ steel-like grip on my arm.

I instantly recovered myself, my heart hammering in my throat, and reached for the pistol. Then I heard what my companion’s keen ears had already caught; the thin, furtive scraping of shoe leather on the stone steps far below. I must confess that the sound in that place and at that hour of the night and all its sinister implications struck a chill to my soul. I sat there, as though frozen in time, listening to the shuffling steps coming ever nearer. There came a low mumble and then the faint flicker of a flashlight. Again I felt Pons’ slight pressure on my left arm.

I sensed his unspoken directions and quickly got across the paving so as to keep the central platform of stone between me and the ruined doorway through which the intruder must come, while Pons moved swiftly and silently beside me. We waited with heightened tension as the steps came closer. Then the glow of the torch, held low down on the stone flooring came into view as its owner negotiated the last flight. I could see nothing but a tall, dark form, which was bowed over as though carrying a heavy weight. As the torch swept low again I made out the large canvas bag from which came the faint jangle of metal.

Then I realised the man was carrying tools; I felt a sudden surge of energy. Pons had been right, as so often before. The person responsible for old Hardcastle’s murder and that of Peters was within a few feet of us, obviously intent on excavating the stone blocks to unearth the tin box purporting to contain the old man’s will. Of course, I knew that Pons had merely placed the tin in the empty space behind the loose coping stone and I knew also that as soon as it was discovered the murderer would realise that the game was up; that Pons’ statement had been a mere decoy.

As the niche that my companion had used for the purpose of bringing the criminal to us was on the other side of the platform, that might involve a tricky situation if the man was armed, as he might well be. Fortunately the eventuality never arose for as soon as the tall figure had reached the level platform and advanced toward our hiding place, the electric torch swung high again and as I shrank back to avoid its glare, the barrel of my pistol made a sharp scraping noise against the rough stone at my side.

There was a startled expression of breath and the tall figure wavered, dropping the bag of tools with a loud crash which tore at the nerves. I saw his arm come up quickly but Pons’ calm voice cut through the darkness.

“Your bird, I think, Parker!”

I raised my weapon instinctively and fired into the air. The roar of the explosion and the great flash of flame from the muzzle could have been heard and seen for miles around. Powder smoke stung my face and the dark intruder reeled. I shouted a warning but I was too late. He may have slipped on the greasy surface of the stone setts or perhaps he was so startled that he backed away. Whatever the reason he tottered at the edge of one of the low embrasures of the battlements and was then gone over, his agonised scream seeming to grow louder rather than diminish until I heard the crushing impact of his body striking the frozen ground far below.

I rushed to the edge of the tower and looked down, but could see nothing through the swirling mist, though I heard a faint scratching noise going rapidly away down the spiral staircase.

“My God, Pons!” I gasped. “I never meant it to end like this!”

He caught my arm, his lean face sympathetic in the glow of his own torch.

“It could not be helped, old fellow. But we had better get down. He may not be beyond medical help.”

I shook my head.

“Doubtful, Pons. But I will do my best.”

I picked up our visitor’s automatic and felt better then, for the safety catch was off and I was certain that he would have used it had I not fired a warning shot first. Pons was already working his way down the staircase as I picked up the Whisky flask, put it in the pocket of my greatcoat and followed as quickly as I could, guided by the dancing beam of his torch. When I gained the open air Pons was already halfway round the tower. I joined him to see a crumpled figure lying sprawled in the icy grass.

I turned him over gently, but I could see that he was beyond any human aid. He wore a thick scarf which had become loose and obscured his face. I pulled it away and was astonished to see the bloodied features of Vincent Tidmarsh, the music master at Chalcroft College. His face still wore the expression of surprise and shock I had so often noted in cases of sudden and violent death.

“Heavens, Pons!” I exclaimed. “He would have been the last person I would have suspected.”

“I am not surprised,” he said slowly. “Come, we can do no more here until the morning.”

“Then the case is closed, Pons?”

He shook his head grimly.

“Far from it, Parker. There was a woman up there with him. Did you not hear her light footsteps going down the stairway?”

I glanced at him in astonishment.

“I heard something, Pons. Surely you do not suspect Miss Masterson!”

He turned abruptly on his heel.

“Quickly, Parker! We must strike while the trail is fresh!”