Solar Pons Versus the Devil's Claw

Two: THE TERRIFIED TEACHER

Pons’ client, announced by our motherly landlady, Mrs Johnson, was a youngish man who contrived to look middle- aged by his worried expression; the bald patch on the crown of his head, around which stood a halo of sandy-coloured hair; and a general dishevelled appearance. He wore a tweed suit which gave him a distinctive country appearance and his eyes blinked short-sightedly behind thick pebble glasses.

He had already surrendered his heavy overcoat and scarf to Mrs Johnson and he glanced awkwardly round him, his face much reddened and roughened by the bitter January wind. He crossed over toward the fire and held out thick white fingers to the blaze.

“It was good of you to see me at such short notice, Mr Pons, extremely good.”

“Not at all, Mr Mulvane. This is my friend and colleague, Dr Lyndon Parker.”

Mulvane’s face brightened as he came forward to shake hands with each of us in turn.

“I have heard a great deal of you also, doctor. Boswell to your Johnson, sir, if I may make so bold.”

Solar Pons smiled and his eyes twinkled ironically in my direction.

“You are too flattering, Mr Mulvane. Pray take a seat. A Whisky would not come amiss on such an evening?”

“You are very kind, Mr Pons.”

Our client seated himself in the easy chair my companion dragged between our two armchairs and we three sat for a moment or two until, hastily remembering my duties, I bustled about with the sideboard decanter and glasses. Pons’ client took a great gulp of the golden spirit with a murmur of contentment. I re-filled his glass and splashed some soda into it and he sat back, toasting his feet at the fire, and looking from one to the other of us as though he did not know how to begin.

We three were alone now as Mrs Johnson had retired to her own quarters downstairs.

“You got my card, of course, Mr Pons.”

Pons inclined his head, his slender fingers cupped round the stem of his thick glass.

“I have it here, Mr Mulvane. It was obvious, reading between the wording, that something serious was afoot at Chalcroft Manor. Apart from the public newspaper reports, of course.” Mulvane nodded, his eyes bright.

“Ah, you saw that already, Mr Pons. My own observations on your abilities are not wide of the mark.”

“What might be those, Mr Mulvane?”

The tweedy figure made a shrugging motion of its thick shoulders.

“Only what I read in the newspapers and journals, Mr Pons. I am something of a student of criminology and collect such things in a series of scrapbooks I have compiled. I am a great admirer of your methods and have amassed a volume of notes on your most celebrated cases.”

A flicker of amusement passed across Pons’ mobile features. “Ah, then you and Parker will have a great deal in common, Mr Mulvane. Eigh, Parker?”

“Certainly, Pons.”

Mulvane was silent for a moment, swirling the whisky about in his glass.

“What do you make of the case, Mr Pons?”

“That there is something deeper in your uncle’s death than even the somewhat sensational reports warrant. That Chalcroft village contains a number of frightened people who may have exaggerated some bizarre happenings but who are certainly correct about the danger there; and that you yourself are putting a bold front on something which has badly frightened you.” There was an abrupt silence and Mulvane stared at Pons for a few moments in astonishment.

“You speak truly, Mr Pons. What else can you tell about me?”

Pons lit his pipe and blew out a gentle plume of blue smoke toward the ceiling.

“You are an artistic and somewhat impractical man, though you have a very practical streak; you are in your early thirties though you look older; you have been a pupil or are almost certainly a teacher at Chalcroft College; I should incline to the latter due to certain obvious indications; you are a heavy smoker; have charge of the College library in addition to your other duties; ride a bicycle about the countryside a good deal, though you could certainly afford a car; and do your own photographic developing.”

Mulvane stared at Pons with his mouth open and I could not forbear a smile, though I was almost as staggered, familiar as I was with my companion’s methods.

“That is miraculous, Mr Pons.”

Solar Pons shook his head impatiently.

“On the contrary, it is self-evident, Mr Mulvane. You are certainly wearing the tie of Chalcroft College, so it is certain you were either a pupil or a teacher there.”

“Both, Mr Pons,” said Mulvane with a wry smile.

“Why a teacher, Pons?” I said.

“He has chalk-marks on his sleeve, Parker, the infallible sign of the profession,” Pons continued imperturbably. “Mr Mulvane is certainly no older than thirty-five, obviously, seeing him at such close quarters, yet his thinning hair and a certain casualness of dress, which also denotes the academic, makes him seem older.”

“And the smoking, Pons?”

“Tut, Parker, that is elementary. Mr Mulvane’s fingers are stained almost orange with nicotine.”

Mulvane stared shamefacedly at his hands as Pons went on without hesitation.

“There is also the distinctive odour of photographic developer, with its unmistakable musty smell, hanging about Mr Mulvane’s clothes.”

Our visitor gave a short laugh at this point.

“You are correct on every account, Mr Pons, though I still think it remarkable. I must apologise for not having changed my suit but it is an old and comfortable one and I wear it much at the college and while doing my photographic work.”

I glanced at Pons inquiringly.

“But the bicycle, Pons?”

“That is equally evident, Parker. The turn-ups of Mr Mulvane’s trousers bear the deeply-indented grooves worn by the clips over the years of such activity. As if that were not enough I see tell-tale marks of grease higher up Mr Mulvane’s trousers, which are certainly caused by contact with a bicycle chain.”

“There is no getting round you, Pons,” I grumbled. “But how on earth were you able to deduce Mr Mulvane was the College Librarian?”

“An inspired guess, Parker. Mr Mulvane has a typed brochure protruding from his right-hand jacket pocket. It is headed College Librarian and relates to current book-stocks, if I am not mistaken.”

“You have hit the bulls-eye every time, Mr Pons,” said our visitor enthusiastically. “You are certainly the man to cut a way through the terrible web of intrigue which surrounds me.”

His good-natured face had clouded again and he was silent as he stared moodily into the fire. Pons said nothing but merely blew out a spiral of blue smoke and waited patiently for Mulvane to continue. He put down his glass nervously and turned from me to my companion as though greatly troubled beneath his quiet fa9ade.

“You have gained most of the salient facts from the newspapers, Mr Pons?”

“I would prefer to hear them from you, Mr Mulvane.”

The young man nodded slowly.

“Very well, Mr Pons. I will be as brief as may be within the limits of accuracy. Hopefully, you will be able to see your way through this terrible business if you would be kind enough to travel to Buckinghamshire to observe things for yourself.”

Solar Pons took the pipe-stem from between his strong teeth. “That would be my intention, Mr Mulvane, if this affair is as strange as it appears.”