Solar Pons Versus the Devil's Claw

Three: RUMOURS SPREADING

Our visitor nodded.

“It is strange enough, Mr Pons. Briefly, as you have so rightly deduced, I am an English Master at Chalcroft College, a position I have held for the past three years. It is an establishment of some eight hundred boys and, as you can imagine, I am kept very busy with my duties at the school. Nevertheless, I accepted the post to be with my uncle at Chalcroft Manor which is only some half-mile from the school and because of its proximity I reside — or should say resided — with my uncle at the Manor instead of boarding at the College.”

Solar Pons’ eyes were very bright through the tobacco smoke.

“Why did you uncle invite you to live with him, Mr Mulvane?”

The young man stared at Pons sombrely, slight surprise on his features.

“Ah, you have seen that point have you, Mr Pons? It was something I have often asked myself. My uncle, as you may have read, was a very reclusive and mean man, despite his immense fortune. It was my impression when I first came to Chalcroft that he wanted someone at hand to assist him and act as a sort of personal secretary.”

“Thus saving him money?” I put in.

Mulvane nodded.

“You have hit it exactly, Dr Parker. But there was another factor also, and one that came home forcibly to me as week succeeded week. It was that my uncle feared something or someone and that he had to have a trustworthy person about him at night. And for my uncle to trust someone completely he had to be a relative. Apparently I filled the bill.”

Solar Pons narrowed his eyes, blowing out a thin plume of fragrant tobacco smoke.

“That is extremely perceptive, Mr Mulvane. What were the circumstances when you first came to Chalcroft Manor? How did your uncle come to offer you the opportunity to live with him?”

“I was very surprised, Mr Pons. I was at a small private school near Tunbridge Wells, in Kent, and I had not been in contact with my uncle for years. He was one of my few surviving relatives. At almost the same time he wrote me, a post for an English master fell vacant at Chalcroft College and the opportunity of accepting both offers was too good to miss. My uncle was disappointed, though.”

“Why, pray?”

“It was my impression, Mr Pons, that he expected me to accept the post of secretary-companion at a miniscule salary, but I was quite firm with him. I insisted upon continuing my academic career and though he was at first put out, he later came to see the advantage to him in being obliged only to supply me with bed and board.”

“You will forgive me for saying so, but your uncle does not seem to have been a very amiable character, Mr Mulvane,” I observed.

Pons’ client looked at me shortly and burst into laughter.

“That is one thing you may be sure of, Dr Parker, but I am not a highly-paid man. School-teaching is a wretchedly remunerated profession and I was only too glad of the opportunity of taking up residence under the opulent roof of Chalcroft Manor.”

Solar Pons looked at our visitor evenly through the hovering wisps of smoke.

“To say nothing of any expectations you might have had as Mr Hardcastle’s prospective heir?” he said equably.

Young Mulvane flushed slightly and bit his lip.

“That is a hard thing to say, Mr Pons, and from any other man but yourself I would have found it extremely offensive.”

Pons’ eyes glittered with approbation.

“Well said, Mr Mulvane,” he observed with some warmth. “I am merely repeating one of the less scurrilous innuendoes voiced by the popular press. Needless to say I do not share their opinion. If I may say so, you have passed my little test with flying colours.”

Mulvane relaxed again and the smile was back on his face, albeit a rueful one.

“You are right, as usual, Mr Pons. There have been some scandalous things said, which is why I have come to you. Between the four walls of this room I have no ambitions in the direction of my uncle’s money, though as I have already said, the berth was a comfortable and welcome one. But I earned my bed and board, Mr Pons. When I was not at the school, and particularly through the holidays, I was at my uncle’s beck and call. The atmosphere of that mediaeval house is sombre in the extreme and the proximity of the private cemetery; the miasmas that rose from the neighbouring ponds in the grounds; and the weird goings-on there, have made me bitterly regret leaving my comfortable post in Tunbridge Wells.”

Pons nodded, his keen eyes fixed hypnotically on the young school-teacher’s face.

“We will get to that in a moment, Mr Mulvane. I would prefer you to briefly sketch in your uncle’s background, if you would be so good.”

“He was a hard man, Mr Pons. It was not only his meanness, but something else. His early life was somewhat obscure. I know that he had kicked around in the rough and remote places of the world and he was a handy man with his fists when a youngster, as I have heard him tell more than once. He must have been well over sixty when I first came to Chalcroft but he could still tear a pack of cards in two with his bare hands.”

Pons raised his eyebrows.

“Indeed. A formidable customer, Parker.”

“Assuredly, Pons,” I ventured.

“Did he ever say how he came by his money, Mr Mulvane?”

“Industrial diamonds, I believe, Mr Pons, though he had held directorships of various companies in South Africa, India, and elsewhere. He had also made shrewd investments in the City in his time and his affairs in general had prospered for I must admit he had a keen business brain. The manor had been in the Hardcastle family for generations, of course.”

“What staff have you at Chalcroft Manor?”

“Few enough for the size of the place, Mr Pons. Apart from Peters, the estate manager, my uncle divided the higher administration duties between himself and me. There were some five men engaged in forestry and farming activities, though I had little to do with that. For the house there was a gardener and inside, a butler, a housekeeper and four general maids. When I say that the Manor has upwards of forty rooms you will see that I speak the plain truth.”

“I never doubted it, Mr Mulvane,” said my companion disarmingly.

He tented his thin fingers before him and stared at our visitor penetratingly.

“I always like to get the general background clearly in my mind, Mr Mulvane, before proceeding to specific detail.”

“Do you mind if I smoke? I favour rather strong cheroots which is why I have not inflicted them on you before but I am afraid I cannot go an hour without indulging.”

Pons smiled encouragingly.

“By all means, Mr Mulvane. Parker here is quite used to being fumigated at regular intervals.”

I made a wry mouth at our visitor.

“That is only the literal truth and a trifle more tobacco smoke can do little further damage.”

Mulvane raised his eyebrows, bringing out a gold case from his pocket with evident relief and lighting up as though his life depended upon it.

“Thank you, gentlemen.”

He blew out pungently-perfumed smoke. I made a subtle gesture to Pons. Our visitor had certainly not exaggerated the strength of his cheroots.

“It did not take me long, gentlemen, after taking up residence at Chalcroft Manor to see into what a strange milieu I had strayed. My uncle was civil enough, though grasping and pinching in his ways, but his manners to his own servants and outdoor staff were abominable.”

Pons’ eyes narrowed to pin-points.

“So that he was not much liked by his own employees?” Mulvane shook his head.

“Your terms are an understatement, Mr Pons. The house was weird in the extreme, too, though I will not go into detailed description as I hope you will come down and see it for yourself.”

“By all means,” said Pons smoothly. “The newspaper reports mentioned your uncle living like a hermit and being afraid of something.”

“The first assertion is somewhat exaggerated, Mr Pons. The second is certainly true.”

Mulvane paused and blew out pungent blue smoke.

“It all began last summer as I recollect, Mr Pons. About six months ago. I am a person who, though gregarious by nature, is often abstracted by the preoccupation of my scholastic duties, of my uncle’s estate and of my private interests. But I was friendly enough with the village people and they with me. That is, until about the end of last July, when I found them beginning to change toward me.”

“In what way, pray?”

“In somewhat subtle ways, Mr Pons. Where all had hitherto been open and friendly, I found instead furtive whispering and muttered remarks behind my back.”

Pons’ eyes were very alert now and he leaned forward in his chair.

“That is surely singular, Parker?”

“Is it not, Pons.”

“To what do you attribute their attitude, Mr Mulvane?”

There was genuine puzzlement on our visitor’s features.

“I am at a complete loss, Mr Pons. So far as I know I had done nothing to merit their displeasure.”

“And your uncle? Did his attitude remain the same?”

“That changed too, Mr Pons, in a rather devious manner. I saw him more than once give me rather smug looks, as though he knew of the villagers’ disapproval of me and was secretly pleased.”

“Perhaps he was glad to see his nephew tarred with the same brush,” I put in. “A sharing of the opprobrium, if I might put it like that.”

Solar Pons chuckled.

“You might, Parker, by all means. And rather picturesquely phrased, in your usual somewhat florid style. But I fancy there is something more behind it than that.”

Mulvane moved agitatedly in his chair.

“Ah, then you have seen some significance in it, Mr Pons.”

“I would prefer not to speculate at this stage, Mr Mulvane,” Pons rejoined quietly. “What happened next?”

“It is difficult to put an actual period to it,” our visitor went on, “but my uncle became even more strange and secretive as last summer went on. He had always been very careful about locking up in the evenings and that sort of thing but it became an actual mania with him. I found it increasingly difficult to get in and out in the evenings, particularly in this latter winter weather. For my work at the school, you understand, and even I enjoy a little socialising at times. I had the occasional dinner-party with parents of pupils and I do like the odd evening down at the village pub.”

“Naturally,” I agreed.

Solar Pons blew out a plume of fragrant blue smoke.

“So what did you do, Mr Mulvane?”

“Came to an arrangement with the housekeeper,” the young schoolmaster replied with a smile. “She let me in and out at prearranged times but my uncle still did not like it and remonstrated vociferously.”

Mulvane broke off and looked moodily for a moment into the fire.

“Have you ever heard of the Ram Dass Society, Mr Pons?”

My companion looked puzzled, his eyes hooded with concentration.

“Of India, Mr Mulvane?”

“Why yes, Mr Pons. Their headquarters were in Bombay, I believe. My uncle spent some time there when he was out East in earlier years.”

He lowered his voice to a whisper.

“They were apparently one of the most dreaded secret societies, with an horrific record of murder and torture. Mr Pons, I am convinced my uncle knew a great deal about them and that they were responsible for his death. He dreaded their power and was in deadly fear of his life!”