Solar Pons Versus the Devil's Claw

Four: THE DEVIL’S WALTZ

A longish silence ensued.

I was filled with astonishment but Pons merely stirred in his chair.

“Indeed,” he said coolly. “You surprise me, Mr Mulvane.”

“How so, Mr Pons?”

“I know a great deal about the secret societies, cults and sects of this world, past and present, but I have never run across them.”

“Come, Pons,” I protested. “This may be something local to Bombay and of fairly recent origin, with which you are not acquainted.”

“That is hardly likely,” said my companion mildly. “And the society would have been long-established had Mr Hardcastle known it in his youth.”

I clicked my tongue in annoyance.

“I beg your pardon, Pons. I had quite forgotten that.”

“Your ratiocinative faculties are badly congested this evening, Parker.”

“Be that as it may, Mr Pons,” said Mulvane earnestly, “this is what my uncle assured me.”

“How did this arise, Mr Mulvane?”

“We were having an argument one evening when I had come in at what he considered a ‘disgracefully late hour’.”

Our visitor gave a wry smile.

“It was eleven o’clock, Mr Pons. I asked him point-blank what he was frightened of and why he kept his doors and windows bolted and barred, day and night.”

“And what did he reply?”

“He said there were more things in this world than I had knowledge of; that he had had dealings with the Ram Dass Society in Bombay years ago and that they had threatened him.” Mulvane shrugged.

“Of course, Mr Pons, I thought he was talking about some commercial company and a financial quarrel but my uncle harshly disabused me. He seemed to regret having taken me into his confidence but had evidently gone too far to turn back. He spoke of his wild youth and his dabblings in occult matters. He had crossed the Society in some way and they had threatened him. They had a long arm and a long memory, apparently.”

“I see.”

Solar Pons’ voice was soft and languid and his eyes seemed to stare into far distances.

“He said much more in the same vein, Mr Pons. He was quite garrulous on this occasion. He said he had received some sort of threat through the post earlier in the year, which was why he was taking such precautions about the estate. He asked me to keep the matter secret.”

“And did you, Mr Mulvane?”

“By all means, Mr Pons.”

“You did not discuss it with the police recently, after Mr Hardcastle’s death?”

Mulvane shook his head.

“It all seemed rather fanciful and I was being pestered with press people at the time.”

“Quite understandable, Pons,” I interjected.

“As you say, Parker,” my companion responded slowly. “There are some rather intriguing aspects here, Mr Mulvane. Let us come a little closer to the period of your uncle’s death.”

“Well, Mr Pons, as I have indicated, my uncle was miserly, reclusive and not liked by his servants or tenants. Latterly, something of that dislike had seemed to descend to me, though my pupils, my colleagues at the College and the parents, continued in the same friendly relationships we had always enjoyed. Now I must speak of these extraordinary village tales that got about.”

“You mean the Devil’s Claw?” I put in.

Mulvane nodded.

“They were certainly a matter for some alarm, though one must allow, as always, for the exaggerations of village gossip.” Solar Pons smiled faintly.

“You were going to mention the death of the poacher last year, were you not?”

The surprise was evident on Mulvane’s features.

“How on earth could you possibly have known that, Mr Pons?”

“Intuition. It is something vital to the private investigator, a sixth sense which, coupled with a certain amount of imagination, may lead to an inspired guess from time to time.”

Pons sent a plume of dense blue smoke dancing toward the ceiling.

“That it must, however, be allied to a scrupulous regard for all available data goes without saying.”

“Of course, Mr Pons. But you were right. The poacher may have seen something in those woods surrounding my uncle’s estate, but it is my belief his death was due to natural causes. He had been drinking; it was a bitterly cold night; and his death, the police surgeon decided, was due to heart failure. Nevertheless, the coroner adjourned the proceedings.”

He paused and gave my companion a quizzical look.

“Thus do legends accrete about quite simple matters, Mr Pons.”

“My own feelings exactly, Mr Mulvane.”

“There has been some talk about the Devil’s Claw, Mr Pons. It was my own impression they were old wives’ tales until I myself saw them. There have certainly been some queer indentations in the earth about the woods and once, near the old family burial ground.”

Mulvane produced an envelope and a stub of pencil from his pocket.

“I myself saw them on more than one occasion. As far as I can recall they were like this.”

He began drawing on the envelope and passed it to Pons. He studied it for a moment or two, his face impassive, before handing it to me. I saw the representation of what appeared to be the footprints of a large, clawed bipedal animal.

“Singular, Pons,” I ventured.

“Singular, indeed,” he returned, frowning at our visitor.

“As far as you can recall, Mr Mulvane? Surely you saw these latest marks, made the night your uncle was found dead.” Mulvane pursed his lips.

“Indeed, Mr Pons. But they were somewhat thicker.”

“In what way?”

“Well, Mr Pons, if you are referring to the wet marks leading to and from the family vault, they were somewhat thicker and subtly different.”

Pons smiled.

“I should imagine so,” he observed softly. “Did you not think it strange, Mr Mulvane, that wet prints should have been left on such a bitterly cold night when the ground was frozen.”

I looked at Pons in surprise.

“Strange, now that you mention it, Pons.”

“As you say, Parker. I commend that factor to you both. It is of the utmost significance.”

He turned to our visitor.

“Were the same marks visible in the earth on the occasion when the poacher was found dead?”

Mulvane nodded grimly.

“They were, Mr Pons. That was when the local stories gained in strength and depth. In fact, some of those newspaper reports were not exaggerated so far as feeling in the village goes latterly. And with my uncle’s death one might say there is something of a reign of terror about Chalcroft.”

“I am not surprised,” I put in.

“But even stranger things were in store,” Mulvane went on. “I was coming back from the village one evening last autumn, round about eleven o’clock, when I heard a strange whistling sound.”

It had suddenly become very quiet in the room and the creaking noise made by Solar Pons’ chair when he moved in its depths, almost startled me.

“Whistling, Mr Mulvane?”

My companion’s brilliant eyes were fixed intently upon our visitor’s face.

“Someone was whistling in the darkness near the high wall that runs around the Hardcastle family graveyard adjoining the grounds of the Manor. It was a most sinister thing to hear in the darkness at that time of night.”

“What sort of whistling, Mr Mulvane?”

“Slow, graceful and stately, Mr Pons. Extremely sinister. I have heard it again since then, and it has always impressed me powerfully.”

“Hmm.”

Solar Pons put the tips of his thin fingers together, his brow furrowed with concentration.

“You could not see the person who was doing the whistling?”

Mulvane shook his head.

“It was too dark and whoever it was was on the other side of the wall. It was my impression that the person responsible for that melancholy tune was actually within the graveyard.”

“Good heavens, Mr Mulvane!” I could not forbear exclaiming.

“You may well say so, Dr Parker,” Mulvane went on. “I let myself in at the side-gate of the Manor and walked back toward the sound, keeping on the grass and in the shadow of shrubbery. I stopped, however, because I became aware of furtive footsteps in the gravel of the driveway that appeared to be keeping pace with me. It was dark, as I have said, with an occasional moon and I stopped behind the bushes and kept watch. The whistling went on and a few seconds later I saw a tall figure pass my hiding place. Mr Pons, it was my uncle!”

Solar Pons slapped his thigh with a sudden cracking noise that sounded like an explosion in the quiet sitting-room.

“Singular, Parker. Here we have a reclusive man who is frightened for his life, if we are to believe Mr Mulvane and the press reports; who has been threatened by an Indian secret society; and yet who wanders about his estate alone in the dark, late at night. What do you make of it, my dear fellow?”

I looked at him helplessly, conscious of Mulvane’s inquiring eyes.

“None of it makes sense, Pons.”

“Exactly, Parker. Which is why there must be a pattern somewhere. In what direction was your uncle going, Mr Mulvane?”

“Toward the graveyard, Mr Pons. Toward the source of that unearthly whistling.”

“You did not follow?”

The school-teacher shook his head.

“I am afraid I lost my nerve, Mr Pons. I went back to the house as quietly and speedily as possible.”

“You were extremely wise, Mr Mulvane. You kept watch on your uncle, of course.”

Mulvane’s eyes held a deep look of approval.

“Indeed, Mr Pons. On three more occasions I observed him going out toward the old graveyard at night, though I cannot now remember whether there was whistling on those occasions. There certainly was on one.”

Pons pulled nervously at the lobe of his right ear.

“It seems as though the whistling were a signal and that to Hardcastle it indicated an assignation. There was evidently no harm at that stage in the meetings as your uncle returned safely on each occasion.”

He looked sharply at our visitor.

“Before you go any further, Mr Mulvane, I should like to hear that tune, if you can remember it reasonably accurately.” Surprise showed on the teacher’s face.

“Certainly, Mr Pons, if I can manage it. Though I am no musician. I did, in fact, ask the College music master, Tidmarsh, about it. He failed to recognise it, though I am sure I gave a fair impression of it.”

“Let us just hear it, if you please.”

Pons sat back in his chair and closed his eyes, an expression of intense concentration on his lean, aquiline face. I listened intently as Mulvane pursed his lips and gave vent to a high, keening whistle. The tune was slow, melancholy, yet recognisably had something of the dance swirling somewhere within it. Despite our familiar, comfortable sitting-room with its cosy lamp-light and the warm fire I felt a stirring of the thrill that our visitor must have experienced as he heard it in the darkness of the night near a graveyard wall.

Mulvane came to the end of the phrase and started on another. Despite his disclaimer he was doing well though I had, of course, no knowledge of how accurate his rendition had been. The last plaintive notes died away and to my surprise I saw the rapt, intent expression on Pons’ face change to a smile. He abruptly opened his eyes.

“Splendid, Mr Mulvane! You have excelled yourself.”

“Have I been of some help, Mr Pons?”

Pons rubbed his fingers briskly together.

“Of the greatest help, Mr Mulvane. This business begins to assume a recognisable pattern.”

He smiled at me disarmingly.

“It is an old Irish folk-tune, Parker, little remembered today. It is called, if I remember it accurately, The Devil’s Waltz.”