Solar Pons Versus the Devil's Claw

Seven: ENTER ANDREW PETERS

The train rattled and rumbled through the misty air, frost sparkling on the windows, despite the warmth of the carriages. Pons had been sunk in a brown study for some minutes, his pipe emitting furiously-ejected puffs of aromatic blue smoke.

“You are obviously bursting with ideas, my dear fellow. Let us have the benefit of your suggestions.”

I looked at him with some wariness.

“You are surely not serious, Pons.”

“You know me well enough to realise that I find your little recitals of immense value.”

I glanced across the carriage with knitted brows.

“Something you said last night puzzled me.”

My companion ejected a plume of sweet-scented smoke from his mouth.

“And what might that be?”

“You said, if I remember correctly, that Mulvane was an artistic and somewhat impractical man though with a strong practical streak in him.”

“And so he is, Parker, and you must excuse my vanity for saying so.”

“Vanity, Pons?”

Solar Pons smiled cryptically.

“In many ways Mulvane has acted oddly and impractically in the case.”

“I give you that, Pons,” I said grudgingly.

Pons smiled blandly at me.

“But he has called me in, Parker. There is his practical streak.”

I could not forbear joining in his little joke, but I then set myself to seriously considering his suggestion.

“We have a series of weird and inexplicable events.”

“Kindly enumerate them under concise headings.”

“Very well, Pons.”

I ruminated for a moment, while the train drew shudderingly into a small suburban station. Two elderly clerics bore down on our carriage but retreated in disgust when they saw the great swathes of blue smoke surrounding our figures. My companion chuckled.

“It is unfair really, as we are occupying a non-smoker.” “Good Lord, Pons,” I said. “I did not realise that or I would never have lit up.”

“Calm yourself, my dear fellow. There is plenty of accommodation elsewhere on the train and we really need the carriage to ourselves in order to set our thoughts in order. Just let me have your views.”

“Well, Pons,” I began somewhat hesitantly. “There are a number of factors which stand out. He used his nephew as a sort of glorified employee.”

I paused and looked at the sombre, ice-bound countryside which glided past the windows.

“He had been threatened with death by an Indian secret society and was apparently in fear of his life, yet he had no hesitation in going not once but several times to the lonely family graveyard on the estate at dead of night.”

Solar Pons nodded approvingly at me.

“Excellent, Parker. That is a vital factor and one which jumped immediately to the foreground. I am glad to see its significance has not been lost upon you.”

I looked at my companion, suspecting irony, but found none discernible on his features or indeed in his tones.

“That is all very well, Pons,” I said, “but I am afraid I do not possess your gifts so am unfortunately unable to read its significance.”

“Well, well, Parker,” he said equably. “It is no great matter, for you have helped to formulate the situation clearly in my mind.”

“We have mysterious whistlings in the night,” I went on. “The Devil’s Waltz was the tune, I believe you said. Either a signal or a warning.”

“Good, Parker, good.”

I was warming to my subject now.

“A poacher was found dead a year ago with mysterious, claw-like footprints about him. The same marks that were found round the body of old Hardcastle. Apparently made by the same strange creature that left wet imprints on the floor and steps of the vault.”

Pons’ face was deceptively bland in the dim lighting of the carriage.

“What is your view on that, Parker?”

I shook my head.

“It is completely baffling, Pons. The weather has been bitterly cold and icy. Could some creature have come out of the ponds on the estate about which Mulvane told us?”

Solar Pons blew out an elegant plume of blue smoke from his pipe.

“Perhaps, Parker, perhaps,” he observed blandly. “It is an interesting theory and one all of a part with your colourful imagination. Though rather more Jules Verne than Conan Doyle on this occasion.”

“You are making sport of me, Pons,” I chided.

He shook his head vehemently.

“On the contrary, Parker, I find your lucubrations invaluable. Please continue with your musings.”

“Even stranger is the presence of a camp bed within the vault,” I said.

Pons nodded approvingly.

“Excellent,” he murmured. “Detail after detail. I am glad to see that you have grasped most of Mulvane’s long and involved narrative.”

I must confess I glowed inwardly at his remarks, though I made no outward sign that I valued his approbation.

“Our friend was certainly struck on the head by something,” I said. “And we still do not know whether Hardcastle died of shock at some dreadful apparition he had seen.”

Solar Pons made a decided gesture of disagreement with his shoulders.

“Ah, there we can be on reasonably sure ground,” he said. “Which is no doubt why the Coroner, Dr Backer, adjourned the proceedings.”

“I am not certain I understand.”

Again the amused, ironic glance.

“Why, Parker, I myself would rule out heart disease or anything of that sort. We have heard that Hardcastle was a strong, vigorous, well-preserved man who could tear a pack of cards in half without effort in his sixties. He is hardly the type of person who is going to have a heart attack on seeing something in that cemetery. Besides, he came there for a specific purpose.” “Of course, Pons. You are certainly right. My medical training should have told me immediately.”

Pons smiled gently.

“Medical training is of little importance unless allied to forensic and criminal experience, Parker. You have no reason to reproach yourself.”

“You suspect murder, then, Pons?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“But we are no nearer to untangling the truth of this baffling problem, Pons.”

“It is complex, Parker, but I have no doubt we shall come to the heart of the matter once I have had a chance to examine the circumstances.”

He glanced out of the window.

“Ah, we must postpone any further mental ponderings. Here, if I mistake no, is our destination.”

The train was already gliding into the station and a few moments later, amid the slamming of carriage doors and the hiss of steam, we made our way through the knots of fellow passengers to the entrance. The air was bitterly cold and stung the face and I was somewhat dismayed to see Hugh Mulvane muffled against the elements, at the reins of a smart-looking dogcart with blue painted wheels, drawn by a restless chestnut pony.

“Good heavens, Pons!” I grumbled. “He might at least have had the common sense to bring a closed motor vehicle with him.”

My companion chuckled.

“Tut, Parker, we travel only some half a mile from the village and country air is excellent for health and the circulation, and I have heard you prescribe it yourself on many occasions.”

“That is all very well, Pons…” I began as Mulvane jumped down from the driving seat of the trap with a smile of recognition.

“Thank you for being so prompt, gentlemen. Welcome to Chalcroft. I hope you will forgive me for bringing the trap but my uncle’s car is currently out of commission. I do hope you will not find the drive too chilly.”

“Not at all, Mr Mulvane,” I hastened to assure him, conscious of Pons’ ironic smile in my direction.

We two got up into the back of the trap, through the little door that Pons’ client opened for us, and indeed with all the cushions and blankets he had provided we were soon ensconced comfortably enough and were clopping through the pleasant redbrick hamlet of Chalcroft at a spanking pace, the chestnut evidently anxious to be back in the warmth of its stables.

Pons smoked pensively opposite me, seemingly inattentive, streamers of blue vapour whirled back in the draught of our passage, but there was little going on in the streets that escaped the attention of his keen eyes, I felt.

There were few people about, though a sprinkling of motor traffic went to and from the direction of the station, and the pony’s hooves rang like great hammer blows on the icy tarmac of the road. We skirted a fountain at the junction of two streets, where the water stood in sheets of ice in the basin and in the horse-trough beyond, and I saw smoke going up straight in the icy air from the mock-Tudor chimneys of the houses, as clear- etched as though it had been drawn with a ruler.

“There is your inn, I see, Mr Mulvane,” said Pons, casting a glance over his shoulder, and I saw the cheery windows of The Three Cardinals, a large hostelry of gracious mellow brick, sliding past at the edge of the road.

“Indeed, Mr Pons,” said Mulvane, hunched over the reins and making a little whip that he carried sing in the air, though I noticed that he carefully kept it away from the pony, which trotted on willingly enough.

“I have spent many a pleasant evening there.”

We were now crossing a busy part of the village, where three roads bisected, and Mulvane took the central one, which led to a more rural area, with only a few cottages set back in gardens edging the lane. Moments later we passed a set of lodge-gates with carved eagles on pedestals and armorial panels on the redbrick gate-posts, and a long drive led to a massive Tudor pile in the far distance.

“That is Chalcroft College, gentlemen,” said Mulvane, pointing with his whip with some justifiable pride.

“An impressive building, Pons,” I ventured.

“Indeed, Parker,” said Pons succinctly, moving his suitcase on the seat beside him and turning to that side of the road. I noticed his eyes were stabbing up and down the vista as though he were evaluating things that were impenetrable to my mind.

“It is just a step now, Mr Pons,” said our driver encouragingly. “I hope you are not too cold.”

He cast an apologetic glance over his shoulder.

“Nor you too, Dr Parker, of course.”

“I am fine,” I replied and in fact I was so interested in our new surroundings and refreshed by the air that I had temporarily forgotten the weather, though Pons had retained my earlier remark at the station, as I could see by the faint smile that hovered about his lips.

We were passing down a narrow country lane now, skirting a high brick wall at the left, where the horse’s hooves rang out mightily in the stillness, and the gaunt, leafless trees which edged the road were hemming in the sky. Mulvane grunted as another dog-cart appeared round the bend and the driver slowed the pace of his cob, raising a hand in respectful salute.

“Good morning, Mr Mulvane! Good morning, gentlemen!”

Mulvane saluted in turn with his whip.

“Good morning, Mr Peters! Gentlemen, this is Andrew Peters, our estate manager. Dr Parker. Mr Solar Pons.”

The dark-bearded man, who had reined in the cob, touched the brim of his wide-awake hat, his white teeth gleaming in the beard.

“Delighted to make your acquaintance, gentlemen, though I am afraid you come at a bad time.”

He shook his head mournfully.

“A terrible business, gentlemen.”

“Ah, you mean Mr Hardcastle,” said Pons casually, letting out a great plume of blue smoke from his pipe. “Bad enough, I daresay.”

A sombre expression passed over Peters’ face and his vivid blue eyes looked across at the bleak vista of frozen hedgerow and leafless trees about us. With his smart hacking jacket; riding breeches; leather boots; and the silk scarf pinned in at the neck, he looked every inch the estate manager. His lemon-yellow gloved hands held the reins gently but firmly. He glanced from one to the other of us as though questioningly, and then gave the cob its head.

“Well, gentlemen, I must get on down to the forty-acre wood to supervise that felling. If you need me for anything, Mr Mulvane, you know where to find me.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Mulvane carelessly and then the vehicles had parted, the two animals stepping out with great strides until the distance rapidly broadened and the progress of the other cart was blotted out by the intervening trees.

“An admirable man, that,” said Mulvane thoughtfully. “The estate will certainly depend upon his management now, for I’m sure I make a sorry fist of such matters.”

“He seems a good cut above the average,” I ventured. Mulvane glanced back over his shoulder as we turned a dangerous bend in the road.

“You may well say so, doctor. His wife is a most superior woman also. A great beauty hereabouts.”

He chuckled deep in his throat.

“Not that this remote comer of Bucks is noted for great beauties. She comes from South America, I believe.”

“Indeed,” said Pons languidly. “A rather exotic flower to find in such an obscure spot, as you so rightly observe.”

He turned to me with deceptive mildness.

“You will have great scope for your celebrated observation of the human condition, Parker.”

He had no sooner finished speaking than the trap came out from the last of the bends and the great bulk of Chalcroft Manor, its many tall brick chimneys smoking to the lowering sky, sat square before us down an open driveway which faced the road.