The Dossier of Solar Pons

1

It was In the spring of 1923 that one of the most extraordinary cases my old friend Solar Pons ever handled came about. Pons had been extremely busy the previous winter and had been absent in Bavaria for some time, engaged in the affair of the archbishop of Metz's candlesticks. Other important cases which claimed his time had been that of the Giant Anaconda, in which the notorious Dashwood, the private zoo keeper had had been sentenced to fifteen years; the Great Copper Alloy Scandal; and the murder of the Honorable Roger Fosdyke on the towpath of the Grand Union Canal, which had aroused such dismay and horror in high places.

Yet of all the notes I kept on Solar Pons's brilliant handling of these affairs, one matter stands out in particular, that of Buffington Grange. There had been showers overnight, and the early view from our windows at 7B Praed Street had presented a chill and damp aspect But the sun shone as I came down to breakfast, and our good-natured landlady, Mrs. Johnson, was beaming with pleasure as she put the covered dishes on our table.

"A fine morning, Doctor, after last night."

"A fine morning indeed, Mrs. Johnson," I said keenly appreciative of the crisp and pleasant aroma of fried bacon and eggs. Mrs. Johnson's smile broadened even further as I rubbed my hands and seated myself at the table.

"Mr. Pons not down yet?" I asked.

Our landlady's eyes widened in surprise.

"Bless you, sir, Mr. Pons has been up for hours. He was out at dawn as I was scrubbing the stove, but said he would join you for breakfast."

I raised my eyebrows, but since Mrs. Johnson did not volunteer any further information I decided to dismiss the matter. No doubt Pons would relieve my curiosity in due course. Indeed, I had no sooner started breakfast and was reaching for my second piece of toast when I heard his light and athletic footstep on the stair.

The door flew open and a disheveled and ruffianly figure erupted into the room. Though I knew it was Pons, I should have been hard put to it to recognize him in the street. He wore a striped jersey and a coarse pair of velveteen trousers such as porters wear. His hair was matted and tangled; dirt streaked his face and a black eye patch over one eye gave him a villainous aspect. He laughed at my expression, revealing a gap-toothed mouth, where he had evidently blacked out several teeth.

"Don't look so dismayed, Parker. I shall wash and change before breakfast."

"I should hope so, Pons," I said with some asperity. "Except that it is the wrong time of year, I could be charitable and suggest that you had been up all night at the Chelsea Arts Ball."

Pons smiled and threw down the canvas holdall he had been carrying.

"Just a small matter of rounding off a few details in a case which had been nagging me of late," he said carelessly. "I have been down to Smithfield Market. It is true that the carcasses came from Surrey. I think that we have our man."

"What on earth are you talking about, Pons?" I said, making decisive inroads into the toast.

"Pray do not bother your head in the matter, Parker."

He rubbed his thin hands briskly together.

"That bacon smells good. Give me five minutes and I will be with you."

I was pouring my second cup of coffee, and only four and a half minutes had passed before a surprisingly transformed Pons sat down opposite me and proceeded to devour the contents of the second heated dish. His face shone with health, his strong teeth were normal, and all the raffish detail had been erased. Even his frock coat looked as though it had just come from St James's.

"Well, Parker," he said, reaching for the coffeepot. "I do declare that the English breakfast is one of the major contributions to civilization in the Western world."

"You may well be right, Pons," I conceded, refilling my own cup.

"Even though there are minor irritations in life," he continued "Such as the failure of the light bulb near the shaving mirror in the bathroom. And your forgetting your new supply of razor blades again."

I put down my fork.

"How did you know that, Pons?"

"I noticed yesterday that the light was fluctuating due to a faulty filament I have not yet shaved this morning due to my little disguise; But when I see that the left-hand side of your face is all stubbled, I conclude that the lamp has finally failed, for it certainly favors the left-hand side. When I further observe that you have cut the right side of your face not once but three rimes, then it is obvious that you have not yet replenished your supply of blades."

"You are correct on both counts, Pons," I said crossly, running my hand across my face. "I am taking a day off from my practice today and will run down to Braithwaite's the chemists, directly after breakfast, to stock up."

"And I will ask Mrs. Johnson about the bulb," said Pons. "I understand she keeps a supply in her kitchen cupboard somewhere."

He put down his coffee cup and immersed himself in the Times for the next few minutes. I looked up at his muffled exclamation.

"Have you seen the racing news, Parker?"

"I was never a great one for the turf," I said. "And I did not know that you followed it with any real interest"

Pons smiled faintly.

"Ordinarily, no, my dear fellow. But when I note that Mulcallah has again failed in yesterday's Doncaster fixture, I begin to smell a rat."

"I do not quite understand, Pons."

"The favorite has failed three times in a row, Parker. Even the Jockey Club cannot overlook that. Bryant has been doping again, mark my words. I must telephone Jamison."

He threw down the newspaper with a grunt and finished off his coffee. We had just drawn back from the table, me to finish my last cup of coffee, Pons to enjoy an after- breakfast pipe when there came a ring at the front doorbell. Pons's face assumed the alert expression I had come to know so well.

"A client, Parker? I hardly dare to hope so. It has been far too quiet of late."

"It is more likely to be the carpenter about Mrs. Johnson's kitchen improvements," I said.

Solar Pons held up an admonitory finger.

"Your mundane mind again, Parker. Carpenters do not usually arrive in taxis."

I put down my coffee cup with a small clatter in the silence.

"I did not hear anything."

"That was because you were not listening, my dear fellow. The engine of the London taxi has a distinctive note that is unmistakable. Ah, I thought as much. Mrs. Johnson is coming up."

Even as he spoke there was a deferential tap at the door and our landlady appeared, a serious expression on her face.

"A Mr. Horace Oldfield to see you, Mr. Pons. The poor gentleman seems much agitated."

Pons rubbed his lean hands together briskly.

"Show him up at once, Mrs. Johnson."

He turned to me.

"Pray do not go, Parker. Unless my client desires the utmost secrecy, I would be glad of both your company and your opinion."

I settled myself back in my chair, considerably flattered at Pons's words and awaited the approach of the heavy tread on the stair with ill-concealed impatience.

The man who presented himself at our threshold was indeed a pitiable object. Tall and thin, he was immaculately dressed in a fur-collared overcoat and a smart check suit, but the effect was marred by his wild, staring eyes, disheveled hair, and generally distraught demeanor. He staggered as he got inside the door and almost fell. I rushed forward to his assistance and helped him to a chair, noting his chalk-white complexion.

"Your department, Parker," said Pons, rising from his seat and looking anxiously at our client.

I loosened his collar and turned to Mrs. Johnson.

"If you would be so good as to pour a small glass of brandy… You will find the bottle on the sideboard."

I put the glass to Mr. Oldfield's lips and the color was soon returning to his cheeks. He tried to get up but I pushed him back.

"Just sit and drink that, Mr. Oldfield. Nothing but shock, I think, Pons."

Solar Pons reseated himself at the table while Mrs. Johnson briskly cleared the breakfast things. When she had withdrawn and. we were alone with our client, he blinked once or twice and looked from me to my companion.

"Mr. Solar Pons?"

"I am he," said my friend gently. "Just take your time, Mr. Oldfield. It is obvious that you have been the subject of some unnerving experience."

Our visitor nodded. He gulped once or twice and when The had indicated in grateful tones that he had recovered himself, I reseated myself near Pons and examined our visitor carefully.

He was a man of about forty or forty-five years of age; of a studious aspect, with gold-rimmed pince-nez. His features were regular and would have been pleasing had it not been for his agitated expression. He had a thin wisp of fair mustache on his upper lip, and his teeth were regular and even. His sandy-colored hair was receding a little; his gray eyes wore a sad expression as he gazed at us.

I had unbuttoned his overcoat, and now he took it off and put it down on a chair at his side. He ran his hands over his hair once or twice as though suddenly conscious of his unkempt appearance and flushed as he reseated himself, fingering his collar.

"I don't know what you must think of me, Mr. Pons…"

"Nothing detrimental at all, Mr. Oldfield, I can assure you. Apart from the fact that you are an accountant, that you live in Berkshire, and that you have suffered a grievous shock to your nervous system, I know little of you personally."

Our client's eyes opened wide in owlish astonishment.

"Mr. Pons, you amaze me. I do not know where you got those facts, but they are true. As to shocks I have had enough to shatter a man with three times my nerve in the past year. Mr. Pons, I am accursed! My home is infested with ghosts!"

2

There was a long and oppressive silence.

"Indeed," said Solar Pons mildly. "I think you had better tell me a little more, though you might do better consulting an occultist if you believe in such things."

Mr. Oldfield held up his hand.

"Forgive me, Mr. Pons, ghosts are outside my purview also. Please hear my story."

Pons nodded and settled himself back in his chair.

"You made some deductions about our visitor, Pons," I said mischievously. "Would you mind elucidating."

"Elementary, Parker," said Pons airily. "Mr. Oldfield is well and expensively dressed. Therefore I conclude from that that he is a professional man, and not employed by others. He has an impressive array of pens glistening in his breast pocket. This fact, combined with the ink stains on his right-hand fingers, which brisk scrubbing will not always remove, incline me toward accountancy."

"Perfectly correct, Mr. Pons."

Pons smiled maliciously at me.

"But Berkshire, Pons."

"Mr. Oldfield sports a tie belonging to an old and exclusive Berkshire college, Parker. Very often people are educated in the area in which they also live. When I see evidence of wet sand and gravel on the soles of our visitor's golfing shoes — terrain common to Berkshire — I make an inspired guess and venture that he still lives there."

"Again correct, Mr. Pons."

"There is no getting round you," I retorted.

Solar Pons gave a faint smile and turned to our visitor.

"Come, Mr. Oldfield. You obviously have a strange and unusual story. You will feel better for the telling of it."

"You are right, Mr. Pons."

Our client passed a shaking hand across his brow and put down his brandy glass.

'Tor some years I practiced as an accountant in Reading, Mr. Pons. Then, desirous of a change, I removed to Melton, a small town not far from where I was born, and built up another practice. I married late, when I was past forty, but my wife, who is some thirteen years younger, and I have been very happy and now have two small daughters. With the needs of my growing family, and our home being rather on the small side, we decided last year to buy a larger house."

Oldfield paused a moment, lifted his brandy glass, and drained the residue of its contents. His coloring was quite normal now and his breathing low and steady.

"Buffington Grange was on the market and my wife and I went to inspect it. The building had been derelict for years, but for some reason both my wife and I took an enormous fancy to it. It has a wealth of beams, a good deal of space, and large grounds for the children to explore. I bought the place for a song, Mr. Pons, and spent the money I might otherwise have laid out on the house itself, on restoration work."

"You would appear to have acted wisely, Mr. Oldfield," Said Pons, who sat motionless, his fingers tented before him, his eyes fixed on our visitor's face.

Oldfield nodded.

"One would have thought so, Mr. Pons," he said soberly. "But events turned out otherwise. It is a melancholy catalog and may well try your patience before I have finished."

"I think not, Pons," I protested, casting a reassuring look at our visitor.

"Patience is a virtue this agency has a great deal of," said Pons gravely. "Pray continue, Mr. Oldfield."

"Well, Mr. Pons, the Grange had a bad reputation in the village when I bought it and, as I said, it had been derelict for a number of years. But my wife and I are modern, forward-looking people, and we laughed at the village stories. Any house, even a fairly new one, acquires legends when it is empty for any length of time, and Buffington Old Grange was no exception."

"Before you go any further, just what were these stories, Mr. Oldfield?"

Stories that often grow up around old houses, Mr. Pons. Murder and jealousy in the distant past Nothing concrete, you understand; though some twenty years ago an old man, a reputed miser, lived there. He was found hanging in one of the upstairs rooms, I understand There was talk in the village of both murder and suicide."

"That should be easy enough to determine," said Solar Pons crisply.

Our client looked surprised

"Quite so, Mr. Pons, though it did not occur to me. I had my mind set on a bargain."

"How long had the house been empty, Mr. Oldfield?"

"Oh, about twenty years. Since the time the old man died, I believe."

"Were their other stories?"

Oldfield smiled diffidently.

"Nonsensical ghost tales. That the miser's footsteps were heard from the ceiling as he passed to his bedroom to hang himself. That he manifested himself as a presence on the landing. That the house was cold and there were certain smells."

"Since no one lived there after the old man's death, that would have been rather difficult to determine," said Pons dryly, catching my eye.

"Precisely, Mr. Pons. But my wife and I were anxious to move into the house, and we paid no attention to such rumors."

"Did the estate agents themselves say why the house had been empty so long, or why the price was so cheap?"

Oldfield shook his head.

"I questioned them, of course. But the house had apparently passed to the estate of the old man's cousin. She was a single woman who lived to a great age and had done nothing with it in her lifetime."

"I see. Pray continue, Mr. Oldfield."

"We moved in and at first were very happy. "We were comfortable. We had a man for the grounds and a housekeeper and a parlormaid, which was enough, though there is a good deal to do with such a rambling old property. But some months after we moved in, we began to be troubled. There was a scent of lavender on the landing."

"Nothing odd about that surely, Mr. Oldfield?"

"Except that my wife hates the odor of lavender, Mr. Pons. We made a point of that to the servants. Yet every day, at some time or other, there it was, hanging about, just as though someone had sprayed the air with perfume. It does not worry me, of course, but it upsets my wife."

"I quite see that, Mr. Oldfield. Always the same place?"

Our client nodded.

"Just the landing. We questioned the servants, of course, but they denied responsibility. Then, one evening last winter as I was returning to the house and putting my key in the door, I heard a low, horrible laugh on the porch. The place is dark, with heavy trees and shrubbery, so you can imagine it is gloomy enough. It gave me quite a shock, I can tell you. I searched but could not find anyone.

"The next thing that happened was that my little girl came rushing to my wife a few days later. She had been playing in the attic. It was just dusk and something had appeared to her. I do not know what it could have been, but it frightened poor little Dulcie half out of her wits. It was an apparition of a woman with a hideous distorted face, so far as Susan could make out. Susan — that is, my wife, Mr. Pons — is a strong-nerved woman, and she searched the attic immediately but could not find anything."

"This is taking a serious turn, Mr. Oldfield. Did this apparition do anything?"

Oldfield shook his head.

"It just appeared in the doorway, stood there looking at the child, making a disgusting sucking noise, and then glided away. It was a considerable shock to the child and nothing will induce her to go to the upper floors of the house now."

Our client paused with a twitching face. I rose to refill his brandy glass, and he resumed his narrative.

"Not a week after that, I had gone to the cellar to fetch a bottle of wine. I was just passing the pantry door and putting my foot on the steps when there came the same low laugh I had heard on the porch, and something gave me a terrific push in the small of the back. How I managed to avoid pitching headfirst in the semidarkness, Mr. Pons, I shall never know. I might well have killed myself, for the steps are stone and tremendously steep. Fortunately I had a handrail installed and managed to save myself, but at the expense of barked shins."

Solar Pons's eyes were gleaming and his face wore a grim expression.

"You searched, of course?"

Oldfield nodded.

"I found nothing."

"What was the voice like? Male or female?"

"It was difficult to tell, Mr. Pons. It was rather muffled and guttural. I fancy it was a man's."

Solar Pons rubbed his left ear in a gesture which had grown familiar to me over the years and sat in silence for some moments.

"I am certain of one thing, Mr. Oldfield. We are not dealing with ghosts. They are far too insubstantial to push people downstairs. This is a very sinister and absorbing business. Please continue with your catalog, as you call it."

Our client passed a weary hand over his forehead.

"Well, sir, as you can imagine, these incidents formed a profound impression on the minds of my wife and myself. We recalled those old stories and tried to get further information The more one discreetly questioned people in Melton, the more disquieting it became. We tried to keep a cheerful face before the children but we remembered the stories; the fact that the house had been empty so long; the tale of the last occupant; and the more we thought about it the more we began to feel the legends were right."

"Why did you not go to the police, Mr. Oldfield? After all, a murderous attack had been made upon you."

Oldfield shook his head.

"We were afraid of being laughed at, Mr. Pons. Rightly or wrongly, we decided to stick things out. We had made a considerable investment in the property and we did not want to leave it. We kept careful watch upon the children and an equally careful watch upon things in the house. Why, we have not even had a holiday since the time we moved in."

I was startled to observe an abrupt change of expression on Pons's face.

"That is interesting, Mr. Oldfield."

"I do not follow, Mr. Pons."

"No matter. Other things happened, evidently."

Our client looked grim.

"You may well say so, Mr. Pons. There was a fire only two months ago, which might well have been calamitous. It apparently began in the kitchen while there was no one in the house. In fact, if it had not been for my housekeeper, the house would undoubtedly have burned down. She was alone and smelled burning. She rushed into the kitchen almost at the same time as I arrived home from business. Together we put it out without the necessity of calling the fire brigade, though Mrs. Salmon's hands were badly burned, poor thing."

"You were all out, then?"

"That is correct, Mr. Pons. My wife and children had gone to see relatives. The gardener was on the grounds, it is true, but he saw no one about. It was the maid's day off and Mrs. Salmon — that is the housekeeper — had gone to Melton shopping. She discovered the fire on her return and I arrived a short while after."

Solar Pons made an odd little clicking noise with his tongue and sat forward in his chair.

"It is a pity you did not call the fire brigade, Mr. Old- field."

Our client looked bewildered.

"I do not quite follow, Mr. Pons."

"They are highly expert at detecting the causes of fire."

"Oh, there was no doubt about that, Mr. Pons. There was a half-empty gallon can of paraffin in the kitchen, and an opened box of matches on the floor. The arsonist had made his escape by the back door. There is thick shrubbery nearby, and he could have had cover all the way to the edge of the grounds."

"I see."

Solar Pons pulled at the lobe of his ear again and shot me a piercing glance.

"What do you make of it, Parker?"

"Ghosts do not use paraffin and matches, Pons."

"My opinion exactly, Parker. This is part of a campaign against you, Mr. Oldfield, undoubtedly."

"In truth we did not know what to think, Mr. Pons," said our visitor earnestly. "My wife had read of poltergeist activities and was convinced it was all part of the same manifestations."

"She was undoubtedly right What other events have occurred recently?"

"Voices in the night, Mr. Pons. Whispering and footsteps. But last night something terrible occurred. Something so awful that I decided to come to see you. My wife had been to the cellar for a bottle on this occasion. She had got to the head of the steps when the pantry door silently opened in her face."

Our client's voice had dropped to a whisper and beads of perspiration were starting out on his forehead.

"Imagine her terror, Mr. Pons, when a hideous visage, gray corpselike, was thrust into her own. She was so terrified that she screamed and started backward. She fell down the steps, Mr. Pons. By a miracle, only a week before, I had placed some wicker hamper baskets and some straw as packing for the bottles in the well of the staircase. These broke her fall and she was unharmed apart from shock and bruising. But she is so upset by this that she is still in bed under the care of our family doctor."

Pons had risen rapidly to his feet and was knocking out his pipe on the fender.

This is something which cannot wait, Mr. Oldfield. You have done well to come to me. I will return with you immediately to Buffington Old Grange."

He looked at me, his face alert and alive, his eyes bright and piercing.

"I suggest your razor blades can wait, Parker. Are you free to come? You will need your revolver. Though ghosts are impervious to bullets, I fancy Mr. Oldfield's apparitions may prove to be of rather more solid construction."

I rose from the table.

"Give me three minutes, Pons, and I am your man."

3

Buffington Old Grange proved to be only a few minutes' drive from the village of Melton and since our client had his own car waiting at the station, we arrived at our destination well before lunch. Oldfield had offered to accommodate us at his house, but Pons declined and we first stopped at the Crown Inn, a pleasant hostelry in the village, and secured rooms for the next few days. Our initial view of the Grange was unprepossessing indeed.

Our client's story had prepared us for something somber but I was startled at the strange house which rose out of the thin mist which blanketed this part of Berkshire. The grounds were considerable and well-kept, but the woodlands and the great banks of rhododendrons gave them a gloomy aspect. The house itself, timbered and with dark stone, had fantastic turrets and curious crenellated towers which had been added to the original ancient Tudor structure in the nineteenth century, said Oldfield.

We got out before a large, oak-timbered porch, which made a sort of gallery and sheltered the massive oak front door from the weather. Pons looked keenly about him.

"This is the place where you had your unpleasant experiences with the voice?" "Indeed, Mr. Pons."

Pons's manner was transformed now that he was on the scene of our client's bizarre and horrific adventures. He crossed swiftly to the porch and went rapidly up and down it, his keen eyes observing the details closely. Oldfield and I stood near the front door, our client obviously absorbed by my companion's manner. Pons stopped by some lattice windows at the far end of the gallery.

"What apartment is this, Mr. Oldfield?"

"The kitchens, Mr. Pons. It is a curiously constructed house."

"So I see. Well, there is little more to be learned here. We may as well go inside."

We were met in the dark, paneled hall by a striking- looking woman of about fifty, with jet-black hair coiled at the back of her head.

"The doctor has just been again, Mr. Oldfield. Your wife is resting comfortably."

"Thank you, Mrs. Salmon. These are old friends of mine, Mr. Burton and Captain Parker."

These were sobriquets Pons had insisted on in the train coming down, and now I observed the approval in his eyes as our client introduced us in this manner. The housekeeper, who was smartly dressed in a tweed suit, gave us a half-bow.

"Delighted to meet you, gentlemen. Will you be staying?"

Pons shook his head.

"We are in the neighborhood for a few days only, at a hotel in Melton."

"Very well, Mr. Oldfield. Lunch will be ready in an hour."

Pons held up his hand and drew the housekeeper to one side.

"Mr. Oldfield has been telling us something of the strange goings-on in this house. Tell me, Mrs. Salmon, what do you think about the matter?"

The tall woman had a faint smile on her lips.

"I do not believe in ghosts, Mr. Burton. Old houses make strange noises, and I am sure Mr. Oldfield will forgive me if I say that both he and Mrs. Oldfield are sensitive people."

"And the perfume on the landing."

Mrs. Salmon shrugged.

have smelled it, it is true. It is a very pleasant odor. Perhaps there was once a linen closet there and the aroma of the sachets lingers."

Pons gave the housekeeper an approving look from his deep-set eyes.

"You are a sensible woman, Mrs. Salmon. But what of the fire in the kitchen quarters?"

A shadow crossed the housekeeper's face.

"Ah, that is a different question, Mr. Burton. It could have been serious had I not been at hand. There has been much vandalism around Melton in the past two or three years."

"Well, well, you may be right," said Pons with a shrug. "Thank you, Mrs. Salmon."

He turned to our host as the housekeeper's footsteps died out across the hall.

"There goes a very practical woman, Mr. Oldfield"

Oldfield laughed

"I don't know what we would do without her, Mr. Pons. She has been a great help in our present troubles. In fact we have minimized the problems since we did not want her to think us hysterical or over-fanciful. I told her Mrs. Old- field had tripped on the cellar steps and did not mention the incident concerning myself. Grace, our other servant, is very nervous and easy to upset and there was no point in creating a fuss."

"Very wise, Mr. Oldfield. Grace has seen nothing?"

Oldfield shook his head.

"Nothing, Mr. Pons. I should have heard of it otherwise.

"That is somewhat curious, I would suggest, Parker," added Pons, turning to me. "I commend it to your attention."

We were interrupted by a sudden scurrying of feet in the passage.

Oldfield's face lit up.

"Come and meet the children, gentlemen."

He led the way into a bright and airy morning room whose dark and low oak beams were offset by the white

walls and light-colored furniture. Two little fair-haired girls were standing shyly inside the door, waiting to be greeted by their father.

"Dulcie, Sally," said Oldfield. "This is Mr. Burton and Captain Parker — two old friends of mind who will be around here for a few days."

The two little girls smiled gravely and then ran forward to embrace their father.

"How do you do, gentlemen?" they chorused, and our client so far forgot his current anxieties as to burst into laughter — a laughter in which pride was mingled with parental affection.

"You will forgive me, I'm sure but I must just run up and look after my wife. The freedom of the house is yours. We lunch in an hour; in the meantime look about as much as you want. If there is anything special you require to know, Mrs. Salmon will be most helpful."

"Thank you, Mr. Oldfield," said Pons. "Come, Parker."

He waited until the children's eager footsteps and the more measured tread of our client had ascended to the first floor and then seized me by the arm

"Gently, friend Parker. I think we will first try the cellars, though I fear the scent may be cold."

He put his hand to his lips and led the way through the morning room in the direction of the kitchen quarters. This was empty for the moment, though dishes and pans were simmering on the big range. The fire damage had long been repaired, but Pons spent some time examining the room, deep in thought, while I stood by, secretly irritated by the melancholy dripping of a tap in the sink.

When he had finished, Pons unlatched the door and led the way into the garden where a light mist was still billowing, though the sun was struggling to break through. He found, as Oldfield had indicated, that thick bushes extended up to the window, and the flagged path would normally have borne no indentation of footprints. We followed the path, which zigzagged through the grounds until it joined the main graveled drive.

"It would have been too easy, Parker," said Pons, creases of concentration appearing on his brow, "let us see what the cellars have to offer."

The third door in the kitchen proved to be the one we sought, and we descended the large stone steps, which evidently belonged to the foundations of the older house. There was a narrow landing lit by a dusty electric bulb and Pons spent some time there. He was particularly interested in the pantry door. I was astonished to see him produce his magnifying glass and study the hinges.

"Freshly greased, I see," he observed. "That is significant, Parker, as I'm sure you will have noted."

"I do not follow you, Pons."

Solar Pons clicked his teeth in a manner I always found irritating.

"Come, Parker, you are not living up to my training. Surely it is elementary. Someone deliberately greased those hinges so that whoever hid in the pantry with murderous intent could open the door and creep silently up on Mr. and Mrs. Oldfield without being detected."

The image Pons conjured up in that dusty place was so sinister and oppressive that I instinctively started back.

"Heavens, Pons! There is a diseased mind at work here!"

Solar Pons smiled grimly.

"Diseased perhaps, but devilishly cunning, Parker. And I think we have come just in time to avert tragedy."

We next descended to the cellar, and Pons spent some time looking through the wine bins and pacing the musty aisles between the ancient pillared archways. There was electric light here also, and he spent some time examining the flagstones. An area of newer cement also interested him, and his alertness and concentration increased, if anything, during this time.

We were returning up the steps when our host himself came hurrying down.

"Lunch is ready, Mr. Pons," he said in low tones. "Have you discovered anything?"

"All in good time, Mr. Oldfield," said Pons with a thin smile. "I have a number of hypotheses but insufficient data. If you are agreeable, I will tour the remainder of the house after lunch. I should also like a word with your wife, if she is strong enough."

"By all means, Mr. Pons."

"Then," said Solar Pons as Oldfield led the way up from the cellars, "friend Parker and I will take a little trip into Melton. I have a mind to undertake some research at the local library."

"Research, Mr. Pons?"

Our host looked astonished.

"I have often found that old newspaper files are an excellent guide to the locality, and Melton seems a most interesting part of Berkshire," said Solar Pons, his smile broadening at the look of dismay and disappointment on Oldfield's face.

He put his hand on the other's arm.

"I am looking for causes, not effects, Mr. Oldfield. A little patience, and a great many things will be made clear."

4

"Now, Parker, let us just hear your views on the strange events which have befallen Mr. and Mrs. Oldfield."

Pons and I were walking across a narrow stone bridge spanning a stream, which meandered across the approaches to the small town of Melton. The sun was shining now and the mist had quite dispersed, the golden rays sparkling on the moisture on the red-tiled roofs of the neat and prosperous community. We had lunched with Oldfield and his daughters in an ancient paneled dining room and, immediately after, Pons had discreetly toured the building while I had remained chatting with Oldfield and his housekeeper, who seemed a highly intelligent and resourceful woman.

We had not spoken of the strange events at Buffington Old Grange and neither had Pons made any direct reference to it until now. I waited until a single-deck omnibus whose destination was Reading had thundered across the bridge, before I again ventured into the road and continued walking toward Melton High Street

"Well, Pons, I must confess none of it makes much sense. The whole thing seems pointless."

"Does it not, Parker. But a pattern is beginning to emerge."

"This nonsense about the miser…" I began, but my companion interrupted me.

"There, Parker, is one of your graver defects, if you do not mind me saying so."

"The legends are preposterous, Pons," I went on. "Hanged men and footsteps on the ceiling…"

"Pshaw, Parker," Pons broke in, his brows knotted in concentration. "Look beneath the legends, man. There is a solid basis of fact. That is why we are going to Melton Library. I find that an hour among the files is highly conducive to the ratiocinative process."

And so saying, he clamped his empty pipe between his teeth and led the way down the busy main shopping street of the bustling little town.

The library itself was surprisingly large, and when Pons produced his card and had it sent in to the chief librarian, we were admitted to an inner room, where there were extensive files of the Melton Chronicle dating back into the mid-nineteenth century. Pons rubbed his hands with satisfaction, selected one of the dustiest of the files, and laid it down on the table.

He looked at me quizzically.

"This may take some time, Parker. There is really no necessity for you to stay. I am sure you have urgent matters of your own to attend to."

"Well, I would like to look around the town, Pons, now that we are here," I said.

Pons's eyes twinkled.

"I understand from the guidebook that they serve an excellent sherry at the Saracen's Head. Give me an hour or so, there's a good fellow."

I left him chuckling dryly to himself and spent an agreeable interval wandering around that pleasant Berkshire town.

I took Pons's advice; both the Saracen's Head and the sherry were extremely good, and I returned to the library a little before three o'clock considerably refreshed both in mind and body. Pons had an expression on his face that I knew well.

"What do you make of this, Parker?"

He indicated a page of the local journal, yellowed with time and blotched with the imperfections that cheap paper reveals as the years go by. I noted the date: it was 1902.

The long-winded, single-column headings in the style of those times said:

Encouraged by the expression in Pons's dancing eyes, I read on.

"The Berkshire coroner, Dr. Hugo Moules yesterday returned a verdict of suicide on Mr. Jabez Kemp of Buffington Old Grange, near Melton, who was found hanging in the attic at his home on March 4 last

"Sitting with a jury at the Temperance Rooms, Melton, Dr. Moules said that Mr. Kemp, who was known locally as 'The Squire of Buffington,' had been of a reclusive nature and had shunned intercourse with his fellow townspeople."

"Seems quite straightforward, Pons."

"Does it not, Parker. Do read on."

I turned again to the yellowing page.

"The seventy-three-year-old retired tea merchant had for some years shunned his neighbors and, attended by only one servant, had retreated into the upper story of his home, where his meals were left on a tray outside his door.

"Because of the illness of the housekeeper, Mrs. Theodisia Goodman, no one had been in to look after Mr. Kemp. He had not been seen for some weeks when the housekeeper returned to her duties. As a result of what she suspected, she called in the police. The attic door was broken down, and Mr. Kemp's body was discovered, suspended from a hook by a length of rope taken from a toolshed on the grounds. Medical evidence was to the effect that Mr. Kemp had been dead at least a fortnight

"Death was due to asphyxia, caused by the noose constricting the neck, and the coroner, expressing sympathy with the surviving relatives, concurred with the jury's verdict that the deceased took his own life while the balance of his mind was disturbed."

There was a good deal more, including evidence from the doctor, a local policeman, and the housekeeper, but I skimmed through the rest with increasing bewilderment. At length I turned from the file with a grunt. Solar Pons sat rubbing his hands with satisfaction.

"So much for the legends, Parker."

"It all seems quite straightforward, Pons."

"Naturally, my dear fellow. Apart from motive, Jabez Kemp's suicide had nothing extraordinary about it at all. Always return to the original sources, whenever possible, Parker. It saves a deal of time."

"But how does this help?"

"By eliminating the encrustation of tomfoolery that has gathered around our client's home. I have been through these files for the past twenty years in the last hour and a half."

"That seems a remarkable feat, Pons."

My companion smiled.

"I knew what I was looking for. Only the extraordinary interested me. And even such a publication as the Melton Chronicle does not stint the size of its headlines when it comes to that."

"You are on to something?"

Solar Pons nodded.

"I think I have both the motive and explanation for the sinister web in which our client finds himself entangled."

"You cannot mean it, Pons?"

"Just glance through these later files, Parker. I am saving my trump card for our return to the hotel this evening."

But Pons's researches in these later issues seemed to me to be trite and disappointing indeed. There were elaborate advertisements prominently displayed in realtors announcements of the desirable estate known as Buffington Old Grange; apparently there were no takers, for the announcements becoming progressively smaller, were repeated with increasing monotony until they petered out about 1904.

"It is disappointing, Pons."

"On the contrary, it is fascinating, Parker. When one knows what to look for."

I tapped an exasperated forefinger at the group of advertisements he had just pressed upon me.

"All this nonsense about a Grand Circus at Melton, Pons," I cried irritably. "And back in 1912 too. What bearing can this possibly have upon the matter?"

Solar Pons smiled a maddeningly irritating smile and leaned back in his chair.

"Does this not suggest anything to you, Parker?"

I looked in bewilderment at the blurred picture of a handsome woman in tights who faced the camera with a confident smile. Heavy black type proclaimed:

I read on with growing bewilderment.

Apparently Madame Mantalini was a strong woman, acrobat, clever mime, ventriloquist, and I don't know what else besides.

"She was a lady of many parts, Pons," I said cautiously.

Solar Pons chuckled.

"Was she not, Parker? However, I think we have taxed your brain enough for one day. We will return to our client for tea. I think he and his wife are safe enough for the time being, now that we are on hand. This evening I shall let you see the fruits of my research this afternoon, and we will test how far my methods have impressed themselves upon you. Now, I suggest we will both benefit from a healthful stroll through this agreeable town back to our host's dwelling."

"An excellent dinner, Parker."

Solar Pons put down his coffee cup with a satisfied smile and looked carefully around the half-empty dining room of the Crown Inn. It had indeed been a first-rate meal, and for perhaps the first time since we had arrived at Melton, I felt in a mellow, even convivial, mood.

We had taken tea with our client and his family as Pons had suggested and afterward had been introduced to Mrs. Oldfield, a pretty, fair-haired woman who was much comforted by our presence. She was still in bed and attended by the local doctor, who reassured Oldfield and said she would be up and about within a day or so.

Afterward, Pons had spent some time conversing first with the housekeeper, then the parlor maid, and finally the gardener, a middle-aged, grizzled man who puffed dourly at his pipe but was evidently captivated by Pons's conversation. The spring dusk had already fallen when we strolled back to the little town. Pons had been unusually preoccupied and silent.

During dinner, however, he had resumed his gregarious manner and had run over a few salient points regarding our client's adventures, though without enlightening me much further. I knew he would not fully reveal his thoughts until he had every thread in his hand, and so I had purposefully refrained from questioning him.

Now, as we rose and left the dining room, Pons excused himself.

"I just have to make a telephone call to Brother Bancroft. I desire some information from the Home Office, and I fancy only he can help me there."

I went on into the bar and partook of another glass of sherry, though I found this not as good as that stocked by the Saracen's Head. Pons still had not returned, so I went up to my room and read for a while.

After half an hour there was a light tap at the door and Pons reappeared, rubbing his hands and wearing a satisfied expression.

"Bancroft has his uses," he chuckled, answering my unspoken question. "Now I fancy that the stage is set for the last act of the drama, providing Mrs. Oldfield's health improves by tomorrow and I can persuade the family to leave."

I shot him a puzzled glance.

"What on earth are you talking about, Pons?"

"All in good rime, Parker. Just cast your eyes over this. Now, I think we shall need to enlist the help of a local detective officer. It is as well to have the official law on our side when we net our men."

I gave the matter up and glanced at the newspaper Pons had thrust into my hand. My companion sank down at the end of my bed and was soon puffing contentedly at his pipe, emitting long ribbons of blue smoke, which lingered acridly in the corners of the room and gathered in a thick swathe below the ceiling.

I was exasperated to find that my companion had handed me yet another yellowing newspaper from the file of the Melton Chronicle. I first noted another circus announcement, again featuring Madame Mantalini.

"Really, Pons," I said. "I cannot see the point in all these old journals. I hope you have not stolen it from the library."

Pons chuckled.

"Put your mind at rest, my dear fellow. I am keeping well within the law. The librarian had a spare copy of this

issue in the cellar. I shall return it to him when the case is over. Just cast your eyes over it if you would be so good."

I soon saw what he meant. In fact the headlines of the main item were so large that it would have been difficult to have missed them. They occupied nearly half the top of the front page of the newspaper, which was dated 1912. I shot a sharp glance at Pons, who puffed away unconcernedly, his eyes on the ceiling.

The heading read:

And underneath, in smaller type:

Pons remained silent so I read on. The report began: "Mr. Justice Strange sentenced the convicted robbers, John Roberts and Ezekiel Walton to ten years' imprisonment for burglaries in the Melton area totaling £100,000, at Reading Assizes yesterday.

"The convicted men, who confessed to robbing a large number of country estates in Berkshire of cash and valuables, had steadfastly refused to say what they had done with the stolen property. Ezekiel Walton, the elder of the accused and admitted ringleader, defiantly abused the Judge when sentenced and Mr. Justice Strange referred to him as 'one of the most dangerous rogues in England.' Walton's wife, Elizabeth, is also accused of complicity in the crimes but has fled and her whereabouts are not currently known."

I read on in mounting bewilderment, and at length threw the newspaper down. "Interesting, is it not, Parker?'*

"Well, yes, Pons," I said. "But I don't see how it could help us."

"Do you not, Parker? Surely it would give your mind some interesting facts to work on."

"I fear not, Pons. Old robberies and burglars in prison, to say nothing of hanged misers and ancient auctioneers' advertisements, suggest little to me!" Solar Pons shook his head with a wry chuckle. "You may well be right, my dear fellow, but I must just follow this matter through. We shall heed that newspaper

so take good care of it I suggest you turn in early tonight because we may have a long day tomorrow. I am just going to stroll down to the local police station and have a chat with one of their detectives. These people usually have long memories."

"Really, Pons," I said. "Your mind works in peculiar ways, sometimes."

"I cannot deny it," he said with an enigmatic smile. "Meanwhile, just think about things. I am sure all will become clear to you."

And with a mischievous wave of his hand he left the room.

We breakfasted early the next morning and were soon back at our client's home. He had put off his business affairs for a few days, partly because of his wife's health and partly to be at Pons's disposal. When we were closeted alone with Oldfield in his study, Pons came quickly to the point It was a warm, sunny day, and the light spilling in through the mullioned windows gave Pons's lean, feral face an unaccustomed glow.

"I have come to certain conclusions about your case, Mr. Oldfield. So far as I can see there is but one way to resolve it You and your family must leave the house as soon as possible. Can you be ready to travel by tomorrow?"

My own face must have looked as astonished as our client's.

"You cannot be serious, Mr. Pons! I thought you did not believe in ghosts."

Mr. Horace Oldfield's features were the very picture of dismay and apprehension.

"I have not changed my opinion in that respect, Mr. Oldfield. Pray do not distress yourself. The removal is temporary only and entirely for your own good."

The accountant's attitude changed to one of relief. He leaned forward at his desk.

"Ah, I follow you, Mr. Pons. You are on to something?" Solar Pons nodded, rubbing his thin hands together with suppressed excitement.

"I have a theory, Mr. Oldfield. How it will work out I cannot be exactly sure. But to put it into operation, Buffington Old Grange must be absolutely deserted to all intents and purposes."

He held up a warning finger to stop the obvious flow of questions that were on the brink of our client's tongue.

"No one must know of this but ourselves. That is imperative. Not even your wife. All I require is a key of the house, preferably to one of the back doors. Leave the rest to Dr. Parker and myself."

"Delighted, Mr. Pons. Anything to clear up this dreadful mystery. But what about the servants?"

"Everyone must be out, Mr. Oldfield. I do not care what excuse you give. That should not present any great problem."

"No, indeed, Mr. Pons. I could say that we are going on holiday and that the entire place is being redecorated."

Solar Pons shook his head.

"That will not do at all, Mr. Oldfield. An empty house is the only bait that will serve. Well, well, I must leave you. But the servants must take a holiday too."

"Very well, Mr. Pons. Mrs. Salmon has relatives in London to whom she could go. There is no great difficulty about the maid. Her home is in Melton."

"There is no problem about the gardener, I take it?"

"No, Mr. Pons. He lives out. But I cannot very well exclude him from the grounds. He would think it most odd."

"Of course not, Mr. Oldfield."

Solar Pons was silent for a moment, his hand pulling reflectively at the lobe of his ear. Then he turned to me.

"We shall have to risk it, Parker. He will leave the grounds at dusk, I take it?"

"Certainly, Mr. Pons."

"Very well. There is little more to be said. I think the sooner you are out the. better, Mr. Oldfield. Can you be ready by tomorrow afternoon?"

"If you wish it, Mr. Pons."

"That is settled, then. We will leave you to make the necessary arrangements. But I cannot emphasize strongly enough that your entire family must be seen in Melton publicly on the point of departure, whether you go by train or motor car."

It shall be done, Mr. Pons," said our obedient client.

Solar Pons rose and Horace Oldfield fervently shook his hand.

"I trust you implicitly, Mr. Pons, and I am hoping that this black cloud which has been hanging over us will soon be lifted."

"Leave it to us, Mr. Oldfield. Come, Parker. We have much to do before tomorrow, and I must just check our arrangements with the local police. Remember, Mr. Old- field, not a word to anyone about the real purpose of your departure."

And Solar Pons strode out of the room so briskly that I had a great deal of difficulty in keeping up with him.

6

"Everything is going according to plan, Parker."

Solar Pons handed me the binoculars with an approving smile. We had borrowed them from our client, and they were of powerful magnification. Pons and I were sitting on a fallen log in a clearing on a hilltop about half a mile from Buffington Old Grange. From our commanding position, concealed ourselves, we had an excellent view of the road, the surrounding houses, and the Grange itself. I focused the eyepiece and the image of the drive, bluish and sharp in the clear afternoon light, sprang into clarity.

Mrs. Salmon, the housekeeper, accompanied by the maid, was walking down Mr. Oldfield's drive. Both carried suitcases and their steps were evidently bent toward Melton: the housekeeper for the railway station, the girl to her own home. They paused for a while to chat with the gardener, whose wheelbarrow was stationed near the main gates. I watched them for a while, as they resumed their journey, until a bend in the road cut them off.

Pons sat next to me, the blue smoke of his pipe rising in aromatic spirals in the still, sunny air. He was in a mood I knew well; his tense, set face indicated that his mind was engaged in some problem and I knew better than to interrupt him at these times. So I contented myself with idly scanning the road and the surrounding countryside with the glasses, while my own mind pondered on the strange nature of the mystery surrounding the inhabitants of the Grange — so baffling to me, apparently so clear to my companion.

My musings were presently interrupted by the sound of a car in the driveway, and I saw at once that the master of Buffington Old Grange and his family were themselves on the point of departure. A sedan, brought around from the stable block, was in front of the main door, and the members of the family were loading suitcases into the interior.

I handed the binoculars to Pons and he watched silently while the preparations went forward. Presently the engine of the car started; the auto accelerated down the drive and drove off in the direction of Melton. Silence again descended on the quiet country scene. The gardener, deserted now that everyone had disappeared, stood forlorn for a few moments, poised on his broom, and then wheeled his barrow bade down the drive, sulkily it seemed to me, even with the naked eye.

Pons had taken the eyepieces from his face and smiled at my expression.

"Why, yes, Parker, I do expect Smithson is a little put out"

"Whatever do you mean, Pons?"

Solar Pons chuckled.

"The gardener, my dear fellow. He did look desolate, did he not? And no doubt he will miss his meat pies, his cups of tea, and glasses of cider, now that the house is deserted."

I joined in Pons's amusement

"Well, yes, Pons, I am thinking somewhat on those lines. But how you can read my mind in such a manner…"

"Your mind is quite transparent in these matters, my dear fellow."

Pons rose from the log and I followed him along the path across the field. To my surprise he took the fork which led back toward the town.

"We are not going to the Grange, then, Pons?"

My companion's eyes flashed and an expression of irritation, hastily suppressed, passed across his mobile features.

"Have you learned nothing from my methods, Parker? Secrecy is vital, as I indicated. The Grange is watched, I have no doubt. We cannot go there until after dark. We can safely employ ourselves in Melton for the few hours of daylight remaining. And I have an appointment to meet the local CID inspector at six o'clock."

"I am sorry, Pons," I said. "My confusion comes from cot knowing what is going on."

Pons's expression softened as he pulled steadily at the stem of his pipe.

"All will be made clear in good time, Parker. You must just contain yourself a little longer."

We soon reached the outskirts of Melton and, passing over the bridge, once again plunged into that busy little metropolis. I did not see much of Pons after tea, but dusk had long fallen when he at length appeared before me as I sat reading in front of the fire in the hotel lounge.

"All is ready, Parker. I trust you have your pistol?"

I nodded assent and followed Pons as he strode through the narrow streets. Once across the bridge, a shadowy figure detached itself from the leafy hedge and came forward to join us.

"Right on time, Mr. Pons."

"Punctuality is the keystone of good detective work. Allow me to present my old friend and colleague, Dr. Lyndon Parker. Inspector George Oldale of the Melton CID."

"Delighted to meet you, Dr. Parker."

Inspector Oldale was a tall, vigorous man in his mid-forties with jet-black hair and an alert, terrier-like expression. He evidently knew little more than I about the affairs of Buffington Old Grange, but he fell into stride alongside us and listened carefully as Pons outlined our dispositions for the evening.

"We will circle the grounds, gentlemen, and approach the house from the rear. We must be silent and circumspect as possible. I have a key to the kitchen door. Once inside the house, we shall secrete ourselves in the cellar and await events."

He tapped his pocket with a thin smile. "I have brought a flask and sandwiches. We may be in for a long wait. Or they may not come at all tonight, though after such a time I would think it highly unlikely that they will delay further."

Oldale's face was set in a frowning mask as he stared at Pons. He did not venture any comment but I could not contain myself.

"Who are 'they,' Pons? And what on earth are we doing in the cellars of Buffington Old Grange?"

Pons only smiled again and laid a finger alongside his nose to enjoin caution. The wind was rising steadily, and the air was fresh, as though it. presaged rain. We were coming to the end of the gas lamps now, and beyond them there were only dancing shadows and the patterns thrown by leaves upon the uneven pavement. There was a small lane on our right and Pons took it unerringly, walking as though he had known this neighborhood all his life.

Presently we found a gap in the hedge and, squeezing through with some difficulty, found ourselves on the grounds of Buffington Old Grange. Crossing a wide lawn to a graveled path, which we skirted cautiously, we waited for our eyes to adjust to the darkness before Pons located the flagged walk which led through gloomy banks of rhododendrons and, eventually, to the kitchen door.

The detective officer and I waited uneasily in the rising wind, listening to the creek of branches and strange night sounds, until Pons had placed the key in the lock. Pons's eyes glinted with the excitement of the chase as we found ourselves in the darkened kitchen. He relocked the door and then we followed him through the cellar entrance and down the steps. We had to tread carefully; Pons was now using a pocket flashlight with great caution.

He kept it low, illuminating only the steps, until we reached the floor. He ran the beam across the cellar, selecting a hiding place with care. He stationed Inspector Oldale behind one of the Gothic arches, waiting until he had made himself comfortable on some dry straw. Pons then divided the packet of sandwiches and left the officer several fingers of whiskey in the silver cup of his flask. He glanced at his watch.

"We must be prepared for a long wait," he whispered. "No smoking and no talking, Inspector. Parker and I will be among the wine bins yonder."

Oldale nodded and drew his thick overcoat about him, for the air was chill in the cellar. I followed Pons over and we secreted ourselves in one of the aisles between our client's wine racks, so that we could, with a little effort, get a good view of the cellar beyond.

"You have no objection to drinking direct from the flask, Parker?" asked Pons, passing me the packet of sandwiches.

"By no means, Pons," I whispered, biting into a cheese sandwich.

Pons switched off the light. Munching and sipping agreeably enough, we settled down to wait in the pitch darkness while the creaking noises of the wind, audible here through windows high up at ground level, formed a somber background to my thoughts.

7

I was jerked awake by the insistent pressure of Pons's fingers on my arm. I must have momentarily dropped off to sleep because I felt chilly and heavy-eyed.

"What is it, Pons?"

"It is one A.M., Parker," my companion whispered. "And something is happening."

Even as he spoke I could hear a faint crunching in the gravel driveway outside the house, and the dim beam of some light source shone across one of the barred windows of the cellar, high above our heads. A long silence followed and then the heavy, echoing slam of the front door.

We had no time to exchange a word with the police inspector before the sharp, brittle beat of footsteps sounded along the corridors above. The kitchen door opened with a sudden crash that set my nerves fluttering. Mindful of Pons's exhortations, I already had my revolver in hand, the safety catch off. The cellar was flooded with light from the overhead fitting.

I just caught sight of Inspector Oldale pressing farther back into the shadow behind the arch as Pons and I moved cautiously into the darkness of the aisle between the wine bins. We were well concealed here, and I pressed my eye to a space between the bins near ground level, which commanded a good view of the cellar.

Footsteps were descending, and the naked bulb in the vaulted ceiling cast grotesque shadows across the wall.

"It's been a long time."

There was exultation and expectancy in the harsh voice.

"It has that. But worth it."

Silence then, as though the owners of the voices had stopped. Now they came forward again. I shrank back, but the two roughly dressed men who descended the steps so confidently had no eyes for anything but that cleared part of the cellar between two of the high windows. I had noticed before that there was a large patch of lighter cement there, but I now realized its full significance and why Pons had given it particular attention

His lean, feral features were completely absorbed as he studied the two men who advanced with heavy canvas bags. They carried picks and shovels in their right hands, and there was urgency and purpose in their every movement. I noticed that Pons had his own pistol out and ready for use at his side. The men knelt on the cellar floor and were busy unbuckling the bags they carried. They had their backs to the arch concealing Inspector Oldale, so I knew there was no danger of them seeing him; they were far too absorbed, in any event.

The taller of the two men had black hair turning silver and as he turned toward me under the light of the bulb, I could see that he had a dirty white scar running down the side of his face. He wore a heavy knitted jersey such as fishermen wear, dark trousers, and what appeared to be rope-soled sandals.

His companion was slightly smaller but still looked formidable; built like a boxer, he had fair hair and appeared to be a good deal younger than his companion. He had a white, set face in which his eyes burned like tiny sparks of fire. He wore coarse blue overalls and dark trousers similar to those of his companion. Both men were rummaging in the canvas bags now and were consulting a slip of paper, conversing in low whispers all the while.

The bigger man looked anxiously up at the two cellar windows, as though he had just noticed them for the first time. Then there followed another interval while the two men paced out certain measurements between two of the arches and carried on a fierce argument in menacing tones.

When that was over, the big man carried one of the pickaxes over and made a few trial blows at the patch of light cement. Chips rained about the cellar floor. He was then joined by the second man and they worked on steadily for a quarter of an hour, dealing blows that seemed to make the whole cellar shiver. Dust and chippings drifted about, and a gaping crack gradually spread under their expert efforts. Both men were evidently in good condition because they never paused or hesitated, once they had begun to work.

I glanced at Pons but he was completely absorbed in the scene before him and made no comment, though we could easily have conversed undetected, such was the noise the two men were making. After a while they stopped, and both stooped and tugged at a long slab of cement which was proving difficult to dislodge. It finally gave with a loud cracking noise, disclosing a dark hole some six feet long and about four wide.

This caused some excitement because the pair stopped and held a whispered colloquy; then the bigger of the two fetched "a bottle from one of the bags and they drank a silent toast before falling to their work again. They were into earth now and the going had become comparatively easy; they were able to work in relative silence as they shoveled, up the layers of black mold and heaped them on the cellar floor of Buffington Old Grange.

The wind was rising heavily and made an uneasy background to the strange scene in front of us. Pons's eyes were shining with excitement and he could not resist a glance of satisfaction at me, as if to reproach me for my skepticism earlier.

I shifted my knee, for I was becoming cramped in one position and was suddenly aware that a relative silence had fallen. I again applied my eyes to the space at the bottom of the bins and saw that some discovery had been made. There had been a metallic clatter a short while before and now it came again as one of the men cautiously tested the pit with his shovel.

Both recommenced digging, this time with their bare hands, scooping up the earth like dogs and throwing it behind them in their abandoned excitement. Then they were bending over the hole in the cellar floor, levering at something; a few seconds later it came in sight — a large, oblong metal chest, with dry earth still clinging to the sides of it.

It made a shrill, grating noise as they dragged it out of the hole they had made and across the rim of the surrounding cement. The two men were silent now, crouched and looking down at the metal box, and there was an air of stillness in the cellar as though something tremendous had happened. Then one of the men let drop a ringing oath answered by a laugh from the second. The burlier stepped forward and the pickax rang on the padlock as he smashed the chest open.

The man with the scar let out a deep sigh and dipped his hand into the box.

Ten years, by God!" he said in a shaky voice. "Ten years!"

I had moved my position slightly because of my cramp and had become so absorbed in the scene that all caution was forgotten. A sudden stab of pain shot through my calf as I moved and I was caught off balance, my pistol barrel falling against a metal upright with a ringing crash. The immobile pair flanking the chest parted with the suddenness of disturbed water.

The tall man with the scar clapped his hand to his pocket as Pons and I started up. The hollow boom of the explosion seemed to rock the cellar and a bullet went ricocheting away among the casks and boxes, sending the splinters flying.

"Your shot, Parker, I think," said Pons calmly.

The second man was already running for the cellar steps as Inspector Oldale's police whistle shrilled. I had my revolver ready as the tall man brought up his pistol again. My shot caught him in the calf of his right leg and brought him painfully to the ground.

The running man was at the cellar door before the athletic figure of Oldale brought him low with a rugby tackle. The two rolled over as Pons ran up the steps to the detective's assistance. The night was full of pounding footsteps and the cellar suddenly seemed full of men in blue uniforms. The smoke of the two shots still hung in the air as Pons joined me, and we hurried to where the tall man lay twisted, cursing and groaning, his pistol fallen far out of reach in the hole the two men had so painstakingly dug.

Pons stood silently looking down at him for a moment as Oldale made his way to our side with the second prisoner, securely handcuffed. My companion's eyes flickered to the bundles of bank notes and the packets of sovereigns within the metal box. The eyes of the man with the white scar met ours unflinchingly.

"Mr. Ezekiel Walton if I am not much mistaken," said Pons grimly.

He turned to Inspector Oldale.

"And there is his fellow conspirator John Roberts. Both men out of prison only a year and certainly two of the most dangerous and enterprising rogues in England, as the judge so aptly described them."

Inspector Oldale's eyes were wide open in astonishment, and there was consternation on the faces of the constables gathered around him.

The man on the ground spat in disgust and struggled up into a sitting position. I already had my pocket handkerchief around the clean wound in his leg, which was pumping blood copiously. I tightened it to stanch the flow and fastened Pons's own handkerchief over the top to secure it

"That will do until we get him to the hospital," I said.

There was mingled rage and admiration in the eyes of the man known as Ezekiel Walton as he stared at Pons.

"All in vain!" he said bitterly. "Ten years and all in vain, mister. Though how you got on to us I don't know…"

"A little coincidence and a great deal of common sense," said Pons with a dry chuckle.

He turned to Oldale.

"You had better take charge of this money, Inspector. It represents the proceeds of a number of daring robberies. I have no doubt you will receive an official commendation from a certain quarter, which you will find no hindrance in your career."

"You are most generous, Mr. Pons," said the Berkshire detective.

A startling change had come over the face of the man John Roberts, and he now ceased his struggles with the two burly constables who held him. The man on the ground was being helped up, his wounded leg stiff and helpless. He smiled grimly at Pons.

"Mr. Solar Pons?"

Pons nodded

"I have that appellation."

"The most brilliant private detective in England," said Inspector Oldale.

Ezekiel Walton gave a second twisted smile.

"I don't feel so bad, then," he said

Pons had drawn Oldale aside.

"This matter is not yet finished, Inspector. Remain here for a few minutes longer while I seek the lady in the case."

"Lady, Pons?" I asked as we hurried up the cellar steps.

"Certainly, Parker. Madame Mantalini, of course."

I had no opportunity to make sense of this baffling statement before Pons was leading the way at a breathless pace through the darkened rooms of Buffington Old Grange. The police had come in through the kitchen door to gain the cellar and the rooms were silent and deserted. But as we mounted the staircase to the upper floors hurried footsteps were heard.

"You have been long enough. What was that disturbance?" a woman's voice hissed.

A heavy door faced with baize opened on the landing before us and the owner of the voice peered anxiously through. Pons bowed politely.

"It means that the game is up, Madame Mantalini," he said, mockingly. "The police are in possession and your husband and his companion in custody."

For a moment the woman's face stared at us in the half- light of the staircase like a white, waxen mask. The lips moved with trembling motions but no words came. Then the door was slammed savagely in our faces, and the bolt

thrust home. The retreating footsteps died out on the staircase to the attic floor as Pons and I flung ourselves at the panels.

"A resourceful woman, Parker," said Pons breathlessly, at the fourth shoulder-bruising charge. Then he had his pistol out and deftly shot the lock away with two well-placed bullets. I stumbled through on to the landing and found the brass light switch. Radiance blinked ahead of us as Pons crossed to the door of a room almost opposite. I stood in the opening and watched as he moved to a chest of drawers at the far wall It was a woman's room, with chintz hangings and pink-shaded lamps, and I looked on In bewilderment as Pons started turning out drawers and cupboards.

"Ought we not to follow her, Pons?" I asked, eyeing the narrow stair behind me.

"I think not for the moment, Parker," said my companion evenly.

"If my reasoning is correct she cannot escape that way and a few minutes more will not matter. I have a notion to satisfy my curiosity. Ah, here we have something."

He picked up a glittering object from the back of a drawer and held the crystal container up to the light.

"It is nothing but a scent spray, Pons."

"Is it not, Parker?" Solar Pons chuckled.

He operated the rubber bulb and sniffed critically with flaring nostrils.

"Lavender, if I am not in error. There is your ghost on the landing."

He handed me the spray and was rummaging in the back of a cupboard as he spoke. He straightened up with a grunt He held a battered book with a leather cover in his hands. He turned over the leaves hurriedly. I caught a glimpse of yellowed newspaper extracts pasted into the pages. Pons lifted his eyebrows.

"Listen to this, Parker. 'Madame Mantalini's Second Successful Visit. Brilliant Ventriloquist Appears Locally.'"

"I am still at sea, Pons," I said helplessly.

Solar Pons made an impatient clicking noise with his tongue.

"Tut, Parker. The matter is clear as daylight. I need only one thing more now and we have these rascals in the net."

He thrust the book into my hands and pounced into the darkness at the back of the cupboard. He turned back to me and I could not repress a shudder. I recoiled as a dead gray face, contorted in a hideous leer, stared soullessly into mine.

"A carnival mask, Parker. A simple but effective device to frighten the wits out of Mr. and Mrs. Oldfield, let alone that poor child."

He ripped the papier-mâché creation from his face, his features stern and set, his eyes blazing.

"You cannot mean, Pons…" I began when we were interrupted by an echoing clatter from the rooms beyond the narrow staircase. Pons hurried up, with me following close behind He ascended the last flight two steps at a time, so that I had a job to keep up with him. He found another switch and the landing ahead of us sprang into light. We were evidently in the old servants' quarters. There was no sound from our quarry now. Unless there were a back stairs, the woman Pons had called Madame Mantalini could not escape us.

Nor had she, for as I stepped through into the last of the dusty boxrooms a few minutes later, a pale moon shining through the skylight outlined a dark shadow swaying in the gloom. The overturned cane-bottom chair told us the meaning of the clatter we had heard

Pons supported her weight as I struggled to get her down. She had hanged herself, with the belt from her dress, on a rusty hook protruding from an oak beam in the ceiling. Pons's face was white and he was visibly shaken as I loosened the ligature from around the neck of the woman he called Madame Mantalini and whom we had known as our client's housekeeper, Mrs. Salmon.

"Poetic justice, perhaps, Parker," he said, as I shook my head slowly. "If that woman is not a murderess, it is only by the grace of God."

He rose to his feet, dusting the knees of his trousers. He glanced around the attic room, his face once more alert and clear-minted.

"Though I would not have wished things to end like this. Ironic that it is probably the same beam from which the old recluse, Jabez Kemp, hanged himself."

He smiled thinly at my expression.

"We had better get some of Oldale's constables up to get Mrs. Walton to the ambulance. Then I think that a few explanations are in order."

8

It has been an incredible experience, Mr. Pons. I do not know how to thank you."

Horace Oldale looked beaming around the table, while his wife's smiling face echoed his own satisfaction. Solar Pons toyed with the stem of his wineglass and glanced approvingly at me.

"It has been a case not without some extraordinary points of interest," he admitted. "And one that I would not have missed for a good deal. Eh, Parker?"

"Certainly not, Pons."

We were seated in the dining room at Buffington Old Grange, the debris of an excellent dinner on the table before us, while the firelight flickered redly on the faces of our host and hostess and their children. Inspector Oldale sat alert and diffident at one side, thoughtfully piercing a cigar with a small instrument on his pocketknife.

"The two men have talked right enough this past week, Mr. Pons," he observed. "But I would like to hear the whole thing from your own lips."

"And so you shall," observed Solar Pons coolly, taking a sip from his glass of port.

"You may recall, Mr. Oldfield, when first you sought my advice, that I then told you I did not hold with ghosts in any shape or form. It was obvious to me from the beginning and before ever I came to Buffington Old Grange,

that a human agency was behind the diabolical happenings within these walls. What interested me even more was the reason for these manifestations."

Solar Pons shot me a penetrating glance from his deep-set eyes.

"You may remember, Parker, that when we examined the cellar I was particularly interested in the patch of light- colored cement. That had special interest for me."

"I must confess its significance had escaped me, Pons," I said. "Though with hindsight I realize its importance."

Pons smiled thinly.

"It was already clear to me, even in Praed Street, that someone wanted possession of Buffington Old Grange. For what purpose was not at that time evident. But the house had been empty for a long period before Mr. and Mrs. Oldfield purchased it, and it seemed logical to assume that something in the house had great interest for a person or persons unknown. Hence the campaign of terror to which the occupants were subjected. And on my arrival it did not take me long to realize that the housekeeper, Mrs. Salmon, was admirably suited to this role.

"She had entree to every part of the house; the whole strings of the manage were in her hands; and she further impressed me as a woman of very great daring and steady nerve."

"Oh come, Pons," I protested. "I saw only a very competent woman devoted to the interests of her employers. Why, she even risked her own life to put out the fire in this very house."

Mr. and Mrs. Oldfield stared at me and even the inspector looked discomposed.

Pons slowly shook his head, a strange smile hovering about his lips.

"That she had first started, Parker. Remember that."

Before I could interject any further remark he went on rapidly.

"My conversations with the maid and the gardener, the only other two members of the domestic staff, quickly convinced me that they could not possibly be responsible. I concentrated therefore on Mrs. Salmon. It was further obvious that some event in the remote past held the key to the bizarre occurrences within this house. It had been empty a long while, so there had been ample opportunity for anyone to explore it in the past. But it became clear as the case progressed that Mr. and Mrs. Oldfield had purchased the property at a time when some exterior event had occurred. To make sense of this I had first to find out what happening in the remote past might be responsible. I therefore consulted the newspaper files at your excellent library, Inspector."

"I begin to see your drift, Pons," I said.

Solar Pons leaned back at the table and tented his fingers, his eyes twinkling as he looked at me.

"Do you not, Parker? Let us just recapitulate. Mrs. Salmon was intent on driving her employers from the house. To do that she deliberately indulged in a campaign of terror which did not shrink from frightening a child half out of her wits and even went on to attempted murder. She capitalized on these old stories of the miser, Jabez Kemp, and his Hanging himself in one of the upper rooms of the property. I'm sure you'll forgive me for mentioning this in front of these children of tender years, Mrs. Old- field?"

Mrs. Oldfield, a handsome woman now quite recovered from the strain of the past months, smiled indulgently.

"Children are more resilient than you might think, Mr. Pons. They are quite absorbed in your narrative, now that they know there is nothing supernatural within these walls."

"There was nothing supernatural, Mrs. Oldfield. Mrs. Salmon was the all-too-human agent. It was she who sprayed the lavender perfume on the landing; she who supplied the whispering and footsteps; she who donned that hideous mask to frighten your children. That was why you heard a guttural voice, Mr. Oldfield. And when that failed to drive you out, she hid in the pantry and tried to push you down the stairs, in turn. Whether either or both of her employers were crippled or killed was a matter of complete indifference to her. She had to drive you out in order to get at that money."

"I quite see that, Pons," I said. "But I don't understand about the fire."

"Elementary, my dear Parker. Mrs. Salmon set it herself. She was the only person who could have done so. The gardener, who was working in front of the house, told me he had seen no one. Mrs. Salmon therefore came back to the house by the kitchen entrance, unseen. She had just lit the paraffin when Mr. Oldfield unexpectedly returned home. She had no option but heroically to attempt to save the property by putting out the blaze herself. In so doing she undoubtedly genuinely burned herself, which added to the verisimilitude of the story she told Mr. Oldfield, of an intruder."

"But what was the point, Pons?"

Solar Pons clicked his tongue again.

"If the house were destroyed, Parker, Mr. and Mrs. Old- field and their family would have to leave. Whether permanently or for a few months made no difference. The fire would not affect the cellars. If Buffington Old Grange had been gutted, all the gang had to do when the fuss had died down would be to move in one dark night and remove the stolen money."

"And the voices, Mr. Pons?" said Oldfield. "We heard strange voices. They were not hallucination."

"Mrs. Salmon was a woman of many parts," said Pons dryly. "She had been an acrobat, a ventriloquist, and a circus performer among other things. I found that out from a perusal of the newspaper files, and an old photograph of her as Madame Mantalini clinched the matter. To a trained ventriloquist the thing would be child's play. As soon as I arrived at the house, I saw that the voice you heard on the porch that dark night, Mr. Oldfield, could easily have emanated from the open kitchen window farther along. All Mrs. Salmon — or rather, Mrs. Elizabeth Walton — had to do was to wait in the darkened kitchen until you returned and put your key in the door."

"You keep saying Mrs. Walton, Pons."

"That was self-evident from the newspaper files, Parker. A series of daring robberies in the Melton area ten or eleven years ago was the most startling and outstanding event which had happened in this quiet place this century. Apart from the death of the recluse in this house. I soon saw from the newspaper account that there was nothing unusual in the old man's suicide. Instead, I concentrated on the robberies. John Roberts and Ezekiel Walton, two of the most desperate rascals who ever embarked on house-breaking exploits were the culprits. Walton was married to Madame Mantalini — or Mrs. Salmon as you knew her, Mr. Oldfield. The trio traveled the country with fairs and circuses, Madame Mantalini providing the facade of circus performer, while the other two worked as stevedores. We have that from their own lips. I soon saw from the advertisements in the local newspaper that the fair or circus had played in the vicinity of Melton when country houses were robbed. The trio would first familiarize themselves with the new district, mark down a particular house, and commit the burglary on the last night they were in the neighborhood. By the time the crime was discovered, the circus would be miles away."

I see, Pons!" I said. "I should have paid more attention to those advertisements."

Solar Pons exchanged a slow smile with Inspector Oldale.

"Do not blame yourself, Parker. I already knew what I was looking for before I ever went to the library. The gang had their biggest haul at Melton when the fair played here again. They had marked out the empty house as an ideal cache. They spent the night concealing their booty and cementing it into its cellar hiding place, while the country was turned upside down for them. But later they were caught and sent to prison for ten years, though Mrs. Walton disappeared."

He stopped to take another sip of the port before resuming.

"The people hereabouts had only seen her in makeup as a fair or circus performer. It was a simple matter for her to change her name, personality, and identity and find work in the area as a housekeeper."

"She was watching the Grange to see that no one disturbed the money, Pons!"

"Exactly, Parker. Which she did admirably. She was an extremely patient woman. Imagine her dismay when Mr. and Mrs. Oldfield bought the house and commenced to renovate it. But being a woman of great resources and nerve, she did not despair. She knew the new owners would need someone to run the place and with her excellent local references she was first on the scene to offer her services as housekeeper and to prepare the tragicomedy."

"But why did she wait so long, Pons?" I said.

Solar Pons shook his head.

"The men were still in prison, Parker. She could do nothing until they were released. I called on Bancroft who obtained some Home Office information for me. Walton and Roberts were released a year ago."

"Exactly the time the ghostly manifestations began?" I said.

Solar Pons nodded.

"Mr. and Mrs. Oldfield did not take a holiday the first year they were at the Grange. There was too much to do. That gave me a vital clue. The check with Bancroft revealed the men's release date. They waited a while until the occupants should go away on holiday. The Oldfields, however, showed no inclination to do so and hence the conspirators had no alternative but to then begin the campaign to drive them out."

"Which led me to seek your advice, Mr. Pons," said Horace Oldfield fervently. "It was the most sensible thing I have done in my life."

"Well, well, Mr. Oldfield," said Pons soberly. "It had been a terrifying experience but all has come right in the end. Justice has been done and more than done in the case of Mrs. Walton, who would undoubtedly have killed one of you if it had not been for a merciful providence. I hope that it has not put you off living at Buffington Old Grange?"

Oldfield exchanged a long look with his wife.

"It has certainly not done that, Mr. Pons. I am sure we shall be very happy here now."

"There, Parker," said Solar Pons. "We have achieved something at least. I for one will remain extremely content with that."

He leaned forward and raised his glass in a silent toast to our host and hostess.

"And it will be good to get Dr. Parker Spruce and tidy again."

I stared at him in bewilderment.

"I am not sure I know what you mean, Pons."

Solar Pons chuckled. He held out his hand to me and placed something in my palm. It was a packet of new razor blades.