The Dossier of Solar Pons

1

"A fine day, Parker."

My old friend, Solar Pons, rubbed his thin hands briskly as he sat down to breakfast in our comfortable bachelor quarters at 7B Praed Street

"Exceedingly, for the time of year, Pons," I agreed.

Though it was January, the weather had been extremely mild and a strong sun shone redly on the hatless and somewhat bewildered throngs of pedestrians in the street below, who were obviously unaccustomed to such benevolence on the part of London weather.

"Crocuses already out at Kew."

I looked at Pons suspiciously, conscious of the faint smile lurking about his lips.

"You seem to have a remarkable interest in horticultural matters, Pons, if you don't mind me saying so."

Solar Pons cracked an egg with delicate precision and put his spoon fastidiously into the white.

"Ah, Parker, if you had been communing with nature as I have been recently, you would not think it quite so remarkable. My vigil in the Paxton greenhouses and my subsequent apprehension of Mullett have made me more appreciative of the extraordinary flora of this planet"

Light broke at last

"You mean this business of the Kew murder and the arrest of the head keeper, Pons. I thought the deductive reasoning behind it too brilliant for Jamison. I did not know you had been retained."

"I had to work in the utmost secrecy, Parker. And my innate modesty prevented me from taking any credit in the public press. I was content to leave the official limelight to our old friend, Inspector Jamison."

"You are too generous sometimes, Pons," I said.

Solar Pons smiled diffidently, leaning forward to pour himself coffee from the silver-plated pot.

"Perhaps, Parker. It is kind of you to say so. But what have we here?"

He sat forward in a familiar attitude, and a moment later I caught what his keen senses had already discerned, the beat of running footsteps in the street below. Then there came a crash as the front door slammed and the scrambling rush of someone in a tremendous hurry on the staircase.

The door suddenly burst open without so much as a knock and a disheveled figure almost fell forward onto the breakfast table. I sat with my coffee cup poised halfway to my lips, staring in astonishment at a young man, hatless and coatless, who glared at us with wild eyes.

"Mr. Solar Pons? You must help me, Mr. Pons. I am the unhappy Eustace Fernchurch. I tell you, sir, that I did not commit the murder!"

Solar Pons had risen from his seat, a half-smile on his face, and now went forward to proffer a chair to our agitated visitor.

"Pray compose yourself, Mr. Fernchurch. You have the advantage of me. No, it is all right, Mrs. Johnson."

The alarmed figure of our landlady had appeared in the doorway, but on being reassured by Pons, withdrew with a worried look at the young man slumped in the chair. He looked gray and exhausted, and I rose to offer him a cup of coffee, which he accepted with an expression of mute thanks in his hunted eyes.

"Now, Mr. Fernchurch," said Pons; reseating himself and gazing intently at the pitiful figure before us. "You seem to think that we should know you."

"I should have thought the whole world would have known me by this morning," said Fernchurch bitterly. "It was in all the newspapers."

"Ah," said Pons. "We have not yet perused them. It is only a quarter past eight. You took an early morning train, then?"

Our visitor looked startled. He put down his coffee cup and struggled up in his chair with a somewhat more animated air.

"You know me, Mr. Pons?"

My companion shook his head.

"But you still have a return ticket clutched in your right hand. If I am not mistaken, it is one issued by the London and Northeastern Railway. If you have come from the north, it naturally follows that you took a train at an early hour to arrive in London at this time."

Fernchurch appeared to recollect himself, shook his head painfully once or twice, and put the ticket slowly in his pocket.

"You are perfectly correct, Mr. Pons. I caught the express as soon as I knew the police were dosing the net around me."

Solar Pons made a little clicking noise with his tongue. He tented his long, sensitive fingers before him and looked at our visitor expectantly.

"That was extremely unwise, Mr. Fernchurch, if you will allow me to say so. The British police, though they may sometimes be slow and occasionally obtuse, are seldom corrupt in their larger workings. If you are innocent, as you say you are, you will have little to fear."

Our visitor shook his head again.

"You do not know the circumstances, Mr. Pons. Everything is against me. The whole town thinks I killed Bulstrode. I had to flee."

"And by so doing, proved your guilt in the eyes of the world," said Pons crisply. "Indiscreet, Mr. Fernchurch. However, it is past mending now. You must just tell me your story, and we will see what we can do to right things as we go along."

"You will take my case then, Mr. Pons?"

"I did, not say so, Mr. Fernchurch. But you have the

look of a young man more distressed than guilty. If, as you say, you are innocent, and it appears so from your discourse, then I will certainly take your case."

Eustace Fernchurch sprang up impulsively and pumped Solar Pons's hand fervently.

"You will have my undying thanks, Mr. Pons. That is all I ask."

He glanced at me inquiringly and Pons suddenly seemed to become aware of my presence.

"I beg your pardon, Parker. Pray continue with your breakfast. This is my old friend and colleague, Dr. Lyndon Parker, Mr. Fernchurch. I take it you have no objection to us continuing our meal while you talk?"

"By no means, Mr. Pons."

Pons again drew up his chair to the table, and between sips at his coffee our visitor commenced his story.

"I come from the small town of Maldon in Yorkshire, Mr. Pons. It is some miles from York and a pretty, historic place, with a stream running through the center. I started work as a mason, but as I have a bent for design, I have been fortunate enough to be taken on as an architectural apprentice with Truscott and Sons of that town. Part of my work is concerned with overseeing the activities of builders.

"One of them, the biggest builder in Maldon, was Sebastian Bulstrode. Cursed be the day that I ever set eyes upon him, Mr. Pons."

"Pray compose yourself, Mr. Fernchurch."

"It does no good I know, Mr. Pons, but I cannot help thinking what this man has reduced me to. I had become engaged to a charming young lady, Mr. Pons. A girl called Evelyn Smithers. She is the daughter of the curator of the Castle Museum and a fine young woman in every way, even if a little flighty."

Our visitor broke off and sat staring gloomily into the dregs of his coffee cup. Then he blinked and roused himself with some difficulty.

"I was at my office one day when my fiancée came in. We had arranged to meet at the Market Cross, but I was delayed a little and she had grown tired of waiting. I happened to be discussing some work with Bulstrode and I could not very well avoid introducing him to her. I noticed he seemed very taken with her, but I did not attach much significance to it. She is a striking girl, tall, with long golden hair and an open, good-hearted nature. Everyone who knows her in town loves her."

Here our visitor broke off again with an audible groan. I coughed to cover the awkward pause and shifted my eyes onto Pons, whose intent gaze had never left Fernchurch's face.

"Nothing has happened to your fiancée, I trust?"

The young man looked startled.

"Good heavens, no, Mr. Pons. God forbid. But I cannot help thinking that her nature has helped to bring me to the present pass."

I got up to pour our visitor more coffee and, having finished my breakfast by this time, pulled my chair back from the table and gave all my attention to Fernchurch's story.

"I noticed a change in Evelyn's attitude after that, Mr. Pons. It was subtle, it is true, and manifested itself in small criticisms of myself; then she was late once or twice for appointments. She pleaded illness on several occasions. I thought little of it at the time.

"Then, one evening, at a time she was supposed, to be visiting a sister in York, I was crossing a side street on my way for a drink at a nearby hotel when a dogcart passed me. There was a streetlamp opposite which threw its light across the road, though I was in shadow. Laughter attracted my attention; the light shone across the cart, which was driven by Sebastian Bulstrode. Laughing at some remark he had made, my fiancée was sitting beside him."

"I am indeed sorry to hear it," said Solar Pons soberly. His intent eyes looked sympathetically at Fernchurch, who again paused as though in the grip of strong emotion.

"I cannot really blame Evelyn, Mr. Pons. I am a dull fellow who works late and sticks to his last. Bulstrode was a man of great energy and vitality; short-tempered but not bad-looking, about forty-five years of age, and certainly rich. He had been married once before, but the couple had separated and a divorce had been granted some three years ago."

"Nevertheless, Mr. Fernchurch, the circumstances would seem to cast some doubt on the suitability of this young lady as the choice of your heart," said Solar Pons evenly. To put it no higher."

Fernchurch was silent for a moment, his eyes downcast; he was calmer now, his ruffled hair smoothed by his hands, though his expression was hard to make out as he sat with his back to the flood of golden light which came in through the window.

"There is justice in what you say, Mr. Pons. Evelyn is flighty, as I said, though I do not really blame the girl at this distance in time. Bulstrode had set his cap for her and she is easily impressed."

"You remonstrated with her?"

Fernchurch nodded.

"We had a dreadful row. In short, the engagement was broken off. Some weeks later I heard she had become engaged to Bulstrode. There was some delicacy in the situation, Mr. Pons. My feelings can be imagined; I could see my former fiancée and Bulstrode together as I went about my daily business — Maldon is a small town — and in addition to this my work threw me in constant contact with the man."

"You have my sympathy, Mr. Fernchurch. Pray go on. You did not come into open conflict with him?"

Fernchurch shook his head.

"I am no coward, Mr. Pons, but Bulstrode is an absolute bull of a man; fearless and short-tempered, as I have said. I would have been no match for him physically and I did not go out of my way to provoke him. But we had words about his conduct, and our business affairs thereafter were conducted with icy indifference on either side. That was the situation which obtained until some six weeks ago when my former fiancée sought me out in great distress. I am going into this matter at some length, Mr. Pons, because I am anxious that you should get the true background of this affair. I trust I am not boring you."

"I am not bored, Mr. Fernchurch," said Pons crisply, looking across at me with a smile. "And I am sure I can speak for Dr. Parker also. Eh, Parker?"

"Certainly, Pons," I said. "It is absorbing."

"You may well say so, gentlemen," said our visitor wearily. "But the whole thing is too close to me to be anything but a nightmare. Evelyn was in some distress, as I said. She sought my help and forgiveness. She had seen Bulstrode's true nature within a short space of time and had tried to break off her engagement. She encountered difficulties she had never found with me. Bulstrode was a headstrong man, with a filthy temper. Reading between the lines, I should have said he had something sadistic in his nature also."

"He used physical violence against the girl?"

"Absolutely, Mr. Pons. He went berserk, quite beside himself with rage. Evelyn ran from his house and went home to her father. When she had recovered a little, she sought me out. It was a difficult situation, Mr. Pons; but the rupture was healed within a few days. Last month we again became engaged."

Solar Pons leaned forward in his chair, his fingers pressed together in front of him, engrossed in our visitor's face.

"And Bulstrode's attitude?"

"That was the strange part, Mr. Pons. I heard about the town that he had been in black rages over me. Stealing his fiancée, he called it. He had been in some hotels declaiming to the company what he intended to do to me. I must confess I was in some trepidation when business again threw me in his way. But to my surprise, apart from a certain stiffness and reserve in his manner, Bulstrode said nothing. We were back on the familiar footing that had obtained for some years. It was a strange position, Mr. Pons; to hear that a man had been blackening and vilifying one in public places about the town in the evenings — even to the point that I had been threatening him — and to work with him in the day in quite a normal manner."

"Most trying," said Solar Pons soothingly.

"Indeed, Mr. Pons. So you can imagine my feelings a week ago to be suspected of Bulstrode's murder in a most shocking manner!"

2

There was a brief silence in the room. Solar Pons leaned forward.

"Before you go on, Mr. Fernchurch, I think I will just see what the dailies have to say on the subject."

"Certainly, Mr. Pons. There is a long piece in the Telegraph."

"Just so."

Solar Pons turned to me.

"The newspaper is at your elbow, Parker. If you will be so good as to favor us with a reading. The salient details only."

"The bottom of the front page, Dr. Parker," said Fernchurch.

I turned to the section of the newspaper indicated. There was indeed, as Pons client had indicated, a good deal about the affair. The article was headed:

I looked at Pons, who replied somewhat snappishly, "Yes, yes, Parker, spare us the journalistic clichés of the headings. Pray read us the account shorn of all the colorful detail so beloved of the general public"

"It is most soberly written, Pons," I protested.

Pons gave a faint smile and sat back in his chair, his hands cradled beneath his chin, as I commenced to read the article. It ran:

… Concise and to the point, Parker," said Pons, his eyes still closed. "An admirable summary of what Mr. Fernchurch has just told us with the even more succinctly described circumstances of the actual death." I read on

I read on for another two paragraphs but Pons opened his eyes, lazily stretched himself, and commented, "You need not go any further, Parker. I have heard enough."

His face wore the alert and animated expression I had grown to know of old.

"The fingerprint details are distinctly ingenious. Either we have someone extremely clever here — or careless. I cannot decide which at the moment."

"There is something in the Stop Press, Dr. Parker, if you will be so good," interjected Pons's client nervously.

I turned to the right-hand bottom of the page and read aloud:

Solar Pons made a little deprecatory noise with his tongue.

"Tell us about that, Mr. Fernchurch. You obviously did not abscond today, or the newspaper could not possibly have this Stop Press. The page would have gone away at about three o'clock this morning."

Fernchurch flushed slightly and shifted in his chair.

"I had a talk with my fiancée yesterday, Mr. Pons," he said. "We agreed it would be best if I sought your advice. I could feel the net closing in about me."

"She knows you are here, then?" said Pons.

Fernchurch nodded.

"In that case the police will not be long in tracing you," Pons murmured.

He smiled as Fernchurch held up a protesting hand.

"It is no criticism of Miss Smithers, Mr. Fernchurch. But I have never yet met the woman who was able to keep the truth from a patient and persistent police officer of the right sort The police would have gone to Miss Smithers straight away. And I know Fitzjohn. He was a very efficient CID man at the Yard for some years."

"You are right, Mr. Pons," said Fernchurch in a subdued voice. "I knew I was under observation. I managed to elude surveillance after dark last night I drove to York and stayed in lodgings where I was not known. I got the first available train from York this morning."

Pons pondered in silence for a moment or two longer.

"You are positive that you have told me everything, Mr. Fernchurch?"

Pons's client nodded.

"Everything relevant, Mr. Pons. If anything has been missed it will be through sheer inadvertence."

"That is a fair answer, Mr. Fernchurch. I will take your case and I think the sooner we return to Maldon together the better. How are you placed, Parker?"

I was on my feet.

"I can telephone my standby, Pons. I would not miss this for the world!"

Solar Pons chuckled.

"Just give us a quarter of an hour or so and we will be at your service, Mr. Fernchurch. We will talk further in the train."

The relief on our visitor's face was evident. His eyes were shining and some of his haggardness had lifted.

"There is an express from King's Cross for York within the hour, gentlemen."

Before our arrangements were completed, however, there was a dramatic interruption. The bell rang and we could hear Mrs. Johnson in muffled colloquy with someone on the stairs. There was the tread of heavy boots ascending. I had finished my call and had returned to the sitting room to find Pons standing near the door with an irritated expression on his face.

"That sounds like Inspector Jamison, Parker."

He turned to our startled visitor, who looked as though he actually might attempt to climb through the window.

"It is too late, Mr. Fernchurch. Pray do not be afraid. We must just face it out."

He had no sooner spoken than there was a curt rap at the door, and it was flung open to admit the acid figure of Inspector Jamison.

3

"You are quick off the mark, Inspector," said Solar Pons pleasantly. "Won't you come in? I would like to introduce you to a friend of mine."

Jamison smiled sourly, a satisfied expression on his sallow face.

"That won't be necessary, Mr. Pons. I already know the gentleman."

His manner changed to its most curt and official.

"You are Eustace Hornbeam Fernchurch?"

Our client looked appealingly at both of us in turn, swallowed heavily, and nodded mutely. Jamison gave us a fleeting look of smug satisfaction.

"Eustace Hornbeam Fernchurch, I have here a warrant for your arrest on the capital charge of murder. I have to warn you that you are not obliged to say anything, but if you do it may be taken down in writing and used in evidence."

Fernchurch gave a strangled cry and looked appealingly at Pons again.

"Not so fast, Inspector," said Pons curtly. "I do not think this will be necessary. My client and I, together with Dr. Parker here, are just about to return to York to face this charge. My client maintains his innocence, and I hope to prove it once I see Inspector Fitzjohn."

Jamison gave an ingratiating smile.

"That may well be, Mr. Pons, but I have my duty to do. This warrant…"

"It will wait," said Solar Pons coolly. "Mr. Fernchurch will give you his parole and I will undertake to see him safely delivered. If this is not sufficient, you have only to telephone Fitzjohn and tell him I am delivering his prisoner, and I am sure he will be satisfied with the arrangement."

Inspector Jamison hesitated.

"That is all very well, Mr. Pons. But how do I know Mr. Fernchurch will be on the train?"

Solar Pons took the Scotland Yard man by arm and propelled him toward the door.

"Because you are coming to King's Cross to see us safely off, my dear fellow. You may leave the warrant with me if you wish, and I will see that Fitzjohn gets it."

Jamison hesitated fractionally again. Solar Pons smiled faintly.

"I know what you are thinking, Inspector. The train stops at Doncaster and other places, I believe. No doubt you could have your local men on the platform in each case, and I will identify the prisoner."

"Very well, Mr. Pons."

Inspector Jamison inclined his head stiffly and handed my companion the warrant. He looked over Pons's shoulder to Fernchurch.

"Think yourself lucky, young man. If we had taken you before you arrived here, you would have been in custody by now."

"How did you get on his trade so quickly?" asked Pons as we all descended the stairs. There was an unctuousness in Jamison's voice, as he replied, which I must confess grated on my susceptibilities.

"We had a call from York, of course, as soon as Fernchurch disappeared. One of our bright-eyed lads at King's Cross spotted him this morning. It wasn't difficult since he was disheveled and obviously upset. His colleague followed while he telephoned me. I told them to see where the quarry went, and he led me to you."

"Admirable, Jamison," said Pons affably. "You have the makings of a detective yet."

Little spots of red burned on the inspector's cheeks as Pons went imperturbably on.

"Oh, Mrs. Johnson, we are planning a little expedition into Yorkshire. We expect to be away only three days or so at the most."

"Very good, Mr. Pons."

We were in the sunshine of the street now, and Jamison led the way to the police car which stood at the curb, keeping a tight hold on the unfortunate Fernchurch's elbow. Pons slipped the warrant into his pocket, we put our valises on the luggage rack, and were off to King's Cross.

The journey north passed in moody silence for the most part. We had a compartment to ourselves and Pons's probing questions and Fernchurch's artless answers apparently satisfied my companion, for he soon immersed himself in the pages of a magazine, the reek of his pipe sending blue clouds of smoke about the carriage, where it lay shimmering in the shifting bands of sunlight.

Jamison was true to his word, for there were police officers evident on the platforms of each of the major stations at which we briefly stopped. Pons got out on each occasion and held short conversations before bringing the senior detective to the window so that Fernchurch could show himself. Fernchurch bore the inquisitions with great patience, and now that I knew him a little better the possibility of his innocence was growing with every mile that brought us closer to York.

When that great terminus was reached and we had passed over the bridge under the vast glass roof that spanned the platforms, Inspector Fitzjohn, a tall, dark man impeccably dressed in a tweed suit and raglan overcoat, was waiting beyond the barrier and came slowly forward as we descended the steps. Though the sun was still shining, the sky was a little overcast here and once again I caught the raw, bracing air of the north.

After a cordial exchange of pleasantries between Pons and the inspector, which included my introduction, Fitzjohn gave a slight bow to Fernchurch, glanced carelessly at the warrant Pons handed him, and thrust it into his pocket.

"Let this unpleasantness rest for a moment," he said. "A few formal words over a drink would not be out of place."

It was astonishing what a change had come over Fernchurch at the inspector's words and now he cast a grateful glance at Pons. Inspector Fitzjohn chuckled dryly.

"Come, Mr. Fernchurch, you surely did not think I was going to clap you into the Black Maria?"

"I did not know what I expected," stammered Pons's client as the inspector led the way through the long glass corridor which connected the terminus with the Edwardian opulence of the Station Hotel.

Once across the broad foyer with the vast staircase sweeping its elegant balustraded ironwork up to the first floor, the inspector led us into a luxuriously fitted bar where a cheerful buzz of conversation rose from the well- dressed clientele gathered for lunchtime drinks. We sat down at a corner table while Fitzjohn ordered our choices; beyond the glass doors an orchestra had struck up a Strauss waltz.

"A little different from your last case, Pons," I observed as my companion's lean form relaxed on to a banquette opposite. Fernchurch sat huddled in a corner, up by a partition, but the hunted look had gone from his face. He flushed as Inspector Fitzjohn raised his glass and included him in the toast.

"To a successful conclusion."

"I am innocent, Inspector."

Fitzjohn seated himself next to Fernchurch and opposite Pons and myself. His clipped black mustache twitched sympathetically as he muttered deprecatingly, "That may well be, Mr. Fernchurch. You have been indiscreet, nothing more. And the press have perhaps made too much of it. But you are in a serious position, you understand that."

"He does understand it, Inspector," said Solar Pons soothingly. "Which was why he consulted me. You have no objection to my surveying the field of operation, I take it?"

Inspector Fitzjohn's smile was frank and open.

"By no means, Mr. Pons. I should be honored and delighted. Though I fear you will not make much more of it than we have been able."

Solar Pons rubbed his thin fingers together briskly.

"We shall see, Inspector, we shall see," he murmured.

Fitzjohn smiled faintly as though he doubted that even Solar Pons could do better and observed, "I have taken the liberty of reserving rooms for you and Dr. Parker at the Saddler's Arms. It is one of the best establishments in the town and highly recommended."

"Excellent," said Pons. "I was particularly interested in the matter of the hammer which felled Mr. Bulstrode."

The inspector's gray eyes looked at Pons ingenuously.

"I thought that aspect would not escape you, Mr. Pons. That was extremely unfortunate as we would otherwise have been able to establish conclusively whether Mr. Fernchurch had handled it."

"You have not ruled out the possibility that the dead man might have been attacked on the ground?"

Fitzjohn raised his eyebrows.

"It had occurred to us," he said easily. "But our medical people said it was quite impossible. The hammer hit him almost squarely on the crown of the head with such force as to completely disintegrate the skull. Bulstrode was a tall man and unless his attacker had been a man about nine feet tall it would have been impossible for him to have struck Bulstrode on top of the head. The forehead or the base of the skull would have been the obvious place."

"I see."

Pons remained silent for a moment, looking absently at the crowded life of the bar about us. Fernchurch sat breathlessly, first looking at Pons's face and then at the inspector's as though he expected to read his innocence in the expression of their eyes.

"What was the weight of the hammer?"

"About three pounds, Mr. Pons. A formidable weapon but it would have had to come from a height to inflict that damage. I have the medical report here, if you wish to see it."

Pons waved away the document the Inspector had produced.

"I am quite content to accept your word for it, Inspector. From your earlier remarks, I take it you do not intend to incarcerate Mr. Fernchurch?"

"Certainly not, Mr. Pons. Though things do look blade for him. I shall have to insist that he does not leave Maldon under any circumstances, of course. And I shall make you responsible for seeing that he keeps his promise. Our local magistrates will have my scalp if he gives us the slip again."

Fitzjohn accompanied his last sentence with a dry chuckle and Pons looked at him approvingly.

"I am happy to give that assurance, Inspector. And now, I think that a speedy journey to the scene of the crime would not be amiss. Parker does not like to be late for lunch and it would never do it upset so valued a colleague."

4

A drive of about twenty minutes in the car the inspector had parked on the grounds of the hotel brought us to our destination, a small, charming town, with the castle set on a hill and a broad, sluggish river meandering through undulating countryside below. Fitzjohn drove skillfully through cobbled streets, where timbered houses alternated with more recent ones of the mellow Yorkshire stone, and deposited us at the Saddler's Arms.

Waiting only to register and leave our luggage, we returned to the car and Fitzjohn drove the four of us up a winding road that led to the precincts of the castle itself. Pons insisted on descending from the vehicle several hundred yards away and prowled about, seemingly casually, his sharp eyes missing nothing. Due to the mild winter, no doubt, there were many tourists about, and cameras on shoulder straps and anxiously flourished guides were much in evidence.

"Interesting, Parker, is it not?" said Pons as we came to a halt in the shadow of the West Tower, whose frowning pile was surmounted by scaffolding and surrounded by tubular girders. "Mainly Norman, I should say, with some particularly hideous late Victorian additions."

Inspector Fitzjohn, who had parked his car against the base of the tower and had now rejoined us, smiled wryly.

"Correct, Mr. Pons. The Town Council used to meet in the annex, but that part is now being demolished and completely restored under the energetic supervision of the curator, Professor Smithers."

"Ah, yes, Inspector. The young lady's father. I should like a word with him in due course."

"That can be easily arranged, Mr. Pons."

We had now walked toward the tower and Pons was busy darting about, first glancing upward at the battlements, partly obscured by scaffolding, then down to the ground at the base, where a grassy bank swelled out for a few feet. We had come to the foot of the tower beneath an arch, and a buttress of the wall immediately in front blocked off the adjoining street. Pons paid particular attention to this and to the opposite building, which was nothing but a blank stone facade, broken here and there by very small windows.

Fitzjohn answered the query in his eyes.

"The Guildhall, Mr. Pons. It faces the square on the other side. Most of these small windows are in storerooms."

"A pity," observed Pons dryly. "Had there been spectators at these casements, they might have had a story to tell."

"Indeed, Mr. Pons. We have been all through that, I can assure you."

Solar Pons stood with his feet planted astride, the pipe which he had just placed in his mouth well alight, a thin plume of blue smoke ascending in the sunlight which penetrated this quiet precinct.

"What do you make of it, Parker?"

"An ideal spot for a murder in broad daylight, Pons," I said, craning my neck upward to the tower from which the fatal hammer had been flung.

"Is it not, Parker? This was one aspect which puzzled me and on which mere armchair theorists would come to grief, I fear. Thus it is so often impossible to form a valid theory without visiting the location. Relate to me the course of events as you see them, Parker."

"Well, Pons," I said, aware of Fernchurch's imploring look in my direction. "Supposing someone — not Mr. Fernchurch — had wished Bulstrode harm he could hardly have chosen a more perfect setting. Mr. Bulstrode is making an inspection at the base of the tower to see how the men are progressing. Anyone on the tower would, I imagine, have a complete view of the surroundings. He had only to wait until the precinct was deserted. He could see over the buttress in case anyone was coming along the street; he knew that the Guildhall was opposite and it was unlikely anyone would be in the storerooms. He had only to wait until Bulstrode stopped directly below and then loose the hammer."

Solar Pons put his hand up and stroked the side of his nose while he took the pipe out of his mouth with his disengaged hand.

"Excellent, Parker! It is perfect so far as it goes. Top perfect, perhaps. It first assumes that the aim is dead true. Second, it does not take into account any spectators who might be beneath the archway or standing on the open ground beyond the arch. Third, we know that Mr. Fernchurch was on top of the tower at the time in question and that he saw no one."

I looked around in the direction of the arch, conscious of the inspector's humorous eyes, and saw that Pons was correct

"You are perfectly right, Pons. But it does not invalidate my theory."

"I quite agree, Parker," said Pons slowly. "But I think, nevertheless, there is a serious objection. The man on the tower, who must have had an expert knowledge of Maldon, would know there might be people underneath the arch."

"I don't quite follow you, Pons."

Pons made an impatient clicking noise with his tongue.

"You have made a careful study of my methods, Parker. It is commonsense, surely. Whoever committed this crime afterward had to make his escape from this tower. In order to do so he had to get to ground level He could not really hope to escape if there had been eyewitnesses to Bulstrode's murder, already on the ground."

"That would be an insurmountable obstacle, Mr. Pons," said Fitzjohn, who was watching my companion carefully.

There was something reassuring about the vigorous, athletic figure of this obviously very shrewd CID man which set him apart from the common stamp of police officers — particularly men like Jamison, who was able enough in his own way but frequently wrongheaded.

"Unless the murderer himself lived within the castle," said Solar Pons mysteriously.

He turned on his heel, suddenly brisk and purposeful

"Come, Mr. Fernchurch. I should like to see the view from the top, and no doubt you can show me exactly where you stood while you were waiting for Miss Smithers."

Fitzjohn led the way up a series of winding stone staircases in the base of the tower; through broad arrow slits I could see a magnificent view of Maldon unfolding, ever more spectacular the higher we rose. There was a sort of stone landing halfway up, with a series of oak doors leading off it. A uniformed constable was on guard there and saluted the inspector smartly before opening another door for us.

A brisk walk of two more flights brought us out into the gusty heights of the battlemented tower itself. Pons wasted no time on the magnificent view but went around quickly, casting sharp glances about him. I saw that the top of the tower was littered with builder's material — scaffolding poles and other equipment. I went over to the far side of the tower and looked through the stone embrasure. It was a dizzy height and somber to think that this was the exact spot from which the death missile had been dispatched.

"Where were you, Mr. Fernchurch?" said Pons.

"Just here, Mr. Pons."

Our client went to sit on a large balk of timber directly in the center of the tower.

"Were you facing the direction of the Guildhall, or had you your back to it?"

"I had my back toward it, Mr. Pons. I was facing the door through which Miss Smithers would come."

"I see."

Pons stroked his chin and looked thoughtfully at the military figure of Inspector Fitzjohn who stood with one

meaty hand resting on the parapet. The golden winter sunshine made a rosy halo round his head.

"You did not move from this position?"

Fernchurch shook his head.

"No, Mr. Pons. The view had no attraction for me. I had seen it many times before."

"You heard no commotion in the street?"

Fernchurch shook his head.

"I was completely absorbed in the thoughts of regaining my fiancée, Mr. Pons. I may have been vaguely aware of some disturbance, but it is always busy and there was a good deal of traffic noise."

Indeed, as he spoke there came the drumming vibration of a heavy goods vehicle though the narrow streets that threaded past the base of the castle tower.

"Very well, Mr. Fernchurch. So you came up here to meet Miss Smithers. You remained here how long?"

"About half an hour, Mr. Pons. In fact until a number of people crowded up the staircase, including one of the local constables, who began to question me. It was the first I had heard of the death of Bulstrode. I cannot say I blame the police. It must have looked highly suspicious."

Pons nodded approvingly.

"Well said, Mr. Fernchurch. Well, we must just see how events shape and whether or not I can discover something to overturn this distressing theory."

"I shall be greatly interested to see you do that, Mr. Pons," said Inspector Fitzjohn politely, a faint smile hovering around his lips.

There was an answering glint of humor in Pons's eyes. He went quickly over to the other side of the tower, first looking at the street, then carefully examining the stonework with a lens he produced from his pocket. Then he came back and ran his eyes over the jumble of tools which lay about the top of the tower.

"What exactly was going on here, Inspector?"

"General restoration of the Castle, Mr. Pons. The Bulstrodes were cleaning and repainting the stonework — generally making good."

Pons nodded, deep in thought. He kicked idly at a mason's hammer which was lying among some coils of rope at his feet.

"There was no question the murder weapon belonged to Mr. Bulstrode's firm?"

"No doubt at all, Mr. Pons. It was readily identified. One of the men working on the tower had seen it in use only the day before."

Inspector Fitzjohn stared for a long moment at Pons's probing eyes.

"I have not overlooked that, Mr. Pons. We have been pretty thoroughly into the men's backgrounds. No one had a real grudge against him though I take it he could be a hard master."

"I must congratulate you, Inspector," said Solar Pons mockingly. "You have not missed a trick."

"Thank you, Mr. Pons. That is high praise from you."

Pons was back over to the far side of the tower now. He looked downward casually.

"What have we here, Parker?"

I gave a cry of horror as he put one hand on the coping and launched himself effortlessly into space. His low chuckle come up to us before I could get to the parapet. To my immense relief I saw that he had landed safely on a broad platform of heavy planking about four feet below the battlements.

"That was an incredibly foolish thing to do, Pons," I said testily.

Pons's smiled changed from mockery and his expression to concern.

"I am sorry, my dear fellow. It was not my intention to alarm you. Just look at this."

I clambered down to him in less spectacular fashion. I then saw that a ladder led downward from the platform, securely lashed with rope and with wooden handrails. I followed Pons gingerly to an embrasure at a lower level. We stepped through and found ourselves in a dusty corridor. An oak door was ahead of us. Pons opened it to disclose the constable lounging on the stone landing, his back to us. Directly opposite was another heavy door; it bore on it the legend in gold paint: Curator's Office. Pons quietly closed the door and waited for our two companions to rejoin us from above.

"Why, Pons…" I began.

Solar Pons laid his fingers alongside his nose to enjoin caution.

"It gives one food for thought, does it not, Parker? No doubt Fitzjohn has taken it into account."

He became his usual brisk self as Fernchurch and Fitzjohn appeared in the opening behind us.

"I think I have seen enough for the moment, Inspector. A little lunch is indicated. Parker here looks quite famished.".

And he led the way down the stairs at a dangerous pace.

5

"Let us just have your views on the matter, Parker."

We had enjoyed an excellent lunch at the hotel and afterward Fitzjohn and Fernchurch had excused themselves — the latter to seek out his fiancée and explain the outcome of his London visit; Fitzjohn to hurry back to the police station, with a final admonition to the suspected man to behave himself.

Afterward we had strolled back toward the castle as if impelled to the scene of the tragedy by some volition outside ourselves. We had halted at the base of the West Tower and instinctively I glanced up to where windows pierced its frowning mass, finally coming to rest on the battlements where Pons's client had been discovered.

"The hammer is a major impediment to the investigation, Pons," I began cautiously.

"Capital!" said he.

Pons's eyes were twinkling. He strolled about, puffing furiously at his after-lunch pipe, first watching the scudding clouds which were beginning to obscure the sun, then observing keenly the casual passersby and obvious tourists who strolled about the ancient walls of Maldon.

"Everything depends upon the hammer," he continued. "I am glad that point has not escaped you, for it is of paramount importance." He stopped his pacing and halted, looking at me shrewdly through plumes of blue smoke.

"We now have two possibilities, Pons," I continued. "It would seem that anyone could have gained the battlements from the tower staircase without being seen, by using the ladder and scaffolding left in situ."

"Excellent, Parker. My training has not been wasted."

"Including the curator," I added.

Pons looked at me for a long moment.

"What makes you suppose that?"

"It is just a feeling, Pons. Supposing Mr. Smithers did not wish his daughter to marry either Bulstrode or Fernchurch. It would have been an excellent way of disposing of both of them."

Pons puffed steadily at his pipe before replying.

"It is a little farfetched, Parker. Bulstrode had already been removed from the arena and I am sure that a fond parent with his daughter's welfare at heart could well have dissuaded her from marrying Fernchurch if he had been so minded. The engagement had already been broken off once, remember. However, it is a possibility which we should not exclude…"

He broke off as Fernchurch himself appeared beneath the archway. He hurried toward us immediately.

"I have just been talking to my fiancée, Mr. Pons. She is deeply grateful for what you have done. She is eager to meet you and answer any questions you may put. I must get home, now but you have only to stop by."

"And where might the young lady live, Mr. Fernchurch?"

Our client looked embarrassed.

"I am sorry, Mr. Pons. I took it for granted you knew. Miss Smithers and her father live in quarters in the tower, just next to Professor Smithers's office. That is Evelyn's window there, just above us."

"Indeed."

Solar Pons drew back and I followed his glance upward to a large open window about fifty feet from the ground. There was scaffolding above it and below it, and I could see that Pons was inordinately interested for some reason.

"We shall be up in a few minutes, Mr. Fernchurch," he said by way of parting. "I have just one or two more inquiries to make, if you will excuse me."

He watched our client hurry away down the street, his bearing much more erect and confident than it had been when he staggered into our rooms in Praed Street. Pons smiled thinly.

"It seems to me that that young man seems more pleased at regaining his fiancée than in the prospect of having a charge of murder removed from over his head."

"He is young, Pons," I said. "And when one is in love…"

"Tut, Parker. Pray do not cloud the issue with such romantic irrelevancies. Now, just one thing more to do on the ground."

His next procedure puzzled me exceedingly, but I said nothing, watching in silence as he went over to the builders' materials stacked along the base of the wall. He selected a piece of sacking and carried it out from the wall, first craning his neck up to look at the battlements far above, then adjusting the sacking on the ground. When he had folded it to his liking, he secured it firmly with several heavy stones.

His next action seemed more curious than ever, for he proceeded to fill his pockets with small pebbles from a pile in a corner. He chuckled as he caught sight of my expression.

"Come along, Parker. All will be made clear in due course."

We ascended the staircase once again but instead of repairing at once to Professor Smithers's quarters, he led me past the stolid form of the constable and up onto the heights of the tower.

"I shall be a few minutes, Parker. If you have better things to do, pray do them."

I looked at Pons sharply but there was nothing on his face to explain the irony in his voice.

"I will just sit here in the sun and smoke, Pons," I said.

Pons nodded affably.

"No doubt you will find it a three-pipe problem," he said.

And with that he stepped around the tangled mass of builders' material and disappeared from view. I sat down on the large balk of timber once occupied by the unfortunate Fernchurch and set my thoughts roaming in the tangled web in which he found himself. I had been ruminating for some minutes and had been vaguely aware of odd noises from the far side of the tower when a sudden gust of wind drew my attention to the fact that I was becoming chilled. I rose abruptly and moved over to the edge of the battlements. I could not see Pons at first but then made him out, crouched in an embrasure, an intent look on his face.

I quietly crossed to his side, and as I did so the reason for his strange actions on the ground became apparent. The court below was silent and deserted for the moment and as I watched, Pons released a small pebble. It flew true to the dun-colored patch of sacking below, hitting it with a thump before bouncing against the wall.

"Excellent, Pons," I said. "This was evidently the spot from which the hammer was dropped."

"Was it not, Parker," said Pons carelessly, turning away and. brushing his hands. He pulled out the remaining pebbles from his pockets.

"Seven direct hits out of thirty is a fair score under the circumstances, though I commend the size of the sacking to your attention."

He said nothing more, and a few moments later we descended to the landing, where the constable pointed out the door to Professor Smithers's private quarters.

Pons's rap brought a tall, fair-haired girl to the entrance. Her eyes widened when she saw us and her smile was just a little forced.

"Mr. Pons? Mr. Solar Pons? Eustace has been talking to me about you. And this would be Dr. Parker? It really is most good of you to help us in this way."

She held out a slim hand for me to take and ushered us into an oak-paneled hall with a flagstone floor which had evidently once formed part of the ancient castle keep. There were several doors opening off the hall and one of them was ajar. Before Pons could reply, a cadaverous, sour-faced individual In a rusty black frock coat darted from the sitting room beyond, with an irritated expression on his face.

"Not 'us,' Evelyn. How many times must I tell you Young Fernchurch is on his own."

Professor Smithers, for it was evidently the castle curator, came toward us blinking shortsightedly. He shook hands with Pons and myself in a distinctly chilly manner,

"You must forgive my apparent bad manners, Mr. Pons, but we have been greatly plagued of late. Not only Inspector Fitzjohn but police officers of every type and description, some of them hardly civil."

He sniffed.

"The press have made so much of this that it has seriously interfered with my work. I hope you are not going to add to my difficulties."

Pons smiled thinly, his sharp eyes taking in every detail of the ill-assorted couple before us.

"I do not think you need worry, Professor Smithers. Publicity is not my forte, as my friend Dr. Parker here will tell you. And I have been retained privately by Mr. Fernchurch. I fancy the official police would hardly care to acknowledge my presence here."

Professor Smithers slightly unbent and relaxed his glacial manner.

"In that case, Mr. Pons, we are at your disposal. Though I fear I shall be able to help you very little. My daughter knows a good deal more about it."

"Indeed."

Pons looked politely at the girl, and there was an awkward pause until our host became aware that we were still standing in the hall

"We will be more comfortable in the sitting room, gentlemen. Please forgive me."

The girl preceded us into a magnificent apartment, which was lined from floor to ceiling on the far wall with leather- bound books. At the left a stone fireplace contained a massive log fire. Elsewhere the stone walls had been plastered, and in place of the bleak flags of the hall outside, waxed floorboards reflected the flames of the fire. On the far right the wall was curved, evidently forming part of the tower we had observed from outside, and a large curved window was obviously the same one we had seen from below. A quick glimpse at the scaffolding outside confirmed that this was so.

Professor Smithers went to stand impatiently by the fireplace while we seated ourselves on a low divan facing him. After a brief hesitation the girl sat in a high, straightback chair, placed so that she could observe both us and her father. To my eyes she seemed nervous and ill at ease.

"I will not keep you long," said Solar Pons, "and my questions are mainly directed to Miss Smithers. Your fiancée, Mr. Fernchurch…"

"You will excuse my bluntness, Mr. Pons," Professor Smithers interrupted harshly. "Evelyn is not Fernchurch's fiancée. She is not anyone's fiancée."

Pons raised his eyebrows while the girl bit her lip.

"I was given to understand differently, Professor. Perhaps Miss Smithers could explain."

"Father was bitterly opposed to our marriage," put in the girl, with a sudden show of spirit.

She tossed her head defiantly, so that the golden curls streamed back over her shoulders. I could then see why Fernchurch was so captivated.

"I have said a thousand times, Evelyn," Professor Smithers went on evenly, "that he is not the man for you. As for that fellow Bulstrode…"

"There I am inclined to agree with you, Professor," Pons put in smoothly, with a brief smile at the girl. "I take it the latter's demise has caused you no sleepless nights."

Professor Smithers's lean form bristled visibly.

"Not to put too fine a point on it, Mr. Pons, Bulstrode's passing is a relief to Maldon."

He hesitated and dropped his eyes before Pons's glance.

"Please do not think me uncharitable, Mr. Pons. Ordinarily I would not wish harm to anyone, but he was a dreadful man. Frankly, if Fernchurch did kill him as they say, then he has done the neighborhood a favor."

The girl rose to her feet, shock on her face.

"Father!"

She stamped her foot with the vehemence of her emotion. Solar Pons tented his fingers together in front of him and half closed his eyes as though the professor had uttered a pleasantry.

"So that you would not be bothered if Mr. Fernchurch were convicted of the crime, Professor Smithers? It would, in a way, if I dare venture so crude a suggestion, kill two birds with one stone."

"Or hammer, Mr. Pons?"

Smithers's smile contained icy venom. Then he recollected himself and went to lean against the massive oak mantel.

"I would not go so far as to say that, Mr. Pons. But blind chance has forged a weapon. One might call it the Hammer of Hate f6r want of a better term. It has removed from my girl's orbit all those undesirable influences I sought to shield her from."

Pons made a mild clicking noise with his tongue.

"Poetically put, Professor Smithers. The Hammer of Hate? You seem to know a good deal about the motives involved here. For all we know the thing might have been a mere accident, instead of premeditated murder." "Eh?"

Professor Smithers coughed awkwardly and looked discomfited.

"I am only repeating what has been public gossip in Maldon for some time, Mr. Pons. My views on Evelyn's unfortunate choices are well known in the locality. In fact it may well have saved her from a nasty scandal."

"How so?"

"We were having words about Fernchurch in this very room at almost the instant Bulstrode was killed. I did not know she had an appointment with young Fernchurch on the tower. Our argument delayed her, as you know. If you ask my opinion, she is well out of it."

Pons sat with his chin on his hand, his sleepy eyes apparently fixed aimlessly on a corner of the mantel.

"You may well be right, Professor Smithers. I should like a word in private with your daughter now, if you would be so good. Thank you for your assistance. You have been most helpful."

Professor Smithers drew himself up, glared at Pons for a moment at thus being so peremptorily dismissed, inclined his head stiffly and strode out of the room. The crash of the door seemed to shake the tower. The girl looked at us calmly from dear blue eyes and went to sit down again.

"Don't take any notice of daddy," she said. "He lives much out of the world."

"Does he not?" agreed Pons, getting up and gliding about the bookcases, scanning the volumes in the swift but thorough way that characterized all his movements.

"Nevertheless, your father was correct in some respects. Bulstrode was a highly unsuitable suitor, if you will forgive me for saying so. And the delay at your rendezvous with Mr. Fernchurch did relieve you of an awkward implication."

"Even though it could have cleared Eustace of all suspicion?" asked the girl artlessly.

Solar Pons paused by the far window and frowned.

"I take it your father's account of your argument on the afternoon of the murder was correct?"

"Perfectly, Mr. Pons."

"Your presence on the tower with Fernchurch might have presented the police with a joint case of murder, Miss Smithers. Had you thought of that? It might well have been argued that you both plotted Bulstrode's death."

The girl rose from her seat again and came down the room toward Pons.

"For what possible reason, Mr. Pons?"

"That he was an insanely jealous man, violent when roused. That he was becoming a nuisance and a threat to your resumed relationship with your fiancée."

"Nonsense, Mr. Pons!"

Solar Pons chuckled.

"I quite agree, Miss Smithers. I just wanted to see your reaction. What a charming view you have from you window here. Do you not agree, Parker?"

I got up and joined the two in front of the large window, which was open to catch the sun. It was indeed a fine view, and I saw immediately that it overlooked the spot where Bulstrode had met his death.

"You did not happen to see him that afternoon, Miss Smithers?"

His voice was so quiet, and the question was shot at the girl so quickly that I was almost as startled as she. Evelyn Smithers shifted her weight from one foot to the other and went pink. She stammered slightly as she replied.

"I did see him, as a matter of fact. I was looking out of the window before my interview with Father. Bulstrode carried a hammer and he was tapping about the base of the tower. It was that which first attracted my attention. I presumed he was checking on the workmen."

Pons was very still, one hand on the window frame behind him, as he stared at the girl.

"Go on, Miss Smithers. You did not tell this to the police?"

The girl shook her head.

"I thought it of no importance. They asked me about the actual crime and the time it was committed."

"I see. We will just keep this between ourselves for the moment. Is that all you have to tell me?"

The girl hesitated again, and once more there was the faint flush on her cheeks.

"He looked up at that instant, Mr. Pons. He may have seen me. I do not really know. There was some shouting in the street just then, and I turned away because at that moment Father came in, in one of his tempers, and slammed the door."

"I see."

Solar Pons stood stock-still, pulling at the lobe of his ear.

"You have been most helpful, Miss Smithers. Come, Parker, I have a few more inquiries to make about town."

6

"Well, Parker, you have seen most of the protagonists in this drama. I should be glad of your thoughts on the matter."

"You flatter me, Pons."

We were sitting in a small rear lounge of the Saddler's Arms, the buzz of cheerful conversation about us. It was early evening and Pons had been unusually preoccupied since the interview with Evelyn Smithers and her father. He had had another talk with Fernchurch before dinner in the smoking room of the hotel, from which he had emerged in a taciturn mood. All through dinner he had remained silent and reserved, and I knew better than to interrupt him on these occasions.

Now, however, when he was sitting back in a comfortable leather chair, a pipe clamped between his teeth, he seemed in a more expansive frame of mind and so I welcomed his remark.

"Come, Parker," he continued, regarding me with narrowed eyes. "You know my methods."

"I know your methods, Pons, but as you are so often reminding me, I do not often know in which direction to apply them"

He chuckled.

"Well said, my dear fellow. How did Miss Smithers strike you, for example?"

"A very beautiful young lady, Pons," I replied cautiously.

"Is she not? I fancy young Fernchurch is not out of the wood there yet, unless I am very much mistaken."

"What on earth do you mean, Pons?"

"Nothing," said my companion carelessly, drawing on his pipe. "But she does not seem unduly concerned at her fiancée’s plight."

I sat back in my chair and scratched my head.

"Your line of investigation has succeeded only in confusing me, Pons. Instead of one suspect we now appear to have several. Young Fernchurch had ample opportunity and motive to drop that hammer on his rival's head. Yet you seem convinced that he did not do it."

Solar Pons nodded, his head wreathed in blue smoke.

"Correct, Parker."

"Then you have opened my eyes to other possibilities," I went on. "For example, it seems obvious that Professor Smithers himself could have crossed the landing and have gained the tower by way of the scaffolding without being seen."

Solar Pons chuckled, looking at me approvingly.

"Splendid, Parker. Do continue. You must not leave Miss Smithers out. Her window directly overlooks the scene of the crime."

I stared at my companion in silence for a moment.

"Good heavens, Pons! You surely cannot mean…"

Pons wrinkled his brows and his eyes were serious.

"The female mind is complex and convoluted, Parker. I do not exclude anything for the moment. I am about to investigate yet a fourth possibility. And if I am not mistaken, here is my man now."

As he spoke, the door of the lounge was cautiously opened and a small, rather roughly dressed man came blinking in. He stopped before us, looking from one to the other.

"Mr. Solar Pons? Jethro Dobbs at your service, gentlemen. The hotel porter brought me a message that you wished to see me."

"Indeed, Mr. Dobbs. Won't you take a seat? Let me order you a drink. This is my friend, Dr. Lyndon Parker."

"That's very kind of you, sir. A pint of bitter if you please."

The little man sank into a chair opposite me and sat looking at me silently until Pons had brought the drink over to him. He drank greedily, as though he had not tasted liquid for a month. He put the tankard down on the oak table in front of him with a grunt of satisfaction.

"That's better, gentlemen. How can I help you, sir?"

"There is a good deal of gossip in the town, Mr. Dobbs, over the death of the late Mr. Bulstrode. I understand you were in his employ and that you had a tremendous row some weeks before his death."

The little man's eyes were bright and he paused in drawing his sleeve across his mouth.

"That's right," he said evenly. "Only I don't see as how you could know about it"

"It is common gossip, Mr. Dobbs," said Pons easily. "Would you care to tell us about it?"

"It's no great secrecy," said Dobbs bitterly. "I'm one of the best masons in the business and I should think I know my work."

"Indeed," said Pons soothingly. "You are well spoken of in the town as a craftsman. I trust you found a new position easily enough."

The little man brightened.

"Oh, I'm all right now, Mr. Pons. But it rankled, sir, it rankled. Fired me offhand. Never known a man with such a foul temper."

He looked cautiously round the bar.

"I'm not one to speak ill of the dead, but I'm glad Sebastian Bulstrode has gone. Do you know what happened, sir?"

Pons shook his head.

"I'd just finished a section of wall at the base of the tower. Beautiful job. As fine as you could see within a hundred miles. Then Bulstrode came around. He was in a towering rage. He found fault with everything I'd done. The cement was still wet. He got his hammer, the special one with the crowbar handle, and pulled the whole thing to pieces. Made me mad, I can tell you."

Pons's whole expression was one of alertness and engrossed attention now.

"Did he indeed! Do go on, Mr. Dobbs."

He tugged at the lobe of his ear and fixed our visitor with piercing eyes.

"Nothing much else to tell, Mr. Pons. We had words. High words, I might say. At the end of it he told me to go to the office and get my money. It was a relief, really. Nasty man to work for. Constant tension and upsets. Is that what you wanted to know, sir?"

Pons smiled.

"Exactly, Mr. Dobbs. I have learned more than I could possibly have hoped for. Eh, Parker?"

"Certainly, Pons," I said, trying to keep the bewilderment from my voice.

"You have been most helpful, Mr. Dobbs. Here is a pound for your trouble."

"Many thanks, Mr. Pons."

Our visitor eagerly grasped the note my companion handed him, drained the last of his beer and hurried out with a friendly smile.

Pons chuckled and sat back on his seat.

"What do you make of that, Parker?"

I shook my head.

"I must confess that I am more confused than ever, Pons. This man had as big a motive for killing Bulstrode as anyone else."

"Did he not? This affair becomes more interesting by the minute. But let us just step up to the bar here. We may learn something further to our advantage. There is nothing like small-town gossip for getting at the heart of the matter."

And with that he led the way to the crowded bar at the far end of the room. We refilled our glasses, and I glanced around the lounge while Pons exchanged pleasantries with the hotel manager, who had just come in to confer with one of the barmen.

"Oh, it is six of one and half a dozen of the other," said a loud voice behind me. "There was no love lost between the two men. I hear Fernchurch came near to knocking Bulstrode down on one occasion."

The man addressed, a red-faced character with a thick mustache gave a broad wink.

"Chancing his arm against a man of Bulstrode's size, wasn't he?"

The first man sniggered.

"He thought better of it. Backed away, I hear. But a hammer dropped from the castle walls would do just as well, I reckon."

There was another snigger and the two men moved away. The manager's face was grave.

"I must apologize for that, gentlemen. People will talk, unfortunately."

He shook his head.

"Murder in Maldon! Who would have thought it Such a thing is very bad for the tourist trade, gentlemen."

"I can well believe it," said Pons, gently commiserating. His left eyelid twitched momentarily at me as he took a pull at his glass.

I must confess I was more confused than ever when I went to bed that evening.

7

I was up early in the morning but Pons was earlier still. It was a fine, bright morning, the sun shining and still surprisingly mild for January, especially in the north. He came into the breakfast room just as I was sitting down at our table, his face fresh and alert, as though he had taken a long walk. He rubbed his lean hands together briskly.

"Exercise clears the brain wonderfully, Parker. I have just been for a short promenade around the castle. There is one piece which will not quite fit into place."

"You surprise me, Pons," I murmured, pouring the coffee. "I have a thousand pieces and nowhere to put any of them."

Solar Pons smiled thinly.

"The ratiocinative art continues to elude you, Parker. Ah, well, we are all built differently. But you are a wonderfully stimulating companion."

"Kind of you to say so, Pons," I muttered.

"I have asked Fitzjohn and Fernchurch to join us after breakfast. Light begins to break through. They will meet us at the tower at half-past nine."

And he said no more but attacked his breakfast with gusto.

As we walked up to the castle afterward, I could not resist saying to my companion, "I have another theory, Pons. One that should not be discounted."

Pons stopped momentarily, shielding his pipe from a light wind which had suddenly sprung up.

"Pray what might that be, Parker?"

"I have only just thought of it Could it not be that you were correct about Miss Smithers? That she committed the fatal deed on impulse and that young Fernchurch is shielding her?"

Pons flicked his spent match behind him and looked at me sharply.

"Well said, Parker. That is distinctly ingenious. Your gray cells are working at last. You may have hit close to the truth without knowing it. Ah, here is the inspector and our client himself."

The two familiar figures had appeared underneath the archway where we shortly joined them, before Pons led the way out to the tower on the other side.

"Well, Mr. Pons, I trust you have come to some conclusions. We cannot keep Mr. Fernchurch here hovering under a cloud."

"Quite right, Inspector," said Pons briskly. "I have followed some lines of inquiry, it is true. But there is some connecting link which eludes me for the moment. I need just that one touch to prove my theory. Until then I prefer not to commit myself."

"Why, Pons," said I. "It should be easy enough. You need only carry out your pebble experiment from the young lady's window, yonder. The shorter, distance would not matter so much with such a heavy hammer but would be more accurate, surely."

Solar Pons stared at me as though I had said something of momentous importance. His dancing eyes shot upward to where I had indicated the open window of the Smithers's sitting room.

"My dear Parker, you are, as I said earlier, a veritable transmitter of light! Here the matter has been staring me in the face, and I need only have taken two physical steps to corroborate my theory. If ever I have been obtuse, it is on this occasion. Come, Parker!"

My companions stared at him as though he had gone mad, but Pons had already turned on his heel and was running through the arch. He ascended the tower steps two at a time so that he swiftly outdistanced me. By the time I had puffed my way to the top landing he was already being admitted to their private quarters by Professor Smithers and his daughter.

The curator had an abashed look on his face as he caught sight of us, but he controlled himself and in quite a gracious manner invited us all in.

"This will not take a moment," said Pons, once we were inside the sitting room. "It is just a small point of corroborative evidence, but which is nevertheless vital. My client's innocence depends upon it."

"Certainly, Mr. Pons. Whatever you wish."

The professor's amazement was written large upon his features, and he was even more astonished when Pons went across to the open window. A few seconds later there were gasps as he vaulted through, to land safely on the planked scaffolding that was placed just, below and to the right of the window.

"Do be careful, Mr. Pons," said Miss Smithers in worried tones.

"Do not fear, young lady," said Pons, kneeling now and intent on the windowsill of the sitting room. He had his lens out and leaned over dangerously, working his way back and forth along the sill before turning his attention to the stones beneath. There was a muffled exclamation and I saw that his face was completely transformed.

"Ah, just as I thought. Allow me to congratulate you, Mr. Fernchurch."

"On what, Mr. Pons?"

"On your innocence and on the clearing of the capital charge against you."

"Oh, come, Mr. Pons," said Inspector Fitzjohn in a skeptical voice. "That is rather a sweeping statement."

"Just fetch me a large mirror, Miss Smithers," said Pons calmly. He sat on the planked scaffolding, dangling his legs in space and looking perfectly at home until the girl returned with the article he had requested. He took the mirror from her and held it so that we could see a portion of the stonework beneath the window sill.

"There, Inspector. Do you not see?"

"I see a large gash in the stonework, Mr. Pons," said Fitzjohn cautiously.

"Exactly! And the mark is new. It indicates considerable force, for these centuries-old stones are hard as iron. But there is one conclusive point, which you cannot very well see from here. It indicates that the blow was in an upward direction!"

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

Professor Smithers could not keep the irritation from his voice — so cryptic had Pons been that I almost sympathized with him. Pons handed the mirror back in through the window to the girl, with a flourish, and then followed himself, dusting the knees of his trousers.

"But what does it all mean, Mr. Pons?" asked Fernchurch, his puzzled eyes seeking the girl's.

"It means, Mr. Fernchurch, that Sebastian Bulstrode killed himself!"

Pons chuckled at the gasped incredulity from the circle of people around him.

"You cannot mean it, Mr. Pons," stammered Professor Smithers. "Suicide?"

Pons shook his head.

"But you aptly named the weapon, Professor. The Hammer of Hate you called it, did you not? We had better just sit down while I explain."

When we were seated comfortably near the fireplace, Pons went to stand by the mantel, his eyes conveying a faraway look.

"When Mr. Fernchurch came to me at Praed Street with his distressing story, I rapidly came to the conclusion, from his manner and general demeanor, that he was speaking the truth. He had been caught, as it were, by a large number of people at the top of the tower a few minutes after Bulstrode had been struck down and killed by this heavy iron hammer we have heard so much about. The major difficulties lay in motive and method. First, Mr. Fernchurch had some motive. Rivalry over Miss Smithers, quarrels and — according to some local people — an actual incident when the two men almost came to blows."

"Quite untrue, Mr. Pons," said Fernchurch hotly. "It was mere gossip."

Solar Pons inclined his head.

"I quite agree, Mr. Fernchurch. I have heard a great deal of you about bars and streets of Maldon. I have long ago learned to ignore gossip, but it can be revealing on occasion. Very rarely it can also help to clear absurdities in the matter — and one which you would have done well to have grasped, Parker — was the obvious difficulty, not to say almost impossibility of the method used. I made my own experiments by dropping pebbles from the tower top onto a large piece of sacking. Now, although the sacking was a great deal larger than a man's head, I succeeded in hitting it only seven times out of thirty."

Pons paused and relit his pipe, puffing out blue clouds of aromatic smoke.

"So that at an early stage I had discounted premeditated murder in Mr. Fernchurch's case, or indeed his implication in the matter in any way. He was merely unfortunate in that he was at the wrong place at the wrong time. What compounded the difficulties was that Miss Smithers had been delayed in meeting him by some discussion between her and her father on her choice of fiancée. Had both been on the tower top, Miss Smithers could have provided powerful corroborative evidence of his innocence and avoided a great deal of unfortunate publicity."

"I take back nothing I have said," snapped Professor Smithers.

"I did not ask you to," he said gently. "The second difficulty I mentioned was the hammer. It was made of iron, covered with stone dust, and the shock of it first striking Mr. Bulstrode's skull and then rebounding to the ground shook the dust from it, so that no usable fingerprints were found That could not possibly have been foreseen by any potential murderer."

You are forgetting the professor and the other possible suspects, Pons," I could not help putting in.

Solar Pons took the pipe out of his mouth and shook his head.

"I am forgetting nothing, Parker. It is true that there were complications. Professor Smithers could, no doubt, have gained access to the tower from this room and by means of the scaffolding have dropped the hammer onto Bulstrode. But I think it hardly likely, particularly as he could have obtained more accurate results from the window of this room."

Professor Smithers made an angry explosive noise, and I saw Inspector Fitzjohn hastily repress a smile.

"Consider Parker," Pons went on, as though there had been no interruption. "Motive, my dear fellow. Always consider motive. There were no strong ones in this case. Bulstrode had already been eliminated as a prospective son-in-law. Why risk getting oneself hanged by dropping a hammer on him? The revenge element in Miss Smithers's case would have been ridiculous. She had achieved her object and had become reengaged to my client. These young people had everything to live for."

"But the mason you interviewed, Pons," I said irritatedly. "He had a grudge, surely."

"Certainly, Parker, but the whole thing was too farfetched. And he made one point of great significance in his talk with us. Two, if one takes into account that Bulstrode was a man who could go absolutely berserk on occasion and do ridiculous things on impulse. You have already heard how he tore down a perfectly good wall in an argument with Dobbs. I made it my business to check that story thoroughly this morning. It was perfectly true and it was corroborated by at least half a dozen of his co-workers."

"What are we left with, then, Mr. Pons?" said Inspector Fitzjohn, somewhat desperately.

"A hammer, Inspector," said Pons, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

"A Hammer of Hate, as picturesquely described by Professor Smithers. A particularly apt description, though not in the way he intended. The general mistake everyone made, myself included, was that the hammer used in the murder was flung or dropped from the top of the tower. Apart from the impossibility of ensuring accuracy from a hundred feet up and the incredible coincidence of Bulstrode stopping at the exact spot and standing there until Fernchurch had taken perfect aim, the hammer was never on top of the tower."

Fitzjohn's jaw visibly quivered.

"Never there, Mr. Pons? How can you possibly know that?"

"Common sense, Inspector," said Pons calmly. "It was merely assumed, because there were a good many tools on the tower top, that the hammer was among them. But it was a special hammer. Bulstrode's own, in fact, which he habitually carried and with which he tested his men's work. The clue lay in the statement made by Dobbs to myself and Dr. Parker last night, Inspector, and which your own men must have overlooked. Dobbs told us that Bulstrode 'got his hammer, the special one with the crowbar handle'. That made the whole thing perfectly plain in my mind but I could not quite fit the pieces together. The incident of Dobbs and the wall took place weeks ago, but I confirmed from Bulstrode's staff this morning that he always carried the hammer; it was as indispensable to him as a pencil and drawing paper to an architect. When I combined this fact with Miss Smithers's statement, the sequence became more clear. It was not until you directed my attention to the elementary matter of Miss Smithers's windowsill this morning, Parker, that the whole thing came into focus."

"I confess it is not at all clear, Pons."

"My dear fellow, Bulstrode was a vindictive, vengeful man. He considered he had been wronged by Fernchurch and Miss Smithers. It rankled and he was not a man to let such things go lightly. He avoided an open confrontation with my client. But on the morning of his death he was inspecting the work at the base of this tower. You may be sure he had an ulterior motive. That was, I have no doubt, to see Miss Smithers and plead his case again. He had no idea that Fernchurch was on the battlements; he had no reason to know and Mr. Fernchurch himself has told us that at no time did he go near the edge of the tower. I absolutely believe him."

"Thank you, Mr. Pons."

"All very well, Mr. Pons," said Inspector Fitzjohn warily. "But what exactly are you trying to tell us?"

Solar Pons stepped away from the fireplace and his eyes were very bright.

"Just this, Inspector. The whole matter hinges on Miss Smithers here. Bulstrode was anxious to see her. He hung about beneath her window until there was no one in the little square below. Miss Smithers was waiting to talk to her father in this very room about the delicate matter of her engagement to Mr. Fernchurch. She looked out of the window and saw Bulstrode. He was tapping about the base of the tower with a hammer, as she puts it. That is conclusive."

"How do you know this, Mr. Pons?" put in Professor Smithers.

"Because she told me so herself yesterday," said Pons evenly. "The sound had attracted her attention. She said that he looked up and may have seen her. She. turned away, quite properly, as she did not wish to be involved with him again."

"It is a pity you did not tell the police this, Miss Smithers," said the inspector quietly.

The girl flushed and lowered her eyes.

"I was afraid of what Father might say," she said. "And it did not seem really important."

"But it was important, Miss Smithers," Pons went on. "You heard some shouting in the street, I think you said; and then you father came in, in a temper, and slammed the door."

"That is so, Mr. Pons."

"Exactly."

Solar Pons looked round the sitting room in the deep silence which had fallen.

"It cannot be conclusively proved beyond a shadow of doubt but it is crystal-clear to my mind that what happened was this. Bulstrode, a vengeful giant with an ungovernable temper, wished to see his former fiancée, with a view to getting her back. He attracted her attention by the tapping of his hammer, and she came to the window. When he shouted to her, she turned away. Blind rage overcame him and he lost control. He hurled the heavy iron hammer at the girl, whether with the intention of killing her or maiming her, we shall never know. But impartial fate works in strange ways. By a weird series of coincidences Miss Smithers providently had gone from the window; his aim was bad, and the hammer struck the wall below the windowsill with tremendous force — the notch just there is more than an inch deep — and literally rebounded onto the head of the evildoer. The weight of the hammer alone, plus the height of the window from the ground and the tremendous velocity with which it was flung, was sufficient to shatter his skull and stretch him lifeless upon the ground."

There was a long silence, broken by Fernchurch, whose face bore a strange mixture of expressions. He went up to my friend and wrung him by the hand.

"Mr. Pons, you have saved my life."

Solar Pons chuckled, evidently satisfied with the effect he had created.

"How say you, Inspector?"

Inspector Fitzjohn came forward slowly, first looking toward the window and then at Fernchurch.

"Brilliant, Mr. Pons. I would be the first to admit it when we are wrong. We must needs have corroboration from our own people on that chip in the stonework beneath the window, of course, but I am convinced that what you have described is substantially correct. There are no other facts that fit. Mr. Fernchurch, you are an extremely fortunate young man."

"Well, Parker," said Solar Pons dryly. "Have you nothing to say?"

"I will reserve it for Praed Street, Pons," I said. "It will need more than a moment or two to do justice to your reasoning."

Solar Pons smiled as Miss Smithers and then her father came over and shook him by the hand.

"Perhaps we shall be left in peace now," said Smithers sourly as he took his leave.

"Well, Parker, I think our work here is concluded," said Solar Pons. "A decent lunch and then an afternoon train back to town. No doubt the inspector, Miss Smiths, and Mr. Fernchurch will join us at the inn. Would you have the goodness to book a table?"

8

"An interesting little exercise, Parker," said Solar Pons as Inspector Fitzjohn pulled the police car up in front of the imposing bulk of York Station in good time to catch the five o'clock train to London.

"As you say, Pons," I agreed. "No doubt you will go over the major points with me again on the way back to Praed Street. I am not quite sure I have quite grasped every step of your reasoning."

"Certainly, Parker," said Pons affably as we walked across the concourse to where the hiss of steam made a deafening noise beneath the great canopy.

"Good bye, Inspector. A pleasure to work with you."

Inspector Fitzjohn's face flushed with pleasure.

"An education, Mr. Pons. We have, of course, already formally dropped the charge against Mr. Fernchurch and he will get an official apology. A statement is appearing in the main Yorkshire evening papers and in the London newspapers in the morning."

British justice is ever quick to make reparation, Inspector," said Pons. "And we have certainly avoided a dreadful miscarriage of justice on the occasion."

He turned to watch Inspector Fitzjohn as he hurried out of the main entrance.

"Though whether our friend Fernchurch is really so fortunate as Fitzjohn makes out is something only time will tell."

I followed Pons through the barrier and produced my ticket to be clipped. I rejoined him outside the buffet.

"I am not quite sure I follow you, Pons."

My companion seemed abstracted in manner.

"It was just a thought which occurred to me, Parker. Ah, I felt I was not mistaken."

He had caught sight of the willowy figure of Miss Smithers threading her way through the crowd toward us. She seemed embarrassed as she caught sight of us and stopped momentarily. A tall, military figure with her took her by the arm. Her smile was forced and artificial as she came up. Pons raised his hat and I followed suit.

"Quite a surprise, Miss Smithers," he said dryly. "To see you so far afield quite so soon"

"A little outing, Mr. Pons."

The tall man with angry eyes and a clipped mustache, dressed in a captain's uniform, looked at us with well- bred indifference.

"Allow me to introduce Captain Gore-Willoughby, Mr. Pons. Mr. Pons, Dr. Lyndon Parker."

"Delighted, gentlemen."

The captain's hand was cold and fishlike. He yawned and consulted his wristwatch.

'Ten minutes before our train leaves, Evelyn."

"Very well, Nigel."

The girl turned to Pons again.

"We are going to stay with Captain Gore-Willoughby's relatives at Harrogate for the weekend. I felt I needed to get away."

"A delightful watering place," said Pons ironically. "Pray do not let me detain you further."

And he raised his hat politely as the oddly assorted couple hurried across the bridge.

"Well, Pons!" I said explosively.

Solar Pons took my arm and steered me down the platform as the thunder of the London-bound train sounded in the distance.

"You must learn to take a more equable and considered view of life, my dear fellow. Young Fernchurch has escaped one great peril, and he might well have fallen into another."

"You cannot mean it, Pons!"

"Ah, Parker, you find yourself seduced once again by a pair of winning eyes, a hank of hair, and a passable figure."

"Really, Pons!"

We pressed forward as the London train drew in.

"My dear Parker," Pons went on. "I have hinted it before and I will repeat it now. If that engagement between Miss Smithers and Fernchurch comes to anything I shall be extremely surprised. And if I am any judge of the human condition, that young man will be a great deal better off."

And so it proved.