The Exploits of Solar Pons

1

“Many a slip, Parker, many a slip!”

I looked up from my corner of the first-class railway carriage and smiled at my friend Solar Pons as he sat opposite me, spare and trim in a tweed country suit.

“I do not understand you, Pons.”

My companion blew a plume of fragrant blue smoke up to the roof of the compartment.

“It would not be the first time, Parker. I was referring merely to that contraption you were fiddling with.”

“I see!”

I held it up so that he could have a closer look.

“What on earth is it?”

I smiled again.

“I thought you were supposed to be the detective, Pons.” My friend looked at me with eyes in which little flecks of irony were dancing.

“Muck Parker. You are developing a very pretty wit of late. I must confess I am in turn developing a taste for it.”

“You flatter me, Pons, but you have still not answered my question.”

“It was I who questioned you,” Pons corrected me. “I am on holiday, remember, and giving my ratiocinative faculties a rest.

It was your idea, Parker. You said, if I recall the extravagant phraseology rightly, that the Norfolk Broads would be a tonic.” He smiled wickedly.

“Which means that we find ourselves on the way to the unquiet metropolis of Norwich.”

“Come, Pons,” I protested. “Norwich is one of the most beautiful cities in England. It is in the centre of the Broads and if I had taken you to a small village…”

Solar Pons held up his hand.

“It was merely my feeble attempt at a joke, Parker. You are perfectly correct. I was there once only, for half a day, but to the best of my recollection all your eulogies are well-deserved. Though we are still faced with the basic problem.”

“You are referring to this?”

I still held the object between thumb and forefinger and I passed it over to my companion. It was a beautiful day in early June and we were passing through the flat, lush countryside of Suffolk, typical Constable terrain in which fields of fat sheep, fine old trees and glossy streams competed for attention in the eye.

“Ah,” said Pons. “Some sort of apparatus for tying artificial flies for trout fishing, is it not?”

“You are right, Pons,” I said. “It is new on the market. I purchased it only yesterday.”

Solar Pons passed the miniature vice back with a thin smile. “I did not know you were a fisherman, Parker.”

“Neither am I, Pons,” I said ruefully. “I used to be fond of fly-fishing when I was a youngster but I have had little time in latter years. I thought I might take it up again.”

“You will find small opportunity on the Broads, Parker.”

I laughed.

“Of course not, Pons. It was merely that I felt I might spend some spare time so. It is a soothing enough occupation.”

My friend nodded and turned back to the pages of the learned journal he had been immersed in when my experimental overtures with my new toy had attracted his attention.

The bright June day continued, the engine joyfully shovelled black smoke over its shoulder as it vibrated its way over the flat countryside and in an astonishingly short time, it seemed, we were descending amid the noise and bustle of Norwich Thorpe Station, bedecked with coloured posters featuring Broadland yachts apparently sailing across the rich fields and shouting the attractions of Yarmouth as a seaside resort.

“Did I not say it was agreeable, Pons?”

“Indeed, Parker,” said Solar Pons drily, skilfully dodging aside to avoid a covey of small boys carrying fishing rods.

We had nothing except light hand luggage so after surrendering our tickets, we walked out into the brightness of the station concourse, avoiding the taxi-rank and instead crossing the road to walk by the broad, brown waters of the Yare, where tall-masted sailing boats bobbed alongside the quay at Norwich Yacht Station.

Across the bridge, we let the flow of pedestrians take us into the heart of the city where the great spire of Norwich Cathedral floated like some huge ship at anchor, and reported ourselves at the Royal George Hotel, where we were expected. A shocked attendant took our luggage and whisked it immediately to our comfortable rooms. When we had again descended, Pons consulted the huge grandfather clock in the hall.

“It is still only a quarter-past twelve, Parker. What say you to another short promenade before lunch?”

We slipped out of a side-entrance; it was market-day apparently and a rich display of stalls, selling a fantastic variety of goods stretched as far as the eye could reach across a vast square near the Cathedral, the reds, golds and greens of their canvas roofs making a colourful, mediaeval pattern that was eye-aching in the bright summer sun.

Solar Pons looked at the rich life about him, his keen eyes taking in the details of the individual faces, a thin plume of smoke from his pipe rising into the warm air. After a short while wandering about in this manner we turned our steps back in the direction of the Cathedral, pausing in the Close to examine the moving memorial to Nurse Edith Cavell and then crossing the road to traverse the quaint old alley of Tombland with its houses leaning at crazy angles. Neither of us talked much, we were so taken with the charm of the place, and I was delighted by many subtle indications in my friend’s attitude and demeanour that he thoroughly approved of his surroundings and my suggestion to take this much-needed holiday.

As possibly the world’s greatest private consulting detective Pons had been extremely overworked in the spring of the year; he had been drenched in a mountain stream in Switzerland in one case; set upon by thugs in another; and had found even his iron strength severely taxed in a long and complicated affair which had involved him in covering miles of rough and almost impassable Scottish countryside on foot.

As his medical adviser as well as his friend I had long urged caution and proper rest and the amiable landlady of our quarters at 7B Praed Street, Mrs Johnson, had joined her injunctions to mine so that we were both delighted when at last we had prevailed upon my companion to take a brief fortnight’s respite from the clatter and bustle of London.

Indeed, I congratulated myself highly on my strategy as we sat down to an excellent lunch at The Royal George because I could see that already my friend was benefiting from the change of air and the agreeable atmosphere of Norwich in this perfect June weather.

After lunch we strolled along the banks of the river for a while, the moored yachts and motor-boats bobbing gently at anchor, while the hum of the city rose around us like that of a hive of bees. Solar Pons glanced at me ironically, as though he could read my thoughts.

“You were right, Parker,” he said genially. “I must congratulate you on your choice. It might take much longer than a fortnight to exhaust the possibilities of such a city.”

My cheeks glowed at such unwonted praise from my companion.

“I am glad to hear you say so, Pons.”

He said nothing more and we walked on in silence, climbing some steps to gain an iron bridge and eventually finding ourselves, as though by tacit consent, in front of the mellow bulk of the Cathedral. A section of the vast double doors was open, showing a black oblong and the deep basso of an organ’s treacly notes percolated to the street.

It was cool and shadowy inside after the brilliance of the exterior and it took some minutes before my eyes had adjusted to the diffused lighting; the sun’s rays being broken by the rich reds, greens and ambers of the medieval stained glass in the rich windows and scattering like powdered gold across the delicate tracery of stonework and timber in that magnificent interior.

Evidently some sort of service had just concluded because people were dispersing down the long aisles and the wooden chairs were thickly occupied by seated worshippers. The unseen organist continued with his recital as the vast building emptied, though visitors were constantly stepping through the great doors from the street behind us.

I paused to examine some carving in a side chapel while Pons wandered on, his keen eyes shooting glances up to the vaulted ceiling high above and then at some detail of the ancient stonework nearer at hand. It was an agreeable occupation and we had spent some half an hour in such gentle perambulations before we were brought up in front of a massive archway, half hidden by the vast stone pillaring. Steps led downward into the gloom.

“This would appear to be the crypt, Pons.”

“Would it not, Parker,” said my companion, little flecks of amusement dancing in his eyes.

“Shall we go down?”

“By all means, my dear fellow. A great cathedral is nothing without its crypt, which is as necessary as cloisters and Norwich is nothing if not a great cathedral.”

I followed my companion as he led the way down the sunken stone steps into the shadowy realms below. Naked electric bulbs illuminated the honey-coloured stonework and our steps echoed loudly on the flagstones beneath the vaulted ceiling. There was evidently some work going on, for scaffolding surrounded some of the tombs and great beams barred off portions of the crypt. I had noticed evidence of the same activity in the church above.

“Interesting, is it not, Pons?”

“Indeed, my dear fellow. No doubt it appeals to your romantic instincts.”

“Perhaps, Pons,” I replied cautiously. “But at any event it would not take much imagination to picture strange things happening in such a setting.”

Pons chuckled quietly, looking about him.

“You are certainly correct in that supposition, Parker.”

It was indeed a formidable and strange realm in which we now found ourselves. Great stone pillars going up into the massive vaulted ceiling; flagstones beneath our feet; shadowy corners and turnings inadequately illuminated by the electric light bulbs suspended at intervals; some curious tombs and statuary, with here and there the massive beams and timbers of the renovation work. All overlaid by the echoing footsteps of the few visitors down here and their sibilant whispering which seemed to reverberate curiously about the catacombs.

The hush was abruptly broken by the sound of hurrying footsteps and round a pillar came a curiously assorted couple. A girl of about twenty-eight, her fair hair flying, her expression furious. Behind her a tall, sullen, bearded man in his forties, rage and anger flaring on his face. Oblivious of their surroundings, they hurried on toward the entrance steps, the girl shaking off the man’s restraining arm.

“Pray control yourself, Elise,” said the man in low, urgent tones, glancing about him.

“It was promised!” she said in furious tones. “You said it would be today!”

The muttering continued as the odd pair half-ran from the crypt and we could hear their agitated progress up the worn stone steps until the sound died away in the distance. Pons looked at me thoughtfully.

“Curious, Parker,” he murmured.

I smiled.

“A lover’s quarrel, Pons?”

“Perhaps,” he said shortly, an expression on his lean, feral features I had come to know well.

I led him forward to where a Norman noble’s effigy rested on the cover of an ancient tomb. In the far corner an imperious statue raised its arm aloft.

“I hope you are not seeking mysteries here, Pons. We are on holiday.”

“I have not forgotten, Parker,” said Solar Pons placatingly, though I noticed his keen eyes were darting about the crypt, resting first on one detail and then another.

“Hullo! Someone has dropped something.”

He darted forward round the edge of the tomb and picked up a small object resting on the flagstones.

“What do you make of this, Parker?”

I glanced at the thing in the palm of his hand curiously. “It looks like a cotton-reel, Pons.”

“Does it not? However, I think there is a little more to it than that.”

He held up the little wooden cylinder, holding it toward the illumination provided by the nearest bulb. There was no-one else near us in this secluded corner, where we were screened by the massive groyning of the crypt. He twisted it gently, giving a grunt of satisfaction as it came apart.

Within the hollow interior was a slip of paper. Pons unfolded it and smoothed it out with his fingers. I looked over his shoulder. Printed on it in ink was a meaningless jumble of symbols, composed of random groups of letters.

“It is of no value, Pons, that is evident.”

“We shall see, Parker, we shall see,” my companion returned mysteriously, thrusting the slip and its container into his pocket.

“I think we have seen enough for one afternoon. Let us adjourn to the open air.”

We were ascending the steps to the Cathedral now.

“Should we not report the finding of this article to the church authorities, Pons?”

“All in good time, Parker.”

Solar Pons’ face was tense and abstracted and I looked at him curiously. A moment later I saw what had attracted his attention. The bearded man we had seen in the crypt was coming back down the nave, a worried expression on his features. He passed without noticing us and darted into the entrance which led to the crypt.

To my astonishment Pons led me into the shadow of a great pillar and seating himself on one of the wooden chairs which faced the altar motioned me down beside him. He put his fingers to his lips to enjoin caution.

We waited perhaps ten minutes and then footsteps were heard ascending. A moment later the man with the beard, looking more worried than ever, appeared. Pons was already on his feet and strolled casually after him. I followed, considerably perplexed and not a little irritated.

We gained the Cathedral entrance and watched the tall figure of the bearded man striding away into the heart of the city. Pons followed and I had difficulty in keeping up with him. After a short while, however, my companion slackened his pace. He was smiling.

“Ah, Parker, we are in luck. The gentleman is evidently staying at The Royal George or taking tea there.”

“Indeed, Pons.

I followed his gaze and saw that the bearded man was ascending the entrance steps of our own hostelry. As we crossed the road, pausing to allow a bus to pass in front of us, I caught Pons’ arm.

“Is it not possible that the thing you have just picked up belonged to that gentleman, and that he has been back to the crypt to find it?”

“It is entirely possible, Parker. Come, I have a notion to see what our friend will do next.”

And he led the way into the lobby of the hotel.

2

I sat down in a corner of the tea-lounge, the three-piece orchestra playing a dreamy melody from Strauss. The girl who had been in the cathedral was sitting three tables away, looking tense and irritated. Pons had asked me to keep an eye on her while he went on some mysterious errand of his own. I must confess I was put out at the turn things had taken; after all, we had come here for a much-needed holiday and such little mysteries as the one we had just witnessed were an unwarrantable intrusion.

I ordered afternoon tea for Pons and myself and waited, glancing idly about the room. The place was full and the agreeable hum of muted conversation drifted up to the beamed ceiling. I should have been extremely content if it had not been for the strange incident in the crypt and my pique continued as the minutes passed and my companion had still not appeared. The waitress had already brought the tea, the buttered scones and the selection of cakes before Pons hurried through the door to join me.

As he did so he almost collided with the bearded man; the latter drew back with an apology for he had thrust his way through the door with unceremonious haste. Pons stood back and beckoned him forward with a gracious gesture, a smile on his lips. The bearded man continued over to the girl’s table and as he sat down I could see from his hunched shoulders and strained tense attitude that the row we had witnessed in the crypt was continuing in this more salubrious atmosphere.

Pons sat down opposite me and rubbed his thin hands, looking at the delicacies on the table before us with keen anticipation.

“Excellent, Parker. I can see that this holiday will suit me. Even Mrs Johnson could not have done better.”

“You may well say so, Pons,” I rejoined, my spirits rising considerably. “But where on earth have you been? I was afraid the tea would become cold.”

“No fear of that, Parker,” said Pons, holding out his cup for the sparkling measure I poured for him. “I was just engaged in a pleasant conversation with the young lady at the reception desk.”

I looked at him in surprise.

“For what purpose, Pons?”

Solar Pons chuckled.

“Surely it is self-evident. I was merely trying to establish the identity of our fellow guest. I told the young lady I thought he was a friend I had met in America. She obligingly looked him up in the register. He is Herr Karl Koch of Stuttgart. He has been staying here for three days.”

The resentment and surprise in my eyes must have shown for my companion had mischievous little glints dancing in his own.

“Come, Parker. I have no wish to let such poor ratiocinative gifts as I possess rust in this mellow holiday atmosphere. I must confess I am curious and decided to find out a little more about this oddly assorted couple.”

“So long as it is only that, Pons. I have no wish to see the holiday spoiled.”

“And neither have I, my dear fellow. Though some little problem in our present genteel surroundings would constitute the perfect holiday for me.”

I thought it wiser to say nothing further on those grounds and sought to divert Pons but it was obvious by the way his deep-set eyes were glancing over the far table that he was deeply interested in Koch and his companion.

“You did not find out anything about the young lady, Pons?” I put in mischievously.

He shook his head.

“Miss Elise is not staying here, Parker.”

“I am surprised that you do not simply ask Mr Koch if the thing we found in the crypt belongs to him, Pons?”

My companion shook his head, a faint smile flickering at the corners of his mouth.

“That would spoil the game entirely, Parker. I have a mind to hold on to it for a little while. It can do no harm, surely, and I understand our strange friend is staying here for several days longer.”

I glanced at the animated couple again. you wish, Pons. Pray try these excellent scones; they are still hot.”

But it was evident that though Pons ate heartily and enjoyed the tea his mind was elsewhere. Three times I saw him shoot penetrating glances in the direction of the other table and long after the couple had disappeared he had an abstracted air about him.

We had finished the meal and were about to withdraw from the lounge when there came an interruption. A short, rather shabby-looking little old man in dark clothes had been hovering about at the entrance to the great room. I had noticed him at the cash-desk talking to the manageress and now I found him at my elbow, his eyes deferential and apologetic.

“Mr Pons? Mr Solar Pons?”

“This is he,” I said, indicating my companion.

“I am sorry to disturb you, gentlemen, but we are in some trouble. The Dean sent me specially.”

Solar Pons smiled, sitting upright in his chair in an alert and wide-awake manner.

“Will you not introduce yourself? I must confess your sentence makes little sense at the moment.”

The little man looked confused and shot an apologetic glance at the manageress over Pons’ shoulder and then at my friend himself.

“My apologies, sir. My name is Miggs. I am the Head Verger at the Cathedral yonder. Strange things have been happening.”

“Indeed?”

Solar Pons’ eyebrows were drawn across his brows in a hard, straight line.

“Will you not sit down and tell us about it?”

Our strange visitor shook his head.

“My thumb is still sore, gentlemen, and the Dean himself bade me make haste.”

“You seem determined to present us with an enigma, Mr Miggs,” said Solar Pons with a dry laugh.

“I take it you want us to come with you?”

“If you would be so good, sir. The thing is so mysterious, you see.”

“May I ask how you knew I was at this hotel?”

“The Manager of the hotel, sir, worships at the Cathedral. Of course he’s well-known in Norwich and when the Dean was speaking about our troubles yesterday Mr Kellaway immediately said you were coming to stay here today. I do hope it has not caused any offence…”

“By no means,” said Solar Pons, rising from his seat.

“Mr Kellaway would have spoken of it himself, sir,” continued Mr Miggs apologetically, “but he’s been called away today. He telephoned the Dean who asked me to come straight here.”

Solar Pons smiled thinly as I got up and indicated my willingness to accompany him.

“Am I to understand that the Dean of Norwich himself wishes to consult me on some matter?”

The little man flushed.

“Begging your pardon, sir, explaining things is not my strong suit. You have hit it exactly, Mr Pons. Canon Stacey is a charming gentleman and is quite at his wit’s end. We all are, I can tell you. Such goings-on!”

He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief he took from the side pocket of his old black coat.

“I know it’s your holiday, sir, but if you could spare some time we’d all be grateful. The Canon’s house is in the Close, quite nearby. Just a step, sir.”

He delivered his monologue with such a rueful, apologetic air that I had a job to keep a straight face, however irritated I might feel at this potential interruption to our holiday.

“Very well. Let us go there straight away,” said Solar Pons crisply. “You can tell us about your thumb on the way. You must find your work at the Cathedral a great deal different from shoe repairs.”

“Eigh?”

Mr Miggs looked at Pons in great astonishment, his mouth all drawn up on one side. His eyes had a strange expression in them.

“How on earth could you possibly know that, Mr Pons?” “Ah, I am correct then?”

“I was in the trade for more than thirty years, sir.”

“That accounts for the calluses on your thumb where you hold the leather as you shape it on your last. They are quite distinctive. When I see in addition that your left shoulder is slightly lower than your right I conclude that you are right-handed and that you have been in the habit of bending over your work in the manner peculiar to cobblers. Thirty years of that would certainly have its effect on your physique and it is typical of the trade.”

Mr Miggs continued to stare at my companion in astonishment.

“Wonderful, Mr Pons! Wonderful!” he breathed. “Canon Stacey will be pleased. Mr Kellaway said you had miraculous powers of reasoning, sir, but I did not realise you would demonstrate them so soon.”

Solar Pons chuckled.

“Let us hope that neither you nor Mr Stacey will be disappointed when I get to grips with your little problem.”

Mr Miggs shook his head.

“I am sure that will not be the case, sir.”

3

Despite his age he led the way at a furious pace through the streets of the old city, until at last we came to the hush of the Cathedral Close, with its handsome old houses flanking the green lawns and gravel driveways. He ushered us up white steps to a gracious Georgian portico, its discreet pale-blue painted door glittering with brass ornaments. The white paintwork gleamed on the fanlight above the door and on the small-paned windows set in the facade of the house and a profusion of flowers made bright splashes of colour in the black window-boxes and perfumed the air for yards around.

“This is Canon Stacey’s residence, gentlemen,” said Mr Miggs, his voice involuntarily lowering. Pons gave me a faint smile above the old man’s bowed head.

“You have not yet told us about your thumb, Mr Miggs.” “Ah, sir. All in good time. The Canon said I wasn’t to mention that until you had heard what he has to say.”

“Very well, then,” observed Solar Pons. “We shall just have to curb our impatience, eh, Parker?”

“Certainly, Pons.”

A trim parlour-maid had now opened the great front door and ushered the three of us into an elegant and soberly furnished hall, whose beauty was enhanced by the bowls of cut flowers in vases set about the interior and by the exquisite Indian rug at the far end, that glowed like a great ruby on the black and white tiled floor.

A regal, grey-haired woman whose features bore the dark tint that skin acquires after long years of exposure to tropical sun, came out of a room adjoining the hall and advanced toward us with a smile of welcome.

“Mr Solar Pons? And Dr Lyndon Parker? It is indeed good of you to interrupt your holiday in this fashion.”

“Not at all, Mrs Stacey,” said Pons, shaking hands. “Dr Parker and I will be only too pleased to help in this little matter.”

Mrs Stacey’s hand flew to her throat with a nervous gesture.

“Oh, you will not find it a little matter, Mr Pons. Mr Miggs here has been half-frightened out of his wits. And my husband is gravely perturbed. Gravely perturbed.”

There was more than worry in her eyes and Solar Pons glanced at her solemnly.

“Indeed, Mrs Stacey,” he said soothingly. “Nevertheless, we shall do our best to set things to rights.”

He smiled reassuringly at the grey-haired woman, who led us without more ado to the door of her husband’s study, where she rapped at the panels and then ushered us in.

“Will you not come in, Mr Miggs?” she asked the verger kindly.

“If you’ll excuse me, m’am, I’ll wait in the hall until the Canon should require me.”

“As you wish. This is my husband, Mr Pons. Dr Lyndon Parker.”

The tall, distinguished-looking man in the neat grey suit rose from his desk in the cluttered study as we advanced toward him. A vase of roses made a blaze of colour in the handsome stone fireplace and the sunlight glinted on the spines of the thousands of leather-bound volumes that filled the glass bookcases which stretched from floor to ceiling. Beyond the tall, elegant windows with their gauze curtaining could be glimpsed the tranquil Close with its passing visitors.

Canon Stacey was a man of about sixty-five, with a pleasant, open face and an unlined complexion though, like his wife, he still bore a deep tan. His silver hair rose in thick waves on his head so that it almost resembled an eighteenth century powdered wig. His white, even teeth gleamed in a welcoming smile but I could see anxiety and doubt in the steady brown eyes.

“It is extremely good of you, Mr Pons. We are at our wit’s end. Will you not sit here, gentlemen. Winifred, perhaps you could see about some tea for our guests.”

“Pray do not put yourself out,” said Solar Pons to the Canon’s wife. “We have just had tea.”

“In that case you will not mind if we indulge,” said the Canon with a faint flicker of a smile. “We usually have ours at this time of the afternoon.”

“By all means,” said my companion. “Your Mr Miggs tells me you have a problem which is worrying you.”

Mrs Stacey, with a quick glance at her husband, went out to give the orders for tea and Pons and I sank into comfortable leather chairs at our host’s invitation. Glancing anxiously from one to the other of us, Canon Stacey without further preamble at once plunged into his story.

“There are strange things going on in the Cathedral, Mr Pons. I am worried, gentlemen. Extremely worried. Your coming to Norwich was like the answer to my prayer. And I have no wish to involve the police in this matter or there might be a public scandal.”

Solar Pons said nothing, merely sat back in his chair, his long, slim hands in his lap, his lean, ascetic face gilded with golden stripes by the sunlight. He looked reassuringly at the Canon who licked his lips once or twice and continued with his apparently random musings.

“It started about two weeks ago. I was walking through the Cathedral at dusk when I became conscious of a low whispering. It was fairly late, there were no services taking place and the spot was dimly-lit and lonely. I am not a fanciful person in the ordinary sense of the word, Mr Pons, yet there was something unpleasant and inexpressibly furtive in that mumbled colloquy taking place in that sacred place. I caught only one or two words, savagely and more loudly spoken than the others. They made my heart beat faster and I moved behind a pillar in case the hidden talkers should see me.”

“Why was that, Canon Stacey?”

The distinguished-looking churchman hesitated.

“A good question, Mr Pons. Really, I believe, because there was such menace in their tones. I am a gentle, peace-loving man as befits my cloth and I instinctively shrank from such voices in a holy place.”

“I see. Male or female voices?”

“Male, Mr Pons. Extremely rough. Working class and not at all the sort of people I should imagine would have found much time for organised religion.”

The Canon looked apologetically from one to the other of us.

“I must confess that does not sound very Christian, Mr Pons. After all, the church is open to everyone. But I would be less than honest if I did not frankly indicate my feelings.”

“Your attitude does you credit, Canon Stacey. Just what were these words which so startled you?”

“‘Robbery’ and ‘killing’, Mr Pons.”

There was a long silence between the three of us.

“Hmm.”

Solar Pons pulled reflectively with thin fingers at the lobe of his right ear.

“You did not see the men?”

Canon Stacey shook his head.

“Not at that point, Mr Pons. They were behind the chancel screen, you see, and I should have been seen had I quitted my position at the pillar. Something compelled me to stay there, as though harm might befall me if I were to make my presence known.”

The Canon lowered his voice and looked around him as though the room were dark and gloomy and the time winter, instead of light and bright with the brilliant summer sunshine streaming in. He hesitated again and then went on.

“You will think me even more fanciful, Mr Pons, but I had the strangest impression as I stood behind that pillar and listened to those evil voices.”

“And what was that, Canon Stacey?”

“That the two men were lying out full-length on the pews in order to avoid being seen as they plotted something horrific and criminal.”

4

We were interrupted at that moment by a rap at the far door and Mrs Stacey re-appeared, followed by the same maid who had let us in, wheeling a tea-trolley. Pons and I remained silent until the tea-preparations were completed and the girl had withdrawn. Mrs Stacey shot a glance at us.

“I will just take Miggs a cup,” she said. “I will see that you are not disturbed again, Howard.”

The Canon smiled graciously.

“Thank you, my dear.”

He waited until his wife had quitted the room, drumming nervously with slim fingers upon his desk.

“Your experience was certainly a strange one, Canon,” observed Solar Pons, tenting his thin fingers before him. “And something one would not expect to find within the precincts of a great Cathedral.”

“There is more to come, Mr Pons,” observed the Canon sombrely.

“I had hoped to hear something further but unfortunately there was a loud noise in the distance, probably caused by one of the volunteer cleaners, which startled the couple. I heard the scraping of heavy boots and moments later saw the dark shadows of two large men, making off down the aisle.”

“You did not observe them clearly?”

“Well, Mr Pons, I waited until they had got to a more brightly lit portion of the interior, slipping from pillar to pillar so that they should not see me. All I could make out was that they were dark, tall and wore rough clothing.”

“I see. Pray continue.”

“About an hour later I was called by Mr Miggs, who was rather agitated and upset. He has a great sense of propriety and is one of the most zealous guardians of the Cathedral and its fabric.”

“He struck me as being exceedingly conscientious, Canon,” I put in.

Canon Stacey nodded and then went on, as though a flood of thoughts were waiting to be liberated.

“Miggs took me to the spot near the pillar where the two men had been lying. We found the lid of a tobacco tin which had been used as an ash-tray. The floor was littered with cigarette ends and packages of food had been opened and sandwiches eaten. The mess was disgusting! Smoking and eating in the Lord’s house, Mr Pons! It was my firm opinion that the men were waiting until after dark, when the Cathedral would be locked, and intended to commit some mischief.”

“But were apparently disturbed and fearing detection made off?”

“Something like that, Mr Pons.”

My companion nodded slowly.

“It is one possibility,” he said. “There is more to come, I take it?”

“A good deal more,” said the Canon grimly. “There are priceless treasures within the Cathedral. The plate alone. ”

“We will take that for granted, Canon,” Solar Pons interjected. “Facts, if you please.”

“I am sorry, Mr Pons. My nerves have been ruffled, I must confess.”

Canon Stacey cracked his knuckles several times in succession in an irritating manner as though to prove the point and I noticed that his action seemed to be having the same effect upon Pons. Then Stacey took up the threads of his story once again.

“A few days later, Miggs again came to me in great agitation to say that one of the side-chapels was in considerable disorder. I went there immediately and I must say I was extremely shocked. Chairs had been thrown down, some of the carvings disfigured, all the altar ornaments had been removed and ornamental candlesticks unscrewed. I had never seen such a mess!”

The Canon’s anger and distress was patent but it appeared to me that Pons was having some difficulty in keeping a straight face as our host’s tale proceeded. But he sat upright in his chair, his face alert and intent, his eyes shining.

“What you have just told me is extremely interesting,” he said.

“Such hooliganism, Mr Pons!”

Solar Pons shook his head.

“I think not, Canon. These are the marks of something deeper than that.”

“What do you mean, Mr Pons?”

“I would prefer not to speculate at this stage, Canon. You say you did not call the police?”

Our host hesitated, drumming his fingers again.

“No, Mr Pons. There was a very good reason. Any publicity might have frightened these men off. I wanted, if possible, to catch them red-handed and we could not do that if newspaper reports of this sacrilege were to appear in the local press.”

“I see.”

“The next thing that happened, Mr Pons, was shocking and inexplicable. There has been a great deal of re-building and maintenance work going on at the Cathedral over the past three or four years. This has obviously necessitated parts of the building being closed and some inconvenience occasioned to both the staff of the Cathedral and the worshippers. Not to mention the general public who merely regard the building as a tourist attraction.”

The Canon poured himself another cup of tea and stared at Pons as though expecting him to agree that tourists were an unmitigated nuisance. Pons waited politely until the churchman had taken two or three sips, though it was obvious to me that he was intensely interested in the Canon’s story.

“I had gone down into the crypt. I think to verify an inscription on one of the tombs for a learned paper I am at present writing concerning the history of this noble edifice. It was late afternoon and there was no-one but myself there. I was up in a far corner, translating the Latin inscription, and could not have been visible to anyone coming into the crypt. I had been engaged so for some five or ten minutes when my attention was arrested by a slight noise. Work on the foundations in the crypt has necessitated the re-positioning of some of the tombs.”

“Naturally, being scholars and historians as well as churchmen, we have tried to do as little violence to the original scheme of things as possible, but the Cathedral architect had insisted that the tomb of Bishop Lascelles would have to be moved to one side to allow underpinning and draining of the foundations. The tomb itself is of no great historical value; the good Bishop died in 1812 and so far as I know there are no members of his family extant so we did not have to apply for permission.”

“The Bishop’s tomb is where in the crypt, Canon?”

“I can take you there, Mr Pons.”

“We have already been, Canon Stacey, though I should like you to refresh my memory.”

“It is the third memorial down, on the right-hand side as you get to the bottom of the crypt stairs, Pons,” I said. “I noticed it particularly, as it has somewhat hideous cherubs on the sarcophagus and wooden beams and scaffolding around it.”

“Correct, Dr Parker,” said Canon Stacey, beaming.

“Excellent, Parker,” said Pons drily. “You are constantly improving.”

“Well, gentlemen,” continued the Canon. “That is the place, right enough. You can imagine my horror when I heard a low groan and the creak of wood. As I started from my corner I was appalled to see that the temporary wooden cover on the tomb — we have removed the inner shell containing the remains of the Bishop pending his re-interment — was beginning to move upward. I could see that there was a lean, dirty arm and hand inside, pushing the lid up toward the ceiling. I am afraid that I gave a terrified cry, the lid collapsed with a loud crash and in the shock of the moment I beat an undignified retreat up the stairs.”

“I am not surprised, Canon,” said Solar Pons, conscious of the apologetic expression in the churchman’s eyes. “You did wisely.”

“Ah, then, you believe in the supernatural, Mr Pons?”

Solar Pons shook his head slowly, producing his pipe from his pocket. He lit it at Canon Stacey’s extended permission and puffed thoughtfully, sending fragrant blue plumes of smoke up toward the gracious plaster-work of the ceiling.

“On the contrary, Canon, I am inclined to believe the problem is more tangible than that.”

Puzzled, Canon Stacey turned to me as though for an explanation. After a moment he continued, albeit more hesitantly than before.

“I lost no time in summoning help, gentlemen. With Mr Miggs and several stalwart workmen I again descended to the crypt. We got that heavy temporary wooden lid off the tomb. Mr Pons, it was absolutely empty!”

5

Solar Pons had a thin smile on his lips.

“I should have been extremely surprised had you found anyone there.”

“Good heavens, Pons!” I exclaimed. “How could you possibly know that?”

Solar Pons’ smile widened a little.

“Intuition, Parker. Combined with certain theories which I have already formed.”

Canon Stacey smiled also.

“Ah, Mr Pons. I was correct in my supposition that you would soon get to the heart of this awful mystery.”

My companion held up his hand.

“Not so fast, Canon Stacey. I am far from doing that. And I have no wish to raise your hopes unduly. But what you have told me so far leads my thoughts in certain directions. Apart from that I would prefer to say no more at the moment.”

“Very well, Mr Pons,” said Canon Stacey, but there was evident disappointment on his face.

“I come now to the last of these mysteries. Yesterday evening, again near dusk, Miggs himself had a terrifying experience. Otherwise, I might have felt my own to be the result of some strange delusion or fancy. Perhaps you would like Mr Miggs in now?”

“By all means. It was by his own wish that he was excluded from this conversation.”

“Miggs has odd little ways,” said the Canon, with a wry smile.

He got up and went over to the study door, reappearing a few seconds later with the diminutive figure of the verger, who was looking apprehensive and carrying his cup and saucer in his right hand. He seated himself on the very edge of the chair the Canon produced for him and sat looking round him as though prepared for some inquisitorial ordeal. As he showed no inclination to speak Pons himself opened the conversation.

“Canon Stacey has told us something of the strange events in the Cathedral, Mr Miggs. I should now like to hear from your own lips of the experience you yourself had last evening.”

Miggs moistened his lips with his tea and shot an uneasy glance at the Canon.

“We are all friends here, Mr Miggs,” said the churchman with a kindly smile.

“Well, gentlemen,” Miggs began. “It was just about dusk last night. I was going around locking up and seeing that everything was secure. There were still visitors in the main body of the Cathedral but they were few and far between and it wanted but half-an-hour to the closing and locking of the main doors. There was a little job I wanted to do in the Montresor Chapel, which is half-way down the body of the church.”

Miggs cleared his throat apologetically and took another sip of the tea as though to sustain himself during his ordeal.

“I had my cleaning materials with me and it was my intention to burnish the brasses a little. There’s the most magnificent…”

“Yes, yes, Mr Miggs,” the Canon interrupted. “I’m sure Mr Pons doesn’t want to hear all that.”

“Just tell us what you did,” said Solar Pons quietly, his lean, feral face expressing the keenest interest.

“Well, sir,” said Miggs, turning toward him. “I had been working away for a few minutes, when I had a strange feeling that I wasn’t alone. There’s a quaint old altar piece up in one corner, with an ancient confessional box. It has a font with a carved gargoyle’s head posed above it, as though it used to be a fountain at one time. I saw something in the bowl of the font, which arrested my attention, Mr Pons.”

“And what was that?”

“Something that looked like a cotton-reel, Mr Pons. I bent forward to pick it up and as I did so I became aware of red eyes like an animal’s glaring at me from the gloom of the confessional box. At the same time the gargoyle bit me!”

Solar Pons leaned forward, his face grave as a carven statute.

“Bit you, Mr Miggs?”

“Yes, sir. Something sharp like a tooth in the mouth of the thing! It drew blood and I dropped the wooden reel and fled!”

“I can’t say I blame him, Pons,” I exclaimed. “That would be enough to frighten anybody.”

“Indeed, Parker.”

“Just let me have a look at your thumb, Mr Miggs.”

The indignant verger drew a grubby piece of plaster aside on his right thumb and allowed me to examine the wound. He winced as I fingered the skin around the puncture.

“It is deep, Pons. Something has either stabbed or bit him. Something with a very narrow entry point.”

“Thank you, Parker. This is exceedingly interesting. You have nothing further to tell us, Mr Miggs?”

The verger shook his head.

“Only that when I came back with Canon Stacey and some of the workmen there was no sign of anyone in the confessional box. And the wooden thing in the font had gone!”

Solar Pons rubbed his thin hands together. He rose to his feet.

“I think we have heard everything that is likely to be of use, Canon. I would now like to go over the ground.”

“By all means, Mr Pons. I will myself accompany you. Perhaps you would lead the way, Mr Miggs.”

Pons was silent as we walked across the Close to the great facade of the Cathedral with its massive carved stonework at the entrance doors. Once inside the dim interior with the glutinous notes of the organ sounding we were again in another world.

“This is the place, Mr Pons. The Montresor Chapel.”

Solar Pons’ clear-minted features expressed the greatest interest. He hurried forward through the wrought-iron entrance gate and stood for a moment, looking intently about him. The Canon, Miggs and myself remained outside for a moment while he made his preliminary examination. There were few people about here and the light coming in through the stained glass in the early evening of this beautiful June day cast segments of blue, red and gold across Pons’ alert face.

“This is the bowl of which I spoke, Mr Pons,” said the verger pointing out the altar piece in question. I followed behind him and the Canon and I watched while Pons produced his magnifying glass and went carefully over the stonework.

“Why, there, Mr Pons!” said Miggs pointing with a quivering forefinger. “There is a drop of my blood!”

“Indeed,” said Solar Pons abstractedly. “I had already observed it. But I am more interested in this gargoyle. Ah, that is singular, is it not, Parker?”

I followed Pons’ glance and saw that the mouth of the thing was hollow. Pons was within the darkness of the confessional box now and I could see his eyes gleaming in the shadow as he surveyed us.

“Significant also, Parker,” he said, his voice muffled from within the huge wooden structure. I squeezed in beside him and found that I could survey the chapel and a good deal of the Cathedral interior on this side without being seen myself. Pons was crouching down and I saw a beam of light illuminate his features.

“Just look at this, Parker.”

I put my eye down and found that there was a large hole, apparently at the back of the gargoyle’s head. The light from the cathedral interior was shining through the mouth.

“Good heavens, Pons, this is curious!” I exclaimed. “This must have been part of a fountain once.”

“I am inclined to believe you, my dear fellow. Undoubtedly the water supply passed through this channel. It is highly significant.”

We were interrupted at that moment by Canon Stacey, who was obviously keen to show us the spot connected with his own little adventure. In the shadow of the great pillar to which he led us Pons carried out a minute examination, and then glanced at the pews on which the two men were carrying out their mysterious conversation when observed by Stacey.

“There is little to be learned here, Parker,” he said briefly. “But then I did not expect there to be. I should like to see the crypt now, if you please, Mr Miggs.”

“Certainly, sir.”

The verger led the way at a fast trot, fussy and full of self-importance and I could see a wry smile creasing Pons’ features as I followed my friend down the steps. There was no-one else in the crypt so we were free to carry out our examination unhindered.

“Now exactly where were you standing when you saw this apparition?” Pons asked.

Canon Stacey gave a nervous glance over toward the scaffolding and sarcophagus in the corner.

“By this tomb here, Mr Pons.”

He led the way and Pons took up the position indicated by him.

“I see. That squares perfectly with what you have already told us.”

Pons stood for a moment, the fingers of his left hand pulling reflectively at the lobe of his left ear. Then he walked back down to the tomb of Bishop Lascelles. As the Canon had told us a heavy wooden lid temporarily covered the top, where the massive stone original had previous rested. This itself was on the paving at some distance, with a rope barrier around it.

“What was the exact purpose of this lid, Canon?” Pons asked.

“Why, Mr Pons, it was a question of time, you see. It was quite an undertaking getting the original off and then we had to remove the body. It could not be done in a day or anything like it, as our masons had to have scaffolding to lift the inner shell with the Bishop’s remains. So we had the wooden cover made to conceal the inner coffin while the work went on. There was so much to be done here, you understand, that we should have had to have closed off the crypt to the public for months otherwise.”

“I see.”

Pons bent down and picked up a long thin strip of material. I glanced at it and saw that it was a wood shaving. I saw Pons’ gaze resting on the various tools scattered about in this corner.

“And the lid was lifting by itself, you say? Or rather under the pressure of a hand and arm within the sarcophagus?”

Canon Stacey swallowed and turned a little pale. Looking round the dim crypt I had an idea of the shock the experience must have given him; even with the four of us here it was an atmospheric, evocative place “That is correct, Mr Pons. I shall never forget it.”

“I am not surprised. Let us just see what weight we have to deal with.”

Pons lifted one end of the lid.

“Oh, yes, it is not all that heavy.”

He casually levered it to one side so that we could all look within at the dry, ancient stonework of the interior.

“There was nothing there, as you see, Mr Pons.”

“Exactly, Canon.”

Solar Pons stood looking reflectively down into the tomb. I saw that holes had been drilled through for the heavy bolts of the lid and helped Pons to replace it in its original position. Solar Pons dusted his hands, his eyes bright as he glanced at me.

“I think I have seen enough, Canon. Thank you, Mr Miggs. It has been extremely enlightening.”

Canon Stacey had an eager expression on his face.

“You have learned something, Mr Pons?”

“I have learned a good deal. Whether I shall be able to draw any valid conclusions from my data remains to be seen. Come, Parker.”

And he led the way from the crypt.

6

“Now, my dear fellow, let us just have your invaluable thoughts on this matter.”

We were sitting at ease in the hotel dining room, having just concluded dinner, in that agreeable interval between the dessert and the entrance of the coffee and liqueurs. I fiddled with the fly-tying vice in my pocket, conscious that the original purpose of our holiday was fast becoming as the substance of a dream.

“You think this Herr Koch might have something to do with the extraordinary events in the Cathedral, Pons?”

“It is not beyond the bounds of possibility, Parker. You will have observed that Mr Miggs’ account of the article in the basin of that fountain was extraordinarily similar to the thing we ourselves picked up in the crypt this morning.”

“You think it was another message, Pons? In code?”

“It is extremely likely, Parker. Though the code itself is childishly simple.”

“I did not find it so, Pons.”

“That is because you are not bringing your mind to bear upon the subject, Parker.”

“Enlighten me, Pons.”

We were sitting in a secluded corner with no-one else near us and Pons waited until the waiter had brought the coffee and glasses of cognac before he produced a slip of paper from his pocket.

“I have the original safely upon me, Parker, but I do not wish to display it in a public place, for obvious reasons.” He thrust a folded sheet of paper toward me.

“I made an exact copy. You have it there. Let us just see what you make of it.”

I smoothed out the paper and looked at the roughly inked characters upon it. Some of the symbols were hard to make out.

“Done in a hurry, Pons. There are many mistakes.”

My companion shook his head.

“I think not, Parker. Slowly and laboriously indited by one of inferior education and extremely dull mind.”

I stared at Pons in astonishment, replacing my coffee cup in my saucer.

“How can you possibly say that, Pons?”

“For the simple reason, my dear fellow, that a number of the letters are crossed out. The man had only the elementary rudiments of his own alphabet.”

I stared at the groups of letters.

“I see the crossings out, but why slowly and laboriously? Just as easily hurriedly and carelessly, surely?”

Again Solar Pons shook his head.

“You will notice, Parker, that the worst-formed symbols, apart from those scratched out, are all upon the right-hand side. Surely that suggests an obvious explanation.”

I shrugged helplessly.

“Not to me, Pons, I am afraid.”

“That is only because you are not giving the matter sufficient attention. The message was obviously written within the Cathedral near dusk.”

“But why, Pons?”

“Because of the light, Parker. Whoever wrote this message, sat in the western aisle of the cathedral to catch the last of the light. The right-hand edge of the paper was in semi-darkness, which was why he had such difficulty. It was obvious the light had almost gone altogether.”

“But why would he wait until darkness, Pons? And why was he in the Cathedral at all at that time?”

Solar Pons chuckled.

“Ah, if we knew that, Parker, we would know a good deal. It is my guess that one of the men surprised by Canon Stacey wrote this.”

“I see, Pons! I must confess I am completely baffled. Why on earth would they be hanging about here? And I am still no nearer to deciphering the message.”

I looked at it again. All I read was: SNN CZMFDQNTR VD LTRS VZHS. Three letters were crossed out and made again and Pons’ careful copy emulated all the blurred and wavering lines of the letters I had already noted in the original. I put it down at last.

“I am afraid it is no use, Pons.”

My companion gave a thin smile and lifted his cognac glass to his lips. He replaced it on the table with an expression of satisfaction.

“Excellent, Parker. They have a first-rate cellar. You will find the answer on the unfolded portion of the paper beneath your hand there. The writer simply transposed the letters of the alphabet. One merely shifts the entire message to the right, as it were.”

I turned the paper over.

In Pons’ strong black capitals I now read: TOO DANGEROUS. WE MUST WAIT.

I looked at my companion in stupefaction.

“Brilliant, Pons. But what does it mean?”

“Elementary to the first, my dear Parker. And I do not know, to the second. But we progress.”

He rubbed his thin fingers together with satisfaction as I traced out the simple message from the apparently chaotic jumble of letters.

“You will notice, Parker, that as is common with such simple ciphers when he reaches A he merely goes back to the end of the alphabet and substitutes Z.”

“I see, Pons,” I said. “This is extremely important. Ought we not to tell Canon Stacey?”

Solar Pons shook his head.

“Not unless we wish to frighten our men off altogether, Parker. We must tread very carefully indeed.”

“If you say so, Pons. But I must say all this is a far cry from our peaceful holiday.”

My companion’s eyes were alert and shining.

“On the contrary, Parker, I am in fine form. I have all the benefits of a holiday together with the mental concentration on a criminal problem which so appeals to my peculiar nature.”

“You think Koch and the girl are involved?”

“I should be extremely surprised if they were not.”

“But what is all this business about two rough men, Pons, and coffin lids in the crypt rising?”

Solar Pons smiled enigmatically.

“The whole thing is linked, Parker,” he said in that maddeningly omniscient way of his. “They are merely using the Cathedral as a dead letter-box.”

“As a letter-box, Pons?”

I gazed at my friend in bewilderment. He leaned toward me across the table.

“So far as I know that is the means by which they communicate. As to the link which binds these disparate elements together, so far I have not been able to discover it. There is one simple, obvious fact staring me in the face but I cannot see it.”

“Ah, well, Pons,” said I, leaning back in my seat, “if you will forgive me I will leave these difficult problems of yours and immerse myself in the evening paper. I feel a little out of touch once I am away from town.”

“By all means, Parker,” said Solar Pons affably. “I will just put this ridiculous cipher away and enjoy an after-dinner pipe. Are you game for a stroll about the town before we turn in?”

“Certainly, Pons,” I said. “Providing you give me half an hour in which to digest my dinner.”

Solar Pons smiled, glancing round the half-empty dining room and tamping the bowl of his pipe. He was soon contentedly wreathed in aromatic blue smoke while I occupied myself with the day’s news.

“Hullo,” I said at last. “Here is an item concerning your old friend Superintendent Stanley Heathfield. And he is in the Norwich area!”

“Indeed?” said Solar Pons coolly, wrinkling up his brows at me through the pipe-smoke.

“It seems to be a desperate business, Pons. Two hardened criminals have escaped from prison in the Midlands and are believed to be hiding in Norfolk. Superintendent Heathfield was responsible for sending them to prison and has been sent up from the Yard to assist in the hunt, as he knows them both personally.”

“When was this escape, Parker?”

There was an urgency in Pons’ voice which had not been there before.

“About three weeks ago, Pons,” I said, checking the article.

“I think you had better let me have that, my dear fellow,” said my companion, stretching out his hand for the newspaper.

“Apparently they robbed a bank in Norwich itself of £20,000 two years ago, Pons. The money was never recovered. We seem to be the centre of excitement wherever we go.”

“Do we not, Parker,” said Solar Pons, his brows knotted over the newspaper account. “This is extremely interesting.”

He put the journal down arid sat frowning into the far distance. I knew better than to interrupt him. Presently he rose from the table.

“If you have finished, my dear fellow, we will take our walk. According to this account Heathfield is making The Bull his headquarters. I think we will pay him a little call.”

7

“Mr Pons!”

Superintendent Stanley Heathfield’s keen, military-looking face with its iron-grey moustache, was suffused in smiles as I followed Pons into the bar.

“I am as surprised as you, Superintendent,” said Pons drily. “You know Dr Parker, of course. I only read of your presence in the city in the newspaper this evening.”

“Ah, that.”

A shadow passed across the Superintendent’s face. He moved farther down the polished bar of The Bull to give us room.

“Will you not join me in a drink?”

“Delighted,” I said.

When Heathfield had given the order to the attractive girl behind the bar he looked at us quizzically.

“I am not quite clear what you are both doing in Norwich.”

“We are nominally on holiday,” I said somewhat bitterly, “but Pons has already found a problem with which to occupy himself.”

Superintendent Heathfield smiled a thin smile.

“Trouble seems to follow us both, Mr Pons. Health to you.”

He raised his glass in salute, looking critically at the milling people in the bar around us.

“Let us find somewhere more quiet, Mr Pons. I would be glad of your advice.”

Solar Pons had an ironic look in his eyes.

“Our co-operation may be mutually beneficial, Superintendent. I suggest we adjourn to the hotel lounge. It appeared to be almost empty as we passed through the entrance hall.”

“As you wish.”

The Superintendent’s tall figure led the way to the oak-beamed lounge. There were only a few elderly people dotted about in arm-chairs and the pleasant summer breeze came in through the open windows, bringing with it the scent of cut grass and roses.

“It takes a good deal to beat England at this time of year, Superintendent.”

“You are right, Mr Pons. But you did not come here to discuss gardening.”

My companion chuckled, easing his lean form into a deep leather chair in the secluded corner the Scotland Yard man had chosen.

“As always, your reasoning is accurate. You are looking for two escaped convicts. I am involved in a problem which concerns four people. I think our pooling of ideas may be mutually beneficial.”

Superintendent Heathfield twisted his grey moustache with sensitive fingers.

“You think the two things are connected?”

Pons nodded.

“Before I begin I would like to extract a promise from you.” Heathfield shifted in his chair and looked at my companion with serious eyes.

“That depends upon the promise.”

“I do not think it is one you will find hard to keep. It is just this. I do not wish to have the full panoply of the law involved in my own problem. My suggestion is that you alone should be concerned.”

The Superintendent raised his glass to his lips.

“The three of us in other words?”

“At this stage, yes. You know the persons, after all. I have only half the threads in my hand.”

Heathfield nodded, looking from my companion to me.

“What have I got to lose, Mr Pons? Naturally, I shall have to hear the whole story from your own lips. But I think I can give that promise in advance.”

Solar Pons smiled.

“Very well, Superintendent.”

He looked at me with an almost dreamy expression. He fumbled in his jacket pocket, producing the small wooden container we had picked up in the Cathedral crypt.

“Before we let our friend in on the little secret, Parker, I think we should just compose a suitable message in order to bring our quarry to the bait.”

“How do you mean, Pons?”

Solar Pons shook his head.

“I know that we are nominally on holiday, my dear fellow, but you have not been following my line of reasoning.”

I frowned.

“You mean the message in that little spool was intended to be picked up by somebody and went astray?”

“Of course, Parker!”

Solar Pons slapped his thigh with his right hand, making a cracking sound like a miniature pistol-shot.

“It is palpably plain. Unless I miss my guess the drama we have seen in part played out in the Cathedral and the Dean’s story are interconnected. It should not take too long to unravel the loose ends providing we take things in sequence and tread carefully.”

“What do you suggest, Pons?”

“After I have taken Superintendent Heathfield into our full confidence we must invent something that will bring events to a climax. We shall need the Dean’s co-operation as I shall require darkness for what I have in mind. We can only do this at night or they will be on to us, which means a door must be conveniently left open.”

Superintendent Heathfield had a frown on his face now.

“I hesitate to appear over-inquisitive, gentlemen, but I would be grateful for a little light myself in this matter.”

Solar Pons smiled disarmingly.

“By all means, Superintendent. If you would just order another round of drinks, Parker, I will put our friend in possession of the facts.”

8

“But why are we going to the Cathedral, Pons?” I said.

My companion frowned.

“I have a little errand to take care of, Parker.”

We were threading the crowded streets of Norwich in the late afternoon sunshine of the following day. Pons had been moody and taciturn following our conversation with Heathfield the previous night and had spent a good deal of time keeping Koch and his female companion under discreet observation. He had been busy in the writing room of the hotel earlier in the afternoon and when he joined me for tea had been a little more communicative.

We had walked by the riverside for a little while and now, as we made our way toward the towering pile of the Cathedral, he became almost expansive.

“Let us just put our thoughts in order, Parker. Give me the benefit of your observations on this little problem.”

I fingered the fly-tying device in my pocket thoughtfully.

“I am beginning to see some light, Pons. But the whole thing seems bizarre. The Canon’s fright in the crypt and the hand coming out of the tomb; the Head Verger’s thumb dripping blood; the two rough men; the couple we saw; the coded messages. Some of it makes sense viewed separately but frankly I find the whole thing a fantastic jumble.”

“That is because you are not looking at the complete pattern, Parker.”

Solar Pons blew out a lazy trail of blue smoke over his shoulder.

“But why the Cathedral, Pons. So public…”

My companion smiled.

“Exactly, my dear fellow. A great public building is the perfect place of concealment. Hidden amongst the crowd, as it were.”

He frowned up at the magnificent facade of the church as we advanced across the forecourt in the mellow light of early evening.

“A dead letter drop. It could not be more convenient.” “But what do you propose to do now, Pons?”

“Why, deliver my own message, of course, Parker.”

I looked at him in astonishment.

“For what purpose?”

“Why, to arrange a rendezvous for tonight. Only we will keep the appointment as well.”

I felt my irritation rising but bottled it back.

“As well as whom?”

“In addition to those expected, Parker. I think midnight would be ideal. It is traditionally the witching hour, is it not?”

“I give up, Pons,” I said, as we walked down the shadowy aisle, through bars of dusty sunlight that fell as if sub-aqueous through the stained glass windows.

“I trust that all will be made clear soon,” said my companion as he led the way cautiously forward, turning toward the dark recess that was the Montresor Chapel. The pompous form of Mr Miggs was hurrying toward us and at Pons’ suggestion he waited until the last visitor had left the chapel and then himself closed the wrought iron gates behind us and stood on guard until we had concluded our business.

Pons looked round carefully and then went casually forward into the area of the confessional box. He placed something into the ancient stone bowl and then rejoined me. A few seconds later Mr Miggs had noiselessly re-opened the gates and followed us down the aisle. Pons turned to the little man and put his hand to his lips.

“Absolute discretion, Mr Miggs. Do not go near the Montresor Chapel again this evening.”

Miggs looked puzzled and disappointed.

“I do not understand, Mr Pons.”

“No matter. It is for your own good. Now, if you would be so kind as to let him know, I should like a word with Canon Stacey.”

“I believe he is in his garden, Mr Pons. He keeps bees.” “That will do well enough. Kindly tell him that we shall attend him there within a few minutes.”

Mr Miggs bustled off and Solar Pons looked thoughtfully after him. I glanced around the massive stone columns.

“You are sure we have not been seen going into the chapel, Pons?”

“As sure as one can be of anything in this life, Parker.

“I asked Miggs to make certain we were not disturbed but he immediately drew attention to our visiting the chapel by closing the gates. An over-officious little man but one whose heart is in the right place. However, the men we seek are undoubtedly well off the tourist track and Koch and the girl are out on the river this afternoon. They have hired a motorboat from Norwich Yacht Station.”

I looked at my companion in surprise.

“How do you know that, Pons?”

My companion pulled thoughtfully at the lobe of his right ear.

“Because I have made it my business to know, Parker. I followed Koch when he left the hotel after lunch. He went straight over the bridge near the railway station and booked a powerful launch at the Yacht Station office there.”

“Indeed, Pons. For what purpose?”

“That remains to be seen, Parker. But it would be an unobtrusive way of getting those two men away from here. There are two hundred miles of Broads in which they could lose themselves.”

“I see you have given this a lot of thought, Pons.”

“Have you ever known a time when I have not, Parker?” “How do you know they have not left already?”

Solar Pons shook his head.

“Simple observation, Parker. Those two are still quarrelling and on edge. If they had achieved their objective they would have quietly left before now.”

“But why are they out on the Broads this afternoon, Pons?”

Solar Pons clicked his teeth in a deprecatory manner.

“Simply in order to learn the controls of the boat, Parker. Like most people who come for a Broadland holiday they have little knowledge of sailing or motor-boats. When I left this afternoon the man from the Yacht Station had detailed his assistant to teach them the controls. The last I saw of them they were heading down river toward Brundall. It is my guess they may make for Breydon Water before turning back so that has given us a few hours.”

He consulted his watch and said nothing further until we had gained Canon Stacey’s garden, where Mr Miggs was again waiting by a side-gate in the Close to conduct us to his superior.

As Miggs had indicated, the Canon was indeed among his bees and as Pons appeared to be as impervious to those insects as to those of a criminous nature I stood some way off among the apple trees and admired the beauties of the garden until my friend had finished. The two men had an amiable conversation for about two minutes, the churchman in his bonnet and veil while Pons stood, a lean and imperturbable figure, among a cloud of buzzing insects. Mr Miggs, a slightly comic sight, stood halfway between myself and the two men by the beehives.

When Pons re-joined me he was smiling and rubbed his thin fingers together in jaunty fashion.

“The Canon has given me the key of a small door leading on to the cloisters. I think that should be sufficient for our purposes.”

“What are our purposes, Pons?”

“To apprehend criminals, Parker. It is a pity that you did not bring your revolver, for these are desperate men.”

I frowned.

“I thought we were on holiday, Pons. I do not usually bring deadly weapons on such trips.”

“No, of course not,” said my companion soothingly. “Are you game for the midnight jaunt tonight?”

“Of course, Pons.”

Mr Miggs was deep in conversation with the Canon now so Pons and I came away, walking back slowly through the Close. I was about to make some commonplace remark when, to my surprise, Pons caught my arm in a powerful grip, almost making me cry out.

“They are back earlier than I thought, Parker.”

I followed his glance toward the broad concourse in front of the Cathedral and saw that the girl called Elise was walking purposefully across toward the great main door. We followed unobtrusively. The vast church was still half-full of people wandering about and we had no difficulty in keeping the girl in sight. From where we stood by a massive pillar we could easily see her slip through the wrought-iron gates into the Montresor Chapel.

She was absent for but a minute and when she came out it was obvious from her expression that she was excited and tense. She sat in a chair some distance in front of us, across the aisle, her head bowed as though in prayer. Pons’ voice was calm, his manner distant as he whispered.

“She has deciphered it, Parker. Unless I miss my guess she has taken the bait.”

We waited while the fair girl rummaged around in her handbag. Once again her head was bowed.

“She is composing her reply, Parker.”

Less than a minute later she was on her feet, making her way with confident strides up the aisle toward us. Pons and I slipped round the pillar, as though examining architectural features, but she obviously had no eyes for us. As we watched she descended the stairs to the crypt. I made as though to follow but once again Pons’ hand was on my arm.

“There is no point in following, Parker. Apart from the fact that there may be someone watching inside the church and we do not want to tip our hand. She is undoubtedly agreeing to the rendezvous proposed and will leave her message in a pre-arranged place below.”

He moved out from behind the pillar.

“I think we may as well get back to the hotel.”

“But are we not going to wait, Pons?”

My companion shook his head, a slight expression of irritation passing across his features.

“There is no point, Parker,” he repeated.

He was proven right a few minutes later when the girl passed us in the street as we walked slowly toward our hotel. Solar Pons looked at me enigmatically.

“Now all we have to do is to prime Heathfield and settle down to wait,” he said gently.

9

I shifted my cramped position behind the pew and once again mentally criticised the hardness of the floor. Pons was still and alert at my side. On the summer breeze the silvery notes of church bells — dozens of them from the myriad churches of Norwich — had just pealed for half-past eleven. I leaned toward my companion to whisper.

“It is a pity I did not bring my revolver, after all, Pons.” Faint light glinted on my companion’s eyeballs in the dusky interior of the great cathedral.

“This heavy walking stick will have to do, Parker. Though Heathfield and his men will not be far.”

“You think these desperadoes will come?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Koch and the girl also?”

“Koch, certainly. I am positive that she will remain with the boat.”

I glanced at my companion’s almost invisible form.

“But how would Koch get into the church?”

“He would not need to, normally. The exchanges take place in daylight. My guess tonight is that his two companions in crime will unbolt or break open a small, little-used side-door. Ah, what did I say!”

A faint creaking noise, seemingly far off, echoed and reverberated in an eerie manner through the vastness of the empty cathedral. There was a long silence and then the furtive sound of shuffling footsteps. Pons put his mouth up against my ear.

“One is coming up from the crypt. The other has already gone to open a door. We shall not have long to wait.”

No sooner had he spoken than there came the faintest pin-point of light, close to the floor and bobbing along the far aisle of the church. It passed away and as we turned to keep it in view, it was blocked from time to time by the vastness of the pillars which supported the roof of the cathedral.

Presently there came the noise of metal on wood and a loud creaking sounded throughout the building. There were low voices now and the distant sound of footsteps and then two more shadowy figures came hurrying along the aisle and passed in the direction of the first.

“Excellent, Parker,” Solar Pons breathed. “My theory was correct.”

“I do not understand you, Pons.”

“There has been some muddle over the place of concealment, Parker. It is just as I thought and accounts for the disorder discovered by Mr Miggs.”

I gave up at this point and concentrated on the faint reflections of light and the sounds coming from a side chapel farther along the aisle. We waited perhaps half an hour, until the noises had died away. Then three shadowy figures crept back. A distant door closed.

“Quickly, Parker!” said Solar Pons, all caution abandoned.

I hurried forward in the thick, glutinous darkness, hard put to it to keep up. He went straight to the area just vacated by the three men. Inside the railed-off chapel interior everything was in confusion. In the light coming through the stained glass window from the city outside I made out a gaping blackness in the oak altar-piece.

“It is as I suspected, Parker,” said Solar Pons. “We have not a moment to lose.”

In a few moments we had let ourselves out into the cloisters and a short while afterwards were hurrying at an undignified pace through the streets of Norwich. Presently Pons slackened his pace.

“There is no hurry now, Parker,” he said calmly. “Our men are just ahead, emerging from that side-street.”

The three shadows were visible ahead and I turned into a shop doorway with Pons. To my astonishment I saw, from the light of the street-lamps, that two of the men wore clerical surplices.

“Are you sure this is right, Pons?” I asked. “These men look like clergymen.”

Solar Pons chuckled softly.

“Do they not, Parker. The best disguise in their circumstances. They would find everything they want in the Cathedral.”

We followed at a discreet distance as the trio moved down Bishopsgate and into Riverside Road. I noticed that the third man seemed to be moving more slowly, weighed down with a suitcase. Now and again the cadences of their voices came to us on the summer breeze. They seemed to be arguing about something. As though he could read my thoughts Pons commented succinctly, “They have not yet realised that a third party was responsible for this midnight meeting. Let us hope they are aboard before the truth sinks in.”

We were nearing our destination now; there were only a few passers-by at this late hour but it was such a beautiful night that a number of people were abroad, strolling in the scented air; some walking dogs while others, obvious lovers, were making for the waterside where the River Yare passed by Norwich Thorpe Station.

Our trio made for that area too but without even pausing at the Yacht Station or glancing at the lighted windows of the small hotels and guest houses on the other side of the road, continued along the tow-path in the Yarmouth direction. The faint beat of a motor-launch came to us down wind.

“Should they be moving at this time of night, Pons?” I asked.

My companion shook his head.

“My guess is, no. All Broadland craft are obliged to tie up at dusk. It is forbidden to move at night without proper navigation lights and hired holiday craft do not have them.”

He frowned.

“As their launch is the only craft moving it should not be too difficult to pick them up again. I think we will take to the road, Parker. According to the maps I have studied there should be another bridge a little farther down.”

I hurried after him up the steps at the side of the tow-path and we walked along a well-lit, metalled road.

“Lack of navigation lights will make it difficult for us to pick them up, Pons,” I said.

“True, Parker,” my companion agreed. “But you forget that no part of the Broads is more than an hour away by car. There is ample time to cut them off when we give Heathfield the word to move. We want all four, on board, and with the money.”

I glanced at my companion’s tense, aquiline face.

“You think they are making for Great Yarmouth, then?”

“Undoubtedly that direction, Parker. The police are watching the roads about Norwich and the launch is their only way out. I have no doubt they intend to transfer to a motor vehicle when they reach some pre-arranged lonely spot. Now we must be sparing of talk as we have some stiff walking ahead of us.”

He said nothing more as we walked briskly along the road, following the course of the broad, sluggish river; we could hear the launch clearly but as we had left the tow-path which the three men had taken, they were no longer in view. The noise of the launch was clearer now, the slow beat of its motor echoing back from the banks.

Then it increased and as the throttle opened it settled into the familiar rhythm of a motor vessel under way. Pons glanced at his watch as we passed under a street-lamp. His face expressed satisfaction.

“All four safely aboard, Parker,” he said. “I think we might make our move now, before they get too far down-river.”

“You are showing remarkable knowledge of the locality, Pons,” I commented.

My companion chuckled.

“I have not wasted my time and this afternoon I studied a large-scale map of the area. Unless I am much mistaken, there is a bridge about a mile ahead which will do very nicely.”

I tucked my arms into my sides for the lean, athletic figure had increased its pace and I am afraid I was a little blown before we had reached our destination. The river twisted here, for the sound of the launch was fainter, though we had evidently gained upon it, for I could see the faint cabin lights between the trees down below. The road, of course, ran straight, taking no account of the river, which veered away at this point and in remarkably quick time we had come to a broad road-bridge across, guarded by a low parapet topped by iron railings.

Pons had reached it first and stood awaiting me impatiently, his eyes dancing with excitement. He still carried the heavy stick and his keen eyes were fixed on the bend of the river behind us.

“I think this will do nicely, Parker. The bridge is low and sloping so that they will have to keep in the centre of the stream. The cabin top should not be more than four feet below the arch at this point.”

“Good heavens, Pons,” I mumbled. “You surely do not intend to drop on to the vessel?”

“That is exactly my intention, Parker. But if you do not feel up to it, I shall quite understand. In which case I should be grateful if you would remain as an observer and sound this police whistle once I am aboard.”

He slipped the chain of the whistle about my neck as he spoke but I shook my head.

“I would not dream of remaining, Pons. Where you go I shall follow.”

Solar Pons smiled thinly.

“Excellent, Parker. I knew I could rely on you. We must drop quite accurately and make sure we do not get in each other’s way. Timing is all important and you must drop three seconds after me. I shall land in the bow and you on the cabin-top that way.”

“You seem to have worked it out in a good deal of detail, Pons,” I said, looking back at the small circular blobs of light from the launch portholes which were now coming broadside on to us at the far bend.

“It is hastily improvised, Parker, but I fancy it will do,” he said casually.

We were quite alone on the bridge and the nearest street light was at the far end, so that we were in shadow here. Pons went over to the other side of the bridge and stepped on to the low wall. He seized the iron railing and eased over. He disappeared and a few moments later I heard his voice echoing upwards above the beat of the launch engine.

“It will not be difficult, Parker. There is a brick groyne here which gives excellent footing and one can hold on to the iron bolts of the railings.”

I looked down over the coping and saw that he had spoken the truth; he held the stick under his left arm and balanced himself easily on the brickwork holding on to a long, protruding iron bolt with his right hand.

“It is just a question of timing. Pray go to the far parapet and run back to me as soon as the bow of the craft reaches the bridge. Then we have only to wait until the Moorhen appears beneath us. I estimate she is travelling at only some five knots.”

I did as Pons ordered, running swiftly to the far parapet. The dim shape of the launch was already a hundred yards away, the chug of its engine sounding exceptionally loud in the still summer air. As Pons had said she carried no navigation lights but someone had made an attempt to duplicate the green port and red starboard markings by affixing electric torches to the cabin top on either side and fastening coloured mica strips across them.

There was no-one visible aboard but there was a dim light from the steering well and I crouched down, carefully calculating the vessel’s progress as she cleaved the dark brown water, briefly turned to silver in the moonlight.

“She is beneath the arch now, Pons!”

I ran swiftly back, my heart thumping and scrambled down next to Pons. He smiled at me encouragingly.

“Three seconds, Parker. No more or you will overshoot.”

“I understand, Pons.”

The words were no sooner out of my mouth than the bow of the vessel appeared from beneath the bridge, directly underneath us. Pons was already gone, dropping cat-like on to the bow. I finished my counting and was in the air; the cabin-top looked as small as a postage stamp but I landed safely, slithering sideways for one sickening moment, before I managed to steady myself by catching hold of a wire cable which helped to support the short mast of the launch.

The bang I made on the cabin top roused cries of alarm from the interior and I was reassured to see Pons appear beside me; he looked alert and formidable as he brandished the heavy walking-stick.

“I hope this is the right launch, Pons,” I said, “or we shall have a suit for assault on our hands.”

Pons laughed, his keen feral face clear-minted in the moonlight.

“You never cease to entertain me, my dear fellow. Ah, here they come.”

He lashed out as a burly figure flailed its way from the cabin. There was a howl of pain as the heavy cane descended and the big man in the tarpaulin coat backed away. Two men appeared to have collided in the cabin doorway and I leaned over and got in a smart blow at the neck of one of them. A search-light suddenly stabbed out across the water in front of us and the chugging of another launch was heard.

“Ah, that will be Heathfield,” said Pons calmly, jumping down into the well of the vessel. “Just sound that whistle, if you please.”

I had no sooner given three sharp blasts of the police whistle than the three swearing men were on us. I saw Pons close with one and heard a hoarse shout; a heavy body fell with a resounding splash and was soon left astern. A villainous-looking fellow with a shaven head had his hands at my windpipe but I managed to break his hold and he fell back into the cabin interior where a fair-haired girl was steering the launch and looking anxiously back over her shoulder.

The third man, who could only be Koch had closed with Pons, and was reaching for his pocket. I heard him grunt as my companion caught him a well-timed blow on the face and then he was asprawl on the deck, the revolver falling from his pocket. Pons was on it in a flash and steadied the barrel on the big man who came in a rush through the door.

“The game is up,” he said sternly. Just place your hands on the cabin top.”

The big man sullenly obeyed and I went to help Koch up. The other launch was approaching rapidly now, the yellow beam of the searchlight playing on our vessel. Heathfield’s voice, clipped and confident, came across the water to us.

“Is all well, Mr Pons?”

“All well, Superintendent. We have our men. You will find one in the river yonder. Fortunately, it is a nice night for a swim.”

He chuckled as he glanced at the bearded features of Koch. “You may tell the lady to switch off the engine now. You have no further cards to play.”

The sound of the motor died away and the Moorhen began to drift as the bows of the other launch bumped against the rubbing strake of ours. Heathfield jumped aboard, followed by two uniformed constables. The searchlight beam had picked out the agitation in the water where the third man was trying to swim ashore. He was still some yards from the bank when a constable on a bicycle stopped on the tow-path and waited for him to scramble out. Heathfield rubbed his hands together.

“Excellent, Mr Pons! I am again in your debt. You have handled this in a masterly fashion.”

Solar Pons smiled thinly.

“You are too kind, Superintendent. It was a fairly simple matter once I read about your two convicts.”

Heathfield looked sharply at the bearded man who stood opening and closing his fists impotently at the cabin-door and then turned to the big man.

“Well, Blakeney, I am sorry it has come to this. Greed has been your undoing throughout life. You have lost your remission and the money to boot.”

The big man with the close-cropped head spat angrily into the water and mumbled something unintelligible. There was the flash of handcuffs as two constables closed in on him. The man we had known as Karl Koch stood straight and pale in front of us; there was something noble, almost tragic about him, as he glanced at the slim woman called Elise, who had joined him from the wheelhouse. She carried a heavy black suitcase and Heathfield moved immediately to take it from her.

The girl’s face was white and strained.

“Fool!” she told her companion. “This has been bungled from the beginning.”

Pons had lit his pipe and now he blew a stream of aromatic blue smoke thoughtfully into the warm summer night.

“Do not blame your husband too much, Mrs Kramer. The scheme was a good one but you relied upon poor tools.”

The slim woman turned like a snake. Her eyes were burning savagely as she stared at Pons.

“You know us, then?”

Pons inclined his head.

“Who does not know Karl and Elise Kramer of Zurich in international criminal circles?”

Heathfield turned to my companion, consternation on his face.

“I do not understand, Mr Pons.”

“It came to me rather late, Superintendent,” said Pons. “I thought the man’s face was somehow familiar but I could not at first place it. However, I put through a call to the Sureté yesterday from my hotel and soon had the identification. Mr and Mrs Kramer, alias Koch, are now based in Switzerland.

They are wanted in Dusseldorf as well as in this country so it is rather a question of where the trial will take place as I fancy the Germans will ask for their extradition.”

“But what is all this about, Pons?” I burst in.

My companion looked dreamily along the searchlight beam to where the third man was being handcuffed by the constable on the bank.

“I think we have had enough excitement for one night, Parker, and it is now almost two A.M. More detailed explanations must wait until the morning.”

“I agree, Mr Pons,” said Heathfield. “In any event, so far as I am concerned, it will take most of the night to charge this precious band and to take their statements.”

He raised his hand in a signal to the constable who had taken over the controls of the Moorhen. The two launches slowly began to get under way, turning to head up river and back toward Norwich Yacht Station.

10

“It was a remarkable performance, Mr Pons!”

Solar Pons smilingly disclaimed Superintendent Heathfield’s statement, the smoke from his pipe ascending in fragrant spirals toward the ceiling of our hotel. We were a small group gathered in a quiet corner of the coffee lounge the following evening and the fragrant perfume of roses came in through the open windows.

“The only thing remarkable about it was the coincidence. There was little of the ratiocinative process involved and, of course, as soon as I knew of the escaped convicts’ presence in the city the motivation of the strange events in the Cathedral became clear to me.”

“That is all very well, Mr Pons,” said Canon Stacey, “but I am inclined to agree with Mr Heathfield. I must confess that I am still in the dark over most of these matters.”

“You are not the only one,” I said somewhat caustically and Pons turned to me a mocking visage in which one eyebrow was visibly raised.

“Come now, my dear fellow.”

He glanced round the small company composed of myself, the Superintendent, the Canon and Mr Miggs who perched somewhat uneasily on a bar-stool in the far corner as though he were excluded both socially and physically from the gathering.

“As soon as I heard Canon Stacey’s story it became obvious that the bizarre events he mentioned were interconnected. Let us just recall them, my dear Parker.”

“Well, Pons,” I said. “As I remember, Canon Stacey first heard evil whispering from two rough men who were lying on the seats of one of the pews in the dusk, eating a meal. The Canon heard them speak of ‘robbery’ and ‘killing’.”

“Excellent, Parker,” said Solar Pons, his eyes fixed unwinkingly on me. “My training has not been entirely wasted.”

I confess I felt a flush rise to my cheek at the compliment as I went on.

“Then, sometime later, one of the side-chapels had been desecrated; altar ornaments removed and ornamental candlesticks unscrewed.”

Pons nodded, his eyes half-closed now.

“That was extremely significant and you may remember I commended it to you, Parker.”

“So you did, Pons. That brought us to the horrifying experience of the Canon, when he saw the lid on the tomb rising in the crypt. Not to mention Mr Miggs’ own experience when he went to pick up that cylinder out of the font and was bitten by the gargoyle!”

My companion smiled thinly.

“A fairly accurate and concise, if colourful résumé. I gave a good deal of thought to the matter and had no difficulty in assigning a fairly logical explanation, particularly in view of our own first-hand knowledge of Karl and Elise Kramer whom we saw behaving strangely in the crypt on the first day of our arrival in Norwich. They had apparently dropped or mislaid a coded message in the little wooden cylinder identical to the one Mr Miggs attempted to pick up from the bowl of the font. The code was an elementary one and yielded the message: TOO DANGEROUS. WE MUST WAIT. The longer I thought about the matter the more I became convinced that the two men seen by the Canon and our couple were connected.”

I stared at Pons reflectively.

“That the two men and our couple were connected, Pons?”

“Of course. It was, on the surface of things, unlikely, but there are many unlikely things in life which nevertheless come to pass. Without knowledge of the robbery, of course, I did not immediately see the cause, neither did I know the two were escaped convicts but some points of interest immediately suggested themselves. Let us just take them one at a time. I pointed out to you, Parker, that a great cathedral was just the place for people to submerge themselves.”

Solar Pons puffed out a cloud of smoke and watched its slow ascent toward the ceiling of the lounge.

“The fact that the men were seen at dusk; that they were eating food; and that they were apparently discussing a robbery immediately suggested that they were hiding — or even living — in the Cathedral.”

Canon Stacey gave a muffled exclamation.

“You don’t mean to say so, Mr Pons?”

Solar Pons nodded slowly.

“I was never more serious, Canon Stacey. There are dozens of places in such an edifice in which desperate and determined men might hide. During the day they had only to sit in the pews or wander about the building and no-one would give them a second glance. It immediately occurred to me that they might be somehow linked with Kramer and the girl. The couple staying at the hotel could easily leave them parcels of food at pre-arranged places within the Cathedral and they had only to pick up surplices from pegs in order to vary their appearance from time to time.”

Superintendent Heathfield nodded.

“It was quite a brilliant scheme, Mr Pons. If I may start at the beginning, Blakeney and Hobbs, to give these two escaped convicts their proper names, were recruited by the Kramers to commit the robbery at the Norwich bank three years ago. They hid the money in the Cathedral, as had been pre-arranged, but were arrested and rather than let the Kramers benefit by the proceeds refused to tell their accomplices its whereabouts. They preferred to serve out their sentences or escape. They eventually chose the latter course and we knew they would make for Norwich for the proceeds of the robbery had never been found.”

Solar Pons nodded.

“As you have already learned from the Sureté, Superintendent, the Kramers crossed over from Zurich when they read of the escape in the newspapers and booked into the same hotel to which Parker and I came. I have no doubt the scheme was an alternative one which had been decided a long time ago and the coded messages and their method of passing them was a part of it.”

Heathfield drew up the corners of his mouth.

“Hobbs has already confessed as much, Mr Pons. Blakeney will be a tougher nut to crack, though the thing is academic now that we have recovered the money and have all four under lock and key.”

Solar Pons resumed, his keen hawk-like face glancing at each of us in turn as he continued.

“I decided then that the two men were staying in the Cathedral for some purposes of their own and the combined stories told by Mr Miggs and Canon Stacey strengthened my premise at every step.”

“But the desecration of the side chapel, Pons?”

My companion’s eyes gleamed.

“Elementary, my dear Parker. These men, as we have ourselves observed, though hard and determined, are of limited intellect. They were no doubt recruited by the Kramers for just these qualities. They performed the hard, dangerous work of the actual robbery. When it was over they hid in the Cathedral, waited until it was closed for the night and concealed the stolen money beneath the altar in one of the side-chapels. We have already heard from the Canon here that renovation work has been going on in the Cathedral for some years. It is my theory that they used tools lying about to remove panelling to conceal their loot. During the course of their operations they unscrewed some of the ornamental candlesticks on the altar, initially, I venture to suggest, with the idea of rolling up some of the notes and concealing them within the shafts. But even their limited intellects realised this was impracticable, given the sums of money involved, and they abandoned this procedure.”

I had been staring at Pons as he proceeded and now I broke in.

“During the time they had been in prison, they forgot in which chapel they had concealed the money!”

“Exactly, Parker. The disorder in which Mr Miggs found the place proved it was so. Moreover, he had disturbed them at their work. They had unscrewed the candlesticks, hoping to identify the chapel, but I have already ascertained that nearly all of such fixtures in the Cathedral come apart in like manner.”

“For cleaning purposes, Mr Pons,” Mr Miggs put in.

My companion nodded.

“Perhaps you could add to that, Canon Stacey?”

The churchman stirred in his chair, admiration on his features.

“It is amazing, Mr Pons. Unless these men had looked at the brass plates over the chapel entrances, they would have had difficulty in identification for work was going on there three years ago and now the scaffolding and beams have been moved farther down.”

“Exactly,” said Solar Pons. “Now we come to the incident of Mr Miggs’ thumb. It is self-evident that the two groups had a pre-arranged code and that when the time came to recover the money they would have pre-selected places to exchange their messages.”

The Superintendent smiled thinly.

“That is so, Mr Pons. Hobbs has confirmed this.”

Solar Pons took the stem of the pipe from his mouth.

“I submit that one picking-up point was in the crypt. I noted a stone statue at the far end. The right hand was raised and the carving of the hand, palm upwards, was sufficiently high up to conceal anything placed in the palm. I further submit that Kramer and his wife were in the crypt to pick up a message but that it had either somehow fallen from the hand of the statue or had been removed by a visitor who had let it drop to the floor. They had obviously overlooked it and it was not until I recovered it, that we were brought into the matter. The couple hiding in the church picked up Kramer’s messages from the font in the Montresor Chapel. But again, Mr Miggs application to his work threw them off. He came along to clean the brasses and noted the little cylinder in the font. Hobbs or Blakeney had hidden in the darkness of the confessional box. When Miggs bent over to pick up the message from the font the man in the box stabbed his finger with a thin-bladed knife, striking down through the open mouth of the stone gargoyle. This obvious explanation immediately suggested itself and I had only to look at the chapel and its physical properties to see what had occurred.”

“Good heavens, Mr Pons!” said Mr Miggs, his mouth half-open. “This is miraculous…”

Solar Pons smiled.

“Despite the highly religious atmosphere, Mr Miggs there is nothing heavenly or of the miraculous about it. It is extremely down to earth.”

“That is all very well, Pons,” I said, “and you have explained it most convincingly. But what about the apparition in the vault?”

Solar Pons shook his head.

“There was no apparition, Parker. Hobbs and Blakeney were merely making use of the existing conditions. One or both of them slept within the tomb at night, where they would be undisturbed. I had only to look at that wooden cover to see that they had used the tools lying about the crypt to drill air holes in the lid. I noticed also, that the clamps securing the cover had been removed so that they could not be inadvertently locked in by workmen arriving unexpectedly.”

“Remarkable, Mr Pons,” Canon Stacey murmured. “But I still cannot understand what they meant by talking about a killing.”

Superintendent Heathfield shook his head.

“I have gone into that, Canon. Hobbs tells me they were discussing the robbery in the cathedral that night. Blakeney, his companion, a desperate and hardened criminal, was merely stating that he would kill Kramer if he betrayed them.”

“But what did you put in your coded note, Pons, to bring things to a climax last night?”

Solar Pons turned to me, a faint smile on his face.

“The message purported to come from Kramer. It merely said that they would have to move at midnight if they were to get them away. Fortunately, the two convicts were able to discover the whereabouts of the money by that time and they were too busy arguing among themselves over the division of the spoils to realise that a third party had intervened in their affairs.”

He looked around the little circle, his eyes dancing with strange lights.

“A case not without its interesting points, Parker.”

He chuckled.

“Perhaps you will still be able to find time for that fly-tying device which has lain so long unused in your pocket.”

He turned back to the assembled company.

“And now, gentlemen, if you will give me your glasses, it is my round I think.”