The Exploits of Solar Pons

1

It was a day of heavy hoar frost in early January, the sky bleak and louring and I had just come in to our cosy chambers at 7B Praed Street as dusk fell, having finished a hard afternoon’s rounds. Our admirable landlady Mrs Johnson had a roaring fire going in the hearth and I slumped down in front of it without removing my coat, conscious only of the circulation slowly being restored to my frozen hands.

It was near the hour of tea and I lay back in pleasant anticipation of the hot crumpets and other delicacies which would shortly be ascending to our quarters, borne by our gracious hostess. I was lost in these admirable day-dreams when I became aware of a strange thumping sound which had started up from one side of the room. It seemed to emanate from my friend Solar Pons’ bedroom and as it continued the floor began to creak and the volume of noise reached alarming proportions.

I walked over and tapped on the door but on receiving no reply, threw it open. I was astonished to see my friend leaning over a recumbent figure on the bed, belabouring it savagely with a walking cane. He turned a smiling countenance to my astonished features.

“Good afternoon, my dear Parker! It must be rather cold and inclement without.”

“But warm enough in here, Pons,” I said, glancing at his shirt-sleeved form. “Particularly with such violent exercise.”

He chuckled and I followed his gaze down to the bed. I now saw that what he had been maltreating so violently was nothing more than a bolster from his bed, round which his old smoking jacket had been wrapped. He detached the jacket from the pillow and threw the cane down with a grunt.

“It was a foregone conclusion,” he said, examining the marks on the material carefully. “Undoubtedly the jacket had been replaced after the man was beaten to death. This final verification will put the last nail in the coffin of Mr Ebeneezer Grunwin, I fancy.”

“I wish I knew what you were talking about, Pons,” I said, unable to keep the irritation from rising in my voice. Solar Pons looked at me quickly, resuming his maltreated jacket, his lean, feral features alive with suppressed energy.

“Pray do not disturb yourself about it, Parker. Merely a little problem in which our old friend Inspector Jamison has sought my advice. The East End is well rid of another scoundrel.”

He led me back into the sitting room, rubbing his thin hands together before crossing to his favourite chair by the fire.

“I see you have had a busy afternoon, Parker.”

“Indeed, Pons.”

“A long walk too.”

“That is correct.”

“As far as Aldgate I notice.”

I stared at Pons in astonishment.

“How could you possibly know that, Pons?”

“Because the road is up there, Parker, and the whole area in a devilish mess. They are using tar and a peculiar mixture of a distinctive reddish sand in their preparation of the road surface. When I see such an amalgam on your own toe-caps it is fairly safe to assume you had been Aldgate way for I know of no other public works currently taking place in the capital using this somewhat original mixture.”

“You are right, as always, Pons,” I said grudgingly, taking off my overcoat and sitting down opposite him. Before he could reply there was the sedate and welcome tread of Mrs Johnson on the stairs. She popped her bright, well-scrubbed face round the door-panel with a cheerful smile.

“I thought I heard you come in, Dr Parker, and felt you would not be averse to high-tea on such a cold day.”

“You are certainly correct, Mrs Johnson,” I observed, pulling up to the table.

“We have both taken a good deal of exercise this afternoon.”

Solar Pons chuckled throatily.

“You are developing a pretty wit, Parker. But you are not so far wide of the truth. I have been down river and deucedly cold it was. I only came in myself an hour ago.”

He looked sharply at our landlady as she bustled about the table.

“Is there any sign of the visitor I expected, Mrs Johnson?” A shadow passed across our landlady’s face.

“I am sorry, Mr Pons. I quite forgot to tell you. He called in the early afternoon and was disappointed to find you from home. I suggested he might come again at seven o’clock and he said that would be quite convenient.”

“Excellent, Mrs Johnson. I shall be in all evening and would be grateful if you would show him up as soon as he arrives.” “If you wish I can withdraw after tea, Pons,” I offered. My companion shook his head.

“It will not be necessary, Parker. Mr Michael Balfour has an interesting problem, it appears, and I should be glad of your advice and support.”

“You are surely joking, Pons,” I said, my mouth half full of hot, buttered toast, as Mrs Johnson left the room.

Solar Pons shook his head, pouring tea from the old stoneware pot.

“You under-estimate your gifts, my dear fellow. I derive a good deal of benefit from your homely summings-up of the little problems that come my way from time to time.”

“I know my limitations, Pons,” I added, reaching out for my cup. “Who is this Mr Balfour?”

“He wrote me yesterday from Bredewell House which, assuming my gazetteer is accurate, is in a somewhat remote spot in Essex. He is bothered by a phantom face, it appears.”

He chuckled drily at my expression.

“Those were the exact words he used in his letter, Parker.” “Good heavens, Pons,” I spluttered. “I did not know you had taken up investigating psychic phenomena.”

“And neither have I, Parker,” Solar Pons said crisply. “I fancy there is something a little more down to earth behind it.” “What makes you say that, Pons?”

“Because phantom faces do not kill, Parker, and this thing has killed, apparently.”

“You do not mean to say so, Pons!”

“I was never more serious, Parker.”

My companion put down his cup and looked at me closely, his deep-set eyes glinting with strange lights.

“An apparition so horrific, Parker, that a country gentleman collapsed and died upon seeing it. At least, if we are to believe the stories in the current newspapers.”

“I have not seen them, Pons.”

“That is because your mind is not attuned to the bizarre as is mine, my dear fellow. Kindly pass me that Times from the table yonder.”

I reached out my hand to a pile of newspapers on the far corner of the table not occupied by the cloth.

“There, at the head of page five. You might perhaps refresh my memory in the matter.”

Solar Pons sat with his thin fingers tented before him as I read out the brief and strange account he had just drawn to my notice.

It was headed: STORY OF PHANTOM IN ESSEX VILLAGE and the sub-heading, in the conservative type favoured by The Times, ran: Death of Mr Charles Boldigrew Follows Ghostly Appearance.

The article ran: The Essex village of Tidewater has been terrorised by what local police describe as “a phantom face”, a series of appearances of this apparition culminating in the death of a respected local landowner Mr Charles Boldigrew of nearby Bredewell House.

Mr Boldigrew was discovered by his nephew, Mr Michael Balfour, lying near the library window on the ground floor of the mansion on Tuesday evening. Mr Boldigrew was semi-conscious and appeared to be terrified. He told his nephew that he had seen “the face” and died a few minutes later.

According to locals, the weird and sinister apparition has appeared over the past two months in the village and has been seen by at least three people. Inspector Horace Cunliffe of the Essex Police told our correspondent today that robbery did not appear to be the motive, though he discounted the “phantom” theory as the gossip of credulous villagers.

I turned the page, somewhat disappointed, but there was nothing else.

“It is a somewhat bald statement, Pons,” I said, turning to my companion and resuming by interrupted tea.

“Is it not, Parker. Yet it suggests some possibilities.”

“In what way, Pons?”

Solar Pons reached out for the appetising cuts of ham Mrs Johnson had left for us, and deftly transferred two slices to his plate.

“Inspector Cunliffe is either an astute officer who does not wish to display his hand untimely or remarkably obtuse.”

“I do not follow you, Pons.”

“Tut, Parker, it is elementary. The Times does not go in for innuendo and distortion. When their local correspondent avers that this apparition has been seen, not only by one person but by three, then we may take it that he has found his three witnesses in Tidewater.”

“I see, Pons.”

“Furthermore, my dear fellow, Boldigrew himself, according to his nephew, had seen this horrifying face just before he died. Indeed, the nephew says in his letter that he is convinced that his uncle had see something horrible and had died of the resulting shock.”

“Perhaps the Inspector does not wish for too much publicity, Pons.”

“Perhaps, Parker,” said my companion, biting into the ham with evident relish. “This is really excellent; pray try some.”

“I have not yet finished the crumpets, Pons.”

Solar Pons smiled thinly, his mind still evidently on the terrorised village.

“I must confess this case has a number of aspects which appeal to me strongly. Not merely this strange death but the bizarre atmosphere surrounding it. And if Cunliffe hopes to avoid publicity he is hopelessly off the mark for the cheaper tabloids have made a good deal of it.”

“They did not say of what Mr Boldigrew died, Pons,” I grumbled.

Solar Pons’ eyes were gleaming.

“Ah, you are constantly improving, my dear fellow. I was wondering when you would come to that. The Times would have got the police surgeon’s findings had they been available. There is nothing in any of the other papers either.”

I frowned across at my companion.

“That presents two possibilities, Pons. Either the police surgeon has not been able to come to any decision, which would be extremely odd. Or he has come to a conclusion but the Inspector is withholding his findings from the press.”

My companion had strange lights dancing in his eyes now.

“Ah, there you have hit upon it. Either supposition leads to only one conclusion.”

He leaned forward to look me full in the face.

“You surely do not suspect…”

“Murder, my dear fellow,” Solar Pons interrupted calmly. And he picked up his tea-cup with great satisfaction on his features.

2

“Mr Michael Balfour, Mr Pons!”

Mrs Johnson smilingly ushered in our visitor and withdrew. Balfour was a frank-looking, open-faced young fellow of about twenty-eight, smartly but sensibly dressed in a checked overcoat which he took off at my companion’s invitation to reveal a belted Norfolk jacket, worn over thick tweed trousers. His fresh features were reddened and roughened with the wind and his thick black curly hair much blown about and tousled, for he was hatless.

He sat down appreciatively at our invitation and held out strong, well-kept hands toward the fire. It was just turned seven and Balfour’s face brightened when Pons suggested some refreshment.

“Some coffee would not come amiss, Mr Pons, if it is not too much trouble. It is an exceedingly cold night and I must say I have neglected my meals today with the worry over this business.”

Our visitor declined any food and when I had again ascended to our quarters after making our wants known to our amiable landlady, Pons had removed a bottle of fine old cognac from the sideboard and had placed three crystal liqueur glasses on the crystal tray he had already put in position.

“I find coffee and cognac give an agreeable lining to the stomach on such cold evenings, do they not, Parker?”

“Certainly, Pons,” I agreed, seating myself in my armchair across from our visitor, who occupied a chair by the table.

“Mr Balfour has already asked me to return to Tidewater this evening and I have agreed. He has a car at the door. I do not know how you are placed, Parker, but I would be glad of your presence.”

“I had better telephone my locum, then,” I said, glancing over at the clock. “Fortunately, there is nothing urgent in the practice and I daresay he will be able to manage for a day or two.”

“Excellent!”

Solar Pons rubbed his thin hands together and smiled at our visitor.

“I told you we could rely on Dr Parker, Mr Balfour. I am sure we shall soon see light in these dark matters which have been burdening you.”

“It is most good of you both,” stammered young Balfour, “especially as I have not yet gone into the details of the business which brings me here. It is certainly dark enough and horrible enough.”

“My curiosity had been aroused by the newspaper stories,” said Solar Pons swiftly. “I had already made up my mind on receipt of your letter.”

“Then I am fortunate indeed,” said Michael Balfour, turning candid blue eyes on us both.

At that moment we were interrupted by the entrance of Mrs Johnson with a tray containing earthenware cups and a steaming coffee pot, and the conversation was not resumed until after she had withdrawn.

Michael Balfour sat cupping his glass of cognac, his blue eyes dark and troubled, as he stared into the heart of the comfortable fire that was burning or. our hearth.

“I take it you are familiar with most of the salient points from the newspaper accounts, Mr Pons?”

“Pray forget them, Mr Balfour. I prefer to hear your own story, direct from your lips.”

Young Balfour smiled briefly. He sipped appreciatively at his glass and then turned again to the large cup of coffee before him.

“I have been much abroad, Mr Pons.”

“So I observe, Mr Balfour,” said Solar Pons, giving our visitor a sharp look from his deep-set eyes. “You have been back less than a year, I should say.”

Balfour’s astonishment was evident on his face.

“How can you possibly know that, Mr Pons?”

“Simple observation. Since you have been here I have had occasion to observe you closely. You have twice run your finger along your stiff collar, as though it were chafing you, and as if it were unfamiliar to you. When I further see the traces of a tan on your cheeks and neck, followed by a line of white skin some distance below your collar — for you pulled it well down the last time — I deduce that you have been in the tropics. Only the equatorial sun gives that deep a tan and in my experience a pigmentation of some years, such as that given by a sojourn in Africa, takes from six months to a year to fade completely away on return to this country, depending on the type of skin.”

Our visitor’s eyes were wide and round with surprise.

“You are correct in every respect, Mr Pons. I have been back from the Gold Coast some eight months. But you make the matter sound so simple.”

“That is the tragedy of my life,” said Solar Pons, pulling down the corners of his mouth in mock severity as he stared at me. “Friend Parker here has denigrated my theories on more than one occasion in his accounts of my little adventures.”

“Come, Pons,” I protested. “You are being too hard altogether.”

I gave him a penetrating glance.

“And it would take a much more profound mind than mine to demolish your theories, Pons. Take no notice of him, Mr Balfour.”

Solar Pons chuckled drily and lit his pipe, sending slow spirals of fragrant blue smoke up toward the ceiling of our comfortable quarters.

“Let us just hear your story, Mr Balfour, and I will draw my own conclusions.”

“Well, Mr Pons, as you have already gathered, I have spent some years in the Colonial Service, firstly in Gibraltar and latterly on the Gold Coast. I was called home last summer by my uncle, who appeared to be in failing health. As his only surviving relative I am his heir and I naturally obeyed Uncle Charles’ wishes.”

“Entirely laudable, Mr Balfour. What age was Mr Boldigrew?”

“A man in the prime of life, Mr Pons. That was the strange thing about it. Uncle Charles could only have been fifty or fifty-five at the most.”

Solar Pons shot our visitor a sharp look.

“Come, Mr Balfour, you must have known his age. The newspapers aggregate it at fifty-four and this was confirmed in the police statement.”

Michael Balfour turned worried eyes to my companion.

“Forgive me, Mr Pons. Of course you are right. This business has been so upsetting that I hardly know what I am saying at times. He was fifty-four.”

Pons tapped the bowl of his pipe against the fender, his lean, feral features concentrated on the young man before us. “Hmm. You have resigned from the Colonial Service?” Balfour nodded.

“I got extended leave at first but the situation I found when I arrived at Tidewater soon made me realise that my permanent presence was desired in England. I resigned formally three months ago.”

“I see. Before you continue, Mr Balfour, what sort of place is Tidewater and its surroundings?”

Balfour shook his head.

“The village itself is well enough, Mr Pons, but Bredewell House is in a bleak and lonely spot, in sight of the sea and salt-marshes. There is nothing there but pasture and sea-birds and in the winter it is desolate indeed. It was almost as though my uncle wished to bury himself in as remote a place as possible, far from the haunts of men.”

Solar Pons paused in bending forward to re-light his pipe, his intent gaze fixed on the young man.

“Why do you say that, Mr Balfour?”

Our visitor shrugged.

“Through various indications, Mr Pons. It dated from the day of my arrival. I had expected to be met but I had to engage a hire-car from the station and had a job to make myself heard at the front door of the house. When the housekeeper eventually opened to me it was not until she had released several bolts and locks. I had never seen such security in an ordinary house.”

“That is extremely odd, Parker,” said Pons, looking across at me as he blew fresh smoke toward the ceiling.

“Just what I was going to say, Pons. What then, Mr Balfour?”

“Well, doctor, it did not take me long to realise that my uncle was extremely nervous and jumpy. As I have said, he had these extraordinary precautions about securing the house. At night it was quite a ritual, with him supervising Mrs Bracegirdle as she went the rounds of doors and windows. And he asked me, every time I went out, to keep a watch for strangers in the village.”

“I see.”

Solar Pons lowered his gaze to the fender and gazed at the flames of the hearth as though they held the secret of Bredewell House and its occupant’s death.

“There is much property connected with the house?” Balfour nodded.

“Curious you should ask that, Mr Pons. There is quite an estate. As you can imagine, my uncle’s reclusive mode of life had made it difficult to run and things had been slipping badly for some years. I established a small estate office in one of the outbuildings and as I was accessible to all and sundry there, soon began to get things on a sounder footing. My Colonial experiences came in useful, you see.”

“Naturally,” said Solar Pons blandly. “Just how long had this state of affairs been going on?”

“My uncle had been a fairly jovial sort of man in earlier years, so far as I could gather, Mr Pons. But his change of habit dated from a year or so ago.”

“Perhaps the housekeeper could help there, Pons?” I suggested.

Balfour shook his head, a thin smile on his lips.

“You will not have much success in that quarter, Mr Pons. Mrs Bracegirdle is as tight-lipped and reclusive as my late uncle on such matters. I could get nothing out of her but I gathered, from the hints my uncle dropped from time to time, that she was an old family retainer, sworn to secrecy in his service.”

Solar Pons pulled reflectively at the lobe of his left ear and leaned forward in his chair.

“We come now to the incidents leading up to your uncle’s mysterious death, Mr Balfour. Pray be precise and specific as to detail.”

“Certainly, Mr Pons. Though in so strange and horrible a business I hardly know which detail might be significant.”

“Just give me all the facts you can recall,” said Solar Pons gently.

Our visitor drew up his shoulders in an expressive gesture.

“As you have no doubt made out from the newspapers, Mr Pons, there has been something like a reign of terror in the village of Tidewater, which is the place nearest to Bredewell House. So far as I can make out this terrifying apparition has appeared a number of times to the local villagers. Even our gardener, Stevens, saw it one evening only a week before my uncle died.”

“What was it like, Mr Balfour?”

“Extremely hideous, Mr Pons, according to Stevens’ description. It was all glowing and luminous, like green fire. The eyes were red and the head was something like a nightmare. At least that was my gardener’s description and he is not a man given overly to fancies.”

Solar Pons made a dry, clearing sound at the back of his throat which could have indicated derision or sympathy. I shot him a quick glance but could read nothing useful in the concentrated pin-points of his eyes.

“How did it appear?”

“In Stevens’ case at the window of his potting-shed, where he sat smoking in the dark. He gave a great cry and ran out; with commendable courage, I thought. But it was pitch-black and there was nothing and no-one to be seen.”

“Interesting, Parker.”

“Frightening, Pons.”

Solar Pons nodded, little lights glinting at the back of his eyes.

“What about the other villagers, Mr Balfour?”

“The circumstances were similar, Mr Pons. The face was seen always at dusk. An old widow woman; two men drinking in the four-ale bar of a local hostelry; an elderly villager in a cottage near a bridge at the far end of the village. Investigations were made in all cases but no-one was seen or apprehended.”

Solar Pons smiled slowly and put up his hand to the lobe of his ear, pulling at it thoughtfully.

“And this had been going on for some weeks before your uncle died?”

“Six weeks to two months, Mr Pons.”

My companion turned to me.

“This is highly significant, Parker.”

“I cannot see it, Pons.”

“That is because you are not applying your mind correctly, my dear fellow.”

Solar Pons stared again into the fire, as though he could see visions among the leaping flames that were denied to us. I was astonished at his next question.

“How old were the men, Mr Balfour?”

Our visitor looked disconcerted also.

“I do not follow you, Mr Pons.”

“Those in the four-ale bar?”

“I cannot remember, exactly. In their sixties, I think.”

Solar Pons smiled faintly again.

“These factors are vitally important, Parker. Mark them well. The face appeared only at dusk?”

Balfour nodded.

“And always through windows?”

“That is correct, Mr Pons.”

“And every single person who saw the apparition was elderly?”

Again the surprise in Balfour’s eyes.

“Well, yes, now that you come to mention it.”

Solar Pons rubbed his thin fingers together with satisfaction. Balfour opened his mouth to speak again.

“That is, until I myself saw the phantom two nights ago!”

If I had been surprised before, I was astonished at Pons’ reaction.

He leapt to his feet, his penetrating eyes fixed upon young Balfour’s face.

“That puts an entirely different complexion upon the matter, Mr Balfour. We have not a moment to lose! If you would be kind enough to telephone your locum, Parker, and pack a valise we will set out for Tidewater at once. I will hear the remainder of Mr Balfour’s story en route.”

3

I adjusted my muffler more tightly round my throat and sank bank into the cushions of Balfour’s big touring car as we threaded our way cautiously through the streets of the East End. It was even more bitterly cold than before and frost glittered on the back windows of the vehicle, brushed briefly into diamonds by the headlights of following cars. I occupied the back seat with our two valises piled beside me.

Pons sat in the front passenger seat with our client and continued the brisk questioning which had begun in our sitting room at 7B.

“The circumstances of your uncle’s death, Mr Balfour.”

“I had been out earlier in the day, Mr Pons. Uncle Charles had been restless and agitated for several days. The stories circulating in the neighbourhood about the phantom face had had a startling effect upon him.”

“In what way, pray?”

“He went ashen grey when I first mentioned the matter some weeks before. And then when one of the local newspapers got hold of the story he was so agitated and upset that he burned the newspaper.”

“Indeed.”

Solar Pons gave me a grim smile as he leaned back toward me, ejecting a thin stream of blue smoke from his pipe.

“Are you comfortable there, Parker?”

“Well enough, Pons,” I said. “I am listening carefully.” “Pray do so, my dear fellow. I shall find your thoughts on the matter invaluable later.”

He turned back to Balfour, who was handling the car with considerable skill, for we were already clearing the outskirts of the city and beginning the long run through the shabby suburbs in that quarter of London.

“Why should your uncle have troubled himself over this matter, bizarre and unusual though it might be for a small Essex village?”

“I do not know, Mr Pons. It was all part and parcel of his reclusive life-style. He was, as I have already told you, in fear of something and this apparition seemed to crystallise all his terrors.”

“What do you think this thing is, Mr Balfour?” I put in. Our driver shot me a quick glance over his shoulder, as though in surprise.

“I have given it some thought, Dr Parker, as you can imagine. Tidewater is a small place and even a remote dwelling like Bredewell House is not immune from gossip. I can assure you I am as puzzled as the most unsophisticated rustic.”

“And just a little frightened, Mr Balfour,” said Solar Pons evenly, replacing the stem of his pipe between his strong teeth.

“As you say,” said our client frankly. “My uncle has died under mysterious circumstances and now I have seen the same thing myself.”

“Oh, I was not criticising in the least,” said Solar Pons swiftly, laying his hand on the other’s arm in a friendly gesture.

“I might well have been shaken myself, under the circumstances.”

“That seems difficult to imagine, Mr Pons.”

“I am only human, Mr Balfour,” muttered Pons deprecatingly. “Were there any other things about Mr Boldigrew’s behaviour that commended themselves to your attention?”

Balfour shook his head.

“Nothing stands out in particular, Mr Pons. Except that he was more emphatic than ever when commending Mrs Bracegirdle on the importance of locking and barring the doors of the house at night.”

“Which brings us to the evening of his death, I take it?” “Exactly, Mr Pons.”

Balfour spun the wheel smoothly as we turned round a block of gaunt warehouses, the flaring lights of the commercial quarter dying in the dusk. A single thread of road lay before us now and trees and foliage were beginning to obtrude into the landscape, as the ugliness of the suburbs gave way to substantial villas and rows of private houses.

“We are talking now of a fortnight ago?”

“Yes, Mr Pons. Last Tuesday week. The inquest was on the Friday.”

“Indeed. I have read the report but I would like your own views in due course.”

“Certainly, Mr Pons. To come to the Tuesday in question my uncle had been particularly worried that day. I caught him whispering with the housekeeper on two separate occasions and he had a distinctly furtive, not to say hunted look upon his face.”

Solar Pons tented his thin fingers before him in the dimness of the car, his keen eyes staring at the wisps of mist which were gathering before the windscreen and causing our client to slacken the speed of the vehicle a little. The road had become lonely now and the outlines of gaunt, wintry trees, occasional cattle in the bleak fields and now and then a passing vehicle were the only things that broke the monotonous waste of whiteness which was insidiously gathering in the darkness outside.

“Did you speak to him about this?”

Our driver nodded.

“In a tactful manner, Mr Pons. I said he looked worried but he assured me it was the same business. This phantom face had upset him and he hoped it would not be long before the thing, or person perpetrating such a nasty joke, was caught.”

“Ah. He, at least did not appear to think it was supernatural?”

“Possibly, Mr Pons. I had not given it much thought but now that you mention it, it might be so.”

“Is that important, Pons?” I put in.

My friend turned his lean, feral profile toward me.

“It could be, Parker. At this stage I am merely trying to establish an accurate chain of events.”

“I spent a good deal of the evening in the drawing-room reading, Mr Pons. I had been up early and round the estate in the morning. I passed the remainder of the forenoon seeing people in my office at the farm and as the weather was dreadfully cold and inclement, I felt I had had enough for one day.”

Pons nodded, sending out a thick plume of blue smoke from his pipe.

“We had high tea together at about five o’clock in the evening. Mrs Bracegirdle served it. That was the last occasion I really had time for an exchange of views with my uncle. The next occasion on which I saw him, he was dying.”

Solar Pons nodded again, his eyes hooded and thoughtful. “It would have been long dark by five o’clock. Had the usual bolting and barring of the house taken place?”

“Oh, yes indeed, Mr Pons. Soon after four o’clock. My uncle and Mrs Bracegirdle went the rounds.”

“Did you not find it tiresome, Mr Balfour?” I asked. “I mean, supposing you wished to go in and out of an evening or to the village?”

“Of course, Dr Parker. That is why I have had very little social life since arriving back in this country. I had to make my arrangements to visit people and return in daylight, otherwise it meant a great deal of trouble to my uncle. He hated having to unbolt and unbar the doors to anyone at night, even to his own nephew.”

Our client smiled wanly, peering forward through the windscreen as the mist insidiously gathered over the unprepossessing countryside through which we were now travelling. Flat, inhospitable and interspersed with only occasional clumps of trees, it seemed obvious that we were now approaching the area of the Essex marshes in which our client lived. He turned back to Pons for a moment, as he halted cautiously at a deserted cross-roads.

“Of course, it was different in the summer, Mr Pons, with the lighter evenings. I had spoken of living elsewhere or merely moving into one of the outbuildings, which I could have had converted to a dwelling-house, but he would not hear of it.”

“He rather looked on you as a sort of bodyguard whenever dusk fell?”

“I had not thought of it so, Mr Pons, but you are no doubt right.”

Balfour engaged the first gear again and the car crept forward cautiously through the gloom.

“You said you had high tea, together. What matters did you discuss on that occasion?”

“Nothing of importance, Mr Pons. My uncle was still uneasy but he seemed a little more settled than of late. He had had one or two bills through the post which seemed to cause him some concern.”

I saw Pons stiffen on the front seat of the car and throw a swift glance at our driver.

“Bills, Mr Balfour? It hardly seems likely that anything so mundane would bother such a well-propertied man as your uncle.”

Balfour’s puzzled face was reflected in the windscreen against the white wall of vapour as he changed gear again and we crept forward, more slowly than ever.

“Now that you mention it, Mr Pons, it does seem peculiar. Uncle Charles had several times seemed worried in past months at things that arrived in the post. Once he changed colour at breakfast and dropped the piece of paper the envelope contained, and it seemed as though he would fall. When I questioned him about the matter he said he had received a bill for which there was no justification. Later I saw a heap of ashes on the hearth and gathered, though I did not ask him, that he had burned the offending document.”

“Hmm.”

Solar Pons pulled thoughtfully at the lobe of his right ear as his keen eyes seemed to pierce the veil of vapour ahead. If anything it seemed colder than when we had started and I pulled the thick car rug even more tightly about me, folding it across my legs.

“That could be highly significant, Parker.”

“Of course, Pons,” I returned.

“What then?” my companion rejoined.

“As I said, we had tea and then my uncle wanted to write some letters. He went to his study on the ground floor and I myself took a book to the drawing room where I passed a pleasant hour or two by a great fire of logs. I was about to go to my room just before eight o’clock when, as I was passing near the study, I heard a heavy sound as though of someone falling.”

“You had heard nothing before that?”

“No, Mr Pons. Just the one sound, as though a heavy sack of earth had hit the floor. I got no reply to my knock and went straight in, as I sensed something was wrong. I found my uncle near the window. The curtains had been drawn back. He was semi-conscious and as I tried to help him up he mumbled something about, ‘That dreadful face’.”

Solar Pons was silent for a few moments, the car seemingly suspended in white vapour as it continued its monotonous progress through the wastes of Essex.

“You presumed he meant he had seen something at the uncurtained window?”

“Indeed, Mr Pons. I summoned Mrs Bracegirdle and then ran outside but could see nothing. It was a bitterly cold night and there was a thin mist. When I got back inside the housekeeper had already telephoned for medical assistance. Dr Sherlock was round within a very few minutes but there was little he could do and Uncle Charles died about ten minutes after he arrived.”

“It was heart, I believe?”

“That is so, Mr Pons.”

“Who is this Dr Sherlock?”

“The family physician, Mr Pons, and Uncle Charles’ oldest friend. He had moved to Tidewater some years ago in order to be near to him.”

“I see. What was the doctor’s reaction to all this phantom face business?”

“He inclines to the theory that the local people are superstitious and fanciful, Mr Pons, but he was considerably startled when I told him what my uncle had said just before dying.”

“Mr Boldigrew said nothing else?”

“Not so far as I know, Mr Pons.”

“Is there any reason why your uncle should have gone to the window?”

“Perhaps someone tapped to attract his attention, Mr Pons.”

“Perhaps. Though why would your uncle have gone if he was so mortally afraid?”

“Habit, possibly.”

“I do not follow.”

“I am sorry, Mr Pons. My uncle had a rather strange inclination. We often sat in his study, which overlooked the front drive. In summer people who called got in the habit of tapping on his window, instead of walking all the way round to the front door. My uncle would come to the window and converse before admitting them. Even people working for him on the estate got into the habit.”

“I see. It is curious. But then life has many curiosities, eh, Parker?”

“We have certainly had our share of them, Pons.”

Solar Pons chuckled grimly, hunching his chin into the collar of his thick raglan overcoat.

“The window was locked, of course, on this evening?”

“Undoubtedly, Mr Pons. It is of thick glass, secured by a heavy clasp at the top. It slides upward easily, as it was used so frequently that Uncle Charles had the runners greased.”

“I see. And it was the only window in the study?”

“By no means, sir. But it was in a sort of small turret which jutted out and was the most convenient window on to which the visitor would come. The view is partly concealed by shrubbery but a portion of the drive can be seen from there.”

“Very well, Mr Balfour. You have given me much food for thought. What do you think killed your uncle?”

Balfour shook his head.

“I do not know, Mr Pons. But I fear that it was something so horrible that his heart could simply not stand it.”

“You may be right, Mr Balfour,” said Solar Pons sombrely. “You said you had yourself seen this horrible face.”

Our client shivered slightly at the wheel.

“Yes, sir. Just two nights ago. Which is what prompted me to come to you.”

“You have done wisely,” said Solar Pons. “We are moving in dark and muddied waters. Just relate the circumstances.”

“I was sitting in the study just after supper, Mr Pons, going through my uncle’s papers. It was about nine-thirty P.M. Since my uncle’s death I no longer followed his routine. I had given up bolting and barring doors and left the windows uncurtained at night if the mood so took me. On this particular evening I had closed the study curtains but had left the main window in the little turret with the coverings pulled back. Something attracted my attention as I was sitting at the desk writing. I was half-facing the window so at first I did not notice anything.”

“It was a foggy night, Mr Balfour?”

“There was a thin mist, yes. I glanced up and was considerably startled to see something that looked like a yellow blob in the middle of the pane. I got up from the desk and walked to the window. I felt no fear, only curiosity.”

Balfour changed gear and turned into a side-road, his features expressionless in the reflected light from the instrument-panel.

“Imagine my horror, Mr Pons, when I saw this soulless, inhuman face, seemingly made of wrinkled yellow skin with two black sockets where the eyes should have been!”

“How dreadful!” I exclaimed.

“You may say so, Dr Parker. I am afraid that I let out a cry and dropped my pen. The thing made off like lightning at that. It just withdrew from the window at a tremendous speed and disappeared in the fog. I ran out, roused Mrs Bracegirdle, got a powerful flash-light and searched the grounds.”

Solar Pons shook his head.

“Brave but singularly unwise, Mr Balfour.”

“Maybe, Mr Pons, but that is what happened. It is my nature to be impulsive.”

“Quite so. You found nothing?”

“Not a trace of anything, Mr Pons. And the path beneath the window is hard and would not retain the impression of a footprint. What do you think? I must confess that I have bolted and curtained the windows since that night.”

“You are extremely prudent, Mr Balfour,” said Solar Pons slowly. “This is a dark and sinister business.”

And he puffed silently at his pipe until we had arrived at our destination.

4

This proved to be a large, Edwardian mansion set back in its own grounds. The fog was so thick by this time that we could see little of our surroundings and conditions were so bad that our host almost ran the car past the carriage drive entrance. The tyres crunched frostily over the hardened ground as we eased up through shadowy clumps of rhododendron.

“A melancholy place, Pons,” I observed.

“As always, you are correct, Parker. And a suitable setting for such a tragedy as Mr Balfour has unfolded.”

We had drawn up in front of the entrance steps and the house was, as I had already observed, even more melancholy and sombre than I had imagined with the thick mist swirling about it. Before our host could descend from the driving seat, Pons had sprung down and with typical energy was already striding toward the facade of the building. I followed and saw, in a gap in the shrubbery, the small jutting turret of which our client had spoken.

There was a tarmacadam path in front of it and Pons already had his pocket lens out and was going up and down the surface, almost on his hands and knees. He rose to his feet, a disappointed look on his face, as Balfour joined us.

“Too hard, as I had expected. There is nothing there. This is your uncle’s study window, Mr Balfour?”

“Yes, Mr Pons. As you can see, it is most conveniently situated if visitors wished to attract my uncle’s attention.”

“Indeed,” said Solar Pons drily, casting his keen eyes over the broad expanse of glass, through which could be dimly glimpsed the interior of the room.

“And it is equally conveniently situated for the purposes of someone who intended your uncle harm.”

We followed Pons back along the path which ran behind the screen of shrubbery separating it from the main drive, until it debouched near the front entrance steps and the vehicle in which we had just arrived. I assisted Balfour in removing our luggage and then our host led the way up the steps to where the light of an electric lantern over the porch pricked the darkness.

“I will show you the estate tomorrow, Mr Pons,” said the young man, ushering us into a spacious hall on one side of which a warming fire blazed in a stone fireplace.

“It has only just turned ten o’clock and I am sure Mrs Bracegirdle will have something prepared for us.”

“A light meal only for my part,” said Solar Pons. “Though I must admit the journey and the coldness of the evening has put an unsuspected edge on my appetite.”

A door opening farther down the hall interrupted the conversation and a tall, distinguished-looking woman with greying hair advanced beneath the light of the electric chandelier which illuminated the hall.

“This is Mrs Bracegirdle,” said our host. “Mr Solar Pons and Dr Lyndon Parker, who will be staying with us for a few days.”

The housekeeper, who was dressed in a dark tweed suit with a touch of white at the throat bowed courteously.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” she said in a low, well-modulated voice.

She was about to pass out of the hall when Pons stopped her with a courteous movement.

“Before you go, Mrs Bracegirdle, there are one or two questions I should like to ask you. I believe you were devoted to the late Mr Charles Boldigrew?”

The woman looked at Pons with eyes which held an enigmatic expression.

“That is perfectly correct, Mr Pons.”

“Have you no theory about his death?”

Mrs Bracegirdle drew herself up.

“I do not follow you, Mr Pons.”

Solar Pons took off his hat, overcoat and scarf and laid them on top of a massive iron-bound chest that stood at one side of the hall.

“I think you follow me well enough, Mrs Bracegirdle.”

The housekeeper did not seem to take offence at my companion’s words but she visibly drew herself up as though to brace herself against an impending blow.

“I must repeat, sir, I do not understand your meaning.”

She glanced at her employer as though imploring his assistance but receiving no help from that quarter, sighed deeply. Solar Pons walked over toward the massive fireplace and held out his hands to the blaze.

“Oh, come now, Mrs Bracegirdle, it is not so very difficult. Mr Boldigrew had received a number of threats against him…”

“Mr Pons!”

Balfour was plainly shocked and staggered and I saw the housekeeper’s figure crumple, but she recovered herself admirably, though her face was white.

“How could you possibly know that, Mr Pons?” said the young man.

“It was elementary, Mr Balfour. Gentlemen of Mr Boldigrew’s wealth and standing do not change colour and almost collapse on receiving tradesmen’s bills. There was only one possible explanation when you told me of these occasions. Boldigrew had received some sort of threat through the post. What was it, Mrs Bracegirdle? Blackmail?”

The housekeeper moistened her lips and glanced imploringly at Balfour.

“Begging your pardon, Mr Balfour. I didn’t like deceiving you, but it looks as though this gentleman can read one’s very thoughts.”

“You are not so very far wide of the mark, Mrs Bracegirdle,” said I, with a triumphant glance at Pons.

We were all over by the fireplace now and Balfour gestured us into large leather chairs, set in a half-circle round the blaze. I sat and massaged the warmth back into my half-frozen fingers. The housekeeper, after nervously twisting and untwisting her hands for a few moments, broke the silence which had fallen upon us.

“It is true, Mr Pons. There was something. I had been Mr Boldigrew’s housekeeper for over thirty years. There were not many things about the family I did not know.”

Solar Pons’ face expressed keen interest in the firelight as he glanced at the housekeeper.

“For example?”

“Well, Mr Pons…”

The housekeeper’s voice was hurried and breathless and again I caught our host’s eyes on her with a worried expression.

“There was an Anglo-Indian Company Mr Boldigrew was interested in many years ago. He was a partner and gave his Indian co-director bad advice. The company crashed and ever afterwards Mr Boldigrew blamed himself. His partner committed suicide and the thing had been on his conscience for years.”

“Why did you not tell me this before?” asked young Balfour hotly.

The housekeeper looked at him with an expression of mingled pity and resentment.

“Because Mr Boldigrew swore me to secrecy, Mr Balfour. It was a sacred trust. I am only betraying it now because Mr Boldigrew is dead and this gentleman would be sure to find it out, sooner or later.”

“You are certainly right there, Mrs Bracegirdle,” said Solar Pons mildly, getting out his pipe and lighting it up at our host’s express permission.

“Do you know what was in those notes, Mrs Bracegirdle?”

“Not exactly, sir. But Mr Boldigrew intimated to me that they contained threats. I gathered it was something to do with this Indian firm and the suicide of his former partner.”

“But if the man had committed suicide where would the threats arise?” I said.

“Mrs Bracegirdle has her own ideas about that, Parker,” said my companion with a thin smile.

“It is true, sir. My first thought was that the dead man’s son had come to England and was intent on revenge.”

Pons sat with his brows knitted, staring into the fire.

“It is a possibility, Mrs Bracegirdle,” he said softly.

“Did you notice the postmarks of the letters?”

“They all came from London, sir. Mr Boldigrew burnt them afterward.”

“And what was your theory about them?”

Mrs Bracegirdle turned to Pons and gave him an almost fierce look from her faded grey eyes.

“Well, sir, and begging Mr Balfour’s pardon, I suspected Ram Dass and his followers.”

Balfour looked incredulous.

“Oh, come, Mrs Bracegirdle! It is ridiculous. They are a somewhat strange household, I know, but just because my uncle had a quarrel over boundaries with him, that is no reason. ”

“I do not understand,” said Solar Pons, looking from one to the other.

The housekeeper was the first to break the silence.

“They are Indians in the neighbourhood, sir. Mr Boldigrew’s partner was named Dass. They are a strange people, and their ways are not our ways.”

“Hmm.”

Solar Pons’ eyes were bright as he turned to Balfour.

“This is extremely interesting. And you say these people had a quarrel with your uncle?”

“That is so, Mr Pons, but it was nothing, really. An outburst of temper on both sides. Certainly not enough to occasion murder.”

“However, we must not overlook the possibility,” said Solar Pons, rising from his seat. “You have been most helpful, Mrs Bracegirdle. Your sense of duty to the late Mr Boldigrew does you credit. There is nothing else you wish to tell me?”

The tall woman shook her head and rose from her seat also.

“Nothing that comes to mind, Mr Pons. And now, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me I’ll see about getting the supper.”

5

“I am sure Mrs Bracegirdle is wrong, Mr Pons. The Dass family are peculiar, it is true, but I am not convinced. So far as I know, my uncle never evinced the slightest uneasiness about their presence in the neighbourhood. And the quarrel was purely through my uncle’s then bailiff. He had no personal contact with them at all.”

We were sitting in the handsomely panelled dining room after supper and the air was blue with tobacco smoke. It was only a quarter past eleven now and it seemed strange to reflect that we had been in Praed Street only some three hours ago, so bizarre was the atmosphere of this lonely old house.

We had seen no other servants and had gathered from our host that Mrs Bracegirdle was the only other person who occupied the house. The rest of the staff came in from the village daily. Pons ejected a plume of blue smoke thoughtfully toward the ceiling.

“Nevertheless, with your permission, I think Parker and I will call upon this Mr Dass some time tomorrow. It is as well to be clear in one’s mind about these matters.”

“By all means, Mr Pons. Ram Dass and his entourage live in a large house called The Grange, which is about a mile from here, at the edge of the village. It has extensive grounds and Dass’ land adjoins my uncle’s, which is where the boundary dispute arose.”

“I see. And now, if you are not too tired, Mr Balfour, I should very much like to see the study in which your unfortunate uncle met his end.”

“By all means, Mr Pons.”

Our host led the way back through the hall and into a corridor which was lined with stags’ heads and other trophies of the chase. A series of polished teak doors led off it and on the right an oak staircase ascended into the gloom above. Balfour threw open a door on the left, almost opposite the staircase.

“This is the study, gentlemen.”

Solar Pons looked sharply at our companion and then glanced swiftly at the stairs.

“You were about here, then, Mr Balfour, when you heard your uncle fall?”

Balfour paused, his hand on the study light-switch.

“That is correct, Mr Pons.”

Pons nodded approvingly.

“Show me exactly where you found your uncle.”

“I ran straight in, Mr Pons. Uncle Charles was lying here.”

Balfour led the way swiftly across the handsome room to the turret window we had already observed from outside. With its serried ranks of leather-bound books; the bright fire burning in the marble fireplace; the polished desk; and all the other evidence of a neat and orderly life, the study should have been a quiet and placid refuge, redolent of peace.

And yet with the mist swirling at the dark window panes, the deathly cold outside and the knowledge of the tragedy that had been enacted here I felt a thrill of horror as the young man indicated the area of carpet on which his relative had fallen to his death. I glanced up at the mist at the window and could easily imagine the appalling shock the old man must have had as the phantom face appeared there.

Yet Pons seemed oblivious of all this atmospheric implication. His lean, feral face was alive with interest. He already had his lens out and was going minutely over the carpet in the small embrasure, to the evident puzzlement of our host. Pons finished his examination and straightened up.

“There is only the one large window which looks directly on to the shrubbery. We must assume that your uncle saw the face there, if indeed he saw anything.”

“There were his dying words, Mr Pons.”

“That is true.”

Solar Pons was silent as he looked narrowly at the window and the tall green wall of shrubbery, sparkling with hoar-frost, dimly visible through the fog which was now descending rapidly.

“Why must Mr Boldigrew have seen the face through the central pane, Pons?”

“Because, my dear Parker, it would have been difficult at the two side windows, which are placed at angles. As you see, the reflected light would have cancelled out any image. Whereas the dark wall of shrubbery there would have enhanced such an apparition.”

“You are right, Mr Pons,” said young Balfour admiringly. “You think that of significance?”

“It may be so,” said Solar Pons carelessly. “Let us just have a look at the window itself.”

Once again he went over it minutely, while we both waited and watched in that silent place. For myself I was only too conscious of our exposed position in the little turret and I wondered if the thing which had apparently taken Boldigrew’s life in such a shocking manner could still be lurking out there beyond the wall of fog which pressed in slow, oily undulations upon the window glass.

“This is the only catch to the bottom central window?”

“Yes, Mr Pons. It is supposedly burglar-proof. As I intimated, Uncle Charles did not have too complicated a system here, as he liked to open the window to speak to visitors.”

“So I believe. You have shutters inside, I see.”

“That was another of my uncle’s eccentricities, Mr Pons. They are of teak, reinforced with steel, as you will observe. They were always closed and secured with the patent steel bars fitted, before the household retired.”

“Would you open the window for me, please.”

Balfour stepped forward and made two complex movements with his right hand on the shining steel catch at the top of the window.

“It is a two-stage lock on top, Mr Pons. These were fitted during the past year.”

“Hmm. Presumably, after your uncle received the threats?” “It could be so, Mr Pons.”

Again the troubled look on the nephew’s face.

“Let me just try this.”

Pons leaned forward and slid the window up. It went easily and I noticed there were steel runners at the sides, which appeared to be liberally greased.

“They make no noise, either.”

“That is correct, Mr Pons. Now just see what happens when you close the window.”

Pons pulled at the lower sash. The cold air and thin streamers of fog which had been wreathing into the room was cut off immediately as the window slid smoothly home, with a barely audible hiss.

“Now try and open the window, Mr Pons.”

Balfour smiled as Pons struggled to raise the casement. Even by manipulating the catch and exerting all his strength he was unable to make the window budge.

“It is simple once you know the knack, Mr Pons. It is nothing more than these two small buttons, operated first in clockwise and then anti-clockwise directions, which release the internal bolts.”

Pons did as our host directed and after a moment or so the window slid open. Pons closed it again, dusted his hands and drew the deep red curtains.

“Excellent,” he said drily. “It has just proved one of my tentative theories.”

“That Mr Boldigrew could not have been touched by anyone outside the window, Pons?”

“Perhaps, Parker.”

My companion was silent for a moment. Then he seemed to recollect himself, going soft-footed about the elegant room, now and again taking down a book. He sat at the desk for a while and measured the distance between it and the window. He turned to me.

“Pray be good enough to go to the window, Parker. Just stand behind the curtain for a moment and tap on the glass.” “Behind the curtain, Pons?”

Solar Pons smiled at my expression.

“If you please, my dear fellow.”

I did as he suggested, feeling a slight crawling of the scalp as soon as I got behind the curtain and saw the blanket of oily fog curling against the glass. I drew the curtain to behind me and rapped three times sharply on the glass.

“Excellent, Parker. Your signal is clearly audible from the desk, even with the curtains closed.”

I regained the room and crossed to my companions. Balfour had stood, a silent and worried figure, all the while, saying nothing, though his eyes anxiously searched my companion’s face. Solar Pons sat on at the desk, his thin fingers tented on the red leather surface before him.

“The sequence seems quite clear. Mr Boldigrew was seated at the desk or was at least somewhere between the desk and the shelves by the window. If he had been any farther into the room he would have been unlikely to have heard the sort of taps friend Parker just made. He crossed to the window, drew the curtains back…”

“Saw this horrible face and collapsed,” I said. “Mr Balfour heard the fall from the staircase outside and rushed in.”

“Thank you for your expert reconstruction of events, Parker,” said Solar Pons blandly, searching in his pocket for his pipe.

“You think the thing tapped to attract his attention, Pons?”

“It is entirely likely, Parker. We have heard that the gentleman was in mortal fear and it seems fairly obvious that he would keep the study window curtained after dark. If the shutters had been drawn over the windows, he would not have heard any tapping or, indeed, have been able to hear the sound. Mr Balfour, who did not have the window curtained did not hear any tapping when the face appeared to him.”

“That is so, Mr Pons,” put in young Balfour. “Though my uncle kept strong precautions so far as locking and bolting the door were concerned, he would not secure the shutters until late at night, just before retiring. He felt too enclosed, otherwise.”

“I am surprised,” I said. “He had turned the house into a fortress.”

“Indeed, Parker,” said Solar Pons quietly. “I believe you said, Mr Balfour, that the entire estate devolves upon you now that Mr Boldigrew is dead?”

Balfour pursed his lips.

“On me entirely, Mr Pons. As I have said, the sum involved is considerable. We have not yet gone into it because it is too soon after my uncle’s death. Indeed, he was only buried last week.”

“Just so,” said Solar Pons softly.

Our client again appeared troubled in his expression.

“His lawyer, Mr Sainsbury, would no doubt be pleased to elucidate further, Mr Pons.”

“All in good time, Mr Balfour,” said Solar Pons quietly, drawing on the stem of his pipe.

We were sitting so when there was a deferential tapping at the study door which made our client jump. A moment later Mrs Bracegirdle had appeared in the opening.

“Dr Sherlock has called, Mr Balfour. He knew you were due back tonight and wanted to know if there was anything he could do to help.”

“He has already done quite enough for the household,” said her employer. “But we should be pleased to see him just the same.

“He is waiting in the drawing room, sir.”

Just tell him we shall be along directly.”

The housekeeper withdrew and Pons turned to our companion inquiringly.

“Dr Sherlock, as my uncle’s oldest friend has handled all the arrangements, Mr Pons. I do not know what I should have done without him. The inquest was quite an ordeal but thanks to the doctor things went smoothly and as painlessly as these things can be.”

“I am glad the doctor has called,” said Solar Pons, getting up from the desk. “I should be glad of the opportunity to ask him a few questions.”

“You will find him more than helpful, Mr Pons.”

Back in the drawing room we found our host’s visitor warming his hands before the fire. He was an amiable, sandy-haired man in his early sixties with gold pince-nez perched on the end of his nose and a rather fussy manner. He came forward from the fire as soon as we were announced.

“I hope my visit is not inopportune, gentlemen?”

Balfour shook his head and introduced us.

“Mr Solar Pons! And Dr Lyndon Parker. This is indeed an honour. I have followed your adventures with the keenest interest, Mr Pons.”

Solar Pons took the doctor’s hand with an amused smile. “You must blame your medical colleague for any little exaggerations in the narratives, doctor.”

Dr Sherlock’s faded blue eyes stared at me ingenuously.

“I am sure that a scientific man like Dr Parker would not be prone to such a failing, Mr Pons.”

He turned back to Balfour.

“I trust that all is well with you, Mr Balfour. If there is anything at all I can do…”

“You are more than kind, doctor,” our host added. “When I told Mr Pons of the trouble that has fallen upon Bredewell House he and Dr Parker insisted on returning to stay with me a few days.”

“Most laudable,” murmured Dr Sherlock, sitting by the fireside and waving away our host’s invitation to sherry.

“I only stopped by to pay my respects as I had to make a call on a patient out this way. I am glad to have had the opportunity to meet you, Mr Pons.”

Solar Pons seated himself in a great leather chair across from the doctor and blew out a plume of fragrant smoke from his pipe.

“I may say the same, doctor. I would like your opinion on the phantom face which seems to be haunting this corner of Essex.”

The doctor smiled, looking into the glowing heart of the fire.

“The people hereabouts are a superstitious lot, Mr Pons. And there are certainly some strange ones among them. Mr Ram Dass, for example… I do not know what you will find here to exercise your talents. The Police Inspector has some fanciful theories but they run counter to informed scientific opinion.”

“And what would they be, Dr Sherlock?”

“Mostly old wives’ tales and perhaps children playing pranks, Mr Pons. Poor Charles had a long-standing heart ailment. I had warned him to take things more easily, but he spent long hours in the study working on various documents and accounts. He could have had a fatal seizure at any time during the past two or three years.”

Solar Pons nodded, his own gaze now fixed on the molten centre of the fire.

“So he died of heart disease, then?”

The doctor nodded.

“Undoubtedly, Mr Pons. I have a copy of my post-mortem findings here, if Dr Parker would care to peruse it.”

He rummaged in his medical bag which I now noticed at the side of his chair and came up with the official form, covered with his small, meticulous writing. I studied it with interest.

“An extremely advanced form of heart disease, Pons,” I said, passing the document to him.

He scanned it swiftly, his lean, eager face tinted bronze by the fire-light. Young Balfour stood midway between the groups of hearthside chairs, looking now at one of us, now at another, a worried frown upon his brow.

“There seems no doubt of it,” said Solar Pons, passing it back. “But that still does not explain his dying words.”

Sherlock shook his head.

“Dying men often say strange things, Mr Pons. I am sure Dr Parker will bear me out.”

“Undoubtedly,” I said.

Solar Pons pulled thoughtfully at the lobe of his ear with fingers as delicate as the antennae of an insect.

“He said nothing while you were with him?”

Dr Sherlock shook his head.

“Poor Charles was on the point of death, Mr Pons. I doubt if I could have helped had I been there when he had the seizure.”

“What exactly happened that evening?”

“I was summoned by Mr Balfour and arrived within half an hour of the attack. There were only Mrs Bracegirdle and Mr Balfour with him. I soon saw that it was hopeless and cleared the room in order to spare them further distress. In spite of an injection I gave Mr Boldigrew to stimulate the heart he died within a very few minutes without regaining consciousness. A tragic business. I was more affected than I can remember. We had been friends for thirty years, you see.”

Solar Pons nodded.

“And the post-mortem confirmed your earlier findings?”

“Undoubtedly, Mr Pons. His condition had worsened considerably during the past year or so to an extent which even I had not realised.”

“Just so. Tell me, doctor, what was the condition of the room and the window when you arrived?”

“I don’t think I quite follow you, Mr Pons. Mr Boldigrew was lying near the window and I had him very carefully carried to a divan at the far end of the room. The three of us carried him there. What else was it you mentioned?”

“The condition of the room and the window.”

“The study was in some little disorder. If I remember rightly a chair was overturned and there was a jumble of papers on the desk. I cannot be certain but I think the window was uncurtained.”

“It was not unlocked so far as you know?”

Dr Sherlock stared at Pons in astonishment.

“Good gracious, Mr Pons, I had no time for that. My first concern was for my patient. I had no time for the window.”

“Certainly,” said my companion imperturbably, continuing to eject gentle plumes of smoke toward the ceiling.

“So you discount this story of a face entirely?”

The doctor shifted on his chair.

“I am not saying there have not been some ugly practical jokes in the neighbourhood in the past. But I think the whole thing has been blown up out of all proportion by the sensational press and by some interviews given by the Police Inspector. Of course, I am not blaming Mr Balfour here. He heard Mr Boldigrew’s dying words and I did not. But I cannot help feeling that it was unfortunate that he repeated the words; first to the police and then to the Press.”

I was about to open my mouth but closed it on seeing the expression on Pons’ face. Young Balfour looked uncomfortable but Solar Pons tactfully closed the subject.

“Thank you, doctor. You have been most helpful.”

“Good night, gentlemen. No thank you, Mr Balfour, I can find my way. I will look in again in a day or two. Goodnight.”

Mrs Bracegirdle appeared as soon as he opened the door and the visitor had no sooner disappeared than Pons shot a sharp glance at our host.

“So you did not tell the doctor that you had yourself seen the face, Mr Balfour.”

The young man shook his head.

“Certainly not, Mr Pons. There has been enough talk in the village and I know Dr Sherlock’s views on the matter. The whole thing seems fantastic now that I look at it. Perhaps I have exaggerated everything, and the Police Inspector has blown it up out of all proportion. After all, I was the only one to hear my uncle’s dying words.”

Solar Pons shot our host a sympathetic glance.

“Come, Mr Balfour. You are not yourself this evening. You were convinced of the truth of your statements when you visited us at Praed Street. Many people have seen this apparition, including yourself and your own gardener. This is no joke, believe me. And if your uncle’s death was purely heart disease, then it was precipitated by shock, which is tantamount to murder. There is something devilish here, mark my words.”

He took his pipe out of his mouth and looked once again into the heart of the fire.

“Even so, we must tread carefully. You have not told the police of this latest happening and we must not antagonise the local force. We must see the Inspector, question the gardener and find time to cultivate the acquaintance of Mr Ram Dass.”

He smiled at me ironically.

“It. looks like being a busy day tomorrow, Parker.”

6

“Well, sir, it gave me the fright of my life!”

It was a cold, frosty morning and Stevens the gardener, a decent, kindly old man with silver hair which looked as though he were himself powdered with frost, stood at the door of his potting shed in the grounds of Bredewell House and blinked at my companion.

Both Pons and I were clad in our warmest overcoats and scarves but even so the cold penetrated almost to the bone and Pons’ breath smoked from his mouth as he made reply to the man he was interrogating.

The old man, who seemed impervious to the cold, was evidently mindful of our situation for he suddenly said, with an embarrassed stammer, “If you’ll step into the glass house yonder, gentlemen, you’ll no doubt find it more comfortable.”

We followed him readily enough and I was astonished to find the edifice in question not only filled with a wide variety of plants and fruits, but warmly heated by steam. Stevens’ eyes glistened as we came in through the entrance porch and closed the outer doors behind us. Once through the inner doors the heat came up damp and cloying and after a minute or so we were both glad to remove our outer garments.

“You were speaking of this apparition, Stevens.”

“Yes, sir. I have never been more terrified, yet I am a fairly steady sort of person.”

Solar Pons sat indolently on a wooden bench at our back and turned his empty pipe over in his hands. His deep-set eyes were fixed intently on the riot of green and crimson beyond the old man’s head, where an unseasonal display of flowers made a mockery of the iron-frost and thin mist that was coming up across the marshes, so that even the solid form of Bredewell House only a few hundred yards away beyond the bare hedge, was already dim and insubstantial.

“Just tell me exactly what happened that evening.”

“It was on a Thursday night, Mr Pons. I had forgotten my wages or, rather, because I had to go into Tidewater in the afternoon to order some materials for the garden, I had missed my turn, as it were. Mr Balfour had kindly sent word by one of the men who works on the farm and who lives in the cottage next to mine, that he would open the estate office to pay me if I liked to come back that evening.”

“Why was that?”

The old man looked embarrassed.

“Well, sir, I’m always a bit short at the end of the week and as the shops keep open late on Thursdays, I usually get my groceries and pay a few bills on Thursday nights. What with my work I don’t get much chance otherwise, during the week. Being a widower, sir, it throws a good deal on me, one way or another.”

“I see. So you collected your wages.”

“Yes, sir. I stayed chatting to Mr Balfour for a few minutes. He’s a very agreeable gentleman, sir.”

“Indeed,” I put in.

“When I left the office, instead of going the long way round by the kitchen garden entrance, I walked down the main drive. I was keeping on the verge, thinking of nothing in particular when something came at me out of the shrubbery. It was a horrible face, Mr Pons, all green fire, with glowing red eyes. It was a terrible sight.”

“But Pons…” I began, when I was stopped by a warning glance from my companion.

“What did you do, Stevens?”

“Well, when I got over my shock, I made as though to grapple with it but it sort of retreated into the shrubbery and seemed to disappear. It can’t say I was sorry, really.”

“A frightening experience indeed,” mused Solar Pons. “Why did you tell Mr Balfour a different story?”

The old man looked surprised.

“Ah, you have already heard that! A white lie, sir, I am afraid. Old Mr Boldigrew was so frightened of these stories about the village and he’d been a recluse for several years, that I didn’t want to make things worse. I said the thing had appeared at the window of the potting shed, which is a long way from the house. I felt I had to warn Mr Balfour that there was something terrible hanging about the grounds. I did, in fact, go to the potting shed to collect my pipe on my way back to Tidewater, so it was only a white lie, sir, like I said.”

“I see, Stevens. You have no objection to my telling Mr Balfour the truth now?”

The old man shook his head.

“None at all, sir, providing you make it clear to Mr Balfour that I had no intention to deceive.”

“I shall certainly do that. Thank you, Stevens. You have been most helpful.”

Resuming our outer garments we again braved the bitter conditions outdoors, Pons leading the way down the drive and turning on to the road that would take us to Tidewater as though he had known the locality all his life.

“It is certainly a rum business, Pons.”

“Is it not, Parker. You have seen the significance of this appearance?”

“Well, it seemed as though the thing was again near the study window and the gardener surprised it.”

“Excellent, my dear fellow. You really are improving most remarkably.”

The mist was already crouching at the edges of the road which ran across the low marsh country and our footsteps echoed on the frosty surface unnaturally loudly. Pons lit his pipe, shovelling fragrant blue smoke back over his shoulder.

“But you really must learn to control your exuberance.”

“I do not understand you, Pons.”

“You were about, if my instinct is aright, to blurt out to Stevens that the thing he saw differed widely from the description of the face young Balfour saw at the study window that night.”

“You are right, Pons. I am sorry. I am afraid I did not think.”

My crestfallen expression brought forth a reassuring smile from my companion.

“Let us just have your theories on the matter, Parker.”

“I do not know what to say, Pons. It is inconceivable that there can be two phantoms lurking about Tidewater.”

“Especially when one is quite enough,” said my companion drily.

And he said nothing further until about twenty minutes later when a bout of stiff walking had brought us in sight of the dim outlines of the village of Tidewater, whose smoking chimneys added to the mist and imparted an acrid flavour to the air we breathed.

Lights showed blurrily from the shops in the centre of the village, which presented a pleasantly animated appearance for such a small community.

To my surprise, now that we had reached the village, Pons showed little inclination to seek out the police station but, instead, sauntered along as though he were on holiday, showing inordinate interest in the contents of the shop windows.

I was just about to make some remark when he suddenly stopped and took me by the sleeve.

“Ah, Parker! Just the place I fancy.”

I gazed at the window in astonishment.

“A toyshop, Pons? What can you possibly want here?”

Solar Pons put his finger to the side of his nose in a mischievous manner, a thin smile playing about his lips.

“Information, Parker. Possibly a return to childhood. There is something admirable about the atmosphere of such a shop, don’t you think?”

“It may be, Pons,” I said cautiously. “Though I do not see why you should wish to waste time in this fashion.”

“Time so spent is not wasted, Parker,” said Solar Pons severely, opening the door of the establishment.

The sharp ping of the bell announced our entrance but as there were several other customers, including a number of children, already in the shop, the proprietor, a short, bearded individual merely lanced up in our direction and then turned to the counter again.

I followed Pons, slightly puzzled, as he traversed the dusty aisles of this dark and curious old shop. There were odd corners piled with furry animals; boxes of lettered alphabet bricks; Meccano sets and clockwork trains, with here and there an entranced youngster holding some treasured item.

Pons paused by a heap of tin kettledrums and peered intently at the ranks of scarlet model soldiers with their bearskins and rifles at the ready.

“One could write a treatise on this sort of thing, Parker. It really is fascinating.”

“I admit that, Pons, though I fail to see…”

But Pons had already moved on. He picked up a humming top, as though intent on nothing else; his eyes skimmed over the wooden and metal hoops; and alighted on a rack of gyroscopes in their gaily hued boxes.

“This is more like it, Parker.”

I gave a start as I noticed the items which had already caught his attention. I followed quickly as he strode into an area of unexpected fantasy.

“Carnival masks, Pons!”

“Exactly, Parker,” Solar Pons chuckled, his intent gaze running across the grotesque and soulless papier-mâché masks which leered at us from shelves and danced slowly in the eddies of air as they hung suspended from the ceiling. I jumped as a hideous green-hued face with red eyes lurched at me from round the corner.

“Well, young man, you have certainly achieved your purpose!” Solar Pons chuckled, as a blond-haired child with a sly expression emerged from beneath the mask.

“Why, Pons, that is exactly…” I began.

“Is it not, Parker?” Solar Pons interrupted calmly, as he caught the eye of the bearded proprietor.

The boy scampered off and the knots of customers at the counter clearing, the owner of the shop advanced toward us. “I have a nephew some twelve years old and am looking for a suitable present,” my companion began, to my astonishment. The bearded man grinned.

“Well, there’s an excellent choice here, gentlemen.” Solar Pons looked beyond him to the carnival masks. “Sell a lot of these, do you?”

The man looked casually at his stock.

“A fair amount for a small place like this. Fireworks Night, fancy dress parties and that sort of thing. The youngsters like putting these on and scaring folk.”

“What about this one, for instance?”

Solar Pons reached out a languid hand and pulled down one of the green masks with the red eyes.

“Funnily enough, that’s been a fairly popular one this winter, sir. Sold a lot of them from October onwards. As a matter of fact, I had to order fresh stock. These only came in this morning.”

“Indeed. You sold them all to children, I suppose?”

The unclouded eyes above the beard looked innocently enough at us.

“A few adults, too. Parties and practical jokes, I suppose. There’s only one thing wrong with them for a shilling.”

“And what might that be?” Pons asked, as though he had no other interest in the world but carnival masks.

“They tear too easily. See?”

The proprietor reached one of the hideous things down. He exerted a little pressure at the top of the mask with his fingers and a minute crack appeared in the material in the area of the hair-line.

“Well, thank you. You have been most helpful, Mr…?”

“McMurdo,” said the bearded man shortly. “Take your time, gentlemen. If you don’t see what you want come back another day.”

He returned to the counter as several more children trooped in.

“He seems a most amiable fellow, Pons,” I observed.

“Does he not, Parker,” said my companion, looking sharply through the gloom at the proprietor.

“You don t think he could have been responsible, Pons? That hideous mask is absolutely the same as the face seen by the gardener!”

“You are remarkably observant, my dear fellow. And as for friend McMurdo I am reserving judgment. But the presence of this shop in the village raises interesting possibilities.”

And he looked thoughtfully at the leering monstrosities about us.

7

“Mr Solar Pons, sir! This is an unexpected honour.”

Inspector Horace Cunliffe’s grizzled features were suffused with pleasure as he held out a massive hand for my companion to shake. He sat in an old-fashioned office of the local police station with a big fire roaring in the grate and a sheaf of official-looking documents on the battered old desk in front of him.

“Don’t tell me this phantom business brings you to this corner of Essex.”

Solar Pons smiled faintly and dropped into a seat near the fire. The Inspector pulled up another chair for me and we sat toasting ourselves for a few seconds.

“It has brought you from Colchester, apparently, Inspector.”

The officer looked at my companion shrewdly.

“Touché, Mr Pons. I see that your reputation for sharpness has not been exaggerated.”

“There must be some reason for your staying on here, when you have other important duties in the county. You evidently do not think it just a village joke, as some people would have me believe. Despite your reported words in the public press.”

The Inspector blew out his cheeks once or twice and looked at Pons with a shrug.

“Ah, there you have me, Mr Pons. You have seen through my little stratagem. I hoped, through the reports I disseminated via the Press, that I would allay this fellow’s suspicions and that he would strike again.”

Solar Pons looked at the police officer approvingly.

“You will undoubtedly make your mark in the force, Inspector.”

The Inspector’s open face flushed with pleasure.

“There is something markedly wrong in the matter and I mean to get to the bottom of it.”

Solar Pons produced his pipe and turned it over absently in his fingers.

“Ah, you have noticed that, have you?”

The Inspector nodded, his grey eyes fixed on a corner of the mantelpiece.

“Instinct, Mr Pons. I have been in the force for fifteen years now and it has never led me astray before. Faces do not appear at windows fortuitously and heart or no heart attack Mr Boldigrew died as a direct result, if we are to believe the nephew.”

“And you do believe the nephew?”

Cunliffe’s eyes moved from the mantelpiece to take in my companion’s face.

“I am a good judge of character, Mr Pons. Until something comes up to disprove my theories, I believe Mr Balfour’s story.”

“Excellent, Inspector. I am sure we shall get on well together.”

“Ah, then you have been retained by the nephew?”

Solar Pons nodded, his deep-set eyes observing the thickset police officer sharply.

“It will be a pleasure to work with you, Mr Pons. I will be open with you and I am sure you will let me know if you come across anything.”

Cunliffe paused and looked at my companion almost apologetically.

“I have my methods, sir, and would prefer to keep my own counsel for the moment. Tidewater is a terrified village and many people have been frightened by this thing. Therefore, I shall not return to Colchester until I have satisfied myself about the so-called face and the circumstances of Mr Boldigrew’s death.”

The Inspector broke off and looked at Pons with twinkling eyes.

“I rely on you to keep me informed, Mr Pons.”

“I can assure you of that.”

Solar Pons stood up, a tall and commanding figure in the little office.

“You think this phantom figure will strike again?”

“It seems likely, Mr Pons. I am sure I need not underline my reasons for thinking so. In the meantime I watch and wait.”

“An excellent dictum, Inspector. I will be in touch. I wish you well in your investigations. Come, Parker.”

“Well, Pons,” said I, as we regained the misty street, “the Inspector seems to have his head screwed on tightly enough.” Solar Pons smiled thinly.

“As I surmised before we ever came to Essex, Parker, he is an extremely shrewd and capable officer. I think we can safely leave the general run of affairs to him.”

“But you have already formed some conclusions, Pons?” “Tentatively only, Parker. I would prefer to wait a little longer before coming to any definite opinion.”

I nodded, following the spare form of my companion as he threaded the attractive winding streets of the village.

“You seem to know your way remarkably well, Pons?”

My companion stopped in a doorway, his eyes bright as he lit his pipe. He contentedly puffed out smoke over his shoulder.

“I have had the advantage of examinin_g Balfour’s large-scale map of the area before you were up this morning, Parker. We have only some half a mile to go.”

“The residence of Ram Dass, Pons?”

Solar Pons smiled, his head thrust down into the collar of his warm coat, the stem of the pipe clamped between his strong teeth.

“The Grange it is, Parker. I think we shall learn something there to our advantage.”

“Do you not think, Pons,” I said, “that this business may have been exaggerated? These children, for example. With these green masks might they not have been playing jokes?”

Solar Pons shook his head, strange lights glinting in his eyes.

“You confuse cause with effect, Parker. You are taking things the wrong way round.”

“I do not understand, Pons.”

Solar Pons chuckled, taking the pipe out of his mouth, as we turned a corner and left the village behind us. The mist was down close to the road now, masking the fields and the surrounding marshland.

“It is my conviction that the man responsible for Boldigrew’s death took advantage of the popularity of this mask in the district. It was a question literally of a mask sheltering behind a mask. You heard what the man at the shop said. Draw your own conclusions.”

“I am all at sea, Pons.”

Solar Pons cleared his throat as though expressing exasperation.

“It is as clear as day, my dear fellow. He was forced to change his tactics.”

My brow cleared.

“The shopkeeper, Pons?”

Solar Pons had a mocking smile on his face as an impressive Edwardian building of red brick began to compose itself from out of the mist in front of us. The large iron gates to the gravelled drive stood ajar and on the topmost stone of each of the red-brick pillars which flanked the gates, the legend: THE GRANGE was chiselled.

Our footsteps set birds scuttering in the undergrowth as we walked down the front drive to the great pillared entrance porch. The front door was opened at our ring almost immediately, and a bearded Indian servant with a gentle, melancholy face above his sober black frock-coat ushered us into a tiled hall. The mournful sound of a flute sounded from the depths of the house and there was a faint smell of incense in the air.

Pons had sent in his card by the servant who returned almost immediately to bid us to follow him. He took us through a suite of three interconnecting rooms, each furnished sumptuously with many rugs, Oriental carpets and with carvings on the walls; each with a profusion of brass ornaments and bamboo furniture. It was all too florid for my taste and my expression must have shown my feelings all too well for Pons gave me a brief, ironic smile.

The servant tapped on a mahogany door in front of us and ushered us into a study containing many leather-bound books; a bright fire burned in the grate of the carved chimney-piece and there were many weapons hanging on the walls not occupied by books. I noticed kukris, swords whose handles were ornamented with precious stones; and a rack containing blowpipes and darts tipped with bright birds’ feathers.

“Heavens, Pons!” I mumbled. “This place is like a museum or armoury.”

“Is it not, Parker,” said Pons, looking around him with evident interest and pleasure.

The owner of The Grange had been sitting at a desk near the fire, evidently writing, for he now rose and put down the pen in his hand and stood waiting near the fireplace to receive us. A tall, impressive-looking gentleman with a black beard and cruel eyes which looked like a hawk’s in his brown features, he was yet courteous and reserved. With his impeccably cut tweeds he could have been mistaken for an English country gentleman at a distance. His voice, when he spoke, was low and cultured.

“Good morning, gentlemen. This is an unexpected honour.”

“Ah, you have heard of me, then?”

Ram Dass bowed gently from the waist, extending a slim, well-manicured hand toward us.

“Who has not, Mr Solar Pons?”

“You are too kind, Mr Dass.”

The tall man smiled ironically as he shook hands with us in turn.

“Please be seated but I am afraid your visit has been wasted, Mr Solar Pons.”

My companion’s eyes were bright as he stared at our host. “In what way?”

“Come sir. It is obvious. There have been strange happenings in the village of Tidewater. Mr Boldigrew died under mysterious circumstances. I had had numerous rows with his bailiff and it is no secret that my household is regarded with some hostility in the neighbourhood. I have expected the police before now. So when your card was brought in I was not surprised.”

“You are frank at least, Mr Dass,” said Solar Pons.

He looked at the tall man as he re-seated himself at the desk.

“It is my upbringing, sir.”

Ram Dass bowed ironically.

“You also sound rather bitter, if I may say so,” said Pons. The Indian’s eyes held a strange expression.

“Ah, you have noticed that.”

“It is not difficult to read it, Mr Dass.”

“I have learned to school my emotions but you are very perceptive, Mr Pons. And I will anticipate your next question by saying that I am not at all related to the gentleman who lost his money in my native country.”

“Ah, you know that story. I had not supposed for one moment that you were.”

Our host seemed nonplussed and stared at my companion with unconcealed surprise.

“Then why are you here, Mr Pons, if it is not an indiscreet question?”

“It is merely that I wish to see everything for myself, Mr Dass,” said Solar Pons easily.

“And now, we have taken up too much of your time altogether.”

He rose from his seat and I followed suit, looking blankly from one man to the other. The Indian had a fixed smile on his face and his eyes were glittering in a rather sinister manner, I thought.

“If I may presume to give advice to such a gifted criminologist…”

Solar Pons bowed.

“By all means.”

“My advice, Mr Pons, is look closer to home!”

Pons smiled somewhat grimly.

“I take your point, Mr Dass. Good morning. Come, Parker.”

We followed the silent servant out through the interconnecting rooms again.

“Well, Pons,” I said sotto voce. “He is a cool one.”

“Is he not, Parker.”

“Did you see all those blow-pipes and other weapons, Pons?

He seemed rather too prepared for our visit. And what did he mean by telling you to look nearer home?”

Solar Pons smiled enigmatically.

“It is all of a piece, Parker. It really has been a most instructive morning.”

We were being ushered out the front door by this time and I had to descend the steps at a rapid trot to keep up with my companion.

“Then you have learned something?”

“By all means, Parker. But in my turn I do not understand your talk about blow-pipes.”

“Well, the atmosphere is most sinister, Pons.”

Solar Pons looked at me with a mocking smile as we strode on through the thickening mist.

“Hardly grounds for suspicion of murder, Parker. You will have to do better than that.”

“Blow-pipes have been used for murder before, Pons.”

My companion stared at me incredulously.

“But the window was closed and locked, Parker. And the post-mortem findings… Nevertheless, you have stumbled upon an interesting point, however inadvertently.”

I felt my face growing red.

“It was just a suggestion, Pons.”

“You really must learn to use your brain-power to greater advantage, Parker,” said my companion reprovingly. “Now, in a few minutes we shall be back in Tidewater and should have time for just one more call before lunch.”

“Where might that be, Pons?”

“At George Sainsbury’s office in Tidewater High Street, Parker.”

I looked at Pons uncomprehendingly.

“Sainsbury?”

“He is Boldigrew’s family solicitor, Parker. I received this note from him by messenger this morning. We have been so busy I have not had time to mention it until now.”

He passed me the sheet of legal notepaper; it was headed, 3 Milton Buildings, High Street, Tidewater. Written in longhand, it merely said: “Dear Mr Pons, I should appreciate an urgent consultation with you. Would midday today suit you, at my offices? Please confirm by return. Yours, George Sainsbury.”

I passed back the sheet to Pons.

“What do you make of it, Pons?”

“Well, it is obvious, Parker. It is something to do with Boldigrew’s will.”

His face clouded and he looked extremely thoughtful as he carelessly thrust the note back in his pocket.

“The old man’s estate is obviously a key to this enigma, Parker. I had intended to see the solicitors at the earliest opportunity and this appointment is timely. It wants but a quarter to twelve now and we shall be there within a few minutes.”

We pressed on into the thickening mist but had not gone more than a few yards before we heard the wild clamour of bells coming through the dense blanket ahead. There was a strange glare in the sky as we hurried on.

“There is a fire, Pons!” I cried excitedly.

“Is there not, Parker,” said my companion, gazing sombrely ahead to where an angry orange glow was becoming more strongly visible every moment. We hurried onwards, as though compelled by some strange sixth sense of disaster. As we gained the outskirts of Tidewater it was obvious that the fire was serious indeed.

Dense clouds of black smoke, acrid and choking, came down wind toward us and the glare of the fire grew; now we could hear the strong crackling and cries of alarm as people hurried through the streets.

I elbowed my way through the crowd after Pons. The heat was intense and it was obvious that the large red-brick building which was the heart of the fire was doomed. A murmur was passing through the crowd.

“There’s someone in there!”

“The gentleman couldn’t get out in time.”

A large fire appliance with a brass funnel was slewed across the entrance of the street and icy cold water cascaded off the facade of the burning building in showers of sparks amid an angry hissing, while pools overflowed in runnels which swilled down the gutters. The crowd parted as someone came through, removing his hat, and I recognised the strong, capable figure of Inspector Cunliffe.

He and Pons were already in conversation and I was separated from them by a knot of people when an extra loud outburst from the crowd was followed by the dreadful hush that always follows in the presence of tragedy. The heat was tremendous now and a group of firemen, their oilskins gleaming with water were staggering from the building with a recumbent figure. There was a sickly aroma in the air which is peculiar to burning flesh.

I broke through into the cleared space as someone placed an oilskin over the charred remains. Pons’ clear-minted features were grim as he conferred with Cunliffe in low tones. A man in a dark overcoat was already at the sheeted figure and he turned an anguished face toward us, shaking his head.

“There is nothing I can do, I am afraid,” said Dr Sherlock in a trembling voice.

“It is Mr Sainsbury, is it?” said Cunliffe, looking swiftly about the crowd.

Sherlock nodded.

“The features are unrecognisable, I am afraid, but I can identify his pocket watch. The seals on the chain there are unmistakable.”

He pulled back the edge of the waterproof to disclose the partly melted object in question and Cunliffe nodded, his dogged features grim and brooding.

“I had an appointment with him,” said Pons, producing the letter from his pocket.

Cunliffe ran over it quickly, rubbing his chin in perplexity. “This could have been important, Mr Pons,” he said quietly, handing the sheet back.

We had walked a few yards away now and, bidding goodbye to Dr Sherlock, quitted the tragic scene. A hundred yards away, in clearer air and with the intervening houses between, the death of Sainsbury seemed like an unreal nightmare.

“You realise the significance of this, Inspector?”

The big man nodded.

“You give me much credit, Mr Pons, but I’m your man. Mr Balfour’s estate is the key to this business, if I read things aright.”

Solar Pons nodded.

“I have said it before and I will say it again, Inspector. You will go far. I had hoped to hear from Mr Sainsbury himself some of the conditions of the late Mr Boldigrew’s will.”

“Mr Balfour has not told you himself?”

Pons shook his head.

“For the simple reason that the will had not been read. From what my host told me this morning the ceremony was due to take place next month.”

“I see.”

The Police Inspector rubbed his chin again.

“All gone up in smoke now, Mr Pons?”

“It would appear so, Inspector,” said Pons smoothly.

“This doesn’t look like an accident to me, Mr Pons,” said Cunliffe grimly, looking back over his shoulder at the great pillar of black smoke which towered upward, staining the mist.

“Like you, Inspector, I strongly suspect murder,” said Pons, his eyes like ice. “But it will be rather difficult to prove, I fear. Fire is a great destroyer.”

“Too true, Mr Pons,” Cunliffe muttered. “Someone in this village is badly frightened. He may betray himself before long.”

“That is my hope also, Inspector. I am afraid we must leave you now. There is much to do after lunch. Come, Parker.”

And he led the way back at a brisk pace in the direction of Bredewell House.

8

“Now, Parker, let us just have your thoughts on this affair.”

Solar Pons fixed me with piercing eyes and leaned back in his chair by the fireside. It was early afternoon and Bredewell House was quiet. Mrs Bracegirdle was going about her duties in the mansion and earlier Balfour had gone out to his estate office in the grounds. He had turned a deathly white when I

had informed him of the death of the lawyer and the circumstances surrounding it, but had volunteered no comments on the matter and Pons had not asked for any.

Now he sat with the smoke from his pipe curling toward the ceiling, his thin, sensitive fingers vibrating on his knee like the antennae of an insect. Outside, oily wreaths of clammy fog hung at the windows and Bredewell House seemed isolated at the edge of the marsh. My own thoughts were little less gloomy and I stared at my companion while useless possibilities chased themselves about the recesses of my mind.

“About the phantom, Pons?”

“About the whole situation, Parker. You are becoming an excellent catalyst.”

“Good of you to say so. But this business of the will has set me thinking, Pons.”

“Well?”

Solar Pons’ lean, feral face expressed only polite interest as he stared at me through the dancing plumes of pipe-smoke.

“It came to me at the toy-shop, Pons. It would be so easy for anyone to buy one of those masks with which to frighten old Mr Boldigrew. He had a heart condition, as we know.”

I paused, conscious that Pons was looking at me with intense interest.

“Excellent, Parker! Little escapes you.”

“You do me honour, Pons. I hardly dare to suggest it but it has occurred to me that young Balfour himself is the chief beneficiary of the old gentleman’s will. What if he himself…”

I paused, hardly daring to venture the suggestion aloud. Pons eyes were very bright now.

“Go on.”

“It is only a supposition, mind, Pons. But if he had started out by donning the mask and frightening people in the neighbourhood… That would have provided a red herring, as it were. Then, when he struck at his uncle…”

“It really was an extremely tragic business, Parker,” said Pons in an excessively loud voice.

I stared at him in rising irritation.

“Did you hear a word of what I was saying, Pons?”

Pons stabbed the air with the stem of his pipe.

“I don’t understand, Pons.”

“Naturally,” my companion went on, as though I had not spoken. “Such a fire is almost impossible to stop once started.

You wished to see me, Mrs Bracegirdle?”

I started and looked back over my shoulder. The housekeeper stood in the shadows near the doorway and I had not heard her come in. Now she advanced toward us with a strange, almost furtive expression on her face.

“The fog is thickening, Mr Pons. I am naturally a little worried about Mr Balfour, sir. I wondered whether you gentlemen mightn’t join him at the estate office.”

The interest on Pons’ face quickened.

“You fear something, Mrs Bracegirdle?”

The housekeeper hesitated.

“I am obviously concerned, sir. I hope you did not mind me mentioning it.”

“You think this thing will appear again?” I asked.

The housekeeper licked her lips, turning to me.

“It is possible, sir. I do not know what to expect now. These strange Indians. ”

“I have been to see Mr Dass,” said Solar Pons crisply. “And I have formed an opinion on the matter. I also think that Mr Balfour has little to fear during the daylight hours, particularly in the busy atmosphere of the estate.”

He looked at Mrs Bracegirdle curiously.

“Tell me a little more about that night old Mr Boldigrew died.”

Mrs Bracegirdle clasped her hands together in front of her and looked at Solar Pons sharply.

“I have already told everything I know, Mr Pons.”

“It would not hurt to tell it again,” said my companion gently. “Sometimes small details get overlooked.”

The woman hesitated, her eyes never leaving Pons’ face.

“There was something, sir, the night Mr Boldigrew died. It was so trivial I never mentioned it.”

“It is the trivial which often has the greatest significance,” said Pons, tenting his fingers before him.

“Well, sir, it was something I did merely for form’s sake.” “And what was that, Mrs Bracegirdle?”

“It was at that dreadful moment when Mr Boldigrew died, Mr Pons. Mr Balfour rushed outside and I was left alone with the dying man for a minute or two. I raised him up and tried to give him air. It was then I noticed a thin trickle of blood on his neck.”

“Indeed.”

It seemed to have grown very quiet in the room and the crackling of the fire came to me unnaturally loud. Solar Pons ejected a plume of blue smoke from his mouth.

“To what did you attribute this bleeding, Mrs Bracegirdle.”

“I did not pay it much attention, Mr Pons. I thought my employer may have injured himself in falling or he may have cut himself in shaving that morning. The cut was low down, near his collar, you see. So I got my handkerchief and cleaned his neck, to tidy him up before the doctor came.”

“You did not tell Mr Balfour or the doctor of this?”

The housekeeper shook her head with a worried expression in her eyes.

“It did not seem important, Mr Pons. But thinking back and knowing what a wonderful way you have of reading things in tiny details I felt I ought to mention it.”

“You have acted wisely,” said Solar Pons slowly. “And no blame attaches to you. It may be of no importance but it has given me an inkling of the truth where all was dark before.”

The housekeeper shook her head.

“The whole of Tidewater seems to be going mad, Mr Pons. Not only this new tragedy of Mr Sainsbury but in so many little things.”

“In what way, pray?”

“Mrs Mackney’s boy, for example. Johnnie is such a truthful lad and I believed him though his mother was angry as she thought he had lost them. The pistol especially was expensive too.”

“I am afraid I do not follow, Mrs. Bracegirdle,” I mumbled. Pons shot me an amused glance and Mrs Bracegirdle flushed.

“I am not telling it very well, Mr Pons, I know. Mrs Mackney is an acquaintance of mine, who sometimes visits here. She was telling me some weeks ago of Johnnie’s untruthfulness. He told her his carnival mask had been stolen. And then when his expensive air pistol disappeared, she lost her temper. She was of the opinion the boy was lying, and that he had lost them.”

“Thank you, Mrs Bracegirdle!”

I was astonished at Pons’ reaction. He hit his thigh with the flat of his hand, making a cracking noise like a gunshot and his eyes were alight with excitement.

“You say this was some weeks ago? Before Mr Boldigrew’s death?”

“Oh, yes, Mr Pons.”

“And the boy never found the mask or the air pistol?”

“No, Mr Pons.”

“And these rather strangely assorted articles disappeared on the same occasion or on two separate occasions?”

“On two different occasions, Mr Pons, to the best of my recollection.”

“Excellent. Now, where could the boy have lost them?”

“He swore they were stolen while he was playing, Mr Pons, but his mother wouldn’t believe him.”

“Does Mrs Mackney work for a living?”

“Yes, Mr Pons. She does some cleaning work about the village. In shops and at the homes of professional gentlemen.” “Including Mr Sainsbury?”

“Why, yes, Mr Pons. So I suppose Johnnie could have lost his toys anywhere.”

“Exactly.”

Solar Pons was silent for a moment, his fingers pulling at the lobe of his left ear, often his habit when thinking. Presently he looked up.

“Thank you, Mrs Bracegirdle. You have given me a good deal to think about. I think we will join Balfour at the estate office, Parker. I have the germ of an idea.”

9

“Must you go, gentlemen?”

There was dismay on Michael Balfour’s face.

“It is only for a day or so, Mr Balfour. I have urgent business in London that cannot be put off, I am afraid. And Dr Parker must arrange for a fresh locum.”

“I quite understand, Mr Pons, but it is naturally a disappointment.”

It was dusk now and lights from the farm buildings round about pricked the darkness through the windows of the estate office.

“This business is taking longer than you thought, Pons.” Solar Pons nodded.

“It is a question of catching our man off guard, Mr Balfour. Which is why I want you to be careful and adhere strictly to my instructions when we are gone.”

“I will do that all right, Mr Pons.”

The smoke from my companion’s pipe rose in a thin spiral to the ceiling as he gazed almost dreamily out of the window. There came a tapping at the door and Stevens the gardener poked his head in.

“You wished to see me, Mr Balfour?”

“Yes, Stevens. You are going home shortly I suppose? I wondered if you would be good enough to take the pony and trap in with you and deposit Mr Pons and Dr Parker at the station. You can leave the equipage at the livery stables overnight and that will be your transport back in the morning.”

“Delighted, gentlemen.”

The gardener’s face was frankly curious.

“Not leaving the district, sir?”

“For a few days only. I have to be back in London on urgent business.”

“I will just harness the trap, sir, and will be at your disposal in a quarter of an hour.”

“Bring it to the front door of the house, would you. Dr Parker and I will just have time to throw a few things into a holdall.”

Stevens saluted and closed the door.

A few moments later we waited in the bitter air while Balfour locked the estate office behind him. We walked across the courtyard in the gathering dusk, thin wisps of mist already eddying eerily in the distant trees and blurring the outlines of the surrounding countryside.

“Lock your doors this evening and follow my instructions implicitly,” said Pons as we stood in the hall waiting for our conductor.

Mrs Bracegirdle looked as surprised as Balfour at our sudden departure, I thought, but she kept her own counsel. A few moments later the grating of iron-bound wheels in the driveway announced the arrival of Stevens and with the briefest of goodbyes, we were soon whirling effortlessly in the direction of Tidewater.

Stevens kept his thoughts to himself, hunched over the reins and the horse picked its way instinctively through the fog. Pons smoked in silence and I must confess my own thoughts were heavy. We seemed to be hopelessly enmeshed in an evil atmosphere down here on the marshes and I could not possibly see a way clear in the impenetrable morass which surrounded us.

It was quite dark when we reached the outskirts of Tidewater and I was surprised when Pons put his hand on the driver’s shoulder and jumped lithely to the ground.

“This will do nicely, Stevens.”

“Do you not want the station, sir?”

“Our train does not leave for forty minutes,” said Pons carelessly, “And I prefer to walk a while for the exercise, rather than sit about in a draughty waiting room.”

“As you wish, sir. Goodnight.”

He made a little salute in the air with the lash of his whip and jogged on into the murk. To my surprise Pons had turned aside and was walking up an alley lined with elegant small houses of red brick, with neat, white-painted windows.

“Ah, here we are, Parker. Jasmine Cottages. Number six. This is the house, I fancy.”

He turned to me, his lean, feral face alive with urgency beneath the mellow gaslight.

“If you would not mind waiting, Parker, I shall hardly be a minute or so.”

“As you wish, Pons,” I mumbled.

I took a turn up and down the road while Pons was inside the house, completely lost now as to my companion’s motives. He emerged within five minutes, rubbing his thin hands together with barely suppressed excitement.

“Excellent, Parker. Mrs Mackney was most helpful.”

“Mrs Mackney, Pons? The woman whose son lost the air pistol. I hardly see…”

“No doubt, Parker,” said Solar Pons rudely, taking his holdall from me and stepping out at a fast pace. As we turned into the High Street we almost ran into the bearded figure of the toyshop proprietor, McMurdo, who was just putting up the shutters for the night.

“Ah, Mr Pons. Inclement weather, sir.”

He looked sharply at the bags we were carrying.

“I heard you were leaving. Not too successful this time?” “Perhaps, perhaps,” said Pons languidly. “Goodnight to you.”

I stared back over my shoulder as I followed my companion down the street.

“How did he know your name, Pons? And why did he know we were leaving? This all sounds very suspicious to me.” Solar Pons chuckled.

“These things have a habit of getting around small villages, Parker. Stevens, perhaps, or one of the estate workers.”

“I do not know why we are leaving at all, Pons,” I continued. “I thought you had formed some strong conclusions.”

“And so I have, Parker, so I have. Ah, here is the road leading to the station if I mistake not.”

As we gained the gaslit entrance I was astonished to see the sturdy form of Inspector Cunliffe waiting beneath the canopy.

At his side stood Dr Sherlock holding some books and a buff envelope in his hand.

“Good evening, Mr Pons!”

The Inspector raised his hard hat, a beaming smile on his face.

“The fact that we are returning to London seems to have become public knowledge throughout the whole town,” I said somewhat bitterly.

“Indeed,” said Inspector Cunliffe heartily. “Difficult to keep these things secret down here.”

“Just what I was telling Parker,” said Solar Pons smoothly, taking the buff envelope from Dr Sherlock.

“Good of you to remember, doctor.”

“Oh, think nothing of it, Mr Pons,” said Sherlock carelessly. “Glad to have been of assistance. Though I don’t think you’ll find much there.”

Pons drew out the Sainsbury post-mortem report, perused it keenly and passed it to me.

“Death by asphyxiation, of course,” I grunted, passing it back somewhat ungraciously to my companion.

“If you will excuse me I will just purchase our tickets,” said Pons. “I am sure you can make small talk for a few minutes, Parker.”

“I am afraid I must be off,” said Dr Sherlock, raising his hat. “I have a heavy surgery this evening.”

“By all means,” said Pons, shaking hands. “Many thanks for your assistance.”

“A pleasure.”

Sherlock turned to me as Pons went over to the booking office window.

“Good night, doctor. Glad to have met you.”

He bobbed away in the gathering dusk as Cunliffe and I walked through the booking hall to join Pons. We stood at the gate to the platform waiting for the train. Another had just come in from the opposite direction and the engine stood at the far platform, belching smoke and steam while the angry red glow from the firebox illuminated the driver and fireman, so that they looked like figures from a woodcut by Dürer.

A tall bearded figure came through the barrier, smiled briefly and turned aside.

“Good evening, Mr Dass!”

The Indian smiled maliciously.

“Leaving already, Mr Pons?”

“The atmosphere of Tidewater is a little stifling after that of London.”

“Well, I hope you find what you are looking for.”

“I am sure I shall.”

The Indian smiled briefly again, his silent factotum bringing up the rear, as he walked briskly to the cab-rank at the other side of the station fore-court.

“A strange man, that,” said Inspector Cunliffe heavily as he glanced after him sharply.

“But not as strange as some in Essex,” said Solar Pons enigmatically. “Ah, here is our train, Inspector. You will keep alert, of course?”

“Naturally, Mr Pons,” said Cunliffe politely. “You will excuse me for not coming on the platform.”

My companion handed him a slip of paper.

“By all means.”

The Inspector disappeared into the gloom and Pons and I were soon ensconced opposite one another in the comfort of a first-class compartment. Pons chuckled as the train drew out in long, shuddering strides.

“Now I have baited the trap, I think that most of the chief dramatis personae cannot fail to be aware of our intentions.” “What on earth do you mean, Pons?” I said.

“Oh, come, Parker!” said Solar Pons, a slight note of irritation in his tones. “You surely do not think we are leaving young Balfour alone in such a place as Bredewell House and in deadly danger of his life?”

“Then why are we going to London?”

“We are not, Parker. We are getting out at the next station and making our way back to Tidewater.”

“Ah, so you only wished local people to think you were off the case?”

Solar Pons stared at me with an ironic expression in his eyes.

“Sometimes, Parker, I think you are a greater droll than even the world takes you for. Why do you think I was at such pains to let the whole of the Tidewater area know that we were returning to London?”

“I see, Pons. But Inspector Cunliffe is in the know?”

“Naturally, Parker. I am relying on his assistance if all goes as I think it might. We have baited the trap and must now wait for our man to come to us.”

And with that he settled himself in his corner, belching out clouds of impenetrable blue smoke as the train thundered on through the night.

10

“Quickly, Parker!”

Pons led the way across the platform of the halt at a fast pace, so that I was hard put to follow. It was extremely dark now, bitterly cold and the fog was billowing in white swathes before our faces.

“Shall we be in time, Pons?” I asked anxiously as we hurried through the station barrier and swung to the left, on to the narrow road that must take us back to Tidewater. Behind us the glowing lights of the train we had just left were already swallowed in the murk and we could only hear its progress as it left the platform.

“If my estimation is correct we shall have ample time,” said my companion imperturbably, “but I wish to be in position and survey the ground well before he comes.”

“Why are you so positive it will be tonight, Pons?”

“Several reasons, Parker. Principally because he now knows we are no longer on the ground, but safely on our way to London. He thus has two clear days in which to strike. He will feel safer tonight because there is always a possibility that we might return some time tomorrow afternoon. Thirdly, the weather conditions are perfect this evening for what he has in mind. This fog is ideal for concealing his movements.”

“And what has he in mind, Pons?

“Cold, calculated murder, Parker!” said Solar Pons grimly, his chin hunched down into the collar of his overcoat, his pipe throwing a bright chain of sparks through the darkness as he strode along vigorously at my side. There was no traffic on the road, probably because of the bleak conditions and I was glad I had a bag to carry because the exercise and its weight engendered warmth.

“You do not mean it, Pons!”

“I wish I did not, my dear fellow. But this killer has already taken two lives that stood between him and a fortune. He needs only to put young Balfour out of the way to inherit old Boldigrew’s estate.”

“Ah, then, the will is at the bottom of it, Pons?”

“It is the key to everything, Parker. That is why the unfortunate Sainsbury was murdered and his records destroyed. He undoubtedly suspected someone and wished to inform me of something important when he was struck down.”

I must confess I felt my scalp crawling at his words, uttered as they were in such hard and determined tones amid such bleak surroundings. Every step we took in this wilderness seemed to lead us deeper into the heart of an impenetrable mystery; impenetrable to me at any rate, as I had little idea of the complex thoughts that were chasing themselves through my companion’s mind.

“But whom do you suspect, Pons?”

Solar Pons shook his head, a wry expression on this thin, sensitive lips.

“I would prefer not to speculate at this stage, Parker. I have nothing to go on at all but the theory I have formed. One broken or misread link in the chain could disprove my reasoning. Better to wait now and put it to the test. You should know the answer within an hour or two, my dear fellow.”

I stared at my companion without speaking. He put his hand on my arm.

“You really are most invaluable in my little investigations, Parker. I do not know what I should do without your companionship and presence in the many crises through which we have passed.”

He had never been so forthcoming before and I flushed with pleasure.

“Glad to do what I can, Pons,” I stammered.

We had been walking for some ten minutes now and the exercise on the iron-bound surface of the road was beginning to dispel the deadly cold and engender some bodily warmth. Solar Pons smiled as though he could read my thoughts.

“It may be a long vigil tonight, Parker. I have taken the precaution of bringing some whisky in a flask in my pocket here. You have brought your revolver?”

“You insisted on it, Pons.”

My companion nodded.

“Excellent. We may have need of it before the night is over.”

He said nothing further and another twenty minutes had passed before I sensed that we were nearing our destination. My companion slackened his pace a little and touched me on the arm.

“I think we will diverge from the road here, Parker. We do not want to forewarn our man.”

“What are we to do then, Pons?”

“Take to the fields, my dear fellow. Just give me a moment to check my bearings.”

I did not see how he was to do so as the fog had now thickened considerably. The night was freezing too and there was an air-frost which made my ears and cheeks tingle. Pons cast about for a moment and then led the way forward without hesitation.

“Ah! I thought I was not mistaken.”

He had turned into a small lane on the right; in reality it was only a cart-track whose deeply rutted surface was now bound in the iron grip of frost. Pons put his lips against my ear.

“We must be extremely careful now, Parker. We are only a few hundred yards off the farm buildings. Sound carries a long way under these conditions. And be careful how you place your feet as one may easily turn one’s ankle in the dark.”

“I will be careful, Pons.”

My companion went on, pausing only occasionally to check his bearings. After a few minutes he opened a gate on the left that led to an open field. We walked slowly across the rough, undulating turf, the mist cold and clammy against our faces. I looked at my watch. It was so dark I had to hold my eyes only an inch or two from the dial to make out the time. It was already almost eight o’clock.

Pons only grunted when I told him and enjoined caution by putting his fingers to his lips. A moment or two later we came out on the banks of a small stream, now frozen and powdered with hoar frost. A few yards farther there was a rough wooden bridge, evidently used for cattle crossing, guarded only by simple wooden palings. We crept quietly across it and traversing the next field, the mist seemingly thicker than ever, suddenly saw lights beginning to prick the darkness.

“That is the farm, Parker,” said Pons softly. “The house is occupied by the tenant farmer and he has the yard lights on this evening. That is excellent for our purpose. We must swing heavily to the left to come level with Bredewell House.”

We passed the next quarter of an hour working our way round the farm and apart from a solitary dog whose barking caused us some anxiety, there was no indication that anyone knew of our presence. When Pons was satisfied he became brisker in his movements and a wicket fence, its palings looking black and sinister in the whiteness of the fog, loomed up before us. Pons found a gate and opened it carefully. We stepped through and I waited while my companion closed it behind us.

“We are only a few yards from the drive which leads from the farm area to the house,” he whispered. “We must now find a sheltered spot which will command the scene of operations while affording us some concealment. I have already marked such a place but we must be extremely careful as to noise. Follow me and keep your wits about you.”

We crept silently forward through the fog; it was now so thick that we were only a matter of yards away before we saw light from one of the upper windows of Bredewell House.

“Ah, this is the place, Parker,” Pons whispered.

He led the way into a thicket of evergreens, the icy-cold of the leaves making a harsh noise as we crept through them, they were so brittle with the frost. Pons stopped at last and I was left looking at the gloomy fog-bank.

“I am afraid this is the best we can do,” said Pons. “At least we should be able to hear our friend if he comes.”

I pulled my coat-collar more tightly about my neck.

“How long are we likely to be here, Pons?”

“Oh, at least two hours,” my companion rejoined casually. “Do take some whisky for inner warmth. And you will find these sandwiches excellent.”

We made a simple supper crouched in the lee of a large yew tree whose trunk afforded shelter, and I must say things began to seem a little better once the warmth of the raw spirit began to permeate my system. I shifted my position, biting into a fresh sandwich.

“Where are we, Pons?”

“About midway between the farm buildings and the main gate of Bredewell House, Parker. If it were not for this fog you would find us almost opposite the study window.”

“Ah, then we are on the small side-drive which loops round to rejoin the main carriage-way near the front door?”

“Exactly, Parker. I do not know whether he will be approaching from the farm or from the village. This way we should be able to cut him off if young Balfour is in danger.”

“It is by no means certain he will come, Pons.”

Solar Pons smiled thinly, his face dimly visible through the fog though he was only a foot or two away from me.

“You are becoming quite a philosopher, Parker. As you point out, nothing is certain in life. But as I have already indicated, I am convinced that our man is desperate and that he will strike soon. And this is the best method; to bring him to us and catch him in the act. So we must be on the alert, despite these inclement conditions.”

I said nothing further but finished my al fresco supper and composed myself with what patience I could muster to sit out the hours. It seemed an inordinately long time, strained as my nerves were. The bitter cold; the fog; the strange surroundings and the bizarre errand which had sent us to this bleak, lonely spot in Essex all combined to arouse a darkness in my own mind; and the cramped conditions, for we could take no exercise without signalling our presence, made me miserable indeed.

It seemed as though the long night itself must have worn away though in reality only some two hours had passed, when Pons stirred at my side and put his finger to my lips.

“Have your revolver ready, Parker,” he whispered. “Unless I am much mistaken someone is approaching.”

I roused myself, a thin finger of ice tracing out my spine. A moment later I caught the sound which had attracted his attention. The faint, almost imperceptible echo of footsteps on the drive.

“Be extremely careful, Parker. Absolutely no noise.”

Pons stood up under the shadow of the tree and I joined him, almost falling because of the cramp in my limbs. He caught me by the arm and steadied me. The sounds, though unpleasantly furtive, were now more audible. Then they ceased altogether.

“He has crossed the grass, Parker. Unless anything unforeseen occurs, we have him.”

I took my revolver from my overcoat pocket and eased off the safety catch. I held it before me, muzzle pointed at the ground, as we went forward, step by step in order to make no sound.

We were on the verge at the edge of the drive now, our progress muffled by the mat of frozen grass stems. There was a sudden lightening of the mist ahead.

“That will be the study window, Parker,” said Solar Pons exultantly. “And our friend has not passed on, so this is no late straggler from the farm using the drive as a short-cut.”

As he spoke there came a low, urgent rapping noise from within the blanket of mist. In three paces we were across the drive; I paused by Pons, my heart thudding in my throat.

“What is it, Pons?”

“He is tapping on the window to attract attention, just as he did in the case of Boldigrew.”

Almost as he spoke the blanket of mist was broken by a pale lozenge of yellow light.

“He is following instructions perfectly, Parker. Young Balfour has drawn back the window curtain. Ah! Now we have him.”

As he spoke I saw what his keen eye had already picked out. The silhouette of a thin, muffled form, outlined against the whiteness of the mist. It was joined by a second figure which could only have been Balfour at the window. There was the sound of the casement being raised as we crept closer. Then the figure outside the window disappeared and when it rose from below the edge there was another silhouette in the right hand which could only have been a pistol.

“Quickly, Parker! Fire into the air!”

There was such urgency in Pons’ tones that my reaction was instinctive; as the explosion, magnified tremendously by the mist, split the silence, the furtive figure turned with great rapidity. We were up to the window now and Balfour gave a cry of fear, staggering back in bewilderment. I saw a hideous yellow face which was so close that it seemed thrust into my own and then the thing had disappeared into the darkness and the fog.

“What was it, Pons?” I stammered as I became aware of other noises; dogs barking; a cry of alarm from the housekeeper; and Balfour asking incoherent questions of my companion.

“All in good time, Mr Balfour,” said Pons incisively. “There is nothing further to be feared. Quickly, Parker! Before he gets away.”

He set off running into the mist and I had difficulty in keeping up with him. Pons led the way without hesitation, back in the direction from which we had come. We crossed the fields, the breath sobbing in my throat and in a remarkably short while came to the lane we had traversed earlier. We had not gone far along it when Pons gave a sudden exclamation.

“We are in time, Parker. There is no hurry now.”

The hooded form of a motor vehicle loomed from out of the mist; Pons glanced in at the driver’s door. The interior was empty and he busied himself near the ground, peering intently at the licence plate.

“I think we will re-trace our route, Parker. Unless I miss my guess he has hidden among the farm buildings until things quieten down. He will have to come across these fields to regain his car and I do not think he will want to hang about here any longer than need be.”

“Why is that, Pons?”

Solar Pons glanced at me with grim amusement.

“Because he has been badly frightened, Parker. And also because he would fear an organised search.”

He glanced at his watch.

“I am certain of his identity now but I would prefer to catch him on the ground.”

We had crossed the second field and were passing a small copse when Solar Pons caught me by the arm. The mist was thinning a little and a moment later I saw the dark, recumbent figure on the grass. In two strides I had reached it and turned it over. Dark trousers and a thick jersey of black wool enclosed the legs and body. I was prepared for It but the face gave me a shock; the same leering yellow monstrosity I had glimpsed earlier.

It was not until Pons had leaned forward to rip it from the features that I saw it was knitted yellow wool, embellished with details taken from a carnival mask similar to those I had seen at the shop in Tidewater. I gasped as the blue, cyanosed face came into view.

“Dr Sherlock! It seems impossible, Pons.”

Solar Pons shook his head.

“There is your phantom, Parker. When a medical man goes wrong he can go very wrong indeed. But I fear from the rictus and the set of the features that he is beyond human justice.”

I swiftly felt the region of the heart and then the pulse. “You are right, Pons. It appears to me as though he has suffered a fatal heart seizure.”

Solar Pons smiled grimly as he stood up. He held a gleaming silver gun in his hand.

“Young Mackney’s air pistol if I am not much mistaken. The biter bit, Parker. Ironic, is it not, in view of his findings on young Balfour’s uncle?”

He glanced round swiftly.

“There is no time for explanations now. We must get back to Bredewell House and then telephone Inspector Cunliffe. This matter must be handled discreetly and there has been sensation enough for one night.”

11

“Yes Mrs Bracegirdle, I will have another cup of coffee, thank you.”

Solar Pons chuckled and looked bright-eyed round the room. Michael Balfour sat opposite us at the circular table with Inspector Cunliffe next to him. I sat on Pons’ right and at our insistence Mrs Bracegirdle sat between my companion and her employer, where she presided at the coffee pot. A week had passed since the terrifying events of the night on which Sherlock met his death and much had happened since. Young Balfour passed a hand through his rumpled hair.

“Even now, Mr Pons, though much has been explained I am still not certain why Dr Sherlock would want to murder his best friend and then make an attempt on my own life.”

“Human nature is dark and mysterious,” said Pons. “Events may turn the strongest brain and Dr Sherlock was desperately short of money.”

“That is true, Mr Pons,” said Inspector Cunliffe. “Our investigations have shown that Sherlock had speculated unwisely. He lost not only his own money but that of his partners in his previous practice and he left under a cloud.”

Solar Pons nodded.

“Which is why he came to Tidewater. I should guess that racing was his real downfall.”

Inspector Cunliffe looked sharply at Pons.

“That is correct enough, Mr Pons. He was in for thousands and was desperate for money.”

“I cannot see, Pons…” I began, when my companion gave a short laugh.

“It was merely an inspired guess, Parker. When we met Dr Sherlock at the station that night, he carried some books as well as the medical report. I noticed that one of them was Ruff’s Guide to the Turf. When I learned from Mrs Mackney that Sherlock’s waiting room was filled with sporting and racing magazines I must confess my mind was turned to that direction.”

Pons leaned forward at the table, the library fire on this bitter evening casting strange shadows over his lean, ascetic features.

“Let us just recapitulate, Parker, if you would be so good.”

“Well, Pons,” said I. “We had a rather strange old man, who was abnormally reclusive and worried; who literally bolted himself into his house after receiving threats. He dies after seeing a horrible face which had been haunting the neighbourhood; and his nephew, Mr Balfour here, who asks your help, is the heir to Mr Boldigrew’s considerable fortune.”

“Exactly, Parker. Most succinctly put. I could not have paraphrased it better. It became obvious to me that this was no random haunting of the village; neither was it a joke or even less a genuine phantom. It was clear from early on that Mr Boldigrew was literally scared to death, which left Mr Balfour as the only person between the murderer and a considerable fortune. You may remember, Parker, I was particularly careful to enquire into the circumstances of the other so-called ‘hauntings’ in the village.”

“Why was that, Pons?”

“Because a brief analysis of the circumstances in each case revealed that the phantom was seen only through glass and that all the people who saw it were getting on in life.”

“I am afraid I do not see the significance, Pons.”

“That is because you are not using your ratiocinative powers, my dear fellow. The phantom appeared only outside windows and in the dark and then only very briefly because the hoax would have been obvious without these aids to flight. Similarly the people to whom Sherlock appeared in his disguise were elderly and either too terrified or simply not physically capable of running after him quickly. He needed time and distance to get away. The point being, of course, to establish that there was a ghost in Tidewater, before he struck at Boldigrew.”

“But why not strike at my uncle first, Mr Pons?” said young Balfour, bewilderment on his features.

Solar Pons gently shook his head.

“That would not have done at all, Mr Balfour. It would immediately have thrown a spotlight on the solitary crime. Sherlock wanted to avoid this at all costs. Firstly, by establishing a veritable reign of terror in the neighbourhood. Then, when your uncle died of a heart attack after seeing the face, it would be one of a series of unconnected incidents. The last thing Sherlock wanted was to emphasise the aspect of the will.”

Balfour turned worried eyes upon each of us in turn.

“I am still not sure that I understand, Mr Pons. Surely Sherlock could not go openly to the shop in the village and buy such things as carnival masks.”

“Naturally not, Mr Balfour. That was where his waiting room came in so useful. His patients naturally included young children from time to time. With the craze for carnival masks and other toys in the district, they sometimes brought such items with them to his surgery. We can now never know for certain, Sherlock being dead, but it is obvious that both the carnival mask and air-pistol were abstracted from the waiting room when the young Mackney boy visited there as a patient. His mother told me the circumstances, which was when I found my thoughts on the matter becoming crystallised.”

Solar Pons turned to me.

“You will remember, Parker, that the shopkeeper was at some pains to demonstrate that the green carnival masks were flimsy and did not last. In other words, they tore easily and this Sherlock soon found; having used it on several occasions to spread alarm in the neighbourhood it became worn so he undoubtedly destroyed it. You may remember, Parker, that I drew your attention to the significance of the shopkeeper, McMurdo, running out of the green masks. So Sherlock obviously had to improvise his own.”

“Which accounts for the fiend with the yellow face appearing, Pons!”

My companion turned to me with a reproving look.

“Somewhat picturesquely put, Parker, but basically correct. Sherlock then constructed his own mask, as we have seen. The stage was now set for the murder of your uncle, Mr Balfour, who incidentally had nothing wrong with his heart at all.”

“Nothing wrong, Pons?”

Solar Pons shook his head.

“The exhumation of Mr Boldigrew’s body and the subsequent post-mortem by the County Pathologist, has established that conclusively. It was a fiction conveniently fostered by Dr Sherlock for reasons of his own.”

Balfour passed his hand across his eyes.

“Then Uncle Charles did not die of a heart attack brought on by fright, Mr Pons?”

“Of course not, Mr Balfour. Naturally, no-one was to know this at the time as Dr Sherlock himself performed the original post-mortem and signed the papers so there was no reason to suspect him.”

“And when did you suspect him, Pons?”

Solar Pons turned shrewd eyes to me, ejecting a thin plume of fragrant blue smoke from his pipe. He looked at Mrs Bracegirdle thoughtfully.

“The very evening we reached here, Parker. I felt that the doctor arrived a little too pat upon the scene. He played his part superlatively well, so that I could not be sure, but with my arrival in Tidewater he needed to know exactly what was going on; what my client suspected; and he required to be on the spot himself to obtain his information at first-hand.”

“He did not get very much, Pons,” I interjected. “But if Mr Boldigrew was murdered, Pons, then how on earth was it done?”

“By a very simple but at the same time very clever plan, Parker. You may remember that the young Mackney boy also missed one of his favourite toys, an air pistol, shortly before Mr Boldigrew was murdered. This was one of the last pieces I needed to make the whole scheme clear in my mind. You will recall, Mr Balfour, that I was particularly interested in Mr Boldigrew’s rather strange custom of securing his house from intruders but himself going to the window at night and opening it when particular friends called and tapped upon the glass. It is now obvious that the ruin of the Indian venture and the loss to his partner preyed on his mind and Sherlock took advantage of that, even to the extent of sending him threatening letters.”

“The threatening letters, which Sherlock undoubtedly cunningly timed, had a cumulative effect upon poor Boldigrew. They not only added to his remorse over the suicide of the Indian partner but turned him into a grim, frightened recluse who transformed his house into an almost impenetrable fortress. But, with the strange aberrations to which human nature is vulnerable, he left a loophole which Sherlock immediately seized upon.”

“His odd habit of opening his study window to callers, Pons.”

“Exactly, Parker. I will refer to the window again in a moment but something immediately struck me about the situation. You will recall, Parker, that I told you that the figure of the apparition could be seen only through the central pane of the turret window. If the figure had appeared at the side windows it would have been obliterated by the reflection of the room lights on the glass. That was of the utmost significance.”

“Significance, Pons?”

“Of course, Parker. It told me at once that the ‘phantom’ could only have been someone who was familiar with the room; in other words, someone who had already been inside the house. That narrowed down the possibilities considerably.”

“Brilliant, Mr Pons,” said Balfour, open admiration on this face.

My companion shook his head.

“Elementary to a trained investigator, Mr Balfour. To return to the window. This seemed to me to be the crux of the matter and I soon discovered a number of very interesting points. One was the patent window lock and the fact that the window glass itself intervened between the murderer and his victim. I came to the following conclusion and though it is not now provable I am convinced it is the true explanation. The night of your uncle’s death Sherlock came here in his motor vehicle and left it on the remote road beyond the farm. It was a bitterly cold night and there would have been no-one about.

He wore the same costume as on the night of his death, carrying the mask in his pocket. He saw the light in your uncle’s study and tapped on the glass.”

“Your uncle drew back the curtains, opened the window and spoke to the doctor. On some pretext Sherlock withdrew into the darkness, donned the mask and came back into the light to fire the air pistol that originally belonged to the Mackney boy.”

Pons turned to Inspector Cunliffe.

“As we have already seen, Inspector, Sherlock had adapted the weapon to fire sharpened darts; small pieces of wood like splinters which were coated in a substance which rendered the victim unconscious in a short space of time. He then drew the window down, automatically locking it.”

“I got on to this only through Mrs Bracegirdle mentioning that her employer had a cut upon his neck. I instantly surmised it to be a small wound or puncture, and the idea of a dart came into my mind. Sherlock removed it on arrival, of course.”

Pons turned to the housekeeper.

“I am not, of course, blaming Mrs Bracegirdle for this but her cleaning the wound immediately erased my initial suspicions of Sherlock as my mind was already in that direction and I wondered why he would not have reported such a puncture. Of course, I had already established that the window could be closed and locked noiselessly and the same was obviously true from outside the house. Sherlock had time to draw the window down and automatically lock it before the nephew ran in.”

“I see, Pons!” I interjected. “He got in his car and quickly drove home, only to be summoned back to Bredewell House.”

“Exactly, Parker. Then, with great cold-bloodedness, he sent Mrs Bracegirdle and Mr Balfour out of the room while he supposedly revived the dying man, only to give him a lethal injection.”

“There is no doubt about that,” said Inspector Cunliffe. “The County Analyst tells me that there was a quantity of a deadly poison found in the remains, which had undoubtedly been administered intravenously.”

Mrs Bracegirdle had listened with an ashen face and now she turned toward Pons, her eyes seeking his face.

“But what was the point of all this, Mr Pons?”

“You forget that Dr Sherlock was Mr Boldigrew’s oldest friend. Greed and desperation had distorted his nature. It is as clear as day. The doctor was the chief beneficiary of the will in the event of Mr Balfour’s demise. No doubt he had played on Mr Boldigrew’s fears over the past few years by saying he had heart disease and had gained an ascendancy over him.”

Young Balfour shuddered.

“It is absolutely horrible, Mr Pons. I would have rather given up the money than have all this happen.”

My companion shook his head.

“Your sentiments do you credit, Mr Balfour, but we must take the world as we find it. It is a very imperfect one.”

“And poor Mr Sainsbury?” put in Mrs Bracegirdle.

“Murdered by Sherlock because he alone knew that the doctor was the beneficiary of the will,” said Pons. “It was obvious that he wished to tell me something but that the doctor, guessing what was in the wind, found him alone in his office, knocked him on the head and set the place on fire.”

The Inspector nodded grimly.

“The Sainsbury post-mortem has established skull damage, despite the heat of the fire. Sainsbury’s secretary has told us Sherlock had an appointment with him earlier that morning, though she did not see him at the office.”

“Of course,” went on Solar Pons, “the fact that Sherlock was the ultimate beneficiary in the event of Mr Balfour’s death would have come out eventually. But as you know, if Mr Balfour had been murdered in the same way as his uncle, the will would not have been published for a year or so, as is the normal custom. It is my belief that Sherlock would have been agreeably surprised at the news and as Sainsbury was safely out of the way and the copies of the will in his office destroyed, there would have been no-one to suspect him.”

“It was a good thing you put me on to Somerset House, Mr Pons,” said Inspector Cunliffe.

Mrs Bracegirdle turned a worried face to Pons.

“I am afraid I have misled you, Mr Pons, with my suspicions regarding Mr Ram Dass. I am so ashamed now.”

Solar Pons chuckled.

“It was a natural assumption to make, Mrs Bracegirdle. But one completely unsupported by the facts. It took only a brief interview with the gentleman concerned to eliminate him entirely from my inquiries.”

“Why was that, Pons? He looked extremely suspicious to me.”

“That is because you were entirely superficial in your approach, Parker.”

I must have looked nonplussed because my companion smiled winningly.

“Oh, come, Parker, it is not so very difficult, Mr Dass was a rather strange, colourful character in the district. Sherlock evidently banked on him being a prime suspect if murder was ever suspected, as he and the Boldigrew estate had already had a boundary dispute. I largely discounted this possibility even before we visited Mr Dass but I had to eliminate him from our inquiries. What possible motive could he have had? Money is one of the most powerful motives known to mankind. Yet Dass could not possibly benefit by Boldigrew’s death. And people rarely murder over relatively trivial boundary disputes and as I had already learned that the two men had had no personal contact in the matter I swiftly put the possibility from my mind.”

Solar Pons turned back to the Inspector.

“We had already established that Dass had nothing to do with the man who lost money in the Indian speculation, so I had to turn elsewhere for my culprit. Dr Sherlock was the only man who was in a position to pull the strings in the case; he was Boldigrew’s oldest friend and knew most about him; he had performed the post-mortem; and, most importantly, he had the opportunity to purloin both the mask and the air-pistol from his own waiting room as my interview with Mrs Mackney made clear. The only thing missing was the motive and I saw my way to that with the death of Sainsbury, a check with Somerset House revealing the identity of the beneficiary.”

“It. was a clever plot,” Inspector Cunliffe observed. “The air pistol had been cunningly adapted to fire the darts.”

Solar Pons fixed his deep-set eyes upon his client.

“I am only sorry I had to use you as a tethered-goat in the outcome, Mr Balfour. My case rested upon pure theory and needed the corroborative factor that only the circumstance of catching the culprit in the act could give.”

“But supposing the dart had been discovered?” I said. “Or it had fallen to the carpet? Surely the police might have suspected Sherlock.”

Solar Pons shook his head.

“Hardly the police doctor, Parker. He had Ram Dass picked out as a ready suspect for that. As we know, he was not liked in the neighbourhood and you yourself drew attention to the blow-pipes and other weapons on his walls.”

“But I am still puzzled about one or two things.”

“For example?”

“The appearance of the apparition to Stevens, the gardener.”

“That was entirely fortuitous, Parker. Sherlock was obviously on his way to make an attempt on Boldigrew’s life but his accidental encounter with the old man frightened him. In the event he did not make his second, and fatal attempt, until the following week.”

“But why did he appear in that strange way to Mr Balfour, on the first occasion, Pons?”

Solar Pons smiled wryly.

“Ah, that can only be conjecture now, Parker. He would not have been attempting to frighten Mr Balfour. He had already established his reign of terror and after his mishap with Stevens he had become more cautious. It is my contention that he was merely peering into the room, trying to make sure whether Mr Balfour was alone and carrying on with his uncle’s habits. I understand from Mrs Bracegirdle that the elder man’s eyesight was not so good. At any event Mr Balfour immediately spotted him and frightened him off, thereby saving his own life, for the upshot was that he came to us.”

“But why was he wearing that horrific mask, Pons?”

“For the simple reason, my dear fellow, that it would disguise him. He could not simply appear at the study window in his own persona at that stage. But as soon as we appeared on the scene he realised he had to act quickly.”

“That still does not explain why he tapped on the window that last time, Pons. He could not be sure that Mr Balfour would behave in the same manner as his uncle.”

“That is undoubtedly true, Parker. But no-one would be afraid of Dr Sherlock. This he banked on.”

Young Balfour smiled grimly.

“That is perfectly correct, doctor. When he tapped at the window he wore no mask. I was surprised to see him there but not at all suspicious. I thought perhaps you had sent a message by him. It was only when he disappeared while I was raising the window that the truth dawned upon me. Then Dr Parker’s shot sounded.”

“I must apologise to Dr Parker for our little deception, but he is so transparently honest and secrecy as to our true intentions was so essential that I did not take him into my confidence.”

“Which is why you put it about that you were leaving Tidewater,” said Balfour. “I understand now. But I was in no danger, Mr Pons. I followed your instructions implicitly. Though shocked and appalled by the sight of that dreadful face I realised you would not be far away. I was already ducking and closing the window as he raised the pistol.”

“Nevertheless, Pons,” I said. “Mr Balfour showed considerable courage. And you have brilliantly handled the case.” Solar Pons shook his head.

“I fear it will not go down in your annals as one of my more sparkling efforts, Parker. The affair has been conducted in a mental as well as physical fog.”

“Nobody in this room but yourself would agree, Mr Pons,” said young Balfour with an open smile.

“It has been a lesson, Mr Pons,” said Inspector Cunliffe. “An honour to work with you, sir.”

He shifted awkwardly and cleared his throat.

“I have no doubt that your reconstruction of events is substantially correct, Mr Pons. We have already found damning evidence at Dr Sherlock’s home. The remains of a green carnival mask in a locked cupboard; more of those darts for the air-pistol; and a certified copy of Mr Boldigrew’s will, discovered only this morning, and which corroborates our own information from Somerset House. I have seldom met a more fiendish set of circumstances involving murder. And in the end suicide was the only way out.”

“You may well say so,” said Pons grimly. “And it is to your own credit that you stayed on the spot, when less keen-witted officers would have returned to Colchester. Which is no doubt why you had Mr Boldigrew’s inquest adjourned without a verdict being returned. Both Parker and I were puzzled why no cause of death was given. You immediately seized on the salient points; realised that the set of events involving the so-called phantom face had significance far beyond their surface appearance; and waited for further developments. Instinct is a major factor in the process of crime detection, my dear Inspector, and you have it in high degree.”

Inspector Cunliffe flushed with pleasure.

“It is very kind of you to say so, Mr Pons. A word from you to that effect in the ear of my superiors would not come amiss.”

“You may rely upon it,” said Solar Pons gravely.

Then, turning to me, “If you would be so kind as to pass me the sugar, my dear Parker, we must see about getting back to London. Without disrespect to our host I think we have both had enough of Essex for the time being.”

And he drank his coffee with great contentment.