The Recollections of Solar Pons

-1-

“Great Heavens, Pons! My old friend involved in murder! It cannot be true!”

I put down the paper in utter consternation and turned to my companion in astonishment. The heading in The Times and the accompanying account was completely shattering and I found myself unable to speak for some moments after my initial outburst.

Solar Pons stirred sympathetically at the other side of the breakfast table, his deep-set eyes searching my face. It was a damp, muggy morning in early April with a fitful sun penetrating the mist and spilling into our sitting-room at 7B Praed Street.

I passed him the newspaper, still too moved to speak. Pons took it, his eyes fixed intently on my face. He pulled at the lobe of his left ear, his features a mask of concentration as he spread the paper out on the table by the side of his plate.

“This business of the portrait painter? I did not know you knew Aramis Tregorran.”

“We were at medical school together, Pons, until he abandoned medicine for a career in art. That it should come to this!”

Pons read the item, his thin fingers tense with excitement. “It would appear that Mr. Tregorran has got himself into deep waters, Parker,” he said eventually.

“I had been inclined to envy him his success, Pons,” I said somewhat bitterly. “I see now that I have done better to stick to medicine.”

Solar Pons glanced at me ironically.

“I would not say that your life has been unsuccessful, my dear fellow. But then Tregorran’s career has been too spectacular for most of us to emulate. And his descent has been equally swift, it would appear.”

I took the newspaper from him and studied the heading of the story again. It was unbelievable.

The item read:

The article, from The Times’ own correspondent, described a bizarre state of affairs at Tregorran’s Chelsea studio.

“Hullo, Pons,” I said as I reached the end of the story in the paper, “I see that our friend Jamison is in charge of the case.”

“I had already observed that, Parker,” observed my companion drily.

“On this occasion, however, it would appear that he is right when he avers that the matter is a plain case of a domestic quarrel ending in murder.”

I shook my head sadly.

“I still cannot believe it, Pons.”

Solar Pons looked at me sympathetically.

“Such things are always difficult to believe, Parker. Especially when such tragedies happen to old friends.”

I turned back to the newspaper and studied the narrative again.

“I had heard, Pons, that Tregorran was not on the best of terms with his wife, but from what I know of his character he would not hurt a mouse. He was the gentlest of men.”

Pons got up from his chair, took a spill from the fireplace and lit his pipe. He spiralled a column of blue smoke toward the ceiling of our sitting-room. Then he came back to sit in his chair and looked at me interrogatively.

“What you are trying to tell me, my dear fellow, is flying in the face of the evidence,” he said gently.

“Nevertheless, I would feel easier in my mind if you would look into the affair, Pons.”

Solar Pons had surprise in his eyes.

“You cannot be serious, Parker. I have not been consulted in the matter.”

“But if I asked you, Pons?”

Solar Pons smiled thinly and pulled reflectively at the lobe of his left ear.

“That would be entirely different, Parker. I could not, of course, ignore such a request from such a close friend and companion. Just hand me that newspaper again, will you?”

He took it from me and sat smoking and studying it for the next ten minutes in silence. He put it down and sat staring at the flickering flames in the fireplace.

“It is true that Inspector Jamison is not the most brilliant of police officers but I must confess that my own faculties are considerably rusted this morning.”

“What do you mean, Pons?”

“I overlooked an obvious anomaly when reading this account, unless the newspaper has made a mistake.”

“What do you mean, Pons?”

“The door, Parker. It was locked.”

I looked at him in surprise.

“What of it, Pons?”

“It is surely unusual for a man to lock his studio door in his own house, particularly during the lunch-hour.”

“I did not read that, Pons.”

“Obviously, Parker, but there is only one implication to be drawn if the servant had to break the door in. The key was not in the lock. Therefore it had to be on the other side.”

“Perhaps he wished a private interview with his wife and during the quarrel rage overcame him?”

“Perhaps, Parker. But we do not even know there was a quarrel. That must await my own questions to your Mr. Tregorran.”

“Excellent, Pons! I would feel so much happier if you would just give us the benefit of your immense skill in these matters.”

“Flattery, Parker, flattery!”

But Solar Pons had a twinkle in his eyes as he said the words. Before he could say anything else there was a ring at the bell, a muffled conversation in the hall below and the tread of feet ascending the stairs. A few moments later there came a deferential tap at the door and the good-natured features of our amiable landlady, Mrs. Johnson, were thrust into the room.

“Inspector Jamison to see you, Mr. Pons!”

“Thank you, Mrs. Johnson. A cup of coffee, Inspector? There is still plenty in the pot.”

“Thank you, Mr. Pons.”

The somewhat deflated figure of Jamison sank into the chair proffered by Pons. He took the coffee-cup I held out to him with a grateful expression on his features.

Pons doffed his old grey dressing-gown and took up his jacket from the back of a chair in a corner. He looked at our visitor with an alert expression in his deep-set eyes.

“It is some while since we last met officially, Jamison. That little business of Romaine Schneider, was it not?”

The Scotland Yard man put down his cup in the saucer with a faint chink in the silence of our sitting-room.

“This is a little different to that, Mr. Pons,” he said with a smirk. “In fact I would not be here at all if it were not for an urgent plea by Mr. Aramis Tregorran’s solicitor.”

“Strange that you should seek my advice in another artistic matter, Inspector. First a sculptor, now a painter.”

Pons looked at me with a little mischievous smile of enjoyment playing about his mouth. Inspector Jamison seemed discomfited but he nevertheless took another sip of the coffee before replying.

“Not at all, Mr. Pons. It’s the clearest-cut case of murder I’ve ever seen. You’ve no doubt come to the same conclusion if you’ve read this morning’s paper.”

“Why are you here, then?”

“Because of this urgent request by the accused’s solicitor, Mr. Pons. And because Tregorran specially asked Dr. Parker to seek your advice. He swears he is innocent. It is ridiculous, of course, but I would not like it to be thought that the Yard had not given him every chance. And as your name was mentioned…”

“Of course, Inspector. You are noted for fairness,” murmured Solar Pons blandly.

He took a turn about the fireplace, the blue smoke from his pipe making little eddying whorls around his lean, dynamic figure. He came back to stand in front of the Inspector.

“All the same you are not certain, are you?”

Jamison shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“To tell the truth there are one or two odd points,” he mumbled.

“Exactly,” said Solar Pons crisply. ‘The small matter of the key to the studio for example.”

Jamison stared at Pons in amazement.

“How on earth did you know that, Mr. Pons?”

“It was self-evident if The Times report had any accuracy.

And it is not usual to find The Times slack in such particulars.”

Jamison scratched his head.

“You are right, Mr. Pons. We could not find the key at all.”

“Yet the door had to be broken in?”

“Exactly.”

Solar Pons looked at me with a little smile of triumph.

“Nevertheless, things look extremely black for Mr. Tregorran, doctor,” continued the Inspector, noting the look of relief on my face. “I should not get up your hopes too high.”

“Where is Mr. Tregorran at this moment, Jamison?” asked my companion.

“At Chelsea Police Station, still being questioned, Mr. Pons. He has been detained overnight, of course.”

Pons inclined his head. “Naturally.”

I turned to Jamison.

“I trust that my friend has been afforded every facility to contact his friends and legal advisers.”

Jamison gave a short, barking laugh.

“You may be sure of that, doctor. Would I be here otherwise? And I have already allowed him to see his solicitor.”

“You have made your point, Jamison,” said Solar Pons.

“There is no complaint on that score.”

“You will come then, Mr. Pons?”

“Most certainly, though if you have been unable to unravel the matter, it is extremely unlikely that my humble efforts in the same capacity would do better.”

“You are making sport of me, Mr. Pons.”

“Only a little, Inspector,” said Pons with a thin smile.

“But first I have a fancy to see the scene of the murder. We will visit Chelsea Police Station afterwards, if you please.”

“As you wish, Mr. Pons. The studio is just as we found it, though the body has been removed, of course.”

My companion turned to me.

“Are you free, Parker?”

“Certainly, Pons, if you require me. It is my rest day.” ‘That is settled, then. Lead on, Inspector.”

-2-

Tregorran’s house turned out to be one of those modest looking white-painted, flat-chested houses in which Chelsea abounds, set back in a cobbled mews. Like most houses of its type its unassuming three-storey exterior concealed large, gracious rooms and unostentatiously displayed wealth. As we alighted from Jamison’s police vehicle, Pons walked over to the minuscule front garden, set back behind blue-painted railings and raked the facade of the building with his keen, penetrating eyes.

Watched silently by myself and the Inspector he passed through an archway at the side and glanced up at a staircase which led to an outside door at the top of the steps.

“That is the studio?”

“That is so, Mr. Pons. Mr. Tregorran had it built so in order that his sitters and other clients could come and go without disturbing the household.”

“Eminently practical.”

Pons stood in deep thought, his hand pulling at the lobe of his right ear as I had so often seen him.

“I have a mind to look at the scene of the crime without disturbing the household either. Is that practicable?”

“Certainly, Mr. Pons. The door is unlocked and there is a constable on duty.”

We followed the Inspector up the steps and found ourselves in front of a glassed-in porch. The inner door gave on to a small lobby in which the main entrance of the studio was set.

“There is no key to the outer door of the porch, Mr. Pons,” Jamison volunteered. “And so far as Mr. Tregorran is concerned, never has been.”

“I see.”

Solar Pons stepped forward as Jamison opened the polished mahogany interior door. He stood frowning at the bronze key in the obverse side of the lock.

“Is this key normally in the lock?”

Jamison looked surprised.

“No, Mr. Pons. It is Mr. Tregorran’s own key which he usually keeps on his desk. This door is usually kept locked unless he is expecting visitors.”

“I see. That seems clear enough.”

Pons bent to examine the lock and then straightened up, closing the door behind him. We found ourselves in an extremely elegant, luxuriously furnished studio, the watery sun spilling down through the massive skylight windows.

An alert, fresh-faced police constable in uniform came down the room toward us, evident pleasure on his features. Solar Pons smiled.

“Ah, Constable Mecker. It is good to see you again.”

“Thank you, sir. The pleasure is mutual, I am sure. This is a bad business. I am sorry, Dr. Parker. I understand the accused gentleman is a friend of yours.”

“That is correct, Mecker,” I said. ‘Though Mr. Pons here hopes to clear the matter up.”

There was regret in Mecker’s eyes as he shook his head, turning back to my companion.

“Begging your pardon, sir, even your great skill will find it a well-nigh impossible task to complicate such a simple matter.”

“Well, if somewhat deprecatingly put, Mecker,” said Solar Pons drily. “So your superior has been telling me. We shall just have to wait upon events. And now I must set to work.”

He went across the studio, which was in a shocking state with tumbled furniture and canvases scattered about.

“This door has not been touched?”

“Our people went over it for finger-prints, Mr. Pons, but it is substantially as we found it.”

Pons went down on his knees and carefully examined the shattered lock.

“Hullo!”

There was surprise in his voice.

“The key is in the lock!”

“Impossible, Mr. Pons!”

“Just look for yourself, Jamison.”

I crossed over to stand behind the Inspector as he stooped to the door, which was off its hinges and lying propped against the wall. Jamison’s jaw dropped blankly.

“You are right, Mr. Pons.”

A bronze key, similar to that in the studio entrance door, was protruding from the brass lock-plate.

“You are sure it could not have been overlooked?”

Little spots of red stood out on Jamison’s cheeks.

“Positive, Mr. Pons. We made a careful check. That is so, is it not, Constable Mecker?”

“Certainly, sir.”

The puzzlement of his superior was echoed in Mecker’s own eyes.

“Well, well. This is most interesting.”

Solar Pons straightened up and rubbed his thin hands together in satisfaction.

“This is a most important development. I commend it to you, Inspector.”

I saw the puzzlement in Jamison’s eyes but said nothing, merely watched Pons as he went about the room in the brisk, alert manner I had grown to know so well. At a sign from the Inspector Mecker went to stand by the far door, out of earshot.

“Where was Mrs. Tregorran found?”

“Over here, Mr. Pons. She had been manually strangled

and our doctor’s post mortem report confirms this. She was a

well-built and perfectly healthy woman, some thirty-eight years old.”

Pons nodded and walked over to a place beneath one of the great sky-lights at the far side of the studio. From the jumble of broken picture frames and a crack in the glass where one of the panes extended almost to the floor, it was evident that a savage struggle had taken place. Pons had his powerful pocket lens out now and went minutely over the carpet and surroundings in this corner of the studio.

He straightened up, dusting the knees of his trousers.

“I can learn nothing further here.”

He stood looking down with a faint frown of puzzlement on his features.

“They had no children?”

Jamison shook his head.

“No, Mr. Pons.”

He hesitated slightly, embarrassment on his face.

“From what the servants tell us they were a quarrelsome couple. Begging your pardon, Dr. Parker. The marriage had gone wrong but apparently Tregorran had sought a reconciliation. He was painting Mrs. Tregorran’s picture at the time of her death.”

“Indeed?”

The puzzlement on Solar Pons’ face had increased.

“Where is this portrait?”

“It is on the easel yonder, Mr. Pons.”

“Hmm. So apparently Mrs. Tregorran was in the studio here, having her portrait painted, the couple on reasonably good terms, if I read the situation aright?”

“That would appear to be the case, Mr. Pons,” said the Inspector, shifting heavy-footed from one leg to the other.

“We have various statements from the servants.…”

“We will get to them later, Jamison, if you please.…” said Pons brusquely.

He turned to me.

“That seems rather odd, Parker, does it not?”

I nodded.

“The painting of the portrait, Pons? It certainly seems so to me. I had heard that the Tregorrans did not get on well together, but did not feel it was my place to point it out to you.”

Solar Pons stared at me with a languid expression on his face.

“Perfectly correct, Parker. You were old friends and you left me to form my own impressions. Exactly as I should have done had the position been reversed.”

He walked softly over to the easel indicated by Jamison. It stood directly beneath the main skylight and just across from it, on a raised platform was the chair so fatally vacated by the sitter. Paint-brushes were scattered on the floor, near a paint-bespattered palette and there was a sharp, chemical smell in the air. On a small side-table was a half-empty bottle of lager, with the stopper and foil lying by its side; an empty beer glass; and on a blue plate, the partly consumed remains of a sandwich. Jamison had approached and answered Pons’ unspoken question.

“He was in the habit of eating snacks in the studio all the while he was working.”

“I see.”

Pons stood plunged in thought, his keen eyes darting from easel to the scattered mess on the floor and then across to the dais. We waited silently while he made a minute examination. While he was doing this I looked at the almost completed canvas. It depicted a beautiful, imperious-looking woman with long blonde hair who stared insolently at the viewer from very frank, blue eyes. Jamison intercepted my glance.

“Lovely woman, wasn’t she, doctor? But a firebrand from what I can gather.”

I waited until Pons had re-joined me and he stood staring at the canvas in silence.

“It seems fairly clear what happened,” he said at last. “Tregorran put down the glass here and resumed his painting. At some period he dropped the palette, brushed past the easel — there are some threads of blue cloth caught on a protruding nail here — and rushed across to the dais. Mrs. Tregorran thrust back her chair — the indentations in the carpet on the dais where the sitter’s chair normally stood, are plain enough to see — and fled toward the door leading to the house. Tregorran intercepted her and penned her in the corner, where he strangled her among the picture-frames. In my judgment the attack was ferocious and unpremeditated. Both circumstances are singular.”

“Why so, Pons?”

Solar Pons smiled a thin smile.

“For obvious reasons, Parker. One, you have already told me that Tregorran was the gentlest of men, who would not harm a fly. But this attack was savage and brutal. That it was unpremeditated is equally obvious. The man was consuming his lunch and painting in an apparently ordinary manner when he was so overcome by rage that he rushed over toward his sitter and attacked and murdered her.”

“It is extraordinary, Pons,” I said, “and I do not pretend to understand it. Perhaps they had an argument and Mrs. Tregorran said something so insulting that it set him off?” Solar Pons’ eyes were bright as he stared at the canvas. “Perhaps,” he said softly. “We shall see.”

He turned back to the Inspector.

“I should like to question the servants next.”

“By all means, Mr. Pons.”

It was with some relief that we quitted the heavy atmosphere of the studio, Mecker ushering us through the gaping opening which now led into the house. We found ourselves in a wide corridor, hung with gold-framed pictures by Tregorran and broken at intervals by a series of low mahogany bookcases. There was a small octagonal table outside the door and Pons’ sharp eyes flickered over it. A lamp stood on it, but the top was a little dusty and I saw my companion stoop and frown at the square line which divided the dusty and dusted segment of the table.

“Something normally stands here, Jamison.”

The thin form of the Inspector gave an expressive shrug.

“Tregorran didn’t like to be disturbed while he was working, Mr. Pons. The servants were in the habit of leaving trays of food for him here.”

“I see. And the person responsible was getting a little careless in the dusting up here.”

“So it would seem, Mr. Pons.”

Pons stood in silence a moment longer before swivelling to look back at the corridor behind him. To Jamison’s evident astonishment he walked back to the end of the passage. It turned at right angles. There was a small, square entry with a single window.

The weak sun glimmered at the panes and glittered on the brass handle set in the panelling. Pons turned it and stepped through. We found ourselves once again back in the glassed-in porch. The door through which we had entered was panelled on the other side and looked from the lobby just as though it were a solid wall, the edges of the door fitting cunningly behind the beading.

Solar Pons smiled at me.

“Interesting, is it not, Parker?”

Inspector Jamison scratched his head.

“Two entrances from the house to the studio. This needs looking into, Mr. Pons.”

Solar Pons pulled reflectively at the lobe of his left ear.

“On the other hand it may have a perfectly obvious explanation.”

“In what way, Mr. Pons?”

“Convenience, Jamison. We are on the first floor. It looks a long way back down to the front door. If Tregorran had his studio entrance here it might be just as convenient for his servants and guests to go out this way as well from time to time.”

“Perhaps, Mr. Pons. But why the concealed entrance?” Solar Pons smiled again.

“That explanation is equally simple. Entrance to the studio is one thing. But Tregorran would not wish to advertise an entrance into the main house to burglars.”

“That is so, Pons,” I put in. “But another explanation has suggested itself to you?”

“You excel yourself, Parker. Let us say, another possibility. I commend that to your ratiocinative instincts, Jamison.”

He led the way back into the main house again and we made our way down a handsome carved pine staircase into the entrance hall. Here a tall, thin man with careworn features was waiting for us, an elderly woman, evidently the housekeeper, standing at his side.

“There is nothing to be alarmed about,” said Jamison as we came down the last flight.

“This is Mr. Solar Pons. He is here to help Mr. Tregorran.” The worried expression on the manservant’s face deepened as he came forward.

“This is a dreadful business, Mr. Pons.”

“Indeed, Relph. You are Mr. Tregorran’s valet, I understand?”

“General factotum, Mr. Pons. Valet-butler to be precise. This is Mrs. Mandeville, the housekeeper.”

Pons acknowledged the introduction gravely.

“Let us go inside somewhere and sit down, Jamison. It will be much more conducive to comfort and efficiency.”

“By all means, Mr. Pons.”

Relph opened a sliding door at one side of the hall and led the way into a handsome, bow-fronted room with cream walls, containing a good deal of Regency furniture. My companion prevailed upon Relph and Mrs. Mandeville to sit opposite us on a divan while Jamison went to stand by the carved pine fireplace, his eyes fixed on the low fire flickering on the hearth. Solar Pons lit his pipe, the match-head rasping against the box unnaturally loudly in the silence which had fallen on the room. His deep-set eyes surveyed the two servants piercingly.

“I would like you both to tell me, in your own words, exactly what you know about yesterday’s occurrences.”

Relph glanced interrogatively at the housekeeper, who stirred and licked her lips. She spoke first, glancing occasionally at her colleague, as though for corroboration.

“I do not know that there is much to tell in my case, Mr. Pons. Mr. Tregorran breakfasted as usual yesterday morning and I did not see him again. He took a tray at lunch-time and there was a disturbance at about two o’clock. I ran out into the hall and then Mr. Relph told me what had happened. I am still stunned, Mr. Pons.”

“Quite so,” said Solar Pons soothingly. “And Mrs. Tregorran?”

“I do not understand, Mr. Pons.”

“She had been estranged from her husband, had she not?” Once again an uneasy glance passed from the housekeeper to Relph.

“I do not see that it is my place, Mr. Pons…”

Solar Pons tented his fingers before him and looked at Mrs. Mandeville steadily.

“Those are admirable sentiments and ones ideal in a housekeeper, but we are dealing with a murder inquiry.”

The smooth, motherly face flushed.

“Yes, that is quite true, Mr. Pons. Mr. and Mrs. Tregorran had had some terrible rows and she had gone to live elsewhere. We were all surprised to hear that they were together again.”

“I see.”

Solar Pons was silent for a moment, his eyes fixed steadily somewhere up over the fireplace, as though he saw things denied to us.

“How did this come about?”

“I do not quite know, Mr. Pons. I think Mr. Relph knows more about it, being in Mr. Tregorran’s confidence, you see. But I understood he was painting his wife’s portrait, which amazed us all.”

Solar Pons nodded, putting the stem of his now extinct pipe between his strong, yellow teeth.

“When did Mrs. Tregorran arrive yesterday?”

“In the morning, Mr. Pons. Mr. Relph was upstairs somewhere and the two maids were otherwise occupied, so I answered the door myself.”

“How did she seem?”

“Quite normal. Perfectly pleasant, in fact. I showed her upstairs and then Mr. Relph appeared and took her through to the studio.”

“I see. Thank you Mrs. Mandeville. You have been most helpful.”

“If you wish Tregorran’s statement, I have it here, Mr. Pons,” Jamison volunteered from his position near the fireplace. He fumbled in his breast pocket and came up with a set of official-looking papers.

Pons shook his head.

“Thank you, no, Jamison. I prefer to question my client without any pre-conceived ideas. I may glance at that later.” “As you wish, Mr. Pons.”

Jamison frowned at me and put the docket back in his pocket, evidently disgruntled.

Pons turned back to Relph.

“What have you to add?”

The manservant was evidently under some constraint, for he fidgeted a little before replying.

“As Mrs. Mandeville says, gentlemen, Mr. Tregorran kept to the studio most of the morning. I had some conversation with him through the door and he informed me that his wife would be arriving for a sitting. He had been working on her portrait for the past fortnight.”

Pons’ eyes were keen as he tamped fresh tobacco into the bowl of his pipe.

“Was that usual, Mr. Tregorran speaking with the door between you like that?”

“Quite usual, sir. Mr. Tregorran did not like to be disturbed while he was working.”

“Even though he had no model there?”

The manservant nodded.

“There was a deal of preparatory work, Mr. Pons. And Mr. Tregorran had many other commissions.”

“I see. Pray continue.”

“Mrs. Tregorran arrived a little before eleven o’clock. As Mrs. Mandeville has said, I escorted her to the studio and after tapping on the door announced her arrival.”

“Did you see Mr. Tregorran on that occasion?”

“No, Mr. Pons. I left Mrs. Tregorran at the door and as I gained the end of the corridor I heard the door close behind her. I was busy about my household duties and at about midday I collected a tray from Mrs. Mandeville and took him an early lunch. I knocked at the door and left the tray on the table outside the door.”

“That was a usual procedure also, I understand?”

“Indeed, sir.”

“And Mrs. Tregorran?”

“The lady rarely took lunch, sir; or if she did she ate at about two o’clock in the afternoon. But Mr. Tregorran’s eating habits were entirely different and he often said he felt starved if he did not take something at midday.”

“I see. What then?”

“Nothing untoward occurred, sir, until shortly after two o’clock. Mrs. Tregorran was still in the studio and I was in my room, reading after lunch. I was just about to return to my duties when I heard terrible screams coming from the direction of the studio. My room is just along the corridor, around the corner but the noise was so horrible that I could hear it clearly from there. I ran down to the door but as I had expected, it was locked.”

Solar Pons’ eyes were sharp and glittering as he lit his pipe, shovelling aromatic blue smoke over his shoulder.

“Pray be precise as to detail. It is most important.”

“Very well, Mr. Pons. There was no reply to my agitated knocking. The screaming had stopped but I could hear a fierce struggle taking place in the studio. Things were being knocked over and bodies were blundering about. It was a dreadful time and difficult to describe, I am afraid.”

“Your account is admirably clear, Relph. What then?” “Other members of the staff had appeared, including Mrs. Mandeville. She sent a maid for the gardener and he and I broke the door in together. I went into the roomalone, and as a result of what I saw the gardener went immediately to summon the police. Mrs. Tregorran was lying near one of the big windows, her eyes wide open and staring, her tongue protruding from her mouth. It was evident that she had been strangled, for there were heavily indented bruise-marks on her throat.”

“Where was Mr. Tregorran?”

“He was slumped in a heap in the centre of the studio, sir, midway between the platform used by the models, and the window. He was in a dreadful state, his face white and chalky, perspiration on his forehead, his eyes glazed.”

“Did he give you any explanation as to why he had attacked his wife?”

The manservant shook his head.

“He was incapable of saying or doing anything, Mr. Pons. He was incoherent, barely conscious and in a complete state of collapse. He kept mumbling things. In fact, had I not known Mr. Tregorran so well, I should have said he was little short of a madman.”

There was a deep silence in the room. Solar Pons looked at me, his eyes shrewd and penetrating.

“Most singular, Parker, is it not?”

“Indeed, Pons,” I said.

My companion rose to his feet.

“Well, there is little further to be learned here unless you have anything to add, Relph. You have been most helpful.” Relph shook his head.

“I have told you everything I know, sir.”

He looked resentfully at Inspector Jamison.

“Unless you wish to know personal matters that might tell against Mr. Tregorran. Such as those the Inspector questioned me about.”

“Oh, what was that, Inspector?”

Jamison shifted uncomfortably by the fireplace.

“We’re seeking information about certain lady friends of Mr. Tregorran’s, Mr. Pons.”

Relph had a stubborn, defiant look on his face.

“My answer would be the same to you, sir, as to the Inspector here.”

“And what was that?”

“Why, to ask Mr. Tregorran, sir.”

Pons chuckled.

“Quite right. Your attitude does you credit. Come, Parker.

It is time we had a word with the accused man himself.”

-3-

A short drive brought us to Chelsea Police Station where Jamison ushered us through into a small, bare room with white-washed walls which contained nothing but a desk, a mahogany filing cabinet and a few chairs. I was prepared for a change in my friend when he was shown into my presence but never had I seen such a transformation in a man. I had not seen him in the flesh for some years, it was true, but the photographs in newspapers and magazines of the tall, handsome, glossy-haired man had not prepared me for this pale, blanched creature with lack-lustre eyes who was escorted into the office by two constables.

Tregorran was dressed only in a shirt and trousers and I noticed that he had no belt or braces, having to keep his hands on the latter garment to hold them up.

“Really, Inspector!” I protested. “He is not a common criminal!”

Jamison shot me a reproachful glance.

“It is necessary for his own good, Dr. Parker. We were afraid he might hang himself overnight. And I am afraid that whether he is your friend or no, he is a common criminal now.”

I bit my lip and hurried over to the desk where Tregorran sat slumped, his dead, soulless eyes fixed on vacancy.

“I am sorry to see you like this,” I mumbled, hardly knowing what I was saying.

The eyes painfully focused and at last I saw recognition in them. A shudder shook his frame.

“Ah, Parker! It was good of you to come. I am afraid you find me much changed.”

I clasped the feeble hand held out to me and sat down at his side, conscious that Solar Pons and the Inspector had silently taken seats at the other side of the desk. I looked across at Jamison.

“He has been medically examined?”

“Of course, doctor. Our man found him incoherent and wandering in his mind. He is confused about yesterday’s events, though that is natural enough.”

Jamison drew his lips into a thin, straight line.

“He is sane enough to stand trial if that is what you were thinking,” he said grimly.

Solar Pons leaned forward at the table and tented his thin fingers before him.

“We shall see, Jamison,” he said crisply.

He fixed Tregorran with his penetrating eyes.

“Just tell us what happened yesterday in your own words and be as accurate and precise as possible as to detail.”

Tregorran shook his head with a wan smile.

“That is just it, Mr. Pons. My mind is an absolutely confused blank. When the police told me I was accused of murdering Sylvia it was not only an appalling shock but a patent absurdity.”

“Why do you say that, Mr. Tregorran?”

“Because it is the Gospel truth, Mr. Pons. My wife and I, after a period of great turbulence, were on quite amiable terms again. We were not living together, it is true; we both led separate lives and had done so for some time. But to say that I murdered her or that I even wanted to murder her is ridiculous!”

“Even in view of Miss Celia Thornton?” Jamison put in waspishly.

Tregorran turned white.

“You have seen her?”

Jamison nodded.

“We interviewed her last night. She did not deny that you had been intimate friends for some time.”

Solar Pons turned to the Inspector.

“Who is this lady, Jamison?”

The Inspector had a mocking expression in his eyes. “No doubt Mr. Tregorran can answer that, Mr. Pons.” Tregorran had a defiant expression on his face now. “It was no secret that my wife and I were at daggers drawn,

Mr. Pons. Celia and I had been lovers for a long time to be quite frank, Inspector.”

“An excellent motive for murdering your wife, I should think,” put in Jamison drily.

Tregorran shook his head wearily.

“Unfortunately, Celia and I had become estranged of late, also. It is a long story, gentlemen, and I will not bore you with it today. You were asking about yesterday, Mr. Pons?”

My companion inclined his head, his eyes never leaving Tregorran’s face.

“Your day, hour by hour, Mr. Tregorran, if you please.”

“It is very simply told, Mr. Pons. I rose at six a.m. to catch the light for a particular commission I am working on. I breakfasted at seven and by half-past I was already at work in my studio. I took a break for a cup of coffee at about 10:30 a.m., and my wife arrived around eleven o’clock for work on her portrait.”

“Tell me about that, Mr. Tregorran.”

The haggard man at the table expressed surprise.

“There is nothing to tell, Mr. Pons.”

Then his face cleared.

“You mean why did I wish to paint Sylvia’s portrait after we had been on such bad terms? It was her request. Though she put it tactfully, I gathered that the commission came from an admirer. I am quite a good painter, you know, and there was nothing unusual in such an undertaking, even given the circumstances of our stormy marriage.”

Solar Pons nodded.

“Quite so.”

Tregorran passed a shaking hand over his forehead. He looked a hopeless figure slumped before us and I could not repress a twinge of pity.

“Mrs. Mandeville brought me my cup of coffee.…”

Pons drew his eyebrows together in a frown of concentration. He glanced at Jamison.

“She did not mention that.”

Tregorran shrugged.

“Probably an oversight, Mr. Pons. I did not see her. She merely rapped on the door and left the cup on the table outside. I left the cup there afterwards and it was presumably cleared away at lunch-time.”

“I see. What happened when your wife arrived?”

“We chatted on perfunctory matters. Then I carried on with the sitting. Mrs. Mandeville brought my lunch at about 12 o’clock. I was concentrating on the painting and did not collect the tray until about twenty-past. Fortunately, Mrs. Mandeville had put up beer and sandwiches on this occasion or the food would have been cold.”

“I see.”

Solar Pons’ eyes were very bright and piercing as he stared at the painter.

“Mrs. Tregorran ate nothing, I understand?”

The painter shook his head.

“I had asked for nothing for her as she always ate much later. Usually around two o’clock. That is much too late for me and I feel starved if I go beyond half-past twelve.”

“Hmm.”

Solar Pons sat staring silently at the wretched figure of the stricken painter.

“After your lunch, what then?”

“I continued painting, Mr. Pons. Everything was normal and from time to time I sipped at my glass of beer. Sylvia had gone out of her way to be pleasant and the thought of doing any harm to her was farthest from my mind. At about a quarter to two I felt faint.”

“How did you know it was a quarter to two?”

Solar Pons leaned forward as though the answer had tremendous import.

“I heard the quarter hour strike from the cupola of a neighbouring church, Mr. Pons. Then I came over very faint. I must have lost consciousness because when I came to myself Relph and my gardener had battered down the door. I was incoherent and not making any sense, I am told. It was not until I found myself at Chelsea Police Station late that evening that I came fully to myself and realised that Sylvia was dead and that I was being charged with murder. For God’s sake, help me, Mr. Pons!”

There was such abject misery in the words that, despite my old friend’s obvious guilt, I felt a stab of pity for him. I looked at Pons and was astonished to see that he was smiling. However, he turned to me and said somewhat mockingly, “I begin to see light, Parker. We may yet make something of this.”

Jamison gave a short laugh.

“Indeed, Mr. Pons. I had heard you were a magician but you will need to be a miracle worker to get Mr. Tregorran out of this.”

I looked at my companion ruefully.

“I am afraid he is right, Pons.”

“We shall see, Parker, we shall see,” he returned equably and went on puffing at his pipe.

-4-

Miss Celia Thornton’s residence was a large, white house approached by a circular carriage drive, in St. John’s Wood. Our cab deposited us at the foot of a broad flight of steps and after a housekeeper had answered my companion’s discreet ring at the bell, Pons had his card sent in. The woman returned almost immediately, an enigmatic expression on her bland, genteel face.

“Miss Celia is not here, Mr. Pons, but Miss Annabel will see you.”

The woman who rose to greet us in the gracious sitting-room on the ground floor was of striking beauty. She advanced hesitantly, looking from one to the other of us.

“Mr. Pons?”

“This is he,” I said, indicating my companion. “Lyndon Parker at your service.”

“Sit down, gentlemen.”

The brown eyes were shrewd beneath the masses of lustrous dark hair.

“Annabel Bolton. Celia and I share this house, as you probably know.”

Pons’ sharp eyes never left her face.

“No, I did not know, Miss Bolton. I expect you have guessed what brings me here?”

A cloud crossed the handsome features as Miss Bolton resumed her seat. She bit her lip.

“This wretched business of the painter Tregorran, Mr. Pons! A dreadful affair. Celia is well out of it.”

“Out of her entanglement with Tregorran, Miss Bolton?” The brown eyes flashed.

“Not only that, Mr. Pons! Celia has her own career to consider.”

Solar Pons bit reflectively on the stem of the empty pipe he had produced from his pocket.

“Her own career, Miss Bolton?”

“Come, Mr. Pons. You surely cannot be unaware of Celia’s brilliant and original contributions to scientific research?”

Pons stared at our fair companion as though thunderstruck.

“Miss Thornton. Of course! The experimental chemist whose researches into the nature of crystalline structures has advanced our knowledge so much. Pray forgive me. I did not connect the name at first with that of Mr. Tregorran’s friend.”

A faint flush suffused the cheeks of Miss Bolton.

“Former friend, Mr. Pons,” she corrected my companion firmly.

Solar Pons put his pipe back into his pocket and sat bolt upright in his seat.

“That puts a different complexion on matters, Parker,” he said softly. “Where could I find Miss Thornton?”

The young lady looked surprised.

“Why at her laboratory, of course, at this time of day. Though whether your visit will be welcome is another matter.”

“We must risk that,” said Solar Pons calmly. “But another occasion will do if today is not convenient.”

Miss Bolton nodded, mentioning the research laboratory of a famous London hospital. Pons thanked her, noting the details in a small black notebook he sometimes used for such purposes.

“You may tell the lady we have called,” he said, looking round the room, noting the text books that took up a great many of the shelves.

“How remiss of me. I would take it as a favour if you would not mention my faux pas to your companion.”

Annabel Bolton gave Pons a slight bow and included me in the smile which lurked behind her eyes.

“Certainly not, Mr. Pons. Good day.”

No sooner were we outside the house than Pons uttered an exclamation and snapped his fingers in annoyance.

“Come, Parker!” he said urgently, guiding me down the pavement. “We must find a cab. There is not a moment to lose or vital evidence may be missing!”

“I am sure I do not know what you mean, Pons!” I said in amazement.

“I have been blind, Parker,” said my companion as a cab turned the end of the crescent and pulled up obediently in response to his signal.

“We must get back to Chelsea at once.”

“You are not going to see Miss Thornton, then?”

“Tut, Parker, that is quite unnecessary for the moment. Though I had arrived at certain theories the matter now becomes blindingly simple.”

“I am glad you think so, Pons,” I retorted with some asperity.

Solar Pons’ deep-set eyes were fixed somewhere on a corner of the cab roof and it was obvious that his thoughts were far away.

“It is now just a question of deciding how the facts fit these new circumstances. We shall see, we shall see.”

Back at Tregorran’s residence Relph showed us quickly to the studio and then withdrew. Constable Mecker had just come on duty again and looked as surprised to see us as I felt. But he showed us in with a welcoming smile.

“I did not expect to see you back, Mr. Pons, but you are most welcome, gentlemen.”

Solar Pons nodded sympathetically, his sharp eyes darting about the studio.

“You are finding it dull, of course?”

“The time does drag, sir. But I suppose one must get used to that in police routine.”

“Indeed,” I rejoined. “I have had many a long and boring vigil with Mr. Pons here in the course of some of his cases.”

“Thank you, Parker,” said Solar Pons crisply, but the little lights dancing in his eyes showed that he had not taken offence at my somewhat crass remark.

Pons moved over to Tregorran’s easel, his casual manner belied by the sharpness of his eyes. He looked at the debris of the unfortunate artist’s lunch which still stood by its side.

“Special export lager, with a gold foil seal, Parker. An expensive brand, too. That has great significance.”

“I fail to see it, Pons.”

“That is because your efforts are diverted in another direction altogether, Parker. Let us just consider the texture of this sandwich.”

To my astonishment he picked up the crust of the sandwich left on the plate. The exclamation he made as he suddenly hurried toward the door almost startled me. I followed him down the corridor toward the glassed-in porch.

“The dust, Parker,” he muttered. “It told a plain, unmistakable story, yet I did not read it aright. There are two impressions; one of Mrs. Mandeville’s tray and the other of a single beer bottle and tumbler.”

“I cannot…” I began when Pons rudely interrupted me and opened the inner porch door. He stood in silence for a moment looking at a large ceramic jar that stood midway between the two doors. It was obviously used as an umbrella stand because two sticks, one with a silver handle, were thrust into it. Pons’ aquiline nostrils were quivering.

“Do you not smell it, Parker?”

Then I caught the same odour, an unpleasant, stale smell as of greasy food. Pons peered into the depths of the jar and gave a sharp exclamation of satisfaction.

“What do you make of that, Parker?”

I peered in over his shoulder.

“Good heavens, Pons! A plate of cold soup and something that looks like blackberry tart with cream.”

Solar Pons smiled dreamily.

“Apple tart, I think you will find, Parker. Mr. Tregorran’s lunch, undoubtedly.”

He turned back to the inner door and examined it carefully.

“There is a keyhole here, partly concealed by the scrollwork. That almost completes my case, I think. No, Parker, I am not yet quite ready to divulge the details. For that you must wait until tomorrow evening.”

He led the way back into the house and downstairs at a trot so rapid that it left me breathless. Mrs. Mandeville, who was up to her elbows in flour in the kitchen, shared my surprise.

“Mr. Tregorran’s lunch, Mrs. Mandeville,” rapped Pons. “I omitted to ask you yesterday. It is of the utmost importance. What did you serve him?”

The housekeeper dried her hands on a cloth.

“Onion soup, his favourite, Mr. Pons. A bottle of his special export lager. And apple tart with cream. I like Mr. Tregorran to eat properly, though he often makes do with sandwiches if I am not careful.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Mandeville,” said Pons quietly. “I have one more piece to fit in the jigsaw but I think you have solved the problem for me. Come, Parker. I must crave Jamison’s indulgence in the matter of the police laboratory and then write a letter. In the meantime I am afraid you must contain your impatience as best you can.”

-5-

It was almost seven o’clock when I arrived at our cosy sitting-room at 7B Praed Street the following evening. I had a somewhat complicated case in the suburbs and had dined at a restaurant in Wimbledon on my way back. Pons had been enigmatic in the extreme all the previous evening and today had been absent on some mysterious errand in the morning. But when I saw him at lunch-time he had a sparkle and suppressed excitement in his manner. He rubbed his thin hands together and shuffled some official-looking documents so persistently that I twice had to ask him, at the lunch-table, to desist.

Afterward he wrote a message which he sealed in a plain envelope, addressed it to a destination he did not disclose and despatched it by special messenger. He chuckled as he sat by the fire, his spare form bathed in misty sunshine which straggled through from the street outside.

“If that does not bring our quarry to the net nothing will, Parker!”

I am completely in the dark, Pons,” I said, somewhat bitterly.

My friend laid a soothing hand on my arm.

“The philosophers counsel patience, Parker. In the mind that is once truly disciplined, as the good Marcus Aurelius has it… In a few hours you shall know everything that I myself know about this matter. When do you expect to return this evening?”

“At about seven, Pons.”

My companion nodded.

“Excellent. I have arranged the appointment for eight o’clock. You should be in good time for the drama.”

Now, as I entered the sitting-room, I was surprised to see that it was dark and completely empty. I switched on the light and was puzzled to hear a somewhat furtive step that seemed to come from my bedroom. I had not gone half a dozen paces across the room when Pons himself entered from his own room, blinking about him in the strong light.

“Apologies, my dear fellow. I felt rather tired after tea and have been catching up on my arrears of sleep.”

I looked at him sharply. Such a situation was most unusual for Pons but he did yawn once or twice and his hair was rumpled so I assumed that he had been lying down fully clothed in the dusk of his bedroom.

He looked alert enough now and bustled about, pulling up a third chair toward the table and looking sharply at the clock. He stopped in front of a mirror and put a careless hand up to smooth his hair.

“Now, Parker, we have only to possess ourselves in patience and with a little luck your friend Tregorran may cheat the hangman yet.”

I stared at Pons in undisguised amazement.

“I have seen you do some remarkable things, Pons, but we know from the evidence and from the witnesses that there can be no doubt that Aramis Tregorran strangled his own wife.”

“There is no doubt about it, Parker,” said Pons calmly. “Yet in my opinion he is entirely innocent.”

My jaw dropped and I gazed at my companion with mingled admiration and irritation. He saw the look in my eyes and his own danced with undisguised pleasure. He put a finger to his lips to enjoin caution and opened his tobacco pouch. In a few minutes he was completely surrounded by a cloud of aromatic blue smoke and he stayed like that, in complete silence, while I read The Lancet by the fire, for almost half an hour.

Our idyll was interrupted by a ring at the doorbell and then we heard an altercation in the hallway below; an excited female voice was opposed in a duet with the more placid tones of Mrs. Johnson. There followed scrambling footsteps on the stairs, our door was flung open unceremoniously and a panting, wild-eyed woman stood there, her black eyes flashing with anger and outrage as she stared first at me and then at my companion.

“Mr. Pons! Mr. Solar Pons! How dare you send me such a message! You have quite upset my work at the laboratory.” Solar Pons rose from his chair with a smile.

“The truth often does strike like a blow, Miss Thornton. Will you not close the door and sit down? You will find a comfortable chair yonder.”

The imperious, dark-haired woman slammed the door back in its frame with a crash that seemed to shake the building. She stamped her foot as she stared at Pons.

“I will know what this outrageous note means before I leave this house!”

She flung a sheet of paper toward him and it came to rest near the foot of my chair. Solar Pons smiled thinly.

“You would do well to sit, Miss Thornton. I really do advise it. And Dr. Parker here, as a medical man, would prescribe the relaxed position as a tonic for the nerves.”

The angry woman paused and made an impatient movement with her hand as though she would have flung something at my companion. Then she apparently thought better of it and sank sullenly into the chair indicated. I had picked up the paper and held it out to Pons. He merely gestured to me to read it.

It said: Dear Miss Thornton, If you wish to tell me all the facts about the murder of Mrs. Tregorran I shall be at my quarters at 7B Praed Street at eight o’clock this evening. I am in possession of the true circumstances and if you do not answer my summons you will have to deal directly with the official police.

Truly yours,

Solar Pons.

I put the sheet down on our table and looked across at the white, compressed face of Celia Thornton. She was a little more composed now.

“I am waiting, Mr. Pons,” she said grimly.

“I shall not keep you, Miss Thornton, and will come directly to the paint. We have heard from Mr. Tregorran that you and he had been intimate for some while, but that he had become reconciled with his wife. Jealousy is a great distorter of human relations.”

The woman opposite us had a strange smile on her taut features.

“I have not denied my relationship with Tregorran,” she said. “I gave a statement to the police yesterday.”

“I am well aware of that, Miss Thornton. What I am saying here today is that you know a great deal more than you have stated about Mrs. Tregorran’s death and the charge of murder that is now hanging over her husband.”

Celia Thornton tossed her head and looked from Pons to me and then back to my companion again.

“The implication is preposterous, Mr. Pons. You will have to do better than that.”

“I intend to,” said Solar Pons calmly.

“Let us just recall the sequence of events. Mrs. Tregorran is found strangled in a locked studio, her husband nearby, incoherent and unaware of what has happened. I questioned the unfortunate man yesterday and I am convinced that he is speaking the truth. What we are left with is something more complicated.”

Celia Thornton sat watching Solar Pons with glittering eyes but said nothing.

“The first thing that struck me about the case was a locked door without a key,” Pons went on. “That was extremely significant and I commended it to you, Parker. I will now suggest the possible sequence of events and Miss Thornton will no doubt correct me if I am wrong. Tregorran had an unhappy marriage and had formed an association with you. But when he said that he was becoming reconciled to his wife, you became extremely jealous and there were violent quarrels. We have that from Tregorran himself. You concocted an elaborate scheme for revenge that would punish both the wife whom you hated and your lover also.”

“Prove it!” Miss Thornton snapped.

“I am endeavouring so to do,” said Solar Pons equably. “Your love had turned to hate and you would stop at nothing to strike back at your former lover and the obstacle to your happiness. In your liaison with Tregorran you had obviously visited his studio. He has not told me so but I infer it as it is central to my theory.”

“I knew the studio,” the woman said with a curious smile. “The fact is not in question and easy enough to check. I admit it.”

Solar Pons inclined his head gravely.

“Very well, then. You knew the studio and the lay-out of the house. You had your own keys to the doors. On the day of the murder you went to the house and entered by the archway unseen. It is easy enough to do. Instead, however, of entering the studio by the staircase entrance, you opened the inner door to the corridor, of which you retained a key. You stationed yourself in the angle of the corridor and waited until Relph brought Tregorran’s lunch-tray.

“When he had tapped on the door and withdrawn you quickly went to the table, removed the plate of soup and the dessert. To do that — and you thought you had not very much time — you removed the bottle of lager and put it down on the table. I know that because I have seen the marks in the dust and it puzzled me at first why this should be so. The explanation then became clear to me. You put the food within the large vase used as an umbrella stand in the annexe.”

Celia Thornton’s eyes were very bright.

“Preposterous! Why should I wish to do that?”

Solar Pons held up his hand.

“I am just coming to that. You returned to the table and put the beer bottle and tumbler back on the tray. Beside it you placed your specially prepared sandwich.”

It was very quiet in the room now and I looked at Pons, my puzzlement evident on my features.

“You then resumed your vigil at the end of the corridor. When Tregorran had taken the lunch-tray back into the studio, which was not for some time, you crept back down the corridor. You quietly locked the door and took the key away.”

“Why was that, Pons?”

“Because, Parker, there had to be time for Miss Thornton’s plan to work and she did not want the sitting interrupted. It was also vital for the scheme’s success that Tregorran should be seen by witnesses to be sane and in possession of himself.”

“I am afraid I do not see…”

“Tut, Parker, Miss Thornton herself will give us the ingenious explanation in a moment or two.”

Our visitor drew herself up, little spots of red blazing on her cheeks.

“I find your questions offensive, your implications odious and your conclusions entirely erroneous, Mr. Pons.”

Solar Pons drew reflectively on his pipe, little stipples of fire making patterns on his thin, ascetic features.

“Indeed. You face it out well enough, Miss Thornton, but you know in your heart that your cruel and ingenious scheme has been discovered. Let us just take things a step further. When I first visited the studio I did not, of course, know of your possible involvement in the matter. When I learned that you were a brilliant experimental chemist things began to fall into place.”

“I see, Pons,” I began, light dawning in dark places.

“No doubt, Parker,” said Solar Pons crisply.

“I had noted that the lager was a special export brand, sealed with foil and a metal cap. That indicated to me that it was unlikely anything could have been introduced into the beer. But it could have acted as a catalyst for something else that should not have been in the food. Where I made my big mistake was in not detecting the substitution earlier. I had asked Mrs. Mandeville and Relph about Tregorran’s lunch but none of us had thought to mention its composition. And then there was the matter of the missing key. You showed considerable courage in that respect, as indeed, throughout this dreadful business.”

Solar Pons paused as though expecting a reply from Celia Thornton but she remained silent, staring at him with a tight, set face.

“To avoid any suspicion over the locked door, you came back to the studio at dead of night, let yourself in by the back entrance and replaced the key in the door. Either the constable on duty was asleep or had his back turned. It took tremendous nerve but now that I have met you I have no doubt that you would have managed it. And indeed, you would have to have done so, as the key was incontrovertibly back in the door when I examined it, though police and other witnesses had said it was nowhere to be found. It was unfortunate for you that its loss had already been noted.”

“I follow you, Pons,” I said admiringly.

“A little late, Parker, but I did commend the fact to you,” Pons continued.

“If I were to save my client’s life, there was only one possibility remaining. It was contained in the section of sandwich which fortunately remained unconsumed. I went back to the studio and abstracted it. The police laboratory analysis yielded interesting information. I have their report here.”

Solar Pons smiled thinly and produced some sheets of paper from his pocket.

“But you, as an outstanding chemist, would already know its contents, would you not? Be so good as to glance over this, Parker.”

I read the documents with increasing admiration.

“I see, Pons!” I cried excitedly. “Ergot! Of course. The sandwich had been made of rye diseased with ergot.”

“Correct,” said Pons, biting on the stem of his pipe. “It was an extremely clever and utterly diabolical plot that only a scientist’s mind like Miss Thornton’s would be capable of conceiving as an instrument of revenge. Bread made with rye diseased with ergotism would affect the victim in what way, Parker?”

“Why, he would very probably go mad, Pons!” I exclaimed. “Ergot produces lysergic acid and in the form of lysergic acid diethylamide would induce a schizophrenic condition.”

“Exactly, Parker. As soon as I got this report I studied the literature on the subject. There was a village in France where the local baker produced a batch of bread from diseased rye some years ago. The entire village went mad. There were several deaths, including one where a husband stabbed his wife and a number of people launched themselves from treetops in the erroneous belief that they could fly. I have no doubt Miss Thornton is extremely familiar with the literature.”

Solar Pons fixed grim, accusing eyes on Celia Thornton who sank back in her chair.

“A wicked, diabolical plot,” he repeated. “Such as could only emanate from the brain of a revenge-crazed woman who was also a very talented scientist.”

Celia Thornton half-rose from her chair.

“Prove it!” she said defiantly.

“I have already done so,” said Solar Pons.

“It is all hearsay!” the woman said wildly. “You have not a scrap of evidence. There is nothing to connect me with having been in the studio.”

Solar Pons shook his head, drawing something from his pocket.

“I am sorry to contradict a lady but this object irrefutably places you at the scene of the crime.”

He produced a small crimson leather purse which bore the gold monogram C.T.

“Your initials, I believe? I found this beneath the table in the hall of Tregorran’s house!”

The woman sprang to her feet, a shocking transformation in her face.

“You are right, Mr. Pons. I did all those things you said. But you will have a hard time proving it, let alone bringing me to court. Where is your evidence? We three are alone within these walls. You have taken no notes of our conversation. It will be my word against yours. The whole thing is preposterous.”

To my astonishment Solar Pons was smiling.

“I only wanted to hear it from your own lips, Miss Thornton. You have confirmed all my suppositions. As for the purse, you may put your mind at rest. You did not drop it at the scene of the crime. I took it from the hall of your residence yesterday when Dr. Parker and I called on your friend, Miss Annabel Bolton! But it was enough to elicit a confession from you for my purposes.

He turned to me.

“It is true that Miss Thornton could not know exactly what would happen in that studio. But the end was tragedy and in one blow she would have removed both her rival and her lover if I had not finally put two and two together.”

“You have done brilliantly, Pons, as always.”

Solar Pons waved away my congratulations.

“Even so, it was an erratic form of revenge, though she might well have driven Tregorran permanently mad. I am told the eating of such diseased material can take that form.”

“That is why she locked the door,” I said. “In Tregorran’s case it took only two hours for the ergot to have that sensational effect. Enhanced, of course by the beer he had drunk, which sent the poison more quickly round his system. In some people it might have taken a deal longer.”

Celia Thornton stood facing us with twitching features. She fought to retain control.

“You are very clever, Mr. Pons. Everything you have said is true. But as I have already stated, you will never bring me to trial or clear Tregorran. It is too late for that.”

“I think not,” said Solar Pons calmly. “You may come in, Inspector Jamison. Ah, there you are, Mecker! I trust you took an accurate note of Miss Thornton’s statement?”

Celia Thornton fell back against the table with a cry of anguish and I started up in astonishment as the forms of Inspector Jamison and the constable emerged from the shadowy doorway of Pons’ bedroom. I stared at my companion, stupefied.

“We have the statement, Mr. Pons. Celia Thornton, I charge you with complicity in the murder of Sylvia Tregorran by administering a dangerous drug and warn you that anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence.”

The girl stared round at us wildly and then collapsed into her chair in a storm of sobbing.

Jamison nodded to Mecker.

“Best take her down to the station,” he said awkwardly. “We’ll sort out everything there.”

When the constable had departed with his distraught charge Jamison sat down in the vacated place and looked at my companion with grudging admiration.

“Well, Mr. Pons, you have done it again. I take off my hat to you.”

“Praise indeed, Inspector,” said Solar Pons drily.

“Though how we’re to get through the legal and other tangles I don’t know,” Jamison continued.

He scratched his head.

“The main thing is that we have saved an innocent man from the rope,” said Pons. ‘The rest is for the courts to unravel.”

Jamison sighed heavily.

“When clever people go wrong there is the devil to pay,” he observed sagely.

Solar Pons passed over Celia Thornton’s purse to him.

“You had better take that, Jamison. My methods were a little unfair but we are dealing with a cruel and implacable woman.”

I looked at the open door of Pons’ bedroom.

“So that was why you were so furtive when I came back,” I said somewhat bitterly.

Solar Pons smiled and laid his hand on my arm.

“I am afraid I could not let you into our little secret, my dear fellow. It was imperative to get that confession down on paper through the official police. Your feelings are so honestly transparent that you could not have kept up the masquerade.” He blew a cloud of smoke thoughtfully from his pipe.

“Let us hope it will have taught Mr. Tregorran a much-needed lesson. Between the two of them he was bound to come to destruction sooner or later.”