“No, I did not.” Then her eyes brightened quite suddenly. “Poor, dear uncle! He needn’t have done that. Now that he’s gone, I shall have it all! All!”
“Somewhat over a fortnight ago you called on your uncle, Miss Curwen.”
“Yes, I did.” She grinned.
“You found him well at that time?”
“I believe I have said as much, sir.”
“You left him upset. Was he unkind to you?”
“Sir, it was the old matter. Now it is resolved.”
“Would you care to tell us about it?”
“Oh, there’s no secret in it, I assure you. Everyone knows of it here in Edinburgh.” She tossed her head and shrugged, pitying herself briefly. “Uncle Randolph was as hard a man as my father. My older sister, Cicely, made a very bad marriage in our father’s eyes. He had settled her inheritance on her, and when he saw how Arthur wasted it, he made certain I could never do the same. So he put my inheritance, fifty thousand pounds, in trust, and made Uncle Randolph guardian of the trust. I could have only so much a year to live on, a pittance. But the world has changed, and everyone knows that it is not so easy to live on a restricted income as it was twenty-five years ago when my father died. But now all that’s over. Now that Uncle Randolph’s dead, what is mine comes to me free of his or anyone’s control.”
“You must have had assistance, Miss Curwen,” said Pons sympathetically.
“Oh, yes. My nephew, my dear boy! He’s all I have, gentlemen. He has cared for his old aunt quite as if I were his own mother. I’ve been very much alone here. What could I do, what society could I have, on so limited an income? Now all that is changed. I am sorry Uncle Randolph is dead, but I’m not sorry the restrictions on my inheritance are removed.”
Pons’ glance flickered about the room, which looked as if it had not quite emerged into the twentieth century. “A lovely room, Miss Curwen,” he observed.
“My grandfather planned it. I hate it,” she said simply. “I shall lose no time selling the house. Think of having fifty thousand pounds I might have had when I was in my twenties! Oh, Mr. Pons, how cruel it was! My father thought I’d do the same thing my sister did, even after I saw how it went with them.”
“I see you, too, are given to the use of incense, Miss Curwen,” said Pons, his gaze fastened to a china castle.
“Any scent will serve to diminish the mould and mildew, gentlemen.”
“May I look at that incense burner?” persisted Pons.
“Please do.”
Pons crossed to the mantel where the china castle rested, picked it up, and brought it back to his chair. It was an elaborate creation in bone china, featuring three lichen-covered turrets, and evidently three burners. Carnations adorned it, and a vine of green leaves, and morning glories. Its windows were outlined in soft brown.
“A Colebrook Dale marking on this Coalport castle identifies it as prior to 1850 origin,” said Pons.
Miss Curwen’s eyebrows went up. “You’re a collector, sir?”
“Only of life’s oddities,” said Pons. “But I have some interest in antiquities as well.” He looked up. “And what scent do you favour, Miss Curwen?”
“Rose.”
“One could have guessed that you would select so complimentary a fragrance, Miss Curwen.”
Miss Curwen blushed prettily as Pons got up to return the china castle to the mantel, where he stood for a few moments with the opened box of pastilles in his hand, inhaling deeply the scent that emanated from it. He appeared to have some difficulty closing the box before he turned once more and came back to where he had been sitting. He did not sit down again.
“I fear we have imposed upon you long enough, Miss Curwen,” said Pons.
Miss Emily came to her feet. “I suppose you will take care of such legalities as there are, gentlemen?”
“I fancy Sir Randolph’s legal representatives will do that in good time, Miss Curwen,” said Pons.
“Oh! I thought...”
“I am sorry to have given you the wrong impression. I am a private enquiry agent, Miss Curwen. There is some question about the manner of your uncle’s death; I am endeavouring to answer it.”
She was obviously perplexed. “Well, there’s nothing I can tell you about that. I know he was in what looked like perfect health when I last saw him.”
She did not seem to have the slightest suspicion of Pons’ objective. and walked us to the door, where she let us out. From the stoop, we could bear the chain being quietly slid back into place.
“I must hand it to you, Pons,” I said. “There’s motive for you.”
“Poor woman! I’ll wager she’s dancing around by herself in celebration now,” he said as we walked back down to the street. “There are pathetic people in this world to whom the possession of money is everything. They know little of life and nothing of how to live. Presumably Andrew Curwen was such a one; I fear Miss Emily may be another. One could live well on the income of fifty thousand pounds one had a mind to, but Miss Emily preferred to pine and grieve and feel sorry for herself, a lonely, deluded woman. I shall be sorry to add to her loneliness, but perhaps her wealth will assuage her. But come, Parker, we have little time to lose. We must be off to the police. With luck, we shall be able to catch one of the night trains back to London.”
Inspector Brian McGavick joined us when Pons explained his need. He was in plain-clothes, and looked considerably more like an actor than a member of the constabulary.
“I’ve heard about you, Mr. Pons,” said McGavick. “This morning, on instructions from the Foreign Office. I am at your service.”
“Inspector, you’re in charge here. I have no authority. I shall expect you to take whatever action the events of the next hour or two call for.” He outlined briefly the circumstances surrounding the murder of Sir Randolph Curwen. By the time he bad finished we had arrived in Torphichen Street.
“Let us just park the car over here,” said Pons, “and walk the rest of the way.”
We got out of the police car and walked leisurely down the street to a little shop that bore the sign, Laidlaw’s Books. There Pons turned in.
A stout little man clad almost formally, save for his plaid weskit, came hurrying up to wait on us.
“Just browsing, sir,” said Pons
The little man bowed and returned to resume his place on a stool at a high, old-fashioned desk in a far corner of the shop. The three of us began to examine the books in the stalls and on the shelves, following Pons lead. Pons soon settled down to a stall containing novels of Sir Walter Scott and Dickens, studying one volume after another with that annoying air of having the entire afternoon in which to do it.
In a quarter of an hour, the door of the shop opened to admit a handsome young man who walked directly back to the rear of the shop, removed his hat and ulster, and came briskly back to attend to us. Since Pons was nearest him, he walked directly up to Pons and engaged him in conversation I could not overhear until I drifted closer.
“There is merit in each,” Pons was saying. “Scott for his unparalleled reconstruction of Scotland’s past, Dickens for the remarkable range of characters, however much some of them may seem caricatures. I think of establishing special shelves for each when I open my own shop.”
“Ah, you’re a bookman, sir? Where?”
“In London. I lack only a partner.”
“I would like to be in London myself. What are your qualifications?”
“I need a young man, acquainted with books and authors, capable of putting a little capital into the business. Are you interested?”
“I might be.”
Pons thrust forth his hand. “Name’s Holmes,” he said.
“Lindall,” said the young man, taking his hand.