“Such a thing is quite possible, Pons,” I ventured.
Solar Pons put the tips of his thin fingers together and studied them frowningly.
“It may be so, Parker,” he conceded. “What about the floor of the burial chamber, Mr Mulvane?”
“Nothing, Mr Pons. It was quite clean.”
There was a gleam in Pons’ eyes.
“Really, Mr Mulvane. You surprise me. I should have thought such a vault would have been thick with dust. I commend that factor to you both.”
Again Mulvane looked confused.
“There may have been dust, Mr Pons. I really cannot remember, but the area was much trampled over by the boots of the police.”
“I have no doubt,” said Pons drily. “Such has been my invariable experience.”
“As you say, Pons,” I put in.
“And the padlocked chain on the gates leading to the cemetery had been forced or broken, Mr Mulvane?”
“Forced. I believe, Mr Pons.”
My companion cast a quick glance at his notes and consulted his watch.
“Time goes on apace, Mr Mulvane. I have only one or two more questions. There was some doubt as to the cause of Mr Hardcastle’s death, I believe.”
“That is why Dr Backer adjourned the inquiry, Mr Pons. The post-mortem findings were inconclusive, I understand.”
Pons gave me a meaningful glance.
“Here is an opportunity for you, Parker.”
“I would be glad to do what I can, Pons,” I said. “Providing I am given the option.”
There was silence for a moment and Pons continued his frowning inspection of his finger-tips.
“Well, Mr Mulvane, you have given us quite a weighty problem.”
“I am sorry to burden you with it, Mr Pons. It is horrible, baffling and grotesque.”
Pons looked at him sympathetically.
“Horrible and grotesque, perhaps, Mr Mulvane. Hardly baffling.”
“You see light, Pons?” I asked.
“It is too early to say, Parker. But there are some indications. Well, Mr Mulvane, I will be with you tomorrow, as early as may be.”
Mulvane leapt to his feet and pumped my companion’s hand. “God bless you, Mr Pons. You will not find me ungrateful,” he said impulsively.
“Come, Mr Mulvane,” said Pons, smiling, “I have not yet done anything other than sift the facts in my mind. Are you free to accompany me, Parker?”
I nodded.
“It is Thursday evening, Pons. I have a clear week-end.”
Pons smiled again.
“Ah, then I have until Monday morning, Mr Mulvane, to solve this riddle if I am to retain the services of my devoted chronicler. Good night to you. You have a train back to Chalcroft leaving within half an hour.”
And he plunged back into his notes as I saw our grateful visitor to the door.
Seven: ENTER ANDREW PETERS
The train rattled and rumbled through the misty air, frost sparkling on the windows, despite the warmth of the carriages. Pons had been sunk in a brown study for some minutes, his pipe emitting furiously-ejected puffs of aromatic blue smoke.
“You are obviously bursting with ideas, my dear fellow. Let us have the benefit of your suggestions.”
I looked at him with some wariness.
“You are surely not serious, Pons.”
“You know me well enough to realise that I find your little recitals of immense value.”
I glanced across the carriage with knitted brows.
“Something you said last night puzzled me.”
My companion ejected a plume of sweet-scented smoke from his mouth.
“And what might that be?”
“You said, if I remember correctly, that Mulvane was an artistic and somewhat impractical man though with a strong practical streak in him.”
“And so he is, Parker, and you must excuse my vanity for saying so.”
“Vanity, Pons?”
Solar Pons smiled cryptically.
“In many ways Mulvane has acted oddly and impractically in the case.”
“I give you that, Pons,” I said grudgingly.
Pons smiled blandly at me.
“But he has called me in, Parker. There is his practical streak.”
I could not forbear joining in his little joke, but I then set myself to seriously considering his suggestion.
“We have a series of weird and inexplicable events.”
“Kindly enumerate them under concise headings.”
“Very well, Pons.”
I ruminated for a moment, while the train drew shudderingly into a small suburban station. Two elderly clerics bore down on our carriage but retreated in disgust when they saw the great swathes of blue smoke surrounding our figures. My companion chuckled.
“It is unfair really, as we are occupying a non-smoker.” “Good Lord, Pons,” I said. “I did not realise that or I would never have lit up.”
“Calm yourself, my dear fellow. There is plenty of accommodation elsewhere on the train and we really need the carriage to ourselves in order to set our thoughts in order. Just let me have your views.”
“Well, Pons,” I began somewhat hesitantly. “There are a number of factors which stand out. He used his nephew as a sort of glorified employee.”
I paused and looked at the sombre, ice-bound countryside which glided past the windows.
“He had been threatened with death by an Indian secret society and was apparently in fear of his life, yet he had no hesitation in going not once but several times to the lonely family graveyard on the estate at dead of night.”
Solar Pons nodded approvingly at me.
“Excellent, Parker. That is a vital factor and one which jumped immediately to the foreground. I am glad to see its significance has not been lost upon you.”
I looked at my companion, suspecting irony, but found none discernible on his features or indeed in his tones.
“That is all very well, Pons,” I said, “but I am afraid I do not possess your gifts so am unfortunately unable to read its significance.”
“Well, well, Parker,” he said equably. “It is no great matter, for you have helped to formulate the situation clearly in my mind.”
“We have mysterious whistlings in the night,” I went on. “The Devil’s Waltz was the tune, I believe you said. Either a signal or a warning.”
“Good, Parker, good.”
I was warming to my subject now.
“A poacher was found dead a year ago with mysterious, claw-like footprints about him. The same marks that were found round the body of old Hardcastle. Apparently made by the same strange creature that left wet imprints on the floor and steps of the vault.”
Pons’ face was deceptively bland in the dim lighting of the carriage.
“What is your view on that, Parker?”
I shook my head.
“It is completely baffling, Pons. The weather has been bitterly cold and icy. Could some creature have come out of the ponds on the estate about which Mulvane told us?”
Solar Pons blew out an elegant plume of blue smoke from his pipe.
“Perhaps, Parker, perhaps,” he observed blandly. “It is an interesting theory and one all of a part with your colourful imagination. Though rather more Jules Verne than Conan Doyle on this occasion.”
“You are making sport of me, Pons,” I chided.
He shook his head vehemently.
“On the contrary, Parker, I find your lucubrations invaluable. Please continue with your musings.”
“Even stranger is the presence of a camp bed within the vault,” I said.
Pons nodded approvingly.
“Excellent,” he murmured. “Detail after detail. I am glad to see that you have grasped most of Mulvane’s long and involved narrative.”
I must confess I glowed inwardly at his remarks, though I made no outward sign that I valued his approbation.