“Our friend was certainly struck on the head by something,” I said. “And we still do not know whether Hardcastle died of shock at some dreadful apparition he had seen.”
Solar Pons made a decided gesture of disagreement with his shoulders.
“Ah, there we can be on reasonably sure ground,” he said. “Which is no doubt why the Coroner, Dr Backer, adjourned the proceedings.”
“I am not certain I understand.”
Again the amused, ironic glance.
“Why, Parker, I myself would rule out heart disease or anything of that sort. We have heard that Hardcastle was a strong, vigorous, well-preserved man who could tear a pack of cards in half without effort in his sixties. He is hardly the type of person who is going to have a heart attack on seeing something in that cemetery. Besides, he came there for a specific purpose.” “Of course, Pons. You are certainly right. My medical training should have told me immediately.”
Pons smiled gently.
“Medical training is of little importance unless allied to forensic and criminal experience, Parker. You have no reason to reproach yourself.”
“You suspect murder, then, Pons?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“But we are no nearer to untangling the truth of this baffling problem, Pons.”
“It is complex, Parker, but I have no doubt we shall come to the heart of the matter once I have had a chance to examine the circumstances.”
He glanced out of the window.
“Ah, we must postpone any further mental ponderings. Here, if I mistake no, is our destination.”
The train was already gliding into the station and a few moments later, amid the slamming of carriage doors and the hiss of steam, we made our way through the knots of fellow passengers to the entrance. The air was bitterly cold and stung the face and I was somewhat dismayed to see Hugh Mulvane muffled against the elements, at the reins of a smart-looking dogcart with blue painted wheels, drawn by a restless chestnut pony.
“Good heavens, Pons!” I grumbled. “He might at least have had the common sense to bring a closed motor vehicle with him.”
My companion chuckled.
“Tut, Parker, we travel only some half a mile from the village and country air is excellent for health and the circulation, and I have heard you prescribe it yourself on many occasions.”
“That is all very well, Pons…” I began as Mulvane jumped down from the driving seat of the trap with a smile of recognition.
“Thank you for being so prompt, gentlemen. Welcome to Chalcroft. I hope you will forgive me for bringing the trap but my uncle’s car is currently out of commission. I do hope you will not find the drive too chilly.”
“Not at all, Mr Mulvane,” I hastened to assure him, conscious of Pons’ ironic smile in my direction.
We two got up into the back of the trap, through the little door that Pons’ client opened for us, and indeed with all the cushions and blankets he had provided we were soon ensconced comfortably enough and were clopping through the pleasant redbrick hamlet of Chalcroft at a spanking pace, the chestnut evidently anxious to be back in the warmth of its stables.
Pons smoked pensively opposite me, seemingly inattentive, streamers of blue vapour whirled back in the draught of our passage, but there was little going on in the streets that escaped the attention of his keen eyes, I felt.
There were few people about, though a sprinkling of motor traffic went to and from the direction of the station, and the pony’s hooves rang like great hammer blows on the icy tarmac of the road. We skirted a fountain at the junction of two streets, where the water stood in sheets of ice in the basin and in the horse-trough beyond, and I saw smoke going up straight in the icy air from the mock-Tudor chimneys of the houses, as clear- etched as though it had been drawn with a ruler.
“There is your inn, I see, Mr Mulvane,” said Pons, casting a glance over his shoulder, and I saw the cheery windows of The Three Cardinals, a large hostelry of gracious mellow brick, sliding past at the edge of the road.
“Indeed, Mr Pons,” said Mulvane, hunched over the reins and making a little whip that he carried sing in the air, though I noticed that he carefully kept it away from the pony, which trotted on willingly enough.
“I have spent many a pleasant evening there.”
We were now crossing a busy part of the village, where three roads bisected, and Mulvane took the central one, which led to a more rural area, with only a few cottages set back in gardens edging the lane. Moments later we passed a set of lodge-gates with carved eagles on pedestals and armorial panels on the redbrick gate-posts, and a long drive led to a massive Tudor pile in the far distance.
“That is Chalcroft College, gentlemen,” said Mulvane, pointing with his whip with some justifiable pride.
“An impressive building, Pons,” I ventured.
“Indeed, Parker,” said Pons succinctly, moving his suitcase on the seat beside him and turning to that side of the road. I noticed his eyes were stabbing up and down the vista as though he were evaluating things that were impenetrable to my mind.
“It is just a step now, Mr Pons,” said our driver encouragingly. “I hope you are not too cold.”
He cast an apologetic glance over his shoulder.
“Nor you too, Dr Parker, of course.”
“I am fine,” I replied and in fact I was so interested in our new surroundings and refreshed by the air that I had temporarily forgotten the weather, though Pons had retained my earlier remark at the station, as I could see by the faint smile that hovered about his lips.
We were passing down a narrow country lane now, skirting a high brick wall at the left, where the horse’s hooves rang out mightily in the stillness, and the gaunt, leafless trees which edged the road were hemming in the sky. Mulvane grunted as another dog-cart appeared round the bend and the driver slowed the pace of his cob, raising a hand in respectful salute.
“Good morning, Mr Mulvane! Good morning, gentlemen!”
Mulvane saluted in turn with his whip.
“Good morning, Mr Peters! Gentlemen, this is Andrew Peters, our estate manager. Dr Parker. Mr Solar Pons.”
The dark-bearded man, who had reined in the cob, touched the brim of his wide-awake hat, his white teeth gleaming in the beard.
“Delighted to make your acquaintance, gentlemen, though I am afraid you come at a bad time.”
He shook his head mournfully.
“A terrible business, gentlemen.”
“Ah, you mean Mr Hardcastle,” said Pons casually, letting out a great plume of blue smoke from his pipe. “Bad enough, I daresay.”
A sombre expression passed over Peters’ face and his vivid blue eyes looked across at the bleak vista of frozen hedgerow and leafless trees about us. With his smart hacking jacket; riding breeches; leather boots; and the silk scarf pinned in at the neck, he looked every inch the estate manager. His lemon-yellow gloved hands held the reins gently but firmly. He glanced from one to the other of us as though questioningly, and then gave the cob its head.
“Well, gentlemen, I must get on down to the forty-acre wood to supervise that felling. If you need me for anything, Mr Mulvane, you know where to find me.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Mulvane carelessly and then the vehicles had parted, the two animals stepping out with great strides until the distance rapidly broadened and the progress of the other cart was blotted out by the intervening trees.
“An admirable man, that,” said Mulvane thoughtfully. “The estate will certainly depend upon his management now, for I’m sure I make a sorry fist of such matters.”
“He seems a good cut above the average,” I ventured. Mulvane glanced back over his shoulder as we turned a dangerous bend in the road.
“You may well say so, doctor. His wife is a most superior woman also. A great beauty hereabouts.”