There was a large square of canvas lying some yards from the gates and as Pons and the officer went forward, the helmeted head of a police constable suddenly ejected itself from the bushes.
“Ah, it’s you, Inspector,” said the young officer with the handlebar moustache, evident relief on his pinched features. “It’s been regular monotonous, sir.”
“But necessary,” said Stone sharply.
Then, his manner relenting, he glanced at Mulvane.
“If it’s all the same to you, Mr Mulvane, Entwhistle could get an early lunch now as we shall be around here for some time.”
“By all means, Inspector. Just ask your man to apply to Tolpuddle. Everything is laid on.”
“Thank you, Inspector.”
The young officer hurried eagerly up the path and was lost to view. Pons was already kneeling by the canvas sheeting and had drawn it back and to one side. He had his powerful lens out and was going over the frozen ground minutely, completely absorbed in the curious markings before him.
I knew better than to interrupt him at such a time but the Inspector had no such inhibitions.
“What do you make of it, Mr Pons?”
My companion’s lean, feral face expressed nothing but absorbed attention.
“Interesting, Inspector.”
I had joined them now but kept well back, observing the claw-marks in the ground. As Mulvane had indicated to us in his drawings they were singular indeed. They were deeply indented despite the intractable nature of the soil, which was completely bonded with frost and even the canvas covering had not melted the area, so severe was the weather.
One curious aspect of the configuration was that they were not only deep as though something of tremendous weight had stepped there but they were striated, as though some monstrous creature had repeatedly scratched round the old man’s body. Naturally, there was no mark where the body had actually lain, so it was impossible, I should have said, to pick out any signs of a struggle. The claw-marks seemed to begin about the body and made a rough, fan-shaped pattern before wandering away toward the cemetery gates.
Pons had finished now and was on his feet while the Inspector re-arranged the canvas. He next knelt by the gates themselves and examined the broken chain and padlock.
“Smashed with some tool or other, Mr Pons?” observed Stone. “That was my conclusion, at any rate.”
“You were undoubtedly correct, Inspector,” returned Pons, his deep-set eyes searching the sombre area of gravestones and monuments carefully. The lichen-encrusted tombs made a depressing background and it was not difficult to imagine the effect the place must have had on a young man like Mulvane at dead of night under such circumstances.
The teacher licked his lips nervously as though the same thought had occurred to him and stepped closer to our small group. The claw-marks went along the gravel path between the tombs, though they were now several yards apart. Pons was smiling thinly as he followed the Inspector.
“You are on to something, Pons.”
“I am reaching some conclusions, Parker. What are your own?”
“Why it seems as though the thing is making gigantic hops in its progress through the cemetery.”
“Does it not, Parker. Ah, this must be the tomb of which you spoke, Mr Mulvane.”
“That is correct, Mr Pons. It contains the sarcophagi of Hezekiah Hardcastle and his family. Five monuments in all.”
“A cosy little family group, Parker,” said Pons, his eyes twinkling. “I am sure you will forgive my levity, Mr Mulvane, but as I see by the inscription that the late Mr Hardcastle died in the eighteenth century, the event is far enough removed to avoid offence.”
“By all means, Mr Pons,” said the teacher, smiling a little. “Anything that will bring some relief to this business is welcome.”
Pons laid a hand on his shoulder.
“We progress, Mr Mulvane. I begin to see light where all was impenetrable before. You say there was no trace of the claw-marks in the vault itself?”
“No, Mr Pons. The wet marks faded out before they reached the interior of the burial chamber. And, of course, the marks within the vault itself have long since dried.”
Pons nodded almost absently.
“You saw them yourself, Inspector?”
“Indeed, Mr Pons. They were approximately similar to the impressions you have already noted.”
We had now reached the entrance to the tomb of which my companions were speaking and lichen-encrusted steps descended some fifteen feet to the rectangular doorway.
“An odd puzzle for the zoologists, Parker,” Pons murmured. “A clawed creature which apparently flies from the trees to settle near Mr Hardcastle’s body. It then scratches up the area all round the body; hops or flaps its way through the graveyard; pauses to dip its claws into water — I have not forgotten your ponds, my dear fellow! — and then simply disappears within the tomb. A remarkable animal; one might almost say mythological.”
He chuckled.
“Too good to be true, in fact. What do you say, Parker?”
“I, Pons? I am all at sea.”
“No matter. Just bear my observations in mind. Lead on, Inspector, if you please.”
The C.I.D. man had already produced an oil lamp from a recess at the tomb entrance and he lit it quickly with a match, trimming the wick until it gave an even yellow glow. Pons looked at him sharply.
“This was not the lantern Mr Mulvane saw within the tomb?” “No, Mr Pons. This is one of a number I had brought from the stables on the night of the murder.”
Pons nodded, his eyes darting round the smooth stone tunnel in which we found ourselves. I saw that the floor was covered with dust but it was also heavily indented with the marks of many boots. Stone noticed Pons’ glance and said quickly, “It proved impossible to avoid walking in here, Mr Pons. As you can see, the passage is so narrow.”
Pons’ eyes were very alert now in the golden light of the oil lamp which Stone was carrying. Our shadows were thrown, heavy and distorted, on the smooth white walls.
“Tell me, Inspector, did you happen to notice the state of this floor when you first arrived?”
Stone frowned, his disengaged hand stroking his chin.
“There were already marks in the dust here, as though a number of people had passed along.”
Pons smiled with satisfaction.
“Excellent,” he said shortly.
We followed closely behind the Inspector as he led us through the corridor. It was warm and dry, as Mulvane had already told us, and even in company it was an eerie place. Every now and again Pons would dart aside and examine the walls or parts of the floor with his powerful lens but he said nothing and his pale, lean face was completely absorbed in his observations.
After a short distance we turned a slight curve and came to the burial chamber of which Pons’ client had told us. It was a large, dry chamber, surprisingly warm and with smooth, plastered walls. There were niches here and there which had once, I suppose, contained floral tributes or garlands of some sort because in two of them were tall vases made of some heavily tarnished and discoloured metal.
The large circular space contained some five tombs of white stone or marble, with elaborately carved figures, urns and ceremonial flowers. I saw that Pons did not waste time on the pompously worded inscriptions in red and black lettering but instead focused his attention on a large, flat area in one part of the chamber. The tombs were on plinths set about in a semicircle but there, almost at the centre, was a sheltered space.
“Was this where you saw the camp bed and the stove, Mr Mulvane?”
“Yes, sir,” said the young teacher quietly. “And the oil lamp was standing on top of the first tomb here.”
“I see.”
Pons pulled at his ear-lobe with a thin, febrile hand.