“Perhaps you would be kind enough to place the Inspector’s lantern exactly as you remember it on that evening.”
Mulvane nodded and took the lamp from the C.I.D. man, its wick sending our shadows scampering and scurrying on the low, arched roof.
Pons stood back, his deep-set eyes raking round the funeral chamber, his silhouette elongated and sharp-etched against the wall.
“Excellent.”
He next turned his attention to the floor, getting to his knees and going over the area at the far side of the mausoleum with his powerful pocket lens. There was suppressed energy in his body and a glint of excitement in his eye that affected me too.
“You have found something, Pons?”
“A few indications, Parker, which tend to support some tentative theories I am forming. Look at those scratches there. What do you make of them?”
I joined Pons and peered intently through the lens he held out for me.
“They are scratched, Pons. The Devil’s Claw, perhaps?” “Perhaps,” he said enigmatically, getting to his feet and dusting down the knees of his trousers.
“Could I see, Mr Pons?”
It was Inspector Stone, his eyes shining.
“By all means, Inspector. Just take the lens if you will.”
Pons shot me a wry glance as the police officer went minutely over the floor in his turn.
“Extraordinary, Mr Pons. As Dr Parker says, they do look like those claw-marks we have already seen.”
“And yet there is a subtle difference, my dear Inspector. I commend it to you,” said Pons softly.
“You have formed some conclusions, Pons?”
Solar Pons rocked gently back on his heels, his sharp eyes raking the chamber.
“One or two, Parker. This place is very dry, for example. The marks on the floor are significant. There is a distinct smell in the air, faint but unmistakable.”
I sniffed tentatively. Now that my friend had mentioned it there was something rather musty. It reminded me of a fishmonger’s shop for a moment.
“You do not think it could be those fish-ponds in the grounds, Pons?”
My companion shook his head.
“Hardly, Parker. Fish-ponds have no such distinctive aroma and if they did the odour would not penetrate here. These small points taken together tend to significantly strengthen Mr Mulvane’s story. But we shall have to wait for events to crystallise before we are able to postulate a viable hypothesis.”
I saw Inspector Stone make a wry grimace in Mulvane’s direction and a slight feeling of amusement swept over me, even in the charnel gloom of that sombre place.
“Have you seen enough here, Mr Pons?”
“For the moment, yes, Inspector.”
We followed the trim figure of the police officer out from the foreboding atmosphere of the place. Pons was silent until we had quitted the passage and were waiting at the entrance for Mulvane to rejoin us.
“Tell me, Mr Mulvane,” said my companion. “Is there any other entrance to this graveyard?”
Our host looked startled I thought but he pointed off through the misty silhouettes of the tombs and monuments that stretched into the middle distance.
“There is a side gate farther round. It is not used nowadays but I believe in earlier times gravediggers and women utilised it to avoid opening up the main entrance.”
He smiled apologetically.
“Social etiquette was very formal in those days, as you no doubt know.”
“Just so,” said Pons equably. “I should like to see it if you have no objection.”
“By all means, Mr Pons.”
The three of us fell in behind Mulvane as he led the way round the high wall of the cemetery perimeter. After a minute or so we came in sight of a strong iron gate set into the wall. Pons went down on his haunches, examining the ironwork and hinges with great attention, his lean, feral face alive with interest.
“Hullo!” he said suddenly.
Inspector Stone’s strong face was intent and concentrated as he joined my companion.
“You have found something, Mr Pons.”
“Indeed, Inspector. These hinges have been oiled and greased recently. I commend the fact to your attention.”
He unlatched the heavy iron wicket, moving it noiselessly to and fro in its metal sockets.
“How ridiculous!” cried Mulvane. “Who on earth would want to do that?”
“Who indeed,” said Pons softly, his keen eyes looking off to the far distance.
“What is that handsome house yonder?”
Mulvane had drawn nearer as Inspector Stone bent to examine the gate in his turn.
“Yeoman’s. My estate manager and his wife live there. It is an Elizabethan property and they have made extensive improvements.”
“I can imagine,” said Pons. “Perhaps it would be possible to pay Mr and Mrs Peters a visit.”
Before our host could reply there came a thudding vibration of the turf across the parkland and a white horse ridden at a headlong pace by a tall, willowy woman with dark hair flying, erupted from the mist.
“Why, there is Mrs Peters now!” cried Mulvane. “Come along, gentlemen. There is no time like the present.”
Ten: THE MAID’S STORY
The slim beauty on the white horse had reined in her mount and was regarding us curiously.
“Mr Mulvane. Delighted to see you, sir.”
Mulvane reached up to shake her by the hand and she then descended, her fine, dark eyes fixed on us.
“These are my friends, Mr Solar Pons and Dr Lyndon Parker, who have come to help in the matter of my uncle’s death. Inspector Stone I think you already know.”
The dark eyes were clouded now.
“Ah! A terrible business and one which has brought much sorrow to the estate. Honoured, gentlemen.”
She held out a small, dainty hand to each of us in turn. She had the very faintest accent but anyone could tell by the dark mass of hair and the vivid configuration of the beautiful, sensual face that she hailed from the Latin countries.
“My husband was speaking of the matter only this morning, gentlemen. You have not seen him, Mr Mulvane?”
Our host nodded, his eyes fixed on the tall, slim woman’s face. I should have said she was about thirty or thirty-two and her well-cut riding habit was spattered with mud as though she had ridden her mount through the shallows of one of the ponds. Otherwise, the ground was too hardened with frost to throw up mud in that way.
Pons said nothing but I knew his keen, deep-set eyes were taking in every detail of the remarkable woman before us. I say remarkable advisedly because there was a quiet, resolute strength and a sort of smouldering, passionate nature inherent in her which gave a vividly exotic flavour to the mundane Buckinghamshire scene. I wondered how a man like Peters had come to meet her.
“Within the hour, Mrs Peters. He has gone down to the forty- acre wood.”
“Ah!”
She gave a brilliant smile to each of us in turn.
“I will go there then, gentlemen. I have something to say to him.”
“You have not forgotten you are both dining with us this evening?”
Again the brilliant smile.
“I would not miss it for anything… Until eight.”
The quick clasping of hands and then Mulvane helped her to the saddle and she was galloping off into the far distance, hair flying, teeth bared, until the mist had swallowed her up. For a long time thereafter we could hear the sound of the white horse’s progress until all was still again.
“A remarkable woman, Pons.”
He glanced at me shrewdly.
“Indeed, Parker. You may well say so.”
He turned back to Stone.
“What do you make of that gate, Inspector?”
Stone gave him a curious, tight-lipped smile.
“I am reserving judgement, Mr Pons. But I have my own theories.”