“You are right, Parker,” he said equably, setting the gate screaming on its hinges again. Nothing stirred in the silvery mist that blurred the huddled gravestones of the old burial ground. Then Pons replaced the gate as he had found it and fixed the padlock and chain so that it looked, at a cursory glance, as though it were still secure; then he moved so swiftly along the cemetery wall that I was hard put to keep up with him. In a minute or so the wicket gate loomed up out of the mist. My companion bent and examined the iron structure with bright eyes. It was unlocked and as he tested it with his right hand it went round on smoothly greased hinges, just as it had on the previous occasion.
“Singular, is it not, Parker?” he said softly.
“I don’t follow, Pons.”
Then I saw his drift and before he could reply I went on. “Ah, yes, the main gate. Obviously, no funerals have taken place here for many years. But this small gate is probably used by estate workers when they cut the grass and tidy the area.”
Pons had a thin smile on his face as he sucked on-his empty pipe stem.
“Perhaps, Parker, perhaps,” he said slowly.
He led the way back through the side lane to the postern gate in the estate wall, enabling us to join the main highway a good deal farther down.
After a brisk walk of some twenty minutes, during which we were both silent, we passed the imposing entrance gates of Chalcroft College and soon after came once again into the main street of Chalcroft itself, which now presented a scene of bustling animation. I realised it was Saturday and people were busy about their shopping, while smart motor vehicles and pony carts were drawn up in front of the imposing inns, including The Three Cardinals, and public houses we had passed on our arrival.
Accustomed as I was to the somewhat eccentric behaviour of my companion I was nevertheless more than surprised when he asked me to wait on the pavement while he went into a large ironmonger’s shop. I saw him through the window engaged in an earnest conversation with a black-coated assistant and in a few minutes he had emerged carrying a small brown paper parcel tied with string. There was a look of suppressed excitement on his sharp, feral features that had not been there before.
“I have just two more calls to make in the middle of the village, Parker.”
“The lawyer’s?”
He nodded.
“And the library. I see it is just before us. Let us enter without further delay, though I fear it may be too small for the type of reference work I seek.”
He led the way forward to the imposing sandstone building and while he occupied himself in a prolonged conversation with a forbidding-looking young woman wearing horn-rimmed spectacles in the reference section, I occupied myself with a perusal of that morning’s Times in the reading room, which was separated from the reference area by a clear glass screen. Presently he rejoined me with a wry expression on his face.
“It is as I thought, Parker. The work I seek is not held in stock. We shall have to call in at the Post Office opposite; it would be too tedious and time-consuming to have to return to London for such a relatively simple matter. But as it is vital to my inquiries I must try to get the answer today.”
I followed him into the small, wood-framed post office building and after Pons had had a short conversation with the postmaster, Sheldon, a portly middle-aged man in a faded grey suit, he entered a large wooden booth set against the near wall. The only other person at the dark mahogany counter was an elderly woman filling in some sort of official-looking form, and as the postmaster had retreated into a large glass cubicle which I supposed was his private office, I had little to do but watch pedestrians passing in the street outside. My reveries were interrupted by Pons beckoning me into the booth; it was a spacious structure with a wooden shelf and two wooden stools and I seated myself while my companion waited for his connection.
“There is nothing private about this, my dear fellow,” he said. “But I would not wish my inquiries to get about the district so I would appreciate it if you could warn me if anyone approaches too closely.”
I slewed my stool toward the glass window and kept watch while Pons was obviously connected, judging by the clicking noise from the telephone. He glanced round quickly, lowering his voice to a whisper.
“London Library? I wish to speak to Professor Brewer. Yes, I will hold.”
He spoke to me over his shoulder.
“If you have a sheet of paper and a pencil I would be obliged, Parker.”
I rapidly searched my pockets.
“Will this envelope do?”
“Admirably.”
His party was on the line and after a few pleasantries Pons asked, “Have you any volumes on legend and superstition? I’m looking for anything pertaining to an old folk tune, The Devil’s Waltz.”
I looked at him sharply but he had his eyes fixed through the glass window of the booth, his hand held over the mouthpiece of the telephone. Presently Brewer came back again and the conversation resumed. Pons drew in his breath.
“Admirable, John. I thought as much. Would you mind reading it to me?”
The pencil fairly danced across the paper as he covered the envelope with his minute, precise writing.
“Yes, yes,” he was saying. “All I wanted to know. We must have dinner together some time.”
His eyes were gleaming as he put the receiver down.
“We progress, Parker. I will explain in good time.”
He was out of the booth before I could say anything and I regained the street while he paid the postmaster. A few moments later he rejoined me on the pavement, returning my pencil and placing the envelope with his notations with great care into his wallet.
Thirteen: ATTEMPTED MURDER
“Now for old Hardcastle’s lawyer. It should be down the far street on the opposite side of the road if what the postmaster tells me is correct.”
We threaded our way through the thickening traffic and found ourselves in a narrow lane fronted on both sides by a mixture of private houses and commercial premises, mostly offices, interspersed with those of solicitors and doctors.
“Ah, here is the brass plate, Parker. I would prefer you not to come in, if you will forgive me. If you would just ensconce yourself in a comer of the tea-shop yonder I will join you directly.”
Although it was only an hour and a half since we had breakfasted, the sharp walk and the even sharper weather conditions found me receptive to the suggestion and from the bottle-glass windows of the quaint old establishment, which was already crowded with people taking their morning coffee, I awaited his return.
He came back a few minutes later, still carrying his parcel and with an expression on his face which told me that he was on the right track. As he joined me at the table he put the package carefully down between us and sank into the wooden Windsor chair with a grunt of satisfaction.
“Our man is out of the country. He has gone to Bermuda on urgent business for the firm and will be away at least six weeks, I am told.”
I raised my eyebrows slightly.
“It is important, Pons?”
“Extremely. From my point of view, that is.”
He would say nothing more and it was not until we had finished our coffee and were again outside in the street that he broke his silence, and that was in answer to my own question.
“It was what you hoped to hear?” I ventured, referring to our recent conversation. There was a gleam in his eye now.
“Possibly, Parker, possibly. But it does make my task a little easier. And tends to confirm my belief that Mulvane was speaking the truth when he told us that he was not interested in the terms of his uncle’s will.”
We were interrupted at that point by a frantically waving person who ejected himself from the post office doorway opposite. It was the postmaster, who darted into the road, dodging bicycles, pony-traps and the occasional motor vehicle with incredible agility.