“Mr Pons? Mr Solar Pons? And Dr Parker?” he asked breathlessly as soon as he had reached us.
“The same,” said Pons, looking at him curiously. “Might I ask how you come to know us?”
“Inspector Stone has just rung through with an urgent message. He repeated your descriptions, gentlemen, and of course I told him you had just been in.”
“Thank you. He is on the telephone now?”
“Yes, sir, if you’ll step across.”
“Please take care of this, Parker, if you please. I shall not be a moment.”
Pons thrust his small parcel into my hand and was gone in a second, rapidly disappearing into the throng of shoppers in the wake of the bobbing figure of the postmaster. I had not long to wait. Not more than three minutes had passed when Pons returned, his face grim. Quickly, he hailed a passing cab that was returning to the railway station forecourt.
“Jump in, Parker! There is not a moment to lose.”
When he had given the driver his instructions he sank back in a corner of the vehicle, the parcel on his lap, his face dark and sombre.
“What has happened, Pons?” I said in a voice low enough to prevent us from being overheard by the driver.
“Events are moving, Parker. Though this is something I did not foresee.”
His slim fingers were as agitated as those of the antennae of an insect, as he moved in the seat, his features furrowed with concentration.
“That was Stone, as you will have gathered from the postmaster. We are wanted back at the house. Peters has been attacked. His body had been found half-in, half-out of one of the ponds, the victim of a savage assault.”
“Good heavens, Pons!” I remarked. “Is he dead?”
“It was not clear from what Stone said,” Pons went on. “That is more in your province than mine. Stop here, driver!”
He rapped peremptorily on the window as the vehicle had now drawn alongside the wall of the great estate and he was already running for the gateway as I fumbled with my change to pay the driver. Pons was nowhere in sight as I passed through the brick archway into the grounds of old Hardcastle’s manor house but as I hurried to catch up I saw his dim figure hastening through the thin mist that was rising out here. He led the way swiftly to the stable block, where an anxious knot of people awaited us.
Mulvane’s face was a mixture of dismay and anger.
“This is a terrible business, Mr Pons.”
The trim form of Inspector Stone was beside him. He ushered us quickly to one of the outbuildings where there was a warmer atmosphere with massed bales of straw stretching almost to the ceiling. Thick blankets had been produced from somewhere and a blue-faced bearded figure lay swathed in them. A motherly-looking woman was bent over him, trying to spoon brandy into a corner of his mouth.
“Your department, I think, Parker,” Pons murmured quietly, stooping to thank the woman, who moved aside with an anxious look upon her face.
“We have done all we could, doctor,” Stone said brusquely. “He has only just been brought in here and we have applied such rough and ready remedies as suggested themselves.”
“You have done wisely,” I told the Inspector. “Has Mrs Peters been informed?”
“Not yet,” Stone replied. “We did not wish her to fear the worst until we had expert medical advice.”
“We certainly have that,” Pons put in. “What is your diagnosis, my dear fellow?”
I was already examining the gash on the back of Peters’ head and I had checked that warmth was returning to his limbs.
“Favourable,” I said. “He has certainly had a great shock and immersion in bitterly cold water on such a freezing day is sometimes sufficient to stop the heart entirely. I am certain he will recover with warmth and care. He must be moved indoors as soon as possible.”
“Excellent!” Stone exclaimed. “Then he may be able to tell us something of his attacker.”
“Perhaps,” said my companion softly.
“He was obviously attacked from behind, Pons,” I said. “So he would not have seen who was responsible.”
Solar Pons put a long, thin forefinger alongside his nose and surveyed the small cluster of anxious estate workers who crowded the stable doorway.
“Perhaps, Parker. But I think you are forgetting the frozen ground. It would be difficult to approach someone in the open without footsteps being audible on such a hard surface.”
I rose, noting the trembling motion of the estate manger’s eyelids, asking the woman to continue the stimulus of brandy, enjoining caution as to the amount.
“I think everything had already been done that can be here,” I said. “Mr Peters should be moved to the warmth and comfort of his own home as soon as he regains consciousness. And we should be careful not to alarm his wife unnecessarily. In the meantime ought not we to go over the scene of the crime, Pons?” “The attempted crime, Parker,” said Pons languidly, his keen eyes raking over the recumbent form of Peters, who now bore all the signs of returning animation.
A uniformed sergeant had appeared from somewhere and when Stone had given instructions for Peters to be conveyed to the house, the C.I.D. man led the way through the freezing air and across the misty grounds towards the steely sheen of ice glimmering beneath the feeble rays of the low sun.
We skirted the area of the large pond, one of several, each over a hundred yards across and intersected, I saw now, by small strips of solid ground.
“Gravel pits,” Stone ventured, answering my companion’s unspoken question. “Old Mr Hardcastle refused, for some reason, to have them connected up. The estate people thought it would have been more useful to have them all one large lake. Apparently the shallower ponds dry up in the summer season when it is exceptionally hot.”
“Note that interesting husbandly detail, Parker,” said Pons drily, his head thrust forward into the collar of his warm overcoat, his deep-set eyes stabbing here and there. I noticed he still carried the small parcel under his right arm and my curiosity as to its contents increased.
Stone opened his mouth as if to remonstrate but broke into a broad smile as Pons continued, “It is this attention to the minutiae of the case which marks the Inspector as an outstanding officer. You will go far in the force, Stone, mark my words.” “You are too kind, Mr Pons,” said the C.I.D. man, a warm flush on his cheeks.
We had now come to a large open space where a few curious country people had gathered, despite the bitter cold. They drew back respectfully as our small group came up and I saw where the ice had been broken near the bank of the pond. Close by much water had been deposited upon the surface of the frozen ground, obviously where Peters had been brought to shore. Lying near was a large hurdle, the means by which he had been rescued.
“Fortunately, Amos Brown here, was passing on his farm duties and saw Peters floating in the water,” Stone said. “Undoubtedly he would otherwise have died. With commendable speed Mr Brown supported the body with this hurdle and as Peters was too heavy to extricate unaided he then ran for help.”
“Excellent,” said Pons, glancing curiously at the elderly man with a white moustache who stood with his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his corduroy jacket. “I am sure Mr Brown deserves Mr Peters’ warmest thanks.”
I had circled round while this conversation was proceeding and now saw that Mulvane, who had remained behind to supervise Peters’ transfer to his own house was hurrying to rejoin us, his form a dark spot through the enshrouding mist which hung like some pallid pall across the estate. Pons was crouching on the bank now, his glass to his eye and working up and down like some sporting dog upon the scent.