“The real essence of academe, Pons,” I felt impelled to remark.
“As you say, Parker.”
My companion tapped politely on a pine-panelled door which bore Tidmarsh’s name in gold lettering. There was no reply and we went through into a handsomely appointed study with a large green-leather topped desk with elaborate gilt tooling; row after row of mahogany filing cabinets; and comfortable matching green leather wing chairs.
“It seems as though Mr Tidmarsh has found himself a comfortable billet, Parker.”
“Indeed, Pons.”
“As our man is not here it would appear that the music room itself is through yonder door.”
He was walking across the room when he gave a sudden exclamation and altered course toward a massive glassed-in bookcase against the far wall. I followed him and saw row after row of heavy leather-bound volumes. Pons had opened one door of the case and I glanced at the titles.
“The Essence of Jarloism, Pons? What does that mean?”
“An obscure 18th-century Swedish sect, Parker. Our man is nothing if not esoteric. I should imagine this is his own private library. One may learn much from a man’s preference in reading material.”
“As you say, Pons.”
He was easing out volume after volume now and he paused to remark over his shoulder, “I’d be obliged if you would open the music room door a crack to see if our friend is about. I would not wish him to think that we are prying into his private affairs. As we are, of course,” he added with a tight smile.
I did as he bade and opened the door an inch or so.
“Mr Tidmarsh is sitting at one of the far desks studying papers under a shaded lamp,” I whispered. “There are about a dozen students present.”
“Good,” said he.
He gave a sharp exclamation at this point.
“You have found something, Pons?”
He held up a red cardboard folder and I crossed quietly to read the title on the cover: THE LEGEND OF THE DEVIL’S CLAW.
“Good heavens!” I said.
“You may well say so, Parker.”
He went through the typed sheets swiftly.
“But this is not conclusive. It is merely a copy of the entry in the volume about which I telephoned the British Library.”
“But this may be more to the point,” I said, reaching out for another volume.
“Ancient Folk Tunes of Old Ireland, Pons!”
“You are quite right, Parker,” Pons commented, with a twinkle in his eye. “I think we have learned something this afternoon.”
He quickly replaced the material in the case, closed the door and turned the key. We went out the Librarian’s study the way we had come in, walked along the corridor outside and entered the music room by the main doors. Tidmarsh had seen us coming and got up quickly and came toward us, holding out his hand with a ready smile.
“Dr Parker! Mr Pons! This is indeed a pleasant surprise. Though I do not know what brings you here this inclement afternoon.”
“Merely a social call, Mr Tidmarsh,” said Pons easily. “We were out for a walk and came though the College gates on impulse.”
He glanced round at the intent figures bent over their desks.
“I understand all the students had left for the Christmas vacation.”
Tidmarsh gave a short laugh. “Oh, these young men all live within a radius of about seven miles. Some are studying, others merely reading for pleasure.”
He shrugged. “I should imagine some of them may be bored by being cooped up at home in such weather as this. But will you not step into my study, gentlemen, for a glass of sherry. I keep a good cabinet full of healing waters, if I do say so myself.”
“You are very kind, Mr Tidmarsh,” I said.
“Not at all, gentlemen, not at all.”
We followed him straight back to the far end of the library and he ushered us through the door into his study. We were soon ensconced in two deep leather chairs while the music master bustled about with glasses and a decanter.
“I think you will find this excellent, gentlemen. I get it in cask from a firm in St James.”
“Indeed,” Pons said gravely, taking a tentative sip. “You have not exaggerated, sir.”
“Certainly not,” I said.
Tidmarsh suddenly paused as though on a sudden impulse.
“I have something interesting to show you, gentlemen. No, please don’t get up.”
He crossed over to the glass-fronted bookcase and took down the folder with the red cover, which I instantly recognised.
“The Legend of the Devil’s Claw! I think you will find it of great interest. Obviously the source of these silly tales that are circulating following poor Mr Hardcastle’s mysterious death. I had it copied through a friend of mine, a professor at the British Library.”
“Extraordinary,” Pons murmured, giving me a warning glance over the rim of his glass.
He took the folder Tidmarsh extended to him and pretended to study it intently, as though it was the first time he had seen it. Presently he passed it to me.
“Most interesting,” he told our host.
“What do you make of it, Mr Pons?”
My companion shrugged, holding his glass up to the light, with an appreciative expression on his face.
“This really is the most superb sherry.”
“Allow me to press you to another glass. But you have not answered my question.”
“It was a difficult one,” Pons said slowly. “There are a number of very tangled threads in this case. I cannot pass any judgement at the present time.”
Tidmarsh got up from his own chair to replenish Pons’ glass and then did the same for me. He resumed his seat and raised his own glass in silent salute to the two of us.
“That is most disappointing, Mr Pons. I had expected something extraordinary, given your reputation.”
Pons gave him a wry smile. “I am not a miracle worker, Mr Tidmarsh. I only wish I were. I have seen too many distressed people in my consulting room over the years. I am thankful to say I was successful in a goodly percentage of those cases but inevitably there were others where I was not able to arrive at a veritable truth. This may be one of them.”
Tidmarsh took another delicate sip at his glass. His eyes looked blank and his pallid face accentuated the black moustache.
“I am indeed sorry to hear you say so, Mr Pons.”
“C’est la vie,” Pons murmured, turning again with an appreciative air to his sherry glass. He looked across at me with a sharp, penetrating gaze.
“Tell me, Mr Tidmarsh,” he said abruptly, “what do you think of this murderous attack on Mr Peters? I presume you have already heard about it?”
A shadow passed across the music master’s face.
“Yes, indeed. Mr Mulvane telephoned me at lunch-time. I did, in fact, call at Yeoman’s an hour or so ago, but Mrs Peters said her husband was resting and recovering, so I did not actually see him. A terrible accident, perhaps?”
Pons shook his head.
“Hardly an accident, Mr Tidmarsh. A man cannot receive a terrific blow on the head out of a clear sky when he is standing on the bank of a pond with no other human being apparently nearby. You can testify to the ferocity of the attack, can you not, Parker?”
“Certainly. It was a murderous blow and the push that propelled the unfortunate Mr Peters through the ice was intended to be the coup de grace in my opinion.”
Tidmarsh bit his lip.
“I did not quite understand, gentlemen. Mulvane was somewhat reticent on the telephone and as Mrs Peters did not volunteer any detailed information I put her reaction down to her overwrought condition.”
“Quite understandable,” said Pons crisply. “But you may take it that the situation is as I have already described it. Just another strand in this bizarre tangle.”
He got up with a quick movement, putting his glass down on a polished mahogany table at his elbow.