I gazed in puzzlement at Pons, who stood a little apart from Mulvane, warming his slim fingers at the fire, his deep-set eyes stabbing over the massed ranks of the house servants and outdoor staff who stood or sat in an awkward semi-circle about the great paved floor. There was no sign of Inspector Stone or any other police official so I gathered that Pons had deliberately excluded them from the gathering, though I was just as curious as everyone else present regarding Pons’ pronouncement as he had not confided in me, either before or after lunch.
An odd silence had fallen and I then realised that a strange, bearded figure with a bandage about its head, was pushing slowly through the throng, murmurs of astonishment and even horror arising above the crackling of the fire to mark his passage.
Our client started forward, his sandy hair dishevelled, his eyes startled beneath the thick pebble glasses.
“Mr Peters! You should not be here after such an ordeal as you have suffered!”
The estate manager shook his head worriedly, his own eyes fixed on myself and Pons.
“I am quite recovered, Mr Mulvane. But when I heard from my wife that you had called this important meeting I could not keep away.”
He accepted the Whisky glass Tolpuddle handed him and said in a sonorous and far away voice, “What I have to say is for Dr Parker’s ears alone. My saviour…”
I rose and approached him, when the glass slipped from his hands and shattered on the stone floor.
“I know who is responsible, Dr Parker,” he said in a strangled voice. “His name is…”
There was mocking laughter as he fell into a black pit. I had just time to see Miss Masterson move from the other side of the fire and draw close to Mulvane, her face concerned and troubled, when the laughter went on in such a loud fashion that I thought my brain would split.
“What does this mean, Pons?” I said stupidly. “The Society of Bodgers?”
Pons’ laughter went on echoing round the vast subterranean vault.
“So you missed the name of the murderer. You would be eminently qualified for membership of that Society, Parker, given your past record…”
“Oh, come Pons!” I protested, when I became aware of Tolpuddle’s solicitous face hovering over me.
“I did knock, sir, but there was no reply. Then I heard you calling out and I took the liberty of coming in. I hope you will forgive my rudeness.”
I struggled up in the familiar bedroom of Chalcroft Manor, glad to be fully awake.
“Most certainly, Tolpuddle. There was no rudeness involved. I am glad to be awake, I can assure you, as I was having the most frightful dream.”
The gravity of the butler’s face deepened.
“Ah, you may well say so, sir. I think that nobody here slept well last night after such a dreadful occurrence. It has just turned nine o’clock, sir, and Mr Mulvane thought you might be glad of a cup of hot chocolate. I can assure you that neither he nor Mr Pons are up and that breakfast can be served at any time to suit.” “That is good to know,” I said, as he placed the tray at my bedside. “Please give Mr Mulvane my thanks and say that I will be down within the next half hour.”
“Very good, sir.”
Tolpuddle withdrew in as dignified a manner as he had come in and I drank the hot chocolate gratefully, my churning thoughts slowly settling as I returned to a semblance of normality. As it happened I was first in the dining room and sat down to await my companions, with slightly lightened spirits, despite the thick mist and heavy rime of frost on the window panes.
Eighteen: PONS IS ENIGMATIC
Late down as I was, Pons was later still. We two and Mulvane ate breakfast in a strained silence and the atmosphere was not improved by the thick fog that curled at the windows. Afterward, Mulvane excused himself and went out on various errands about the estate, after expressing his intention of calling to offer his condolences in person to the unfortunate widow. Later, Pons sat smoking by the fire in our client’s study, while I settled in a comfortable chair opposite, trying to pay some attention to that morning’s Times, which had just been delivered.
Presently Tolpuddle appeared at the door to say that my companion was wanted on the telephone. He returned in ten minutes or so, rubbing his thin hands together, an alert expression on his face, that told me he was making progress on the case, most aspects of which were baffling to me.
“That was Stone. An able officer. There has been a preliminary post mortem on Peters. As I thought, you have been proved right, old fellow. Though the pathologist, of course, would not commit himself definitely until he has completed all his tests, all the indications are that some slow-acting corrosive poison was administered to the unfortunate Peters in liquid form as he lay asleep. It would taste like medicine but would start its deadly action within ten minutes or so. That was why Peters found the strength to run here not only to get medical help but to indicate the murderer. If only he had stayed conscious for another few minutes.”
“It is indeed unfortunate, Pons,” I observed.
“However, we must raise our edifice with whatever bricks are to hand,” he said, sinking back into his fireside chair. “Just let me have your thoughts on the case. Sum it up, if you will, as succinctly as may be. I always find your observations invaluable, even though sometimes they may be a little wide of the mark.” “Very good of you to say so. Old Hardcastle was murdered, possibly to get possession of Mulvane’s estate, by a person or persons unknown, as they say. Though terrified of a secret sect called the Ram Dass Society, he nevertheless went out late at night to the old graveyard on numerous occasions. Though the weather was bitterly cold, he had earlier been naked when found near the vault, apparently stabbed with something like a thin stiletto, and then dressed in his own clothes afterward. Local people have been alarmed by the activities of some beast which leaves strange tracks known locally as the Devil’s Claw. The same marks were found round the body of a dead tramp in the woods, as well as that of old Hardcastle.
“A weird tune whistled in the graveyard at dead of night turns out to be an old Irish air known as The Devil’s Waltz.
“Vincent Tidmarsh, the music master at Chalcroft College not only has a typescript of the legend but probably knows about the old air from the book of ancient Folk Tunes of Old Ireland we found in his bookcase. Conversely, he was quite open about these things, and himself drew them to our attention.”
“Admirable, Parker,” said Pons as he sat with his eyes closed, ejecting a fragrant plume of smoke from his pipe. “Pray continue.”
“Then we have a number of equally baffling things,” I went on. “Wet claw-marks on a bitterly cold night when everything was frozen solid. The same claw-marks going into the vault and not returning. A secret chamber, in which the murderer secreted himself, until the hue and cry had died down?”
“Perhaps, Parker, perhaps,” said my companion dreamily, his eyes still closed, though I knew his brain was working at full speed.
“The strange perfume in the vault. His lawyer in the Bahamas for several weeks at this crucial time, so that we are unable to find out who is the beneficiary. No such will lodged at Somerset House. And we must not forget the malicious rumours spread about Chalcroft to blacken Mulvane’s character.”
“You are right on track, old fellow.”
Warming to his implied praise, I pressed on.
“Miss Masterson knows nothing of the matter but Mulvane is extremely worried, both for his own safety and hers. The attacks on Peters are equally baffling. No less than three attempts on his life by an extremely daring murderer, who struck again and again, finally being successful. So daring, in fact, that he risked going to Yeoman’s not once, but twice.”