His sensitive ears had already caught the sound of distant footsteps and almost immediately the Great Hall was flooded with light and our client appeared, walking swiftly and with greater confidence I had yet seen in him since he entered Pons’ consulting room in such an abject condition.
“I trust Miss Masterson is well,” Pons said smoothly.
An astonished look passed across our host’s face. Pons shot me an amused glance.
“That young lady’s company would be the only thing that could possibly lighten your mood at the present time, Mr Mulvane.”
The librarian gave a short laugh.
“Shrewdly observed, Mr Pons, but you are certainly correct. We have been for a short drive to a delightful tea-room in Chalcroft…”
Here he paused, having caught the expression on Pons’ mobile features.
“Chaperoned by Inspector Stone’s faithful police sergeant, of course.”
“I hope he did not cramp your style,” said Pons archly.
Mulvane sat down in the chair vacated by Stone and gave me an amused glance.
“Not at all, Mr Pons. He sat at an adjoining table and had a very boring hour of it, I am afraid.”
“Though these things have their humorous side, you may be sure there were good reasons for these precautions, Mr Mulvane, and I hope you will not see fit to breach them for any reason whatsoever.”
“You may be certain of that, Mr Pons,” said Mulvane solemnly. “I have given my word.”
He glanced round the Great Hall as Tolpuddle appeared as though summoned by a bell.
“Now, gentlemen. Refreshments before dinner? A sherry for you, Mr Pons, and a whisky for the doctor. And then you must give me your latest news.”
Twenty-One: BAITING THE TRAP
The next morning Pons’ apparent lethargy had disappeared and he was suddenly galvanised with energy.
“You have thought of a plan, Pons?”
He nodded, his face animated and transformed.
“Yes indeed, Parker. But I would prefer not to divulge the details at this stage.”
“Very well. You know best.”
We had just left the breakfast table with Mulvane and Tolpuddle was out of hearing, supervising the maids clearing away.
“Let us just go into your study, Mr Mulvane.”
When the door was firmly closed behind the three of us, my friend made a curious request.
“Have you an old cash box, of about this size?”
He held up his hands to indicate something roughly six inches long. Mulvane looked a little startled, as well he might have done.
“I think so, Mr Pons. Do you need it right away?”
“If you please. The matter is not to be mentioned outside these walls. And an old letter or document of your uncle’s, with examples of his handwriting.”
“I can fill both those bills without any trouble, Mr Pons, if you will give me a few minutes.”
“By all means.”
Pons lay back in his chair and lit his pipe with evident satisfaction at the effects his strange requests had upon both our host and myself. In a few minutes, after searching in various drawers and cupboards, Mulvane produced the requisite articles. Pons picked up the battered old japanned box eagerly.
“Excellent! Just what I require. Now let us have a look at the document.”
He was absorbed for a few moments more and then asked, “Have you an old, long envelope in which I can enclose this material?”
“Not here, Mr Pons, but I think I can find what I want in my uncle’s office.”
Mulvane was away about ten minutes and during that time Pons sat in his chair, blowing out streams of fragrant blue smoke with an air of absolute contentment, oblivious of the mist at the windows and the ice on the panes. I forbore to question him on the matters he had set in motion as I knew he would have told me otherwise. Mulvane returned, making motions with his hands as though brushing away cobwebs.
“Is this what you want, Mr Pons? It must be twenty years old at least.”
Pons took the yellowing envelope with an air of satisfaction.
“Splendid! Just what is required.”
He went over to Mulvane’s desk where he seated himself with a sheet of paper on the blotter and made a number of inscriptions, all the while looking at old Simon Hardcastle’s letter, as though he were trying to copy the script.
“Yes, I think this will do.”
He painstakingly inscribed something on the envelope, put the letter inside and sealed the flap, before crumpling up the sheet of paper and throwing it casually into the fire, all the while being watched by our host with a puzzled look. Then my friend rose with an air of great decision.
“I shall only be an hour or so* gentlemen. I have no doubt you can find many pleasant things to do within the walls of the Manor during my absence, Parker.”
“Certainly. We could play a game of billiards, doctor. You have not yet seen our billiard room. You will not find a better.”
“One further request,” said Pons, as we were going out the door.
“Do you have a pair of powerful field glasses I could borrow?”
“By all means, Mr Pons,” said Mulvane. “You will find that brown leather case on top of the cupboard contains what you want.”
Mulvane then led me to a luxuriously appointed billiard room with leather banquettes set around the walls, but I must confess my mind was not on the game and though I did not play too badly I was nowhere up to my usual form. Mulvane won the first two games by narrow margins, but I pulled up and won the last two, which made us all square.
Pons was away much longer than expected and it was well after two o’clock before he returned, his outer clothing shining with droplets of water for the mist was thickening outside the windows. We had held up lunch for him and he sat down to eat with us, his face expressing complete satisfaction with whatever arrangements he had made on his mysterious errands. He rubbed his thin fingers together and held them out in the direction of the blazing fire with mischievous glints in his eyes.
“I have done just as you directed,” said Mulvane. “Miss Masterson and Tidmarsh were both at the College and readily accepted my invitation to an early dinner. I also rang Mrs Peters, thinking the occasion might mitigate her loneliness, as you also suggested, and she too has accepted. I am sending Sunshine and the dogcart for her at half-past six.”
“Sunshine?” I said, sniffing appreciatively at the big soup tureen Tolpuddle was just placing on the table.
“The pony, Parker,” said Pons gravely. “There will be a driver as well, of course, though I understand the little beast is extremely well trained.”
Even Tolpuddle’s grave demeanour lightened as the laughter ran round the table.
“Oh, yes, I remember,” I said. “He certainly knows how to find his way to the stables.”
“And the rest?” Pons asked.
“I telephoned my foreman at the cottages and asked him to circulate your message to the rest of the estate workers, though not letting him know that the message emanated from you. I have told the house servants, of course.”
“First-rate,” said Pons, taking in the aroma of the hot soup Tolpuddle was just ladling out. “Now, as nothing further can be done until this evening, I suggest we pass the intervening time the best way we can. We are certainly making an excellent start.”
And he dipped his spoon into the appetising soup before him.
The dull afternoon passed, for me at least, in a state of suppressed excitement. During that time I had telephoned my locum in London to see how the practice was proceeding and after receiving a satisfactory report from my colleague, I wrote two fairly important letters on medical matters, in my room before descending to the Great Hall where I perused The Lancet before the roaring fire. Pons was nowhere to be seen but at about six o’clock there was the sound of wheels in the drive and, in a few minutes more, Miss Masterson and Vincent Tidmarsh were announced, both with reddened cheeks from the bitter air outside.