He turned back to the crushed figure if the woman, who had resumed her seat on the chair arm.
“You stabbed him in cold blood, Mrs Peters, with this instrument I am holding, or one remarkably like it. It went in under his armpit, piercing his heart and killing him instantly. Unfortunately for you and your husband, Mulvane chose that night to investigate the mysterious happenings in the graveyard. Your husband came down into the vault to warn you. It was a desperate situation and you had only a short time to drag the body behind one of the funeral monuments, and turn down the lamp. As your employer came into the vault your husband sprang on him from behind and felled him with a heavy blow to the skull. He was lucky he was not killed.
“You then had all the time you needed. You dressed the corpse of old Simon Hardcastle before rigor mortis set in, though you both forgot to pierce his clothing with the pin, a vital omission as it turned out. Because of the freezing cold the wound had bled very little which was why it was not as first realised that the victim had been stabbed. You then cleared out the vault and made all good, dragging the body of Hardcastle into the graveyard and depositing the unconscious Mulvane nearby. As an added piece of Grand Guignol your husband produced a watering can from somewhere and walked backwards out of the vault leaving wet ‘claw marks’ with the gardening tool on the floor until they disappeared on the bitterly cold ground outside.”
“Brilliant, Pons!” I said.
He brushed away the remark.
“I have had a good deal of time to think about the circumstances. Am I right, Mrs Peters?”
She turned burning eyes upon him.
“You are a devil, Mr Pons!”
“Perhaps, but I have not quite finished. I cannot prove it but now you had the will your thoughts turned to the fact that a complete fortune was better than half. Much better. You needed a strong confederate for that, whom no-one would suspect; someone who had no connection with the estate. That was where Tidmarsh came in. You had obviously formed a liaison with him. You had grown tired of your husband and took another, better-looking lover.”
“You cannot mean it, Pons!” I protested.
“I do mean it, Parker,” he said gently. “This pretty rogue — who stands out even among the prize collection of scoundrels who came within the unfortunate Mr Mulvane’s orbit — was quick to seize his opportunities. He first pushed Peters into that icy pond and when that failed, the loving wife tried to induce pneumonia by leaving the window of the sick man’s room open, before Tidmarsh mounted the stairs to the wretched husband’s room and administered the poison. By appearing at the window, Parker, you obviously thwarted his plans and gave him a fright at the same time.”
“But how can you be so sure of the precise facts, Pons?” I asked.
He shrugged.
“The housekeeper would never have left that door unlocked all night. Servants are well trained and among their duties are those of checking all doors and windows at night and seeing that they are securely locked and bolted. Therefore, Mrs Peters was responsible for unlocking that side door after the housekeeper had checked it, in order that her confederate could creep in and commit murder. Unfortunately for this precious pair Peters was not quite dead and with superhuman energy was able to reach us, though he died before he was able to name the culprit. I have no doubt that Mrs Peters wrote to Hardcastle, as she knew there was a maid in the old man’s employ called Angela and that he had already made overtures to her.”
He smiled bleakly.
“Just another aspect of this danse macabre to add to the confusion.”
“All this is appalling, Pons!”
“Is it not, Parker. Many things in life are repugnant, including the ruttish inclinations of old Hardcastle. In this case the plural was singular.”
“I do not follow you.”
“It is simple, my dear fellow. A married woman with two lovers. I could not at first see where the music master fitted in. Though he was disarmingly open about The Devil’s Claw legend and the music whistled in the night, he was too open. Later I remembered that Mulvane had told us the music master did not know anything about The Devil’s Waltz when our client whistled it to him, yet it was included in his volume, relating to old folk tunes of Ireland. That was not conclusive, of course, but it did set my mind turning in that direction. He tried to throw me off but in the end he only roused my suspicions. And of course, being a colleague of Miss Masterson, he was able to glean information on what was taking place at the Manor, especially when she may have confided her worries to him.”
He glanced over his shoulder at the abject figure of Sarita Peters.
“A somewhat promiscuous lady, Parker.”
“Indeed, Pons, and more deadly than the male.”
“Aptly observed, if hardly original, my dear fellow.”
“You still have not explained why old Hardcastle was afraid to go out at night, and yet did so frequently to meet this lady.
The Ram Dass Society, Pons…”
He chuckled.
“There was no such thing, Parker. What he was really afraid of was that Peters would find out about the liaison with his wife. He could not have known that the husband condoned the affair in order to get the old man’s money. His assumed fears were also designed to keep the servants away from the graveyard at night.”
“But I saw an Indian at the stables the other day, Pons,” I insisted. “He wore a turban and was carrying a heavy suitcase.”
He chuckled again.
“I looked into that myself, Parker. I am not entirely unobservant in these matters. I made inquiries at the stable cottage and found that the man was often about Chalcroft village with others of his nationality. He was a travelling salesman who sold Oriental carpets to the estate workers!”
Pons’ face was stem as he went across to Mrs Peters.
“And now we must use your telephone, madam, in order to summon the police.”
The woman started up, her face distorted with anger and loathing. Quick as a snake she snatched up her handbag.
“You will not live to see me stand trial, Pons!” she screamed.
I saw the flash of metal and then a small nickel-plates automatic in her hand. I just had time to fire my pistol through my overcoat pocket. The explosion and the flash seemed to shatter the entire room. Sarita Peters gasped as she spun round, a scarlet stain spreading on her shoulder, the automatic bouncing across the carpet. Pons quickly put his foot on it as he lowered her to the floor. My overcoat was smouldering and I hastily removed my revolver in case the cartridges exploded. While I was beating out the little flames that had sprung up, Pons had laid Sarita Peters on the divan just as the frightened housekeeper appeared in the doorway.
“Don’t be alarmed,” I said. “There has been an accident. But you had better ring Chalcroft Police Station and get the Sergeant to come here.”
Pons turned a reassuring face toward me as I hurried to the divan.
“A mere flesh wound, I think, Parker. But your department, not mine.”
“You are right,” I said as I removed the woman’s jacket. “It is only a scratch but she has fainted with shock. A formidable woman.”
“Yes, Parker, and I would not be here but for your quick thinking,” he said. “I am most grateful.”
And he laid his hand on my shoulder briefly. I got a clean handkerchief from my breast pocket, mopped up the blood which was oozing sluggishly from the small wound and bound it round her upper arm. By this time the housekeeper had returned wearing a heavy dressing gown and slippers and I sent her for iodine and something more suitable for a bandage. When she had gone Pons looked at the beautiful face of the recumbent Sarita Peters for long moments.