"You are correct on both counts, Pons," I said crossly, running my hand across my face. "I am taking a day off from my practice today and will run down to Braithwaite's the chemists, directly after breakfast, to stock up."
"And I will ask Mrs. Johnson about the bulb," said Pons. "I understand she keeps a supply in her kitchen cupboard somewhere."
He put down his coffee cup and immersed himself in the Times for the next few minutes. I looked up at his muffled exclamation.
"Have you seen the racing news, Parker?"
"I was never a great one for the turf," I said. "And I did not know that you followed it with any real interest"
Pons smiled faintly.
"Ordinarily, no, my dear fellow. But when I note that Mulcallah has again failed in yesterday's Doncaster fixture, I begin to smell a rat."
"I do not quite understand, Pons."
"The favorite has failed three times in a row, Parker. Even the Jockey Club cannot overlook that. Bryant has been doping again, mark my words. I must telephone Jamison."
He threw down the newspaper with a grunt and finished off his coffee. We had just drawn back from the table, me to finish my last cup of coffee, Pons to enjoy an after- breakfast pipe when there came a ring at the front doorbell. Pons's face assumed the alert expression I had come to know so well.
"A client, Parker? I hardly dare to hope so. It has been far too quiet of late."
"It is more likely to be the carpenter about Mrs. Johnson's kitchen improvements," I said.
Solar Pons held up an admonitory finger.
"Your mundane mind again, Parker. Carpenters do not usually arrive in taxis."
I put down my coffee cup with a small clatter in the silence.
"I did not hear anything."
"That was because you were not listening, my dear fellow. The engine of the London taxi has a distinctive note that is unmistakable. Ah, I thought as much. Mrs. Johnson is coming up."
Even as he spoke there was a deferential tap at the door and our landlady appeared, a serious expression on her face.
"A Mr. Horace Oldfield to see you, Mr. Pons. The poor gentleman seems much agitated."
Pons rubbed his lean hands together briskly.
"Show him up at once, Mrs. Johnson."
He turned to me.
"Pray do not go, Parker. Unless my client desires the utmost secrecy, I would be glad of both your company and your opinion."
I settled myself back in my chair, considerably flattered at Pons's words and awaited the approach of the heavy tread on the stair with ill-concealed impatience.
The man who presented himself at our threshold was indeed a pitiable object. Tall and thin, he was immaculately dressed in a fur-collared overcoat and a smart check suit, but the effect was marred by his wild, staring eyes, disheveled hair, and generally distraught demeanor. He staggered as he got inside the door and almost fell. I rushed forward to his assistance and helped him to a chair, noting his chalk-white complexion.
"Your department, Parker," said Pons, rising from his seat and looking anxiously at our client.
I loosened his collar and turned to Mrs. Johnson.
"If you would be so good as to pour a small glass of brandy… You will find the bottle on the sideboard."
I put the glass to Mr. Oldfield's lips and the color was soon returning to his cheeks. He tried to get up but I pushed him back.
"Just sit and drink that, Mr. Oldfield. Nothing but shock, I think, Pons."
Solar Pons reseated himself at the table while Mrs. Johnson briskly cleared the breakfast things. When she had withdrawn and. we were alone with our client, he blinked once or twice and looked from me to my companion.
"Mr. Solar Pons?"
"I am he," said my friend gently. "Just take your time, Mr. Oldfield. It is obvious that you have been the subject of some unnerving experience."
Our visitor nodded. He gulped once or twice and when The had indicated in grateful tones that he had recovered himself, I reseated myself near Pons and examined our visitor carefully.
He was a man of about forty or forty-five years of age; of a studious aspect, with gold-rimmed pince-nez. His features were regular and would have been pleasing had it not been for his agitated expression. He had a thin wisp of fair mustache on his upper lip, and his teeth were regular and even. His sandy-colored hair was receding a little; his gray eyes wore a sad expression as he gazed at us.
I had unbuttoned his overcoat, and now he took it off and put it down on a chair at his side. He ran his hands over his hair once or twice as though suddenly conscious of his unkempt appearance and flushed as he reseated himself, fingering his collar.
"I don't know what you must think of me, Mr. Pons…"
"Nothing detrimental at all, Mr. Oldfield, I can assure you. Apart from the fact that you are an accountant, that you live in Berkshire, and that you have suffered a grievous shock to your nervous system, I know little of you personally."
Our client's eyes opened wide in owlish astonishment.
"Mr. Pons, you amaze me. I do not know where you got those facts, but they are true. As to shocks I have had enough to shatter a man with three times my nerve in the past year. Mr. Pons, I am accursed! My home is infested with ghosts!"
2
There was a long and oppressive silence.
"Indeed," said Solar Pons mildly. "I think you had better tell me a little more, though you might do better consulting an occultist if you believe in such things."
Mr. Oldfield held up his hand.
"Forgive me, Mr. Pons, ghosts are outside my purview also. Please hear my story."
Pons nodded and settled himself back in his chair.
"You made some deductions about our visitor, Pons," I said mischievously. "Would you mind elucidating."
"Elementary, Parker," said Pons airily. "Mr. Oldfield is well and expensively dressed. Therefore I conclude from that that he is a professional man, and not employed by others. He has an impressive array of pens glistening in his breast pocket. This fact, combined with the ink stains on his right-hand fingers, which brisk scrubbing will not always remove, incline me toward accountancy."
"Perfectly correct, Mr. Pons."
Pons smiled maliciously at me.
"But Berkshire, Pons."
"Mr. Oldfield sports a tie belonging to an old and exclusive Berkshire college, Parker. Very often people are educated in the area in which they also live. When I see evidence of wet sand and gravel on the soles of our visitor's golfing shoes — terrain common to Berkshire — I make an inspired guess and venture that he still lives there."
"Again correct, Mr. Pons."
"There is no getting round you," I retorted.
Solar Pons gave a faint smile and turned to our visitor.
"Come, Mr. Oldfield. You obviously have a strange and unusual story. You will feel better for the telling of it."
"You are right, Mr. Pons."
Our client passed a shaking hand across his brow and put down his brandy glass.
'Tor some years I practiced as an accountant in Reading, Mr. Pons. Then, desirous of a change, I removed to Melton, a small town not far from where I was born, and built up another practice. I married late, when I was past forty, but my wife, who is some thirteen years younger, and I have been very happy and now have two small daughters. With the needs of my growing family, and our home being rather on the small side, we decided last year to buy a larger house."
Oldfield paused a moment, lifted his brandy glass, and drained the residue of its contents. His coloring was quite normal now and his breathing low and steady.
"Buffington Grange was on the market and my wife and I went to inspect it. The building had been derelict for years, but for some reason both my wife and I took an enormous fancy to it. It has a wealth of beams, a good deal of space, and large grounds for the children to explore. I bought the place for a song, Mr. Pons, and spent the money I might otherwise have laid out on the house itself, on restoration work."