"What do you make of this, Parker?"
He indicated a page of the local journal, yellowed with time and blotched with the imperfections that cheap paper reveals as the years go by. I noted the date: it was 1902.
The long-winded, single-column headings in the style of those times said:
RECLUSE FOUND HANGED…
SUICIDE VERDICT ON JABEZ KEMP,
THE SQUIRE OF BUFFINGTON GRANGE.
Encouraged by the expression in Pons's dancing eyes, I read on.
"The Berkshire coroner, Dr. Hugo Moules yesterday returned a verdict of suicide on Mr. Jabez Kemp of Buffington Old Grange, near Melton, who was found hanging in the attic at his home on March 4 last
"Sitting with a jury at the Temperance Rooms, Melton, Dr. Moules said that Mr. Kemp, who was known locally as 'The Squire of Buffington,' had been of a reclusive nature and had shunned intercourse with his fellow townspeople."
"Seems quite straightforward, Pons."
"Does it not, Parker. Do read on."
I turned again to the yellowing page.
"The seventy-three-year-old retired tea merchant had for some years shunned his neighbors and, attended by only one servant, had retreated into the upper story of his home, where his meals were left on a tray outside his door.
"Because of the illness of the housekeeper, Mrs. Theodisia Goodman, no one had been in to look after Mr. Kemp. He had not been seen for some weeks when the housekeeper returned to her duties. As a result of what she suspected, she called in the police. The attic door was broken down, and Mr. Kemp's body was discovered, suspended from a hook by a length of rope taken from a toolshed on the grounds. Medical evidence was to the effect that Mr. Kemp had been dead at least a fortnight
"Death was due to asphyxia, caused by the noose constricting the neck, and the coroner, expressing sympathy with the surviving relatives, concurred with the jury's verdict that the deceased took his own life while the balance of his mind was disturbed."
There was a good deal more, including evidence from the doctor, a local policeman, and the housekeeper, but I skimmed through the rest with increasing bewilderment. At length I turned from the file with a grunt. Solar Pons sat rubbing his hands with satisfaction.
"So much for the legends, Parker."
"It all seems quite straightforward, Pons."
"Naturally, my dear fellow. Apart from motive, Jabez Kemp's suicide had nothing extraordinary about it at all. Always return to the original sources, whenever possible, Parker. It saves a deal of time."
"But how does this help?"
"By eliminating the encrustation of tomfoolery that has gathered around our client's home. I have been through these files for the past twenty years in the last hour and a half."
"That seems a remarkable feat, Pons."
My companion smiled.
"I knew what I was looking for. Only the extraordinary interested me. And even such a publication as the Melton Chronicle does not stint the size of its headlines when it comes to that."
"You are on to something?"
Solar Pons nodded.
"I think I have both the motive and explanation for the sinister web in which our client finds himself entangled."
"You cannot mean it, Pons?"
"Just glance through these later files, Parker. I am saving my trump card for our return to the hotel this evening."
But Pons's researches in these later issues seemed to me to be trite and disappointing indeed. There were elaborate advertisements prominently displayed in realtors announcements of the desirable estate known as Buffington Old Grange; apparently there were no takers, for the announcements becoming progressively smaller, were repeated with increasing monotony until they petered out about 1904.
"It is disappointing, Pons."
"On the contrary, it is fascinating, Parker. When one knows what to look for."
I tapped an exasperated forefinger at the group of advertisements he had just pressed upon me.
"All this nonsense about a Grand Circus at Melton, Pons," I cried irritably. "And back in 1912 too. What bearing can this possibly have upon the matter?"
Solar Pons smiled a maddeningly irritating smile and leaned back in his chair.
"Does this not suggest anything to you, Parker?"
I looked in bewilderment at the blurred picture of a handsome woman in tights who faced the camera with a confident smile. Heavy black type proclaimed:
MADAME MANTALINI…
THE WOMAN WITH A THOUSAND TALENTS!
I read on with growing bewilderment.
Apparently Madame Mantalini was a strong woman, acrobat, clever mime, ventriloquist, and I don't know what else besides.
"She was a lady of many parts, Pons," I said cautiously.
Solar Pons chuckled.
"Was she not, Parker? However, I think we have taxed your brain enough for one day. We will return to our client for tea. I think he and his wife are safe enough for the time being, now that we are on hand. This evening I shall let you see the fruits of my research this afternoon, and we will test how far my methods have impressed themselves upon you. Now, I suggest we will both benefit from a healthful stroll through this agreeable town back to our host's dwelling."
"An excellent dinner, Parker."
Solar Pons put down his coffee cup with a satisfied smile and looked carefully around the half-empty dining room of the Crown Inn. It had indeed been a first-rate meal, and for perhaps the first time since we had arrived at Melton, I felt in a mellow, even convivial, mood.
We had taken tea with our client and his family as Pons had suggested and afterward had been introduced to Mrs. Oldfield, a pretty, fair-haired woman who was much comforted by our presence. She was still in bed and attended by the local doctor, who reassured Oldfield and said she would be up and about within a day or so.
Afterward, Pons had spent some time conversing first with the housekeeper, then the parlor maid, and finally the gardener, a middle-aged, grizzled man who puffed dourly at his pipe but was evidently captivated by Pons's conversation. The spring dusk had already fallen when we strolled back to the little town. Pons had been unusually preoccupied and silent.
During dinner, however, he had resumed his gregarious manner and had run over a few salient points regarding our client's adventures, though without enlightening me much further. I knew he would not fully reveal his thoughts until he had every thread in his hand, and so I had purposefully refrained from questioning him.
Now, as we rose and left the dining room, Pons excused himself.
"I just have to make a telephone call to Brother Bancroft. I desire some information from the Home Office, and I fancy only he can help me there."
I went on into the bar and partook of another glass of sherry, though I found this not as good as that stocked by the Saracen's Head. Pons still had not returned, so I went up to my room and read for a while.
After half an hour there was a light tap at the door and Pons reappeared, rubbing his hands and wearing a satisfied expression.
"Bancroft has his uses," he chuckled, answering my unspoken question. "Now I fancy that the stage is set for the last act of the drama, providing Mrs. Oldfield's health improves by tomorrow and I can persuade the family to leave."
I shot him a puzzled glance.
"What on earth are you talking about, Pons?"
"All in good rime, Parker. Just cast your eyes over this. Now, I think we shall need to enlist the help of a local detective officer. It is as well to have the official law on our side when we net our men."
I gave the matter up and glanced at the newspaper Pons had thrust into my hand. My companion sank down at the end of my bed and was soon puffing contentedly at his pipe, emitting long ribbons of blue smoke, which lingered acridly in the corners of the room and gathered in a thick swathe below the ceiling.