"Ah, here is Mr. Moffat, the professor's secretary," observed Jamison. Perhaps you would care to have a word with him first. He has been with the professor for the past ten years."
We had now descended to the ground floor and Jamison effected the introductions.
"Certainly, Mr. Pons," said Clarence Moffat with a nervous smile, when the inspector had explained our presence there. "Anything I can do to help."
He led the way into a small tastefully furnished room with oil paintings of classical subjects in heavy gilt frames lining the walls. Jamison had not exaggerated the scale and value of the late Professor Mair's possessions, I reflected, looking at the pictures. The nearest appeared to be a genuine Watteau. At Pons's insistence the secretary sank into a deep leather chair by the fire opposite Pons. Jamison and I remained standing.
"Where were you exactly when the tragedy occurred, Mr. Moffat?" asked Pons, lowering the lids over his eyes and tenting his bony fingers before him.
"I was reading in this very room, Mr. Pons, awaiting the professor's summons. He usually goes through private papers directly after lunch and then calls me to take dictation for one of his articles."
Pons nodded and sat in thought for a moment though I could see that his eyes were keenly regarding the secretary from beneath his half-lowered lids.
"What then?"
"It was just at five to three, Mr. Pons. I heard these horrible screams. I ran upstairs. Some of the servants and members of the professor's household joined me. We had to break the door in."
He put his hands up over his eyes.
"It was a dreadful sight, Mr. Pons. I hope never to see such another. But then you have seen for yourself."
Pons nodded. He ignored Jamison's puzzled frown and turned back to Moffat.
"What were your exact duties, Mr. Moffat? I understand from the inspector here that Mr. Clifford Armitage, one of the professor's nephews, looks after his financial affairs."
The secretary inclined his head.
"That is so, Mr. Pons. I deal with all the professor's correspondence and take stenographic dictation and so forth. Mr. Armitage deals purely with the late professor's financial affairs, which are extensive. When I receive a letter which has financial implications, I pass it to Mr. Armitage and he reciprocates as regards communications concerning my sphere. Our duties slightly overlap but not to any great extent."
"I am sure you will not misunderstand me, Mr. Moffat, but as far as you know, had Professor Mair made any financial provision for you in his will?"
Dull patches of red were standing out on the secretary's pale cheeks now. He shook his head.
"The professor did not take me into his confidence regarding such matters, Mr. Pons. But no doubt Mr. Armitage could enlighten you."
He moistened his lips and then went on hesitantly.
"He did indicate something on one occasion. He has left me a small annuity, but I have no idea of the actual amount."
Pons made a slight bow. His eyes were sweeping round the room now and he seemed to have lost interest in Moffat.
"You told the inspector, I believe, that the files in the cupboards upstairs were intact?"
"That is so, Mr. Pons. I have made an exhaustive check and to the best of my belief there is nothing missing." "Very well. Thank you for your assistance." Pons uncoiled his lean, spare form from his chair, and Moffat got up with evident relief. We were walking back toward the door when it was opened to admit a tall, slim girl with dark hair whose somber clothing and haggard features proclaimed her grief at the sinister happening of the previous day. She stopped on the threshold, evidently surprised.
"I am sorry, gentlemen. I hoped to find Mr. Moffat alone."
"It is quite all right, Miss Conyers," said Jamison. "We have just finished. This is Mr. Solar Pons and his colleague, Dr. Lyndon Parker. I suggest we all go through into the morning room."
Miss Conyers nodded, an alert expression in her hazel eyes as she came forward to shake hands, first with Pons and then myself.
"Allow me to express my deep sympathy, Miss Conyers."
The girl made a slight bow, her lips parted as her eyes searched Pons's face. "Thank you, Mr. Pons."Her eyes moved on and sought the secretary's. "I would appreciate your presence in the morning room, Mr. Moffat. Mr. Amsden is being tiresome again."
The secretary excused himself quickly and hurried through the door. Pons stood with his hands behind his back and looked at Miss Conyers intently.
"I gather there is no love lost between the two of you, Miss Conyers?"
The girl shook her head, her mouth a firm, set line.
"My cousin is a boor, Mr. Pons," she said decisively. "He is the one disruptive element in this household. Why my uncle ever let him live here is beyond my imagining."
"On what is this impression based, pray?"
We were walking back through into the hall now, and the girl had stopped at the foot of the great staircase. Jamison hovered on the fringe of the conversation, evidently ill at ease.
"It is nothing palpable, Mr. Pons. It is just that we have never got on since childhood. We took an instinctive dislike to one another. His presence in this house is a constant irritant, and he seems to take a delight in thwarting my will in household matters."
"We all have our crosses to bear, Miss Conyers," said Solar Pons dryly, looking blandly around at the outward evidence of wealth which lay so ostentatiously about us.
"Now that we have a moment alone," he went on, "it is true to say, is it not, that Professor Mair intended to sell this house?"
The girl had a ghost of a smile on her lips.
"It is indeed, Mr. Pons. His health necessitated a less foggy atmosphere than that of London in winter. He had made some preliminary arrangements to purchase a property on the south coast. And advertisements of this house were to appear in the national newspapers in a week or two. It did not suit Lionel, I can assure you. It would have meant the loss of a comfortable billet since he needs to be near the City for his stockbroking activities."
Pons's eyes were fixed toward the floor and he had an abstracted air now.
"Just so, Miss Conyers," he murmured absently. "And now, Jamison, I think we might join the others."
The morning room at The Poplars was all of sixty feet long, one side facing the garden with its dense shrubbery, the two end walls occupied with glass cabinets containing various objets d'art. But I had little time to observe the appointments of the room, my attention being immediately taken up with the altercation taking place between two men in front of the fireplace.
Moffat, I had already met. The man with whom he was engaged in low-toned argument was indeed a giant. Blond and handsome in a brutal sort of way, he had a face in which coarseness and sensuality fought for supremacy. He was well over six feet in height, with a deep chest and neck muscles like those of a bull. He wore a suit of loud tweed, and the heavy flush of anger on his cheek and brow denoted frustration and disappointment.
"I tell you it would be foolish to carry out Uncle's wishes now," he said. "The old man has gone and who knows what intentions his will might have revealed."
A third figure near the fire moved toward the group in a conciliatory manner as we came up. He was a slim, open- faced young man with a shock of brown hair. Dressed tastefully and quietly in a light gray suit, he formed a marked contrast in his slender dapperness to the brutal giant in front of him.
"This is hardly the time and the place, Lionel," he began placatingly.