"Excellent," said Pons. "I was particularly interested in the matter of the hammer which felled Mr. Bulstrode."
The inspector's gray eyes looked at Pons ingenuously.
"I thought that aspect would not escape you, Mr. Pons. That was extremely unfortunate as we would otherwise have been able to establish conclusively whether Mr. Fernchurch had handled it."
"You have not ruled out the possibility that the dead man might have been attacked on the ground?"
Fitzjohn raised his eyebrows.
"It had occurred to us," he said easily. "But our medical people said it was quite impossible. The hammer hit him almost squarely on the crown of the head with such force as to completely disintegrate the skull. Bulstrode was a tall man and unless his attacker had been a man about nine feet tall it would have been impossible for him to have struck Bulstrode on top of the head. The forehead or the base of the skull would have been the obvious place."
"I see."
Pons remained silent for a moment, looking absently at the crowded life of the bar about us. Fernchurch sat breathlessly, first looking at Pons's face and then at the inspector's as though he expected to read his innocence in the expression of their eyes.
"What was the weight of the hammer?"
"About three pounds, Mr. Pons. A formidable weapon but it would have had to come from a height to inflict that damage. I have the medical report here, if you wish to see it."
Pons waved away the document the Inspector had produced.
"I am quite content to accept your word for it, Inspector. From your earlier remarks, I take it you do not intend to incarcerate Mr. Fernchurch?"
"Certainly not, Mr. Pons. Though things do look blade for him. I shall have to insist that he does not leave Maldon under any circumstances, of course. And I shall make you responsible for seeing that he keeps his promise. Our local magistrates will have my scalp if he gives us the slip again."
Fitzjohn accompanied his last sentence with a dry chuckle and Pons looked at him approvingly.
"I am happy to give that assurance, Inspector. And now, I think that a speedy journey to the scene of the crime would not be amiss. Parker does not like to be late for lunch and it would never do it upset so valued a colleague."
4
A drive of about twenty minutes in the car the inspector had parked on the grounds of the hotel brought us to our destination, a small, charming town, with the castle set on a hill and a broad, sluggish river meandering through undulating countryside below. Fitzjohn drove skillfully through cobbled streets, where timbered houses alternated with more recent ones of the mellow Yorkshire stone, and deposited us at the Saddler's Arms.
Waiting only to register and leave our luggage, we returned to the car and Fitzjohn drove the four of us up a winding road that led to the precincts of the castle itself. Pons insisted on descending from the vehicle several hundred yards away and prowled about, seemingly casually, his sharp eyes missing nothing. Due to the mild winter, no doubt, there were many tourists about, and cameras on shoulder straps and anxiously flourished guides were much in evidence.
"Interesting, Parker, is it not?" said Pons as we came to a halt in the shadow of the West Tower, whose frowning pile was surmounted by scaffolding and surrounded by tubular girders. "Mainly Norman, I should say, with some particularly hideous late Victorian additions."
Inspector Fitzjohn, who had parked his car against the base of the tower and had now rejoined us, smiled wryly.
"Correct, Mr. Pons. The Town Council used to meet in the annex, but that part is now being demolished and completely restored under the energetic supervision of the curator, Professor Smithers."
"Ah, yes, Inspector. The young lady's father. I should like a word with him in due course."
"That can be easily arranged, Mr. Pons."
We had now walked toward the tower and Pons was busy darting about, first glancing upward at the battlements, partly obscured by scaffolding, then down to the ground at the base, where a grassy bank swelled out for a few feet. We had come to the foot of the tower beneath an arch, and a buttress of the wall immediately in front blocked off the adjoining street. Pons paid particular attention to this and to the opposite building, which was nothing but a blank stone facade, broken here and there by very small windows.
Fitzjohn answered the query in his eyes.
"The Guildhall, Mr. Pons. It faces the square on the other side. Most of these small windows are in storerooms."
"A pity," observed Pons dryly. "Had there been spectators at these casements, they might have had a story to tell."
"Indeed, Mr. Pons. We have been all through that, I can assure you."
Solar Pons stood with his feet planted astride, the pipe which he had just placed in his mouth well alight, a thin plume of blue smoke ascending in the sunlight which penetrated this quiet precinct.
"What do you make of it, Parker?"
"An ideal spot for a murder in broad daylight, Pons," I said, craning my neck upward to the tower from which the fatal hammer had been flung.
"Is it not, Parker? This was one aspect which puzzled me and on which mere armchair theorists would come to grief, I fear. Thus it is so often impossible to form a valid theory without visiting the location. Relate to me the course of events as you see them, Parker."
"Well, Pons," I said, aware of Fernchurch's imploring look in my direction. "Supposing someone — not Mr. Fernchurch — had wished Bulstrode harm he could hardly have chosen a more perfect setting. Mr. Bulstrode is making an inspection at the base of the tower to see how the men are progressing. Anyone on the tower would, I imagine, have a complete view of the surroundings. He had only to wait until the precinct was deserted. He could see over the buttress in case anyone was coming along the street; he knew that the Guildhall was opposite and it was unlikely anyone would be in the storerooms. He had only to wait until Bulstrode stopped directly below and then loose the hammer."
Solar Pons put his hand up and stroked the side of his nose while he took the pipe out of his mouth with his disengaged hand.
"Excellent, Parker! It is perfect so far as it goes. Top perfect, perhaps. It first assumes that the aim is dead true. Second, it does not take into account any spectators who might be beneath the archway or standing on the open ground beyond the arch. Third, we know that Mr. Fernchurch was on top of the tower at the time in question and that he saw no one."
I looked around in the direction of the arch, conscious of the inspector's humorous eyes, and saw that Pons was correct
"You are perfectly right, Pons. But it does not invalidate my theory."
"I quite agree, Parker," said Pons slowly. "But I think, nevertheless, there is a serious objection. The man on the tower, who must have had an expert knowledge of Maldon, would know there might be people underneath the arch."
"I don't quite follow you, Pons."
Pons made an impatient clicking noise with his tongue.
"You have made a careful study of my methods, Parker. It is commonsense, surely. Whoever committed this crime afterward had to make his escape from this tower. In order to do so he had to get to ground level He could not really hope to escape if there had been eyewitnesses to Bulstrode's murder, already on the ground."
"That would be an insurmountable obstacle, Mr. Pons," said Fitzjohn, who was watching my companion carefully.
There was something reassuring about the vigorous, athletic figure of this obviously very shrewd CID man which set him apart from the common stamp of police officers — particularly men like Jamison, who was able enough in his own way but frequently wrongheaded.