"Unless the murderer himself lived within the castle," said Solar Pons mysteriously.
He turned on his heel, suddenly brisk and purposeful
"Come, Mr. Fernchurch. I should like to see the view from the top, and no doubt you can show me exactly where you stood while you were waiting for Miss Smithers."
Fitzjohn led the way up a series of winding stone staircases in the base of the tower; through broad arrow slits I could see a magnificent view of Maldon unfolding, ever more spectacular the higher we rose. There was a sort of stone landing halfway up, with a series of oak doors leading off it. A uniformed constable was on guard there and saluted the inspector smartly before opening another door for us.
A brisk walk of two more flights brought us out into the gusty heights of the battlemented tower itself. Pons wasted no time on the magnificent view but went around quickly, casting sharp glances about him. I saw that the top of the tower was littered with builder's material — scaffolding poles and other equipment. I went over to the far side of the tower and looked through the stone embrasure. It was a dizzy height and somber to think that this was the exact spot from which the death missile had been dispatched.
"Where were you, Mr. Fernchurch?" said Pons.
"Just here, Mr. Pons."
Our client went to sit on a large balk of timber directly in the center of the tower.
"Were you facing the direction of the Guildhall, or had you your back to it?"
"I had my back toward it, Mr. Pons. I was facing the door through which Miss Smithers would come."
"I see."
Pons stroked his chin and looked thoughtfully at the military figure of Inspector Fitzjohn who stood with one
meaty hand resting on the parapet. The golden winter sunshine made a rosy halo round his head.
"You did not move from this position?"
Fernchurch shook his head.
"No, Mr. Pons. The view had no attraction for me. I had seen it many times before."
"You heard no commotion in the street?"
Fernchurch shook his head.
"I was completely absorbed in the thoughts of regaining my fiancée, Mr. Pons. I may have been vaguely aware of some disturbance, but it is always busy and there was a good deal of traffic noise."
Indeed, as he spoke there came the drumming vibration of a heavy goods vehicle though the narrow streets that threaded past the base of the castle tower.
"Very well, Mr. Fernchurch. So you came up here to meet Miss Smithers. You remained here how long?"
"About half an hour, Mr. Pons. In fact until a number of people crowded up the staircase, including one of the local constables, who began to question me. It was the first I had heard of the death of Bulstrode. I cannot say I blame the police. It must have looked highly suspicious."
Pons nodded approvingly.
"Well said, Mr. Fernchurch. Well, we must just see how events shape and whether or not I can discover something to overturn this distressing theory."
"I shall be greatly interested to see you do that, Mr. Pons," said Inspector Fitzjohn politely, a faint smile hovering around his lips.
There was an answering glint of humor in Pons's eyes. He went quickly over to the other side of the tower, first looking at the street, then carefully examining the stonework with a lens he produced from his pocket. Then he came back and ran his eyes over the jumble of tools which lay about the top of the tower.
"What exactly was going on here, Inspector?"
"General restoration of the Castle, Mr. Pons. The Bulstrodes were cleaning and repainting the stonework — generally making good."
Pons nodded, deep in thought. He kicked idly at a mason's hammer which was lying among some coils of rope at his feet.
"There was no question the murder weapon belonged to Mr. Bulstrode's firm?"
"No doubt at all, Mr. Pons. It was readily identified. One of the men working on the tower had seen it in use only the day before."
Inspector Fitzjohn stared for a long moment at Pons's probing eyes.
"I have not overlooked that, Mr. Pons. We have been pretty thoroughly into the men's backgrounds. No one had a real grudge against him though I take it he could be a hard master."
"I must congratulate you, Inspector," said Solar Pons mockingly. "You have not missed a trick."
"Thank you, Mr. Pons. That is high praise from you."
Pons was back over to the far side of the tower now. He looked downward casually.
"What have we here, Parker?"
I gave a cry of horror as he put one hand on the coping and launched himself effortlessly into space. His low chuckle come up to us before I could get to the parapet. To my immense relief I saw that he had landed safely on a broad platform of heavy planking about four feet below the battlements.
"That was an incredibly foolish thing to do, Pons," I said testily.
Pons's smiled changed from mockery and his expression to concern.
"I am sorry, my dear fellow. It was not my intention to alarm you. Just look at this."
I clambered down to him in less spectacular fashion. I then saw that a ladder led downward from the platform, securely lashed with rope and with wooden handrails. I followed Pons gingerly to an embrasure at a lower level. We stepped through and found ourselves in a dusty corridor. An oak door was ahead of us. Pons opened it to disclose the constable lounging on the stone landing, his back to us. Directly opposite was another heavy door; it bore on it the legend in gold paint: Curator's Office. Pons quietly closed the door and waited for our two companions to rejoin us from above.
"Why, Pons…" I began.
Solar Pons laid his fingers alongside his nose to enjoin caution.
"It gives one food for thought, does it not, Parker? No doubt Fitzjohn has taken it into account."
He became his usual brisk self as Fernchurch and Fitzjohn appeared in the opening behind us.
"I think I have seen enough for the moment, Inspector. A little lunch is indicated. Parker here looks quite famished.".
And he led the way down the stairs at a dangerous pace.
5
"Let us just have your views on the matter, Parker."
We had enjoyed an excellent lunch at the hotel and afterward Fitzjohn and Fernchurch had excused themselves — the latter to seek out his fiancée and explain the outcome of his London visit; Fitzjohn to hurry back to the police station, with a final admonition to the suspected man to behave himself.
Afterward we had strolled back toward the castle as if impelled to the scene of the tragedy by some volition outside ourselves. We had halted at the base of the West Tower and instinctively I glanced up to where windows pierced its frowning mass, finally coming to rest on the battlements where Pons's client had been discovered.
"The hammer is a major impediment to the investigation, Pons," I began cautiously.
"Capital!" said he.
Pons's eyes were twinkling. He strolled about, puffing furiously at his after-lunch pipe, first watching the scudding clouds which were beginning to obscure the sun, then observing keenly the casual passersby and obvious tourists who strolled about the ancient walls of Maldon.
"Everything depends upon the hammer," he continued. "I am glad that point has not escaped you, for it is of paramount importance." He stopped his pacing and halted, looking at me shrewdly through plumes of blue smoke.
"We now have two possibilities, Pons," I continued. "It would seem that anyone could have gained the battlements from the tower staircase without being seen, by using the ladder and scaffolding left in situ."
"Excellent, Parker. My training has not been wasted."
"Including the curator," I added.
Pons looked at me for a long moment.
"What makes you suppose that?"