I reached out my hand to a pile of newspapers on the far corner of the table not occupied by the cloth.
“There, at the head of page five. You might perhaps refresh my memory in the matter.”
Solar Pons sat with his thin fingers tented before him as I read out the brief and strange account he had just drawn to my notice.
It was headed: STORY OF PHANTOM IN ESSEX VILLAGE and the sub-heading, in the conservative type favoured by The Times, ran: Death of Mr Charles Boldigrew Follows Ghostly Appearance.
The article ran: The Essex village of Tidewater has been terrorised by what local police describe as “a phantom face”, a series of appearances of this apparition culminating in the death of a respected local landowner Mr Charles Boldigrew of nearby Bredewell House.
Mr Boldigrew was discovered by his nephew, Mr Michael Balfour, lying near the library window on the ground floor of the mansion on Tuesday evening. Mr Boldigrew was semi-conscious and appeared to be terrified. He told his nephew that he had seen “the face” and died a few minutes later.
According to locals, the weird and sinister apparition has appeared over the past two months in the village and has been seen by at least three people. Inspector Horace Cunliffe of the Essex Police told our correspondent today that robbery did not appear to be the motive, though he discounted the “phantom” theory as the gossip of credulous villagers.
I turned the page, somewhat disappointed, but there was nothing else.
“It is a somewhat bald statement, Pons,” I said, turning to my companion and resuming by interrupted tea.
“Is it not, Parker. Yet it suggests some possibilities.”
“In what way, Pons?”
Solar Pons reached out for the appetising cuts of ham Mrs Johnson had left for us, and deftly transferred two slices to his plate.
“Inspector Cunliffe is either an astute officer who does not wish to display his hand untimely or remarkably obtuse.”
“I do not follow you, Pons.”
“Tut, Parker, it is elementary. The Times does not go in for innuendo and distortion. When their local correspondent avers that this apparition has been seen, not only by one person but by three, then we may take it that he has found his three witnesses in Tidewater.”
“I see, Pons.”
“Furthermore, my dear fellow, Boldigrew himself, according to his nephew, had seen this horrifying face just before he died. Indeed, the nephew says in his letter that he is convinced that his uncle had see something horrible and had died of the resulting shock.”
“Perhaps the Inspector does not wish for too much publicity, Pons.”
“Perhaps, Parker,” said my companion, biting into the ham with evident relish. “This is really excellent; pray try some.”
“I have not yet finished the crumpets, Pons.”
Solar Pons smiled thinly, his mind still evidently on the terrorised village.
“I must confess this case has a number of aspects which appeal to me strongly. Not merely this strange death but the bizarre atmosphere surrounding it. And if Cunliffe hopes to avoid publicity he is hopelessly off the mark for the cheaper tabloids have made a good deal of it.”
“They did not say of what Mr Boldigrew died, Pons,” I grumbled.
Solar Pons’ eyes were gleaming.
“Ah, you are constantly improving, my dear fellow. I was wondering when you would come to that. The Times would have got the police surgeon’s findings had they been available. There is nothing in any of the other papers either.”
I frowned across at my companion.
“That presents two possibilities, Pons. Either the police surgeon has not been able to come to any decision, which would be extremely odd. Or he has come to a conclusion but the Inspector is withholding his findings from the press.”
My companion had strange lights dancing in his eyes now.
“Ah, there you have hit upon it. Either supposition leads to only one conclusion.”
He leaned forward to look me full in the face.
“You surely do not suspect…”
“Murder, my dear fellow,” Solar Pons interrupted calmly. And he picked up his tea-cup with great satisfaction on his features.
2
“Mr Michael Balfour, Mr Pons!”
Mrs Johnson smilingly ushered in our visitor and withdrew. Balfour was a frank-looking, open-faced young fellow of about twenty-eight, smartly but sensibly dressed in a checked overcoat which he took off at my companion’s invitation to reveal a belted Norfolk jacket, worn over thick tweed trousers. His fresh features were reddened and roughened with the wind and his thick black curly hair much blown about and tousled, for he was hatless.
He sat down appreciatively at our invitation and held out strong, well-kept hands toward the fire. It was just turned seven and Balfour’s face brightened when Pons suggested some refreshment.
“Some coffee would not come amiss, Mr Pons, if it is not too much trouble. It is an exceedingly cold night and I must say I have neglected my meals today with the worry over this business.”
Our visitor declined any food and when I had again ascended to our quarters after making our wants known to our amiable landlady, Pons had removed a bottle of fine old cognac from the sideboard and had placed three crystal liqueur glasses on the crystal tray he had already put in position.
“I find coffee and cognac give an agreeable lining to the stomach on such cold evenings, do they not, Parker?”
“Certainly, Pons,” I agreed, seating myself in my armchair across from our visitor, who occupied a chair by the table.
“Mr Balfour has already asked me to return to Tidewater this evening and I have agreed. He has a car at the door. I do not know how you are placed, Parker, but I would be glad of your presence.”
“I had better telephone my locum, then,” I said, glancing over at the clock. “Fortunately, there is nothing urgent in the practice and I daresay he will be able to manage for a day or two.”
“Excellent!”
Solar Pons rubbed his thin hands together and smiled at our visitor.
“I told you we could rely on Dr Parker, Mr Balfour. I am sure we shall soon see light in these dark matters which have been burdening you.”
“It is most good of you both,” stammered young Balfour, “especially as I have not yet gone into the details of the business which brings me here. It is certainly dark enough and horrible enough.”
“My curiosity had been aroused by the newspaper stories,” said Solar Pons swiftly. “I had already made up my mind on receipt of your letter.”
“Then I am fortunate indeed,” said Michael Balfour, turning candid blue eyes on us both.
At that moment we were interrupted by the entrance of Mrs Johnson with a tray containing earthenware cups and a steaming coffee pot, and the conversation was not resumed until after she had withdrawn.
Michael Balfour sat cupping his glass of cognac, his blue eyes dark and troubled, as he stared into the heart of the comfortable fire that was burning or. our hearth.
“I take it you are familiar with most of the salient points from the newspaper accounts, Mr Pons?”
“Pray forget them, Mr Balfour. I prefer to hear your own story, direct from your lips.”
Young Balfour smiled briefly. He sipped appreciatively at his glass and then turned again to the large cup of coffee before him.
“I have been much abroad, Mr Pons.”
“So I observe, Mr Balfour,” said Solar Pons, giving our visitor a sharp look from his deep-set eyes. “You have been back less than a year, I should say.”
Balfour’s astonishment was evident on his face.