Pons nodded, sending out a thick plume of blue smoke from his pipe.
“We had high tea together at about five o’clock in the evening. Mrs Bracegirdle served it. That was the last occasion I really had time for an exchange of views with my uncle. The next occasion on which I saw him, he was dying.”
Solar Pons nodded again, his eyes hooded and thoughtful. “It would have been long dark by five o’clock. Had the usual bolting and barring of the house taken place?”
“Oh, yes indeed, Mr Pons. Soon after four o’clock. My uncle and Mrs Bracegirdle went the rounds.”
“Did you not find it tiresome, Mr Balfour?” I asked. “I mean, supposing you wished to go in and out of an evening or to the village?”
“Of course, Dr Parker. That is why I have had very little social life since arriving back in this country. I had to make my arrangements to visit people and return in daylight, otherwise it meant a great deal of trouble to my uncle. He hated having to unbolt and unbar the doors to anyone at night, even to his own nephew.”
Our client smiled wanly, peering forward through the windscreen as the mist insidiously gathered over the unprepossessing countryside through which we were now travelling. Flat, inhospitable and interspersed with only occasional clumps of trees, it seemed obvious that we were now approaching the area of the Essex marshes in which our client lived. He turned back to Pons for a moment, as he halted cautiously at a deserted cross-roads.
“Of course, it was different in the summer, Mr Pons, with the lighter evenings. I had spoken of living elsewhere or merely moving into one of the outbuildings, which I could have had converted to a dwelling-house, but he would not hear of it.”
“He rather looked on you as a sort of bodyguard whenever dusk fell?”
“I had not thought of it so, Mr Pons, but you are no doubt right.”
Balfour engaged the first gear again and the car crept forward cautiously through the gloom.
“You said you had high tea, together. What matters did you discuss on that occasion?”
“Nothing of importance, Mr Pons. My uncle was still uneasy but he seemed a little more settled than of late. He had had one or two bills through the post which seemed to cause him some concern.”
I saw Pons stiffen on the front seat of the car and throw a swift glance at our driver.
“Bills, Mr Balfour? It hardly seems likely that anything so mundane would bother such a well-propertied man as your uncle.”
Balfour’s puzzled face was reflected in the windscreen against the white wall of vapour as he changed gear again and we crept forward, more slowly than ever.
“Now that you mention it, Mr Pons, it does seem peculiar. Uncle Charles had several times seemed worried in past months at things that arrived in the post. Once he changed colour at breakfast and dropped the piece of paper the envelope contained, and it seemed as though he would fall. When I questioned him about the matter he said he had received a bill for which there was no justification. Later I saw a heap of ashes on the hearth and gathered, though I did not ask him, that he had burned the offending document.”
“Hmm.”
Solar Pons pulled thoughtfully at the lobe of his right ear as his keen eyes seemed to pierce the veil of vapour ahead. If anything it seemed colder than when we had started and I pulled the thick car rug even more tightly about me, folding it across my legs.
“That could be highly significant, Parker.”
“Of course, Pons,” I returned.
“What then?” my companion rejoined.
“As I said, we had tea and then my uncle wanted to write some letters. He went to his study on the ground floor and I myself took a book to the drawing room where I passed a pleasant hour or two by a great fire of logs. I was about to go to my room just before eight o’clock when, as I was passing near the study, I heard a heavy sound as though of someone falling.”
“You had heard nothing before that?”
“No, Mr Pons. Just the one sound, as though a heavy sack of earth had hit the floor. I got no reply to my knock and went straight in, as I sensed something was wrong. I found my uncle near the window. The curtains had been drawn back. He was semi-conscious and as I tried to help him up he mumbled something about, ‘That dreadful face’.”
Solar Pons was silent for a few moments, the car seemingly suspended in white vapour as it continued its monotonous progress through the wastes of Essex.
“You presumed he meant he had seen something at the uncurtained window?”
“Indeed, Mr Pons. I summoned Mrs Bracegirdle and then ran outside but could see nothing. It was a bitterly cold night and there was a thin mist. When I got back inside the housekeeper had already telephoned for medical assistance. Dr Sherlock was round within a very few minutes but there was little he could do and Uncle Charles died about ten minutes after he arrived.”
“It was heart, I believe?”
“That is so, Mr Pons.”
“Who is this Dr Sherlock?”
“The family physician, Mr Pons, and Uncle Charles’ oldest friend. He had moved to Tidewater some years ago in order to be near to him.”
“I see. What was the doctor’s reaction to all this phantom face business?”
“He inclines to the theory that the local people are superstitious and fanciful, Mr Pons, but he was considerably startled when I told him what my uncle had said just before dying.”
“Mr Boldigrew said nothing else?”
“Not so far as I know, Mr Pons.”
“Is there any reason why your uncle should have gone to the window?”
“Perhaps someone tapped to attract his attention, Mr Pons.”
“Perhaps. Though why would your uncle have gone if he was so mortally afraid?”
“Habit, possibly.”
“I do not follow.”
“I am sorry, Mr Pons. My uncle had a rather strange inclination. We often sat in his study, which overlooked the front drive. In summer people who called got in the habit of tapping on his window, instead of walking all the way round to the front door. My uncle would come to the window and converse before admitting them. Even people working for him on the estate got into the habit.”
“I see. It is curious. But then life has many curiosities, eh, Parker?”
“We have certainly had our share of them, Pons.”
Solar Pons chuckled grimly, hunching his chin into the collar of his thick raglan overcoat.
“The window was locked, of course, on this evening?”
“Undoubtedly, Mr Pons. It is of thick glass, secured by a heavy clasp at the top. It slides upward easily, as it was used so frequently that Uncle Charles had the runners greased.”
“I see. And it was the only window in the study?”
“By no means, sir. But it was in a sort of small turret which jutted out and was the most convenient window on to which the visitor would come. The view is partly concealed by shrubbery but a portion of the drive can be seen from there.”
“Very well, Mr Balfour. You have given me much food for thought. What do you think killed your uncle?”
Balfour shook his head.
“I do not know, Mr Pons. But I fear that it was something so horrible that his heart could simply not stand it.”
“You may be right, Mr Balfour,” said Solar Pons sombrely. “You said you had yourself seen this horrible face.”
Our client shivered slightly at the wheel.
“Yes, sir. Just two nights ago. Which is what prompted me to come to you.”
“You have done wisely,” said Solar Pons. “We are moving in dark and muddied waters. Just relate the circumstances.”
“I was sitting in the study just after supper, Mr Pons, going through my uncle’s papers. It was about nine-thirty P.M. Since my uncle’s death I no longer followed his routine. I had given up bolting and barring doors and left the windows uncurtained at night if the mood so took me. On this particular evening I had closed the study curtains but had left the main window in the little turret with the coverings pulled back. Something attracted my attention as I was sitting at the desk writing. I was half-facing the window so at first I did not notice anything.”