The housekeeper’s voice was hurried and breathless and again I caught our host’s eyes on her with a worried expression.
“There was an Anglo-Indian Company Mr Boldigrew was interested in many years ago. He was a partner and gave his Indian co-director bad advice. The company crashed and ever afterwards Mr Boldigrew blamed himself. His partner committed suicide and the thing had been on his conscience for years.”
“Why did you not tell me this before?” asked young Balfour hotly.
The housekeeper looked at him with an expression of mingled pity and resentment.
“Because Mr Boldigrew swore me to secrecy, Mr Balfour. It was a sacred trust. I am only betraying it now because Mr Boldigrew is dead and this gentleman would be sure to find it out, sooner or later.”
“You are certainly right there, Mrs Bracegirdle,” said Solar Pons mildly, getting out his pipe and lighting it up at our host’s express permission.
“Do you know what was in those notes, Mrs Bracegirdle?”
“Not exactly, sir. But Mr Boldigrew intimated to me that they contained threats. I gathered it was something to do with this Indian firm and the suicide of his former partner.”
“But if the man had committed suicide where would the threats arise?” I said.
“Mrs Bracegirdle has her own ideas about that, Parker,” said my companion with a thin smile.
“It is true, sir. My first thought was that the dead man’s son had come to England and was intent on revenge.”
Pons sat with his brows knitted, staring into the fire.
“It is a possibility, Mrs Bracegirdle,” he said softly.
“Did you notice the postmarks of the letters?”
“They all came from London, sir. Mr Boldigrew burnt them afterward.”
“And what was your theory about them?”
Mrs Bracegirdle turned to Pons and gave him an almost fierce look from her faded grey eyes.
“Well, sir, and begging Mr Balfour’s pardon, I suspected Ram Dass and his followers.”
Balfour looked incredulous.
“Oh, come, Mrs Bracegirdle! It is ridiculous. They are a somewhat strange household, I know, but just because my uncle had a quarrel over boundaries with him, that is no reason. ”
“I do not understand,” said Solar Pons, looking from one to the other.
The housekeeper was the first to break the silence.
“They are Indians in the neighbourhood, sir. Mr Boldigrew’s partner was named Dass. They are a strange people, and their ways are not our ways.”
“Hmm.”
Solar Pons’ eyes were bright as he turned to Balfour.
“This is extremely interesting. And you say these people had a quarrel with your uncle?”
“That is so, Mr Pons, but it was nothing, really. An outburst of temper on both sides. Certainly not enough to occasion murder.”
“However, we must not overlook the possibility,” said Solar Pons, rising from his seat. “You have been most helpful, Mrs Bracegirdle. Your sense of duty to the late Mr Boldigrew does you credit. There is nothing else you wish to tell me?”
The tall woman shook her head and rose from her seat also.
“Nothing that comes to mind, Mr Pons. And now, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me I’ll see about getting the supper.”
5
“I am sure Mrs Bracegirdle is wrong, Mr Pons. The Dass family are peculiar, it is true, but I am not convinced. So far as I know, my uncle never evinced the slightest uneasiness about their presence in the neighbourhood. And the quarrel was purely through my uncle’s then bailiff. He had no personal contact with them at all.”
We were sitting in the handsomely panelled dining room after supper and the air was blue with tobacco smoke. It was only a quarter past eleven now and it seemed strange to reflect that we had been in Praed Street only some three hours ago, so bizarre was the atmosphere of this lonely old house.
We had seen no other servants and had gathered from our host that Mrs Bracegirdle was the only other person who occupied the house. The rest of the staff came in from the village daily. Pons ejected a plume of blue smoke thoughtfully toward the ceiling.
“Nevertheless, with your permission, I think Parker and I will call upon this Mr Dass some time tomorrow. It is as well to be clear in one’s mind about these matters.”
“By all means, Mr Pons. Ram Dass and his entourage live in a large house called The Grange, which is about a mile from here, at the edge of the village. It has extensive grounds and Dass’ land adjoins my uncle’s, which is where the boundary dispute arose.”
“I see. And now, if you are not too tired, Mr Balfour, I should very much like to see the study in which your unfortunate uncle met his end.”
“By all means, Mr Pons.”
Our host led the way back through the hall and into a corridor which was lined with stags’ heads and other trophies of the chase. A series of polished teak doors led off it and on the right an oak staircase ascended into the gloom above. Balfour threw open a door on the left, almost opposite the staircase.
“This is the study, gentlemen.”
Solar Pons looked sharply at our companion and then glanced swiftly at the stairs.
“You were about here, then, Mr Balfour, when you heard your uncle fall?”
Balfour paused, his hand on the study light-switch.
“That is correct, Mr Pons.”
Pons nodded approvingly.
“Show me exactly where you found your uncle.”
“I ran straight in, Mr Pons. Uncle Charles was lying here.”
Balfour led the way swiftly across the handsome room to the turret window we had already observed from outside. With its serried ranks of leather-bound books; the bright fire burning in the marble fireplace; the polished desk; and all the other evidence of a neat and orderly life, the study should have been a quiet and placid refuge, redolent of peace.
And yet with the mist swirling at the dark window panes, the deathly cold outside and the knowledge of the tragedy that had been enacted here I felt a thrill of horror as the young man indicated the area of carpet on which his relative had fallen to his death. I glanced up at the mist at the window and could easily imagine the appalling shock the old man must have had as the phantom face appeared there.
Yet Pons seemed oblivious of all this atmospheric implication. His lean, feral face was alive with interest. He already had his lens out and was going minutely over the carpet in the small embrasure, to the evident puzzlement of our host. Pons finished his examination and straightened up.
“There is only the one large window which looks directly on to the shrubbery. We must assume that your uncle saw the face there, if indeed he saw anything.”
“There were his dying words, Mr Pons.”
“That is true.”
Solar Pons was silent as he looked narrowly at the window and the tall green wall of shrubbery, sparkling with hoar-frost, dimly visible through the fog which was now descending rapidly.
“Why must Mr Boldigrew have seen the face through the central pane, Pons?”
“Because, my dear Parker, it would have been difficult at the two side windows, which are placed at angles. As you see, the reflected light would have cancelled out any image. Whereas the dark wall of shrubbery there would have enhanced such an apparition.”
“You are right, Mr Pons,” said young Balfour admiringly. “You think that of significance?”
“It may be so,” said Solar Pons carelessly. “Let us just have a look at the window itself.”
Once again he went over it minutely, while we both waited and watched in that silent place. For myself I was only too conscious of our exposed position in the little turret and I wondered if the thing which had apparently taken Boldigrew’s life in such a shocking manner could still be lurking out there beyond the wall of fog which pressed in slow, oily undulations upon the window glass.