“Most laudable,” murmured Dr Sherlock, sitting by the fireside and waving away our host’s invitation to sherry.
“I only stopped by to pay my respects as I had to make a call on a patient out this way. I am glad to have had the opportunity to meet you, Mr Pons.”
Solar Pons seated himself in a great leather chair across from the doctor and blew out a plume of fragrant smoke from his pipe.
“I may say the same, doctor. I would like your opinion on the phantom face which seems to be haunting this corner of Essex.”
The doctor smiled, looking into the glowing heart of the fire.
“The people hereabouts are a superstitious lot, Mr Pons. And there are certainly some strange ones among them. Mr Ram Dass, for example… I do not know what you will find here to exercise your talents. The Police Inspector has some fanciful theories but they run counter to informed scientific opinion.”
“And what would they be, Dr Sherlock?”
“Mostly old wives’ tales and perhaps children playing pranks, Mr Pons. Poor Charles had a long-standing heart ailment. I had warned him to take things more easily, but he spent long hours in the study working on various documents and accounts. He could have had a fatal seizure at any time during the past two or three years.”
Solar Pons nodded, his own gaze now fixed on the molten centre of the fire.
“So he died of heart disease, then?”
The doctor nodded.
“Undoubtedly, Mr Pons. I have a copy of my post-mortem findings here, if Dr Parker would care to peruse it.”
He rummaged in his medical bag which I now noticed at the side of his chair and came up with the official form, covered with his small, meticulous writing. I studied it with interest.
“An extremely advanced form of heart disease, Pons,” I said, passing the document to him.
He scanned it swiftly, his lean, eager face tinted bronze by the fire-light. Young Balfour stood midway between the groups of hearthside chairs, looking now at one of us, now at another, a worried frown upon his brow.
“There seems no doubt of it,” said Solar Pons, passing it back. “But that still does not explain his dying words.”
Sherlock shook his head.
“Dying men often say strange things, Mr Pons. I am sure Dr Parker will bear me out.”
“Undoubtedly,” I said.
Solar Pons pulled thoughtfully at the lobe of his ear with fingers as delicate as the antennae of an insect.
“He said nothing while you were with him?”
Dr Sherlock shook his head.
“Poor Charles was on the point of death, Mr Pons. I doubt if I could have helped had I been there when he had the seizure.”
“What exactly happened that evening?”
“I was summoned by Mr Balfour and arrived within half an hour of the attack. There were only Mrs Bracegirdle and Mr Balfour with him. I soon saw that it was hopeless and cleared the room in order to spare them further distress. In spite of an injection I gave Mr Boldigrew to stimulate the heart he died within a very few minutes without regaining consciousness. A tragic business. I was more affected than I can remember. We had been friends for thirty years, you see.”
Solar Pons nodded.
“And the post-mortem confirmed your earlier findings?”
“Undoubtedly, Mr Pons. His condition had worsened considerably during the past year or so to an extent which even I had not realised.”
“Just so. Tell me, doctor, what was the condition of the room and the window when you arrived?”
“I don’t think I quite follow you, Mr Pons. Mr Boldigrew was lying near the window and I had him very carefully carried to a divan at the far end of the room. The three of us carried him there. What else was it you mentioned?”
“The condition of the room and the window.”
“The study was in some little disorder. If I remember rightly a chair was overturned and there was a jumble of papers on the desk. I cannot be certain but I think the window was uncurtained.”
“It was not unlocked so far as you know?”
Dr Sherlock stared at Pons in astonishment.
“Good gracious, Mr Pons, I had no time for that. My first concern was for my patient. I had no time for the window.”
“Certainly,” said my companion imperturbably, continuing to eject gentle plumes of smoke toward the ceiling.
“So you discount this story of a face entirely?”
The doctor shifted on his chair.
“I am not saying there have not been some ugly practical jokes in the neighbourhood in the past. But I think the whole thing has been blown up out of all proportion by the sensational press and by some interviews given by the Police Inspector. Of course, I am not blaming Mr Balfour here. He heard Mr Boldigrew’s dying words and I did not. But I cannot help feeling that it was unfortunate that he repeated the words; first to the police and then to the Press.”
I was about to open my mouth but closed it on seeing the expression on Pons’ face. Young Balfour looked uncomfortable but Solar Pons tactfully closed the subject.
“Thank you, doctor. You have been most helpful.”
“Good night, gentlemen. No thank you, Mr Balfour, I can find my way. I will look in again in a day or two. Goodnight.”
Mrs Bracegirdle appeared as soon as he opened the door and the visitor had no sooner disappeared than Pons shot a sharp glance at our host.
“So you did not tell the doctor that you had yourself seen the face, Mr Balfour.”
The young man shook his head.
“Certainly not, Mr Pons. There has been enough talk in the village and I know Dr Sherlock’s views on the matter. The whole thing seems fantastic now that I look at it. Perhaps I have exaggerated everything, and the Police Inspector has blown it up out of all proportion. After all, I was the only one to hear my uncle’s dying words.”
Solar Pons shot our host a sympathetic glance.
“Come, Mr Balfour. You are not yourself this evening. You were convinced of the truth of your statements when you visited us at Praed Street. Many people have seen this apparition, including yourself and your own gardener. This is no joke, believe me. And if your uncle’s death was purely heart disease, then it was precipitated by shock, which is tantamount to murder. There is something devilish here, mark my words.”
He took his pipe out of his mouth and looked once again into the heart of the fire.
“Even so, we must tread carefully. You have not told the police of this latest happening and we must not antagonise the local force. We must see the Inspector, question the gardener and find time to cultivate the acquaintance of Mr Ram Dass.”
He smiled at me ironically.
“It. looks like being a busy day tomorrow, Parker.”
6
“Well, sir, it gave me the fright of my life!”
It was a cold, frosty morning and Stevens the gardener, a decent, kindly old man with silver hair which looked as though he were himself powdered with frost, stood at the door of his potting shed in the grounds of Bredewell House and blinked at my companion.
Both Pons and I were clad in our warmest overcoats and scarves but even so the cold penetrated almost to the bone and Pons’ breath smoked from his mouth as he made reply to the man he was interrogating.
The old man, who seemed impervious to the cold, was evidently mindful of our situation for he suddenly said, with an embarrassed stammer, “If you’ll step into the glass house yonder, gentlemen, you’ll no doubt find it more comfortable.”
We followed him readily enough and I was astonished to find the edifice in question not only filled with a wide variety of plants and fruits, but warmly heated by steam. Stevens’ eyes glistened as we came in through the entrance porch and closed the outer doors behind us. Once through the inner doors the heat came up damp and cloying and after a minute or so we were both glad to remove our outer garments.