“You were speaking of this apparition, Stevens.”
“Yes, sir. I have never been more terrified, yet I am a fairly steady sort of person.”
Solar Pons sat indolently on a wooden bench at our back and turned his empty pipe over in his hands. His deep-set eyes were fixed intently on the riot of green and crimson beyond the old man’s head, where an unseasonal display of flowers made a mockery of the iron-frost and thin mist that was coming up across the marshes, so that even the solid form of Bredewell House only a few hundred yards away beyond the bare hedge, was already dim and insubstantial.
“Just tell me exactly what happened that evening.”
“It was on a Thursday night, Mr Pons. I had forgotten my wages or, rather, because I had to go into Tidewater in the afternoon to order some materials for the garden, I had missed my turn, as it were. Mr Balfour had kindly sent word by one of the men who works on the farm and who lives in the cottage next to mine, that he would open the estate office to pay me if I liked to come back that evening.”
“Why was that?”
The old man looked embarrassed.
“Well, sir, I’m always a bit short at the end of the week and as the shops keep open late on Thursdays, I usually get my groceries and pay a few bills on Thursday nights. What with my work I don’t get much chance otherwise, during the week. Being a widower, sir, it throws a good deal on me, one way or another.”
“I see. So you collected your wages.”
“Yes, sir. I stayed chatting to Mr Balfour for a few minutes. He’s a very agreeable gentleman, sir.”
“Indeed,” I put in.
“When I left the office, instead of going the long way round by the kitchen garden entrance, I walked down the main drive. I was keeping on the verge, thinking of nothing in particular when something came at me out of the shrubbery. It was a horrible face, Mr Pons, all green fire, with glowing red eyes. It was a terrible sight.”
“But Pons…” I began, when I was stopped by a warning glance from my companion.
“What did you do, Stevens?”
“Well, when I got over my shock, I made as though to grapple with it but it sort of retreated into the shrubbery and seemed to disappear. It can’t say I was sorry, really.”
“A frightening experience indeed,” mused Solar Pons. “Why did you tell Mr Balfour a different story?”
The old man looked surprised.
“Ah, you have already heard that! A white lie, sir, I am afraid. Old Mr Boldigrew was so frightened of these stories about the village and he’d been a recluse for several years, that I didn’t want to make things worse. I said the thing had appeared at the window of the potting shed, which is a long way from the house. I felt I had to warn Mr Balfour that there was something terrible hanging about the grounds. I did, in fact, go to the potting shed to collect my pipe on my way back to Tidewater, so it was only a white lie, sir, like I said.”
“I see, Stevens. You have no objection to my telling Mr Balfour the truth now?”
The old man shook his head.
“None at all, sir, providing you make it clear to Mr Balfour that I had no intention to deceive.”
“I shall certainly do that. Thank you, Stevens. You have been most helpful.”
Resuming our outer garments we again braved the bitter conditions outdoors, Pons leading the way down the drive and turning on to the road that would take us to Tidewater as though he had known the locality all his life.
“It is certainly a rum business, Pons.”
“Is it not, Parker. You have seen the significance of this appearance?”
“Well, it seemed as though the thing was again near the study window and the gardener surprised it.”
“Excellent, my dear fellow. You really are improving most remarkably.”
The mist was already crouching at the edges of the road which ran across the low marsh country and our footsteps echoed on the frosty surface unnaturally loudly. Pons lit his pipe, shovelling fragrant blue smoke back over his shoulder.
“But you really must learn to control your exuberance.”
“I do not understand you, Pons.”
“You were about, if my instinct is aright, to blurt out to Stevens that the thing he saw differed widely from the description of the face young Balfour saw at the study window that night.”
“You are right, Pons. I am sorry. I am afraid I did not think.”
My crestfallen expression brought forth a reassuring smile from my companion.
“Let us just have your theories on the matter, Parker.”
“I do not know what to say, Pons. It is inconceivable that there can be two phantoms lurking about Tidewater.”
“Especially when one is quite enough,” said my companion drily.
And he said nothing further until about twenty minutes later when a bout of stiff walking had brought us in sight of the dim outlines of the village of Tidewater, whose smoking chimneys added to the mist and imparted an acrid flavour to the air we breathed.
Lights showed blurrily from the shops in the centre of the village, which presented a pleasantly animated appearance for such a small community.
To my surprise, now that we had reached the village, Pons showed little inclination to seek out the police station but, instead, sauntered along as though he were on holiday, showing inordinate interest in the contents of the shop windows.
I was just about to make some remark when he suddenly stopped and took me by the sleeve.
“Ah, Parker! Just the place I fancy.”
I gazed at the window in astonishment.
“A toyshop, Pons? What can you possibly want here?”
Solar Pons put his finger to the side of his nose in a mischievous manner, a thin smile playing about his lips.
“Information, Parker. Possibly a return to childhood. There is something admirable about the atmosphere of such a shop, don’t you think?”
“It may be, Pons,” I said cautiously. “Though I do not see why you should wish to waste time in this fashion.”
“Time so spent is not wasted, Parker,” said Solar Pons severely, opening the door of the establishment.
The sharp ping of the bell announced our entrance but as there were several other customers, including a number of children, already in the shop, the proprietor, a short, bearded individual merely lanced up in our direction and then turned to the counter again.
I followed Pons, slightly puzzled, as he traversed the dusty aisles of this dark and curious old shop. There were odd corners piled with furry animals; boxes of lettered alphabet bricks; Meccano sets and clockwork trains, with here and there an entranced youngster holding some treasured item.
Pons paused by a heap of tin kettledrums and peered intently at the ranks of scarlet model soldiers with their bearskins and rifles at the ready.
“One could write a treatise on this sort of thing, Parker. It really is fascinating.”
“I admit that, Pons, though I fail to see…”
But Pons had already moved on. He picked up a humming top, as though intent on nothing else; his eyes skimmed over the wooden and metal hoops; and alighted on a rack of gyroscopes in their gaily hued boxes.
“This is more like it, Parker.”
I gave a start as I noticed the items which had already caught his attention. I followed quickly as he strode into an area of unexpected fantasy.
“Carnival masks, Pons!”
“Exactly, Parker,” Solar Pons chuckled, his intent gaze running across the grotesque and soulless papier-mâché masks which leered at us from shelves and danced slowly in the eddies of air as they hung suspended from the ceiling. I jumped as a hideous green-hued face with red eyes lurched at me from round the corner.