Solar Pons chuckled.
“Let us hope that neither you nor Mr Stacey will be disappointed when I get to grips with your little problem.”
Mr Miggs shook his head.
“I am sure that will not be the case, sir.”
3
Despite his age he led the way at a furious pace through the streets of the old city, until at last we came to the hush of the Cathedral Close, with its handsome old houses flanking the green lawns and gravel driveways. He ushered us up white steps to a gracious Georgian portico, its discreet pale-blue painted door glittering with brass ornaments. The white paintwork gleamed on the fanlight above the door and on the small-paned windows set in the facade of the house and a profusion of flowers made bright splashes of colour in the black window-boxes and perfumed the air for yards around.
“This is Canon Stacey’s residence, gentlemen,” said Mr Miggs, his voice involuntarily lowering. Pons gave me a faint smile above the old man’s bowed head.
“You have not yet told us about your thumb, Mr Miggs.” “Ah, sir. All in good time. The Canon said I wasn’t to mention that until you had heard what he has to say.”
“Very well, then,” observed Solar Pons. “We shall just have to curb our impatience, eh, Parker?”
“Certainly, Pons.”
A trim parlour-maid had now opened the great front door and ushered the three of us into an elegant and soberly furnished hall, whose beauty was enhanced by the bowls of cut flowers in vases set about the interior and by the exquisite Indian rug at the far end, that glowed like a great ruby on the black and white tiled floor.
A regal, grey-haired woman whose features bore the dark tint that skin acquires after long years of exposure to tropical sun, came out of a room adjoining the hall and advanced toward us with a smile of welcome.
“Mr Solar Pons? And Dr Lyndon Parker? It is indeed good of you to interrupt your holiday in this fashion.”
“Not at all, Mrs Stacey,” said Pons, shaking hands. “Dr Parker and I will be only too pleased to help in this little matter.”
Mrs Stacey’s hand flew to her throat with a nervous gesture.
“Oh, you will not find it a little matter, Mr Pons. Mr Miggs here has been half-frightened out of his wits. And my husband is gravely perturbed. Gravely perturbed.”
There was more than worry in her eyes and Solar Pons glanced at her solemnly.
“Indeed, Mrs Stacey,” he said soothingly. “Nevertheless, we shall do our best to set things to rights.”
He smiled reassuringly at the grey-haired woman, who led us without more ado to the door of her husband’s study, where she rapped at the panels and then ushered us in.
“Will you not come in, Mr Miggs?” she asked the verger kindly.
“If you’ll excuse me, m’am, I’ll wait in the hall until the Canon should require me.”
“As you wish. This is my husband, Mr Pons. Dr Lyndon Parker.”
The tall, distinguished-looking man in the neat grey suit rose from his desk in the cluttered study as we advanced toward him. A vase of roses made a blaze of colour in the handsome stone fireplace and the sunlight glinted on the spines of the thousands of leather-bound volumes that filled the glass bookcases which stretched from floor to ceiling. Beyond the tall, elegant windows with their gauze curtaining could be glimpsed the tranquil Close with its passing visitors.
Canon Stacey was a man of about sixty-five, with a pleasant, open face and an unlined complexion though, like his wife, he still bore a deep tan. His silver hair rose in thick waves on his head so that it almost resembled an eighteenth century powdered wig. His white, even teeth gleamed in a welcoming smile but I could see anxiety and doubt in the steady brown eyes.
“It is extremely good of you, Mr Pons. We are at our wit’s end. Will you not sit here, gentlemen. Winifred, perhaps you could see about some tea for our guests.”
“Pray do not put yourself out,” said Solar Pons to the Canon’s wife. “We have just had tea.”
“In that case you will not mind if we indulge,” said the Canon with a faint flicker of a smile. “We usually have ours at this time of the afternoon.”
“By all means,” said my companion. “Your Mr Miggs tells me you have a problem which is worrying you.”
Mrs Stacey, with a quick glance at her husband, went out to give the orders for tea and Pons and I sank into comfortable leather chairs at our host’s invitation. Glancing anxiously from one to the other of us, Canon Stacey without further preamble at once plunged into his story.
“There are strange things going on in the Cathedral, Mr Pons. I am worried, gentlemen. Extremely worried. Your coming to Norwich was like the answer to my prayer. And I have no wish to involve the police in this matter or there might be a public scandal.”
Solar Pons said nothing, merely sat back in his chair, his long, slim hands in his lap, his lean, ascetic face gilded with golden stripes by the sunlight. He looked reassuringly at the Canon who licked his lips once or twice and continued with his apparently random musings.
“It started about two weeks ago. I was walking through the Cathedral at dusk when I became conscious of a low whispering. It was fairly late, there were no services taking place and the spot was dimly-lit and lonely. I am not a fanciful person in the ordinary sense of the word, Mr Pons, yet there was something unpleasant and inexpressibly furtive in that mumbled colloquy taking place in that sacred place. I caught only one or two words, savagely and more loudly spoken than the others. They made my heart beat faster and I moved behind a pillar in case the hidden talkers should see me.”
“Why was that, Canon Stacey?”
The distinguished-looking churchman hesitated.
“A good question, Mr Pons. Really, I believe, because there was such menace in their tones. I am a gentle, peace-loving man as befits my cloth and I instinctively shrank from such voices in a holy place.”
“I see. Male or female voices?”
“Male, Mr Pons. Extremely rough. Working class and not at all the sort of people I should imagine would have found much time for organised religion.”
The Canon looked apologetically from one to the other of us.
“I must confess that does not sound very Christian, Mr Pons. After all, the church is open to everyone. But I would be less than honest if I did not frankly indicate my feelings.”
“Your attitude does you credit, Canon Stacey. Just what were these words which so startled you?”
“‘Robbery’ and ‘killing’, Mr Pons.”
There was a long silence between the three of us.
“Hmm.”
Solar Pons pulled reflectively with thin fingers at the lobe of his right ear.
“You did not see the men?”
Canon Stacey shook his head.
“Not at that point, Mr Pons. They were behind the chancel screen, you see, and I should have been seen had I quitted my position at the pillar. Something compelled me to stay there, as though harm might befall me if I were to make my presence known.”
The Canon lowered his voice and looked around him as though the room were dark and gloomy and the time winter, instead of light and bright with the brilliant summer sunshine streaming in. He hesitated again and then went on.
“You will think me even more fanciful, Mr Pons, but I had the strangest impression as I stood behind that pillar and listened to those evil voices.”
“And what was that, Canon Stacey?”
“That the two men were lying out full-length on the pews in order to avoid being seen as they plotted something horrific and criminal.”
4
We were interrupted at that moment by a rap at the far door and Mrs Stacey re-appeared, followed by the same maid who had let us in, wheeling a tea-trolley. Pons and I remained silent until the tea-preparations were completed and the girl had withdrawn. Mrs Stacey shot a glance at us.