“Perhaps, Parker,” said my companion softly, his eyes flashing me a discreet warning. “The point is that it was unusually mild spring weather at the onset of April last year and the road was firm and dry.”
I must have sat with my mouth open for a second or two and by that time the young lady had recovered herself.
“It was after my parents’ death, Mr Pons; some months in fact, when I had come back to Scotland and was going through their papers, that I found the letters from the Scottish Land Trust, signed by their President, Mungo Ferguson.”
“Mungo Ferguson,” said Pons through the thin banners of smoke, his voice soft and almost dreamy.
“Tell me about him again, Miss Hayling.”
“He is a loathsome creature, Mr Pons. A bully and a braggart. A great, red-bearded man who thinks he can ride roughshod over other people’s rights.”
Solar Pons smiled, taking his pipe out of his mouth.
“He did not ride roughshod over you at any rate, Miss Hayling,” he observed. “For you took a whip and showed him off the estate, did you not?”
The girl flushed and there were little sparks of amusement dancing in her eyes.
“Indeed I did, Mr Pons!” she said spiritedly, “and I believe I have adequately described the incident in my letters.”
“Good heavens, Miss Hayling!” I exclaimed. “And this is the brute we are up against?”
Solar Pons shook his head, smiling at me through the coils of smoke.
“Hardly, Parker. You have surely not forgotten our earlier conversation. Ferguson is merely the cloak for something far more sinister. Let us hear something of the letters, Miss Hay-ling. You did send me a sample and I have in fact already checked on the registration of the company in question. The Scottish Land Trust, with Ferguson as President was first registered something over eighteen months ago and has a paid-up capital of £100.”
I looked at Pons in surprise.
“That does not sound very impressive, Pons.”
Solar Pons chuckled drily.
“You have not seen their notepaper, Parker. That is impressive enough at any event.”
“Then you think the whole thing a swindle, Mr Pons?” said the girl impetuously. “They have offered a good price for the house and land.”
“Too good, though it is genuine enough, at any rate,” said my companion sombrely. “I think you would find the money forthcoming readily enough if you were to agree to their request.”
“But fifty thousand pounds, Mr Pons! The whole estate is not worth a fraction of that. The house is well enough but the rest is just 300 acres of woodland, with some coarse grazing. There is not even any shooting or a trout stream or anything of the sort.”
My astonishment must have shown on my face.
“Fifty thousand pounds, Pons?”
“Interesting, is it not, Parker. This is why Miss Hayling’s little problem intrigues me so. Have a look at this.”
My friend passed me an impressive, blue-tinted deckle-edged sheet of stationery, which had very elaborate headings in flowing script printed on it.
The legend, Scottish Land Trust, Registered Offices, Carnock House, Inverness, was followed by a list of directors whose names meant nothing to me. The letter, addressed to Miss Hayling’s parents, was an offer, couched in unctuous terms, of fifty thousand pounds sterling for the estate known as Glen Affric. It was dated more than a year earlier and signed by Mungo Ferguson. I passed it back to Pons with a non-committal grunt.
“We are rather running ahead of ourselves,” said he. “Just let me précis the situation. Mr and Mrs Hayling were made an astronomical offer for Glen Affric estate, which is worth only a fraction of that, about eighteen months ago. They refused, as they had a great affection for the place, which is nevertheless worthless from a commercial development point of view.
“Mungo Ferguson, the President, persisted with the offer, however, and said that the Trust wished to develop the property as a leisure and holiday centre and the site was the only place suitable for many miles around.”
“There may be something in that, Mr Pons,” the girl muttered, searching Pons’ face with attentive eyes.
“A short while after the last of these letters, Mr and Mrs Hayling died in the tragic accident with the pony and trap,”
Pons continued. “Following the funeral Miss Hayling returned to Norwich and the Scottish house, with a reduced staff of three, remained in her ownership. But about six months ago the Trust’s offers were repeated by letter, at the lady’s Norwich address. What could be the reason behind such persistence?”
“I have no idea, Pons.”
“Nevertheless,” my companion returned. “It raises a number of interesting possibilities. This company seems inordinately concerned with this piece of ground. However, it is something which cannot be fully appreciated without seeing the terrain.”
“You think the company genuine, Pons?”
Solar Pons tented his thin fingers before him.
“Oh, it is genuine enough so far as it goes, Parker. Miss Hayling, nothing if not a persistent young lady, has been to the Trust’s headquarters in Inverness. They have a proper office there, which is open at fixed hours on five days a week, though the one clerk employed there has little to do. But I am holding up Miss Hayling’s narrative. There are far more sinister overtones to come.”
“You have put the situation admirably, Mr Pons,” said the girl. “This was how things stood until I returned to live again in Scotland back in the autumn.”
“You had been called there by your old servants, had you not?”
“Yes indeed, Mr Pons. By Mr and Mrs McRae, steward and housekeeper respectively. They are the only staff now apart from Mackintosh, the outside man and gardener.”
“Something strange had happened, I understand.”
The girl nodded, her eyes worried.
“Strange enough, Mr Pons. After I had received McRae’s letter I thought I had better get the first available train.”
Solar Pons blew a little eddying plume of blue smoke up toward the ceiling of our sitting-room.
“It began with noises in the night, did it not?”
“That is so, Mr Pons. Neither Mr McRae or his wife are what you might call sensitive or over-imaginative people. They are, on the contrary, stolid, strong-minded and dependable. Mackintosh likewise.”
“The house is a lonely one, I understand?”
“You could say that. The nearest habitation is about five or six miles away but that is irrelevant as the property itself, in extensive grounds, is approached by a long private road and well screened by heavy belts of trees.”
“There were noises at first, you say.”
“Yes, Mr Pons. Odd scratches, as though someone were trying the shutters at dead of night. McRae got up and ran out, but though it was a fine moonlight night, saw nothing. Another time there were footsteps and after odd banging noises a window was found open, as though it had been forced. On yet another occasion Mackintosh found a set of heavy footmarks across a flower-bed after rain. They had obviously been made during the dead hours of the night, for they were not there the evening before.”
Solar Pons nodded.
“Which brings us to the fire.”
“Yes, Mr Pons. Though not serious it might well have been. Some outhouses, which stand between the main house and the stable-block, caught fire. Fortunately, Mr and Mrs McRae together with Mackintosh, who lives in a nearby cottage, were able to contain the outbreak with a garden hose but two of the sheds were completely destroyed.”
I looked at my companion.
“An accident, Pons?”
The girl shook her head.