“What do you hope to find, Pons?”
“Evidence of crime, Parker,” said my companion grimly as we hurried across the concourse with our hand baggage to where the slim figure of Miss Hayling waited at the head of the steps.
The house was indeed sombre and lonely though Miss Hayling’s hospitality was lavish and Mr and Mrs McRae were kind and attentive. It was obvious that the atmosphere had lightened with Pons’ arrival and as we were served a late lunch in an old oak-panelled dining-room Miss Hayling’s manner was bright, almost gay at times.
She answered all Pons’ questions in great detail and the events at the house and in the grounds were gone through again, this time with the benefit of Pons being on the spot. So dark did it get in these northerly latitudes in winter-time that it was almost dusk by the time we had finished at table but despite this Pons insisted on seeing round outside and listened to our hostess’s explanations of the estate with keen attention.
If anything, Glen Affric, the girl’s property being named after the nearby glen, was more bleak and remote than before in the fading light. The chill mist persisted but despite this Pons tramped about the stable-yard and the adjoining paths through the fir-plantations with energy and gusto, occasionally asking questions of Mackintosh, who accompanied us, and at other times darting aside silently on small expeditions of his own.
It was during one such that we temporarily found ourselves alone, Miss Hayling having gone in search of her black Labrador which was engaged in chasing an imaginary rabbit.
“I have already spoken to the tenant farmer about that matter, Mr Pons,” the gardener said diffidently. “There should be no difficulty. We will try and get the cart up by midday tomorrow.”
“Excellent,” said Pons crisply, turning his head as the girl came up with the dog at her heels.
“This must be the spot hereabouts, where you were attacked, is it not?”
The good Mackintosh’ face turned brick-red and he knotted his thick fist.
“Aye, Mr Pons, a little farther down here. As you can see the shrubbery comes quite near the edge of the path. The black villain sprang on me as my back was turned or I’d have given him a hard fight of it, sir.”
“I have no doubt of that,” I said encouragingly.
The girl smiled at the gardener’s expression, calling to the dog, which was sniffing about in the bushes. But she stopped when Pons held up his hand, an alert expression on his face.
“I believe he has found something.”
The dog was in fact snarling at this point, as though he had discovered something particularly unpleasant. I followed Pons as he strode into the clump of bushes. It was still light enough to see clearly and I could make out an area of muddy ground which looked as though someone had trampled over it.
“Have you been through here lately, Mr Mackintosh?”
“Not I, sir,” said the gardener in his sturdy manner. “When that villain hit me I lost consciousness and came to myself in the driveway. I must have staggered some yards and I had no idea from what direction my attacker had come. There was no point in searching the shrubbery at any particular point. Of course, the police were called and went all over the place, but the rain would have blotted out their tracks weeks ago.”
Solar Pons shook his head, his deep-set eyes searching the ground. “I do not think the police would be involved. Someone has been standing here for a long time, as though watching the house.”
He looked thoughtfully at the blanket of mist which pressed upon us.
“Can one see the house from here in normal conditions?” “Most certainly, Mr Pons,” the girl said. “It is only a few hundred yards.”
Pons had stopped now and was going over the ground carefully, his thin, sensitive fingers raking in the icy mud. He gave a muffled exclamation and came up with two yellowed slivers of something that looked like wood or cardboard. He held them up to Mackintosh.
“You know what these are?”
“Of course, Mr Pons. Swan Vestas.”
Solar Pons nodded.
“Exactly. Someone stood here smoking and watching the house, dropping his matches from time to time and stamping them out on the ground. Perhaps you surprised him when you came along the path in the dusk. He may have dropped something else in his hurry. Hullo!”
I looked round, startled by the urgency in his voice.
“I fancy the dog has something there in his mouth, Miss Hayling.”
The Labrador had, in fact, a black bedraggled object which it was shaking and worrying with a dreadful intensity. The animal rolled its eyes and I thought it was going to bite the gardener as he bent to take it from him. When he had wrested it away from the Labrador he handed it to Pons.
“Nothing but an old oilskin tobacco pouch, Mr Pons.” “Mmm.”
Pons studied it in silence.
“Half-full of Coronation Mixture, I see. And the initials M.F. in gold lettering on the side. What does that suggest to you, Parker?”
“Mungo Ferguson, Pons!”
“You have not quite lost your ratiocinative touch, Parker. The name fits rather too pat it would appear.”
“I do not follow you, Pons.”
“Do you not, Parker. We have every reason to believe that Ferguson is the tool of McDonald.”
“You mean the Colonel left the pouch here, Pons!” “Possibly, Parker. Or he has his own reasons for employing a hot-headed and unreliable tool.”
The girl’s eyes blazed and she looked at Solar Pons in amazement.
“The dog hates Ferguson, Mr Pons. No wonder he was growling.”
She paused, controlling her emotions.
“Are you suggesting Colonel McDonald is using the man Ferguson as a scapegoat, Mr Pons?”
My companion looked at her mildly, putting the oilskin pouch into his pocket.
“Nothing is impossible in these romantic surroundings, Miss Hayling. But it is a cold and inclement night, with darkness fast approaching. We can do little more here. I propose we adjourn to the house where we may plan our strategy for the morrow.”
7
I was late abed the next morning, possibly because I slept soundly after our journey and the strange change of scene, and it was past nine o’clock when I joined Pons at the breakfast table. Miss Hayling was in the study discussing some matter with McRae and Pons was alone, his head wreathed in tobacco smoke, frowningly studying large-scale maps of the area. He seemed oblivious of my presence but as Mrs McRae smilingly appeared with silver breakfast dishes on a tray he abruptly waved his hand to disperse the tobacco smoke and moved his charts to one side.
“Forgive me, my dear fellow. My manners are abominable when I become absorbed in these problems.”
“Think nothing of it, Pons,” I said, falling to with a will on the great platter of bacon, eggs and sausages Mrs McRae had prepared.
“I have such an appetite your pipe does not bother me at all.”
“It is indeed good of you, Parker,” said my companion with a sly smile at Mrs McRae. “Yes, thank you, Mrs McRae, I will have another cup of that excellent coffee if there is enough to spare.”
“There is plenty here, Mr Pons,” said that good lady, pouring for us both. “And if there were not I would be glad to make a third pot.”
I studied Pons between mouthfuls.
“You have made some progress?”
“A little, Parker. Tell me, Mrs McRae, how is your knowledge of these parts?”
“Extensive but not exhaustive, Mr Pons.”
“Excellent. Pray sit here for a moment or two, if you please.”
Mrs McRae sat down opposite, looking with puzzled eyes at my companion.
“Can you read a map at all with any accuracy, Mrs McRae?” “Tolerably well, Mr Pons. My husband and I did a great deal of walking in the old days, when we were young.”