“A bad place, Parker. They would have hit the head of the waterfall and then come down the fall into the deeper water here.”
“You mean Miss Hayling’s parents, Pons. An awful business.”
I stared at the white, broken water but was roused from my reverie by a sharp exclamation from my companion.
“Extraordinary though it may seem, it has gone, Parker. Mackintosh has been true to his word.”
I followed his gaze. Though dark, the stream was clear here and I could see to the bottom. There was certainly no sign of the wreckage of the dog-cart. Pons was already moving again and I followed him across large boulders which made a series of stepping-stones. They were wet and slippery and the water ran surging and deep between them so that I was glad to reach the far bank without a ducking. There were dark runnels torn in the soil here, where the cart had been dragged up the bank. Pons looked sharply about him.
“I shall be surprised if this is Mackintosh’ work, Parker,” he said drily.
He slashed moodily at the undergrowth with his stick.
“I do not follow you, Pons.”
“Do you not, Parker. It is crystal-clear. But it merely confirms what I wished to know.”
He turned as there came a crashing noise in the bushes. The angry figure of Mackintosh appeared, with a puzzled-looking farm-worker in corduroy behind him.
“It is disgraceful, Mr Pons! I have never heard the like!”
“I take it you did not remove the cart, Mackintosh.”
“Not I, sir,” replied the other grimly. “It has been taken out by the people from the neighbouring smallholding and burned in their yard! Despite the fact that this is private property!”
“By whose orders?”
“Mr Mungo Ferguson’s sir!”
Solar Pons smiled grimly. He turned to me.
“This promises to be rather interesting, Parker. Let us just find out the situation. Is Mr Ferguson there?”
Mackintosh nodded gloomily, falling in at Pons’ side as we walked uphill, away from the babbling stream.
“Aye, Mr Pons. Supervising the burning. I gave him my tongue and he is in no better temper for it. I thought it best to come away for he is a formidable man when the anger is on him. I know not what you wanted to prove, Mr Pons, but there was little left of the cart when I last saw it.”
Pons nodded, his deep-set eyes gleaming.
“It was of oak, I should have said.”
“That’s right, Mr Pons. It had lasted well, despite the action of the water.”
“How on earth did he burn it?” I put in.
Mackintosh turned a puzzled face to me over his shoulder.
“He poured petrol over it, Dr Parker. If ever a man seemed determined to destroy another’s property, it was Mungo Ferguson.”
“Destroy evidence, rather,” said Pons, a hard expression in his eyes. “Well, he has played right into our hands.”
He increased his pace and as we came up from that gloomy valley I could see thick black smoke billowing across the trees, where low, poor-looking farm buildings jutted from the landscape. Mackintosh turned to speak to the man in corduroy and he went back across the fields, presumably to his own farm.
Within a very few minutes we had come upon an extraordinary scene. In the midden within the three sides formed by the stout stone walls of the farmhouse, byre and stable, were a group of wild-looking men, standing round a great fire of bracken and wood. They were labouring types obviously and the dominant figure among them, who stood a little apart and directed them, was a gigantic figure in hairy tweeds with flaming red hair and a thick beard. Pons chuckled quietly to himself.
“Mr Mungo Ferguson,” he said with satisfaction. “Well, Parker, the best means of defence is attack, is it not?”
And without more ado he strode across to the group round the fire, who watched with a sort of sullen fascination as we came up. The huge man, who had a coarse, inflamed face, had been shouting at the men about the fire and I now saw that it contained the remains of a carriage, obviously the one with which we were concerned. It was almost all consumed and the shafts had evidently been the first to go, for there was no sign of them. Two petrol cans stood at a distance from the bonfire and it was obvious that they had been used to ignite the sodden wood.
“Who is responsible for this?” said Solar Pons, coming to a halt near the group of men, but glancing sidelong at the figure of the bearded man who toyed with a shooting-stick in one gigantic hand. The men stirred uneasily but before they could reply the big man came to life. He stamped forward menacingly, holding the metal stick in his hand, and glared at my companion.
“You are on private property. You are trespassing.”
“I am well aware of that,” said Solar Pons evenly. “You are burning private property, are you not?”
Ferguson had a loud, coarse voice and his eyes flamed with anger, but there was something about Pons’ quiet, resolute manner, that made him pause and choose his words with relative care.
“The carriage has been blocking yon stream for a long time. We thought it was time to have it out.”
Solar Pons smiled thinly.
“An odd coincidence, was it not, that you chose the very day we had decided to remove it ourselves?”
“Maybe,” Ferguson snapped.
He came closer, his manner bristling and prickly.
“You have a name do you?”
“Solar Pons. And you, judging by your coarseness and lack of manners must be Mungo Ferguson.”
There was a hoarse burst of laughter from the men round the fire and Ferguson drew himself up, his red-rimmed eyes filled with hatred.
“Solar Pons!”
He bit the words off savagely.
“The London detective! The meddler and prier into other people’s affairs!”
Solar Pons stood quietly, perfectly at ease, a smile on his lips. His assured attitude seemed to enrage the red-haired man.
“Well, we have a way with meddlers in these parts, Mr Solar Pons! We pitch them down the mountainside, head first!”
Solar Pons drew himself up, his right hand firm and steady on the stick.
“You are welcome to try, my vulgar fellow, but I would not advise it.”
With a bellow of rage Mungo Ferguson lurched forward, raising the shooting-stick. Mackintosh had started forward in alarm and I was before him but our assistance was not needed. The stout hawthorn stick moved round so quickly it was just a blur in the air. There was a dull crack as it connected with the giant’s shin and he gave a low howl of pain.
Pons turned swiftly as the red-haired man staggered, falling forward; he brought the shooting-stick round in a vain effort to support himself but he had not even reached the ground before my companion caught him two resounding blows across the thick of the body. He fell with a tremendous crash and there was blood on his chin as he scrambled to his feet, a burning madness in his eyes.
“I have some little experience of bar-room brawls,” said Solar Pons coolly, “and am able to meet you on your own terms. I would advise you to cut your losses.”
There was an enraged bellow from the giant and he came forward, his huge fists flailing. Light as a ballet dancer, Pons moved to one side so that the man’s mad rush took him past. The stick came round again, tripping him this time. When he regained his feet, his face plastered with mud and green from the grass, he had lost much of his confidence, but he still came forward with a low growl.
“This has gone far enough, sir,” said Mackintosh in a concerned voice, though he could not erase the delight from his features.
The huge man thrust him aside and leapt at Pons for the third time. His blows met only empty air. Then Pons had thrown the heavy stick down; Ferguson staggered as Pons’ left caught him on the point of the chin. My companion’s second blow, from his right, clipped him exactly in the classic textbook spot and his eyes glazed. He went down, his body square in the heart of the fire, red-hot ashes, cinders and sparks erupting into the air like fireworks.