Pons' eyes sparkled.
"This grows more interesting by the minute, Mr Grimpton. What say you, Parker?"
"Indeed, Pons," I returned. "An amateur sort of thief by the sound of it."
"Undoubtedly. Unless he intended to corner the bronze and pewter market."
Our visitor's eyes widened.
"I hardly think so, Mr Pons. But I confess I am unable to make anything of this."
Solar Pons quitted the mantel and sat down opposite our visitor.
"There was another burglary at the house three weeks ago. Just as pointless as the first. I slept through this but my secretary awoke and chased an intruder on the terrace. He was shortly joined by my housekeeper but the man got clean away. A few trinkets from the morning room were taken and there was some disturbance in the library but nothing of value was stolen. The rare books are kept in locked cabinets. They would have been worth a fortune to any thief."
"But that is a highly specialised department," said Solar Pons enigmatically. "And calls for esoteric knowledge unlikely to be possessed by many. Hence the relatively few rare book thieves in operation on a world scale."
"I must bow to your arcane knowledge of the subject, Mr Pons," said our visitor ironically. "At least it has relieved part of my mind."
"That completes your sequence of strange events, Mr Grimpton?" began Solar Pons. "You mentioned life and death…"
"Except for this morning's incident," our visitor interrupted. "The inhabitants of Penderel Lodge are in a state of terror, Mr Pons."
"Something of the utmost gravity has happened then?" Septimus Grimpton nodded.
"Murder in the most shocking form, Mr Pons, under the most bizarre circumstances."
4
There was a long silence in the quiet of the hotel lounge. From beyond the thick-curtained windows the soft humming of a motor vehicle rose and then receded as it glided down Great Pulteney Street and turned into Aura Place.
Pons' face was grim. He leaned forward and tented his fingers before him as he stared at Grimpton.
"Pray be most precise and careful as to detail, Mr Grimpton."
"Certainly, Mr Pons. Though I am most shaken by such a terrible incident occurring in my grounds. A gardener was coming on duty at six o' clock when he had occasion to pass near the Mausoleum. There is a tar-macadam drive there and he was shocked and horrified to see bloodied footprints on the carriageway."
Our client's voice had dropped to a low whisper and he stared at Pons with a suddenly haggard face.
"Bizarre and shocking, Pons," I said.
Solar Pons nodded.
"Bizarre indeed, Parker. What is this Mausoleum you spoke of, Mr Grimpton?"
"Another fancy of my eccentric grandfather, Mr Pons. When my grandmother died he had a fancy to build a Mausoleum in the grounds of the estate. She is buried there in a marble sarcophagus. He is also interred within the Mausoleum."
"There is an agreeably Gothic tone to your story, Mr Grimpton, if you do not mind me saying so."
Our visitor nodded.
"A little too Gothic and a little too grim for my taste, Mr Pons. As I was saying, the gardener found these footprints. A few hundred yards farther on, in a small grove of trees fronting the house, he discovered a roughly-dressed man, terribly injured. He was covered in blood, which was dripping from a large wound in his chest. How he had survived that long was a miracle. The house was aroused, the police and a doctor summoned, but he died within half an hour of the latter's arrival, despite all that he could do."
"Was he able to say anything?"
'Just one thing, Mr Pons. He mumbled something to Hoskins, the gardener. It was something about 'The Shaft of Death'. He repeated this strange phrase three or four times before he died. Nothing else."
Solar Pons sat in silence for a moment, rapt in thought. "Had the weapon been found, Mr Grimpton?" The old man shook his head.
"That is another of the weird things, Mr Pons. I have not finished yet. The bloodied foot-prints were traced back from the roadway by Inspector Morgan and his men. They led to the Mausoleum, Mr Pons, which had been entered with a key, which was still in the lock. There was a good deal of blood within the building, particularly on the marble paving on which the tomb of my grandmother stands. There were bloodied hand-marks on the front of the marble effigy which surmounts the sarcophagus. There the trail ended."
"Say rather there it began," murmured Pons. "Well, Mr Grimpton, I have seldom listened to a more grisly or more baffling story. Have you more to tell me?"
"Very little, Mr Pons. The dead man has been identified. He was Abel Stokoe, a rough character who formerly made his living as a prizefighter. He was a convicted felon and in fact had been released from prison only three months ago."
"I see."
Solar Pons rose from his seat and paced silently up and down in front of the fireplace.
"He was sent to prison for what, Mr Grimpton?"
"According to Inspector Morgan, Mr Pons, for a number of offences. Occasioning grievous bodily harm; but mostly for house-breaking."
Solar Pons made a little clicking noise with his tongue. "What do you make of it, Mr Pons?"
Our visitor sat with his head on one side, regarding my companion anxiously.
"Nothing as yet, Mr Grimpton. But one should not waste too much time in these cases. If you have no objection, Parker, I should like to go over the ground tonight."
"Certainly, Pons."
Pons glanced at the great cased clock which ticked away in a corner of the lounge.
"It wants only a few minutes to nine o'clock. If you have your car at the door, Mr Grimpton, there is no time like the present."
"Thank you, Mr Pons. You have taken a great weight off my mind."
Septimus Grimpton rose and shook Solar Pons' hand effusively.
"We will talk further in the car on the way to your house, Mr Grimpton."
It was indeed only a short journey to Penderel Lodge and after crossing the Avon, Mr Grimpton's gleaming Rolls-Royce, driven by a taciturn chauffeur, glided its way through undulating countryside to the small village of Penderel Parva. Passing through the village, the vehicle turned in through ornamental iron gates that led to a sizeable park.
The journey had passed with Pons' monosyllabic questions and Mr Grimpton's necessarily longer and more detailed answers but now Pons seemed satisfied with his questioning and the church clock had barely finished marking half-past nine before our host's massive vehicle crunched to a halt in the curving driveway which stretched like a white ribbon before us in the light of the moon.
It was a cold night and I was glad of my thick overcoat as Pons sprang down impatiently, his pocket torch in his hand.
"This is the spot?"
"Just ahead, Mr Pons. The police had canvas laid to preserve the prints, though it is obvious what happened."
Grimpton led the way to a spot about five yards distant, now brightly illuminated by the headlamps of the Rolls-Royce. Pons quickly unrolled the canvas and I could not repress a slight shiver at the bloodied outlines of the boot-marks thus revealed. Pons quickly worked his way over the ground, his pocket lens out, while his torch occasionally supplemented the beams of the headlamps.
He made an impatient clicking noise with his tongue.
"A great pity, Mr Grimpton. The boots of the constabulary habitually obliterate that which should be preserved."
"What on earth do you mean, Mr Pons?"
"It does not really matter on this occasion, Mr Grimpton. But if there had been indications of another person on the tar-macadam they would undoubtedly have been effaced by the eager shoe-marks of the Inspector's gaping assistants."