We started on our tea without more ado as Mrs. Johnson quitted the room and a second and then a third tattoo on the knocker was succeeded by the opening of the front door and a low, muttered conversation from the hall. A minute or two passed in deathly silence and then came a tapping at the door. Mrs. Johnson re-appeared with another tray of tea-things.
“The poor thing looks cold and distressed, Mr. Pons. I have taken the liberty of bringing more food. There is plenty in the kitchen.”
“I take it we have a visitor, Mrs. Johnson?” said Pons gently, reaching out for another slice of hot, buttered toast.
Mrs. Johnson nodded.
“It is a young lady, Mr. Pons. A Miss Eunice Chambers of Fulham. She is in some distress but would not state her business.”
“That is quite all right, Mrs. Johnson,” Pons returned, rising from his chair.
“I will see her at once if you would be good enough to show her up.”
“I can finish my tea in my own room if you would prefer, Pons,” I ventured.
He waved me back into my chair.
“Not at all, my dear fellow. Please stay where you are. I am only sorry that this will disturb your hour of rest after a trying day.”
“I am always interested in your cases, Pons.”
We were interrupted at that moment by Mrs. Johnson announcing our visitor and then she went out, closing the door behind her The young lady who looked first from me and then to my companion was indeed distressed not to say distraught. Her thick fair hair hung down in swathes on either side of her pale, oval face and the snow crystals glittered on its disarray. She had been crying but even her reddened eyes could not disguise the beauty of the features or their distinction and breeding.
She wore a thick, tailored overcoat which clung to her slim figure and she took a quick, vibrant step forward, which gave the scarf round her neck a wavering, agitated movement.
“I am at my wit’s end, gentlemen. I really do not know what to do to help poor Rollo in this terrible predicament!”
“Pray sit by the fire and warm yourself,” said Pons kindly. “Parker, please be good enough to pour the young lady a cup of hot tea.”
“You are so kind, gentlemen,” said our visitor and to my considerable embarrassment she burst into tears. Pons bit his lip and sat looking at her with compassionate eyes but my professional instincts reasserted themselves and I made her take off her icy clothing, sat her at table and poured her the tea.
“This is my friend and companion, Dr. Lyndon Parker,” said Pons when she was more herself again. “You could not be in more capable hands.”
I flushed at this and made some mumbled reply but the girl smiled through her tears and took several sips at her cup, which seemed to calm her considerably.
“Forgive me, gentlemen. I have been under considerable stress the last few days.”
“We are used to that in Praed Street,” said Pons, turning again to his interrupted meal. ‘This agency exists to assist those in distress and I would say that you need rest and hot food as a prime requirement. It is a hard journey from Colchester on such an inclement day.”
The girl turned surprised eyes to my companion over the rim of her cup.
“How do you know that, Mr. Pons?”
“You are exhibiting the return half of a railway ticket to that place at the edge of your glove. Pray allow me to retrieve it or you will have to pay again if you lose it.”
The girl put it in a small leather purse with an expression of thanks.
“I hardly know what I have been doing since this morning, Mr. Pons. I only know that I had to come to consult you. You are the only hope for poor Rollo now. The police are convinced that he did the murder!”
Pons’ eyes narrowed and he paused, looking at her sombrely over the rim of his cup.
“Indeed. We are either talking about the Edinburgh trunk case or the murder of Miss Emily Schneider, unless there has been a third major crime this afternoon. I have not seen the evening papers and those are the only capital crimes in this country during the past few days. From a geographical point of view I should incline to the Schneider case as being that in which your unfortunate friend is concerned.”
The girl nodded, her brown eyes holding Pons’ own intently.
“You are right, Mr. Pons. It is the murder of Miss Schneider. She was the aunt of my fiancé, Mr. Roland Watling.”
Solar Pons nodded, putting down his cup. His face was grave.
“It was a sinister business, though the Press have exaggerated in their usual manner. I had half-expected a call from the Essex Police before now.”
The girl seemed much calmer and she began to nibble at the food I had placed in front of her.
“Then you know the facts, Mr. Pons?”
My companion shook his head.
“Only what I have read in the papers. Perhaps you would be good enough to refresh my memory.”
“Well, Mr. Pons, it is difficult making a beginning but I suppose I ought first to tell you that I have been engaged for the past year to Rollo — Mr. Roland Watling — a young London solicitor. We plan to be married this summer but Rollo is wretchedly paid as he is a junior in a very poor practice. He has only one relative in the world, Miss Schneider, who is not only immensely rich but extremely miserly. She lives — or I should say, lived — in a very large but rundown house called The Pines on the outskirts of a lonely village called Stonecross, about fifteen miles from Colchester. It is a bleak, God-forsaken spot, and I have been there only once previous to the present circumstances, when my fiancé took me to introduce me to his aunt.”
“And how did she impress you, Miss Chambers?”
The girl shook her head vehemently.
“An old, sombre, grasping woman, Mr. Pons, who took our engagement very grudgingly. Affection does not come into it, though. Rollo is her only surviving relative but she merely used him as a cheap way of getting legal help in her affairs.”
“I see. So your friend acted as her legal adviser?”
“If you can call it that, Mr. Pons. He has represented her in one or two small matters and has been wretchedly paid for it, I can tell you.”
Solar Pons nodded and held out his cup which I swiftly re-filled with tea. There was more colour in the girl’s face now and she appeared a good deal more composed than when she had first come into our room.
“Miss Schneider had two servants at The Pines, a strong, willing woman called Mrs. Rose who did the cooking and most of the heavy work and a Mrs. Hambleton who acted as housekeeper-companion. Strangely enough, neither lived in, both being resident in the village nearby.”
Pons put his elbows on the table and tented his slim fingers before him.
“Why was that, Miss Chambers?”
The girl shook her head.
“Presumably, Mr. Pons, because she did not trust anyone else indoors with her. She had many art treasures in the house though they were neglected and in a bad state because she would not pay for their upkeep. She was always supervising her servants and snooping about the house after them. I understand they arrived at about eight in the morning and departed between three and four in the afternoon in the winter. In the summer, so Rollo says, they were allowed the privilege of staying on until five o’clock during the evenings, in order to prepare Miss Schneider’s tea and to wash up afterwards.”
“A unique privilege, Parker,” said my companion drily, turning a twinkling eye on the girl.
“Indeed, Pons,” I ventured.
“She kept money in the house, if the newspaper reports are to be believed,” Pons continued.
The girl nodded.