“A good thing for us,” put in Inspector Rossiter bluffly. “All right, Sergeant. I think we can all return to our normal duties now.”
The room slowly emptied leaving only Pons, myself, Miss Chambers and the two women.
“Well, Mrs. Hambleton,” said Pons, with a wry smile. “Do you still think The Hound of Hell responsible for all this?” The housekeeper had a wary look in her eyes.
“Your gifts are remarkable, Mr. Pons, and I shall never forget what has taken place here today. But you cannot gainsay the fact that the thing has brought tragedy and grief to those who owned it.”
Pons shook his head.
“You are confusing cause and effect, Mrs. Hambleton. That statue was incidental. It was owned by wealthy and grasping people to whom such things would have happened whether the piece had existed or not.”
He turned to our client and bowed slightly.
“Begging your pardon, Miss Chambers. I was not implying that Mr. Watling was anything but the victim of an unfortunate coincidence.”
“What will you do with the statue now, Miss Chambers?” I asked.
The girl shivered.
“The first thing is to get poor Rollo released and set an early date for our marriage,” she said firmly. “Then we must see about the money and the estate. If I have anything to do with it The Hound of Hell will be one of the first things sold.”
“Bravo!” said Mrs. Rose, the cook, drawing closer to our little group.
“I am sure Mr. Wading would wish the two of you to stay to look after the house until it is let or sold,” Miss Chambers told the woman. “And we will see to it that you are properly paid, as well as settling up arrears in a way which is both fair and equitable.”
“That is very generous of you, Miss,” said Mrs. Hambleton, a faint flush suffusing her features.
“It is only right,” said Miss Chambers firmly. “And we shall make sure all the old lady’s outstanding debts are paid.” She held out her hand to Solar Pons.
“I shall never forget what you have done, Mr. Pons. And in the matter of fees…”
“I am sure whatever you and Mr. Watling decide will be fit and proper,” said Pons decisively. “I am amply repaid by being involved in one of the most interesting cases I have ever come across.”
He turned back to me.
“Eh, Parker?”
“Most certainly, Pons. It will figure largely in my written notes of your cases.”
The Adventure of the Singular Sandwich
-1-
“Great Heavens, Pons! My old friend involved in murder! It cannot be true!”
I put down the paper in utter consternation and turned to my companion in astonishment. The heading in The Times and the accompanying account was completely shattering and I found myself unable to speak for some moments after my initial outburst.
Solar Pons stirred sympathetically at the other side of the breakfast table, his deep-set eyes searching my face. It was a damp, muggy morning in early April with a fitful sun penetrating the mist and spilling into our sitting-room at 7B Praed Street.
I passed him the newspaper, still too moved to speak. Pons took it, his eyes fixed intently on my face. He pulled at the lobe of his left ear, his features a mask of concentration as he spread the paper out on the table by the side of his plate.
“This business of the portrait painter? I did not know you knew Aramis Tregorran.”
“We were at medical school together, Pons, until he abandoned medicine for a career in art. That it should come to this!”
Pons read the item, his thin fingers tense with excitement. “It would appear that Mr. Tregorran has got himself into deep waters, Parker,” he said eventually.
“I had been inclined to envy him his success, Pons,” I said somewhat bitterly. “I see now that I have done better to stick to medicine.”
Solar Pons glanced at me ironically.
“I would not say that your life has been unsuccessful, my dear fellow. But then Tregorran’s career has been too spectacular for most of us to emulate. And his descent has been equally swift, it would appear.”
I took the newspaper from him and studied the heading of the story again. It was unbelievable.
The item read:
FAMOUS PORTRAIT PAINTER CHARGED WITH MURDER
Aramis Tregorran Accused of Strangling Wife.
The article, from The Times’ own correspondent, described a bizarre state of affairs at Tregorran’s Chelsea studio.
It appeared that the previous afternoon his servant had been aroused by screams and choking noises from the studio at the top of his house. Alarmed, he had rushed to the door but had been unable to make anyone hear. The door had been locked and he had to break it in.
He had found a unique scene of horror. The whole studio was a shambles with furniture overturned and canvases tipped awry. Aramis Tregorran himself had been slumped unconscious in the middle of the floor, in a muddle of trampled paint-tubes. At the far side of the room, near the big window letting in the northern light, Mrs. Sylvia Tregorran was lying dead, manually strangled.
When brought to consciousness, Tregorran had been incoherent and unable to make sense to his manservant, Relph or the housekeeper, Mrs. Mandeville.
The police had been called and later last night Tregorran, who had been taken to Chelsea Police Station, had been charged with murder.
“Hullo, Pons,” I said as I reached the end of the story in the paper, “I see that our friend Jamison is in charge of the case.”
“I had already observed that, Parker,” observed my companion drily.
“On this occasion, however, it would appear that he is right when he avers that the matter is a plain case of a domestic quarrel ending in murder.”
I shook my head sadly.
“I still cannot believe it, Pons.”
Solar Pons looked at me sympathetically.
“Such things are always difficult to believe, Parker. Especially when such tragedies happen to old friends.”
I turned back to the newspaper and studied the narrative again.
“I had heard, Pons, that Tregorran was not on the best of terms with his wife, but from what I know of his character he would not hurt a mouse. He was the gentlest of men.”
Pons got up from his chair, took a spill from the fireplace and lit his pipe. He spiralled a column of blue smoke toward the ceiling of our sitting-room. Then he came back to sit in his chair and looked at me interrogatively.
“What you are trying to tell me, my dear fellow, is flying in the face of the evidence,” he said gently.
“Nevertheless, I would feel easier in my mind if you would look into the affair, Pons.”
Solar Pons had surprise in his eyes.
“You cannot be serious, Parker. I have not been consulted in the matter.”
“But if I asked you, Pons?”
Solar Pons smiled thinly and pulled reflectively at the lobe of his left ear.
“That would be entirely different, Parker. I could not, of course, ignore such a request from such a close friend and companion. Just hand me that newspaper again, will you?”
He took it from me and sat smoking and studying it for the next ten minutes in silence. He put it down and sat staring at the flickering flames in the fireplace.
“It is true that Inspector Jamison is not the most brilliant of police officers but I must confess that my own faculties are considerably rusted this morning.”