“I should like to question the servants next.”
“By all means, Mr. Pons.”
It was with some relief that we quitted the heavy atmosphere of the studio, Mecker ushering us through the gaping opening which now led into the house. We found ourselves in a wide corridor, hung with gold-framed pictures by Tregorran and broken at intervals by a series of low mahogany bookcases. There was a small octagonal table outside the door and Pons’ sharp eyes flickered over it. A lamp stood on it, but the top was a little dusty and I saw my companion stoop and frown at the square line which divided the dusty and dusted segment of the table.
“Something normally stands here, Jamison.”
The thin form of the Inspector gave an expressive shrug.
“Tregorran didn’t like to be disturbed while he was working, Mr. Pons. The servants were in the habit of leaving trays of food for him here.”
“I see. And the person responsible was getting a little careless in the dusting up here.”
“So it would seem, Mr. Pons.”
Pons stood in silence a moment longer before swivelling to look back at the corridor behind him. To Jamison’s evident astonishment he walked back to the end of the passage. It turned at right angles. There was a small, square entry with a single window.
The weak sun glimmered at the panes and glittered on the brass handle set in the panelling. Pons turned it and stepped through. We found ourselves once again back in the glassed-in porch. The door through which we had entered was panelled on the other side and looked from the lobby just as though it were a solid wall, the edges of the door fitting cunningly behind the beading.
Solar Pons smiled at me.
“Interesting, is it not, Parker?”
Inspector Jamison scratched his head.
“Two entrances from the house to the studio. This needs looking into, Mr. Pons.”
Solar Pons pulled reflectively at the lobe of his left ear.
“On the other hand it may have a perfectly obvious explanation.”
“In what way, Mr. Pons?”
“Convenience, Jamison. We are on the first floor. It looks a long way back down to the front door. If Tregorran had his studio entrance here it might be just as convenient for his servants and guests to go out this way as well from time to time.”
“Perhaps, Mr. Pons. But why the concealed entrance?” Solar Pons smiled again.
“That explanation is equally simple. Entrance to the studio is one thing. But Tregorran would not wish to advertise an entrance into the main house to burglars.”
“That is so, Pons,” I put in. “But another explanation has suggested itself to you?”
“You excel yourself, Parker. Let us say, another possibility. I commend that to your ratiocinative instincts, Jamison.”
He led the way back into the main house again and we made our way down a handsome carved pine staircase into the entrance hall. Here a tall, thin man with careworn features was waiting for us, an elderly woman, evidently the housekeeper, standing at his side.
“There is nothing to be alarmed about,” said Jamison as we came down the last flight.
“This is Mr. Solar Pons. He is here to help Mr. Tregorran.” The worried expression on the manservant’s face deepened as he came forward.
“This is a dreadful business, Mr. Pons.”
“Indeed, Relph. You are Mr. Tregorran’s valet, I understand?”
“General factotum, Mr. Pons. Valet-butler to be precise. This is Mrs. Mandeville, the housekeeper.”
Pons acknowledged the introduction gravely.
“Let us go inside somewhere and sit down, Jamison. It will be much more conducive to comfort and efficiency.”
“By all means, Mr. Pons.”
Relph opened a sliding door at one side of the hall and led the way into a handsome, bow-fronted room with cream walls, containing a good deal of Regency furniture. My companion prevailed upon Relph and Mrs. Mandeville to sit opposite us on a divan while Jamison went to stand by the carved pine fireplace, his eyes fixed on the low fire flickering on the hearth. Solar Pons lit his pipe, the match-head rasping against the box unnaturally loudly in the silence which had fallen on the room. His deep-set eyes surveyed the two servants piercingly.
“I would like you both to tell me, in your own words, exactly what you know about yesterday’s occurrences.”
Relph glanced interrogatively at the housekeeper, who stirred and licked her lips. She spoke first, glancing occasionally at her colleague, as though for corroboration.
“I do not know that there is much to tell in my case, Mr. Pons. Mr. Tregorran breakfasted as usual yesterday morning and I did not see him again. He took a tray at lunch-time and there was a disturbance at about two o’clock. I ran out into the hall and then Mr. Relph told me what had happened. I am still stunned, Mr. Pons.”
“Quite so,” said Solar Pons soothingly. “And Mrs. Tregorran?”
“I do not understand, Mr. Pons.”
“She had been estranged from her husband, had she not?” Once again an uneasy glance passed from the housekeeper to Relph.
“I do not see that it is my place, Mr. Pons…”
Solar Pons tented his fingers before him and looked at Mrs. Mandeville steadily.
“Those are admirable sentiments and ones ideal in a housekeeper, but we are dealing with a murder inquiry.”
The smooth, motherly face flushed.
“Yes, that is quite true, Mr. Pons. Mr. and Mrs. Tregorran had had some terrible rows and she had gone to live elsewhere. We were all surprised to hear that they were together again.”
“I see.”
Solar Pons was silent for a moment, his eyes fixed steadily somewhere up over the fireplace, as though he saw things denied to us.
“How did this come about?”
“I do not quite know, Mr. Pons. I think Mr. Relph knows more about it, being in Mr. Tregorran’s confidence, you see. But I understood he was painting his wife’s portrait, which amazed us all.”
Solar Pons nodded, putting the stem of his now extinct pipe between his strong, yellow teeth.
“When did Mrs. Tregorran arrive yesterday?”
“In the morning, Mr. Pons. Mr. Relph was upstairs somewhere and the two maids were otherwise occupied, so I answered the door myself.”
“How did she seem?”
“Quite normal. Perfectly pleasant, in fact. I showed her upstairs and then Mr. Relph appeared and took her through to the studio.”
“I see. Thank you Mrs. Mandeville. You have been most helpful.”
“If you wish Tregorran’s statement, I have it here, Mr. Pons,” Jamison volunteered from his position near the fireplace. He fumbled in his breast pocket and came up with a set of official-looking papers.
Pons shook his head.
“Thank you, no, Jamison. I prefer to question my client without any pre-conceived ideas. I may glance at that later.” “As you wish, Mr. Pons.”
Jamison frowned at me and put the docket back in his pocket, evidently disgruntled.
Pons turned back to Relph.
“What have you to add?”
The manservant was evidently under some constraint, for he fidgeted a little before replying.
“As Mrs. Mandeville says, gentlemen, Mr. Tregorran kept to the studio most of the morning. I had some conversation with him through the door and he informed me that his wife would be arriving for a sitting. He had been working on her portrait for the past fortnight.”
Pons’ eyes were keen as he tamped fresh tobacco into the bowl of his pipe.
“Was that usual, Mr. Tregorran speaking with the door between you like that?”
“Quite usual, sir. Mr. Tregorran did not like to be disturbed while he was working.”
“Even though he had no model there?”
The manservant nodded.
“There was a deal of preparatory work, Mr. Pons. And Mr. Tregorran had many other commissions.”