Hardcastle inclined his head.
"Yes, Mr. Pons."
Before Pons could say any more there was a rapping at the door which immediately afterward opened to admit a tall, slim young man of about thirty with dark, bushy hair. He paused in some confusion but came toward the group round the fireplace at Hardcastle's command to enter.
"This is my secretary, John Abrahams. Mr. Solar Pons. Dr. Lyndon Parker."
The secretary made a graceful bow and murmured something which I could not make out but took to be a polite acknowledgment of the introduction.
"Mr. Abrahams would have received the parcels in the first place, Mr. Hardcastle?"
"That is so, Mr. Pons," said the young man, with a hesitant look at his employer.
"They came in the usual way?'
The secretary nodded.
"With the incoming post from the village. Simmons is our regular postman and to the best of my knowledge he brought them both. That is to say, the second and fourth. The first and third parcels were received in Edinburgh and Liverpool respectively."
"I see."
Solar Pons was deep in thought for a few moments, the only sound in the room the deep crackling of the fire on the hearth. The silence was eventually broken by Mrs. Hardcastle, who put her glass back on the tray on top of the piano with a quick, decisive movement.
"If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I will see about, lunch. We eat in half an hour, Ellie."
She glanced sharply at her husband as she spoke.
"Certainly, Sandra," he said somewhat defensively.
He made a wry mouth as she quitted the room, followed at some distance by the secretary.
"I am notoriously unpunctual, gentlemen. My wife finds it irritating."
He grinned and went over to pour himself another drink. "At least I am always on stage in time for my entrances," he added. "Which is something. Another drink, gentlemen?" Solar Pons excused himself.
"Not before lunch if you please, Mr. Hardcastle. I am anxious to look at these parcels before we sit down."
"By all means, Mr. Pons. Come along, doctor."
We followed the big actor out of the drawing room and into a large connecting room which looked on to a rose garden, now austere and deserted in the bitter wind. The room was equipped as a study and the series of theatrical portraits were continued on that part of the paneled walls not given over to books. Hardcastle crossed to the natural stone fireplace over which hung an oil of himself in one of his more flamboyant film roles. He pushed the painting aside to disclose a small wall safe.
He took from it a large cardboard box and took it over to the desk, where he placed it in front of Pons. My companion sat down behind the desk, his face keen and alert. Carefully, Hardcastle took from the box the artfully fashioned and beautifully colored figures. There was a brief silence as Pons produced his magnifying glass and went scrupulously over them in minute detail.
"This is highly skilled work. Someone has been to a deal of trouble."
"Have they not, Mr. Pons."
"Someone who follows your career closely."
"Evidently."
Pons turned to me.
"What do you think of these, Parker?"
"I agree with you, Pons," I said. "There are finely done. The threats seem to me to be unnecessarily elaborate."
"You are constantly improving, doctor," said Solar Pons drily. "The same thought had already occurred to me. Let us just see what we can read from these wrappings."
Elijah Hardcastle's flushed, handsome face beamed an approving expression as he went to sit on a corner of the desk, glass in hand. Pons went over the wrappings minutely and then threw them down with a snort.
"There is little here, Parker. The paper, as you have no doubt noted, is purchasable in only three major London stores. It would be useless to enquire in that direction as each has thousands of customers every day of the week. The lettering, in block capitals, was obviously to disguise the hand. That type of broad-nibbed pen can be bought in London or throughout the country by the million. Similarly, the wax seals have been made with the cheap penny stick available at any stationers. The sender has been careful not to press them down on the string and thus leave fingerprints."
Pons peered again at the lettering of each address.
"However, there is something to be read after all. The superscription has been written by a male, probably in the prime of life but with a weak character."
Elijah Hardcastle, who had been listening to Pons' monologue with amazement on his features cleared his throat with a loud rasping noise.
"You mean to say you can tell all that from a cursory glance?" he boomed.
"Hardly a cursory glance," said Solar Pons reprovingly. "A lifetime’s study of such matters has gone into that cursory glance, as you term it."
The big man flushed.
"No offense meant, Mr. Pons," he rumbled. "But how can you read such things?"
"Characteristics, Mr. Hardcastle," said Pons quietly. "They would be too lengthy to go into now but the human hand does not lie even when it comes to lettering of this sort. The characteristics of the weak, indecisive male are unmistakable in this script. I have written a monograph on the subject and would recommend you to peruse it."
"Touché," said Hardcastle with a wry chuckle. "You would not presume to teach me how to play Othello, and your art is just as esoteric; am I right? Well, each to his last. But I'm damned impressed, I must say."
He good-humoredly drained his glass and put it down on a corner of the desk. "What about the parcel that came yesterday, Mr. Hardcastle?"
"I have it here, Mr. Pons."
The actor had put down a second package on another part of the desk and he now passed it to Pons. He gave the brown paper wrapping a cursory examination and put it aside for the moment. He took from it a small cardboard box similar to that in which the other wax models had been enclosed. From it he carefully removed a small wooden block on which the savage miniature drama was being played out. There was a deep silence in the room as I pressed closer to Pons in order to see the model in greater detail.
It was every bit as cunningly fashioned as the others. The unmistakable figure of Hardcastle lay on the facsimile of a patterned carpet. He was dressed in evening clothes, with an opera cloak, and his top hat lay beside him. The figure lay on its back with one leg drawn up under it. From the right eye socket an arrow protruded; the face was distorted with pain and horror and thick blood from the wound trickled down on to the manikin's shirtfront.
It was an arresting and disgusting sight and I could not help but gaze at it with loathing. Solar Pons glanced up at me, a grim smile playing at the corners of his sensitive mouth.
"What say you, Parker?"
"It is disgusting, Pons!" I burst out. "A warped if clever mind is behind this."
"You may well be right, Parker," Solar Pons rejoined in casual tones. "As you have already observed, a great deal of skill has been expended on this. Death Comes to Thornfield indeed. Strangely enough this is exactly how the unfortunate actor was killed in Mr. Hardcastle's last play, though the warning took the form of a hanging figure."
He looked across at Hardcastle, whose features had grown pale and drawn. His eyes dragged themselves reluctantly from the series of little tableaux on the desk.
"There is no doubt this represents your current play, Mr. Hardcastle?"
"No doubt at all. The costume there is identical to the one I wear as Thornfield."
"And how do you die in the piece?"
"I am strangled in the last act, Mr. Pons."
My companion nodded. "Death by poisoning; by a savage hound; by hanging; and by an arrow. It is bizarre and extraordinary."
He rubbed his elegantly thin hands together and his eyes shone.