"I am coming to that, Parker, if you will give me time," returned Pons reprovingly.
He turned back to our client.
"So here we have a rascally brother; stolen money hidden in the church of a devout and admirable Rector; the good brother unfortunately dead; a set of clues to the location of the Grassington Manor haul hidden in the Bible in the study; and a complete stranger searching for it. What does that suggest to you, Parker?"
I pondered for a moment, my eyes on the ceiling.
"Why, that Jeremy Stuart could not come himself, Pons."
Solar Pons chuckled.
"Excellent, Parker. You constantly astonish me and are becoming a credit to my training."
He checked off points on his fingers.
"Let us just recapitulate briefly. The bearded intruder who haunted The Rectory had one interest only the library. He appeared to favor only one portion of the library shelving. That led us to the Bible with its hidden message. I immediately seized on the simple code which led us to the church and to the hidden valuables. They bore the arms of the Cresswells. The newspaper account gave us the details of the robbery, the date and so forth. A call to Bancroft and Jamison furnished me with all the background information. You have said just now that Jeremy Stuart could not come for the money himself, Parker. He is dead, unfortunately, or perhaps, in view of the distress he caused Miss Stuart's family, fortunately would be a more appropriate term."
There was a deep silence. I stared at Solar Pons, taking in the lean, alert features and the sparkle in his eyes. "He died in prison, Pons?"
Solar Pons nodded.
"Exactly, Parker. In Dartmoor, a year ago. But before he died in the prison infirmary he imparted his secret to another member of the gang, Munro Slater."
"I see, Pons. And Munro Slater has only just been released from prison."
"Not quite, Parker. Last winter. But the manifestations at the Old Rectory began just a few weeks after his release."
"This is remarkable, Mr. Pons," put in the Rev. Stokes-by. His face wore an expression of amiability, the first I had seen since we had made his acquaintance.
"But why did Stuart not tell him simply where the material was buried, Pons?"
Solar Pons shook his head.
"Stuart had had a stroke. He might well have recovered. He was cunning to the end. Besides, there was a nurse at the bedside. He was able only to articulate to his companion in crime the address and the fact that he must look in a Bible in the study. I had that from Slater himself at the police station. He has decided to confess everything."
"But there had been no strangers in the vicinity, Pons?' I objected. "Particularly men with beards."
Solar Pons held up his hand.
"I would not have expected there to be, Parker. The beard was an obvious disguise. There remained the scar on the thumb as described by Miss Stuart but that could easily have been hidden in a number of ways; by gloves, a bandage or even by our man masquerading as a workman, with his hand smeared with paint. I had to look elsewhere. You may remember I showed interest in gypsy bands in the neighborhood. I had a most illuminating walk in the district yesterday. Two of the camps were occupied by genuine Romanies. I discounted them immediately."
I looked at Pons with a puzzled expression.
"Why so, Pons?"
"For the simple reason that the world of the real Romany is the most exclusive and hermetically sealed there is. No one in those circles would admit a stranger to their midst. My attention was immediately drawn to the only remaining encampment in the area, that occupied by travelers, tinkers and other itinerants. A little money soon obtained me the information I needed. I met one of the scrap dealers along the road. He told me of a man who had come among them some months earlier and who paid rent for an empty trailer. His food was fetched from the village and he seldom went out. I realized I should have to provide some bait to bring him to my nook and drafted the advertisement for the newspaper, with the result we have seen."
Miss Stuart smiled and gazed at Pons with undisguised admiration.
"It is amazing, Mr. Pons. I do not know how to thank you."
Solar Pons chuckled.
"It has been reward enough, taking such a pleasant holiday in Grassington in such admirable weather. But I fear we must break things short and return to town tomorrow. Jealousy is one of the major passions and I should not like to risk a confrontation with the major.…"
The girl blushed a becoming pink and the Rector's teeth glinted whitely in his beard.
"I do not know what you mean, Mr. Pons."
Solar Pons glanced at me, his eyes dancing.
"I think you do, Miss Stuart. The major's admiration for you is undisguised and I would not like to think my presence here would give him cause to fear a rival."
He moved toward the door.
"We will make arrangements tomorrow to get the Cresswell valuables back to their rightful owners. though as the line has died out they may be regarded by a Coroner's Court as a treasure trove."
"In that case I think Father would wish me to share the money with the church," said Miss Stuart, turning to the Rector with a ready smile.
"Well, well, Parker, it would appear that poetic justice has been done," said Solar Pons. "In the meantime, a good night's sleep would not be amiss before facing the rigors of the metropolis."
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 it 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 be 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.