"But first I have a fancy to see the scene of the murder. We. will visit Chelsea Police Station afterward, if you please."
"As you wish, Mr. Pons. The studio is just as we found it, though the body has been removed, of course."
My companion turned to me.
"Are you free, Parker?"
"Certainly, Pons, if you require me. It is my day off." "That is settled, then. Lead on, Inspector."
2
Tregorran's house turned out to be one of those modest-looking white-painted, flat-chested houses in which Chelsea abounds, set back in a cobbled mews. Like most houses of its type, its unassuming three-storey exterior concealed large, gracious rooms and unostentatiously displayed wealth. As we alighted from Jamison's police vehicle, Pons walked over to the minuscule front garden, set back behind blue-painted railings and raked the façade of the building with his keen, penetrating eyes.
Watched silently by myself and the Inspector, he passed through an archway at the side and glanced up at a staircase that led to an outside door at the top of the steps.
"That is the studio?"
"That is so, Mr. Pons. Mr. Tregorran had it built in order that his sitters and other clients could come and go without disturbing the household."
"Eminently practical."
Pons stood in deep thought, his hand pulling at the lobe of his right ear as I had so often seen him.
"I have a mind to look at the scene of the crime without disturbing the household either. Is that practicable?"
"Certainly, Mr. Pons. The door is unlocked and there is a policeman on duty."
We followed the Inspector up the steps and found ourselves in front of a glassed-in porch. The inner door gave on to a small lobby in which the main entrance of the studio was set.
"There is no key to the outer door of the porch, Mr. Pons," Jamison volunteered. "And so far as Mr. Tregorran is concerned, never has been."
"I see."
Solar Pons stepped forward as Jamison opened the polished mahogany interior door. He stood frowning at the bronze key in the other side of the lock.
"Is this key normally in the lock?"
Jamison looked surprised.
"No, Mr. Pons. It is Mr. Tregorran's own key that he usually keeps on his desk. This door is usually kept locked unless he is expecting visitors."
"I see. That seems clear enough."
Pons bent to examine the lock and then straightened up, closing the door behind him. We found ourselves in an extremely elegant, luxuriously furnished studio, the watery sun spilling down through the massive skylight windows.
An alert, fresh-faced policeman in uniform came down the room toward us, evident pleasure on his features. Solar Pons smiled.
"Ah, Officer Mecker. It is good to see you again."
"Thank you, sir. The pleasure is mutual, I am sure. This is a bad business. I am sorry, Dr. Parker. I understand the accused gentleman is a friend of yours."
"That is correct, Mecker," I said. "Though Mr. Pons here hopes to clear the matter up."
There was regret in Mecker's eyes as he shook his head, turning back to my companion.
"Begging your pardon, sir, even your great skill will find it a well-nigh impossible task to complicate such a simple matter."
"Well, if somewhat deprecatingly put, Mecker," said Solar Pons dryly. "So your superior has been telling me. We shall just have to wait upon events. And now I must set to work."
He went across the studio, which was in a shocking state with tumbled furniture and canvases scattered about.
"This door has not been touched?"
"Our people went over it for fingerprints, Mr. Pons, but it is substantially as we found it."
Pons went down on his knees and carefully examined the shattered lock.
"Hello!"
There was surprise in his voice.
"The key is in the lock!"
"Impossible, Mr. Pons!"
"Just look for yourself, Jamison."
I crossed over to stand behind the Inspector as he stooped to the door, which was off its hinges and lying propped against the wall. Jamison's jaw dropped blankly. "You are right, Mr. Pons."
A bronze key, similar to that in the studio entrance door, was protruding from the brass lock plate.
"You are sure it could not have been overlooked?" Little spots of red stood out on Jamison's cheeks. "Positive, Mr. Pons. We made a careful check. That is so, is it not, Officer Meeker?"
"Certainly, sir."
The puzzlement of his superior was echoed in Meeker's own eyes.
"Well, well. This is most interesting."
Solar Pons straightened up and rubbed his thin hands together in satisfaction.
"This is a most important development. I commend it to you, inspector."
I saw the puzzlement in Jamison's eyes but said nothing, merely watched Pons as he went about the room in the brisk, alert manner I had grown to know so well. At a sign from the Inspector, Meeker went to stand by the far door, out of earshot.
"Where was Mrs. Tregorran found?"
"Over here, Mr. Pons. She had been manually strangled and our doctor's postmortem report confirms this. She was a well built and perfectly healthy woman, some thirty-eight years old."
Pons nodded and walked over to a place beneath one of the great skylights at the far side of the studio. From the jumble of broken picture frames and a crack in the glass where one of the panes extended almost to the floor, it was evident that a savage struggle had taken place. Pons had his powerful pocket lens out now and went minutely over the carpet and surroundings in this corner of the studio.
He straightened up, dusting the knees of his trousers.
"I can learn nothing further here."
He stood looking down with a faint frown of puzzlement on his features.
"They had no children?"
Jamison shook his head.
"No, Mr. Pons."
He hesitated slightly, embarrassment on his face.
"From what the servants tell us they were a quarrelsome couple. Begging your pardon, Dr. Parker. The marriage had gone wrong but apparently Tregorran had sought a reconciliation. He was painting Mrs. Tregorran's picture at the time of her death."
"Indeed?"
The puzzlement on Solar Pons' face had increased. "Where is this portrait?"
"It is on the easel, Mr. Pons."
"Hmm. So apparently Mrs. Tregorran was in the studio here, having her portrait painted, the couple on reasonably good terms, if I read the situation aright?"
"That would appear to be the case, Mr. Pons," said the Inspector, shifting heavy-footed from one leg to the other. "We have various statements from the servants…"
"We will get to them later, Jamison, if you please…" said Pons brusquely.
He turned to me.
"That seems rather odd, Parker, does it not?"
I nodded.
"The painting of the portrait, Pons? It certainly seems so to me. I had heard that the Tregorrans did not get on well together, but did not feel it was my place to point it out to you."
Solar Pons stared at me with a languid expression on his face.
"Perfectly correct, Parker. You were old friends and you left me to form my own impressions. Exactly as I should have done had the position been reversed."
He walked softly over to the easel indicated by Jamison. It stood directly beneath the main skylight and just across from it, on a raised platform, was the chair so fatally vacated by the sitter. Paintbrushes were scattered on the floor, near a paint-bespattered palette, and there was a sharp, chemical smell in the air. On a small side table was a half-empty bottle of lager, with the stopper and foil lying by its side; an empty beer glass; and on a blue plate, the partly consumed remains of a sandwich. Jamison had approached and answered Pons' unspoken question.