All these were of costly stones, according to the
measures of hewed stones.
The fining pit is for silver, and the furnace for gold;
but the Lord trieth the hearts.
I handed the slip back to Pons.
"I am afraid it means nothing to me, Pons."
Solar Pons smiled, thrusting the paper into his pocket.
"Yet much may be made of it, if one reads the riddle aright, Parker. May I commend to your attention that excellent English novelist, J. Meade Faulkner. His adventure yarn Moonfleet is one of the finest in the language, excepting only Stevenson."
"You astonish me, Pons."
"It would not be the first time, Parker. But let us just stroll to the church. It is such a fine evening and we must take advantage of the light."
He led the way through the French windows and after signaling to Miss Stuart, who was standing near the garden gate talking to a tall fair-haired man in the roadway, and indicating our intentions, he hurried down the pathway which led to the church. I followed and we strolled through the slumbering old graveyard, with its gray, tumbled tombstones, along a red-brick causeway to the entrance of the Norman edifice.
The huge iron key was in the lock of the massive, studded door and it sent echoes reverberating from the interior as Pons pushed it back on its hinges. The building was a surprisingly large one and paved with massive flagstones in which memorial slabs were set. The inscriptions were worn with the feet of centuries and as I puzzled over one pious Latin obituary, Pons wandered down the central aisle, his progress sending back echoes from the vaulted ceiling.
When I rejoined him he was standing at the entrance of a small side chapel, pondering over a white marble statuary group. It represented five or six children with long hair which appeared to be streaming in the wind.
"Rather somber, Pons," I observed.
"Not surprising, Parker," said my companion dryly. "This is an early nineteenth century stonemason's version of the Darnley children, daughters of a large landowner hereabouts, who were unfortunately drowned in a boating accident in 1816."
"I see."
I pondered the melancholy description in black lettering on the marble base while Pons wandered aimlessly about the chapel, stopping here and there to gaze absently at the floor. We had just turned away when there sounded the beat of footsteps from the curtained vestry to one side and a black-bearded face, from which two red-rimmed eyes stared suspiciously into ours, came rapidly toward us.
It surmounted a massive body clad in a black surplice and a silver cross glittered on the chest. The atmosphere was one of veiled hostility though the voice was civil enough.
"Isaac Stokesby, Rector of this parish. Might I ask what you are doing here?"
"Merely imbibing the atmosphere of this wonderful old building," said Solar Pons courteously. "Solar Pons. My friend Dr. Lyndon Parker. We are the guests of Miss Stuart whose house is across the churchyard yonder."
The Rector drew back and a subtle change of expression flitted across his features.
"Forgive me, gentlemen. There have been some strange goings-on in the village these past months, and I always keep a careful eye on strangers."
He extended a powerful hand to each of us in turn.
"A very wise precaution, Rector," said Solar Pons warmly. "Miss Stuart has already told us something of the matter. What do you make of it?"
The Rector shrugged, his dark, bearded face impassive.
"A vagabond, no doubt. But I always keep the church locked after dark. I would be grateful if you would turn the key when you have finished."
"By all means. Come, Parker, we must not keep the Rector from his duties."
As we walked back through the darkling church, I turned to see the tall, bearded figure still staring somewhat suspiciously after us. Solar Pons rubbed his thin hands with satisfaction. He turned the big heavy key of the main door behind us and stood pensively in the mellow evening sunshine.
"Well, Parker?"
"He seems somewhat of a strange character, Pons," I ventured.
"Does he not? And a rather unusual one for such a quiet spot."
"What do you mean, Pons?"
We had resumed our aimless strolling through the churchyard, and Pons paused a moment before replying, shading his eyes as he gazed after the fair-haired man who had been talking to our hostess.
"A military man, Parker," he resumed. "One accustomed to giving orders and commanding men."
I stared at my companion in puzzlement.
"How do you make that out, Pons?"
"He had the ribbon of the Military Cross on his surplice, Parker. He obviously served in the late war and the M.C. does not come up with the rations. If I mistake not the Rev. Isaac Stokesby has seen heavy trench fighting."
"A strange vocation for a man of the cloth, Pons. I should have thought he would have been a chaplain."
"Army chaplains tend the wounded and dying under heavy fire, Parker, and there are many heroic deeds recorded in their annals. But he may have decided to become ordained after the end of the war. It is sometimes so." "In revulsion against man's inhumanity, Pons?"
"Very possibly, my dear fellow. Now I suggest a stroll to the village inn before putting a few more questions to Miss Stuart over supper."
5
The large oak-timbered lounge bar of The Cresswell Arms was full on this warm summer evening and Pons and I enjoyed our tankards of cold cider, the scent of jasmine coming in heavy and cloying with the breeze through the open windows. The tall, fair-haired man to whom Miss Stuart had earlier been talking was standing at the bar and had nodded agreeably as we came up to give our order.
Now he made his way to the table where we sat and introduced himself.
"Major Alan Kemp, gentlemen. I live just across the green there and am a friend and neighbor of Miss Stuart. I understand you are staying at The Old Rectory.
"Indeed, Major Kemp."
Pons rose and introduced me and the major sat down at Pons' invitation.
"Allow me to refill your glass."
"That is very kind, Mr. Pons. A Scotch and soda if you please."
The major chatted amiably as we waited for Pons to return from the bar.
"Your first visit to Grassington, Mr. Pons? Your good health, sir."
Major Kemp raised his glass in a polite toast as Pons and I reached for our second tankards of cider.
"Yes," I volunteered. "It seems a pleasant spot."
"It is that," the major agreed.
With his sandy moustache, faded blue eyes, and fresh cheeks he seemed the very epitome of the retired military man. A red setter slouched on the tiled floor at his feet as we talked. Kemp wore a suit of well-cut tweeds, his dark blue shirt, open at the throat, adding an informal touch, while his right hand toyed casually with a leather dog whip as we talked.
"You have known Miss Stuart long?" asked Solar Pons casually, his deep-set eyes raking round the room.
"Several years, Mr. Pons. We are quite good friends. I was so sorry to near she had been upset."
"A hasty shock for a lady," Pons added. "Are there many tramps hereabouts?"
Kemp shrugged.
"We get our share through occasionally. My theory is that the intruder was most likely to have been a gypsy. There are several encampments in the neighborhood."
"Indeed."
Solar Pons' eyes were thoughtful as he stared at the major.
"That is a possibility, of course. You mentioned that to Miss Stuart?'
The major hesitated. He drained his glass and stood up. To my mind his expression had changed in some subtle way. There was a darker red suffusing his cheeks.