Bancroft said peevishly, “A cursory examination suggests that someone burned papers with figures on them, as you can see. We’ll collect the ashes and study them, never fear.”
Pons rose and came around to the table. He stood to scrutinize it, touching nothing. Most of its top was spread with the papers from the Foreign Office; these were divided into two piles, with one sheet between them, this one evidently being the paper Curwen was reading when he was stricken. A pad of notepaper, free of any jottings, was at one side of this paper. The perimeter of the desk was covered by an assortment of items ending with a small white, rose-decorated cottage of china, with an open box of incense pastilles beside it. Curwen’s chair had been pushed slightly back from the table and around to one side, as if he were making an attempt to rise before death overtook him.
“Well, Parker?” asked Pons impatiently.
“A seizure of some kind,” I replied. “But I fear that only an autopsy can determine the cause of death precisely. If I had to guess, I’d say poison.”
Pons flashed a glance at his brother. “You mentioned an odour on entrance.”
“We believe the odour emanated from the incense burner,” Mr. Danvers said.
“Ah, this,” said Pons, his hand hovering over the china cottage. He gazed inquiringly at Danvers.
“We have tested for fingerprints, Mr. Pons. Only Sir Randolph’s were found.”
Pons lifted the cottage from its base, where, in a little cup, lay the remains of burned pastilles. He bent his face toward the cup and sniffed. He looked up with narrowed eyes, picked up the base of the china cottage, and thrust it at me.
“What kind of scent might that be, Parker?”
I followed his example and sniffed. “Almond,” I said. “They make these pastilles in all manner of scents.”
Pons put the china cottage back together and picked up the box of pastilles. “Lilac,” he said dryly.
“The room was locked, Mr. Pons,” put in Danvers. “No one could possibly have got in, if you’re suggesting that someone came and poisoned Sir Randolph.”
“Child’s play,” muttered Bancroft impatiently. “What did he find in the papers that someone should want to kill him? Or burn his findings?”
“You’re irritable today,” said Pons. “There’s nothing here to show that Curwen found anything m the papers.”
“On the contrary, there is everything to suggest that somehow someone managed entrance into this room, killed Sir Randolph, and burned his notes.”
“Why not take them along? If he were clever enough to enter and leave a locked room without a sign to betray him, he must certainly have known that something could be determined from the ashes. I believe the papers in the grate were burned by Sir Randolph himself. He tore off what was on his pad and what had accumulated in his wastebasket under the table, emptied the wastebasket into the fireplace, and set fire to the contents. The ashes are substantial. There is among them at least a page or two from the Times, no reason for burning which I could adduce on the part of a foreign agent. Yours is the Foreign Office approach, all intrigue and espionage.”
“It is indeed,” said Bancroft shortly.
Pons turned again to the china cottage. “If I may, I should like to take this back to Praed Street.” He picked up also the box of pastilles. “And this.”
Bancroft stared at him as if he were convinced that Pons had taken leave of his senses.
“This is bone china,” Pons said, with a hint of a smile at his lips. “Of Staffordshire origin, it dates, I should say, to the early nineteenth century. This china, though translucent, will tolerate a surprising amount of heat.”
“Pray spare me this lecture,” said Bancroft icily. “Take it.”
Pons thanked him dryly, slipped the box of pastilles into his pocket, and handed the china cottage to me “Handle it with care, Parker. We shall examine it at our leisure at 7B.” He turned again to his brother. “Sir Randolph lived alone. Surely there were servants?”
“A Mrs. Claudia Melton came in to clean the house twice a week,” said Bancroft. “And there was a man-servant by day, Will Davinson. He prepared Sir Randolph’s meals and tended to the door. He has come in, if you wish to question him. If so, let us get about it at once.”
Bancroft signalled to the constable who stood at the threshold, and he led us out of the room to the rear quarters. In a combination Kitchen and breakfast room, there sat waiting a middle-aged man who, immediately on our entrance, clicked his heels together, standing like a ramrod.
“Mr. Davinson,” said the constable. “Mr. Solar Pons would like to ask you some questions.”
“At your service, sir.”
“Pray sit down, Mr. Davinson.”
Davinson regained his chair and sat waiting expectantly. His eyes were alert and conveyed the impression of youth the rest of his body belied.
“You were Sir Randolph’s orderly in the war?” asked Pons abruptly.
“Yes, sir.”
“You had reason then to know his habits very well?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He seems to have been addicted to the burning of incense.”
“He has burned it for as long as I’ve known him.”
“You will have had occasion to ascertain how many pastilles a day he customarily burned.”
“Sir, he released the fragrant smoke only when he retired to his study. This was usually in the evening. He seldom burned more than three in an evening, and commonly but two.”
“His favourite scent?”
“Lilac. But he also had pastilles scented with rose, almond, thyme, and, I believe, lavender. He always had a good supply.”
Pons took a turn down the room and back. He stood for a few moments in silence, his eyes closed, his right hand pulling at his earlobe.
“Sir Randolph was a reclusive man?”
“He saw very few people.”
“Whom did he see in the past fortnight?”
Davinson concentrated for a moment. “His niece, Miss Emily Curwen. She had come to London from her home in Edinburgh and came to call. That was perhaps a trifle over two weeks ago.”
“No matter,” said Pons. “Go on.”
“Mr. Leonard Loveson of Loveson & Fitch in High Holborn. That was a business matter. Sir Randolph held a mortgage on their place of business.”
“Sir Randolph held other such mortgages?”
“I was not in Sir Randolph’s confidence, sir, but I believe he did.”
“Go on, Mr. Davinson.”
“Well, then there was a great-nephew, Ronald Lindall, the son of Miss Emily’s sister, also from Edinburgh; he was at the house six days ago, paying a courtesy visit, I took it.”
“Anyone else?”
“Yes,” said Davinson hesitantly. “There was a legal gentleman two days ago, all fuss and feathers. They had words, but briefly. Sir Randolph soothed him and sent him off. I believe the matter concerned another of Sir Randolph’s mortgages.”
“He was a hard man?”
“No, sir. Quite the contrary. More than once he remitted interest due him — even cancelled it. And on one occasion he forgave a small mortgage. No, sir, he was far too easy a man to deal with. Some of them took advantage of him.”
Pons took another turn around the room. “Of these people, which were familiar visitors?” he asked.
“Mr. Loveson.”
“You had not seen Miss Emily before?”
“No, sir. Sir Randolph had spoken of her, but she had not visited at any time that I was in this house.”
“You admitted her?”
“Yes, sir. Sir Randolph never answered the door. If I had gone, unless he had an appointment, he did not answer the door at all.”
“Will you cast your mind back to Miss Emily’s visit? How did she seem to you?”
“I don’t follow you, Mr. Pons.”
“Was she composed — sad, gay, what?”