I eased my cramped legs and drew the pistol from my pocket, throwing off the safety-catch and laying it down carefully on the cool stone flags at my side.
“I am quite ready, Pons.”
We waited for a few minutes more, sitting immobile, straining our ears to catch the slightest noise. Then I caught the scrape of a boot on the flagstones somewhere in the main body of the church.
I was unable to conceal a slight start at a vague shadow sliding through the moonlight which dappled the interior of the nave. I saw by Pons’ expression that he had already noted it. I reached out silently and picked up the loaded revolver, holding it on my lap. My companion had his torch at the ready as the dark, stealthy figure drew nearer, moving with the utmost caution and circumspection. There was something almost obscene about this furtive intruder into this holy place at dead of night.
We both moved tighter into the wall in the deepest part of the shadow but our precautions were not needed: the figure that advanced through the chapel entrance on tip-toe, holding a slip of paper in its hand, was far too preoccupied to give more than a casual glance at his surroundings. He stopped still, as though deep in thought, and then turned toward us.
A shaft of moonlight spilling through the glass of one of the upper windows of the church fell clear upon his features and I could not repress a slight shudder. I felt Pons’ fingers tighten on my arm and I lifted my pistol so as to be ready for any eventuality. The evil yellow face with the thick beard and burning eyes stared round menacingly and I understood for the first time what an ordeal Miss Stuart must have gone through.
I had no doubt in my own mind that this was the library intruder surprised by both her and her mother and the shock must have been severe indeed under the circumstances. Even here, with Pons at my side and the comforting feel of the revolver butt against my palm, the face exuded such menace that I felt the perspiration start out on my forehead.
The figure let fall an exclamation and then paced excitedly about, studying the flagstones. It went past the memorial to the children of which Pons had made so notable a use and then measured out the identical path already followed by my companion. The intruder knelt with another muffled gasp and I heard the chink of metal; then a low grating noise as he started to lever up the flagstone.
It was just at that moment that there came a loud noise at the main door of the church. Pons swore under his breath and let go of my arm. The crouching figure by the open hole in the chapel floor gave a convulsive leap into the air. It reached into its hip pocket as the beam of Pons’ torch danced out to settle on that horrific face. The man gave a snarl of rage and raised his hand.
“Quickly, Parker!” Pons snapped.
I was already on my feet, bringing the pistol up. I squeezed the trigger, the flash of flame from the muzzle seeming to light the church interior while the report echoed thunderously under the vaulting. I had aimed for the shoulder and my aim was true. The figure spun, clutching its left hand to its right forearm and something clattered to the floor.
The front door of the church thundered back on its hinges as the bearded man blundered into some wooden chairs in the aisle. I was already racing after him but Pons was quicker still. Our quarry was up near the door when Pons brought him down with a running tackle. The two men landed asprawl at the feet of the gigantic Rector of Grassingtom, the Rev. Isaac Stokeby.
Eyes wide, he stared at the amazing tableau before him, while my torch beam continued to dance over the two struggling men on the floor. The Rector moved to a light switch and the interior of the church was filled with mellow radiance. The Rev. Stokesby’s jaw dropped and his face was mottled with anger.
“Mr Pons! Dr Parker! What is this war-like intrusion into God’s place?”
Pons got to his feet and dusted himself down. He gave a wry smile at the figure struggling in pain on the flagstones.
“Pray do not distress yourself. Rector,” he said calmly. “God’s will moves in mysterious ways, as the Bible says somewhere.”
The Rector looked at my companion belligerently.
“That is all very well, Mr Pons, but you will find this difficult to explain. There have been things going on here, as I told you, and I determined to keep watch. I noticed that you had abstracted the door key, which aroused my suspicions. Then tonight I saw your torch beam. I determined to wait until you came out to see what you were up to. But you were so long I decided to come in.”
“Fortunate indeed that you waited, Rector,” said Pons crisply. “This man was armed and desperate. And if you had run into him in the churchyard you would undoubtedly have scared him off.”
He stepped back.
“Your department I think, Parker.”
I knelt and made a cursory examination.
“A broken arm, Pons. Shock and loss of blood, of course. I can do little here.”
Pons straightened up as I helped the bearded man to his feet and bound his wound with my handkerchief. All the fight seemed to have gone out of him. The Rector temporarily appeared to have been stricken speechless. As our prisoner’s face came more fully into the light I could not resist an exclamation.
“Why, Pons, he is wearing a mask!”
Solar Pons chuckled.
“Is he not, Parker. Let us just have your views on his identity.”
I had no hesitation.
“Why, Judson Higgins, the rare book dealer, Pons. He is about the same build and I noticed particularly that he wore gloves when he came to The Old Rectory last night.”
I seized our prisoner’s right hand and pointed out the misshapen white scar on the thumb. Solar Pons smiled at me encouragingly.
“Excellent, Parker. You will make a detective yet.”
Without preamble he seized the bearded mask our prisoner was wearing and tore it from him. I must confess I have never been so surprised or disappointed in my life. The face revealed was that of a complete stranger; a hard-faced, crop-headed man with battered features like a boxer, now reddened and perspiring from the constriction of the mask and the warmth of the evening. He kept his grey eyes sullenly on the floor. Pons’ own eyes danced and he smiled at the Rector.
“If I am not much mistaken, Mr Munro Slater, late of H.M. Prison, Dartmoor. Known to us as Jethro Carpenter, rare book dealer.”
“But how was that possible, Pons?”
“Merely a clever make-up, Parker. And he was the only other of the book dealers who physically fits the bill. I have checked and Judson Higgins has a genuine limp.”
He turned to the bearded churchman who was glaring impatiently at both of us.
“We owe you an explanation, Rector. We must first get this man to the local police. Then, if you are agreeable and despite the lateness of the hour, we must arouse Miss Stuart from her bed, and this matter must be settled once and for all.”
9
“Coffee, Mr Pons?”
Our client looked fresh and charming in her dressing gown and not like someone who had been awakened only half an hour before by the housekeeper in such a dramatic manner. It was half-past one in the morning but such was Pons’ energy and vitality and such was our curiosity to hear the explanation for the weird business which had culminated so dramatically in the church that we took no heed of the time.
We sat at a round table at the far end of the study, the windows open to admit the sweet-scented night air, but with the curtains tightly drawn. The Rector, somewhat mollified, now that Pons had told him something of the circumstances, sat opposite drinking coffee while Pons and I were diagonally across from Miss Stuart presiding at the silver pot. Anyone who could have seen us at that hour would have found the sight decidedly strange.