“You are in safe hands here.” said Solar Pons gently. “Drink your tea and take your time. This is my friend and colleague, Dr Lyndon Parker.”
The girl smiled a strained smile and gave a slight inclination of the head.
“I must apologise for my rudeness, gentlemen, and for my appearance in your chambers without an appointment. I have not eaten since early this morning. My name is Evelyn Brentwood.”
“Poor child,” put in Mrs Johnson with a shake of her head and then she withdrew with her usual tact and discretion, asking Pons to ring if there was anything further he required. As soon as the door had close behind her Pons glanced at the girl drinking her tea and eating the toast, still with a slight trembling of her hands and body, and then shot an interrogatory glance at me.
“Nothing but shock, lack of food and exposure to this inclement weather,” I diagnosed. “Miss Brentwood will be better in a little while.”
Indeed, merely a few minutes had passed and I had only time for one cup of tea when the girl stirred, shook herself as though she had just become truly conscious of her surroundings and smoothed her hair down with her right hand in that feminine gesture that is instinctive to the species.
“I do not know what you must think of me. Mr Pons. I do not usually arrive on people’s doorsteps in this manner.”
“There is no hurry, Miss Brentwood,” Pons said soothingly. “We have nothing but time today. You come from Surrey, I take it?”
The girl looked at Pons in astonishment.
“Why. yes, Mr Pons. From a small hamlet called Peas Pleasance, near Godalming.”
Pons shot me a triumphant glance from his deep-set eyes.
“Just so. You have an uncle called Edmund Roseacre?”
The change in the girl at the mention of the name was startling. All the colour fled from her face, leaving it white and haggard, and she would have started up if I had not laid a restraining hand on her arm.
“How could you possibly know this?”
“Because he has already been here,” said Pons evenly.
“Here, Mr Pons? Here? Then all is known…”
She looked round like a hunted animal.
“There is no need to be alarmed,” said Pons gently. “I must confess he is not a very likeable gentleman. I had to teach him a lesson in manners.”
The girl’s blue eyes opened wide as she stared at my companion.
“What do you mean, Mr Pons?”
“Why nothing, my dear young lady. I broke his stick and sent him packing.”
He indicated the umbrella stand with a wry chuckle. I was watching Miss Brentwood closely and could have sworn that her face lightened perceptibly.
“What Pons means is that he broke the stick, threw it in your uncle’s face and cut his chin,” I said. “He took himself off extremely smartly after Pons had threatened to throw him down the stairs.”
The girl breathed deeply, her eyes shining, as she stared at Pons.
“I do not believe it,” she said softly.
“Nevertheless, it is true enough,” I said.
Pons turned an irritated look upon me.
“You make too much of it. Parker. The man was a bully and a windbag. He deserved to be taught a lesson.”
The girl glanced at the fragments of the broken stick.
“It is his cane right enough, Mr Pons. I never thought I should live to see the day when someone would be brave enough to stand up to him.”
“Had you better not tell us exactly what it is that troubles you?” encouraged Solar Pons. “Apart from the obvious fact that you have an uncle whose manners leave a great deal to be desired.”
The girl smiled faintly at this and the colour was now coming back into her face.
“Of course, Mr Pons. I really do not know which way to turn. I came out early this morning and caught the first train to town. I have been wandering about for hours plucking up enough courage to come here.”
“Which explains your uncle’s appearance first on the scene,” I put in.
Miss Brentwood shuddered.
“He must have been watching me and followed, as he always does.”
“You live with your uncle, then?”
Solar Pons tented his fingers in front of him, his penetrating eyes fixed immovably on her face. Miss Brentwood nodded.
“My parents died when I was a child, Mr Pons. Ever since I can remember I have lived with my uncle, Edmund Roseacre. first in the North of England; latterly at an old house called The Priory on the fringe of a tiny village called Peas Pleasance. At first things were well enough and I was looked after by an old family nurse but of late years things have become intolerable.”
“In what way, Miss Brentwood?”
“My uncle has changed a good deal in character, Mr Pons. He has lived in the East and has always been overbearing, being used to ordering large numbers of native servants. But during the last three years he has become morose, silent and occasionally violent. He has turned into a recluse, locking himself in his room for hours at a time and drinking a good deal.”
Solar Pons changed position in his chair, the smoke from his pipe going up in slow, lazy whorls toward the ceiling of our sitting-room.
“Can you place this change with any accuracy, Miss Brentwood? For instance, could it possibly have been connected with any particular event?”
The girl furrowed her brow and remained silent for a moment or two. Pons’ thin fingers, like the antennae of an insect, drumming softly on the table before him.
“It does seem to me now, looking back, that this change began some time after Mr Marcus visited him.”
“Mr Marcus?”
“He is my parent’s London solicitor. Though Uncle Edmund was my guardian, Mr Marcus had control of the estate in trust for me when I became of age.”
“I see. Is it a large estate?”
“I do not really know, Mr Pons. My father owned a rubber plantation in the East and there was money in the family before that. I suppose there is a good deal of money coming to me, one way or the other, but I have never thought much about it.”
“And how old are you now, Miss Brentwood?”
“Twenty, Mr Pons. I shall be twenty-one in six months’ time.”
Solar Pons made a small inclination of the head in the girl’s direction.
“When you shall presumably inherit the estate?”
“That is correct, Mr Pons. Mr Marcus is a very close-mouthed man but he told me once that it was my parents’ express wish that I should not know the full extent of my fortune until I had attained my majority. I could, I suppose, have consulted the will through the Public Records Office, but I have always respected my parents’ wishes in the matter.”
“Quite so,” said Pons, turning his pipe over and over in his hand as though he were intently examining the stem. “Perfectly proper.”
“But how did you come to find my friend, Miss Brentwood?” I interrupted.
The girl turned her troubled eyes to me.
“I did not wish to involve the police. Then my uncle would know. Apart from that no official policeman would believe my fanciful tale. In the end I confided in the Rector of Peas Pleasance, the Rev. Dr Cubitt. He said that Mr Solar Pons was the most famous and most successful consulting detective in England and gave me your address.”
“A wise man, your Rector,” I said solemnly.
Solar Pons smiled.
“Tut, Parker, you can do better than that with your ironic sallies. You say your story is a fanciful one, Miss Brentwood. Pray tell it.”