He said no more and a moment later the heavy front door of the house opened and Miss Brentwood flew toward us, animation and relief entirely transforming her features.
“Oh, welcome, gentlemen! I am so pleased to see you! My uncle said nothing last night and completely accepted my explanation of my London trip, just as you said he would. He has gone to town himself today, by an early-morning train and I do not expect him back until late this evening. We have the whole day before us! Have you breakfasted this morning?”
Solar Pons smiled down into the earnest little face that was raised to his.
“We have breakfasted, Miss Brentwood, thank you, but some coffee would not come amiss. Eh, Parker?”
“By all means, Pons,” I said, following them into the large, gloomy hall of The Priory where Mrs Bevan, a tall, angular, middle-aged woman with a good-natured face was waiting to receive us.
“You were never more welcome, gentlemen,” she said expressively as she greeted us and it was obvious by the way she looked at our client that she knew a good deal of the story.
However, she said nothing more but bustled off to make the coffee while Miss Brentwood led us into a gloomy, oak-panelled dining-room whose sombreness was offset to some extent by its large windows which opened onto the rose-garden of which she had already spoken.
Solar Pons wandered over to the casement and looked out at the misty garden and terrace where frost sparkled in among the roots of the short-cut grass.
“So that is the place?” he said absently.
“Yes, Mr Pons,” said out client. “That is where poor Pip is buried. Will you not come by the tire?”
Solar Pons seated himself on a long wooden bench which jutted out at one side of the brick fireplace while Miss Brentwood and I ensconced ourselves on a more comfortable-looking banquette on the other side. A cheerful fire burned but the whole stamp of the place had a hard, masculine feel about it. with but small concession to the more feminine tastes of the girl.
We drank the coffee in silence and after Mrs Bevan had withdrawn Pons plunged immediately into business.
“We cannot count on more than an hour or so here, Miss Brentwood, despite what your uncle may have said. I would like to examine your bedroom, of course, but I fear we must leave not later than half-past eleven. It would not do to be caught here uninvited by your uncle.”
“Of course not. gentlemen,” said Miss Brentwood but it was evident from her expression that she was disappointed.
Pons turned to me.
“I must return to London for a few hours later today. Parker. I rely on you to hold the fort at The Blue Boar where I would appreciate you holding yourself in readiness, in case Miss Brentwood needs you.”
He smiled reassuringly at the girl.
“You have only to telephone and Dr Parker will be at your side in a few minutes.”
“Must you go, Pons?” I said, dismay in my tones.
“It is vitally important,” said Solar Pons. “I have to make some inquiries in town which can only be done on the spot. I should be back by late afternoon. Then, if my suspicions prove correct, and your uncle is still away, we will return here. Do not forget the signal.”
We were back in the hall now and Mrs Bevan was waiting to escort us to the first floor. Pons was silent, his deep-set eyes shooting glances into every corner as we ascended the stairs.
“This is my room, Mr Pons.”
Our client ushered us into a prettily-decorated chamber which faced the road. Pons went straight to the window, reaching in his inner pocket for the small leather case which contained his powerful magnifying lens.
“This is the spot where you had such a terrifying experience?”
Our client nodded, recollection of her fright still showing in her eyes.
Pons went back to the bed and surveyed the room from there. At an almost imperceptible nod from Miss Brentwood, Mrs Bevan left the room.
“May I open the window?”
“By all means, Mr Pons.”
Solar Pons pulled back the catch and slid the sash upward. He opened the shutters and leaned to the right, carefully examining the brickwork. His eyes were gleaming as he re-closed the window.
“I think I have seen enough here. I would now like to examine the apartment occupied by Mr Marcus.”
We found Mrs Bevan waiting for us on the landing and we ascended in single file to the top floor of the house. There were two doors immediately facing us, in a dimly-lit passage.
“My uncle’s room is just opposite,” Evelyn Brentwood volunteered. “Mrs Bevan’s bedroom is near mine of the floor below.”
“Just so,” said Solar Pons, trying the handle of the door leading to the room occupied by the unfortunate Mr Marcus. “It is locked, I am afraid.”
“That is unusual, Mr Pons.”
Mrs Bevan was at my companion’s side. She frowned at the lock.
“The keys are usually left on the inside, so that the occupant may secure the door at night.”
“Of course. That is the normal habit of the majority of mankind.”
Solar Pons laid his finger alongside his nose and glanced at me.
“But we are not dealing with the majority of mankind here. Parker.”
“No. Pons,” I agreed.
My companion turned back to Miss Brentwood.
“Did your uncle say why he went to London today?”
“Unexpected business.”
“Perhaps to check on his niece’s story?” I put in.
“Perhaps, Parker, perhaps. Or to inquire about Marcus’s death. He would have to do that.”
“That is not all,” Mrs Bevan volunteered. “Mr Roseacre would not let me in to clean the room yesterday. He said Mr Marcus had made rather a mess by spilling ink when working on his papers and that he would clean it himself.”
“Indeed.”
Solar Pons was silent for a moment.
“A curious ménage, would you not say, Parker, where the master himself carries out the domestic duties usually devolving in the housekeeper. Not to mention the gardener’s. I am afraid we must get into that room somehow, Miss Brentwood. It is vitally important.”
“Perhaps I can help. Mr Pons.”
Mrs Bevan stepped forward with a large bunch of keys.
“I have a duplicate for most of the keys of the house on my key-ring here.”
She fitted a large old key in the lock, her face below the iron-grey hair concentrating as she put pressure on it.
“There we are, Mr Pons.”
The door gave with a click and Pons stepped through into pitch-darkness.
“Thank you, Mrs Bevan. If you would light the gas, Parker, I would prefer the ladies to leave us for a while.”
“Just as you wish, Mr Pons.”
I got out my box of matches and by dint of striking two or three found a chandelier roughly where Miss Brentwood’s narrative had led me to believe it would be. As its yellow light sprang up, Pons quickly closed the door behind us. He looked wryly at the rumpled bed with the indentation of a head in the pillow.
“So much for Edmund Roseacre’s domestic duties, Parker,” he said ironically.
As I moved away from the chandelier my boot struck against something.
“Good heavens, Pons! The floor is covered with glass.”
“So it is, Parker,” said Solar Pons softly.
His eyes were shining as he advanced toward the window.
“I should have been surprised had it not been. That was why the shutters were kept closed.”
He looked at the shattered window thoughtfully.
“His victim was still conscious and put up an unexpected struggle. One would expect scratches on the body.”
“What on earth are you talking about, Pons?”
“Nothing, Parker. Nothing that will not keep for a few hours.”