He stared at the window for some seconds more, examined the floor carefully, then turned to me.
“You may extinguish the chandelier, Parker. Not a word to the ladies, mind.”
When I had done as he asked and waited in the landing while Mrs Bevan re- locked the door, it was obvious from the disappointment in the faces of our companions that Pons’ remarks had far from satisfied their curiosity.
“I will take that, if you please, Mrs Bevan,” said Pons, holding out his hand for the key.
Mrs Bevan looked at her mistress and then, at a subtle signal in the eyes, unclipped the key from the ring and relinquished it to Pons.
“This is vitally necessary, Miss Brentwood,” said Solar Pons as we descended. “I have only one more thing to see and then we must bring this extremely enlightening visit to a close.”
We said goodbye to the mystified Miss Brentwood and her housekeeper at the door. The mist was thicker than ever and Pons swiftly led the way round the side of the house. He opened the small ornamental gate that led to the rose-garden. I stood in the mist and watched him while he looked thoughtfully at the clipped twigs that represented summer’s abundant rose-bushes and paced the flag-stone terrace with its ornamental bench.
He gave particular attention to a small strip of terrace about eight feet long which looked slightly newer than the rest.
“That is where the little dog is buried, Pons?” I said.
“Indeed, Parker.”
He finished at last, which was a relief for I was chilled to the bone.
“Let us away, Parker. There is evil here and the sooner we lay it to rest the sooner will this unfortunate girl be released from dangerous malignant influences.”
6
While Pons was away I passed one of the gloomiest and most boring days I can remember, broken only by the excellent lunch at The Blue Boar. Afterwards I spent the leaden hours in the hotel smoking-room, looking out at the mist, waiting for a telephone call from Miss Brentwood, which would have been agitating: or another from Pons, which would have been reassuring.
At last, at five o’clock, hours before I had expected it, there came the call and I drove immediately to Godalming to pick up Pons from the station. He was fresh and alert and in excellent spirits, rubbing his hands with excitement as he stepped into the car.
“Well, Parker, all has gone well and I have my case more or less complete!”
“You astonish me, Pons.”
I accelerated out of the station yard and drove in the direction of the hotel. But before we got there Solar Pons laid his hand on my arm.
“I think we will drive straight to The Priory, Parker. This is too good an opportunity to miss. If Roseacre is still absent in London we might clear up this business tonight.”
I gave him a look in which my incredulity must have shown for he said at once. “I have never been more serious, my dear fellow.”
“What have you been up to, Pons?”
“I have been to Lincoln’s Inn; to Marcus’ old house; to the London Mortuary buildings at Islington; have spoken with Inspector Jamison and have interviewed half a dozen of the longest old fellows in the law that you have ever laid eyes on.”
“Good heavens, Pons! But to what purpose?”
“The achievement of justice, Parker. And during the pursuit of that elusive quality I have uncovered murder and fraud.”
“How does Jamison come into it, Pons?”
Solar Pons chuckled.
“The good inspector is improving. Parker. He was reading the post-mortem report when he noticed the mention of cuts on the body. He was at the mortuary when I arrived there.”
“Cuts on the body?”
“Of course. It is obvious, is it not?”
And he said nothing more until we arrived at Peas Pleasance, wrapped in mist and darkness. When we had parked the car I saw to my satisfaction and Pons’ also that the shutters were still folded blankly across Miss Brentwood’s bedroom window.
“Ah, Parker. There is still time. Even if Roseacre returns it will not matter so long as he does not come into the garden.”
He consulted his watch.
“We need one uninterrupted hour. And I must first give Miss Brentwood some instructions and borrow some tools from her.”
“Tools, Pons?”
My companion smiled at my mystified expression.
“A pick and a shovel should do nicely. After all. I have sent many scoundrels to do similar labour on the Moor; why should I not do penance in my turn?”
“You are in a curious mood tonight, Pons,” I grumbled as he knocked at the front door of The Priory.
“Am I not, Parker? Ah, Miss Brentwood, we shall not be long now in clearing this matter up. If I could just have a word.”
He disappeared in the dimness of the hallway and I heard the muttered colloquy. When Pons re-joined me, buttoning his coat against the bitter cold, he carried an oil- lamp.
“The implements are in a tool-shed at the back of the house, Parker. We will go there first.”
I followed in behind as he led the way at a fast pace. The moon was rising, clearly visible beyond the mist which now extended only to tree-top height.
Pons selected a pick and handed me a spade without a word. I trailed behind him numbly as he led the way. I looked on appalled as Pons removed his overcoat and laid it down on the garden bench. He squared his shoulders and brought the pick-axe down on the packed earth.
“Good heavens, Pons!” I cried. “You are surely not going to dig up the rose- garden. What if Roseacre comes back?”
“I expect him to,” said Pons calmly. “We shall have ample warning as Miss Brentwood will switch on the dining-room lights if he should appear.”
“That is all very well, Pons.” I grumbled. “But what do you expect to find? And how are we going to explain?”
Solar Pons leaned on the pick and smiled at me through the mist.
“Regarding the first question. Parker, I should have thought the answer obvious. As to the second, the answer to the first will render the latter superfluous.”
I gave up and watched in a sort of numb despair as he dug down about two feet.
“You might give a hand, my dear fellow,” he said reproachfully. “Just shovel the earth up on to the terrace there for the time being.”
I did as he bade and on the next few minutes forgot the biting cold of the night in the unwonted exercise. I shall never forget the strangeness of the scene; the dim light of the lantern Pons had borrowed from our client; the darkness of the night; the loneliness of the situation: the drifting mist; Pons’ lean figure bent to its exertions: and, above all, the knowledge that we were here clandestinely, engaged in illegal activities.
In another quarter of an hour Pons had enlarged the hole he had made and had taken up the central section of terrace. I was engaged in shovelling the half-frozen earth away and when I had banked it up clear of the scene of operations I turned back to be greeted by my companion’s admonition.
“Careful, now, Parker. We should be coming to something soon.”
I felt the hairs at the nape of my neck begin to rise at his words but I bent forward as he scraped carefully at the disturbed earth, behind us the dim black bulk of The Priory completely without lights on this side. Something appeared wrapped in sacking and Pons gave an exclamation of satisfaction.
“What do you make of that, Parker?”
“Bones of a small dog,” I said shortly.
“Pip, yes.”
Solar Pons looked at me grimly.
“We must go deeper yet, Parker. Time is short and we must hurry.”
7
It was eleven o’clock and still there was no sign of Roseacre. Pons and I sat in the darkened dining-room, the kitchen door at our back, my own mind filled with horror and sombre knowledge. We had made our toilet and eaten since our sinister excursion in the rose-garden and to every question from Miss Brentwood and Mrs Bevan Pons had returned a tight-lipped blankness.