Now, understandably puzzled, our client had retired to her room, fully-dressed to await the events of the evening while Mrs Bevan, barred from the kitchen, whose access door at her end was locked, sat in her pantry awaiting the return of her employer. Pons had smoked in silence, the glow from the roseate bowl of his pipe making it appear as though his ascetic features hung suspended in the gloom before me. At last I broke the silence.
“You think he will come, Pons?”
“I am convinced of it, Parker. He would need to go to London today to glean what news he could of the impending inquest and the circumstances surrounding Marcus’ suicide. Oh, he will come, Parker, make no mistake about it.”
He had hardly finished talking before the hard, hurried sound of footsteps came to us over the frozen ground of the crisp night outside. I tightened my grip on the butt of the revolver as a thunderous knocking sounded at the front door. A few moments later we heard the progress of Mrs Bevan across the hall and then a coarse, loud voice.
“Food, woman, food! I am half-starved after my freezing journey.”
The door of the dining-room was flung open to admit a shaft of yellow light and the massive, bull-like form of Roseacre lurched in. He had not seen us for we sat in high-backed chairs near the glowing embers of the fire but we could see his silhouette swaying in the doorway and beyond him, the calm face of Mrs Bevan. Though she knew we were there I again saluted her as a brave woman.
“Food, woman, food!” Roseacre reiterated, smashing one huge fist down on to the dining-table. Mrs Bevan disappeared and Roseacre moved forward, swearing under his breath. He lit the gas at the third attempt and the room was flooded with yellow light. A moment later, as his muddled vision cleared, Roseacre started back with a hoarse scream of pure terror, his trembling legs hardly able to support him.
“Who is there?” he called, shading his eyes against the lustrous glow of the chandelier.
“Nemesis, Mr Roseacre,” said Pons evenly. “No, it is not a ghost, though only a guilty conscience could turn your features to putty like that.”
“Pons!”
This time a bellow of rage and the half-drunken brute with the coarse, reddened features started forward immediately, only to be brought up abruptly as I levelled the revolver steadily at him.
“Do not hesitate to shoot, Parker, should it be necessary,” said Solar Pons equably. “The world will be well-rid of a thorough-going scoundrel and no court in the land would convict.”
Roseacre gave a strangled cry and then half-fell into an easy chair, plucking at his collar as though it had grown too tight for him.
“What does this mean?” he croaked when he had found his voice.
“It means the end of the road, Roseacre. The finish of a rogue, a bully, a liar, a cheat and a murderer!”
The big man stared sullenly at Pons, the mists of drink clearing from his eyes. I kept the revolver trained evenly upon him.
“You will sit and listen,” said Solar Pons, walking about the sombre dining-room, as though intent on the pictures on the walls. “You ask what this means and why I am here. Legally, no doubt I have no business on your property. Morally, I have every reason, as well as the sanction of your niece who is most concerned in this matter.”
“So I was right!” exclaimed Roseacre. “This is Evelyn’s doing! By God, when I have finished with her…”
“Do not blaspheme your maker’s name into this,” said Solar Pons sternly. “It is you who have finished with everything. I will tell you a story. Parker; a story about a loud-mouthed, coarse braggart who had run through a fortune of his own and saw an easy way to get his hands on his niece’s money in an effort to retrieve the immense sums he had lost through gambling and debauchery. Unfortunately, he has all but succeeded in ruining my client’s estate, though something may yet be retrieved from the wreck.”
“I do not follow you, Pons.”
“It all hinges on the events of three years ago, Parker,” said Solar Pons, looking down at the crumpled figure of Roseacre with an expression in his deep-set eyes that made him quail.
“Marcus, as you know, was both Roseacre’s lawyer and that of his niece. He was an honest man and resisted all Roseacre’s efforts to get his hands on Miss Brentwood’s money. When he was invited to stay on that fatal weekend they quarrelled bitterly. Roseacre struck him, whether intentionally or not, only he could tell us. As you have already diagnosed, his skull was shattered and he died almost instantaneously.
“In that extremity Roseacre conceived a desperate plan that would not only save him from the gallows but retrieve his squandered fortune. Some time before, he had made the acquaintance of another unscrupulous scoundrel called Reginald Ashley Fawkes. Fawkes was not only down on his luck; an adventurer like Roseacre, but a skilled forger and an unscrupulous criminal who had already served one prison term.”
Roseacre sat as though turned to stone, one hand supporting his heavy head as he stared sightlessly into the dying fire.
“Roseacre put his plan into effect at once. Working at the dead of night, when the small household was asleep he buried Marcus’ body in the rose-garden. He told our client Marcus had left The Priory by an early train and went post-haste to London to put the second part of his scheme in motion.
“Fawkes. who was not unlike Marcus in general build and appearance, took the identity of the murdered man though we may be sure Roseacre did not forge a weapon for his ally by telling him this. Fortunately for him, Marcus was a life-long bachelor with no living relatives and few friends, so the thing was not as difficult as might have been feared.
“Fawkes, who had been coached by Roseacre. rang his practice and told his chief clerk that urgent business called him to Argentina. He told him to pay off the other clerks and dispose of the practice: after deducting his own expenses the clerk, whose name was Maitland, was to send the money to a numbered bank account in Geneva. All these instruction were confirmed by letter.”
“Forged by Fawkes, of course!” I said. “How do you know all this, Pons?”
My companion smiled.
“I notice Roseacre does not deny it, Parker. Because he cannot! I have not been idle today. I went to Lincoln’s Inn and made some inquiries about Marcus, when I gleaned the foregoing useful facts.
“Mr Maitland himself was most loquacious on the matter. There was more, of course. The bogus Marcus did not give up all his responsibilities. He merely transferred them to another address in London, and Miss Brentwood’s estate continued to be administered from there. Roseacre, we may be sure, did not tell his accomplice how much money was involved, but the excellent percentage he allowed the bogus Marcus kept that gentleman silent and contented for the last three years.
“Skilfully forged documents were issued and the bank had no suspicion because Roseacre had other official notepaper printed giving Marcus’ new address and so things went on.
“Back at the priory, of course, our client noticed some changes. She has already told us about the dismissal of the gardener; Roseacre himself taking over those duties; the construction of the terrace and, above all, the matter of the dog.”
“The dog, Pons?”
“Of course, Parker! That was vitally important and I saw immediately its significance. The quarrel, the early morning departure of Marcus, the dog scratching in the rose-borders. Roseacre feared it would give away his guilty secret.”
“So he poisoned it. Pons!”