“It would be harder to imagine a more delightful spot.”
It was, as my companion had indicated, like something out of a picture postcard. A small, timbered High Street, the houses ancient and beamed; a huddle of shops; an ancient square sleeping in the sunshine; contented villagers strolling in the early evening air; and the tower of the ancient Norman church dominating it all. We rattled briskly down the main street, passing a handsome tile-hung inn with its gilded sign of the maypole and turned into a narrow side-street, the horse evidently knowing the way without the driver’s signalled instructions on the reins.
The Old Rectory turned out to be a handsome, rambling, tile-hung edifice, of L-shaped construction, set back from the wall of the old graveyard in a large and charming garden but one that was rather shadowed too much by old and massive trees which kept much of the light and air from it.
As we drew up in front of the white-painted gate which bore the name of the house in black curlicue script, I saw that in winter the house would have a melancholy aspect, not only from the trees but from the churchyard, whose lugubrious marble images of angels and cherubs stared mournfully over the low, lichen-encrusted wall.
“Come along, gentlemen!” said Miss Stuart, her spirits quite restored as she led the way up the flagged path while the pony clopped its way round to a stable at the rear of the premises. The white-painted front door was already being opened by a cheerful, middle-aged woman with her hair scraped back in a bun.
“This is Hannah, our housekeeper and very good friend,” our client explained. “This is Mr Solar Pons and Dr Lyndon Parker, who will be staying with us for a few days.”
“Delighted to meet you, gentlemen,” said Hannah shyly, extending her hand to Pons and then to me. “I am sure that I will do my best to make you comfortable.”
Solar Pons smiled, looking round approvingly at the light and comfortably appointed tiled hall into which we had been ushered.
“You will not find us fastidious, Hannah, I can assure you.”
“No, certainly not.” I added, aware of Miss Stuart’s smiling face turned toward me. She seemed to have recovered her spirits greatly.
“Tell me, Hannah,” Solar Pons continued, “Miss Stuart has told me something of the troubles you have been undergoing the past few months. What is your reading of the situation?”
“Well, sir,” said the housekeeper hesitantly, glancing at her mistress as though for tacit approval. “It is not really my place to give an opinion, but there is something strange and sinister about it. I know Miss Stuart will forgive me, but why should the same man — and it is the same man by all accounts — return again and again to this house to commit mischief. It isn’t natural. And I will swear on the Bible that he is no common burglar.”
Pons nodded significantly, glancing from the housekeeper to Miss Stuart.
“Well said, Hannah. That is exactly my opinion and I am glad to have it confirmed by one so obviously sensible and level-headed as yourself. If you can remember anything specific about these events which you feel might assist me. I should be glad of any confidence you might care to make.”
“Certainly, sir,” said Hannah, taking our cases and retreating up the wide staircase with them. “And I am so glad that you could come.”
Pons remained staring after her for a moment. Then Miss Stuart led the way through into a long drawing-room, whose windows, open to the garden with its drowsy hum of bees in the late afternoon, spilled golden stencils of light across the carpet.
“We will take tea immediately, gentlemen, if you wish. And then I presume you would like to examine the study, Mr Pons.”
Solar Pons sat down and tented his thin fingers before him, his eyes raking the room.
“By all means, Miss Stuart. And then I have a fancy to take a stroll about the church before dark.”
Our client, who sat by the empty fireplace, which was filled with a great bowl of scarlet roses, smiled. She patted the small, bright-eyes spaniel which had wandered in from the garden.
“Anything you wish, Mr Pons.”
Solar Pons leaned forward as the housekeeper reappeared with a tea-trolley.
“Please do not raise your hopes too high, Miss Stuart. Nothing may happen while we are here. But I will do my best.”
“You are being too modest, Pons,” I said. “I am sure you will soon have the answer to these baffling events.”
“As always, you do me too much honour, Parker.”
And he said nothing more until we had finished our tea.
4
Afterward, Miss Stuart conducted us to a large, handsome room on the ground floor, whose French windows opened on to the flagged terrace of which she had already spoken.
“This is the study, Mr Pons,” she said nervously.
My companion nodded.
“Where all these alarming things happened, Miss Stuart. Well, perhaps now we are on the ground we shall make sense where all has seemed opaque hitherto.”
“Let us hope so, Mr Pons.”
Solar Pons looked round keenly, his eyes running over the serried ranks of musty ecclesiastical volumes, many in leather bindings, which ranged across from floor to ceiling. In the corner was the tall leather wing chair in which our client had sat on the fateful evening she had heard the intruder furtively rummaging among the books. But tonight, in this beautiful June weather, the library was a pleasant, placid place, with the mellow sunlight coming in through the open French windows and bringing with it the scent of roses.
Solar Pons had his powerful magnifying lens out now and ranged round the room, watched in silence by Miss Stuart. He moved swiftly down the shelves, his keen eyes darting here and there and then moved out on to the terrace, examining detail quite invisible to me. He straightened up, dusting the knees of his trousers and came back into the room.
“This is where you say the bearded man stood, Miss Stuart?”
“Exactly, Mr Pons.”
Pons turned to me. He stood about four feet in from the French windows, in front of a long, free-standing bookcase which made a shadowy aisle and divided this portion of the large room in two.
“And whereabouts were the books you spoke of, Miss Stuart?”
“On the third shelf. Here, Mr Pons.”
The fair-haired girl was at our side now and gravely took down a section of books about a foot long.
“As near as I can make out, Mr Pons, these were the books dropped only two nights ago. It all seems so vivid and horrible and yet it could have been years back.”
“Quite so. Miss Stuart,” I murmured. “It is often so with a shock to the nervous system.”
Pons took the proffered books from Miss Stuart’s arms and carried them over to an oval mahogany table, examining them carefully, frowning in concentration the while.
“Hmm. There does not seem much out of the way here, Miss Stuart. Commentaries on the Epistles; The New Psaltery; The Holy Bible, King James edition; Travels in the Holy Land.”
Miss Stuart shook her head.
“As I said, Mr Pons. All the rare editions are in this central case down near the fireplace.”
She motioned Pons forward as though she would have shown him but my companion held up his hand.
“Nevertheless, Miss Stuart, we will persist here for the moment, if you please. What do you make of it, Parker?”
I went forward to the table and glanced over his shoulder.
“As you say, Pons, it does not look very interesting.”
I took up the Bible but moved round the table rather awkwardly, with the result that the book fell, spilling out two or three slips of paper on to the floor. Pons stooped quickly to pick them up.