“He was in Liverpool a few weeks ago, starring in a modern thriller called The Arrow of Fate. This time he received a third parcel, also posted from London. It contained another skilfully contrived wax model of himself in evening dress, this time hanging from a beam.”
“There was no message?”
Solar Pons shook his head.
“There was never a message of any kind.”
“But something happened?”
“Most definitely, Parker. D’Arcy Stanwell, the second male lead, who was of the same build and appearance as Carstairs was killed on the first night as he made his entrance, just after the curtain went up.”
I blinked.
“Good heavens. You think he was mistaken for your client, Pons?”
“I am certain of it, Parker. It was a combination of the lighting and the resemblance between the two men. who both wore evening dress for this particular scene. The manner of the killing was bizarre in the extreme. Stanwell was killed by a steel arrow which came from somewhere in the theatre, probably from an empty stage-box high up. It was a matinee, you see. The murderer made his escape undetected.”
“But he must have had some sort of bow, Pons.”
“Exactly. Which is what makes the problem so intriguing. The show closed at once, of course. And naturally the police were unable to trace the murderer.”
“Why do you say ‘naturally’, Pons?”
“Because this case is a hundred miles outside the ordinary type of police work, Parker. You have noticed one important factor?”
“What is that, Pons?”
Solar Pons shook his head.
“Tut, tut, Parker. You disappoint me. I had thought more highly of your ratiocinative faculties.”
“I am afraid I do not follow, Pons.”
“Why, the warning and its execution, Parker. In each case the potential victim received a sinister warning in the shape of a wax effigy. You will remember that in the case of Othello he was lying dead, poisoned. But Othello himself strangled Desdemona in that distinguished work. The second warning depicted him with his throat torn out but instead a chandelier descended.”
“I see, Pons!”
I sat up in my seat.
“The third time he was depicted hanging but his unfortunate colleague was shot with an arrow.”
“You have hit it, Parker.”
Solar Pons looked at me dreamily from under lowered eye-lids.
“He was warned of his impending death but in each case the method of death was something totally unexpected. The murderer wanted to frighten, even terrify, but not to indicate the manner of death precisely or his victim might escape.”
“But nothing happened after the first warning. Pons.”
“There you have me, Parker.”
Solar Pons pulled reflectively at his right ear-lobe. “Though it is impossible to prove at this distance in time I would submit that the person menacing Carstairs’ life intended some sort of coup at the theatre during the performance of Othello but was prevented by circumstances on the actual night he intended to commit his crime.”
“But why did he not try again?”
Solar Pons smiled.
“Perhaps he could only be in Edinburgh for one night. There are a number of interesting possibilities. Or he may have merely intended to frighten this first time, so that the second, real attempt would be completely unexpected.”
I nodded.
“And now there has been a fourth parcel?”
Pons had a worried expression on his thin, ascetic features.
“According to my client’s telegram. He is currently preparing for an ambitious new play at the Negresco Theatre in London.”
He looked moodily out of the carriage window at the fleeting images of the countryside.
“It is unfortunate, but could not have been better from the point of view of the person who is threatening his life.”
“Why so. Pons?”
Solar Pons stood up, gathering his coat and case.
“Ah, here we are at our destination, Parker.”
He looked at me sombrely as I buttoned my own overcoat.
“The play is a modern piece called Death Comes to Thornfield. Carstairs himself plays the victim of a particularly diabolical murder!”
2
The day. if anything, seemed even colder when we descended at the small station near Guildford. The cab our client had engaged was waiting in the station forecourt and a drive of some fifteen minutes brought us to a handsome, Edwardian house of three storeys, standing in well-wooded grounds of about five acres. Pons was silent as our vehicle crunched over the gravel of the drive between the handsome lodges with their overhanging eaves of red tiles which flanked the white-painted gates.
We were evidently expected for the gates were open and as we drove through I could already see a white-haired man in a green-baize apron who hurried from the entrance of the larger lodge and locked the tall iron gates behind us. The drive wound up between sombre banks of rhododendron whose lighter green did little to relieve the deep shadows of the heavy pines and firs which bordered the carriageway.
But the house itself, with the pale winter sun sparkling from its well-kept facade and reflected back from a multitude of white-framed windows had a cheerful aspect and I could see the two tennis-courts through a gap in the trees and, across the broad lawns and the rose-garden, desolate now in winter, could be glimpsed the metal framework of a diving stage and the heavy boarding covering a large swimming pool. I glanced at my companion mischievously.
“There is money here, Pons.”
“Is there not, Parker. Ah, unless I am mistaken, here is our client himself.”
And indeed, the handsome, somewhat florid figure of the former matinee idol was descending the steps toward us, a brace of Irish wolf-hounds at his heels. The cab ground to a stop and the driver got down to unload our baggage while the actor effusively pumped my companion’s hand.
“Good of you to come, Mr Pons! I am extremely grateful. And this is your equally celebrated friend, Dr Parker?”
He turned to me with a winning smile and gripped my hand strongly.
“Hardly celebrated, Mr Carstairs.”
“You are too modest, Dr Parker. Boswell and Johnson, eh, Mr Pons?”
Pons glanced at me, sparks of humour dancing in his deep-set eyes.
“The simile is hardly apposite from a physical point of view, Mr Carstairs, but I take it was kindly meant,” he said gravely.
“Indeed, Mr Pons. But come along in. It is dreadfully cold out here on these steps.”
He hurried us up into the shadow of a great porch while a black-coated manservant carried our bags. During the ascent I had time to study my host properly. His features were familiar to me, of course, through cinema performances and stage appearances, but he seemed even taller and broader than I remembered. He must have been over fifty by now but was still handsome in a fleshy way and had tremendous “presence”, as those in the stage profession call it.
His eyes and his flashing smile were his greatest features and though his complexion was ruddy and florid, indicative to me to a long indulgence in alcoholic spirits, he was still a fine figure of a man and would pass for a good while yet, with skilful make-up and stage lighting.
He was dressed in a thick suit of country tweeds with a waistcoat and his theatrical and flamboyant appearance was emphasised by the gaily-coloured silk scarf loosely knotted round his neck, and tucked into the vee of a blue silk shirt. The ensemble was Bohemian and on anyone else would have looked slovenly but it suited him perfectly.
We were let in the large, tiled hall by a striking looking blonde woman of about thirty-eight, and I recognised the actress Sandra Stillwood before Carstairs introduced her as his wife. She came forward with a smile and shook hands, while the wolf-hounds loped about the hall as though they would demolish the furniture in their boisterousness.