A shadow passed across her handsome features as she led the way into a huge drawing-room which contained many oil paintings and drawings of herself and her husband in their various stage and screen roles. Bowls of hot-house flowers were set about here and there and though a large fire burned in the stone fireplace, the room was already warm from the radiators set round the walls.
“Lunch will be served within the hour, gentlemen,” said Mrs Carstairs. “In the meantime may I offer you a sherry?”
“Excellent idea, Sandra,” boomed Carstairs, waving away the butler, who had followed us in and now stood awaiting his instructions.
The big actor went to a silver tray standing at one end of a grand piano and which contained a great many bottles and glasses. He busied himself with pouring the sherry for us and mixing drinks for himself and his wife. Pons went to stand near the fireplace and looked at the lady of the house thoughtfully.
“What do you think of this business, Mrs Carstairs?”
“I prefer to be known as Miss Stillwood, Mr Pons,” the fair woman said, a faint flush on her cheeks.
She glanced across at her husband.
“I have not yet retired, though Cedric sometimes acts as though I had.”
Carstairs gave a somewhat strained smile and brought the drinks over to myself and Pons. We waited until our host and hostess also has glasses in their hands.
“Success, Mr Pons.”
“I will drink to that, Mr Carstairs.”
Solar Pons moved over to a high-backed chair at Miss Stillwood’s invitation and sat down, crossing his thin legs and looking for all the world as though he were at ease in his own drawing-room. Once again I marvelled at the effortless way in which he dominated every gathering without appearing to do so.
“I asked you a question, Miss Stillwood.”
The blonde woman took a tentative sip at her drink, wrinkled her nose at her husband and pondered her reply.
“It seems inexplicable, Mr Pons. Why should anyone want to go to all the trouble of making those wax models?”
“Why indeed?” said Solar Pons politely, his eyes on Carstairs. “But you do not deny the matter is serious?”
The blonde woman’s eyes flashed and I saw for a brief moment the dynamic beauty that had flowered to such remarkable art in innumerable films and plays.
“I deny nothing, Mr Pons! It is damnable. Poor D’Arcy! But the whole thing seems so pointless. And Cedric is making such a fuss of the business. I keep telling him to pull himself together but he is terrified.”
There was an undertone of contempt in her voice as she glanced affectionately at her husband and I saw him redden under her look.
“Damn it all, Sandra,” he exploded. “It is not you who is the target, after all.”
“You have a point, Mr Carstairs,” said Pons soothingly. “We may as well get down to facts at once. I should like first to see those models you have already received. And of course, the latest parcel.”
“Certainly, Mr Pons. They are locked in the safe in my study. We will go there directly we have finished our drinks.”
“Excellent.”
Solar Pons rubbed his hands together and held them out toward the fire. His eyes had a far-away expression in them.
“The wrappings and enclosure were identical to the others?”
“Exactly, Mr Pons. I have them all still.”
“And again posted from London?”
Carstairs inclined his head.
“Yes, Mr Pons.”
Before Pons could say any more there was a rapping at the door which immediately afterward opened to admit a tall, slim young man of about thirty with dark, bushy hair. He paused in some confusion but came toward the group round the fireplace at Carstairs’ command to enter.
“This is my secretary, John Abrahams, Mr Pons. Mr Solar Pons. Dr Lyndon Parker.”
The secretary made a graceful bow and murmured something which I could not make out but took to be a polite acknowledgement of the introduction.
“Mr Abrahams would have received the parcels in the first place, Mr Carstairs?”
“That is so, Mr Pons,” said the young man, with a half-hesitant look at his employer.
“They came in the usual way?”
The secretary nodded.
“With the incoming post from the village. Simons is our regular postman and to the best of my knowledge he brought them both. That is to say, the second and fourth. The first and third parcels were received in Edinburgh and Liverpool respectively.”
“I see.”
Solar Pons was deep in thought for a few moments, the only sound in the room the deep crackling of the log-fire on the hearth. The silence was eventually broken by Carstairs’ wife who put her glass back on the tray on top of the piano with a quick, decisive movement.
“If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I will see about lunch. We eat in half an hour, Cedric.”
She glanced sharply at her husband as she spoke.
“Certainly, Sandra,” he said somewhat defensively.
He made a wry mouth as she quitted the room, followed at some distance by the secretary.
“I am notoriously unpunctual, gentlemen. I suppose my wife must find it irritating.”
He grinned and went over to pour himself another drink.
“At least I am always on stage in time for my entrances,” he added. “Which is something. Another drink, gentlemen?”
Solar Pons excused himself.
“Not before lunch, if you please, Mr Carstairs. I am anxious to look at those parcels before we sit down.”
“By all means, Mr Pons. Come along, doctor.”
We followed the big actor out of the drawing-room and into a large connecting room which looked on to the rose-garden, now austere and deserted in the bitter wind. The room was equipped as a study and the series of theatrical portraits were continued on that part of the panelled walls not given over to books. Carstairs crossed to the natural stone fireplace over which hung an oil of himself in one of his more flamboyant film roles. He pushed the painting aside to disclose a small wall safe.
He took from it a large cardboard box and carried it over to the desk, where he placed it in front of Pons. My companion sat down behind the desk, his face keen and alert. Carefully, Carstairs took from the box the artfully fashioned and beautifully coloured figures. There was a brief silence as Pons produced his magnifying glass and went scrupulously over them in minute detail.
“This is highly skilled work, Mr Carstairs. Someone has been to a deal of trouble.”
“Have they not, Mr Pons.”
“Someone who follows your career closely.”
“Evidently.”
Pons turned to me.
“What do you think of these, Parker?”
“I agree with you, Pons,” I said. “These are finely done. The threats to Mr Carstairs seem to me to be unnecessarily elaborate.”
“You are constantly improving, Parker,” said Solar Pons drily. “The same thought had already occurred to me. Let us just see what we can read from these wrappings.”
Our host’s flushed, handsome face had an approving expression as he went to sit on a corner of the desk, glass in hand. Pons went over the wrappings minutely and then threw them down with a grunt.
“There is little here, Parker. The paper, as you no doubt noted, is purchasable in only three major emporia in London. It would be useless to enquire in that direction as each has thousands of customers every day of the week. The lettering, in block capitals, was obviously to disguise the hand. That type of broad-nibbed pen can be bought in London or throughout the country by the thousand. Similarly, the wax seals have been made with the cheap penny stick available at any stationers. The sender has been careful not to press them down on the string and thus leave finger-prints.”