Pons peered again at the lettering of each address.
“However, there is something to be read after all. The superscription has been written by a male, probably in the prime of his life but with a weak character.”
Carstairs. who had been listening to Pons’ monologue with amazement on his features cleared his throat with a loud rasping noise.
“Good Heavens, Mr Pons!” he boomed. “You mean to say you can tell all that from a cursory glance. I came to the right shop!”
“Hardly a cursory glance,” said Solar Pons reprovingly. “A lifetime’s study of such matters has gone into that cursory glance, as you call it.”
The big man flushed.
“No offence meant, Mr Pons,” he rumbled. “But how can you read such things?”
“Characteristics, Mr Carstairs,” said Pons quietly. “They would be too lengthy to go into now but the human hand does not lie even when it comes to lettering of this sort. The characteristics of the weak, indecisive male are unmistakable in this script. I have written a monograph on the subject and would recommend you to peruse it.”
“Touché, Mr Pons,” said Carstairs with a wry chuckle. “You would not presume to teach me how to play Othello, and your art is just as esoteric; am I right? Well, each to his last. But I’m damned impressed, I must say.”
He good-humouredly drained his glass and put it down on a corner of the desk.
“What about the parcel that came yesterday, Mr Carstairs?”
“I have it here, Mr Pons.”
The actor had put down a second package on another part of the desk and he now passed it to Pons. He gave the brown paper wrapping a brief examination and put it aside for the moment. He took from it a small cardboard box similar to that in which the other wax models had been enclosed. From it he carefully removed a wooden plinth on which the miniature and savage drama was being played out. There was a deep silence in the room and I pressed closer to Pons in order to see the model in greater detail.
It was every bit as cunningly fashioned as the others. The unmistakable figure of Carstairs lay on the facsimile of a patterned carpet. He was dressed in evening clothes, with an opera cloak, and his top hat lay beside him. The figure lay on its back with one leg drawn up under it. From the right eye-socket an arrow protruded; the face was distorted with pain and horror and thick blood from the wound trickled down onto the manikin’s shirt-front.
It was an arresting and disgusting sight and I gazed at it with loathing. Solar Pons glanced up at me, a grim smile playing at the corners of his sensitive mouth.
“What say you, Parker?”
“It is disgusting, Pons!” I burst out. “A warped if clever mind is behind this.”
“You may well be right, Parker,” Solar Pons rejoined in casual tones. “As you have already observed, a great deal of skill has been expended on this. Death Comes to Thornfield indeed. Strangely enough this is exactly how the unfortunate actor was killed in Mr Carstairs’ last play, though the warning took the form of a hanging figure.”
He looked across at Carstairs, whose features had grown pale and drawn. His eyes dragged themselves reluctantly from the little series of tableaux on the desk.
“There is no doubt this represents your current play, Mr Carstairs?”
“No doubt at all, Mr Pons. The costume there is identical to the one I wear in the production.”
“And how do you die in the piece?”
“I am strangled in the last act, Mr Pons.”
My companion nodded.
“Death by poisoning; by savage hound: by hanging; and by an arrow. It is bizarre and extraordinary.”
He rubbed his thin hands together and his eyes shone.
“I cannot remember when I have been so taken with a case, Mr Carstairs. When does the play open?”
“Next month, Mr Pons. I will not dissemble. My wife was perfectly right. I am terrified of this business, especially after poor Stanwell. There is something diabolical and inevitable about it. Please save me, Mr Pons.”
There was a pathetic quality in his earnest entreaty and Solar Pons held up his hand, with a comforting gesture.
“Now we know what we are up against, Mr Carstairs, we are forewarned. This person who menaces you obviously wants to punish you in some way in public. Therefore, we have only to fear the actual performances. I would like to attend a few rehearsals, in order to verse myself in the story of the play. And at the same time a thorough examination of the theatre would be of great assistance.”
Cedric Carstairs let out a sigh of relief.
“Nothing could be easier, Mr Pons. I will make arrangements at the theatre.”
“But be discreet. Mr Carstairs. I do not want any outside people to know that I am there.”
Carstairs had a startled look on his face, as Pons made a thorough examination of the wrappings of the fourth parcel.
“You do not think it could be any member of the company?”
“It is quite possible, Mr Carstairs. You have not yet told me anything of the possible motive.”
“Motive, Mr Pons?”
“Come, Mr Carstairs, every man has his enemies; especially is that true of the theatrical profession.”
There were small spots of red burning on our host’s cheeks now.
“Well. Mr Pons. I must be frank with you. This matter is too serious for anything else. I have perhaps been over-fond of the ladies in my time. It is a human failing to which theatricals are particularly prone.”
Solar Pons smiled thinly.
“You mean a jealous husband might be at the back of this? It is a possibility we must not overlook. Have you anyone in mind?”
Carstairs spread his hands wide and there was something irresistibly comic about the gesture; as though his actor’s vanity were saying unmistakably to us that the field was an extensive one and the suspects many. Something of this must have crossed my friend’s mind also because there was a mocking smile on his lips.
“Frankness, Mr Carstairs. We shall be discreet about this.”
Carstairs fidgeted with the handkerchief in his breast pocket.
“There are two names, Mr Pons,” he mumbled. “I will write them down for you.”
3
Gravel gritted beneath our feet as we walked along the path in the grounds, skirting the great sombre banks of rhododendron. The weather was bitterly cold and I swung my arms as I followed Pons’ spare figure. He was in great form and his energetic pace had drawn protests from more than once.
“You ate too much for lunch, Parker,” he admonished me. “You are paying for it now.”
“When I require you for my medical adviser, Pons,” I said with some asperity, “I will inform you of the fact.”
Solar Pons laughed, turning his keen, feral face to me over his shoulder as he strode onward.
“Touché, Parker. You are right to admonish me. But I have much to think about and my pace is but a reflection of my racing thoughts.”
With that he slackened his stride and I drew level with him. It was close to dusk now and we were coming alongside an ornamental lake, the steel-grey sky reflected back from the ice on its surface. Our sombre surroundings and the vastness of the park which surrounded Carstairs’ great house seemed to me to epitomise the grim problem faced by Pons and the more bizarre aspects of the actor’s situation with the unknown menace which threatened his life.
We were walking on grass and the going was downhill and my breathing slowly returned to normal. But the exercise had done me good and a pleasing warmth slowly spread throughout my numbed limbs. Pons had now lit his pipe and he puffed out streamers of aromatic smoke as we walked.