“Hullo! What have we here?”
Miss Stuart glanced casually at the material Pons held.
“Probably some jottings of my father’s. He was always scribbling commentaries and annotations on odd slips of paper. He often worked on his sermons that way.”
Pons sat down at the table and smoothed out the pieces of paper, his brow furrowed.
“You might look in the other volumes, Parker.”
I did as he suggested but there was nothing else other than two dusty bookmarks. Solar Pons went on sifting through the papers, deep concentration on his face.
“I am inclined to agree with you, Miss Stuart. A printed programme for a Sunday School outing; some notes for a sermon; an account for Bibles supplied by a religious organisation. This looks like something different, though.”
He held up a sheet of white notepaper which bore what looked like a set of inked verses with numbers. Pons looked at it in silence, his eyes bright.
“Is this your father’s hand, Miss Stuart?”
The girl took the paper, smoothing it out, her face puzzled.
“No, Mr Pons. This is certainly not Father’s hand, though it has a certain familiarity. But I cannot recollect ever seeing it before. Perhaps it came with the Bible. Father often bought second-hand books and they sometimes had strange things in them.”
Solar Pons nodded.
“Perhaps you are right. However, I will keep this paper if you have no objection. And in a little while Parker and I will take a stroll over to the church.”
“Certainly, Mr Pons. You will find me in the drawing-room when you return.”
And with a quick smile, Miss Stuart quitted the room through the French windows and we were alone. Solar Pons sat, his brows heavy, the slip of paper on the table in front of him.
“Just take a look at this, Parker.”
I sat down next to him and stared at the lettering.
“It looks like a set of Bible verses, Pons.”
“Does it not, Parker. Corresponding to the text in this Bible, no doubt.”
“Nothing unusual about that, surely, Pons.”
“Perhaps not. But kindly peruse it if you will have the patience.”
I did as he bid but I must confess I was no wiser when I had finished. This is what I read:
And as he went out of the temple, one of his disciples said unto him, Master, see what manner of stones and what buildings are here.
Therefore I said unto the children of Israel. Ye shall eat the blood of no manner of flesh.
An ungodly man diggeth up evil; and in his lips there is as a burning lire.
Yet gleaming grapes shall be left in it, as the shaking of an olive tree, two or three berries in the top of the uppermost bough, four or five in the outmost fruitful branches thereof.
All these were of costly stones, according to the measures of hewed stones.
The fining pit is for silver, and the furnace for gold; but the Lord trieth the hearts.
I handed the slip back to Pons.
“I am afraid it means nothing to me, Pons.”
Solar Pons smiled, thrusting the paper into his pocket.
“Yet much may be made of it, if one reads the riddle aright, Parker. May I commend to your attention that excellent English novelist, J. Meade Faulkner. His adventure yarn Moonfleet is one of the finest in the language, excepting only Stevenson.”
“You astonish me. Pons.”
“It would not be the first time, Parker. But let us just stroll to the church. It is such a fine evening and we must take advantage of the light.”
He led the way through the French windows and after signalling to Miss Stuart, who was standing near the garden gate talking to a tall fair-haired man in the roadway, and indicating our intentions, he hurried down the pathway which led to the church. I followed and we strolled through the slumbering old graveyard, with its grey, tumbled tombstones, along a red-brick causeway to the entrance of the Norman edifice.
The huge iron key was in the lock of the massive, studded door and it sent echoes reverberating from the interior as Pons pushed it back on its hinges. The building was a surprisingly large one and paved with huge flagstones in which memorial slabs were set. The inscriptions were worn away with the feet of the centuries and as I puzzled over one pious Latin obituary, Pons wandered down the central aisle, his progress sending back echoes from the vaulted ceiling.
When I rejoined him he was standing at the entrance of a small side-chapel, pondering over a white marble statuary group. It represented five or six children with long hair which appeared to be streaming in the wind.
“Rather sombre, Pons,” I observed.
“Not surprising, Parker,” said my companion drily. “This is an early nineteenth century stonemason’s version of the Darnley children, daughters of a large landowner hereabouts, who were unfortunately drowned in a boating accident in 1816.”
“I see.”
I pondered the melancholy description in black lettering on the marble base while Pons wandered aimlessly about the chapel, stopping here and there to gaze absently at the floor. We had just turned away when there sounded the beat of footsteps from the curtained vestry to one side and a black-bearded face, from which two red- rimmed eyes stared suspiciously into ours, came rapidly towards us.
It surmounted a massive body clad in a black surplice and a silver cross glittered on the chest. The atmosphere was one of veiled hostility though the voice was civil enough.
“Isaac Stokesby, Rector of this parish. Might I ask what you are doing here?”
“Merely imbibing the atmosphere of this wonderful old building,” said Solar Pons courteously. “Solar Pons. My friend Dr Lyndon Parker. We are the guests of Miss Stuart whose house is across the churchyard yonder.”
The Rector drew back and a subtle change of expression flitted across his features.
“Forgive me, gentlemen. There have been some strange goings-on in the village these past months and I always keep a careful eye on strangers.”
He extended a powerful hand to each of us in turn.
“A very wise precaution, Rector,” said Solar Pons warmly. “Miss Stuart has already told us something of the matter. What do you make of it?”
The Rector shrugged, his dark, bearded face impassive.
“A vagabond, no doubt. But I always keep the church locked after dark. I would be grateful if you would turn the key when you have finished.”
“By all means. Come, Parker, we must not keep the Rector from his duties.”
As we walked back through the darkling church. I turned to see the tall, bearded figure still staring somewhat suspiciously after us. Solar Pons rubbed his thin hands with satisfaction. He turned the big heavy key of the main door behind us and stood pensively in the mellow evening sunshine.
“Well, Parker?”
“He seems somewhat of a strange character. Pons,” I ventured.
“Does he not? And a rather unusual one for such a quiet spot.”
“What do you mean, Pons?”
We had resumed out aimless strolling through the churchyard and Pons paused a moment before replying, shading his eyes as he gazed after the fair-haired man who had been talking to our hostess.
“A military man, Parker,” he resumed. “One accustomed to giving orders and commanding men.”
I stared at my companion in puzzlement.
“How do you make that out. Pons?”