We hurried up the path between the gravestones in the brilliant moonlight, the homely sounds of the small village of Grassington behind us coming sharp and clear on the warm summer air. There was an agreeable smell of mown grass in the churchyard and the faintest trace of orange-red lingered in the west, as though the sun were reluctant to depart. Gas lamps bloomed in the roadway which skirted the church and we waited as a small group of excited young people — evidently the stragglers from a tennis party — chattered their way along the road.
All was quiet except for the distant drone of a motor car as we came up to the massive porch door.
“How on earth are we to get in, Pons?”
To my astonishment my companion produced a huge iron key from his coat pocket. His eyes were twinkling as he inserted it into the lock.
“I abstracted it earlier, my dear fellow. The Rector asked me to make sure to lock it, you remember.”
“We are more likely to be seeing the inside of the village constable’s lock-up than the church. Pons,” I said a little irritably.
“Tut, Parker, you stand too much upon your dignity. It is a failing I have often observed among the medical profession. Pomposity, like a distended stomach, is all the better for being deflated.”
I thought it best not to answer that and a few moments later we were within the darkened church. I waited until Pons had re-locked the main door and then crept quietly after him down the central aisle, the pale and cautious disc of his torch-beam dancing across the stone-flagged floors. Pons had a slip of paper in his hand and consulted it quietly as we came to the chapel entrance.
“Let us just work this out, Parker. It should not take long.”
He handed me the torch and I waited while he again consulted the paper, his lean, eager face alive with interest.
“Ah, yes. It is quite clear. Here are the children. If you would be so good, Parker, as to shine the beam on to the floor here.”
I did as he said, considerably puzzled by my companion’s strange behaviour. Pons went beyond the Darnley statue, his lips moving noiselessly. He walked along the line of heavy paving stones within the chapel. He gave a small exclamation of satisfaction and bent swiftly to the floor. I joined him, shining the beam of the torch on to a large slab which bore faded carving. One name could be vaguely made out and Pons waited patiently while I deciphered it.
“Why, Pons, this appears to be the entrance to the family vault of the Cresswell family!”
“Does it not, Parker. Ah, yes, it should not be too difficult.”
To my astonishment Pons placed the torch on the floor where he could see to work and selected what appeared to be a slim cold chisel from the small pack he had brought from his bedroom. He went round the edges of the slab, frowning the while, until he finally inserted the end of the tool into the faint hairline between the slab and the surround. I put my hand upon his arm.
“Heavens, Pons, you surely do not intend to break into the vault?”
“That is most certainly my intention,” Solar Pons replied coolly. “Just stand back, there’s a good fellow.”
I did as he bade, considerably perturbed, my eyes darting about the dark interior of the church, now silvered with moonlight, while the harsh grating noise as Pons commenced work denoted the pressure he was putting to bear upon the slab.
“There, Parker, if you would be so kind as to add your considerable weight…”
I quickly put my hand beneath the edge of the slab, which Pons had levered from the floor and we swiftly lifted it out on to an adjoining flagstone. It was immensely heavy but did not appear to be bonded in any way, though considerable quantities of dust fell into the gaping hole disclosed. I gingerly directed the beam of the torch downward, exposing a flight of ancient steps. Pons was already through and he reached up to take the torch from me.
I followed him down. The air was dry and musty with a faint aroma as of cloves. We had not gone more than two or three yards before Pons gave a sharp exclamation.
“I do not think we need go into the vault proper, Parker. Unless I am much mistaken this is what we are looking for.”
He pointed downwards to where a large bundle wrapped in sacking lay against the wall, in one of the broad stone steps. He approached and lifted one end. There was a chinking noise and he grunted at the weight.
“I think it will take the two of us, Parker.”
He pulled aside the sacking and exposed what looked like a large wicker picnic basket. I got my hands under the end and tested the weight. As Pons had indicated, it was considerable. Pons took the torch under his arm and we each lifted one end of the sacking-wrapped hamper. Though it was only a few yards to the vault entrance, I was already perspiring by the time we got there.
Once in the church it was easier, for we could both stretch properly, which we had been unable to do in the confines of the staircase. Only a quarter of an hour had passed before we replaced the slab. Pons was most meticulous about restoring the area to its former state and was not satisfied until we had carefully brushed the dust back into the cracks round the slab.
I was impatient to be off but he was at last satisfied and we carried our heavy burden back through the darkened church to the main door. There was no-one about and Pons locked it behind him.
“What will you tell the Rector?” I asked.
“That I inadvertently took the key with me,” said my companion.
He smiled.
“It is only a white lie, after all.”
We got back through the churchyard without mishap. Miss Stuart’s house was in darkness except for two lights in the upper storey of The Old Rectory, which undoubtedly came from her bedroom and that of the housekeeper. Pons led the way through into the study, after ostentatiously locking and bolting the front door.
We put our burden on a large oak table in a corner of the library, pulling the heavy curtains across the windows before switching on the lights. We waited five minutes in case Miss Stuart came downstairs but the silence continued unbroken. When he was satisfied that we were unlikely to be disturbed, Solar Pons sat down at the table and lit his pipe.
Blue clouds of aromatic smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling in the warm air as he gazed at the object on the table almost dreamily. He carefully unwrapped the sacking, revealing the big, dusty old hamper.
“What do you make of it, Parker?”
“I am completely in the dark, Pons.”
I sat down at the table opposite Pons and studied my friend’s lean, ascetic face carefully.
“Victorian hamper, Parker. Not much used. Probably kept normally in the box- room of a large mansion.”
“That’s all very well, Pons,” I replied. “But what does it contain? No doubt you already know, judging by your mysterious antics tonight.”
Solar Pons smiled, his eyes dancing with mischief.
“Gold and silver undoubtedly. Patience, friend Parker. You will know as much as I do within a few minutes.”
The handles of the hamper were secured with thick cord but Pons produced a folding knife from the kit of tools in his oilskin pack and swiftly cut them. He opened the lid. I craned forward to look into the interior but was disappointed at seeing nothing but a plain white cloth.
Pons carefully eased the edges of the cloth outward; they had become stiff with the years. I then realised that it was nothing more than a bed-sheet, though the linen was not of ordinary quality. I gave a gasp as the cloth fell away for the overhead light winked back in a thousand reflections from gold and silver surfaces. The whole of the interior of the hamper was stuffed with silver plate; massive silver candlesticks; gold coins; statuettes and other objects d’art.
Tissue paper had been carefully placed between the various items but it looked as though the packing had been hastily disturbed, for the owner had undoubtedly thrown the sheet over the top of the material without first covering it with tissue. Pons carefully lifted out a solid silver statuette of a prancing horse, one of a pair, golden sovereigns cascading to the table as he did so.