Mulvane nodded, his pleasant face less troubled as his glance rested affectionately upon the girl before passing on.
“It is true Chalcroft is a small place, Mr Pons, and we are a small society; the vicar, the doctor, two or three solicitors and the local landowners, as you infer. But during term-time with hundreds of students in residence, we are a busy and thriving community.”
“No doubt,” Pons concurred. “Most of your students board at the College, I take it?”
“Good heavens, yes, Mr Pons!” interjected the music master. “We have a large boarding wing with spacious dormitories. Chalcroft could not cater for such an influx.”
“Quite so,” Pons assented. “So the students would be gone by the time the New Year Dance was held.”
“Of course, Mr Pons,” Mulvane put in politely. “The College broke for the Christmas holidays on December 15th and the students will not return for another fortnight. Our New Year Dance is for College staff and local people only.”
I sat watching quietly, finishing off my second glass of sherry, content to let the conversation wash round me without taking part. I was well aware of the purport of my companion’s seemingly innocent questions. Probably before we even came here he had given his mind to the possibility that one of the students could have been responsible for this abominable business. Now he was merely verifying that they had been gone from the neighbourhood for some weeks when Hardcastle’s murder took place.
It would, I soon realised, have been an almost impossible task for Pons and police alike if they had to look for suspects amid the hundreds of students at the College. I wondered idly what Inspector Stone and his uniformed officers were doing. They had not been in evidence for some hours but I knew that Pons was well aware of what was in Stone’s mind and that they would keep closely in touch with one another.
In the meantime I studied our host’s fellow members of the teaching profession. Miss Masterson was indeed a striking young lady with steady grey eyes, fine teeth beneath the full, sensuous lips and an agreeable way of laughing which I found engaging. Like Mrs Peters she wore a long, semi-formal gown which suited her full-breasted figure and she presented a picture of animation as she sat between Mulvane and Peters, her hair flying as she directed her gaze first in one direction and then another as the conversation went round the wide semi-circle of chairs set about the fire. Tidmarsh was sitting almost opposite me and I noted that despite his athletic build the music master had a pallid face which was accentuated by the heavy black moustache he wore.
It was obvious before a quarter of an hour was out that Mulvane doted on the girl and that she was equally fond of him. It was also fairly self-evident that all the guests were putting themselves out to be agreeable; no doubt in deference to our host and in order to forget, if only for a few hours, the dark shadow that lay across not only Chalcroft Manor but the entire neighbourhood.
Though these people were part of a tightly-knit community Pons was by no means excluded from the conversation and I could see by the ripples of laughter that greeted some of his more spirited sallies that he was more than holding his own. But I confess as I stared into the fire and accepted a third glass of sherry that my attention was wandering and eventually I became aware that Pons had asked me a question.
“Is it not so, Parker?”
I dragged my attention abruptly to the circle of absorbed faces about me.
“I am afraid that I was not listening, Pons.”
My companion gave me a severe look in which, however, there was no asperity.
“I was merely observing, my dear fellow, that there was not so much difference between town and country as the more casual observer might suppose. That sinister events can erupt in the deceptively smiling atmosphere of the rural scene as in the most squalid kennels of the East End of London.”
“Quite, Pons,” I responded, realising that my companion had deliberately shifted the balance of the conversation.
“You have certainly had experience of both, Mr Pons,” Peters said, exchanging a glance with his wife.
His bearded face had a ruddy glow in the firelight which reminded me of an old carved statue of Mars I had once seen in a museum somewhere. Mulvane and the girl looked sympathetically at each other and the music teacher stared impassively at the floor.
“Take this business of your uncle, Mr Mulvane,” said Pons tersely, his words emphasised by the deep and ominous silence that had fallen upon the assembly.
“It is bizarre, Mr Pons! It is horrible!” Sybil Masterson burst out, giving a fiercely protective look at Mulvane, and I saw her clasp his hand impulsively as it lay on the arm of his wing chair. “And the most dreadful things are being said about Hugh.”
Pons sat placidly, apparently watching the smoke from his pipe ascending, yet in reality observing everyone in the room with the most minute attention.
“They are quite untrue,” he said.
“Of course they are untrue, Mr Pons!” the girl replied with rising colour.
“That is self-evident,” Pons replied and there came a murmur of assent and clearing of throats from the semi-circle of chairs. Pons turned his eyes up toward the deep shadows of the beamed ceiling.
“It is horrible, Miss Masterson. It is bizarre, as you say. It is in fact like something from a Gothic novel in its trappings. Too bizarre, too horrible to be true, perhaps.”
“You are on to something, Mr Pons?” said Peters, his voice cracking in his excitement.
Pons ignored the remark, his eyes continuing to circle the company.
“A very clever brain is at work here. And yet the solution will turn out to be so simple that the police will wonder why it did not occur to them immediately.”
There was another long pause during which the two couples in the room exchanged puzzled glances while the music master stared at Pons as though thunder-struck. I turned my own gaze back to Pons, realising he had some deep purpose behind his apparently random musings.
“May we have the benefit of your further thoughts upon the matter, Mr Pons?” Tidmarsh said at last.
“Not at this stage, Mr Tidmarsh,” Pons answered politely. “But I will communicate my findings to the official force in due course.”
“That means you have come to some definite opinion,” said Sybil Masterson nervously.
Pons raised his eyebrows, ejecting another elegant arabesque of fragrant smoke from his pipe.
“Perhaps, Miss Masterson. But it would be unwise to theorise at his stage without further proof.”
There was a general stirring about the room but whatever other questions the various guests might have asked were cut short by the arrival of Tolpuddle at the door to announce that dinner was served, in the grave, ringing tones he reserved for his more formal announcements.
“That has given them food for thought, Pons,” I murmured, as we fell in at the rear of the procession as it proceeded across the hall toward the dining room with Mulvane and the girl at the head.
“Has it not, Parker,” my friend retorted. “You are constantly improving in your employment of puns.”
He glanced at the dial of the massive grandfather clock in the far corner.
“We must not be too late this evening. I shall be up betimes tomorrow for there is much to do. What say you to a brisk walk into Chalcroft no later than nine o’clock if it would not incommode you too much?”
“I would not miss it for anything, Pons.”
The tall, spare form of my companion stopped abruptly, a faint smile spreading across his features. I saw the figure of the maid Angela standing motionless in the shadows. Then she moved forward in the direction of the dining room.
Pons laughed shortly.