It is perhaps the finest of them all for it combines the qualities for which Basil Copper is famous — a cleverly- constructed plot, worthy of the author of the Mike Faraday thrillers, and touches of gothic horror, worthy of the author of Necropolis. There are echoes of Wilkie Collins, Sheridan le Fanu, M.R. James, and of Doyle and Derleth. The crypt where the crime takes place recalls the one which Holmes visits in ‘The Adventure of Shoscombe Old Place’ and the legend of the Devil’s Claw bears comparison with that if the Hound of the Baskervilles. The story also recalls Derleth’s account of ‘The Devil’s Footprints’ — which he based on the mysterious footprints in the snow discovered in Devon in 1855.
The Devil’s Claw offers a bizarre and compelling problem for Solar Pons. What is the explanation behind the mysterious affair at Chalcroft Manor? Are the wet claw marks round the corpse of Simon Hardcastle those of the devil? Pons and Parker are at hand to unravel the threads. Vincent Starrett said that the Solar Pons stories are ‘the only substitutes for Sherlock Holmes that satisfy’, and he added: ‘I recommend them to nostalgic Holmesians as stories that come as close to the great originals as perhaps it is possible to come’. Basil Copper is the equal of August Derleth and both are worthy heirs of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Richard Lancelyn Green
London, 2004
One: DEATH OF A TYRANT
“A penny for them, Parker.”
“Eigh?”
I struggled up in my armchair in the familiar sitting-room at 7B Praed Street, conscious that the fire was dying on the hearth and that I had been neglecting my duty. In truth I had been out late the night before on a serious case and had had only three hours’ sleep.
Consequently, nature had caught up with me and when I had come in at tea-time I had at first dozed intermittently in my chair and had then, I suppose, passed into a deep sleep.
“What time is it, Pons?”
“A little after six, Parker.”
The lean, aquiline features of my friend, Solar Pons, looked solicitously in my direction. He went over to the scuttle and replenished the fire with coal, sending great red sparks dancing up the chimney. It was a bitterly cold day in early January and a rime of frost sparkled on the roofs outside under the pale glare of the street-lamps. I was about to get up to assist him when he pressed me gently back in my chair.
“Do not disturb yourself, Parker. You must be tired after your efforts of yesterday.”
I passed my hand over my eyes and came to full consciousness.
“It was a trifle fatiguing, Pons.”
My companion proceeded to the switch by the door and flooded the room with light. He hastened to the window and drew the thick curtains against the night.
“Mrs Johnson will be up in a few minutes. She has prepared an excellent high tea, I understand.”
He smiled mischievously.
“I take it you have no objection if we eat early this evening. I have been up to North London on a case and have passed most of the day out of doors with no opportunity of eating.”
“By no means,” I said. “I could do justice to anything in this weather, but Mrs Johnson’s cooking is always exceptional.”
“She would be pleased to hear you say so,” said my companion equably, throwing his greatcoat casually over the back of a chair and going to warm his thin fingers at the reviving fire. I was on my feet now, feeling considerably better after my hour’s rest, and made haste to clear the table of my stethoscope and some medical journals.
“Your day must have been more strenuous than mine, Pons.” He sat down in his own armchair and stretched out his feet to the warmth from the hearth.
“I do not know about that, Parker, but it was deuced cold at any rate. I was keeping a hot meat shop under observation.”
He chuckled again at my expression.
“Or at least the apartments above it. I fancy Roscoe Abernathy will be out of his stride by the appearance of Scotland Yard officers with warrants in the early hours of tomorrow morning.”
I paused near the door, conscious of our good landlady’s stately tread on her way up the stairs from the regions below. “What had he been up to, Pons?”
Solar Pons tented his slender fingers before him and looked dreamily into the fire.
“Forgery and murder among other things, Parker. Undone by a child’s pinafore button. One would hardly credit it, given the nature of the man.”
“It sounds an interesting case, Pons.”
“It is, it is,” he said languidly. “But I am at present engaged on something that promises to be entirely more bizarre and deadly. Come in, Mrs Johnson!”
The well-scrubbed face of our good-natured landlady appeared round the door-panel, her nose much reddened, I surmised, from her shopping expedition that afternoon in the searching wind of the bitterly cold streets.
She gazed at us with satisfaction.
“Ah, I thought you were both in, gentlemen. I hope you are ready for your tea.”
“We are indeed,” I said, going to help her with the tray.
There was an agreeable aroma from the covered dishes Mrs Johnson was setting out and for a few moments there was silence in the room apart from the muted noises of crockery and cutlery being placed in position. I sat myself down eagerly at table while Mrs Johnson paused on her way to the door.
“What time is your visitor expected, Mr Pons?”
“At a little after seven, I believe. We have just time to do justice to your excellent repast.”
Mrs Johnson beamed with satisfaction.
“Thank you, Mr Pons. I will send him up as soon as he arrives.”
Our landlady had no sooner quitted the room than we set to with a will. In the brief interval between the first and second courses I put the question to Pons I had been pondering over ever since Mrs Johnson’s question.
“You have a client, Pons?”
“I have, Parker, and I would like you to stay when he arrives, if you are not too fatigued.”
“I should be extremely interested.”
Solar Pons nodded with satisfaction.
“You mentioned something earlier, Pons, about a bizarre and deadly affair on which you are engaged. Might this be it?”
“It might indeed, Parker,” he returned gravely. “Take a look at this if you would be so good.”
He passed a slip of pasteboard across to me. I took it and studied it curiously.
It bore the legend, ‘Hugh Mulvane’ and the address given was Chalcroft Manor.
In a firm but somewhat hastily scrawled hand was written across the visiting card: For God’s sake help me, Mr Pons, in this terrible affair. I will take the liberty of calling upon you soon after seven o’clock tomorrow evening.
I took a look at the postmark of the envelope which lay by my companion’s plate.