“Posted at six o’clock yesterday, Pons. So he will be here tonight.”
“You are constantly improving, Parker,” said Solar Pons, little sparks of humour dancing in his eyes. “I believe we had agreed that this was so.”
I studied the card again.
“Chalcroft Manor, Pons? Have I not read something about it, earlier this morning or in yesterday’s paper?”
“You have indeed, Parker,” he said gravely. “There was a lengthy report in yesterday’s Times. I must say I have not been so intrigued with a case for a long while.”
He rose from the table and went across to a jumbled mass of journals and newspapers near his armchair. He returned a moment or two later with The Times and folded it to the Home News page before handing it to me. I soon saw what he meant for he had ringed the article round with ink, no doubt preparatory to cutting the material out to paste into his albums of criminal records.
It was with considerable expectation that I smoothed out the page and settled down to read over my second cup of tea. I was not disappointed. As usual, Pons had not exaggerated.
The article was headed: RECLUSE DIES IN BIZARRE CIRCUMSTANCES, with the sub-heading: Mysterious Affair at Chalcroft Manor.
The account began: The small village of Chalcroft in Buckinghamshire has been terrorised for some months by mysterious happenings which culminated last night in the death of a wealthy recluse, Mr Simon Hardcastle, in shocking circumstances.
Mr Hardcastle, who lives at Chalcroft Manor on the outskirts of the village which takes its name from the mediaeval manor- house, was found dead by his butler at about midnight, near a private family burial ground on his estate.
Although Mr Hardcastle was apparently uninjured he was quite dead and there was such an expression of fear and loathing on his face that the man who found his body, Mr James Tolpuddle, aged 57, came near to fainting. Round the body were singular, six-toed footprints which villagers refer to as ‘the devil’s claw’.
In the nearby cemetery one of the family tombs had been opened; the lock of an iron door leading to an underground vault was unbroken and there were wet claw-prints leading down the stone steps.
Because of the unusual circumstances the Coroner, Dr Erik Backer, has adjourned proceedings while police investigations continue. Villagers have spoken of many bizarre circumstances surrounding Mr Hardcastle and the manor house, where he lived as though in a state of siege.
Mrs Sidona Sheldon, the local postmistress told The Times correspondent today, ‘The neighbourhood around Chalcroft Manor is a terrible place. A poacher was found dead there after dark last year and there have been strange goings-on. People in the village have heard a weird tune being whistled near the old graveyard late at night. And gamekeepers on the estates roundabout have found foot-prints which were hardly human.’
When pressed on this last point Mrs Sheldon would only say that they were neither human foot-prints nor animal tracks. Certainly the villagers of Chalcroft have seen strange and sinister things, or claim to have done so.
I looked at Pons queryingly but he was engaged in pouring tea for both of us and merely gazed at me with narrowed eyes, so I turned to the newspaper again, devouring the narrative between forkfuls of Mrs Johnson’s delicious shepherd’s pie.
“Mrs Johnson has excelled herself this evening,” I was impelled to remark.
“Has she not, Parker?” said my companion urbanely, reaching out for another covered dish.
I read on in silence. It was certainly an extraordinary story and the residents of that comer of Buckinghamshire were either incredibly imaginative or had seen or heard some very strange and bizarre things.
The dead man’s nephew, Mr Hugh Mulvane, declined to make any statement to The Times correspondent, the report concluded.
“Your client is discreet, Pons,” I remarked as I passed the newspaper back to him.
He put down his knife and fork with a faint clinking in the silence of our cosy chamber.
“Ah, the tailpiece about Mr Mulvane. You have seen the significance of that, have you, Parker?”
I stared at him, I fear, rather owlishly.
“Significance, Pons? I meant only that he had shown the discretion any person would feel toward publicity in such a situation.”
“Perhaps, Parker. But I would postulate there is something else in it for The Times is not given to exaggeration and most people would have seized the opportunity to set the record straight.”
“Set the record straight?”
Solar Pons smiled as he replaced his cup in the saucer.
“You have an unfortunate tendency toward repetition, Parker, which would become somewhat wearisome in a person less amiable than you.”
“That is uncalled for, Pons,” I said somewhat warmly, and my companion’s eyes began to sparkle with little points of light.
“You are too thin-skinned, my dear fellow. Some of the more popular newspapers have put the matter more bluntly in the Chalcroft case. Reading between their rather smudgy and ill- inked lines, it would appear that Mr Mulvane himself is suspected by the locals of having, in some manner, done away with his uncle.”
“You do not say so, Pons!”
“I must insist, Parker.”
Solar Pons stretched out a languid hand and smoothed the sheet containing The Times report. He scanned it in silence while we concluded the first part of our meal.
“You do not normally take into account stories in the popular press, Pons,” I ventured when I had at last satisfied my appetite.
The humorous irony was back in my companion’s eyes again.
“Neither do I, Parker, but general indications may be arrived at by taking a consensus of the reports. And finally one is left with a residue of bitterness and suspicion on the part of the locals against my client.”
“The Times says nothing of it, Pons.”
Solar Pons put down his empty cup and stared over toward the window.
“The Times correspondent is too much of a gentleman to report what he would probably consider local tittle-tattle, Parker. But nevertheless it has given me some general indications.”
I moved over near the fireplace and sank thankfully into my armchair.
“To what purpose, Pons?”
Solar Pons joined me at the opposite side of the fire and tented his thin, delicate fingers before him.
“We shall see, Parker, we shall see,” he said dreamily. “In any event it does not do to anticipate. And Mr Mulvane himself will be with us in less than half an hour.”
Two: THE TERRIFIED TEACHER
Pons’ client, announced by our motherly landlady, Mrs Johnson, was a youngish man who contrived to look middle- aged by his worried expression; the bald patch on the crown of his head, around which stood a halo of sandy-coloured hair; and a general dishevelled appearance. He wore a tweed suit which gave him a distinctive country appearance and his eyes blinked short-sightedly behind thick pebble glasses.
He had already surrendered his heavy overcoat and scarf to Mrs Johnson and he glanced awkwardly round him, his face much reddened and roughened by the bitter January wind. He crossed over toward the fire and held out thick white fingers to the blaze.
“It was good of you to see me at such short notice, Mr Pons, extremely good.”
“Not at all, Mr Mulvane. This is my friend and colleague, Dr Lyndon Parker.”
Mulvane’s face brightened as he came forward to shake hands with each of us in turn.
“I have heard a great deal of you also, doctor. Boswell to your Johnson, sir, if I may make so bold.”
Solar Pons smiled and his eyes twinkled ironically in my direction.
“You are too flattering, Mr Mulvane. Pray take a seat. A Whisky would not come amiss on such an evening?”