Solar Pons chuckled.
“You might, Parker, by all means. And rather picturesquely phrased, in your usual somewhat florid style. But I fancy there is something more behind it than that.”
Mulvane moved agitatedly in his chair.
“Ah, then you have seen some significance in it, Mr Pons.”
“I would prefer not to speculate at this stage, Mr Mulvane,” Pons rejoined quietly. “What happened next?”
“It is difficult to put an actual period to it,” our visitor went on, “but my uncle became even more strange and secretive as last summer went on. He had always been very careful about locking up in the evenings and that sort of thing but it became an actual mania with him. I found it increasingly difficult to get in and out in the evenings, particularly in this latter winter weather. For my work at the school, you understand, and even I enjoy a little socialising at times. I had the occasional dinner-party with parents of pupils and I do like the odd evening down at the village pub.”
“Naturally,” I agreed.
Solar Pons blew out a plume of fragrant blue smoke.
“So what did you do, Mr Mulvane?”
“Came to an arrangement with the housekeeper,” the young schoolmaster replied with a smile. “She let me in and out at prearranged times but my uncle still did not like it and remonstrated vociferously.”
Mulvane broke off and looked moodily for a moment into the fire.
“Have you ever heard of the Ram Dass Society, Mr Pons?”
My companion looked puzzled, his eyes hooded with concentration.
“Of India, Mr Mulvane?”
“Why yes, Mr Pons. Their headquarters were in Bombay, I believe. My uncle spent some time there when he was out East in earlier years.”
He lowered his voice to a whisper.
“They were apparently one of the most dreaded secret societies, with an horrific record of murder and torture. Mr Pons, I am convinced my uncle knew a great deal about them and that they were responsible for his death. He dreaded their power and was in deadly fear of his life!”
Four: THE DEVIL’S WALTZ
A longish silence ensued.
I was filled with astonishment but Pons merely stirred in his chair.
“Indeed,” he said coolly. “You surprise me, Mr Mulvane.”
“How so, Mr Pons?”
“I know a great deal about the secret societies, cults and sects of this world, past and present, but I have never run across them.”
“Come, Pons,” I protested. “This may be something local to Bombay and of fairly recent origin, with which you are not acquainted.”
“That is hardly likely,” said my companion mildly. “And the society would have been long-established had Mr Hardcastle known it in his youth.”
I clicked my tongue in annoyance.
“I beg your pardon, Pons. I had quite forgotten that.”
“Your ratiocinative faculties are badly congested this evening, Parker.”
“Be that as it may, Mr Pons,” said Mulvane earnestly, “this is what my uncle assured me.”
“How did this arise, Mr Mulvane?”
“We were having an argument one evening when I had come in at what he considered a ‘disgracefully late hour’.”
Our visitor gave a wry smile.
“It was eleven o’clock, Mr Pons. I asked him point-blank what he was frightened of and why he kept his doors and windows bolted and barred, day and night.”
“And what did he reply?”
“He said there were more things in this world than I had knowledge of; that he had had dealings with the Ram Dass Society in Bombay years ago and that they had threatened him.” Mulvane shrugged.
“Of course, Mr Pons, I thought he was talking about some commercial company and a financial quarrel but my uncle harshly disabused me. He seemed to regret having taken me into his confidence but had evidently gone too far to turn back. He spoke of his wild youth and his dabblings in occult matters. He had crossed the Society in some way and they had threatened him. They had a long arm and a long memory, apparently.”
“I see.”
Solar Pons’ voice was soft and languid and his eyes seemed to stare into far distances.
“He said much more in the same vein, Mr Pons. He was quite garrulous on this occasion. He said he had received some sort of threat through the post earlier in the year, which was why he was taking such precautions about the estate. He asked me to keep the matter secret.”
“And did you, Mr Mulvane?”
“By all means, Mr Pons.”
“You did not discuss it with the police recently, after Mr Hardcastle’s death?”
Mulvane shook his head.
“It all seemed rather fanciful and I was being pestered with press people at the time.”
“Quite understandable, Pons,” I interjected.
“As you say, Parker,” my companion responded slowly. “There are some rather intriguing aspects here, Mr Mulvane. Let us come a little closer to the period of your uncle’s death.”
“Well, Mr Pons, as I have indicated, my uncle was miserly, reclusive and not liked by his servants or tenants. Latterly, something of that dislike had seemed to descend to me, though my pupils, my colleagues at the College and the parents, continued in the same friendly relationships we had always enjoyed. Now I must speak of these extraordinary village tales that got about.”
“You mean the Devil’s Claw?” I put in.
Mulvane nodded.
“They were certainly a matter for some alarm, though one must allow, as always, for the exaggerations of village gossip.” Solar Pons smiled faintly.
“You were going to mention the death of the poacher last year, were you not?”
The surprise was evident on Mulvane’s features.
“How on earth could you possibly have known that, Mr Pons?”
“Intuition. It is something vital to the private investigator, a sixth sense which, coupled with a certain amount of imagination, may lead to an inspired guess from time to time.”
Pons sent a plume of dense blue smoke dancing toward the ceiling.
“That it must, however, be allied to a scrupulous regard for all available data goes without saying.”
“Of course, Mr Pons. But you were right. The poacher may have seen something in those woods surrounding my uncle’s estate, but it is my belief his death was due to natural causes. He had been drinking; it was a bitterly cold night; and his death, the police surgeon decided, was due to heart failure. Nevertheless, the coroner adjourned the proceedings.”
He paused and gave my companion a quizzical look.
“Thus do legends accrete about quite simple matters, Mr Pons.”
“My own feelings exactly, Mr Mulvane.”
“There has been some talk about the Devil’s Claw, Mr Pons. It was my own impression they were old wives’ tales until I myself saw them. There have certainly been some queer indentations in the earth about the woods and once, near the old family burial ground.”
Mulvane produced an envelope and a stub of pencil from his pocket.
“I myself saw them on more than one occasion. As far as I can recall they were like this.”
He began drawing on the envelope and passed it to Pons. He studied it for a moment or two, his face impassive, before handing it to me. I saw the representation of what appeared to be the footprints of a large, clawed bipedal animal.
“Singular, Pons,” I ventured.
“Singular, indeed,” he returned, frowning at our visitor.
“As far as you can recall, Mr Mulvane? Surely you saw these latest marks, made the night your uncle was found dead.” Mulvane pursed his lips.
“Indeed, Mr Pons. But they were somewhat thicker.”
“In what way?”
“Well, Mr Pons, if you are referring to the wet marks leading to and from the family vault, they were somewhat thicker and subtly different.”