I passed back the sheet to Pons.
“What do you make of it, Pons?”
“Well, it is obvious, Parker. It is something to do with Boldigrew’s will.”
His face clouded and he looked extremely thoughtful as he carelessly thrust the note back in his pocket.
“The old man’s estate is obviously a key to this enigma, Parker. I had intended to see the solicitors at the earliest opportunity and this appointment is timely. It wants but a quarter to twelve now and we shall be there within a few minutes.”
We pressed on into the thickening mist but had not gone more than a few yards before we heard the wild clamour of bells coming through the dense blanket ahead. There was a strange glare in the sky as we hurried on.
“There is a fire, Pons!” I cried excitedly.
“Is there not, Parker,” said my companion, gazing sombrely ahead to where an angry orange glow was becoming more strongly visible every moment. We hurried onwards, as though compelled by some strange sixth sense of disaster. As we gained the outskirts of Tidewater it was obvious that the fire was serious indeed.
Dense clouds of black smoke, acrid and choking, came down wind toward us and the glare of the fire grew; now we could hear the strong crackling and cries of alarm as people hurried through the streets.
I elbowed my way through the crowd after Pons. The heat was intense and it was obvious that the large red-brick building which was the heart of the fire was doomed. A murmur was passing through the crowd.
“There’s someone in there!”
“The gentleman couldn’t get out in time.”
A large fire appliance with a brass funnel was slewed across the entrance of the street and icy cold water cascaded off the facade of the burning building in showers of sparks amid an angry hissing, while pools overflowed in runnels which swilled down the gutters. The crowd parted as someone came through, removing his hat, and I recognised the strong, capable figure of Inspector Cunliffe.
He and Pons were already in conversation and I was separated from them by a knot of people when an extra loud outburst from the crowd was followed by the dreadful hush that always follows in the presence of tragedy. The heat was tremendous now and a group of firemen, their oilskins gleaming with water were staggering from the building with a recumbent figure. There was a sickly aroma in the air which is peculiar to burning flesh.
I broke through into the cleared space as someone placed an oilskin over the charred remains. Pons’ clear-minted features were grim as he conferred with Cunliffe in low tones. A man in a dark overcoat was already at the sheeted figure and he turned an anguished face toward us, shaking his head.
“There is nothing I can do, I am afraid,” said Dr Sherlock in a trembling voice.
“It is Mr Sainsbury, is it?” said Cunliffe, looking swiftly about the crowd.
Sherlock nodded.
“The features are unrecognisable, I am afraid, but I can identify his pocket watch. The seals on the chain there are unmistakable.”
He pulled back the edge of the waterproof to disclose the partly melted object in question and Cunliffe nodded, his dogged features grim and brooding.
“I had an appointment with him,” said Pons, producing the letter from his pocket.
Cunliffe ran over it quickly, rubbing his chin in perplexity. “This could have been important, Mr Pons,” he said quietly, handing the sheet back.
We had walked a few yards away now and, bidding goodbye to Dr Sherlock, quitted the tragic scene. A hundred yards away, in clearer air and with the intervening houses between, the death of Sainsbury seemed like an unreal nightmare.
“You realise the significance of this, Inspector?”
The big man nodded.
“You give me much credit, Mr Pons, but I’m your man. Mr Balfour’s estate is the key to this business, if I read things aright.”
Solar Pons nodded.
“I have said it before and I will say it again, Inspector. You will go far. I had hoped to hear from Mr Sainsbury himself some of the conditions of the late Mr Boldigrew’s will.”
“Mr Balfour has not told you himself?”
Pons shook his head.
“For the simple reason that the will had not been read. From what my host told me this morning the ceremony was due to take place next month.”
“I see.”
The Police Inspector rubbed his chin again.
“All gone up in smoke now, Mr Pons?”
“It would appear so, Inspector,” said Pons smoothly.
“This doesn’t look like an accident to me, Mr Pons,” said Cunliffe grimly, looking back over his shoulder at the great pillar of black smoke which towered upward, staining the mist.
“Like you, Inspector, I strongly suspect murder,” said Pons, his eyes like ice. “But it will be rather difficult to prove, I fear. Fire is a great destroyer.”
“Too true, Mr Pons,” Cunliffe muttered. “Someone in this village is badly frightened. He may betray himself before long.”
“That is my hope also, Inspector. I am afraid we must leave you now. There is much to do after lunch. Come, Parker.”
And he led the way back at a brisk pace in the direction of Bredewell House.
8
“Now, Parker, let us just have your thoughts on this affair.”
Solar Pons fixed me with piercing eyes and leaned back in his chair by the fireside. It was early afternoon and Bredewell House was quiet. Mrs Bracegirdle was going about her duties in the mansion and earlier Balfour had gone out to his estate office in the grounds. He had turned a deathly white when I
had informed him of the death of the lawyer and the circumstances surrounding it, but had volunteered no comments on the matter and Pons had not asked for any.
Now he sat with the smoke from his pipe curling toward the ceiling, his thin, sensitive fingers vibrating on his knee like the antennae of an insect. Outside, oily wreaths of clammy fog hung at the windows and Bredewell House seemed isolated at the edge of the marsh. My own thoughts were little less gloomy and I stared at my companion while useless possibilities chased themselves about the recesses of my mind.
“About the phantom, Pons?”
“About the whole situation, Parker. You are becoming an excellent catalyst.”
“Good of you to say so. But this business of the will has set me thinking, Pons.”
“Well?”
Solar Pons’ lean, feral face expressed only polite interest as he stared at me through the dancing plumes of pipe-smoke.
“It came to me at the toy-shop, Pons. It would be so easy for anyone to buy one of those masks with which to frighten old Mr Boldigrew. He had a heart condition, as we know.”
I paused, conscious that Pons was looking at me with intense interest.
“Excellent, Parker! Little escapes you.”
“You do me honour, Pons. I hardly dare to suggest it but it has occurred to me that young Balfour himself is the chief beneficiary of the old gentleman’s will. What if he himself…”
I paused, hardly daring to venture the suggestion aloud. Pons eyes were very bright now.
“Go on.”
“It is only a supposition, mind, Pons. But if he had started out by donning the mask and frightening people in the neighbourhood… That would have provided a red herring, as it were. Then, when he struck at his uncle…”
“It really was an extremely tragic business, Parker,” said Pons in an excessively loud voice.
I stared at him in rising irritation.
“Did you hear a word of what I was saying, Pons?”
Pons stabbed the air with the stem of his pipe.