Pons turned his lean, hawk-like face toward our host. "Incidentally, why did you not leave this matter to the official police, Mr Grimpton?"
The old scholar hesitated, a strange expression on his face.
"It seemed to me that there was something here beyond the purview of the normal," he said.
"Something that might affect your family?"
Septimus Grimpton smiled faintly.
"You are an extremely shrewd man, Mr Pons. This business of the family vault, for example."
Pons stood with one hand pulling at the lobe of his ear.
"You may rely on my discretion, Mr Grimpton. Providing that it sits four-square with my conscience." "That is understood, Mr Pons."
Grimpton signalled to his chauffeur and the man brought the car up while Pons replaced the canvas over the driveway. The headlamp beams were now slewed across the park and Pons followed the trail of foot-prints, easily distinguished now in the soft grass. They ended on a knoll, among the grove of trees our host had already spoken of. Pons knelt, his torch-beam steady on the thick, dark patch of blood still visible on the ground, indicating the spot where the unfortunate Stokoe had died.
He rose to his feet, putting the lens away, while his deep-set eyes looked across to the facade of the gracious house that fronted us across the parkland, its bulk bleached silver in the moonlight.
"The sequence of events seems perfectly clear, Mr Grimpton. The man was evidently making for the house after the brutal attack on him. What did the police say about the cause of death?"
Grimpton led the way back down from the knoll in the direction from which we had come, while the car reversed until it was pointed toward the main gates.
"A massive wound over the heart, Mr Pons. Apparently inflicted with some semi-sharp instrument wielded with considerable force. Dr Kellett said it was incredible Stokoe had survived so long."
"How could he have got into the grounds?"
"There are many places along the boundary, Mr Pons. Hedges, or even high walls will not keep such people out."
"Very true, Mr Grimpton. I should like to see this family Mausoleum of yours before we go to the house." "Certainly, Mr Pons."
We had entered the car by this time and our host tapped on the glass partition; the Rolls-Royce glided back down the driveway and then took a secondary fork to the left which wound uphill through dark belts of trees. At length we came to a wide concourse and the trees dropped away. The beams of the headlights picked out a large octagonal building of white marble which seemed to shimmer like bone in the moonlight.
"That is the Mausoleum, gentlemen," said Grimpton in a hushed voice.
5
Pons descended from our vehicle and rapidly crossed over to the marble steps of the white building which was of tremendous size. We waited before the palatial bronze doors in the rising wind as Septimus Grimpton hurried after us. The chauffeur again brought the Rolls-Royce as far up toward the steps as was practicable until the beams illuminated the doorway.
Grimpton produced a large bronze key and inserted it into the lock.
"The police have finished their investigations here, Mr Pons," he murmured. "I have told the Inspector I was engaging your services and he said I could not have done better."
"That is extremely flattering, Mr Grimpton," said Pons gravely, shooting me a swift glance.
He put his hand to the portal which went easily round with a barely perceptible squeak.
"How often is this place entered, Mr Grimpton?" Our client hesitated.
"Perhaps once or twice a year, Mr Pons," he replied. "There was some small memorial ceremony in my father's time, which has persisted in latter years."
"Your parents are not interred here?"
A startled look passed across Grimpton's face, accentuated by the yellow light of the headlamp beams.
"Certainly not, Mr Pons," he said sharply. "They did not subscribe to my grandfather's eccentricities. They are buried in a village churchyard in Devonshire."
Solar Pons had his pocket torch out and was examining the hinges of the giant door.
"I ask only because of the state of these doors, Mr Grimpton. They have been recently greased."
"That is indeed strange, Mr Pons. I will question my outdoor staff if you think it important."
"It is of the utmost significance," said Solar Pons mysteriously. "Eh, Parker?"
I blinked.
"If you say so, Pons."
Solar Pons smiled enigmatically and directed his torch beam on to the interior of the Mausoleum. It was indeed a curious chamber in which we found ourselves; beyond the spacious entrance whose bronze vases set within niches had obviously once contained flowers, there was a large circular room about thirty feet wide. Our footsteps echoed heavily under the domed ceiling as we went slowly over the marble inlaid paving, which bore rich, incised patterns in green and gold. There were no windows and the lights of the car from outside, and the beams from Pons' torch, cast strange and sombre shadows which fled across the white walls.
The bloodied footprints, of which brief traces remained on the steps outside, were again visible here, and Pons gave a little catch of his breath as he followed them back with his torch.
"What do you make of it, Parker?"
I bent down to examine the markings more closely. "Why, that he was struck somewhere within the Mausoleum, Pons?"
"Excellent, Parker. As a medical man I was sure that fact would not escape you."
"How so, Mr Pons?" put in Septimus Grimpton.
"Because, as so often happens, Mr Grimpton, the wound did not commence to bleed at once. It was only afterward, as he began to walk that the blood pumped more vigorously through his veins, and copious bleeding began, outside the Mausoleum."
There was a heavy silence as our client absorbed this information. It was broken by Pons, who went forward to a raised dais in the centre of the chamber. It bore the sarcophagus of Septimus Grimpton's grandmother if the marble female effigy sculptured on top was a true indication.
The plinth carried the inscription, in heavy chiselled letters:
EPHROSINA GRIMPTON 1780–1855.
And underneath, in flowing script lettering:
TURN DOWN AN EMPTY GLASS.
"An unusual inscription, Pons," I began.
"A quotation from the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, Parker," said Pons. "The final stanza in Fitzgerald's translation, if I am not mistaken. It refers to the ephemerality of all human hopes and aspirations, Parker. But it is a strange epitaph for the mid-Victorian period, I agree. Your grandfather was an unusual man, Mr Grimpton."
"Indeed, Mr Pons," said the old scholar, looking at my companion with intense blue eyes. "I did not think the quotation would escape you. Though of ripe years, my grandmother died in a riding accident."
Pons was silent for a few moments, carefully examining the plinth of the sarcophagus and the surrounding floor, which also bore traces of blood-flecks. The plinth was set in the midst of a circular pattern and I followed it round when Pons gave another brief exclamation. I followed the dancing beam of the torch and saw the bloodied imprints of two hands on the feet of the white marble figure.
"I would venture to say that Stokoe was struck somewhere about here, Mr Grimpton. He first put his hand to his breast, where he had been wounded, and carried the first traces of blood to the effigy here as he leaned against it to recover himself."
"He must have been a man of tremendous strength, Mr Pons."
"I am inclined to agree, Mr Grimpton."
Pons looked round curiously.
"But I must confess there are some aspects which puzzle me. I find no trace of a second person, the man who struck the blow. Yet he must have been close beside his victim. And why did he not strike him again to finish him?"