Solar Pons had seated himself in a deep leather chair at the side of the fireplace and now he tented his fingers before him, his sharp eyes fixed unwaveringly on the secretary's face.
"Well, that is good to know, Mr Granger. I shall not trouble you this evening, but I may have need of your views and your records at some future time."
"They will be ready, Mr Pons."
"What do you make of this man, Stokoe, Mr Granger?" The secretary shook his head, swilling the amber liquid around in his glass.
"I had never heard of the fellow until today, Mr Pons.
Though he sounds a nasty character, by all accounts. Inspector Morgan has some theory about gypsies, so we may learn something further."
"Indeed."
Solar Pons pursed his lips and looked inquiringly at our host.
"There is a band of gypsies encamped on the far side of the village," said Grimpton shortly. "Though what connection they may have had with the man Stokoe only the Inspector knows."
"Perhaps we had better ask him," said Solar Pons, rising easily from his chair and bidding the secretary goodnight.
"Bring your glasses along by all means, gentlemen," said Grimpton with a good-natured smile. "We will not stand on ceremony at a time like this."
I hurried after Pons and Grimpton, for my friend had strode out across the parquet in his usual dynamic manner.
"The door on the far side of the hall, Mr Pons," Grimpton called after him.
I gained the threshold in time to see a heavily-built, middle-aged man dressed in comfortable tweeds rise from a desk near the fire with a welcoming smile. The butler Simmons was standing in front of the desk as though in the act of being questioned and I noticed a notebook covered in inked longhand script on the desk, with the police officer's silver pen beside it.
"Morgan, Mr Pons. Inspector, Bath C.I.D. An honour to have you here, sir."
Pons shook hands, his eyes sharply scrutinising the Inspector's face.
"You honour me, Inspector. Rhondda Valley, I should say. You are a member of the Metropolitan Police Hockey Club. Enthusiastic rugby player too, I believe."
The Inspector's mouth was wide open.
"Correct, Mr Pons. Though how…"
"Tut, it was simple enough," interrupted Solar Pons.
"I have made some study of accents. That lilting speech with its curious inflexion is found nowhere else but in the Rhondda Valley. Your tie denotes your membership of the hockey club."
"Ah, Mr Pons."
The Inspector smiled again. "I was a member for years when I served in London. I retain my membership. But my enthusiasm for rugby?"
"Your nose has been broken not once, but twice, Inspector. And.. "
"That could have occurred in a number of sports, including boxing," I could not resist putting in mischievously.
"As I was about to add, Parker, if you would kindly refrain from interrupting me," Solar Pons went on blandly, "I have twice had the pleasure of seeing Mr Morgan perform as centre-half at Twickenham in earlier years. So my observations on the matter were based on knowledge and not on the evidence of his nose, though the breaks are typical of the type of blow dealt by a hand-off."
Inspector Morgan's expression denoted amusement as he caught sight of my discomfiture but Solar Pons, ignoring the butler and Grimpton, who stood somewhat awkwardly by the fire, went on easily, "What do you make of all this, Inspector?"
Morgan shook his head and resumed his seat at the desk.
"I have not come to any definite conclusions, Mr Pons."
"That is always wise at an early stage of such an investigation," said Pons, going to sit on a leather divan where I shortly joined him.
"But you must have some sort of theory. The Mausoleum and Stokoe, for instance?"
The Inspector wrinkled up his brow in furrows of concentration.
"It's a rum business, Mr Pons. Frankly I can't see why the man wanted to get into the Mausoleum, though the materials — the bronze doors and such — are extremely valuable in themselves. I had a theory about the gypsies."
"The gypsies?"
Solar Pons leaned forward with an intent expression on his face that I had often observed when a point of particular importance gained his attention.
"There is an encampment near the village. Or was," the Inspector corrected himself.
"According to my informants they left in the early hours of the morning. They will not get far. They took the Bristol road."
"And yet you have not traced them, Inspector, though over fifteen hours have elapsed? Dear me."
The Inspector's neck turned a dull red.
"It's not as simple as it sounds, Mr Pons. We have few men. And even a sizeable band can camp undetected in the woods and deserted lanes hereabouts. But we'll find them, never fear."
"And when you have found them, Inspector?"
"Well, Mr Pons, it's well known that gypsies deal in scrap metal and are not above stealing it. Stokoe was seen at the gypsy camp on at least one occasion by a provision merchant in Penderel Parva who was out delivering with his van. And gypsies are not above using knives on their victims. It is a big wound, it is true, but quite possible."
"I see. Distinctly ingenious, Inspector Morgan. And what do you make of Stokoe's dying words?"
"The Shaft of Death? It could have referred to a big knife."
Pons shook his head, looking innocently from the Inspector to Grimpton, who stood awkwardly holding his drink, as though the conversation were beyond him. By contrast, Simmons, the grave-faced butler was listening eagerly, his face betraying his intense interest.
"I think not, Inspector. Would he not have said, The Blade of Death?"
"The man was dying, Mr Pons. Who knows what he meant?"
"Well, well. You may be right," said Pons, draining his glass.
"It is getting late, Mr Grimpton, and our presence here inconveniences you. If we could trouble your chauffeur…"
But Inspector Morgan had jumped to his feet, closing his notebook with a snap.
"I have my own car here, Mr Pons. I will be glad to drive you back to Bath."
"That is settled, then. Goodnight, Mr Grimpton. We will see you tomorrow."
"I will send the car to the hotel at ten o'clock, Mr Pons."
"We shall be ready. Come, Parker."
7
It was a dry, bright day the following morning and as we drove out to Penderel Lodge in our host's car Pons was unusually silent, sitting in his corner of the vehicle with his chin sunk upon his chest, his eyes half-closed against the wreathing plumes of blue smoke from his pipe. We had no sooner driven through the lodge-gates before two police-cars followed us in and announced their presence by a blaring of horns.
At a signal from Pons our chauffeur pulled up and we descended. Inspector Morgan's bluff face bore an exultant look as uniformed officers debouched from the police vehicles bearing along with them a dark-haired, sullen figure, roughly dressed, and in handcuffs.
"We have our man, Mr Pons; their camp was not far," said Inspector Morgan crisply. "It was this gypsy, Mordecai Smith."
"Indeed," said Pons coolly, looking at the manacled figure of the gypsy. "What makes you think that?" Morgan chuckled.
"Because he has admitted throwing a large knife into the Avon from Pulteney Bridge last night. It will mean dragging the river below the weir but we shall find it, never fear. And in addition I have two witnesses who saw him do it."
"Let us just see what Smith himself says about it," said Pons, going forward to look steadily at the thickset gypsy. He threw his coarse black hair from his eyes and glowered back at Pons unwaveringly.
"I don't know who you are, mister, but I never did it," he said firmly. "I knew Stokoe and it's true we quarrelled. We had enough trouble without convicts joining our camp. I gave him shelter for a few nights and then said he would have to leave."