"Do you deny that you came to blows?" said Inspector Morgan fiercely.
The prisoner turned to face his accuser.
"Aye, that's true too. But I wouldn't kill a man for exchanging a blow or two when provoked."
"Well said, Smith," Solar Pons interjected soothingly. "What do you say to this knife charge?"
"I did throw the knife in the river, sir, but it had nothing to do with Stokoe. One of our band, old Gaffer Jenkins died three weeks ago and we burned his caravan and all his possessions, as is the Romany custom. But I remembered that some months ago he lent me the knife. It was bad luck to keep it, sir. I couldn't burn it because it was made of metal, handle and all. So I got rid of it by throwing it in the river and that's the truth."
The Inspector had been listening with some impatience.
"A likely story, Mr Pons. We shall find the knife, I have no doubt, and it will prove to be the murder weapon. It's my opinion Stokoe and Smith went to the Mausoleum to steal bronze and marble from the building but that their quarrel broke out afresh and Smith stabbed him with the knife, which he later threw into the Avon."
"You make it sound convincing, Inspector," said Solar Pons sombrely, studying the prisoner's face. "But I should be disinclined to build your case upon it, if I were you. You have checked the story of the gypsy funeral?"
"It is true, Mr Pons, that the old man Jenkins died and that his effects were burned in a ceremony at the camp," said Morgan quietly. "I am not denying that."
"Nevertheless, this is an ancient custom of the travellers, Inspector," said Pons. "And the knife might well have belonged to Jenkins. It should be easy enough to prove."
"Have no fear, Mr Pons. I am certain of my man," said the Inspector briskly, nodding to his officers. "We are going to the Mausoleum now and I expect to get a full confession before the day is out."
"I wish you luck, Inspector," said Solar Pons politely. And he watched the Inspector and his men until both they and their vehicles were out of sight.
"Well, Parker, what do you make of that?"
"Inspector Morgan would appear to have a strong case," I began cautiously. "And things do look black against the gypsy."
Solar Pons chuckled, leading the way back to the Rolls-Royce.
"Tut, Parker, I have trained you better than that. Morgan is building his case on shifting sands. Mark my words, there is something darker and more sinister at the back of this."
"But Smith did know Stokoe," I persisted. "And the two men had quarrelled."
Solar Pons gave me a patient look.
"My dear fellow, I am not denying it. But Morgan is twisting the facts to fit his own theory. That will not do at all. And when he finds that the knife will not match the wound by any conceivable stretch of the imagination, then he will have to start all over again. That is assuming he can even find the knife. The way the river goes rushing over the weir there, it may be anywhere. And in the meantime the good Inspector is wasting valuable hours. I thought better of him, I really did."
He said nothing further until the butler Simmons had ushered us into the study at Penderel Lodge. It was a big, impressive room, deserted for the moment, with the sunlight spilling in through two handsome French windows at the far end.
"Ah, this will be the scene of the dramatic burglary and chase," said Pons eagerly. He had his pocket lens out now and went up and down quickly. I crossed to a big mahogany desk and stood looking at the serried rows of leather-bound books that marched across the long room, while Pons carried out his examination. He concluded by opening one of the windows and stepping out on to the terrace. He looked sharply about the large expanse of flagstones.
"Well, this would not have given much away," he said as he re-joined me. 'The flags are tight-bonded, with no vegetation growing between them. They would not have retained foot-prints on such a dry night as our client described."
"So what are we left with, Pons?" I asked.
Solar Pons stabbed the air with the stem of his pipe to illustrate his points.
"Enigma upon enigma, my dear Parker. There is no possible motive at the moment. Until we arrive at that the problem is of formidable opacity."
He allowed himself a wry smile and at that instant the door of the study opened and Septimus Grimpton appeared. He was accompanied by a younger man dressed impeccably in a grey suit with a blue bow-tie. The family resemblance was striking and I was not surprised when our host introduced him as his younger brother, Thaddeus.
The newcomer came forward with a twinkle in his eye and shook hands gravely. He was about sixty and though his thick hair was liberally sprinkled with silver, he exhibited none of the scholarly traits of his brother.
"I live in Bristol and am often here for week-ends, Mr Pons," he explained. "This is a shocking business. I must confess I shall find it fascinating to watch so distinguished a practitioner of the forensic art at work."
Pons made a modest disclaimer and studied the two brothers closely as the master of Penderel Lodge motioned us into comfortable chairs.
"Granger will be joining us in a few moments," he explained. "He has been out for his walk round the estate and is just tidying himself. You and Dr Parker will stay to lunch, Mr Pons?"
"With pleasure, Mr Grimpton. Were you present at the time of the burglaries, Mr Grimpton?"
This is to our host's brother.
"On one occasion only, to the best of my recollection, Mr Pons. A nasty affair. Mr Granger chased an intruder. I'm afraid it was all over by the time I got down."
He chuckled.
"Though judging by the haul it was hardly worth the fellow's while."
"Serious, nevertheless, Thaddeus," said Septimus Grimpton sharply. "And now this man, Stokoe."
"Forgive me, brother," said Thaddeus Grimpton placatingly. "I did not mean to sound frivolous and I realise just how worried you are."
There was something so engagingly old-fashioned about Thaddeus Grimpton and his concern for his older brother that I could not forbear exchanging a brief smile with Pons.
"I am worried about Granger also," Septimus Grimpton confided to us. "His health has been far from good the past few months."
"How so?" said Pons.
He had raised himself in his chair now and his sharp eyes were fixed upon the old man's face.
"Some sort of stomach trouble, Mr Pons. Granger has had several bouts. But my brother's herbal tea has done him some good, I am glad to say."
Solar Pons shifted his eyes to the younger man. The latter smiled deprecatingly.
"Granger works too hard in my opinion. I fear a stomach ulcer, though the doctor says no. I am a great believer in herbal remedies. I have on several occasions prescribed my own blend of herbal tea for the sufferer."
"I must concur there, Mr Pons," said Septimus Grimpton. "Thaddeus knows a great deal about the subject. And the tea certainly did Granger good. He was up and about in no time. But I do worry about him. What on earth should I do if he had to leave me because of his health?"
"I am sure it will not come to that, brother. His health seems a good deal better of late."
"That is true, Thaddeus," said our host, somewhat mollified. "Ah, here is the man himself."
At that moment the door had opened and the wiry, dynamic form of the secretary hurried down the room toward us.
"Apologies, gentlemen. I hope I have not kept you waiting, Mr Pons?"
"Not at all, Mr Granger. I have only a few questions." "In that case we will excuse ourselves," said Septimus Grimpton, rising. "Come, brother."
And the two men, with courteous apologies glided out and left us alone with the secretary. Granger went to sit down at the desk and looked at us rather defensively, I thought.