"Your employer tells me you have been ill over the past months, Mr Granger."
"Oh, it is really nothing, Mr Pons."
"Nevertheless, I should like to hear about it."
"Sickness and vomiting mostly. Followed by stomach cramps. The attacks lasted only a day or two. The doctor tells me nerves, but it was something more definite than that."
"So it would seem, Mr Granger. But Mr Grimpton Junior's herbal tea did the trick, I understand."
The secretary laughed, his white teeth gleaming in his face.
"Well, there is certainly something in it, Mr Pons. On each occasion Mr Grimpton's beverage put me right within hours."
"Well, that is good to know," said Pons and he did not return to the subject but wandered up and down the study in an apparently aimless fashion. He paused before a long row of dark leather volumes and moving to join him I saw by the gilt titles on their spines that they were account books relating to Penderel Lodge and the estate.
"Where were the keys to the Mausoleum kept, Mr Granger?" said Pons, idly turning over the leaves of one of the volumes he had taken down from the shelves.
"In the locked desk here, Mr Pons. One key is here, as you see. Mr Grimpton has the other at present."
And he held it up. Pons examined it in desultory fashion and handed it back.
"I must look in at the estate office," he murmured and returned to his examination of the account books.
"A fascinating subject, Parker," he said. "It is a microcosm of English social life itself, the study of a great house over a period of time and has indeed been made the source of a number of outstanding volumes."
"I have no doubt, Pons," said I, "but I fail to see for the moment.. "
"As usual, Parker," said Pons somewhat rudely, taking down several of the books from the shelf and running his eyes over them. "Most interesting. Estate accounts. Farm upkeep. Husbandry. Household expenses, even down to the still room. For example, there is an interesting section here devoted to Mr Grimpton's grandparents and the Mausoleum. Hullo!"
There was such a sharp urgency in his tone that I looked at him in surprise.
"Something has been torn out here."
I moved to his side quickly. I soon saw what he meant; toward the end of the volume in question, about ten pages had been ripped away. Granger was up from the desk now, his face worried.
"I did not know that, Mr Pons. May I see?"
"By all means."
Pons passed him the volume and the secretary studied it in silence.
"Well, I had never noticed that, though I must confess we do not often consult these old volumes. They were mostly written up by Mr Grimpton's grandfather and father and they have been discontinued since their time. Perhaps it was done many years ago."
"I think not, Mr Granger," said Pons sharply. "You will see where the edges of the tear are white. They are comparatively fresh — certainly done within the past year or two — by comparison with the faded and yellowing pages of the main ledger."
"You are certainly correct, Mr Pons. How peculiar." The secretary studied the book further, his face still puzzled.
"Do you know to which specific subject the missing section related, Mr Granger?"
The secretary nodded.
"Nothing of great importance, Mr Pons. I believe it concerned the construction of the Mausoleum; costs, specifications, time taken; that sort of thing."
"I see."
Solar Pons stood in silence for a moment, his deep-set eyes looking somewhere far beyond me, and there was an awkward pause.
"Well, well, Parker. I think we have seen enough for the moment. A brisk stroll about the grounds would not come amiss. Thank you, Mr Granger. You have been most helpful. We will see you at lunch."
And he led the way from the room.
8
We walked swiftly down the terrace and away from the house. Pons was going so fast that I had a job to keep up.
"Where are we going, Pons?"
"To the estate office, Parker. I have a fancy to see where that third key is kept. And, if there is time before lunch, I should like to put a few questions to Hoskins, the gardener."
As he spoke we rounded the corner of the house and there, spread before us across the rolling parkland bathed in the November sunshine were the substantial outlines of extensive farm buildings emerging from beyond a belt of trees. But before that a massive glasshouse rose on the banks of an ornamental lake. The squeak of a heavily-laden wheelbarrow became apparent to the ear and Pons quickened his steps.
"Ah, Parker, if I mistake not, here is the man himself."
Hoskins turned out to be a middle-aged, stolid sort of person with a fringe of greying whiskers which gave his face a nineteenth century aspect. He rested his barrow-load of red and gold leaves and looked at Pons somewhat defensively, I thought.
"Mr Pons, is it? Mr Grimpton's guest? Well, gentlemen, I must be civil seeing as how you're staying at the
Lodge but I've been plagued a deal by the police since yesterday, I can tell you."
'That's as may be, Hoskins, but I will not detain you long. And I have nothing to do with the official force."
The gardener looked relieved and squared his shoulders as though Pons were about to take him on at a round or two of boxing.
"Fire away, sir."
"It is just that I have a fancy to know a little more of this man Stokoe's wound."
Hoskins' face clouded over.
"Ah, sir, it was a terrible gash. Several inches long, almost over the heart. A miracle the poor man was still alive. Blood everywhere."
Solar Pons narrowed his eyes and stabbed with the stem of his pipe to emphasise his points.
"You are a man, Hoskins, who is used to inflicting wounds with various weapons."
"Eigh, sir?"
Hoskins looked startled and stepped back a little warily.
"In a manner of speaking of course. You wound the earth with a variety of instruments; the spade, the fork, the pick, the mattock and so on."
The gardener's face cleared.
"Yes, sir. I take your meaning."
"And you are therefore familiar with the type of shape made by the various tools you use."
"I should hope so, sir."
Pons nodded with satisfaction.
"What type of wound was inflicted on the unfortunate Mr Stokoe?"
"Large, made by something big and heavy, sir. And with considerable weight, I would have thought. Like the digging blade of a pick-axe."
Solar Pons' face was alive with interest as he stared at the gardener.
"Thank you, Hoskins. I find that most interesting.
You are certain the wound could not have been inflicted with a knife?"
The gardener snorted with disgust and shook his head. "Certainly not, sir. And no-one who really knows anything about such things could mistake it."
"Not even a large knife?"
Hoskins shook his head even more emphatically.
"By no means, sir. The wound was far too big. There was a huge piece of flesh scooped right out of his chest. I know, sir, because I pulled his shirt back to have a look."
"Inspector Morgan seems to think it was a knife." "With all respect, sir, the Inspector is wrong."
Pons replaced his pipe in his mouth and puffed at it with considerable satisfaction, it seemed to me.
"I just wanted to be sure, Hoskins. You have been most helpful. I have only one more question. Was Stokoe going toward the house when you found him or away from it?"
"Toward the house, sir. I am positive."
"He could not have simply spun around in falling?" Again the gardener shook his head.
"By no means, sir. He was trying to drag himself across the grass as I went to restrain him. He kept muttering about 'The Shaft of Death'. It made no sense to me, sir."