“She was found where, Inspector?”
“Just here, Mr. Pons, at the foot of this pile of logs. She had just picked up some baulks of firewood, which were scattered anyhow here, when she was seized, as you can see.”
Pons went on his knees.
“As I thought, the ground is too icy to show footprints in here.”
“We have been over it pretty thoroughly,” said the Inspector with satisfaction.
Solar Pons lit his pipe, the match making an eerie rasping in the frozen silence of the darkened shed. The shadows danced and vibrated on the walls and ceiling as he puffed at it, the little flames from the bowl making a fiery mask of his face.
“I have not yet heard your reconstruction of the crime, Inspector.”
“I was waiting until you were upon the ground, Mr. Pons.”
With a suppressed air of triumph Inspector Rossiter led the way to the back of the shed. He gently prised back the boards and a whole section of the planking slid away, disclosing the open air beyond. I looked through over Pons’ shoulder and saw that it was a sheer drop below to the dark and uninviting stream which meandered all the way along the back of Miss Schneider’s property to join the farmer’s land at the boundary.
“I think he went through here, Mr. Pons. The drop is sheer, unfortunately, so I was not able to find any identifiable footmarks to prove my theory.”
“How deep is that stream, Inspector?”
“About five or six feet, Mr. Pons.”
“And you think the murderer would immerse himself in an icy cold stream, at night, in such a manner?”
The Inspector looked uncomfortable but his voice was firm as he outlined his theory.
“He had just committed a murder, Mr. Pons, and had stolen ten thousand pounds.”
“Undoubtedly, Inspector, but perhaps not in the way you imagine. Are you suggesting that the old lady took the ten thousand pounds down to the shed with her? In which case your supposition might be understandable. But if he had already gone to the house and stolen the money while she was out collecting firewood, why would he need to follow and murder her?”
“Perhaps she had see him about the place and he wanted to avoid identification after she had discovered the theft, Mr. Pons.”
Solar Pons pulled gently at the lobe of his left ear.
“It is a possibility, Inspector.”
He looked moodily down at the dark water.
“Supposing we admit your reconstruction of events, what then? The murderer, risking pneumonia, swims the river?”
“I have been into that, Mr. Pons. In my opinion he would have first thrown his wellington boots into the river, where they would have rapidly sunk.”
Pons remained lost in thought so the Inspector plunged doggedly on.
“There is a slope on the far side, much torn up by young people tobogganing last Sunday and yesterday. There is a thick belt of trees there also, where they have been chasing about. I submit that the man who killed Miss Schneider had already hidden a change of clothing there, realising that the snow would give him away. He changed into warm, dry clothes and made a bundle of his soaked things. Just beyond the copse there is a metalled road and a bus-stop with a shelter.”
“You think he joined a bus queue and got away to Colchester or somewhere?”
“It is a possibility, Mr. Pons, and the only thing which fits the facts.”
“Perhaps, Inspector, perhaps. And you still maintain the view that the person who went through all these extraordinary hardships was Mr. Watling?”
“In the absence of stronger proof to the contrary, I do, sir.” Solar Pons smiled faintly, ignoring the angry expression on the girl’s face.
“It is a theory, Inspector, no more. I think we have seen all that is necessary here. I suggest we return to the house.”
-6-
It was already almost dark when we came in sight of The Pines again, which crouched in the gloom as though waiting for further victims. The dim lights in the windows merely emphasised its remoteness and isolation and though things were a little better once we were inside I could not shake off a faint feeling of distaste all the time we were there. Chatterton himself opened the front door to us and his frank face looked solid and dependable in the dim lighting of the low power bulbs which illuminated the room.
“The old woman was economising again,” he said, as though reading my thoughts.
Solar Pons nodded, stamping his feet on the brick floor of the small annexe to rid them of particles of snow.
“It is all of a piece with what we have heard of Mr. Watling’s aunt, eh, Parker?”
“Indeed, Pons,” I replied, with a wry smile to the girl.
The vast chamber in which we found ourselves, though it had a few touches of luxury, was austere indeed. The main door opened into the room itself but to cut the draught a small L-shaped hallway had been made of oaken panels which extended to the ceiling. A vast fire now burned in the hearth, which cast a comforting glow over the flagstones.
The fireplace itself was stone and looked to be part of the original house and there were two old, shabby settees with moth-eaten velvet cushions set at right-angles to it with an old oak table covered with books and magazines on it. The ceiling had magnificent oak beams, and two electric lamps which were suspended from them on metal hooks cast a mellow glow over the ancient fittings and competed with the leaping firelight.
A police constable who had been sitting in an easy chair near the fire rose awkwardly to his feet as the Inspector entered, but Rossiter waved him down with an easy gesture.
“Take your leisure while you can, lad,” he said pleasantly. “There’s been too much coming and going in the snow since this case began.”
The ticking of an old grandfather clock which stood over in the far corner made a melancholy background to our conversation, but I noticed that despite the cheap rugs scattered about the flagged floor, there were a few good oil-paintings on the walls, two obviously nineteenth-century landscapes and one that looked to me like a Boucher.
Pons went at once to stand in front of the fire while I handed Miss Chambers out of her coat. She sat on one of the settees and held out her hands to the blaze gratefully. But Pons did not appear to heed the cold. Instead, he was gazing intently at an oil study of a severe and forbidding-looking woman which hung in a gilt frame directly over the mantel.
“Miss Schneider?”
The girl nodded.
“Painted when she was in her early forties, according to Rollo, Mr. Pons. She was already set in her ways, as you can see.”
It was indeed a shrewd and grasping face and mentally adding another thirty years to the already deep lines in the features, I conjured up an extremely unpleasant picture of the old woman as she must have appeared at the time of her death.
“You have described her character aright,” said Pons briefly, turning about him to examine the room.
Two women who had stood silently apart and whom I had not noticed until now came forward. I realised that the room itself was a repetition of the annexe. It too was L-shaped, the length of the vast chamber representing the shaft and the other section running at right-angles to the main portion. There was a door half-ajar at the far end and I guessed, rightly, that it led to the dining-room and kitchen quarters.
“This would be Mrs. Hambleton and Mrs. Rose, the housekeeper and cook.”