"The sequence of events in the unfortunate Fawkes' bedroom was perfectly clear, Parker. I immediately noted the indentations of the rope in the soft wood of the bedstead and there were marks on the floor where the bed had been dragged by the weight of the dying man's body. This was, of course, the squeaking noise heard by Miss Brentwood. You saw me examine the brickwork outside her room, Parker. There were clear traces where the man's toes had scraped across the wall.
"Of course, Roseacre had then to draw the shutters across the window to avoid the broken panes being seen outside and to make some excuse to Mrs. Bevan for clearing up the room itself. It was obvious to me immediately that Miss Brentwood had suffered no dream or hallucination, though her uncle himself acted skillfully enough to partly convince her that she had.
"Now, Parker, hear this. Roseacre dare not repeat his experiment in the rose garden. So he drove to London in the dark hours of the night, leaving his niece in care of Mrs. Bevan, the body of his victim in the trunk of his car. He went straight to Fawkes' house at Chapel Court, using the dead man's own key. Here he had some hours undisturbed.
"He was able to stage quite a convincing if somewhat grim scenario. After he had hanged Fawkes' body from a beam in his bedroom, he burned a great many of the man's papers and documents in the grate, including some photographs of the dead man which might have proved incriminating. Fortunately, like most criminals, he overdid it. He undoubtedly threw the police suspicion in the right direction. He left enough material in the deed-boxes to make it plain that the fake Marcus had swindled his clients of money from their estates, including that of Miss Brentwood. He certainly removed any material that might have incriminated himself."
"How did he overdo it, Pons?"
"Because, Parker, no man committing suicide, in my experience at least, would bother to bum his photographs. Incriminating papers, old love letters, certainly. That is understandable and natural. But self-love dies hardest of all and though a suicide for love might destroy a beloved'sphotograph, I have never yet met a case where the victim of such a tragedy destroyed his own. However, this was not the only detail which guided me to the truth.
"I had already gone to the mortuary because, of course, I needed police cooperation to gain access to the premises at Chapel Court. I found Jamison already viewing the body."
"Extraordinary, Pons."
My companion nodded, ignoring the bowed figure in the easy chair by the fireplace.
"None other, Parker. He is nothing if not dogged. The
scratches made by the broken window on the body of the corpse had worried the police surgeon and now it puzzled him. We were able to pool our ideas to mutual advantage. The fingerprints of the corpse were taken and it was soon established that Marcus was Fawkes, who bad a police record, remember. On our visit to Chapel Court Jamison showed me a scrap of one of the photographs. It bore a few fragments of lettering and I was able to identify it as the cipher of Leibnitz, the portrait photographer in the Strand. Jamison went there and their records clinched the matter."
"You certainly had a busy day, Pons! I exclaimed in admiration.
"Did I not, Parker," said Solar Pons, his eyes grim as he looked at Roseacre, who seemed somewhat to have recovered his spirits. Now he drew himself up and passed a hand across his haggard face.
"You are going to find this rigmarole rather difficult to prove, Pons. Most of it is supposition and entirely unsupported. And as for your preposterous story about the rose garden…"
"You were extremely clever," Solar Pons interrupted. "You went to the police today — as you would have to give evidence at the inquest — and you bluffed it out magnificently there."
He went to stand in front of the dining room door as he spoke.
"But Jamison already had his suspicions. He had been to the bank and found the disordered state of affairs in the estates of Marcus' clients. Fortunately for your niece she still has 13,000 of the 100,000 pounds remaining and the sale of this house and contents will raise a considerable further sum so she should not be too badly off."
Roseacre had recovered himself completely now. "You are mad, Pons!" His eyes were blazing.
Solar Pons shook his head.
"We will see who is mad."
Roseacre gave a sneering smile.
"There is nothing in the rose garden!"
He moved so suddenly that I was taken unaware; his iron hand was on the revolver which exploded harmlessly at the ceiling. I went backwards in the big easy chair all of a tumble and as I staggered up Roseacre rushed toward the kitchen door, his only escape route.
"After him, Parker!"
I was at Pons' heels as Roseacre kicked open the door to reveal the gas-lit interior and the ghastly cry he gave rings in my ears yet. He sagged against the door panel, his face drained of all color. Beyond him, on the bare-scrubbed kitchen table was the remains of the rotted thing in the tarpaulin, all eaten and burned with lime, that we had excavated from the garden earlier that evening.
"You devil, Pons!" he croaked with ashen face, his trembling lips hardly able to articulate the words. "Everything you said was true."
"I regret the Grand Guignol conclusion," said Solar Pons evenly, "but it was entirely necessary. I hope you got everything, Jamison?"
To my astonishment a large cupboard at the side of the dining room opened and the portly figure of the Scotland Yard man, together with a burly constable appeared in the opening.
"I am obliged to you, Mr. Pons," said Jamison. "We could never have cracked this without knowing events at this end. As you suggested, we watched the stations and managed to shadow our man without arousing his suspicion. He stayed at the Green Dragon long enough for us to beat him here, with the help of Mrs. Bevan."
"You were perfectly correct, Roseacre," said Solar Pons coolly. "The corpse of the real Marcus was not buried in the rose garden. Or rather in the spot to which you had carefully drawn Miss Brentwood's attention. We dug there tonight and found nothing but the dog, just as you intended if suspicion ever fell upon you. It was a considerable blow to me, I can assure you."
Solar Pons paused, his implacable gaze fixed on the ashen face of the murderer.
"But then I remembered something that Miss Brentwood said. Even in death your littlest victim, your niece's pet dog which you poisoned, pointed undeniably to your guilt. Miss Brentwood said that the rose bushes had been dug up. So they had, but not from the area where you had deliberately laid the new terrace. Your niece said that the dog had been scratching about among the border up at one end. You had buried the corpse in quicklime in a place no one would ever think of looking. It was beneath the bench on which you sat day after day in summer staring no doubt ironically, at the spot where you bad buried the dog. I might never had realized it but for
the fact that this ordinary wooden garden bench was secured at each end in two massive slabs of masonry. Something so out of the normal that it aroused my suspicions. You could not feel safe unless you were actually sitting on the corpse of your victim. One would pity you were your crimes not so atrocious."
Roseacre gave a muffled cry and pushed past us with extraordinary strength and. agility, scooping up my revolver from the floor as he ran. I rushed after him but he had already slammed his heavy study door behind him. Pons put his hand on my arm.
"No matter, my dear fellow. It is better this way."
The heavy thunder of the suicide' explosion sounded astonishingly loud in the silence of the night. As Jamison and the constable put their shoulders to the panel Pons led me through the hallway. The fair, frightened face of our client looked over the banisters.
"What does that mean, Mr. Pons?" she said tremulously.