Solar Pons Versus the Devil's Claw Page 2

  “Posted at six o’clock yesterday, Pons. So he will be here tonight.”

  “You are constantly improving, Parker,” said Solar Pons, little sparks of humour dancing in his eyes. “I believe we had agreed that this was so.”

  I studied the card again.

  “Chalcroft Manor, Pons? Have I not read something about it, earlier this morning or in yesterday’s paper?”

  “You have indeed, Parker,” he said gravely. “There was a lengthy report in yesterday’s Times. I must say I have not been so intrigued with a case for a long while.”

  He rose from the table and went across to a jumbled mass of journals and newspapers near his armchair. He returned a moment or two later with The Times and folded it to the Home News page before handing it to me. I soon saw what he meant for he had ringed the article round with ink, no doubt preparatory to cutting the material out to paste into his albums of criminal records.

  It was with considerable expectation that I smoothed out the page and settled down to read over my second cup of tea. I was not disappointed. As usual, Pons had not exaggerated.

  The article was headed: RECLUSE DIES IN BIZARRE CIRCUMSTANCES, with the sub-heading: Mysterious Affair at Chalcroft Manor.

  The account began: The small village of Chalcroft in Buckinghamshire has been terrorised for some months by mysterious happenings which culminated last night in the death of a wealthy recluse, Mr Simon Hardcastle, in shocking circumstances.

  Mr Hardcastle, who lives at Chalcroft Manor on the outskirts of the village which takes its name from the mediaeval manor- house, was found dead by his butler at about midnight, near a private family burial ground on his estate.

  Although Mr Hardcastle was apparently uninjured he was quite dead and there was such an expression of fear and loathing on his face that the man who found his body, Mr James Tolpuddle, aged 57, came near to fainting. Round the body were singular, six-toed footprints which villagers refer to as ‘the devil’s claw’.

  In the nearby cemetery one of the family tombs had been opened; the lock of an iron door leading to an underground vault was unbroken and there were wet claw-prints leading down the stone steps.

  Because of the unusual circumstances the Coroner, Dr Erik Backer, has adjourned proceedings while police investigations continue. Villagers have spoken of many bizarre circumstances surrounding Mr Hardcastle and the manor house, where he lived as though in a state of siege.

  Mrs Sidona Sheldon, the local postmistress told The Times correspondent today, ‘The neighbourhood around Chalcroft Manor is a terrible place. A poacher was found dead there after dark last year and there have been strange goings-on. People in the village have heard a weird tune being whistled near the old graveyard late at night. And gamekeepers on the estates roundabout have found foot-prints which were hardly human.’

  When pressed on this last point Mrs Sheldon would only say that they were neither human foot-prints nor animal tracks. Certainly the villagers of Chalcroft have seen strange and sinister things, or claim to have done so.

  I looked at Pons queryingly but he was engaged in pouring tea for both of us and merely gazed at me with narrowed eyes, so I turned to the newspaper again, devouring the narrative between forkfuls of Mrs Johnson’s delicious shepherd’s pie.

  “Mrs Johnson has excelled herself this evening,” I was impelled to remark.

  “Has she not, Parker?” said my companion urbanely, reaching out for another covered dish.

  I read on in silence. It was certainly an extraordinary story and the residents of that comer of Buckinghamshire were either incredibly imaginative or had seen or heard some very strange and bizarre things.

  The dead man’s nephew, Mr Hugh Mulvane, declined to make any statement to The Times correspondent, the report concluded.

  “Your client is discreet, Pons,” I remarked as I passed the newspaper back to him.

  He put down his knife and fork with a faint clinking in the silence of our cosy chamber.

  “Ah, the tailpiece about Mr Mulvane. You have seen the significance of that, have you, Parker?”

  I stared at him, I fear, rather owlishly.

  “Significance, Pons? I meant only that he had shown the discretion any person would feel toward publicity in such a situation.”

  “Perhaps, Parker. But I would postulate there is something else in it for The Times is not given to exaggeration and most people would have seized the opportunity to set the record straight.”

  “Set the record straight?”

  Solar Pons smiled as he replaced his cup in the saucer.

  “You have an unfortunate tendency toward repetition, Parker, which would become somewhat wearisome in a person less amiable than you.”

  “That is uncalled for, Pons,” I said somewhat warmly, and my companion’s eyes began to sparkle with little points of light.

  “You are too thin-skinned, my dear fellow. Some of the more popular newspapers have put the matter more bluntly in the Chalcroft case. Reading between their rather smudgy and ill- inked lines, it would appear that Mr Mulvane himself is suspected by the locals of having, in some manner, done away with his uncle.”

  “You do not say so, Pons!”

  “I must insist, Parker.”

  Solar Pons stretched out a languid hand and smoothed the sheet containing The Times report. He scanned it in silence while we concluded the first part of our meal.

  “You do not normally take into account stories in the popular press, Pons,” I ventured when I had at last satisfied my appetite.

  The humorous irony was back in my companion’s eyes again.

  “Neither do I, Parker, but general indications may be arrived at by taking a consensus of the reports. And finally one is left with a residue of bitterness and suspicion on the part of the locals against my client.”

  “The Times says nothing of it, Pons.”

  Solar Pons put down his empty cup and stared over toward the window.

  “The Times correspondent is too much of a gentleman to report what he would probably consider local tittle-tattle, Parker. But nevertheless it has given me some general indications.”

  I moved over near the fireplace and sank thankfully into my armchair.

  “To what purpose, Pons?”

  Solar Pons joined me at the opposite side of the fire and tented his thin, delicate fingers before him.

  “We shall see, Parker, we shall see,” he said dreamily. “In any event it does not do to anticipate. And Mr Mulvane himself will be with us in less than half an hour.”

  Two: THE TERRIFIED TEACHER

  PONS’ CLIENT, announced by our motherly landlady, Mrs Johnson, was a youngish man who contrived to look middle- aged by his worried expression; the bald patch on the crown of his head, around which stood a halo of sandy-coloured hair; and a general dishevelled appearance. He wore a tweed suit which gave him a distinctive country appearance and his eyes blinked short-sightedly behind thick pebble glasses.

  He had already surrendered his heavy overcoat and scarf to Mrs Johnson and he glanced awkwardly round him, his face much reddened and roughened by the bitter January wind. He crossed over toward the fire and held out thick white fingers to the blaze.

  “It was good of you to see me at such short notice, Mr Pons, extremely good.”

  “Not at all, Mr Mulvane. This is my friend and colleague, Dr Lyndon Parker.”

  Mulvane’s face brightened as he came forward to shake hands with each of us in turn.

  “I have heard a great deal of you also, doctor. Boswell to your Johnson, sir, if I may make so bold.”

  Solar Pons smiled and his eyes twinkled ironically in my direction.

  “You are too flattering, Mr Mulvane. Pray take a seat. A Whisky would not come amiss on such an evening?”

  “You are very kind, Mr Pons.”

  Our client seated himself in the easy chair my companion dragged between our two armchairs and we three sat for a moment or two unti
l, hastily remembering my duties, I bustled about with the sideboard decanter and glasses. Pons’ client took a great gulp of the golden spirit with a murmur of contentment. I re-filled his glass and splashed some soda into it and he sat back, toasting his feet at the fire, and looking from one to the other of us as though he did not know how to begin.

  We three were alone now as Mrs Johnson had retired to her own quarters downstairs.

  “You got my card, of course, Mr Pons.”

  Pons inclined his head, his slender fingers cupped round the stem of his thick glass.

  “I have it here, Mr Mulvane. It was obvious, reading between the wording, that something serious was afoot at Chalcroft Manor. Apart from the public newspaper reports, of course.” Mulvane nodded, his eyes bright.

  “Ah, you saw that already, Mr Pons. My own observations on your abilities are not wide of the mark.”

  “What might be those, Mr Mulvane?”

  The tweedy figure made a shrugging motion of its thick shoulders.

  “Only what I read in the newspapers and journals, Mr Pons. I am something of a student of criminology and collect such things in a series of scrapbooks I have compiled. I am a great admirer of your methods and have amassed a volume of notes on your most celebrated cases.”

  A flicker of amusement passed across Pons’ mobile features. “Ah, then you and Parker will have a great deal in common, Mr Mulvane. Eigh, Parker?”

  “Certainly, Pons.”

  Mulvane was silent for a moment, swirling the whisky about in his glass.

  “What do you make of the case, Mr Pons?”

  “That there is something deeper in your uncle’s death than even the somewhat sensational reports warrant. That Chalcroft village contains a number of frightened people who may have exaggerated some bizarre happenings but who are certainly correct about the danger there; and that you yourself are putting a bold front on something which has badly frightened you.” There was an abrupt silence and Mulvane stared at Pons for a few moments in astonishment.

  “You speak truly, Mr Pons. What else can you tell about me?”

  Pons lit his pipe and blew out a gentle plume of blue smoke toward the ceiling.

  “You are an artistic and somewhat impractical man, though you have a very practical streak; you are in your early thirties though you look older; you have been a pupil or are almost certainly a teacher at Chalcroft College; I should incline to the latter due to certain obvious indications; you are a heavy smoker; have charge of the College library in addition to your other duties; ride a bicycle about the countryside a good deal, though you could certainly afford a car; and do your own photographic developing.”

  Mulvane stared at Pons with his mouth open and I could not forbear a smile, though I was almost as staggered, familiar as I was with my companion’s methods.

  “That is miraculous, Mr Pons.”

  Solar Pons shook his head impatiently.

  “On the contrary, it is self-evident, Mr Mulvane. You are certainly wearing the tie of Chalcroft College, so it is certain you were either a pupil or a teacher there.”

  “Both, Mr Pons,” said Mulvane with a wry smile.

  “Why a teacher, Pons?” I said.

  “He has chalk-marks on his sleeve, Parker, the infallible sign of the profession,” Pons continued imperturbably. “Mr Mulvane is certainly no older than thirty-five, obviously, seeing him at such close quarters, yet his thinning hair and a certain casualness of dress, which also denotes the academic, makes him seem older.”

  “And the smoking, Pons?”

  “Tut, Parker, that is elementary. Mr Mulvane’s fingers are stained almost orange with nicotine.”

  Mulvane stared shamefacedly at his hands as Pons went on without hesitation.

  “There is also the distinctive odour of photographic developer, with its unmistakable musty smell, hanging about Mr Mulvane’s clothes.”

  Our visitor gave a short laugh at this point.

  “You are correct on every account, Mr Pons, though I still think it remarkable. I must apologise for not having changed my suit but it is an old and comfortable one and I wear it much at the college and while doing my photographic work.”

  I glanced at Pons inquiringly.

  “But the bicycle, Pons?”

  “That is equally evident, Parker. The turn-ups of Mr Mulvane’s trousers bear the deeply-indented grooves worn by the clips over the years of such activity. As if that were not enough I see tell-tale marks of grease higher up Mr Mulvane’s trousers, which are certainly caused by contact with a bicycle chain.”

  “There is no getting round you, Pons,” I grumbled. “But how on earth were you able to deduce Mr Mulvane was the College Librarian?”

  “An inspired guess, Parker. Mr Mulvane has a typed brochure protruding from his right-hand jacket pocket. It is headed College Librarian and relates to current book-stocks, if I am not mistaken.”

  “You have hit the bulls-eye every time, Mr Pons,” said our visitor enthusiastically. “You are certainly the man to cut a way through the terrible web of intrigue which surrounds me.”

  His good-natured face had clouded again and he was silent as he stared moodily into the fire. Pons said nothing but merely blew out a spiral of blue smoke and waited patiently for Mulvane to continue. He put down his glass nervously and turned from me to my companion as though greatly troubled beneath his quiet fa9ade.

  “You have gained most of the salient facts from the newspapers, Mr Pons?”

  “I would prefer to hear them from you, Mr Mulvane.”

  The young man nodded slowly.

  “Very well, Mr Pons. I will be as brief as may be within the limits of accuracy. Hopefully, you will be able to see your way through this terrible business if you would be kind enough to travel to Buckinghamshire to observe things for yourself.”

  Solar Pons took the pipe-stem from between his strong teeth. “That would be my intention, Mr Mulvane, if this affair is as strange as it appears.”

  Three: RUMOURS SPREADING

  OUR VISITOR NODDED.

  “It is strange enough, Mr Pons. Briefly, as you have so rightly deduced, I am an English Master at Chalcroft College, a position I have held for the past three years. It is an establishment of some eight hundred boys and, as you can imagine, I am kept very busy with my duties at the school. Nevertheless, I accepted the post to be with my uncle at Chalcroft Manor which is only some half-mile from the school and because of its proximity I reside - or should say resided - with my uncle at the Manor instead of boarding at the College.”

  Solar Pons’ eyes were very bright through the tobacco smoke.

  “Why did you uncle invite you to live with him, Mr Mulvane?”

  The young man stared at Pons sombrely, slight surprise on his features.

  “Ah, you have seen that point have you, Mr Pons? It was something I have often asked myself. My uncle, as you may have read, was a very reclusive and mean man, despite his immense fortune. It was my impression when I first came to Chalcroft that he wanted someone at hand to assist him and act as a sort of personal secretary.”

  “Thus saving him money?” I put in.

  Mulvane nodded.

  “You have hit it exactly, Dr Parker. But there was another factor also, and one that came home forcibly to me as week succeeded week. It was that my uncle feared something or someone and that he had to have a trustworthy person about him at night. And for my uncle to trust someone completely he had to be a relative. Apparently I filled the bill.”

  Solar Pons narrowed his eyes, blowing out a thin plume of fragrant tobacco smoke.

  “That is extremely perceptive, Mr Mulvane. What were the circumstances when you first came to Chalcroft Manor? How did your uncle come to offer you the opportunity to live with him?”

  “I was very surprised, Mr Pons. I was at a small private school near Tunbridge Wells, in Kent, and I had not been in contact with my uncle for years. He was one of my few survi
ving relatives. At almost the same time he wrote me, a post for an English master fell vacant at Chalcroft College and the opportunity of accepting both offers was too good to miss. My uncle was disappointed, though.”

  “Why, pray?”

  “It was my impression, Mr Pons, that he expected me to accept the post of secretary-companion at a miniscule salary, but I was quite firm with him. I insisted upon continuing my academic career and though he was at first put out, he later came to see the advantage to him in being obliged only to supply me with bed and board.”

  “You will forgive me for saying so, but your uncle does not seem to have been a very amiable character, Mr Mulvane,” I observed.

  Pons’ client looked at me shortly and burst into laughter.

  “That is one thing you may be sure of, Dr Parker, but I am not a highly-paid man. School-teaching is a wretchedly remunerated profession and I was only too glad of the opportunity of taking up residence under the opulent roof of Chalcroft Manor.”

  Solar Pons looked at our visitor evenly through the hovering wisps of smoke.

  “To say nothing of any expectations you might have had as Mr Hardcastle’s prospective heir?” he said equably.

  Young Mulvane flushed slightly and bit his lip.

  “That is a hard thing to say, Mr Pons, and from any other man but yourself I would have found it extremely offensive.”

  Pons’ eyes glittered with approbation.

  “Well said, Mr Mulvane,” he observed with some warmth. “I am merely repeating one of the less scurrilous innuendoes voiced by the popular press. Needless to say I do not share their opinion. If I may say so, you have passed my little test with flying colours.”

  Mulvane relaxed again and the smile was back on his face, albeit a rueful one.

  “You are right, as usual, Mr Pons. There have been some scandalous things said, which is why I have come to you. Between the four walls of this room I have no ambitions in the direction of my uncle’s money, though as I have already said, the berth was a comfortable and welcome one. But I earned my bed and board, Mr Pons. When I was not at the school, and particularly through the holidays, I was at my uncle’s beck and call. The atmosphere of that mediaeval house is sombre in the extreme and the proximity of the private cemetery; the miasmas that rose from the neighbouring ponds in the grounds; and the weird goings-on there, have made me bitterly regret leaving my comfortable post in Tunbridge Wells.”