August Derleth - The Solar Pons Omnibus Volume 1

by August Derleth

  "And suspected?"

  "I hardly know how to say it," said our client, lacing her fingers together, "but I couldn't escape the impression that the dead man had been beaten before he blundered into the stallion's stall. I could not understand how certain welts he bore could have been made by hooves. But then, I was unable to understand too how he could have blundered into that stall —the stallion's a brute, Mr. Pons, a fine horse, but a brute. Was it chance? Or was he guided there? Or worse —pushed into it? The day we found the body, Captain Price disappeared —or rather, he was gone —he was last seen the previous afternoon — and ever since then there has been such tension at Pomfroy Chase —as if everyone were holding his breath for fear of something to come."

  Our client reflected something of that tension herself, noticeably. She was now more agitated than she had been on her entrance, though only clenched fingers and pursed lips betrayed her.

  "I recall that some effort was made to identify the dead man," said Pons.

  "Oh, yes. Though his head was badly mutilated, a police artist drew a likeness and it was circulated in the newspapers, together with a full description of his clothing, though that was really very little, what he wore was so ordinary. Yet he was carrying a revolver, one chamber of which was empty and evidently recently discharged. He must have been an itinerant —a tramp or a labourer of some kind looking for work."

  "Did he apply for it?"

  "Not to our knowledge."

  "Did anyone hear a gun discharged during the night?"

  "No one reported it, Mr. Pons."

  "A revolver shot could hardly have been so commonplace as to have gone unheard, if the weapon were discharged near the house. What of yourself—or Colonel Pomfroy?"

  "Mr. Pons, we were away from home until shortly after midnight."

  "Was any search made for a bullet, Mrs. Pomfroy?"

  "I cannot say, but I doubt it. Since no one heard a shot fired, I believe it was assumed that the shot was fired away from the house."

  "Did anyone report having seen this man prior to the discovery of his body?"

  "No, Mr. Pons." She sighed. "But, of course, someone must have seen him. How else could he have got hold of Captain Price's waistcoat?"

  "He might have stolen it," suggested Pons.

  "I suppose that is true," she said doubtfully.

  "Captain Price," said Pons. "How old is he?"

  "Thirty-nine. He was appointed Joint-Master with my husband seven years ago. He is a friend of Lady Cleve."

  "And the age of the dead man?"

  "They put it at about forty. Not over forty-five, Mr. Pons."

  "The staff outside the house itself," pressed Pons. "What of them?"

  "Well, of course, John Ryan is our First Whip, Reggie Bannan our Second, and O'Rourke our Third. Then, of course, there are the servants in the stables. The Hunt servants and our four horsemen were all appointed by Captain Price. We established the Hunt seven years ago and we've had a close and friendly relationship with Captain Price ever since. We dislike to believe that he may not return —that something may have happened to him."

  "And what is it you ask of me, Mrs. Pomfroy?"

  "Oh, if I could say precisely! To learn who the dead man was —to lift the tension at Pomfroy Chase —and, yes, to find Captain Price." She hesitated, caught her lower lip between her white teeth, and added, "If he is alive."

  "I see. I take it you have some reason to feel that he may be dead."

  She shook her head. "It is only unreasoning fear, Mr. Pons. That man —the dead man —had the same kind of figure Captain Price had; he wore his waistcoat well, as if it had been made for him — but of course, he had a beard, and Captain Price was cleanshaven."

  "When you last saw him."

  "Yes."

  "And that was?"

  "Ten days ago. I spent a week in London recently, Mr. Pons."

  "But you don't yourself know whether Captain Price was cleanshaven at the time of his disappearance?"

  "No, Mr. Pons. I must rely on the Whips, who make no mention of any change in Captain Price. They saw him as late as six o'clock that evening—of the night during which the man was killed in the stall. I have spoken with them."

  "I shall speak with them," said Pons.

  "Oh, I don't know that it would be wise," demurred our client. "They seemed reluctant to speak. Would it not be best if you and

  Dr. Parker were to come for the Meet next Thursday and remain at Pomfroy Chase as our guests? I should like your inquiry to be discreet."

  Pons smiled wryly. "Murder —if murder is involved —can hardly be discreet, Mrs. Pomfroy. And it may be tantamount to murder to expect Dr. Parker to ride to hounds."

  I protested indignantly. "I believe I can acquit myself as well as you."

  "We shall see."

  "Then you will come, Mr. Pons?"

  "We will present ourselves at Pomfroy Chase in time for the Meet, Mrs. Pomfroy."

  "Oh, thank you!" cried our client, as she came to her feet in a swift, supple movement.

  "Do be good enough to show Mrs. Pomfroy to her car, Parker," said Pons.

  When I returned, I found Pons deep in one of his carefully compiled files on interesting people and criminous events in Great Britain.

  Without looking up, he explained, "Our client mentioned Lady Cleve, and I seem to recall making an entry on the lady some years ago. Ah, here we are. Lord Cleve, His Majesty's personal representative in Ireland. Eight years back. 'Daring Attempt to Kidnap Lady Cleve Frustrated.' Let me see," he went on, reading in a low voice as if to himself, " 'A daring daylight attempt to kidnap Ethel, Lady Cleve, by members of the Irish Republican Army was frustrated by a rebel, Sean O'Leary, widely known by his sobriquet, "The Black Prince," and a handful of his followers, who interrupted the attempt even as Lady Cleve was being taken from her carriage in a Dublin street by terrorists. No effort was made to harm Lady Cleve. The attempt was evidently planned to force a compromise in the attitude of Lord Cleve in negotiations with representatives of the Irish Republican Army.' " He paused, then resumed. " 'Born Ethel Stewart, second daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Francis Stewart, Chelmsford, Essex.' That would make her Scottish in ancestry."

  "I'm afraid I cannot see the relevance of Lady Cleve's ancestry," I said.

  He laughed. "Nor I."

  "But what happened to the kidnappers and the other men who thwarted them?"

  "Oh, they got into a battle among themselves and the Black Prince escorted Lady Cleve to safety. Once she was free, the rebels vanished from the street."

  "They probably repaired to the nearest pub and spent the night in tall talk," I said. "But, seriously, Pons —do you intend to go to the Meet?"

  "It ought to be a welcome diversion," said Pons.

  "What is to be gained by such violent exercise? Will it help you solve the mystery at Pomfroy Chase?"

  "Perhaps," said Pons enigmatically. "It will at least give me the acquaintance of the Whips who show every sign, if our client is to be believed, of not having told all they know."

  "Mrs. Pomfroy herself seems to be unsure about your role," I pointed out.

  "Does she not!" cried Pons, delightedly. "Her little problem intrigues me. I do not recall anything similar in my experience. The victim is dead and buried almost a month —the Joint-Master has vanished." He paused suddenly, reflectively. "I did not recall our client's giving us the verdict of the inquest," he said. "Let us just look it up."

  He turned to the back of his most recent file, and took from it a packet of clippings he had not yet had opportunity to enter. He went rapidly through them, reading titles aloud as he went. "The Framblehurst Arms murder. The Swansea mystery. Manchester double murder. Ah —'Death by Misadventure Verdict at Pomfroy Chase.' —I fancy it might not be amiss to reread the published accounts of the matter."

  He settled himself to read again the trio of clippings which pertained to the Pomfroy mystery, but if he saw anything of interest in them, his expressionless face told me n
othing. When at last he discarded the clippings and looked up, his face was reflective.

  "Dr. Michael Paradine," he said, "is apparently the man we should talk to first."

  "Who is he?"

  "The examining physician. There is nothing in the published accounts our client has not already imparted."

  "Pons, have you considered that this may indeed be a wild goose chase? That the matter may be exactly what the inquest determined?"

  "Oh, I have considered it, but also discarded the thought," said Pons. "I submit our client's concern is well grounded. Even if we grant death by misadventure, we still have the problem of the missing huntsman. But I am unwilling to grant even so much. The situation presents some interesting aspects. Consider that our client made no mention of anything untoward taking place at Pomfroy Chase prior to the night of the —let us just say, 'accident.' She held everything to be normal, I take it, or she would have said so. She would appear to be a young lady who is keenly sensitive to impressions. She related none. Then a man is found dead in the stallion's stall. The stallion was known to be a brute. The fellow might have been a vagrant, but Mrs. Pomfroy does not think so, because he was wearing Captain Price's waistcoat. And Captain Price is missing. Since then there seems to be a continuing tension at Pomfroy Chase. Now, does not this chain of events suggest anything to you?"

  "For one thing," I said bluntly, "I would like to make a more careful examination of the dead man. I would like to know if his fingerprints and teeth were compared to Price's."

  "Ah, that thought had occurred to me," admitted Pons. "It had also occurred to Mrs. Pomfroy, but she cannot believe that the dead man is Captain Price."

  "Perhaps because she does not want to believe it."

  "Perhaps," conceded Pons. "But I rather think that it would be elementary to rule out Price by the simplest of tests. So let us assume that the dead man was not Price. On that premise hinges another —what had he to do with Price? He wore his waistcoat —a repaired waistcoat, true —so we are left with the conclusion that he either visited Price and was given the waistcoat, or he stole it in Price's absence."

  "That seems beyond cavil," I agreed. "But who would steal a worn garment? —one worn to the extent of being repaired?"

  "Capital!" cried Pons. "And what do you make of the prevailing tension at Pomfroy Chase?"

  "They are fearful that something will be discovered."

  "The verdict is in and the case is closed," Pons pointed out. "What have they to fear?"

  "Well, then, they are fearful of something to come."

  "I submit that is far more likely," said Pons. "But perhaps at this point speculation is idle. We know too little of elementary matters. If Captain Price was abducted, why? If he chose to leave of his own accord, for what reason? The newspaper accounts speak of a 'sum of money' found on the dead man. Surely that is ambiguous! Why not a stated sum? The Meet is two days hence. I think we will just run

  down to Cranborne tomorrow and have a word with Dr. Paradine before going on to Pomfroy Chase. Let us wire Mrs. Pomfroy to expect us for dinner tomorrow evening."

  The following afternoon found us at Cranborne, waiting upon Dr. Michael Paradine at his office. Dr. Paradine was a gruff, burly man, with cold, piercing dark eyes and a thick moustache worn almost truculently on his upper lip. He had kept us cooling our heels in the waiting-room until Pons had sent in a note —"About the Pomfroy Chase Affair" —whereupon he had seen us at once.

  "I am at a loss to understand this, Mr. Pons," he said curtly.

  "I have read the published accounts of the matter with great interest," said Pons, choosing his words carefully. "I have had the privilege of speaking with Mrs. Pomfroy. We seem to be alike in the dark."

  "Well, sir, you have no advantage over me and I none over you," said Dr. Paradine, smiling frostily.

  "You examined the body, doctor. You have the advantage."

  "That is true."

  "Did you, in fact, find on the dead man's head welts which suggested that he might have been beaten?" asked Pons.

  Dr. Paradine looked at us for a few moments in silence. "I found certain welts," he answered at last. "I cannot say that they were the marks of a beating."

  "You did not think it likely that they were made by the horse?"

  "I cannot say, Mr. Pons."

  "Come, come, doctor," pressed Pons. "You must certainly have formed an opinion on the question?"

  A fine dew of perspiration had come to show on the doctor's temples. "In my opinion, it was unlikely that the horse made them. They were not fatal. They were made before death, as their colour indicated. The fellow was fearfully mutilated."

  "Thank you, doctor. Did any suspicion cross your mind that the dead man might be the missing Captain Price?"

  Dr. Paradine smiled. "While they were of somewhat similar proportions, sir, no such suspicion entered my mind."

  "One more thing. Newspaper accounts mention that a sum of money was found on the dead man. None mentions how much. You were at the inquest and you may remember the sum, which was certainly brought out at that time."

  "One hundred and fifty-seven pounds, Mr. Pons, and some shillings. He was hardly, as some people have suggested, a vagrant."

  "It would certainly not seem so. Are you, by any chance, a member of the Wycherly Hunt, doctor?"

  "I have that privilege," answered Dr. Paradine somewhat stiffly.

  "We will see you again at the Meet," said Pons. "Good-day, doctor."

  Dr. Paradine's eyebrows went up. "You are guests of the Master?" he hazarded. Without waiting for Pons's reply, he asked, "Perhaps I could drive you to Pomfroy Chase —unless you have a car of your own?"

  "We came by train," said Pons.

  "Well, then, if you have no objection, I would consider it a privilege, sir."

  Dr. Paradine's frostiness had evaporated; he was now all civility. He left the surgery in the care of his associate, and within a quarter of an hour we were on the road to Pomfroy Chase, which lay out of Cranborne in the direction of Salisbury.

  It was soon apparent, however, that the doctor had an ulterior motive, for he plied us with questions, primarily designed to discover Pons's motives in inquiring into the affair at Pomfroy Chase — however delicately, secondarily to learn how much we knew of fox-hunting. Pons acquitted himself satisfactorily enough, without betraying the fact that he was acting for Mrs. Pomfroy, and Dr. Paradine left us at Pomfroy Chase a baffled and disgruntled man, though he was too much the gentleman to show it.

  Pomfroy Chase was obviously the home of a wealthy man. It was evidently an old manor-house which had been restored, a long, reshaped building of stone, three storeys in height, of which the third was a gable storey, broken by dormer windows. The building faced lawns and flower-beds and a handsome, circular driveway, while at the rear stood the kennels, and beyond these, well away from the immediate grounds, a septet of cottages, all of stone, which were clearly part of the estate, and very probably housed some of the Hunt servants.

  The butler's reaction to Pons's name indicated that we were expected. We were shown without delay into Mrs. Pomfroy's presence.

  "I'm glad you're here, Mr. Pons," she said at once. "I know something is wrong here, I feel it too strongly to ignore. The Hunt servants are so tense I fear for the day's hunting tomorrow."

  "Surely it cannot be as bad as that," said Pons reassuringly.

  "I know you must think it my fancy, but I assure you it is not," she said fervently. Then, sighing, she added, "But I impose on you. Let me show you to your room —I hope you will not mind sharing it."

  "We have been sharing quarters for some years, Mrs. Pomfroy," said Pons dryly.

  "Thank you. Please follow me. John will bring your bags."

  Our hostess led us up the stairs to a comfortable room, the gable windows of which opened toward the stables and the cottages beyond. Pons crossed to the near window at once and stood looking out.

  "I take it those cottages across the meadow are occupied
by some of the Hunt servants?"

  "Yes, Mr. Pons. The large house is —was —Captain Price's. Ban- nan, Ryan, and O'Rourke each has a cottage."

  Without turning, Pons asked, "The Meet starts here?"

  "Yes, Mr. Pons. We try to start at eleven o'clock."

  "Thank you, Mrs. Pomfroy."

  "Dinner at seven, gentlemen," said our hostess and withdrew.

  "I submit there was design in Mrs. Pomfroy's choice of this room for us, Parker," said Pons, chuckling. "We have a fine view of the stage upon which the Hunt servants must perform."

  He came back to one of the two beds in the room and flung himself full-length upon it.

  "What did you think of Dr. Paradine?" he asked.

  "A cautious and ethical man," I replied.

  "Pray do not be so defensive. I admire caution and ethics in a medical man, as you well know."

  "I daresay he was fearful that there might be some disclosure reflecting upon his judgment," I said.

  "I thought as much. In sum, however, his attitude reflects and bolsters our client's. He is certain that the stallion killed the intruder in his stall —but he is not certain the fellow came there by accident. 'Death by misadventure' is ambiguous enough to satisfy no one."

  "You postulate the man was murdered. But who would murder a stranger except for money? —which was not taken."

  "Ah, Parker, you make progress. I submit that to someone the fellow was not a stranger."

  "You are thinking of Captain Price. Do you suggest that Price then killed him?"

  "My mind is open on the matter. But I cannot deny that certain suggestive indications offer fascinating solutions to the riddle," said Pons. "For one —it can scarcely be doubted that the two events are in some way connected, though it does not follow that Price murdered the visitor."

  "But who then?"

  "Ah, I fancy that time and patience will tell us that, Parker."

  With that he had finished; he would say nothing further. He composed himself for rest —which, for Pons, meant the consideration of the particular problem which occupied his attention — and so he lay, almost inert, upon the bed until it was time to make ready for dinner.