August Derleth - The Solar Pons Omnibus Volume 1

by August Derleth

  Our host presided at the dinner-table. Colonel Ashton Pomfroy was at least ten years his wife's senior. He was a ruddy-faced man with quiet blue eyes and a self-assured manner. If our client had told him why Pons and I had been invited to join the Hunt, he gave no indication that it was so; he was courteous almost to being deferential.

  There were three other guests at dinner —General Hugh Pomfroy, our host's uncle —a great, shaggy-browed fellow, very hearty of manner —and the Chairman of the Hunt Committee, Richard Codrington —who, with singular punctiliousness invariably addressed our host as "Master," which Colonel Pomfroy's uncle did not always do —and the chairman's wife, who was seated next to me, and thus but one place removed from our hostess, so that conversation at dinner —which was, understandably, primarily of the morrow's Hunt, fell naturally into three divisions — among the two ladies and myself, which was somewhat disconcerting since they seemed to enjoy discovering how much I did not know about foxhunting—between the Master and the Hunt chairman —and between Pons and General Pomfroy, who held forth pontifically about "some fellow named Pons" he had known "somewhere in France during the war" and was finally convinced that it was Pons's brother Bancroft, though he found it difficult to imagine that "that fellow could be in the Foreign Office," for he had evidently a military man's dubiety about any devotee of ratiocination.

  Pons listened, but spoke no more than the proprieties of the occasion demanded, and when dinner was done, excused himself. I followed suit.

  But, though Pons had spoken of retiring to his room, he made his way outside the house and around to the kennels where the hounds were quartered.

  "Do you know anything about fox hounds, Parker?" asked Pons.

  "About as much as I know of fox-hunting," I answered. "What is the size of the pack?"

  "Twenty couple, I believe our host put it."

  "I gathered that it is to be a large Meet."

  "I believe some seventy people will take part."

  We stood looking at the hounds, I was certain, with some design on Pons's part, and presently we were discovered by a slender, greying man of perhaps forty, who came casually toward us, his narrowed eyes suggesting that we might not be entirely welcome.

  "Is there anything I can do for you, gentlemen?" he asked.

  "You must be Ryan," ventured Pons.

  "Right, sir."

  "Dr. Parker and I were wondering whether one of your Hunt servants is not young Jock Britney?"

  "I hardly think so, sir," said Ryan. "We have O'Rourke, Callahan, Malone, O'Connor, and Keenan. Not a Britney among them. And none under thirty. You'd hardly call that 'young,' would you, sir?"

  Pons laughed. "Ah, well, then, we were misinformed," he said. He turned from contemplation of the hounds, and gestured toward the cottages well off beyond the stables. "Can you tell me, Ryan, who occupies those houses?"

  "Sir," answered Ryan with a querulousness rising in his voice, as if he meant to say that this was none of our business, "we live there."

  " 'We'?" persisted Pons.

  "The big house is Captain Price's —and near it my wife and I live, and then Bannan and his family, and then O'Rourke and his, and so on."

  "Ah, no family, Ryan?"

  "No, sir," said Ryan stiffly.

  "I thought, a moment ago, I saw an old man there," persisted Pons.

  "My father's come to visit us for a while." His words were now so short as to be crystal clear. He resented Pons's asking questions, but he did not want to risk offending a guest.

  "Ah, yes, Captain Price," murmured Pons. "That was the fellow who disappeared. Did you know him?"

  "Sir, we all know Captain Price," said Ryan coldly.

  "A good man?''

  "None better."

  It was now almost painfully clear that Ryan not only disapproved Pons's questions, but had tautened with suspicion of both of us.

  "What weather will we have for the Hunt?" asked Pons then.

  Ryan visibly relaxed. "A fine day. Some clouds, and a spot of misting rain. Ideal hunting weather, sir."

  "This will be your first day's hunting without Captain Price, eh?"

  Ryan froze once more. He nodded curtly, but did not trust himself to speak.

  "Thank you, Ryan," said Pons.

  "You're welcome, sir."

  Ryan stood motionless while we walked back toward the house, for the March air had grown increasingly crisp with the dying day. I thought the First Whip's attitude proof of his cold suspicion.

  "Surely you gained little by making that fellow suspicious," I said.

  "Were not my questions innocuous enough?" asked Pons.

  "They were pointless," I cried.

  "On the contrary," replied Pons, with a tight smile. "Ryan's replies yielded a wealth of information."

  "You cannot mean it!"

  "I was never more serious," said Pons. "For one thing—it is now evident that Ryan, at least —and perhaps the others —have good reason to believe Captain Price to be alive —you will have observed Ryan's insistence on speaking of him in the present tense. It is quite possible that they are in touch with him. That is but one of the valuable facets of our little conversation. I am sure that you will, on reflection, think of others. I commend our dialogue to your study, Parker. You know my methods. You have only to apply them."

  Questions crowded to my tongue, but I knew it would be useless to ask them. Pons had said all he meant to say.

  Looking back, I saw that Ryan was no longer alone. Two other men had joined him, though at a little distance behind him; all three were gazing after us with motionless coldness, as if they meant to see that we did not turn back toward the stables.

  Pons anticipated my saying so. "I saw them, Parker," he said. "I fancy we would have had a difficult time nosing about. Nevertheless, I intend to do so if you'll bear with me."

  He made his way completely around the front of the house, and this time came back to the other end of the stables where the horses were kept. We had not gone more than halfway along the stalls when Ryan appeared once more.

  "Oh," he said, "it's you again." His voice was like ice.

  "Forgive me, Ryan," said Pons persuasively. "I had a fancy to see the stall in which that fellow was killed. Even in London, you see, we read about it."

  "I don't wonder," said Ryan, and added, pointing, "That one."

  Pons walked over to it under Ryan's watchful eye, looked in, and turned.

  "The stallion's out at grass, if you'd like to see him," said Ryan sarcastically.

  "It would be interesting to hear what he has to say," said Pons, "if I could only talk his language."

  Ryan said nothing.

  Pons walked past him, thanking him once more.

  This time he had finished. We walked into the house and up to our room, where Pons made himself comfortable with every sign of meaning to stay where he was until morning.

  "Was there anything about the stall worth seeing?" I asked.

  "You saw where it lies," said Pons. "I submit it would have been considerably easier to blunder into several other stalls before reaching the stallion's. It gives one food for thought, does it not?"

  I agreed that it did. "It suggests that he was led or brought there. But again, if not robbery, what was the motive?"

  "Ah, Parker, that grows with every hour the most intriguing question of this little puzzle. Indeed, unless I am very much mistaken, the solution to the events at Pomfroy Chase rests in it."

  With this I had to be content, for he retreated into a copy of Insurrections Against His Majesty's Government, which he had brought along from our quarters in Praed Street.

  The Hunt breakfast, for all its informality, was a gala affair, and a colourful one, with the field in pink and their ladies in dark garb. Our hostess had seen that we, too, had clothing appropriate to the occasion. The members and guests stood about, inside and out, drinking coffee and eating the food set out on the sideboard and the table, and the hum of conversation filled the air.


  After a few words with our hostess, Pons made his way outside, where he stood watching the scene. The Master was busy with Ryan and Bannan, who were also in pink, but at sight of Pons and me, he detached himself briefly and came over.

  "Gentlemen, Ryan will bring around your mounts in good time."

  "Thank you, Master," said Pons —quite as if he had been riding to hounds all his life.

  Some members of the Meet had already finished and were mounted. The hounds had been brought out —twenty couple, as Pons had said. They sat or milled about, keeping close together, in an open space among the horses. The Whips were not far away. An air of expectation hung over the scene, and everyone waited on the edge of awareness of the event about to take place.

  "How many Hunt servants do you count, Parker?" asked Pons.

  I looked among the crowd. "Two," I said.

  "Were there not four?"

  "So Ryan said."

  At this moment General Pomfroy caught sight of us and came bustling over. "Ah, Mr. Pons," he boomed, "I forgot to ask you last night in what capacity you served the Foreign Office." He had clearly, in the course of the night, convinced himself that Pons and his old military acquaintance were one and the same.

  "Cryptography," said Pons without hesitation.

  "Ah, fascinating, fascinating!" said the General, and launched into an account of an adventure of his own in military intelligence in France, an interminable tale which was interrupted by nothing and no one until the Master walked past to say, "Hounds, gentlemen, please!"

  One of the Whips had come up with our mounts. Pons lifted himself to his horse with considerably more agility than I, but I fancied I sat my mount more securely than he, for he seemed to crane this way and that as if determined to take in everything at once — the hounds forward, the three Whips —the Master on his mount — our client in a little group leading the way after the hounds, leisurely — Ryan riding forward to join Bannan near the Master— Bannan carrying two poles, one of which he thrust forward at Ryan as Ryan came up —General Pomfroy mounting as if he were engaged in storming the battlements of a fortress —the Chairman of the Hunt off to one side, looking a little anxiously at the weather, which was now dark and louring with a northeast wind and the smell of rain in it, though no rain had fallen.

  The hounds moved in silence; here and there a tail whipped to and fro; the voices of the Whips cajoled and commanded. The field made a straggling party in the van of the hounds, with the distance widening between hounds and field; a babble of talk rose among the field in one place, subsiding in another. The field moved across the dark landscape in the grey morning like a great flower unfolding, going steadily away from Pomfroy Chase in the general direction of Salisbury, across a dale, between a knoll and a rambling copse, out upon the slopes.

  The wind felt raw, but Pons did not seem to mind it. He rode now more easily, having settled in to it, and having established for himself where the Hunt servants were and where the Master was; but he rode alert, I saw, as if he waited upon the first music of the hounds.

  It came with startling suddenness when the hounds gave tongue. An instant later the cry "Gone away!" rang forth, and the field plunged forward. The hounds boiled out over the valley, their music ringing wild on the wind. From Huntsman to field and back among the other members the cry was passed that a dog-fox had been viewed, the hounds were hot on his scent.

  What had been leisurely was now charged with urgent action. The hounds streamed across the slopes; the field strove to close the distance between; and the music of the hounds filled the morning, beating back the dark clouds, the threat of rain, and the chill that had seemed so omnipresent an hour before. Countryside, hounds, pink-clad huntsmen and, somewhere ahead, a dog-fox running for his life were all the morning—all else belonged to another world, and the excitement of the chase filled me, as it filled Pons, too, for he urged his mount forward, passing several of the field in his insistence.

  But the area was difficult country. The flat of it had quickly given way to knolls, coppices, and an occasional rock, and the fox in his cunning led hounds and field through the most rugged parts of it. The field spread out and came together again. Ryan and Ban- nan were hard on the heels of the pack; the Master, as far as I could see, rode at the head of the field, with the Chairman of the Hunt Committee not far behind, and our hostess with six other women were close by. Pons was now well ahead of me; I caught sight of him from time to time, riding hard, just in advance of the ladies. General Pomfroy had fallen back —a lone figure bringing up the rear. Ahead, I could see the Whips and the Hunt servants — four of them, though I could have sworn we had started with but two.

  The hounds came to a sudden stop, boiling around in confusion, and two of the Whips rode forward to help start them again. Whining, yelping, baying, the hounds set off in one direction, returned, set off in another. The Whips turned them again, back to the old line, and the pack streamed forward once more, the confusion gone from their voices, their bugling once again riding the wind and falling to ear in this place like a melody of Schubert risen to intoxicate one's senses in the concert hall.

  The moments of hesitation and confusion, brief as they were, had enabled the field in the lead to close much of the gap between them and the pack, though the hounds were widening it once more. The cry of the hounds, the shouts of the Whips, Ryan blowing the Huntsman's horn, the renewed "Holla-ing" ringing down the wind, charged the morning again with excitement.

  Pons had fallen back; now he was urging his mount forward again, using his crop. General Pomfroy had almost caught up. The Hunt Chairman wheeled from time to time to gaze, troubled, at the heavens. And now and then a drizzle of mist or rain whipped into my face. The clouds threatened to end the hunt before the hounds could find.

  Up ahead, the hounds swept up the slope of a bush-crowned knoll which fell away sharply on the far side in a tangle of undergrowth —up and over, the music giving way briefly to a melange of confused yelping, and then they swept into view again. The Whips and the leaders of the field followed —and then suddenly the Huntsman's horn called hounds off, a babble of voices rose, and the Hunt came to a stop. The field slowed to a halt on top of the knoll, though Pons had gone over.

  The Master had dismounted and stood pale-faced and silent, almost encircled by the Whips and the horsemen. Something had happened. Perhaps one of the field had taken a bad spill. The Master found his voice. "Dr. Paradine," he called, and Dr. Paradine pressed forward on his mount just as I came to the edge of the knoll and saw what lay below.

  It was the body of a man, certainly not one of the field, for he was roughly clad. Only a cursory glance was necessary to suggest that he had been resting or sleeping there, and that one of the horses had delivered a fatal blow to his head, for it was broken in, and blood was spilled from it. The road across the valley was not far away, and the fellow had very probably wandered in during the night, for the place of his concealment was well protected from the weather, though the plunging horses had torn away some of the vegetation there.

  Dr. Paradine, who had bent over the body, now straightened up, shaking his head.

  "Dead, Master," I heard him say.

  I saw Pons press unobtrusively forward and in turn make a rapid examination of the body, while Ryan looked over his shoulder at him in hostile amazement.

  The tableau held but for a moment. The restless hounds crowded about, whining uneasily; voices rose querulously from the rear of the field. But the Hunt had lost its excitement in the tragedy before us, and the Master, remounting, announced, "We will return to the house, ladies and gentlemen," and turned his mount to lead the way.

  I fell back from the main body of the field and waited upon Pons to ride up. His face, when he came abreast of me, was impassive, but his eyes glinted oddly.

  "A shocking thing!" I said. "Was that fellow killed by one of the riders?"

  "The wound in his head would indicate that he was certainly killed by something in the shape of a horse'
s hoof," said Pons cryptically.

  "Who was first over the knoll?"

  "I was unable to see."

  "He must have wandered in off the road. Strange that the hounds did not wake him."

  "Unless he were sodden with liquor," said Pons.

  "True."

  We rode for a few moments in silence. We were now well separated from the rest of the field, and Pons, I saw, rode with deliberate leisureliness because he was deep in thought. He turned to me presently, guiding his mount nearer.

  "Would you not say, Parker, that anyone spending last night out-of-doors would have been rather wet with dew?"

  "I would indeed."

  "His clothes were not damp."

  "Well, of course, he lay under bushes which would give him some protection."

  "The scent presumably carried straight over him," continued Pons. "Would you say that is consistent with ferine behaviour?"

  "No. It would seem to me that the fox could be aware of a man's presence in time to avoid stepping upon him," I conceded. "Yet, coming up the knoll and dropping over —it is just possible. . . ."

  "But unlikely," continued Pons. "The hounds divided and went around him. They were therefore aware of his presence. The fox could hardly have been less aware. I submit that no fox was ever near him."

  "I'm afraid the evidence of the hounds must be set against that," I said. "They were clearly on the scent."

  "You will recall that at one point the hounds were confused. There were two lines, one crossing the other. The hounds were bound for the fresher; they were whipped off and put on the other."

  "I suppose it isn't unusual to put up a second fox."

  "There was no second fox. The only fox was the dog-fox we were hunting. I submit he was never near the sleeping man."

  "The hounds would never have left the scent!"

  "Unless they were misled by a false scent made by a fresh fox, a bagged fox, or even a recently taken dead fox."

  "Pons!" I cried. "You can't mean murder!"

  "It is something like that fellow found in the stallion's stall. Here, too, no one seemed to know him. He was, once again, therefore a stranger, but whether to everyone remains to be seen. His clothing, as I said, was rough, of decent quality, but of a kind worn only by someone not accustomed to expensive clothing. His hands were rough, also, and the calluses on them suggest that he was habitually engaged in some menial labour; there are certain indications that he was accustomed to using a trowel, and I should conclude that he was a mason by trade when there was work for him, though his hands are also accustomed to the use of a shovel. It was evident only when one came close to him that he reeked of whisky. Unless I am mistaken, he carried inside his clothing a long, thin weapon in the shape of a poniard. I rather fancy no startling amount of money will be found on him, but the presence of the weapon will disconcert the authorities."