August Derleth - The Solar Pons Omnibus Volume 1

by August Derleth

  "I take it this isn't a social call, Jamison," said Pons.

  Jamison smiled. "Well, you might say it is and you might say it isn't. We're not exactly befuddled at the Yard, and we'll have the fellow who killed Max Markheim within twenty-four hours. But you're right, Pons, there's a bit of a puzzle troubling me. Ever hear of a man named Abraham Aubrey?"

  "The name isn't entirely unfamiliar," said Pons thoughtfully. "He is the author of some trifling pieces on philological matters."

  "That's the fellow. Has a place in Stepney—private house. Sells antiques and such. Dabbles in linguistics and philology. About fifty-five. One of our men reported that a thief he was watching went into his place of business. After reading his report, we decided to go around and pay Aubrey a visit. We got there just as he was having a heart attack. We took him to a hospital. He's bad. Couldn't answer questions. One curious thing. He'd evidently just opened his mail, and he still had a letter clutched in his hand. We can't make head or tail of it."

  "You've brought it?"

  Jamison took a plain envelope from his pocket and handed it to Pons. "I don't know that it had anything to do with his heart attack. Very likely not. We thought it might be in code and our cipher people have had a go at it. Made nothing out of it. Doesn't seem to be any code we know, or any sort of cipher. Since I had to be in the vicinity this evening, I thought I'd just bring it along and show it to you. I know your interest in oddments of this sort."

  Pons had taken from the envelope a folded piece of lined paper which still bore the creases of having been crushed in Aubrey's hand. His eyes lit, flickering over the message scrawled there; he looked up.

  "It seems clearly an adjuration to Aubrey," he said, his lips trembling with withheld laughter.

  "Aha, but what?" cried Jamison.

  Pons handed the message to me. "Read it slowly aloud, Parker."

  " 'Aubrey, thou fribbling dotard, get thee to thy pinquid pightle to dabble and stolch about next rodomel tosy in dark. And 'ware the horrid hent!' —There's no signature."

  "Aubrey must have known who wrote it," said Jamison. "And he must have known what it meant."

  "I daresay he did —but it's hardly enough of a message to bring on a heart attack," said Pons dryly. "I have no doubt you already noticed that the paper is of the most common kind. ..."

  "Of course."

  "And precisely, too, that kind of paper issued to those unfortunates detained at His Majesty's pleasure."

  Jamison nodded curtly. "The question is —what's it mean?"

  "I daresay I'll have the answer to that in a few days," said Pons crisply. "If you want it. Parker, be a good fellow, and copy this message."

  I took the letter to the table and set to work copying it.

  "There's no date on the letter; nothing to show when it was written," Jamison grumbled.

  "But you found its envelope —which was not that in which you brought it. When and where was it posted?"

  "Three days ago at Princetown, Devonshire."

  Pons smiled enigmatically. "Now, then —Aubrey owns some property in the country. Do you know where it is?"

  Jamison flashed a glance of momentary annoyance at Pons. "I don't know how you do these things, Pons. Hardly a minute ago you knew only that Aubrey wrote some philological papers —now you know he owns property in the country."

  "Ah, I submit that is, as Parker would say, elementary. You know where it is. Come, Jamison, don't waste time."

  "He has about fifty acres near Stow —that's the Stow in Lincolnshire, near Stow Park, not far from Lincoln." He grimaced. "I know that country well. We were all through it with a fine-toothed comb looking for Lady Canevin's jewels —ten thousand pounds gone!"

  "Ah, the cat burglaries. Let me see —that would be seven years ago. You took in Archie Prior for that series of burglaries."

  Jamison nodded. "And we're reasonably certain he took Lady Canevin's jewels, too —we were hot on his heels that night, but he slipped away from us —took to the fields when we had the roads watched. We caught him in the Colby house in Lincoln next day — we had his prints on a little job he'd done a week before. He got eight years. We never recovered more of the stuff than he had on him or on his premises in London. And precious little that was."

  Pons nodded thoughtfully. He sat for a few moments with eyes closed, his long lean fingers tented before him.

  I finished copying the letter sent to Aubrey and gave the original back to Jamison.

  Pons opened his eyes. "Tell me about Aubrey. Is he tall, fat, short?"

  Jamison shrugged. "Average. About your height. A bit heavier. Lean-faced, too, though he wears a full beard."

  "Capital!" cried Pons, his austere face becoming suddenly animated. "He lived alone?"

  The Inspector nodded. "I suspect we saved his life, coming when we did."

  "Then you have access to his premises?"

  "We locked the house after him."

  "Pray send around the key, Jamison. And a likeness of Aubrey. I expect to take possession during the night. I fancy there is little time to lose. Give me three days. At the end of that time, I submit it may be well worth your while to conduct a careful search of the premises."

  Jamison stared at him for a few moments. Then, choking back the questions in his throat, he nodded. "I'll have the key here in an hour —and a photograph of Aubrey. Though I may regret it!"

  He clapped his bowler to his head, shrugged into his coat, and bade us good-evening.

  "I must confess," I said, "I made little sense out of that letter."

  "Tut, tut! The message was plain as a pikestaff to anyone but those who looked for riddles in it," said Pons. "Its author stirs my admiration and fires my interest. And so, too, does Mr. Abraham Aubrey. I trust he will recover, though his heart attack would seem to be fortuitous for our little inquiry."

  "It is certainly too much of a coincidence that he should have a heart attack on reading that message," I said.

  "Ah, not on reading it so much as its receipt at all. There is no signature, as you've seen. Yet I submit that Aubrey knew at once who had sent it to him. He had not expected to hear from that source, I'll wager. Let me call to your attention the fact that the letter was sent from Princetown, which is the site of Dartmoor."

  "It came from someone in prison?"

  "I should think that a sound deduction," said Pons.

  "But its meaning —if it has any —escapes me."

  "I daresay. It is one that a philologist might especially appreciate." He smiled. "But quite apart from its meaning, I submit it conveys certain facts. The writer, if not interested in linguistics or philology himself, has at least been intimately enough associated with Aubrey to have assimilated a ready familiarity with the subject. Presumably that association was broken. By what else if not the jailing of the writer? Quite possibly also there had developed a rift between the two, which might account for Aubrey's shock at receiving this directive in the mail. These facts, slender as they are, arouse some interesting speculations about the precise nature of the association between Abraham Aubrey, antique dealer and amateur philologist, and an unknown prisoner who is almost certainly being detained at His Majesty's pleasure." He shrugged. "But let us speculate no more. We shall explore the problem all in good time."

  True to his word, Inspector Jamison sent around the key to the Stepney house of Abraham Aubrey, and a photograph of the man himself—evidently one newly taken by someone at Scotland Yard, for it revealed Aubrey lying in his hospital bed. At once upon their arrival, Pons sprang into action. He retired to his chamber, and in less than half an hour emerged, wearing a beard, bushy eyebrows, and sideboards making him resemble Aubrey.

  "Come along, Parker. The game's afoot. Mr. Abraham Aubrey is going home."

  "Pons! You can't mean simply to walk into the man's home and take possession!" I protested.

  "Ah, Parker, you have an uncanny faculty for reading my intentions," said Pons. "Perhaps you'd rather keep the peace at Number 7B?"r />
  "Where is the place?" I asked, ignoring his thrust.

  "In Alderney Road," he replied, consulting the tag affixed to the key.

  "Stepney seems an unlikely setting for an antique shop."

  "It may have certain advantages. It's frequented by seamen, and the sea is the source of many curios which could be profitably turned over by a dealer. If Aubrey is served there by a host of acquisitive seamen, it is not beyond the bounds of possibility that he found the means to turn a handsome profit on items about which no one was likely to ask embarrassing questions. But, come—we'll go there openly. I hope —nay, I expect to be seen."

  We took the underground at Paddington, and went by the Inner Circle to Aldgate, where we changed on to the District Line for Stepney Green. The Alderney Road address was within easy walking distance of the station, and we set out for it on foot, through dubious streets, frequently ill-lighted, and haunted by as diverse a variety of human beings as are to be found anywhere in London.

  The house, when at last we came to it, was ordinary, neither as shabby as some of the neighbouring dwellings, nor as prepossessing as it might have been. In the feebly lit darkness, an air of secrecy shrouded it, given emphasis by shuttered windows. Pons went briskly up to the little entrance porch, took out the key Jamison had sent to our quarters, and let himself in. He found a light-switch and turned it on.

  The soft lamplight illumined another world —one of artifacts and curios, antique furniture, glassware, carvings —all set about on shelves, tables, on the floor among the ordinary furniture of Aubrey's daily use —a fantastically apportioned room which lay beyond a small vestibule, from which a narrow stairs led up to another storey under the gables. Books, art treasures, handicraft — all wearing an aura of rarity —took on separate life in the dimly lit room.

  "Aubrey must be a wealthy man," I said.

  "If wealth can be counted in possessions, yes," said Pons. "But for the moment I don't propose to make an inventory. We shall need to find a place to spend the night."

  "Surely not here!" I cried.

  "Where else? The role demands it," retorted Pons, chuckling.

  A cursory exploration of the house revealed a bedroom upstairs, and a small alcove on the ground floor which had obviously served as Aubrey's bedroom; it contained a divan with bedding piled at the foot and was as orderly as the rest of the house was disorderly.

  "This ought to make a comfortable bed for you, Parker. We've slept in our clothes before this," said Pons.

  "What about you?"

  "I'll take that easy-chair in the central room."

  "Pons, you're expecting visitors?"

  "I doubt it, at this point. Let us just see what tomorrow's adventure will bring."

  So saying, he left me to the alcove. Lying on the settee there, trying to relax, I heard Pons moving about for some time, upstairs and down; he was still at it, pulling open drawers, opening and closing cabinet doors, when at last I drifted off into an uncertain sleep.

  Daylight made a kind of iridescence in the shuttered house when Pons woke me. "We have just time to find a trifle of food for breakfast, and get over to King's Cross for the train to Lincoln," he said.

  I swung my feet to the floor and saw that he carried a stout sack, which hung from his hand laden with some heavy objects, but I forebore to ask what he carried, knowing his habit of putting me off, but the shape of the objects suggested metal of some kind.

  We made a conspicuous exit from the house by the way we had entered it. Pons seemed to be in no haste to leave the porch, and when at last he sauntered out into the street, he stood for a few moments looking up and down, as if proud of his disguise, confirming my previous opinion that my companion took a singular if somewhat juvenile pleasure in disguising himself, which evidently fed upon a flair for the dramatic integral to his nature.

  "I could sound a whistle to draw attention to us," I said dryly.

  "Let us be seen, by all means, but not, thank you, by means of whistle or klaxon," said Pons.

  So saying, we set off down the street.

  Mid-morning found us on the train for the three-hour journey to Lincoln by way of Grantham.

  "I heard you hunting about last night," I said, once we were moving through the countryside north of London. "What were you searching for?"

  "Certain articles I thought I might need on today's journey," he answered. "In the course of my looking around, however, I learned that Aubrey was born in Stow, and came to London from there. Presumably the farm he owns near Stow was his birthplace, and came down to him from his parents." His eyes twinkled. "If one can judge by the variety of his pieces, Aubrey is a man of parts."

  He was not disposed to tell me more.

  At Lincoln, three hours later, we changed to the Doncaster line for the brief journey to Stow Park, and there left the train for a walk of almost two miles to the hamlet of Stow.

  The countryside was at its peak of green, and many blossoms shone in hedges and gardens. Chaffinches and larks sang, and the morning's mists had risen before the sun bright in heaven. In shadowed places, dew still gleamed on blade and leaf, and over the entire landscape lay a kind of shimmering pale green glow. Pons, I observed, walked without haste; the hour was now high noon, for the journey from Doncaster had taken only twenty minutes; he said little, save for making a momentary reference to the old Norman church at Stow; which lay just ahead. "A pity we hardly dare take the time to examine it," he said. "We can hardly be back in Lincoln for the 2:10, but we might make it in time for the 4:40. The last train leaves after six."

  Not far past the church, Pons turned down a lane and came to a stop before a two-storey farm-house, set before a small group of outbuildings. He stood for a few moments surveying the scene.

  "I fancy the area we want is well beyond those buildings, which will screen us from view," he said presently. "Aubrey evidently has a tenant on his farm. Come, we'll make a little circuit."

  He walked on past the farm buildings.

  "What are we looking for?" I asked finally.

  "For a small pond or brook near to which we're likely to find a bower of roses and some beehives — all set in the middle of a pasture or small field. Pasture, I think we'll find it." He gestured to our left. "And there, I daresay, is our pond."

  He turned from the lane as he spoke.

  Before us now lay a little pasture, not quite in the middle of which stood a grove of four trees, a bower of bushes, and the round tops of what must have been beehives. Since the ground there fell away into a little swale, it was not unlikely that a pond lay in that spot, particularly since a slender brook could be seen meandering away in the distance ahead.

  We were not long in reaching the place, and there, just as Pons had foreseen, we saw that the bushes were indeed rosebushes, crowding upon a quintet of beehives. Pons put down the sack he carried and stood for a moment, briskly rubbing his hands together, his eyes twinkling.

  "This, Parker, is a 'pightle' of land —or a 'pickel' or 'piddle' if you will have it so, of pasture land, moreover, or pinguid' land —a 'pinguid pightle,' " he said. "English is a noble, expressive language. A pity so many of its fine words have been relegated to oblivion."

  "Capital!" I said, not without an edge to my voice. "And what, pray tell, led you to hives and rosebushes?"

  "Another of those fine old words, my dear fellow —'rodomel.' This means, if I recall correctly, a mixture of honey and the juice of rose-leaves — a poet's word. Or a philologist's. I have no doubt Aubrey apprehended instantly what it might mean." He bent to the sack. "Now let us just dabble and stolch about a little. That would be, I fear, in that muddy area between the water's edge and the grass."

  He took from the bag first a pair of calf-height boots. Taking off his shoes, he put them on. Then he removed from the bag the joints of a rod, which he proceeded to fit together.

  "I take it," I said, watching him, "that 'stolch' means to walk about in mud or quagmire."

  "Excellent, Parker. But we
shall do a bit more than that."

  He strode forward into the muck and began to probe it with the rod, which went down in some places for two feet. He kept at this for perhaps ten minutes before the rod struck something. He left it standing in the mud, and returned to the sack for a jointed shovel, with which he began to dig at the spot.

  "Keep an eye open for strangers," said Pons.

  "There's a farmer in the field across the lane back there."

  "A local. We were observed both coming to Aubrey's house last night and leaving it this morning. We were also followed to King's Cross."

  "I saw no one."

  "Because you weren't looking for someone. I was. He gave up at King's Cross. I rather fancy he's back in Alderney Road with an eye on Aubrey's house."

  He was digging as he spoke. Now he gave a curt exclamation of satisfaction, and with great care shoveled around the object in the muck before he dug under it and brought it up on the shovel. It appeared to be a bundle of leather, which had suffered some deterioration because of its immersion in the damp ground.

  Pons carried it around to where the sack lay and deposited it carefully beside it, a broad smile on his face. Then he went around the muck to where the pond abutted upon a little bank; there he washed the shovel, the rod, and, after removing them, the boots. Only after he had finished with this task, and returned all the articles to the sack, did he carefully unfold the leather.

  There lay revealed a sadly tarnished silver casket.

  "Let me introduce you to Lady Canevin's jewel box, Parker," said Pons. "Somewhat the worse for circumstances, but with its contents, I am certain, untouched, just where Archie Prior hid it before he was taken."

  He wrapped it carefully once more and thrust it, dirty as it was, into the sack on top of the paraphernalia he had brought with him.

  "Now to get back to Aubrey's premises," he said. "We'll stop only long enough in Lincoln to send Jamison a wire."

  We reached the house in Alderney Road in mid-evening.

  On the porch Pons paused and said, without turning his head, "A little man is walking down the other side of the street, Parker. I daresay we'll see more of him before very long."