"Your remembering, Parker, that Borstad's difference with his superiors was rooted in his audacious experiments with the response of the human body to pain suggested a tenable, if horrible motive for Borstad's disappearance, which was obviously carefully planned, as the house he built at No. 27 was designed in its entirety to serve as a trap for his victims, such as he did not take off the streets by night —the derelicts and drunkards to be found in any city during the hours of darkness. 'Nervous breakdown' is one of those ambiguous diagnoses which covers everything from fatigue to madness.
"Once the assumption of the victim's disappearance within the house was acted upon, certain corroborative evidence was readily found. It was not the Foreign Office that cleaned the house in Orrington Crescent —it was Borstad himself, making sure that every trace of his work was eliminated. Save, of course, the threads from the bathrobe that caught on the plaster when he dragged d'Oro, unconscious from the anesthetic seeping into the room from the openings in the bookcase wall, up the stairs to the cleverly concealed entrance to his sub-surface quarters. You ought to have noticed, Parker, that the difference in the disturbance of the dust on the bookshelves was marked—where books were withdrawn and put back, the marks of withdrawal were in the dust; in the vicinity of the openings the dust was disturbed by air, not by the withdrawal of books."
He shook his head grimly. "The dedicated scientist is constantly in danger of losing his humanity, and forgetting that he too is as integral to nature as the ant or the tree. Borstad's work in progress might better and more pointedly have been titled Beyond the Threshold of Sanity."
The Adventure of the Devil's Footprints
As I CAME into our cosy quarters at 7B Praed Street at midnight one cold January night late in the 1920s, I found Solar Pons just putting on his deerstalker. His Inverness was already on his shoulders. He did not turn at my entrance, quiet as it had been, but spoke at once.
"Ah, Parker," he said with satisfaction, "you are in time to come along on a little excursion into the country past the Chilterns —if you're not too tired."
"I'm never too tired for an adventure — but at this hour!" I protested.
From the mantel to which he had stepped for shag with which to fill his pipe, Pons replied, "I had a wire but two hours past from Detective-Sergeant Athelny Moore of Aylesbury—you may remember him from that little matter of the Sulgrave Squire two years ago —about the disappearance of the vicar who has the living of Tetfield parish. Moore is on his way here to take us to Tetfield, a hamlet not far from Aylesbury. The matter would seem to be urgent, and, since I have the highest regard for Sergeant Moore's judgment, I fancy the problem will be interesting."
There was no need for me to remove my coat, for, within a few moments the sound of a car at the kerb outside was followed by the appearance of Detective-Sergeant Moore himself. He was a young man of medium height, thin of body and of face, with strong blue eyes, an aquiline nose of more than usual length, and a closely cropped moustache over a full mouth.
"I hope you will forgive this late hour, Mr. Pons, but I am utterly at sea," he said. "The Reverend Mr. Ambrose Diall is a man of the most exact habits, well liked by everyone, and just the opposite of the reforming clergyman, with which too many parishes are unhappily afflicted. Besides, he's well along in years, very frail, and not given to any eccentricities, unless his dislike of owls may be so accounted. Yet he walked out of his house sometime during the night, and the marks in the snow indicate that he has vanished without so much as leaving the confines of the rectory and church grounds."
"Let us be on our way, Sergeant," suggested Pons. "If there are marks to be seen in the snow, we shall not want to risk rising temperature tomorrow before we have had opportunity to examine them."
"Now, then," said Pons, when we were ensconced in the car, with Sergeant Moore at the wheel, driving northeast toward Willesden on the way to Aylesbury, "suppose you tell us what has taken place."
"Ah, if only I could, Mr. Pons," cried the sergeant. "But the fact is I cannot begin to do so. Mr. Diall walked out of his house late last night, carrying a shotgun he owned. His housekeeper, an old woman named Jennie Kerruish, said that he had a strange dislike of owls, which disturbed his sleep, and was going to attempt to shoot one. There had been a snowfall late that afternoon and early in the evening, and this has not thawed appreciably since then. Thus it is possible to trace the vicar's movements. He went out of a side door of the rectory, which is an old, rambling building, and moved toward the church, keeping pretty well to the shadows. He had arrived at an old beech-tree and came to a pause at that place. But there his footprints end; they neither turn back nor go off to the side. And yet —and here I come to the most perplexing aspect of the matter —leading away from the vicar s footprints toward the road is a strange pair of hoofprints —that is what they are, Mr. Pons —hoofprints! 'Devil's footprints,' Mrs. Kerruish calls them, and says that for some time past the vicar had seemed to be afraid of the Devil! There has been no trace of Mr. Diall since then."
"No one else occupies the rectory?"
"No one, Mr. Pons."
"So that Mrs. Kerruish's story is without other than circumstantial corroboration?"
"Except for the fact that the vicar's habits were quite well known. The sexton, Silas Elton, says that to his knowledge what Mrs. Kerruish says of the vicar is correct. Mr. Diall was a reclusive man, given to seeing no one except those members of the parish who sought him out or called on him to do the duties of his office. Tetfield is one of those small parishes which are usually without vicars, other than one attached to a larger parish of the neighbourhood. Tetfield was for some time attached to Aylesbury, and the vicarage and church had fallen into disuse when the bishop was persuaded to send the present vicar to the living seven years ago."
"Is there any reason to suspect foul play?" I put in.
Sergeant Moore hesitated a moment before replying. "None."
"I fancy your brief hesitation was not without cause, Sergeant," said Pons.
"Well, Mr. Pons, I don't know that it's worth mentioning. Mrs. Kerruish did think the vicar had been acting troubled for the past week. She gave me a curious kind of letter he had received. But you'll hear as much from her, and you'll see the letter all in good time. I'm sure it's only the imagination of an old woman no longer as sharp as once she might have been."
"How old is Mr. Diall?"
"Sixty-seven."
"I take it there is no evidence of senility."
"None, Mr. Pons."
With this Pons was content to relapse into silence. He traveled the rest of the way without speaking again.
The rectory and its grounds at Tetfield, which, together with the church and adjoining graveyard, were all in one area on the Aylesbury side of the village, and we came to the site of the vicar's disappearance almost upon our entrance into the village. Dawn had not yet arrived, and Sergeant Moore's car, coming to a stop before a low hedge broken by a path, revealed a constable on guard in the glow of its headlamps.
"We've managed to quieten suspicions about the vicar's disappearance," explained Moore. "So we've not had to deal with the curious." He spoke as he led the way by the light of an old- fashioned dark-lantern, which seemed oddly appropriate in this ancient setting of great old yews and gnarled beeches. "Nothing has been disturbed, except for the footprints we've made in the snow alongside the vicar's. Now, here, Mr. Pons, is the side door, and there are the vicar's footprints."
Pons took the dark-lantern from Sergeant Moore and walked along beside the vicar's tracks. The way led across the lawn in the direction of the church, and, ultimately, into the churchyard, where the footprints made a circuitous route among the gravestones. It was apparent even to me that the vicar seemed to be searching for something, and the housekeeper's theory that he had gone out to shoot an owl took on substance, for the footprints suggested as much. They moved this way and that, toward the darker trees, and the stance the vicar took beneath the trees indicated that h
e had stopped to peer about.
But there, beneath an old beech-tree, the vicar's footprints came to an end. It was plain to be seen that he had walked to this point and paused; thereafter he had not taken a further step, yet there was an unmistakable line of hoofprints leading on from that point, quite as if an eldritch metamorphosis had taken place, and the man who had paused there had become a hoofed creature.
"Those are surely the prints of a two-legged creature with hoofs!" I cried.
"Elementary," said Pons dryly. "Perhaps it was Pan. I have always suspected the concealed compulsions of the clergy."
"Mrs. Kerruish fell to praying at sight of them," said the Sergeant.
"I commend her reaction to you, Parker," said Pons. "At the moment, however, I am somewhat more interested in these other marks. It seems quite clear that the vicar dropped his gun; the print in the snow is adequate proof. You have not mentioned retrieving the shotgun, Sergeant; I take it therefore that someone else did so, either the vicar himself or that enterprising agency which spirited him away."
He shot the rays of the dark-lantern to the tracks leading away from those of the vicar. "What do you make of that slight mark which occurs at intervals alongside the hoofprints, Sergeant?"
I looked to where Pons had directed the light and saw at intervals a light brushing in the snow — scarcely enough to more than disturb the evenness of the surface —almost as if a lopsided tail had dragged there!
"I've been unable to come to any tenable conclusion about it, Mr. Pons."
"Let me commend it to your attention, Sergeant. Now, then, let us just see what happens to these curious prints. Devil's footprints they are indeed, Sergeant; Mrs. Kerruish may be more right than she knows, even if her acquaintance with devils is limited to that traditional hoofed figure of our Christian belief."
He walked on.
The hoofprints led outward from the graveyard in a straight line toward the road. But they did not reach there, for just as abruptly as the vicar's footprints had come to a stop, so did these. The road was still twenty feet away. Pons dropped to his knees and scrutinized the last of the prints with the greatest care. Then he got up, brushing the snow from his knees, and looked around, flashing the dark-lantern on all sides and up into the trees. From this cursory examination, he went on to another; bidding us stay where we were, he began to walk in ever widening arcs from one side to another of the line of prints, until he arrived at the road; there he went up and down, looking vainly for any sign that either the vicar's footprints or the hoofprints had been renewed.
Coming back, he retreated along the line of hoofprints to the last prints of the vicar; there he dropped to his knees once more and subjected both sets of prints to the most intense examination before he stood up again.
"I daresay you have already determined that the hoofed being of this little drama was not carrying anything of any great weight from this spot, Sergeant," he said.
"Yes, Mr. Pons."
"And that the weight of the two —the vicar and the other —was not equal?"
"I felt we had reason to believe so."
"Capital, Sergeant! Granted, then, that two people walked here, both seemingly inexplicably with incompleted trace. Now, I think you will have noticed that the author of the hoofprints could have made his way to the road with ease by swinging from one branch to another of the low-limbed trees between the places where the hoofprints end and the road begins. That is almost certainly the method of egress from the churchyard; a close scrutiny of the final set of hoofprints indicates that the creature went up. The vicar's footprints, however, do not give such a clear indication. Here he stood —his prints are not clear; he shifted from one foot to the other; he moved in his tracks. Yet, there is but one direction in which he could have gone."
So saying, Pons flashed the light of the dark-lantern up into the ancient beech-tree which loomed overhead.
"Mr. Pons, there's nothing in those branches," said the Sergeant.
The light traveled through the tree to the roof of the church.
"I submit that anyone in the tree might have ready access to the church," said Pons.
"It could be done, Mr. Pons," said Sergeant Moore cautiously.
"Come along and give me a hand, Sergeant. I'm going up into the beech."
Pons climbed up into the tree. He had returned the Sergeant's dark-lantern in favour of a smaller pocket-torch of his own, and from time to time its light was visible to us below. He climbed well up into the tree, examining bole and limbs, and even ventured out along one sturdy old limb toward the church roof on the far side before he came back down.
"The weather, I think you said, was cold yesterday, Sergeant?" he asked.
"Yes, sir. There was no thaw."
"And the forecast for yesterday's weather?"
"That was a mistake, Mr. Pons. Warmer weather was predicted; it didn't come."
Pons chuckled. "If I am not mistaken, this little scene was played to the weather."
"I'm afraid I don't follow you, Mr. Pons."
"No matter. I submit that if the vicar's footprints had not been eliminated by the expected thaw, the hoofprints leading outward would prove equally mystifying, even as they have done. As it is, we are entertained by both sets of prints —the one scarcely meant to be seen, the other otherwise designed. Now, then, it lacks but an hour of dawn. If I may, I should like to take a look into the church. Is the key available?"
"I have all Mr. Diall's keys, Mr. Pons," said Sergeant Moore. "Mrs. Kerruish lives apart from the rectory, just across the way, and recognized that we should have access. But the church is usually kept unlocked."
Pons led the way, carefully skirting the line of mysterious footprints. He went through the graveyard to the church, which immediately adjoined it. It was an attractive building of stone, several centuries old. Pons opened the door upon the gloomy interior. In the light of the dark-lantern, the church proved to be singularly barren of any but the traditional Anglican trappings; here there was no touch of the High Church, but only an austerity that harked back to the Reformation.
Without thought of us, Pons moved rapidly about the church, paying particular attention to the south wall and the altar. But he evidently did not find what he sought, if indeed he sought anything, for he roved restlessly about until the light of the lantern fixed upon a long trap-door just before the vestry. He went directly to this and tugged at it. As it came up, it revealed well-worn steps leading down into the church crypt. Without hesitation, Pons pushed forward.
The crypt was almost as devoid of ornament and fixture as the church. The wall directly under the altar was a catacomb; it consisted of three rows of burial niches. Along the north wall stood the paraphernalia of church bazaars and picnics — wooden tables, benches, and the like — together with certain tools, which were certainly those most often used by the sexton in his role as gravedigger. The west and south walls were clear of impedimenta.
Pons's primary attention was for the burial niches. He passed rapidly from one to another, subjecting each to the most intense scrutiny. Suddenly a muffled exclamation escaped him, as he paused before one of them. He held the light of the dark-lantern on it, and with his free hand touched its surface, where minute scratches were visible; these were of comparatively recent origin, though the date on the receptacle was 1780.
"Does this not bear marks of having been tampered with, as if it had been recently opened, Sergeant?"
"Indeed it does, Mr. Pons. Though I couldn't imagine who might have opened it. These niches hold the mortal remains of former vicars who have had the living and had no other place of burial. This crypt has not been used for burials for decades, however."
"Hold the lantern, Parker."
While I held the light steady, Pons worked at the niche. In but a few moments he had it open, disclosing a stone coffin beyond. This in turn he pulled out. Its cover had fallen inward. Pons took the light and shone it into the coffin. There lay exposed not the charnel remains one might
have expected, but a black attache case of appreciable size.
"Let us just look inside that case, Sergeant."
Sergeant Moore took the case from its hiding place. "It's locked, sir."
"Break the lock."
Sergeant Moore did so. As the case fell open, a sharp gasp escaped him. In the light of the dark-lantern lay a small fortune in gold and bank-notes!
"The Reverend Mr. Diall's offertories seem to have been extraordinarily good," observed Pons dryly.
"Mr. Pons —you expected this?" asked Sergeant Moore.
"I fear I cannot say so. I am looking for something more sinister. What better place than these burial niches? This diversion, however, throws a little different light on the matter. Let us impound the contents of the case, and return the case itself to its place of concealment. You and Parker should be able to pocket this little cache."
Pons waited until we had emptied the attache case. Then he swung away from the burial niches to pass slowly along the south wall of the crypt, flashing the light on wall and floor until he came to a place approximately halfway along the wall. There he stopped.
"Ah, here we are!" he cried. "Fresh earth, missed by the broom where the wall joins the floor. And here —as you can see —the stones have recently been moved. Lend a hand, Sergeant. Let us see what lies behind them."
I helped the Sergeant work out the stones. Slowly, a kind of tunnel came into sight. It was half filled with earth, some of which slid forward into the crypt when the stones were being taken away.
August Derleth - The Solar Pons Omnibus Volume 1 Page 61