August Derleth - The Solar Pons Omnibus Volume 1

by August Derleth

  "There's a shovel over along that wall," said Sergeant Moore, inclining his head toward the north. "I saw it when we came down."

  "We'll not need it at the moment," said Pons, who was shining the light into the opening we had disclosed. "You can see a pair of shoes, soles facing us. Clerical shoes, unless I am in error. The late Mr. Diall is still in them. It was manifest that he must be here somewhere, for there was only one direction he could go from the place where he vanished. That was up. He had not been carried away. He was not in the tree. Therefore he went up through the tree, caught by a noosed rope swung over a limb so that he could easily be drawn up out of his tracks. And from the tree he went over to the church roof, down the wall of the building, and in, through a door or a window, and was carried to his grave here, after which his murderer went back the way he had come and, once ready to leave the beech-tree, donned those fanciful hoofs and carried on from the vicar's tracks, trailing his rope sufficiently to leave but a brushing in the snow at intervals — like a Satanic tail."

  "What a cunning scheme!" exclaimed the Sergeant. "Who could have wanted to harm so inoffensive a man as Mr. Diall?"

  "That remains to be discovered. Now, then, it lacks but little time before dawn. How long do you suppose we shall have to wait on Mrs. Kerruish?"

  "No time at all, Mr. Pons. The good woman proposes to present herself at any hour for your inquiry."

  "Very well. For the moment, we can do nothing for Mr. Diall. Let us just close up that opening once more and repair to the rectory."

  Contrary to my expectations, the house was furnished almost to the point of opulence. Somehow, I had conceived of the vicar as a dry-as-dust sort of man, content to vegetate in so quiet a spot, where his living could hardly have been enough to keep him in more than the most niggardly circumstances, as so many vicars of the Church of England are unhappily kept. The study gave evidence of a very large library, the most recent model of the wireless, and well-stocked cocktail cabinet.

  "This room is just as the vicar left it," said the Sergeant. "Mrs. Kerruish has not disturbed anything."

  "And Mrs. Kerruish?"

  "She lives nearby. But here she is now."

  The sound of footsteps at the back of the house was followed by the opening and closing of a door. A short, heavy, white-haired woman, who was not without a certain kinship to a Whistler portrait, came to the threshold of the room. She had mild blue eyes, a much-lined face, and an uncertain mouth; her hair straggled down the sides of her face, giving evidence of her haste.

  "I see the lights go on, and I guessed the gentlemen from London had come, Sergeant Moore," she said. "So I got up and dressed and came over."

  "And just in good time too, Mrs. Kerruish," said the Sergeant. "This is Mr. Solar Pons. I wish you'd tell him just what you told me."

  "That I will," she replied as she came into the study and sat down.

  "It all started about a week before the good man walked out of this house and never came back, God save him," she began. "Up to that time he'd been his same old self, jolly as a parson ought to be. 'Good-morning, Mrs. Kerruish,' he'd say to me every morning he came down. 'And how's my Cornish lass this morning?' A good man, through and through, and I'm an old woman who's seen a parcel of men in my time. After breakfast he'd go into this room and do his work —writing letters and such, though, truth to tell, it was precious few letters he ever wrote —once in a while his report to the bishop, and a subscription to a magazine —scarcely any more.

  "You can see by looking about he got a good many papers. The Times, The Observer, and the Daily Telegraph, and he liked to read 'em. Well, sir, that morning he'd just settled down to read the paper, when he got up quick-like, muttering to himself, and he came back to the kitchen where I was at work, and wanted to know had I seen the sexton about? I said no, I hadn't; so he went and got his hat and set out to walk over to where Silas lives —that's just on the other side of the church. After a while he came back, and he was mighty quiet, didn't have hardly a word for me, but acted like he was bothered about something. He went to the papers again and he looked 'em all through from first sheet to last, and then he turned on the wireless and listened to the news. All the rest of that day he did scarcely anything else; there was a report due the bishop, too, but it wasn't for two days after that he got around to making that out.

  "Next day it was he began to watch the post most anxiously. Before that time the post never mattered very much to him; sometimes he never even looked at it for a day or two. But this past week, he could hardly wait to get it. Then one day, just three days ago it was, he got a letter from London. I heard him give a sort of groan, and I hurried to the study just as he crumpled up a letter and threw it into his wastepaper-basket. 'Is there anything wrong?' I asked him, but he says only, 'I'm perfectly all right, Mrs. Kerruish,' like I was somebody he met casual in the street. But I begun to notice his colour was off, and he didn't hardly eat anything, and he seemed to be watching and listening and waiting for something, and every time he heard an owl, he'd take his gun and go out after it. Many an owl he's shot here, Mr. Pons; he couldn't abide 'em, nor can I — nasty, creepy things, and they do say as when they call near a sick person that one will die. I've known it to happen.

  "Well, sir, last night I was working late, ironing his things, when I heard that owl call —a brown owl, I think it was, that sad, wailing kind of call. And he heard it, too. He came out to the kitchen for his gun, looking sort of wild, and went by me without a word, out by the side door. I was just about done, I had about quarter of an hour to do, and I did it and went home. He wasn't back when I left, but there was nothing strange to that. But this past morning, when I came in I see he hadn't come home, and when I went out lookin' for him, I see those Devil's footprints, and I went right over and reported, quiet-like, that the vicar hadn't come home."

  For a few moments after she had finished her story, Pons sat in thoughtful silence, his eyes closed, his lean, ascetic face in repose, the index finger and thumb of his right hand stroking the lobe of his ear, in that gesture so typical of him. Presently his eyes flashed open; he looked intently at Mrs. Kerruish.

  "You saw the vicar throw a letter into the wastepaper-basket, Mrs. Kerruish. Did you save the letter?"

  "No, Mr. Pons. But I hadn't burned it when the Sergeant asked. I empty the wastepaper-basket into a larger basket and burn it when that's full. I got the letter out for Sergeant Moore." Here she looked inquiringly at the Sergeant, who nodded at her and came forward with the letter in question, smoothed out and unfolded so that Pons might read the curious message at a glance.

  I will come for you soon. Otus.

  There was no superscription, nor was there any date. The envelope, which Sergeant Moore now put down beside it, bore a date four days before; it had been posted in Notting Hill. Pons glanced at it and turned for the time being from both letter and envelope.

  "The vicar had never before shown any sign of being troubled, Mrs. Kerruish?"

  "None, sir. He was as cheerful as a lark."

  "And would you say, now, if it devolved upon you to say so, was he ill or otherwise troubled?"

  "Oh, he wasn't ill, Mr. Pons. He had something on his mind, and it troubled him, deep."

  "Since you did not burn the wastepaper, perhaps you have not disposed of Mr. Diall's daily papers, either, Mrs. Kerruish?"

  "No, sir, I have not. All the papers for the last week or so are stacked right up alongside the study table."

  Pons's glance flickered to the papers she pointed out, and returned to her. "I daresay the sexton ought to have risen by this time. It is dawn."

  "He said to fetch him, Mr. Pons."

  "Very well. That is all, Mrs. Kerruish, thank you."

  "Oh, I do hope you'll be able to find him, Mr. Pons. That poor man! Him being so frail and all, and the nights so chill!"

  The moment we were left alone — Sergeant Moore having gone off to fetch Silas Elton, and Mrs. Kerruish having returned to her cottage —Pons tu
rned to the newspapers neatly stacked beside the study table.

  "Let us see —a week ago. That would be last Tuesday week. It is now Wednesday morning. Ah, here we are. All three are together. If you'll run through the columns of The Times and The Observer for some possibly relevant item, I shall do the same with the Daily Telegraph. Some item must have given Mr. Diall quite a shock."

  "I hardly know what to look for," I protested.

  "Nor I, at the moment. However, since the subject is to all appearances a retiring country clergyman, it ought not to be too difficult to discover what might have affected him. It might be notice of a financial loss. . . ."

  "It is elementary that that is not likely," I interrupted.

  "Ah, why do you say so, Parker?"

  "Because in that case you would have taken The Times to look through the financial columns yourself."

  "Capital, Parker!" exclaimed Pons with a deep chuckle.

  "Something of the ratiocinative process seems to be rubbing off on you."

  We had hardly commenced our labours when Sergeant Moore came with the sexton.

  Silas Elton was a tall, gangling fellow of about sixty years. He had the appearance of a rough countryman, and his clothes spoke for his menial occupation. He had huge, rough hands, which now held his cap. That he had not long since risen from sleep was evident in his red eyes and in his tousled hair, which had not been combed.

  "You wanted to see me, Mr. Pons?" he said.

  "Yes, Mr. Elton. You had opportunity to observe Mr. Diall during the past week?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Did he seem out of sorts to you?"

  "Mr. Pons, he was deadly scared of something."

  "Ah, we make progress. Did he let drop any hint of what he feared?"

  "No, sir."

  "Now, Mr. Elton, we understand that approximately a week ago, when the change in the vicar came about, he left the house suddenly and went over to see you. What about?"

  "He wanted new and stronger locks put on the rectory doors."

  "Did you put them on?"

  "Not yet, sir. The locks are all good ones, but I could see 'twas no use arguing with him. He'd made up his mind, and he was mortal scared."

  "Mr. Elton, how long have you known Mr. Diall?"

  The sexton was taken aback by the question, but he rallied quickly. "Why, almost as long as he's been here, sir. Ever since I came to the village."

  "On the night of the vicar's disappearance, did you hear anything out of the ordinary?"

  "No, sir."

  "The cry of an owl, for instance?"

  The sexton smiled apologetically. "Wouldn't think to mention that, Mr. Pons. There's always plenty of brown owls about."

  "Then you did hear the cry of an owl?" pressed Pons.

  "I did, yes. And I knew he'd be setting out after it. He was death to owls, sir, 'struth. And he did go. Cook showed me his tracks next morning —and them others." He shuddered, and his face blanched a little. "Like as if the devil took him." He shook his head won- deringly.

  "Could you say, was it an owl that called —or a man imitating an owl?"

  The sexton looked startled, as if this idea had never occurred to him. "Why, sir, I thought. . . . But it might have been a man. It's not hard to mock the brown owl."

  "So that, if someone had taken it into his head to draw the vicar out, such an imitation would have achieved that end?"

  "Yes, sir, I expect it would."

  "Thank you, Mr. Elton. We may wish to speak to you again."

  "Whenever you need me, sir."

  When the three of us were alone again, Pons turned to the letter Sergeant Moore had passed to him.

  "You had some opportunity to study this, Sergeant. Did anything about it strike you?"

  "Yes, Mr. Pons. The writing seemed to be disguised. It seemed laboured —as if whoever had written it had had a hard time getting his letters right."

  "Yet Mr. Diall, to judge from his reaction, had not the slightest doubt as to the sender's identity. I commend that fact to your attention, Sergeant. Now, then, just have a look at this paragraph in the Daily Telegraph. "

  He laid it on the table before us as he spoke.

  It was a curiously inappropriate bit of news.

  MUNSON ROBBER RELEASED

  Leonard Wimberly, 67, was released from Dartmoor today, after serving fifteen years for the robbery of Mun- son's, Ltd., a Midlands bank. He was the leader of the Owl Gang, which was responsible for many crimes of robbery and burglary fifteen to twenty years ago. Two confederates, Alfred Storer and Willie Compton, who gave evidence for the Crown, served reduced sentences of five years each. The stolen money from Munson's was never recovered, Storer swearing that Wimberly alone knew where it was cached, and Wimberly stating on oath that Storer had concealed the money.

  Sergeant Moore shook his head in perplexity.

  "You cannot mean that this is the paragraph which so agitated the vicar?" I cried.

  "I submit it is," said Pons, with maddening superiority. "Let us look again at the letter. 'I will come for you soon.' It is signed Otus.' Is that not a most curiously suggestive name, Parker?"

  "Very probably a variation of Otis or Oates, neither of which is uncommon."

  "But Otus, I submit, is uncommon. Surely it is more than a coincidence that it is part of the name given to the closest American counterpart of our common tawny or brown owl —the screech owl, the Latin name of which is Otus asio — the same name applied in part to our own somewhat rarer Scops owl — Otus scops."

  "That is as far-fetched a connection as I've ever heard you make," I retorted.

  "An appropriate pen-name for the leader of the Owl Gang, is it not? They took their name, incidentally, from the habitual use of owl calls as signals."

  "Oh, come, Pons," I cried, "You are joking!"

  "On the contrary, I was never more serious. I submit that it is more than coincidence that we should come upon owls so frequently in this little matter without a manifest connection among them. Mr. Diall was well known to his housekeeper and his sexton for his aversion to owls, so much of an aversion, indeed, that the mere cry of one sent him for his gun and compelled him to kill the inoffensive bird. Yet he is otherwise pictured as a gentle, retiring, jolly fellow. Is this picture not somewhat inconsistent?"

  "It is entirely within the limits of possibility," I protested.

  "Oh, entirely," agreed Pons amiably. "But when it is coupled with the attendant factors, its probability grows increasingly remoter."

  Sergeant Moore moved uneasily, cleared his throat, and said cautiously, "As I understand you, Mr. Pons, you are suggesting that Wimberly, as the head of the Owl Gang, wrote to Mr. Diall immediately on his release and sent him what could be construed as a threat. Can you possibly mean that the money we found in the crypt is the haul from Munson's?"

  "My confidence in you is not misplaced, Sergeant," said Pons, smiling. "Appearances are often deceptive. Mr. Diall has lived such an exemplary life in Tetfield that no one tends to think of what his life might have been like before his tenure here. He came to Tetfield seven years ago. He was released from prison ten years ago.

  He had three years to alter his identity and to prepare for the ministry, after which he had to find some remote parish where he could settle down to enjoy the harvest of the Munson robbery. I submit that our Mr. Diall was formerly better known as Alfred Storer. Since Alfred turned King's evidence at the trial, it was far more probable that the authorities would believe him against Wimberly when each claimed the other had hidden the robbery proceeds, though it was Wimberly who told the truth. Small wonder that Mr. Diall could hardly bear the sound of an owl's cry — the gang's one-time signal; he was haunted by his betrayal of Wimberly and the fear of what he might expect if ever Wimberly discovered his whereabouts. Now, then, has any stranger come to Tetfield within the past few days?"

  "Mr. Pons, I don't know. I can have inquiry made."

  "You may be sure that once Wimberly has set out to find th
e money, he will not be far away from it. For the moment, however, let us not forget that we have a body to dispose of. Would it not be best to let the sexton know that we have found the vicar?"

  "He will take it hard."

  "Fetch him, Sergeant. I have one or two questions to ask him before he learns of our discovery."

  "All crime is little short of idiotic," observed Pons, after Sergeant Moore had gone for Silas Elton, "and this one is particularly so. Storer would very probably have surrendered his share without protest in exchange for his life; he had had ten good years of it."

  "Wimberly must be an exceptionally strong man to have hoisted Storer aloft," I said.

  "The vicar was a small, frail man, remember. But here is the Sergeant with Mr. Elton. Come in, come in, Mr. Elton. I fear we have bad news for you."

  The sexton came in before Sergeant Moore. He had combed his hair and looked considerably more presentable.

  "You've had trace of the vicar, sir?"

  "Indeed we have, Mr. Elton. We found him in the wall of the church crypt —half-dead, but fortunately he'll be able to tell us soon who tried to murder him. We have him upstairs in bed."

  Hardly had Pons spoken, when the most extraordinary change came over the sexton. His jaw dropped, his eyes widened, he began to tremble. Then, with a sound that was half-cry, half-sob, he turned. Had it not been for Pons, he would have leaped from the kitchen. With a bound, Pons was out of his chair and on top of him, his long powerful arms around Silas Elton's neck, bearing him to the floor. For a moment Sergeant Moore was too stunned to act; then he, too, flung himself upon the sexton to secure him. Once the handcuffs were on Elton, Pons stood up.

  "Willie Compton, alias Silas Elton —at your service. I congratulate you, Sergeant Moore. Do not hesitate to charge him with the murder of Mr. Diall, once Alfred Storer."

  "A pathetic example of thieves falling out," said Pons, as he sat looking from the window of our compartment at the austere landscape flashing past on our way to London later that day. "A crime that was as unnecessary as it was impulsive. It had probably not occurred to Compton until the day Storer came over to announce his discovery in the Daily Telegraph. That frightened Compton, as well, and, as most guilty men do, he wanted to take flight. Storer did not; he was satisfied with his lot, and not as frightened as Compton —had he been, he would hardly have gone out to challenge what might have been a signal to him on that fatal night. Besides, Storer was very probably certain that Wimberly would have a difficult time to find him. Compton was not content to wait and find out.