"Unmarked?"
"Since we were trying for distance that day, we had marked our arrows individually. When we found our arrows later, we found that Henry had had time to discharge his — ironically, he had made the greatest distance." He paused, licked his lips, and continued. "All our arrows were marked that day, Mr. Pons —but the arrow that killed Henry wasn't marked. This wasn't brought out at the inquest, I need hardly say. It seemed to mean that whoever had killed Henry had brought along an unmarked arrow for that purpose."
"Was the Archers' schedule widely known?"
"Set up annually, sir," replied our host. "Anybody could have known it, if he were interested. Not many were."
"Is Mr. Pope's family still in the vicinity?" asked Pons then.
"Henry was unmarried, sir. A quiet man, retired early in life. Quite wealthy, too. His younger brother, Trevor, was his only heir. I remember what a time we had trying to reach Trevor—we didn't, in fact, get in touch with him until after Henry was buried. He was on a walking tour of the Scottish Highlands. He came back only long enough to take care of Henry's affairs, closed the Pope house on the other side of Lurgashall, and went to Canada. He came back only last May."
"And this, Mr. Colvin?"
Pons spread the warning our host had received on the table before him.
"Monstrous!" Colvin gave Pons a hard look. "I could be punished for many things, sir —but the death of Henry Pope is not one of them."
"About the arrow that killed Mr. Jefferds?" asked Pons. "Was it one of those belonging to the Sussex Archers?"
"It was. I took occasion to look hard at it at the inquest. No question about it. I was considerably shaken, as may be imagined."
"I should not be surprised," said Pons. "Let me return for a moment to your former beater, Pearson. How long had he been with you?"
"Ten years."
"You, too, have seen him skulking around?"
"Not I. Alasdair chiefly. Hewitt saw him on two occasions."
"Only recently, Mr. Pons. He seemed to be waiting for Father to come outside," put in our client.
"Man knows my habits," growled Colvin senior. "He could find me outside any time he wanted to."
"I take it you've been married more than once, Mr. Colvin."
"Ah, you saw that Alasdair's no whit like him," our host said, jerking his head toward our client. "True. Married twice. Twice a widower. Alasdair was my second wife's son; I adopted him. A good, quiet boy, a little scatter-brained. Perhaps that goes with publishing."
Pons sat for a few moments in silent contemplation, his eyes closed. Colvin flashed an impatient glance from Pons to our client, who only smiled in answer.
"And Mr. Jefferds's murder," said Pons presently " — does it occur to you that the same man whose arrow killed Henry Pope might also have been responsible for Jefferds's death?"
"Wouldn't it occur to you?" answered our host a little wildly. "But I tell you, sir, I'm at a complete loss as to who might have done it, and why it should be done! I know every member of our Sussex Archers like an open book."
"Each reader brings his own interpretation to every book," said Pons dryly.
"True, sir. But no, I don't believe it."
"You have not been to the police," said Pons.
"Damn it, sir! —we've suppressed evidence. We don't want it out now. What good would it do? An arrow used by the Sussex Archers is the only thing that ties the two murders together. The only thing. Mr. Pons, I know! Henry Pope was an inoffensive man; so was Andy Jefferds. Who stood to gain by their deaths? Trevor Pope, who was miles away when his brother died! Ailing Mrs. Jefferds, who needed him alive far more than anything she might inherit! Such crimes are senseless, sir —the work of a madman."
"Or a diabolically clever one."
"But this is your game, not mine, sir," said our host, pushing back his chair and rising. "I leave you to my son."
So saying, he stalked out of the room.
"I must apologize for my father," said our client uneasily.
"Pray do not do so," said Pons. "He is a badly troubled man —a simple, straightforward gentleman to whom the complexities of crime are a cloud of darkness." Pons, too, got to his feet. "About Pearson, Mr. Colvin —when was the first time you saw him loitering around?"
"Why, I believe it was the night after Mr. Jefferds was killed."
"But he had been about before?"
"Well, yes, Alasdair saw him —though he didn't mention it until I told Father I'd seen him. Then he came out with it —said he hadn't wanted to say it before and excite Father."
Pons stood for a moment deep in thought. Then a little smile touched his lips, and I knew he was off on a new line which pleased him. "Now, then," he said to our client, "we shall want to move about the neighbourhood. Pray do not wait upon us for luncheon or dinner. Can you spare a pony cart?"
"Come with me, Mr. Pons."
Late that afternoon we drew up at an inn on the Lurgashall side of Petworth. We had spent the day calling on the other three resident members of the disbanded Sussex Archers —Will Ockley, a semi-invalid —David Wise, who was now a clergyman —and Abel Howard, a taciturn man of late middle age who was still engaged in stock-farming experiments —from all of whom I could not determine that Pons had elicited any more information than he already had.
In the public house we made our way to the bar. Pons ordered a gin and bitters, and I my customary ale. Since it was still early evening—indeed, the sun had not yet set —there was little patronage in the pub, and the landlord, a chubby fellow with sparkling eyes and a thatch of white hair, was not loath to talk.
"Strangers hereabout?" he asked.
"On our way to see Joshua Colvin on a matter of business," said Pons. "Know him?"
"Aye. Know him well."
"What sort is he?"
The proprietor shrugged. "There's some that likes him and some that don't. Has a gruff manner and a bit of a way of telling the truth. Makes people uncomfortable."
"And his sons?"
The proprietor brightened. "Cut from different cloth altogether. Alasdair, now —he's a real sport. Comes in for the darts." He shook his head. "A bit difficult when it comes to paying for drinks. Still owes me five quid." He chuckled. "But Hewitt —well, sir, in business he's all business, and he don't come here much. But don't you be fooled by that, sir —he's an uncommon eye for the ladies. There's them could tell you a tale or two about Hewitt and the ladies! But I ain't one for gossip, never was. Live and let live, I say."
"Does not a Mr. Pope live nearby?" asked Pons then.
The landlord sobered at once. "The likes of him don't come here," he said darkly. "He don't talk to no one. And there's them that say they know why."
"And Mr. David Wise?"
"Aye —as close to a saint as you can find these days." But abruptly he stopped talking; his eyes narrowed. He flattened his hands on the bar and leaned closer to Pons, staring at him search- ingly. "You're asking about the Archers. Aye! I know you sir, damme if I don't. We've met."
"I don't recall it," said Pons.
"You're Mr. Solar Pons, the detective," he said, flinging himself away from us.
Thereafter he would say no more.
We took our leave shortly after, Pons no whit displeased by the landlord's refusal to speak.
"We have one more stop to make," he said. "Little more than two miles hence."
"Trevor Pope," I said.
"Precisely. Let us have a look at him."
"He may be dangerous," I said.
"I suspect he is. Are not all men, under the right provocation?"
"We have not had what I should call a profitable day," I said.
"Ah? Every little grain of sand contributes to the making of a road," replied Pons enigmatically.
He said no more until, following the directions our client had given us, we drove down a lane into a hollow in the woodland and came to a semi-Tudor house behind a low, vinegrown stone wall. It wore a deserted appearance.
There was a long wait before the door opened. An old servant stood there.
"Mr. Trevor Pope?" asked Pons.
"Mr. Pope doesn't wish to see anyone," said the servant. "He's going out, sir."
"I am on a matter of some urgency," said Pons.
"Mr. Pope will see no one," said the servant and closed the door.
Pons came back to the trap, got in, and drove back up the lane to the road, where he turned off into a coppice, got out once more, beckoning me to follow, and tied our pony to a sapling.
"Let us make our way back, Parker. If Mr. Trevor Pope is going out, it must be for his constitutional. He seems to go nowhere else."
We circled toward the rear of the house, taking advantage of every tree, and had scarcely come into good view of it before there burst from the direction of the kennels half a dozen great mastiffs, and in their midst, running at the same pace, a short, dark man wearing a turtle-neck sweater, tight-fitting trousers, and rubber- soled canvas shoes. They bore toward a woodland path which would take them around Lurgashall in the direction of Blackdown. The dogs made scarcely any sound; all that fell to ear was the footfalls made by Trevor Pope, and all that held to the mind's eye was the tense straining expression on his dark face, and the clenched fists at his sides.
"What madness drives him to this?" I whispered, after they had vanished in the woods.
"What, indeed! There must be an easier exercise. You cannot deny, however, that it is an impressive performance. Small wonder it startled our client."
"What do we do now?"
"It is sundown. Surely he will not be gone too long. Let us just go to meet him."
"But the dogs!" I protested.
"We shall have to chance them," answered Pons imperturbably.
He strode forward. I followed.
The course Trevor Pope had taken led in an arc away from the house; we were soon out of sight of it on a woodland path that would take us well around Lurgashall toward Blackdown. Pons paused suddenly at the edge of an open glade, where the path led down a slope in the direction of the village. There he relaxed.
"I fancy this will do as well as any place," he said. "Let us wait here."
"Pons, I don't like this," I said.
"A pity. I have an appetite for it. You may return to the trap, if you like."
"And leave you alone?"
"We are all alone, Parker. Never lose sight of that. And none of us, I fancy, is more alone than Mr. Trevor Pope."
The sun was gone, the afterglow began to fade, half an hour passed. Then came the sound of running footsteps.
"Ah, he is coming," said Pons.
Almost instantly the mastiffs and their master swept around a grove of young trees and bushes at the bottom of the slope within sight of Pons.
"Mr. Trevor Pope!" Pons called out in a loud voice and began to advance toward him.
Pope came to a stop and heeled his dogs with a savage cry. He turned a furious face toward us, flung up his arm to point at Pons, and shouted, "Stand where you are! What the hell do you want?"
"To see you."
"You see me."
"To ask you some questions."
"I answer no questions."
"One, then, Mr. Pope!" Pons's voice echoed in the glade.
"Who are you?"
"Only a curious Londoner. You may have heard my name. It is Solar Pons."
There was an audible gasp from Pope. Then, "So they've sent for you!"
"One question, Mr. Pope!"
"Go to hell, sir!"
"Can you furnish me with an itinerary of your walking tour in the Scottish Highlands in 1907?"
There was a moment of pregnant silence. Then a fierce cry of rage, a curse, and Pope's furious words, "Get out —get out! —before I turn the dogs on you. You meddling nosy parker!"
"You may not have seen the last of me, Mr. Pope."
" You have seen the last of me, sir!"
Pons turned and we went back the way we had come. There was no immediate movement behind us. When last I saw him, glancing over my shoulder as we were descending the slope toward the house and the trap beyond, Trevor Pope was standing motionless in the circle of his mastiffs, a dark figure literally bursting with rage and hatred in the deepening dusk.
Once back in the trap, I could not help observing, "A violent man, Pons."
"Indeed," agreed Pons.
We rode in thoughtful silence until, just before reaching the stone gate piers of our client's home, Pons caught sight of someone slipping behind a cedar tree at the roadside.
He halted the trap at once, flung the reins to me, and leapt to the road. He darted around the cedar.
I heard his voice. "Mr. Pearson, I presume?"
"That's my name," answered a rough voice gruffly.
"What's your game, Pearson?"
"I got m' rights. I'm doin' no harm. This here's a public road."
"Quite right. Over two months ago you came to see Mr. Colvin."
"No, sir. Two weeks is more like it."
"You carry a gun, Mr. Pearson?"
"I ain't got a bow an' arrer!"
His inference was unmistakable. Pons abruptly bade him good- evening, and came back to the trap. He said not a word as we drove on in the deepening dark.
Our client waited for us in the hall. He was too correct to inquire how Pons had been engaged during the afternoon, though he must have been able to draw some conclusions.
"Can I get you anything to eat, gentlemen?" he asked.
"Perhaps a sandwich of cold beef and some dry wine. Chablis, or Moselle," said Pons.
"And you, Dr. Parker?"
"The same, if you please."
"I should like to talk to your father once more," said Pons.
"Before or after your sandwich, Mr. Pons?"
"Now, sir. Just take our sandwiches to our room, will you?"
"Very well, Mr. Pons. Father's in his study. We just got back from his usual walk. It was my turn to guard him tonight." He sighed. "Father makes it very difficult; it angers him to catch sight of us behind him. Just in there, Mr. Pons."
The senior Colvin sat before his stamp collection. His glance was rather more calculating than friendly.
"I am sorry to trouble you, Mr. Colvin —but may I see your bow and arrows?"
Colvin leaned back, a baffled expression on his face. "Ha!" he exclaimed. "I wish I knew where they were. Put them away when
Henry was killed, and then later put them somewhere else. Hanged if I know where they are now. That was twenty years ago, sir. Why d'you want to see 'em?"
"I have a fancy to see the weapon that killed Mr. Pope and Mr. Jefferds —and may someday kill you unless I am able to prevent it."
"You speak bluntly, sir," said Colvin, his face flushing a little. "The bow I can't show you —but you'll find one of the arrows up there."
He pointed to the wall above the fireplace. He got up.
"I'll get it down for you."
"No need, sir," said Pons. "I'll just take this hassock over and look at it."
He did so. He stood for a while before the arrow, which I thought an uncommonly long one, with a very sharp tip.
"I observe this arrow is sharp and lethal, Mr. Colvin. Is this usual?"
"Not at all, Mr. Pons. Average archery club wouldn't think of using tipped arrows. That was what made the Sussex Archers unique. Ours were all tipped. I told you, sir —we were experienced archers. Took pride in that. Took pride in the danger of tipping our arrows."
"Until Mr. Pope died."
Colvin grunted. "Until then," he said.
Pons dismounted from the hassock, restored it to its position, and bade our host good-night. Our client waited at the threshold to conduct us to our room, where our brief repast was ready for us.
"Is there anything more, Mr. Pons?" he asked at our threshold.
"One thing. Does your father take his walk
every evening?"
"At about sunset, regularly, rain or shine. Only a severe storm keeps him in. He's rugged, Mr. Pons —very rugged."
"Does he usually follow the same route?"
"Roughly, yes."
"Is his route generally known in the neighbourhood?"
"I should imagine so."
"Can you take time to show me tomorrow morning where he walked tonight?"
"Certainly, sir. My office in Petworth can easily do without me for an extra hour or two."
"Thank you. Good-night, sir."
Pons ate in contemplative silence, sat for a while cradling his wine, then got up and began to pace the floor in that attitude I knew so well —head sunk on his chest, hands clasped behind him. Back and forth he went, his brow furrowed, his eyes far away,
smoke from his pipe of shag making a blue cloud about his head. I knew better than to interrupt his train of thought.
After almost two hours of this he stopped before me.
"Now, Parker, what have you to say of it all?"
"Little more than I said before. Trevor Pope flees through the dusk like a man trying to escape his guilt."
"Indeed he does!" said Pons agreeably. "I have no question but that Mr. Pope is the agent upon whose actions the entire puzzle turns."
"As I pointed out before we left Praed Street," I could not help saying.
"I recall it," continued Pons. "It does not seem to you significant that Pearson, who has been trying to see Joshua Colvin, has not yet been able to do so, though he knows his routine and could find him outside the house any time he wishes?"
"The fellow is clearly playing some game intended to intimidate his former employer."
"That is surely one way of looking at it. But let me put another question —did it suggest nothing to you that each of the onetime Sussex Archers we questioned today held exactly the same views as our host? None would speak a word against any other, yet each was convinced that Henry Pope's death was not an accident."
"Theirs seems to be the only tenable view, the inquest notwithstanding," I said, not without some smug satisfaction.
"I fear you are only too content to find support for your views," said Pons with equanimity. "I would find it more challenging another way."
"If we doctors failed to face up to the obvious, I'm afraid our patients would soon be in peril of their lives."
August Derleth - The Solar Pons Omnibus Volume 1 Page 64