The Ponson Case

by Freeman Wills Crofts

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by W. Collins Sons & Co. Ltd 1921

  Published by The Detective Story Club Ltd 1932

  Copyright © Estate of Freeman Wills Crofts 1921

  Introduction © Dolores Gordon-Smith 2016

  Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1932, 2016

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008159290

  Ebook Edition © January 2016 ISBN: 9780008159306

  Version: 2015-10-29

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Introduction

  Chapter I: MYSTERY AT LUCE MANOR

  Chapter II: A SINISTER SUGGESTION

  Chapter III: HOAXED?

  Chapter IV: INSPECTOR TANNER GROWS SUSPICIOUS

  Chapter V: INSPECTOR TANNER BECOMES CONVINCED

  Chapter VI: WHAT COSGROVE HAD TO TELL

  Chapter VII: COSGROVE’S TRIP NORTH

  Chapter VIII: TANNER FINDS HIMSELF DUPED

  Chapter IX: LOIS DREW TAKES A HAND

  Chapter X: A WOMAN’S WIT

  Chapter XI: A FRESH START

  Chapter XII: A STERN CHASE

  Chapter XIII: BLACKMAIL?

  Chapter XIV: A DRAMATIC DISCOVERY

  Chapter XV: IN THE LUCE MANOR BOATHOUSE

  Chapter XVI: CONCLUSION

  The Detective Story Club

  About the Publisher

  INTRODUCTION

  THE PONSON CASE, first published in 1921, is Freeman Wills Crofts’ second book. Crofts had blazed onto the scene the previous year with his debut novel, The Cask. Far outselling Agatha Christie’s first novel, The Mysterious Affair at Styles, published in the same year, Crofts went on to become a cornerstone of what we now regard as the Golden Age of detective fiction, the period between the two world wars.

  Together with his great contemporaries, Agatha Christie and Dorothy L. Sayers, Crofts could not only tell an engaging and entertaining story, but paid the reader the compliment of assuming they were intelligent enough to engage with the logical working out of the mystery.

  Crofts respected his readers; he always plays fair (an important quality in Golden Age crime) so that the reader has the same information as the detective. We, the reader, along with the detective, are invited to find a solution to the mystery. An important point, which demonstrates the quality of Crofts’ writing, is that the solution is always credible. Not for Crofts, the ‘infernal ingenuity’ that P. G. Wodehouse, a devoted mystery reader, complains of in his excellent essay, ‘Thrillers’. Instead the criminal, although ingenious, always acts in a way which makes perfect sense

  His meticulous approach to plotting is recalled in a letter written by F. T. Smith, Crofts’ editor at Collins in the 1920s, to the Chairman of the company, Billy Collins. Although the letter was written in 1973, Crofts evidently made a lasting impression on Fred. The book in question isn’t named, but it’s a fair assumption that he is discussing The Ponson Case:

  ‘In Crofts’ case he loved criticism. He always wanted to come in and devote about three hours to a detailed discussion. How could he possibly require this? Well, I remember one case in which the body of the victim was discovered washed ashore on the banks of a river. I innocently had queried the time of the discovery and made a pencilled note on the margin. Crofts arrived with a suitcase for a discussion. He produced three large Ordnance Survey maps showing the course of the river, a very full county history, two reports on flooding in the county, one report on the effect of the current on the river banks and lastly a batch of correspondence with a medical officer of health showing how to tell how long a body had been in the water. Now all this trouble to prove that the body thrown into this particular river at a certain point would be washed ashore at another place at a more or less definite time.’

  Freeman Wills Crofts was an Irishman, born in Dublin in 1879. He was named after his father, a British army doctor, who died in Honduras before his son was born. His mother married again when Crofts was three and the family moved to the small village of Gilford, Ulster, where his stepfather, Reverend Harding, was the vicar. Gilford village had been founded in 1641 by a Captain John Magill. Crofts was later to borrow Captain Magill’s name for one of his best books, Sir John Magill’s Last Journey, which draws heavily on his Ulster background.

  When Crofts was eighteen, he was apprenticed to his uncle, Berkley Dean Wise, the Chief Engineer of the Belfast and Northern Counties Railway. An outstanding civil engineer, Berkley Dean Wise made a huge contribution to railway travel, boosting tourism in and to Northern Ireland, and the young Crofts flourished under his care.

  Railways, in that great age of steam, enthralled Crofts, as they have captured the imagination of so many others. Hardworking, creative and intelligent, he rose to become Chief Assistant Engineer. One of his projects which still stands today is the massive ten arch Bleach Green viaduct.

  Crofts, however, was always dogged by poor health. It was during a long illness in 1919 that he wrote The Cask and, granted his background, it’s hardly surprising that he chose to make his detective heroes professional policemen.

  To a modern reader this may seem an obvious decision, but in 1920, in the shadow of Sherlock Holmes, the gifted amateur was at his (and occasionally her) height of popularity. The sole purpose of a policeman in many Golden Age mysteries is to provide a foil to show the almost supernatural brilliance of the amateur. These are often great fun to read, but Crofts, the trained railway engineer, had a deep respect for the hard work a profession entails

  In his fifth book, Inspector French’s Greatest Case, Crofts went on to to create his best known character, Inspector Joseph French of Scotland Yard. Fair minded, decent and achieving his results through sheer dogged persistence, Inspector Tanner of The Ponson Case is, in many ways, a blueprint for French.

  ‘There were already plenty of “character” detectives,’ wrote Crofts in his essay ‘Meet Inspector French’, ‘the lineal descendants, most of them, of the great Sherlock. I tried to make French a perfectly ordinary man, without peculiarities or mannerisms. Of course he had to have some qualities, but they were to be the ordinary qualities of ordinary fairly successful men. He was to have thoroughness and perseverance as well as a reasonable amount of intelligence, just the qualities which make for moderate success in any walk of life.’

  This accent on the ‘ordinary’ has led to the charge that Crofts is a ‘humdrum’ writer and his policeman heroes are humdrum (aka boring) characters. This is unfair. It would be far better and a much truer assessment of his books to see his detectives as Everyman characters.

  ‘French,’ he wrote, to quote once more from ‘Meet Inspector French’, ‘does not leap to his conclusions by brilliant intuition. He begins a case by going and looking f
or information in those places in which he thinks information is most likely to be found. When he gets the information he swots over it until he grinds out some sort of theory to account for the facts. Very often this turns out to be wrong, but if so, he simply tries again until he thinks of something better.’

  If this sounds daunting, don’t worry—it isn’t. One of the great qualities of Crofts’ writing is that it is very enjoyable to read. He loved travel and used a great variety of locations in his books. All of Crofts’ heroes have an engaging interest in the locations they find themselves, from the round Britain cruise of Fatal Venture to the construction of the A3, lovingly described in The Hog’s Back Mystery. In The Ponson Case, for instance, Inspector Tanner ends up in Portugal, where his insular British prejudices are overthrown by the sight of the glittering city of Lisbon.

  Crofts doesn’t, thank goodness, go over the same ground again and again, but leads us forward through the story as new facts are discovered and fresh discoveries are made. His style is simple, easy and accessible. There aren’t any literary fireworks but he tells the story in ordinary, everyday language.

  In 1929 Crofts, who was always dogged by ill health, retired from the railways. This was made possible by the great success of his books. Together with his wife, Mary, he moved from Northern Ireland to Blackheath in Surrey. He had always loved the countryside, as is evident from the opening of The Ponson Case. ‘A fine old house, finely set on the summit of a low hill and surrounded by wonderful old trees, it seemed to stand symbolical of the peace, security and solid comfort…’

  The peace doesn’t last long.

  DOLORES GORDON-SMITH

  July 2015

  CHAPTER I

  MYSTERY AT LUCE MANOR

  THE dying sun of a July evening shone rosily on the old Georgian house of Luce Manor, mellowing the cold grey of the masonry, bringing out with soft shadow its cornices and mouldings, and softening and blurring its hard outlines. A fine old house, finely set on the summit of a low hill, and surrounded by wonderful old trees, it seemed to stand symbolical of the peace, security, and solid comfort of upper-class rural England.

  This impression was not lessened by the outlook from the terrace in front. Below, and already shadowed by the trees beyond from the sun’s rays, was a small Dutch garden, its walks and beds showing up faintly in the gathering gloom. To the right the drive swept off in an easy curve until it disappeared between two rows of beeches, celebrated in all the county round for their age and size. At the side of the house, and reached through a rose pergola, was the walled English garden, with its masses of colour, its laden bushes, and its range of glass houses. In front, beyond the lawn, whose oaks and elms stood singly like sentinels guarding the house, the country rolled away to a line of distant hills, while to the left, an opening in the trees gave a glimpse of the Cranshaw River, with behind a near horizon of tree-covered slopes.

  Within, in a large room panelled in black oak, the master of the house sat at dinner. He was alone, the only other members of the household, his wife and his daughter Enid, being from home on a visit. Sir William Ponson, a self-made man, had retired from business some ten years before our story opens and, selling his interest in the large ironworks of which he was head, had bought Luce Manor and settled down to end his days in the rôle of a country squire. Though obviously a nouveau riche, and still retaining the somewhat brusque manners of his hard, northern upbringing, he had nevertheless been received with more cordiality into the local society than usually happens in such cases. For Sir William, though he had thus risen in the social scale, remained a simple, honourable, kindly old man, a little headstrong and short tempered perhaps, but anxious to be just, and quick to apologise if he found himself in the wrong.

  It was seldom that Sir William partook of a solitary meal. He was fond of society, and kept open house for all who cared to visit him. He had rented some shooting, and though the fishing in the river was not good, it at least was fishing. The tennis courts were always in perfect condition, and there was a sporting golf course at the neighbouring town of Halford. But it spoke well for Sir William that, of all his acquaintances, those whom he liked best to welcome were his old, somewhat unpolished business friends from the north, by few of whom these pursuits were properly appreciated. In this he had the full sympathy of his wife, a stout, placid lady of uncertain age, who ruled over his household with leisurely, easy-going sway.

  Enid Ponson, their only daughter, a young woman of some thirty summers, was a favourite everywhere. Not exactly beautiful, she was yet good to look at, with her pale complexion, dark eyes, and winning smile. But it was her wonderful charm that endeared her to those with whom she came in contact, as well as the sweetness and kindliness of her disposition. That she was unmarried was only explained by the fact that the man to whom she had been engaged had been killed during the Great War. Enid and her father were close comrades and allies. She adored him, while Sir William’s chief thought was centred in his daughter, upon whom he thought the sun rose and set.

  When the family were alone it was Sir William’s custom after dinner to join his wife and Enid in the music room, where for hours the latter would sing and play, while her father smoked cigar after cigar, and the elder woman placidly knitted or crocheted. But tonight, being entirely alone, he retired at once from the table to his library, where he would sit, reading and smoking, till about ten or later he would ring for Parkes, the butler, to bring him his nightly tumbler of hot punch.

  But ten came, and half past ten, and eleven, and there was no ring.

  ‘Boss is late tonight, Mr Parkes,’ said Innes, Sir William’s valet, as he and the butler sat in the latter’s room over a bottle of Sir William’s old port, and a couple of Sir William’s three and sixpenny cigars.

  ‘Sir William is behind his usual hour,’ admitted the butler in a slightly chilly tone. Innes had followed his master from the north and was, as Mr Parkes put it, ‘well in’ with him. The butler therefore thought it politic to be ‘well in’ with Innes, and was usually affable in a condescending way. But the latter’s habit of speaking of Sir William as ‘the boss,’ grated on Parkes’s sensitive ears.

  The two chatted amicably enough, and under the influence of wine and tobacco time passed unnoticed until once again the clock struck.

  ‘That’s half-past eleven,’ said Parkes. ‘I have never known Sir William so late before. He is usually in bed by now.’

  ‘“Early to bed, early to rise,”’ quoted the valet. ‘There’s no accounting for tastes, Mr Parkes. I’d like to see you or me going to bed at ten-thirty and getting up at six when we needn’t.’

  ‘I don’t hold with unnecessarily early hours myself,’ the other agreed, and then, after a pause: ‘I think I’ll go and see if he wants anything. It’s not like him to retire without having his punch.’

  ‘Whatever you think, Mr Parkes, but for me, I could do here well enough for another hour or more.’

  Without replying, Parkes left the room. Reaching the library door, he knocked discreetly and then entered. The electric lights were switched on and everything looked as usual, but the room was empty. The butler moved on, and opening a door which led to the smoking room, passed in. The lights were off here, as they were also in the billiard room, which he next visited.

  ‘He must have gone up to bed,’ thought Parkes, and returning to his room, spoke to Innes.

  ‘I can’t find Sir William about anywhere below stairs, and he hasn’t had his punch. I wish you’d have a look whether he hasn’t gone to bed.’

  The valet left the room.

  ‘He’s not upstairs, Mr Parkes,’ he said, returning a few moments later. ‘And he’s not been either so far as I can see. The lights are off and nothing’s been touched.’

  ‘But where is he? He’s never been so late ringing for his punch before.’

  ‘I’m blessed if I know. Maybe, Mr Parkes, we should have another look round?’

  ‘It might be as well.’

  The
two men returned to the library. It was still empty, and they decided to make a tour of the lower rooms. In each they switched on the lights and had a look round, but without result. Sir William had disappeared.

  ‘Come upstairs,’ said Parkes.

  They repeated their search through music room, bedrooms, dressing-rooms, and passages, but all to no purpose. They could find no trace of their master.

  Mr Parkes was slightly perturbed. An idea had recurred to him which had entered his mind on various previous occasions. He glanced inquiringly at the valet, as if uncertain whether or not to unburden his mind. Finally he said in a low tone:

  ‘Has it ever struck you, Innes, that Sir William was apoplectic?’

  ‘Apoplectic?’ returned the other. ‘Why, no, I don’t think it has.’

  ‘Well, it has me, and more than once. If he’s annoyed he gets that red. I’ve thought to myself when he has got into a temper about something, “Maybe,” I’ve thought, “maybe some of these days you’ll pop off in a fit if you’re not careful.”’

  ‘You don’t say, Mr Parkes,’ exclaimed Innes, in a tone of thrilled interest.

  ‘I do. I’ve thought it. And I’ve thought too,’ the butler went on impressively, ‘that maybe something like this would happen: that we’d miss him, and go and look, and find him lying somewhere unconscious.’

  ‘Bless my soul, Mr Parkes, I hope not.’

  ‘I hope not too. But I’ve thought it.’ Mr Parkes shook his head gravely. ‘And what’s more,’ he went on after a few moments, ‘keeping this idea in view, I doubt if our search was sufficiently comprehensive. If Sir William had fallen behind a piece of furniture we might not have seen him.’

  ‘We could go round again, Mr Parkes, if you think that.’