The exploits of solar po.., p.2
The Exploits of Solar Pons, page 2
part #12 of Solar Pons Series
“It is entirely possible, Parker. Come, I have a notion to see what our friend will do next.”
And he led the way into the lobby of the hotel.
2
I sat down in a corner of the tea-lounge, the three-piece orchestra playing a dreamy melody from Strauss. The girl who had been in the cathedral was sitting three tables away, looking tense and irritated. Pons had asked me to keep an eye on her while he went on some mysterious errand of his own. I must confess I was put out at the turn things had taken; after all, we had come here for a much-needed holiday and such little mysteries as the one we had just witnessed were an unwarrantable intrusion.
I ordered afternoon tea for Pons and myself and waited, glancing idly about the room. The place was full and the agreeable hum of muted conversation drifted up to the beamed ceiling. I should have been extremely content if it had not been for the strange incident in the crypt and my pique continued as the minutes passed and my companion had still not appeared. The waitress had already brought the tea, the buttered scones and the selection of cakes before Pons hurried through the door to join me.
As he did so he almost collided with the bearded man; the latter drew back with an apology for he had thrust his way through the door with unceremonious haste. Pons stood back and beckoned him forward with a gracious gesture, a smile on his lips. The bearded man continued over to the girl’s table and as he sat down I could see from his hunched shoulders and strained tense attitude that the row we had witnessed in the crypt was continuing in this more salubrious atmosphere.
Pons sat down opposite me and rubbed his thin hands, looking at the delicacies on the table before us with keen anticipation.
“Excellent, Parker. I can see that this holiday will suit me. Even Mrs Johnson could not have done better.”
“You may well say so, Pons,” I rejoined, my spirits rising considerably. “But where on earth have you been? I was afraid the tea would become cold.”
“No fear of that, Parker,” said Pons, holding out his cup for the sparkling measure I poured for him. “I was just engaged in a pleasant conversation with the young lady at the reception desk.”
I looked at him in surprise.
“For what purpose, Pons?”
Solar Pons chuckled.
“Surely it is self-evident. I was merely trying to establish the identity of our fellow guest. I told the young lady I thought he was a friend I had met in America. She obligingly looked him up in the register. He is Herr Karl Koch of Stuttgart. He has been staying here for three days.”
The resentment and surprise in my eyes must have shown for my companion had mischievous little glints dancing in his own.
“Come, Parker. I have no wish to let such poor ratiocinative gifts as I possess rust in this mellow holiday atmosphere. I must confess I am curious and decided to find out a little more about this oddly assorted couple.”
“So long as it is only that, Pons. I have no wish to see the holiday spoiled.”
“And neither have I, my dear fellow. Though some little problem in our present genteel surroundings would constitute the perfect holiday for me.”
I thought it wiser to say nothing further on those grounds and sought to divert Pons but it was obvious by the way his deep-set eyes were glancing over the far table that he was deeply interested in Koch and his companion.
“You did not find out anything about the young lady, Pons?” I put in mischievously.
He shook his head.
“Miss Elise is not staying here, Parker.”
“I am surprised that you do not simply ask Mr Koch if the thing we found in the crypt belongs to him, Pons?”
My companion shook his head, a faint smile flickering at the corners of his mouth.
“That would spoil the game entirely, Parker. I have a mind to hold on to it for a little while. It can do no harm, surely, and I understand our strange friend is staying here for several days longer.”
I glanced at the animated couple again. you wish, Pons. Pray try these excellent scones; they are still hot.”
But it was evident that though Pons ate heartily and enjoyed the tea his mind was elsewhere. Three times I saw him shoot penetrating glances in the direction of the other table and long after the couple had disappeared he had an abstracted air about him.
We had finished the meal and were about to withdraw from the lounge when there came an interruption. A short, rather shabby-looking little old man in dark clothes had been hovering about at the entrance to the great room. I had noticed him at the cash-desk talking to the manageress and now I found him at my elbow, his eyes deferential and apologetic.
“Mr Pons? Mr Solar Pons?”
“This is he,” I said, indicating my companion.
“I am sorry to disturb you, gentlemen, but we are in some trouble. The Dean sent me specially.”
Solar Pons smiled, sitting upright in his chair in an alert and wide-awake manner.
“Will you not introduce yourself? I must confess your sentence makes little sense at the moment.”
The little man looked confused and shot an apologetic glance at the manageress over Pons’ shoulder and then at my friend himself.
“My apologies, sir. My name is Miggs. I am the Head Verger at the Cathedral yonder. Strange things have been happening.”
“Indeed?”
Solar Pons’ eyebrows were drawn across his brows in a hard, straight line.
“Will you not sit down and tell us about it?”
Our strange visitor shook his head.
“My thumb is still sore, gentlemen, and the Dean himself bade me make haste.”
“You seem determined to present us with an enigma, Mr Miggs,” said Solar Pons with a dry laugh.
“I take it you want us to come with you?”
“If you would be so good, sir. The thing is so mysterious, you see.”
“May I ask how you knew I was at this hotel?”
“The Manager of the hotel, sir, worships at the Cathedral. Of course he’s well-known in Norwich and when the Dean was speaking about our troubles yesterday Mr Kellaway immediately said you were coming to stay here today. I do hope it has not caused any offence . . .”
“By no means,” said Solar Pons, rising from his seat.
“Mr Kellaway would have spoken of it himself, sir,” continued Mr Miggs apologetically, “but he’s been called away today. He telephoned the Dean who asked me to come straight here.”
Solar Pons smiled thinly as I got up and indicated my willingness to accompany him.
“Am I to understand that the Dean of Norwich himself wishes to consult me on some matter?”
The little man flushed.
“Begging your pardon, sir, explaining things is not my strong suit. You have hit it exactly, Mr Pons. Canon Stacey is a charming gentleman and is quite at his wit’s end. We all are, I can tell you. Such goings-on!”
He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief he took from the side pocket of his old black coat.
“I know it’s your holiday, sir, but if you could spare some time we’d all be grateful. The Canon’s house is in the Close, quite nearby. Just a step, sir.”
He delivered his monologue with such a rueful, apologetic air that I had a job to keep a straight face, however irritated I might feel at this potential interruption to our holiday.
“Very well. Let us go there straight away,” said Solar Pons crisply. “You can tell us about your thumb on the way. You must find your work at the Cathedral a great deal different from shoe repairs.”
“Eigh?”
Mr Miggs looked at Pons in great astonishment, his mouth all drawn up on one side. His eyes had a strange expression in them.
“How on earth could you possibly know that, Mr Pons?” “Ah, I am correct then?”
“I was in the trade for more than thirty years, sir.”
“That accounts for the calluses on your thumb where you hold the leather as you shape it on your last. They are quite distinctive. When I see in addition that your left shoulder is slightly lower than your right I conclude that you are right-handed and that you have been in the habit of bending over your work in the manner peculiar to cobblers. Thirty years of that would certainly have its effect on your physique and it is typical of the trade.”
Mr Miggs continued to stare at my companion in astonishment.
“Wonderful, Mr Pons! Wonderful!” he breathed. “Canon Stacey will be pleased. Mr Kellaway said you had miraculous powers of reasoning, sir, but I did not realise you would demonstrate them so soon.”
Solar Pons chuckled.
“Let us hope that neither you nor Mr Stacey will be disappointed when I get to grips with your little problem.”
Mr Miggs shook his head.
“I am sure that will not be the case, sir.”
3
Despite his age he led the way at a furious pace through the streets of the old city, until at last we came to the hush of the Cathedral Close, with its handsome old houses flanking the green lawns and gravel driveways. He ushered us up white steps to a gracious Georgian portico, its discreet pale-blue painted door glittering with brass ornaments. The white paintwork gleamed on the fanlight above the door and on the small-paned windows set in the facade of the house and a profusion of flowers made bright splashes of colour in the black window-boxes and perfumed the air for yards around.
“This is Canon Stacey’s residence, gentlemen,” said Mr Miggs, his voice involuntarily lowering. Pons gave me a faint smile above the old man’s bowed head.
“You have not yet told us about your thumb, Mr Miggs.” “Ah, sir. All in good time. The Canon said I wasn’t to mention that until you had heard what he has to say.”
“Very well, then,” observed Solar Pons. “We shall just have to curb our impatience, eh, Parker?”
“Certainly, Pons.”
A trim parlour-maid had now opened the great front door and ushered the three of us into an elegant and soberly furnished hall, whose beauty was enhanced by the bowls of cut flowers in vases set about the interior and by the exquisite Indian rug at the far end, that glowed like a great ruby on the black and white tiled floor.
A regal, grey-haired woman whose features bore the dark tint that skin acquires after long years of exposure to tropical sun, came out of a room adjoining the hall and advanced toward us with a smile of welcome.
“Mr Solar Pons? And Dr Lyndon Parker? It is indeed good of you to interrupt your holiday in this fashion.”
“Not at all, Mrs Stacey,” said Pons, shaking hands. “Dr Parker and I will be only too pleased to help in this little matter.”
Mrs Stacey’s hand flew to her throat with a nervous gesture.
“Oh, you will not find it a little matter, Mr Pons. Mr Miggs here has been half-frightened out of his wits. And my husband is gravely perturbed. Gravely perturbed.”
There was more than worry in her eyes and Solar Pons glanced at her solemnly.
“Indeed, Mrs Stacey,” he said soothingly. “Nevertheless, we shall do our best to set things to rights.”
He smiled reassuringly at the grey-haired woman, who led us without more ado to the door of her husband’s study, where she rapped at the panels and then ushered us in.
“Will you not come in, Mr Miggs?” she asked the verger kindly.
“If you’ll excuse me, m’am, I’ll wait in the hall until the Canon should require me.”
“As you wish. This is my husband, Mr Pons. Dr Lyndon Parker.”
The tall, distinguished-looking man in the neat grey suit rose from his desk in the cluttered study as we advanced toward him. A vase of roses made a blaze of colour in the handsome stone fireplace and the sunlight glinted on the spines of the thousands of leather-bound volumes that filled the glass bookcases which stretched from floor to ceiling. Beyond the tall, elegant windows with their gauze curtaining could be glimpsed the tranquil Close with its passing visitors.
Canon Stacey was a man of about sixty-five, with a pleasant, open face and an unlined complexion though, like his wife, he still bore a deep tan. His silver hair rose in thick waves on his head so that it almost resembled an eighteenth century powdered wig. His white, even teeth gleamed in a welcoming smile but I could see anxiety and doubt in the steady brown eyes.
“It is extremely good of you, Mr Pons. We are at our wit’s end. Will you not sit here, gentlemen. Winifred, perhaps you could see about some tea for our guests.”
“Pray do not put yourself out,” said Solar Pons to the Canon’s wife. “We have just had tea.”
“In that case you will not mind if we indulge,” said the Canon with a faint flicker of a smile. “We usually have ours at this time of the afternoon.”
“By all means,” said my companion. “Your Mr Miggs tells me you have a problem which is worrying you.”
Mrs Stacey, with a quick glance at her husband, went out to give the orders for tea and Pons and I sank into comfortable leather chairs at our host’s invitation. Glancing anxiously from one to the other of us, Canon Stacey without further preamble at once plunged into his story.
“There are strange things going on in the Cathedral, Mr Pons. I am worried, gentlemen. Extremely worried. Your coming to Norwich was like the answer to my prayer. And I have no wish to involve the police in this matter or there might be a public scandal.”
Solar Pons said nothing, merely sat back in his chair, his long, slim hands in his lap, his lean, ascetic face gilded with golden stripes by the sunlight. He looked reassuringly at the Canon who licked his lips once or twice and continued with his apparently random musings.
“It started about two weeks ago. I was walking through the Cathedral at dusk when I became conscious of a low whispering. It was fairly late, there were no services taking place and the spot was dimly-lit and lonely. I am not a fanciful person in the ordinary sense of the word, Mr Pons, yet there was something unpleasant and inexpressibly furtive in that mumbled colloquy taking place in that sacred place. I caught only one or two words, savagely and more loudly spoken than the others. They made my heart beat faster and I moved behind a pillar in case the hidden talkers should see me.”
“Why was that, Canon Stacey?”
The distinguished-looking churchman hesitated.
“A good question, Mr Pons. Really, I believe, because there was such menace in their tones. I am a gentle, peace-loving man as befits my cloth and I instinctively shrank from such voices in a holy place.”
“I see. Male or female voices?”
“Male, Mr Pons. Extremely rough. Working class and not at all the sort of people I should imagine would have found much time for organised religion.”
The Canon looked apologetically from one to the other of us.
“I must confess that does not sound very Christian, Mr Pons. After all, the church is open to everyone. But I would be less than honest if I did not frankly indicate my feelings.”
“Your attitude does you credit, Canon Stacey. Just what were these words which so startled you?”
“‘Robbery’ and ‘killing’, Mr Pons.”
There was a long silence between the three of us.
“Hmm.”
Solar Pons pulled reflectively with thin fingers at the lobe of his right ear.
“You did not see the men?”
Canon Stacey shook his head.
“Not at that point, Mr Pons. They were behind the chancel screen, you see, and I should have been seen had I quitted my position at the pillar. Something compelled me to stay there, as though harm might befall me if I were to make my presence known.”
The Canon lowered his voice and looked around him as though the room were dark and gloomy and the time winter, instead of light and bright with the brilliant summer sunshine streaming in. He hesitated again and then went on.
“You will think me even more fanciful, Mr Pons, but I had the strangest impression as I stood behind that pillar and listened to those evil voices.”
“And what was that, Canon Stacey?”
“That the two men were lying out full-length on the pews in order to avoid being seen as they plotted something horrific and criminal.”
4
We were interrupted at that moment by a rap at the far door and Mrs Stacey re-appeared, followed by the same maid who had let us in, wheeling a tea-trolley. Pons and I remained silent until the tea-preparations were completed and the girl had withdrawn. Mrs Stacey shot a glance at us.
“I will just take Miggs a cup,” she said. “I will see that you are not disturbed again, Howard.”
The Canon smiled graciously.
“Thank you, my dear.”
He waited until his wife had quitted the room, drumming nervously with slim fingers upon his desk.
“Your experience was certainly a strange one, Canon,” observed Solar Pons, tenting his thin fingers before him. “And something one would not expect to find within the precincts of a great Cathedral.”
“There is more to come, Mr Pons,” observed the Canon sombrely.
“I had hoped to hear something further but unfortunately there was a loud noise in the distance, probably caused by one of the volunteer cleaners, which startled the couple. I heard the scraping of heavy boots and moments later saw the dark shadows of two large men, making off down the aisle.”
“You did not observe them clearly?”
“Well, Mr Pons, I waited until they had got to a more brightly lit portion of the interior, slipping from pillar to pillar so that they should not see me. All I could make out was that they were dark, tall and wore rough clothing.”
“I see. Pray continue.”
“About an hour later I was called by Mr Miggs, who was rather agitated and upset. He has a great sense of propriety and is one of the most zealous guardians of the Cathedral and its fabric.”
“He struck me as being exceedingly conscientious, Canon,” I put in.
Canon Stacey nodded and then went on, as though a flood of thoughts were waiting to be liberated.
“Miggs took me to the spot near the pillar where the two men had been lying. We found the lid of a tobacco tin which had been used as an ash-tray. The floor was littered with cigarette ends and packages of food had been opened and sandwiches eaten. The mess was disgusting! Smoking and eating in the Lord’s house, Mr Pons! It was my firm opinion that the men were waiting until after dark, when the Cathedral would be locked, and intended to commit some mischief.”
