“But fifty thousand pounds, Mr Pons! The whole estate is not worth a fraction of that. The house is well enough but the rest is just 300 acres of woodland, with some coarse grazing. There is not even any shooting or a trout stream or anything of the sort.”

  My astonishment must have shown on my face.

  “Fifty thousand pounds, Pons?”

  “Interesting, is it not, Parker. This is why Miss Hayling’s little problem intrigues me so. Have a look at this.”

  My friend passed me an impressive, blue-tinted deckle-edged sheet of stationery, which had very elaborate headings in flowing script printed on it.

  The legend, Scottish Land Trust, Registered Offices, Carnock House, Inverness, was followed by a list of directors whose names meant nothing to me. The letter, addressed to Miss Hayling’s parents, was an offer, couched in unctuous terms, of fifty thousand pounds sterling for the estate known as Glen Affric. It was dated more than a year earlier and signed by Mungo Ferguson. I passed it back to Pons with a non-committal grunt.

  “We are rather running ahead of ourselves,” said he. “Just let me précis the situation. Mr and Mrs Hayling were made an astronomical offer for Glen Affric estate, which is worth only a fraction of that, about eighteen months ago. They refused, as they had a great affection for the place, which is nevertheless worthless from a commercial development point of view.

  “Mungo Ferguson, the President, persisted with the offer, however, and said that the Trust wished to develop the property as a leisure and holiday centre and the site was the only place suitable for many miles around.”

  “There may be something in that, Mr Pons,” the girl muttered, searching Pons’ face with attentive eyes.

  “A short while after the last of these letters, Mr and Mrs Hayling died in the tragic accident with the pony and trap,”

  Pons continued. “Following the funeral Miss Hayling returned to Norwich and the Scottish house, with a reduced staff of three, remained in her ownership. But about six months ago the Trust’s offers were repeated by letter, at the lady’s Norwich address. What could be the reason behind such persistence?”

  “I have no idea, Pons.”

  “Nevertheless,” my companion returned. “It raises a number of interesting possibilities. This company seems inordinately concerned with this piece of ground. However, it is something which cannot be fully appreciated without seeing the terrain.”

  “You think the company genuine, Pons?”

  Solar Pons tented his thin fingers before him.

  “Oh, it is genuine enough so far as it goes, Parker. Miss Hayling, nothing if not a persistent young lady, has been to the Trust’s headquarters in Inverness. They have a proper office there, which is open at fixed hours on five days a week, though the one clerk employed there has little to do. But I am holding up Miss Hayling’s narrative. There are far more sinister overtones to come.”

  “You have put the situation admirably, Mr Pons,” said the girl. “This was how things stood until I returned to live again in Scotland back in the autumn.”

  “You had been called there by your old servants, had you not?”

  “Yes indeed, Mr Pons. By Mr and Mrs McRae, steward and housekeeper respectively. They are the only staff now apart from Mackintosh, the outside man and gardener.”

  “Something strange had happened, I understand.”

  The girl nodded, her eyes worried.

  “Strange enough, Mr Pons. After I had received McRae’s letter I thought I had better get the first available train.”

  Solar Pons blew a little eddying plume of blue smoke up toward the ceiling of our sitting-room.

  “It began with noises in the night, did it not?”

  “That is so, Mr Pons. Neither Mr McRae or his wife are what you might call sensitive or over-imaginative people. They are, on the contrary, stolid, strong-minded and dependable. Mackintosh likewise.”

  “The house is a lonely one, I understand?”

  “You could say that. The nearest habitation is about five or six miles away but that is irrelevant as the property itself, in extensive grounds, is approached by a long private road and well screened by heavy belts of trees.”

  “There were noises at first, you say.”

  “Yes, Mr Pons. Odd scratches, as though someone were trying the shutters at dead of night. McRae got up and ran out, but though it was a fine moonlight night, saw nothing. Another time there were footsteps and after odd banging noises a window was found open, as though it had been forced. On yet another occasion Mackintosh found a set of heavy footmarks across a flower-bed after rain. They had obviously been made during the dead hours of the night, for they were not there the evening before.”

  Solar Pons nodded.

  “Which brings us to the fire.”

  “Yes, Mr Pons. Though not serious it might well have been. Some outhouses, which stand between the main house and the stable-block, caught fire. Fortunately, Mr and Mrs McRae together with Mackintosh, who lives in a nearby cottage, were able to contain the outbreak with a garden hose but two of the sheds were completely destroyed.”

  I looked at my companion.

  “An accident, Pons?”

  The girl shook her head.

  “They found a three-quarters empty petrol can near the scene of the fire. It was obviously deliberate. The police were called in but found nothing.”

  Solar Pons blew out a little plume of smoke from the corner of his mouth.

  “What do you make of that, Parker?”

  “Why, coercion, Pons,” I said. “The Land Trust wants Miss Hayling’s property badly. Now they are putting on pressure to force her out.”

  “Splendid, Parker,” said Solar Pons, a twinkle in his eye. “You really are improving all the time. Those are my thoughts exactly and though the conclusion is a trite and obvious one it appears to me that my training is beginning to bear fruit. The question is, what does the Land Trust really want? And why should anyone desire such a remote and isolated property, which has no obvious commercial value.”

  “Exactly, Mr Pons,” put in Miss Hayling. “Farming is a depressed industry anyway and despite the Trust’s explanations, the one obvious use to which the land could be put is ruled out, because the estate is unsuitable for that purpose.

  The timber might be of some value, if it could be cut and marketed, but even that qualification is doubtful.”

  “There is more to come, Pons?” I asked.

  “Oh, a deal, Parker, a deal. I must apologise for these constant interruptions, Miss Hayling, but such sifting and evaluation of points as they arise, together with the comments of my good friend the doctor here, are a valuable factor in refining the ratiocinative processes.”

  There was a dry and humorous expression on Pons’ face as he spoke and I saw little sparks of humour dancing in the girl’s own eyes.

  “Well, Mr Pons, as I have already informed you by letter, things got rapidly worse. I had no sooner been apprised of the fire when something even more serious occurred. Mackintosh, the gardener surprised someone in the shrubbery one dark evening a few days afterwards, and was attacked in consequence. He struck his head on a stone bordering the driveway as he fell and briefly lost consciousness.

  “But he is a strong and vigorous man, fortunately, and came to no permanent harm. As soon as he was himself he roused the household, the police were called and a search made of the neighbourhood. But the terrain is hopeless as there are so many places of concealment and the perpetrator of this outrage was never found. On receipt of that news I immediately made my way from Norwich and took up residence at Glen Affric.”

  “When even more serious events took place, Miss Hayling.”

  “Indeed, Mr Pons. But not before being preceded by two letters, both signed by Mr Mungo Ferguson, and both repeating the original offer of the Land Trust.”

  “You took no notice of them?”

  “Of course not, Mr Pons. On these occasions I did not even bother to reply. But one afternoon, a fortnight ago, I had returned from a brisk walk on the hillside when I heard voices from the stable area. I found Mr McRae, my steward, having a fierce argument with a huge, red-bearded man dressed in riding clothes. He had come up in a dog-cart and the pony had been tied to the railings. McRae had found him wandering about the property uninvited, which had led to words. But he raised his hat civilly enough to me and introduced himself, asking for a private interview. I did not wish to invite him into the house and decided to keep McRae within earshot, so we walked a few yards away to talk.

  “He introduced himself as Ferguson and again repeated his offer from the Land Trust and when I refused, somewhat vehemently, he became abusive. I think he had been drinking and it was then, in the course of the interview, that he made an improper suggestion.”

  Miss Hayling paused and her cheeks were pink, her eyes gleaming with the recollection. Solar Pons’ own deep-set eyes turned on her sympathetically.

  “An improper suggestion, Miss Hayling?”

  “Yes, sir. It was one no lady could repeat to a gentleman. I am afraid I lost my temper completely. Ferguson was holding a riding crop loosely in his hand as we talked and I seized it and beat him about the head and shoulders with it. He was so surprised that he retreated rapidly. I threw the whip after him, he got quickly up into his trap and with many curses drove rapidly off and good riddance to him.”

  “Well done, my dear young lady,” I could not resist saying and Solar Pons looked at the pair of us, a slight smile playing around his lips.

  “And what did McRae do all this time?”

  “He was as astonished as Ferguson, Mr Pons. But there was no doubt he approved.”

  “Which brings us to three days ago.”

  “That is correct, Mr Pons. I felt thirsty after retiring to my room and came down to Mrs McRae’s kitchen to get a glass of milk. It was late—or what passes for late in the Highlands—just turned half-past eleven, and I was passing a side-door to get to the kitchen when I heard a sound outside. There was only a dim light burning in the far hallway and the rest of the building was in darkness.

  “I distinctly heard a foot grate on the stone step outside and then the iron door-latch was lifted once or twice as though someone was testing to see whether it was locked. I can tell you, Mr Pons, it was somewhat unnerving at that hour of night in such a lonely place to hear and see such a thing.”

  “I can well imagine, Miss Hayling. You called out, I believe?”

  “I shouted, ‘Who is there?’, more to keep my courage up than anything else. The latch was abruptly released and I heard the sound of hurried footsteps on the flagged path outside. I put on the outside porch light and went out to see who it was, but there was nothing.”

  “That was a brave thing,” I said.

  “But extremely unwise, Parker,” Solar Pons admonished. And to the girl.

  “You did nothing further that night?”

  “No, Mr Pons. I re-locked the door, got my milk and went to bed. But I was much troubled in my mind though I did not mention the matter to Mr and Mrs McRae. AU the staff had been greatly disturbed by these incidents and I had no wish to lose their services. Which brings me to yesterday afternoon.”

  Pons’ client paused as though recollecting her thoughts and went on in a low, even voice.

  “I had been out for a walk after lunch and my ramble had taken me to the northern portion of the estate, which abuts Glen Affric, a wild and lonely place, bordered by one of our local mountains of the same name. It was cold, grey and overcast and I had heard shooting earlier.”

  “Surely it is not the season?” I said.

  Miss Hayling shook her head.

  “No, but there are many local people who shoot rabbits and other small creatures for the pot during the winter months, so I took no particular notice. I was standing on the path, looking up the glen, taking in the romantic charm of the scene and thinking about nothing in particular when there came another shot, much closer this time. Mr Pons, it was aimed at me and the bullet passed through the bushes only four or five feet from my head!”

  3

  There was a long silence which I felt incumbent upon myself to break.

  “Good heavens! This is serious indeed!”

  “Is it not, Parker,” said Pons, rubbing his thin fingers together, suppressed energy evident in every line of his frame. “What did you do next?”

  “I am afraid I panicked, Mr Pons. I took to my heels down the path and did not rest until I was safe in the house again.” Solar Pons nodded sombrely.

  “You have done wisely, Miss Hayling. This is a black business. That shot was undoubtedly intended for you.”

  “But what does it all mean, Mr Pons?”

  “That is what I intend to find out. I have formed tentative theories but must wait until we are upon the ground before testing them. That was when you sent me the telegram?”

  “Yes, Mr Pons. Some weeks earlier I had remembered my father once speaking of you in connection with some case you had solved. It was then I first wrote you and apprised you of the situation and our ensuing correspondence has been the only thing which has strengthened my resolve in this business. I had Mackintosh get the trap and take the telegram into the village post office for transmission.”

  “Which was undoubtedly known to McDonald within the hour. He would know you had an interview at Praed Street this afternoon. You saw nobody when you took the London train last night?”

  His sharp eyes held the girl’s transfixed.

  She shook her head worriedly.

  “No, Mr Pons. Though I had a strange feeling that I was followed all the way from Scotland.”

  “You undoubtedly have been. We must be on our guard.” Solar Pons puffed furiously at his pipe, the aromatic blue clouds surrounding him in thick whorls.

  “You haven’t told us about Colonel McDonald, Miss Hayling,” I said.

  “I am sorry, Parker. It is my fault. I am au fait with the story and had forgotten it was quite new to you.”

  “I went to the station that evening, Mr Pons, as I told you. I had to pass the Affric Arms to get to the forecourt. There is a small private bar near the pavement and the window was uncurtained. I glanced in as I went by. Mackintosh was carrying my luggage and had noticed nothing but I could see Ferguson inside, in deep conversation with a man in front of a roaring fire. There was no mistaking him, Mr Pons. The flaming red hair drew my attention to him. The man with him glanced up though I am convinced he could not see me at the window as it was dark in the street. It was undoubtedly Colonel McDonald.”

  “You know him?” I said.

  “Of course, Dr Parker. Everyone in Inverness-shire knows the Colonel. He is a celebrated, not to say notorious figure. I must say I was alarmed to see him in such intimate circumstances with such an odious person as Ferguson.”

  “Why was that, Miss Hayling?”

  “Somewhat obviously, Mr Pons, I immediately gained the impression, rightly or wrongly, that he and Ferguson were in collaboration. Or, not to put too fine a point on it, that Ferguson was acting as McDonald’s agent in putting pressure on my family to get our estate.”

  “Have you or your family ever had any personal contact with the Colonel, Miss Hayling.”

  “So far as my parents are concerned, not that I am aware of. In my own case I have never met the man, though I have read a good deal about him, mostly in the financial press.”

  “And you do not like what you read?”

  “No, Mr Pons. He is certainly not a sympathetic figure.”

  “I see.”

  Pons was silent for a moment, his head resting on his breast, his eyes half-closed, as though deep in thought.

  “And you have no idea why such a man as Colonel McDonald would have an interest in a small estate like Glen Affric?” Our visitor shook her head.

  “No, Mr Pons.”

  “Very well, Miss Hayling. You have done well to come to me. There is little point in further discussion. However, I should be very careful while you are in London. Dr Parker will accompany you back to your hotel and I want your promise to stay there until we come to fetch you tomorrow. I believe there is a midday train from King’s Cross, is there not?”

  “That is correct, Mr Pons. But you do not believe I am in any danger here in London?”

  “It is as well to be on our guard, my dear young lady. I would like your promise, if you please.”

  “You have it, Mr Pons.”

  The girl got up from her chair, her eyes shining. We both rose also.

  “Thank you so much, gentlemen. I feel very much better already.”

  “I can promise nothing except that I will exert my best endeavours in your interests, Miss Hayling.”

  “One could not ask for more, Mr Pons.”

  “If you will just wait a moment while I get my coat, we will be off,” I said.

  The girl was silent as we took a taxi to her hotel, a comfortable, middle-class establishment conveniently situated near King’s Cross Station, but she reiterated her promise to remain in her room before we parted. She was to be ready at a quarter past eleven the following morning when we were due to pick her up by taxi. I saw her into the hotel and waited until she had locked herself within her room. She would dine in the hotel restaurant and would have no need to go out again until we caught the express north.

  When I returned to 7B an hour later I found Pons sprawled in his armchair in front of the fire in a brown study. Judging by the swathes of dense smoke which filled the room he had been smoking furiously.

  “Well, Parker,” he observed on my entry. “What is your opinion of Miss Hayling and her problem?”

  “A brave young lady, Pons,” I answered, laying down my overcoat and thankfully seating myself opposite him in my favourite armchair in front of the fire.

  “But a dark and difficult business. Though it seems obvious that the crude and murderous activities of the Scottish Land Trust were directed toward the purpose of obtaining Miss Hayling’s estate, I confess I cannot see the point. From what both you and she tell me it has no possible commercial value.”

 

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