“But were apparently disturbed and fearing detection made off?”

  “Something like that, Mr Pons.”

  My companion nodded slowly.

  “It is one possibility,” he said. “There is more to come, I take it?”

  “A good deal more,” said the Canon grimly. “There are priceless treasures within the Cathedral. The plate alone . .”

  “We will take that for granted, Canon,” Solar Pons interjected. “Facts, if you please.”

  “I am sorry, Mr Pons. My nerves have been ruffled, I must confess.”

  Canon Stacey cracked his knuckles several times in succession in an irritating manner as though to prove the point and I noticed that his action seemed to be having the same effect upon Pons. Then Stacey took up the threads of his story once again.

  “A few days later, Miggs again came to me in great agitation to say that one of the side-chapels was in considerable disorder. I went there immediately and I must say I was extremely shocked. Chairs had been thrown down, some of the carvings disfigured, all the altar ornaments had been removed and ornamental candlesticks unscrewed. I had never seen such a mess!”

  The Canon’s anger and distress was patent but it appeared to me that Pons was having some difficulty in keeping a straight face as our host’s tale proceeded. But he sat upright in his chair, his face alert and intent, his eyes shining.

  “What you have just told me is extremely interesting,” he said.

  “Such hooliganism, Mr Pons!”

  Solar Pons shook his head.

  “I think not, Canon. These are the marks of something deeper than that.”

  “What do you mean, Mr Pons?”

  “I would prefer not to speculate at this stage, Canon. You say you did not call the police?”

  Our host hesitated, drumming his fingers again.

  “No, Mr Pons. There was a very good reason. Any publicity might have frightened these men off. I wanted, if possible, to catch them red-handed and we could not do that if newspaper reports of this sacrilege were to appear in the local press.”

  “I see.”

  “The next thing that happened, Mr Pons, was shocking and inexplicable. There has been a great deal of re-building and maintenance work going on at the Cathedral over the past three or four years. This has obviously necessitated parts of the building being closed and some inconvenience occasioned to both the staff of the Cathedral and the worshippers. Not to mention the general public who merely regard the building as a tourist attraction.”

  The Canon poured himself another cup of tea and stared at Pons as though expecting him to agree that tourists were an unmitigated nuisance. Pons waited politely until the churchman had taken two or three sips, though it was obvious to me that he was intensely interested in the Canon’s story.

  “I had gone down into the crypt. I think to verify an inscription on one of the tombs for a learned paper I am at present writing concerning the history of this noble edifice. It was late afternoon and there was no-one but myself there. I was up in a far corner, translating the Latin inscription, and could not have been visible to anyone coming into the crypt. I had been engaged so for some five or ten minutes when my attention was arrested by a slight noise. Work on the foundations in the crypt has necessitated the re-positioning of some of the tombs.”

  “Naturally, being scholars and historians as well as churchmen, we have tried to do as little violence to the original scheme of things as possible, but the Cathedral architect had insisted that the tomb of Bishop Lascelles would have to be moved to one side to allow underpinning and draining of the foundations. The tomb itself is of no great historical value; the good Bishop died in 1812 and so far as I know there are no members of his family extant so we did not have to apply for permission.”

  “The Bishop’s tomb is where in the crypt, Canon?”

  “I can take you there, Mr Pons.”

  “We have already been, Canon Stacey, though I should like you to refresh my memory.”

  “It is the third memorial down, on the right-hand side as you get to the bottom of the crypt stairs, Pons,” I said. “I noticed it particularly, as it has somewhat hideous cherubs on the sarcophagus and wooden beams and scaffolding around it.”

  “Correct, Dr Parker,” said Canon Stacey, beaming.

  “Excellent, Parker,” said Pons drily. “You are constantly improving.”

  “Well, gentlemen,” continued the Canon. “That is the place, right enough. You can imagine my horror when I heard a low groan and the creak of wood. As I started from my corner I was appalled to see that the temporary wooden cover on the tomb—we have removed the inner shell containing the remains of the Bishop pending his re-interment—was beginning to move upward. I could see that there was a lean, dirty arm and hand inside, pushing the lid up toward the ceiling. I am afraid that I gave a terrified cry, the lid collapsed with a loud crash and in the shock of the moment I beat an undignified retreat up the stairs.”

  “I am not surprised, Canon,” said Solar Pons, conscious of the apologetic expression in the churchman’s eyes. “You did wisely.”

  “Ah, then, you believe in the supernatural, Mr Pons?”

  Solar Pons shook his head slowly, producing his pipe from his pocket. He lit it at Canon Stacey’s extended permission and puffed thoughtfully, sending fragrant blue plumes of smoke up toward the gracious plaster-work of the ceiling.

  “On the contrary, Canon, I am inclined to believe the problem is more tangible than that.”

  Puzzled, Canon Stacey turned to me as though for an explanation. After a moment he continued, albeit more hesitantly than before.

  “I lost no time in summoning help, gentlemen. With Mr Miggs and several stalwart workmen I again descended to the crypt. We got that heavy temporary wooden lid off the tomb. Mr Pons, it was absolutely empty!”

  5

  Solar Pons had a thin smile on his lips.

  “I should have been extremely surprised had you found anyone there.”

  “Good heavens, Pons!” I exclaimed. “How could you possibly know that?”

  Solar Pons’ smile widened a little.

  “Intuition, Parker. Combined with certain theories which I have already formed.”

  Canon Stacey smiled also.

  “Ah, Mr Pons. I was correct in my supposition that you would soon get to the heart of this awful mystery.”

  My companion held up his hand.

  “Not so fast, Canon Stacey. I am far from doing that. And I have no wish to raise your hopes unduly. But what you have told me so far leads my thoughts in certain directions. Apart from that I would prefer to say no more at the moment.”

  “Very well, Mr Pons,” said Canon Stacey, but there was evident disappointment on his face.

  “I come now to the last of these mysteries. Yesterday evening, again near dusk, Miggs himself had a terrifying experience. Otherwise, I might have felt my own to be the result of some strange delusion or fancy. Perhaps you would like Mr Miggs in now?”

  “By all means. It was by his own wish that he was excluded from this conversation.”

  “Miggs has odd little ways,” said the Canon, with a wry smile.

  He got up and went over to the study door, reappearing a few seconds later with the diminutive figure of the verger, who was looking apprehensive and carrying his cup and saucer in his right hand. He seated himself on the very edge of the chair the Canon produced for him and sat looking round him as though prepared for some inquisitorial ordeal. As he showed no inclination to speak Pons himself opened the conversation.

  “Canon Stacey has told us something of the strange events in the Cathedral, Mr Miggs. I should now like to hear from your own lips of the experience you yourself had last evening.”

  Miggs moistened his lips with his tea and shot an uneasy glance at the Canon.

  “We are all friends here, Mr Miggs,” said the churchman with a kindly smile.

  “Well, gentlemen,” Miggs began. “It was just about dusk last night. I was going around locking up and seeing that everything was secure. There were still visitors in the main body of the Cathedral but they were few and far between and it wanted but half-an-hour to the closing and locking of the main doors. There was a little job I wanted to do in the Montresor Chapel, which is half-way down the body of the church.”

  Miggs cleared his throat apologetically and took another sip of the tea as though to sustain himself during his ordeal.

  “I had my cleaning materials with me and it was my intention to burnish the brasses a little. There’s the most magnificent . . .”

  “Yes, yes, Mr Miggs,” the Canon interrupted. “I’m sure Mr Pons doesn’t want to hear all that.”

  “Just tell us what you did,” said Solar Pons quietly, his lean, feral face expressing the keenest interest.

  “Well, sir,” said Miggs, turning toward him. “I had been working away for a few minutes, when I had a strange feeling that I wasn’t alone. There’s a quaint old altar piece up in one corner, with an ancient confessional box. It has a font with a carved gargoyle’s head posed above it, as though it used to be a fountain at one time. I saw something in the bowl of the font, which arrested my attention, Mr Pons.”

  “And what was that?”

  “Something that looked like a cotton-reel, Mr Pons. I bent forward to pick it up and as I did so I became aware of red eyes like an animal’s glaring at me from the gloom of the confessional box. At the same time the gargoyle bit me!”

  Solar Pons leaned forward, his face grave as a carven statute.

  “Bit you, Mr Miggs?”

  “Yes, sir. Something sharp like a tooth in the mouth of the thing! It drew blood and I dropped the wooden reel and fled!”

  “I can’t say I blame him, Pons,” I exclaimed. “That would be enough to frighten anybody.”

  “Indeed, Parker.”

  “Just let me have a look at your thumb, Mr Miggs.”

  The indignant verger drew a grubby piece of plaster aside on his right thumb and allowed me to examine the wound. He winced as I fingered the skin around the puncture.

  “It is deep, Pons. Something has either stabbed or bit him. Something with a very narrow entry point.”

  “Thank you, Parker. This is exceedingly interesting. You have nothing further to tell us, Mr Miggs?”

  The verger shook his head.

  “Only that when I came back with Canon Stacey and some of the workmen there was no sign of anyone in the confessional box. And the wooden thing in the font had gone!”

  Solar Pons rubbed his thin hands together. He rose to his feet.

  “I think we have heard everything that is likely to be of use, Canon. I would now like to go over the ground.”

  “By all means, Mr Pons. I will myself accompany you. Perhaps you would lead the way, Mr Miggs.”

  Pons was silent as we walked across the Close to the great facade of the Cathedral with its massive carved stonework at the entrance doors. Once inside the dim interior with the glutinous notes of the organ sounding we were again in another world.

  “This is the place, Mr Pons. The Montresor Chapel.”

  Solar Pons’ clear-minted features expressed the greatest interest. He hurried forward through the wrought-iron entrance gate and stood for a moment, looking intently about him. The Canon, Miggs and myself remained outside for a moment while he made his preliminary examination. There were few people about here and the light coming in through the stained glass in the early evening of this beautiful June day cast segments of blue, red and gold across Pons’ alert face.

  “This is the bowl of which I spoke, Mr Pons,” said the verger pointing out the altar piece in question. I followed behind him and the Canon and I watched while Pons produced his magnifying glass and went carefully over the stonework.

  “Why, there, Mr Pons!” said Miggs pointing with a quivering forefinger. “There is a drop of my blood!”

  “Indeed,” said Solar Pons abstractedly. “I had already observed it. But I am more interested in this gargoyle. Ah, that is singular, is it not, Parker?”

  I followed Pons’ glance and saw that the mouth of the thing was hollow. Pons was within the darkness of the confessional box now and I could see his eyes gleaming in the shadow as he surveyed us.

  “Significant also, Parker,” he said, his voice muffled from within the huge wooden structure. I squeezed in beside him and found that I could survey the chapel and a good deal of the Cathedral interior on this side without being seen myself. Pons was crouching down and I saw a beam of light illuminate his features.

  “Just look at this, Parker.”

  I put my eye down and found that there was a large hole, apparently at the back of the gargoyle’s head. The light from the cathedral interior was shining through the mouth.

  “Good heavens, Pons, this is curious!” I exclaimed. “This must have been part of a fountain once.”

  “I am inclined to believe you, my dear fellow. Undoubtedly the water supply passed through this channel. It is highly significant.”

  We were interrupted at that moment by Canon Stacey, who was obviously keen to show us the spot connected with his own little adventure. In the shadow of the great pillar to which he led us Pons carried out a minute examination, and then glanced at the pews on which the two men were carrying out their mysterious conversation when observed by Stacey.

  “There is little to be learned here, Parker,” he said briefly. “But then I did not expect there to be. I should like to see the crypt now, if you please, Mr Miggs.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  The verger led the way at a fast trot, fussy and full of self-importance and I could see a wry smile creasing Pons’ features as I followed my friend down the steps. There was no-one else in the crypt so we were free to carry out our examination unhindered.

  “Now exactly where were you standing when you saw this apparition?” Pons asked.

  Canon Stacey gave a nervous glance over toward the scaffolding and sarcophagus in the corner.

  “By this tomb here, Mr Pons.”

  He led the way and Pons took up the position indicated by him.

  “I see. That squares perfectly with what you have already told us.”

  Pons stood for a moment, the fingers of his left hand pulling reflectively at the lobe of his left ear. Then he walked back down to the tomb of Bishop Lascelles. As the Canon had told us a heavy wooden lid temporarily covered the top, where the massive stone original had previous rested. This itself was on the paving at some distance, with a rope barrier around it.

  “What was the exact purpose of this lid, Canon?” Pons asked.

  “Why, Mr Pons, it was a question of time, you see. It was quite an undertaking getting the original off and then we had to remove the body. It could not be done in a day or anything like it, as our masons had to have scaffolding to lift the inner shell with the Bishop’s remains. So we had the wooden cover made to conceal the inner coffin while the work went on. There was so much to be done here, you understand, that we should have had to have closed off the crypt to the public for months otherwise.”

  “I see.”

  Pons bent down and picked up a long thin strip of material. I glanced at it and saw that it was a wood shaving. I saw Pons’ gaze resting on the various tools scattered about in this corner.

  “And the lid was lifting by itself, you say? Or rather under the pressure of a hand and arm within the sarcophagus?”

  Canon Stacey swallowed and turned a little pale. Looking round the dim crypt I had an idea of the shock the experience must have given him; even with the four of us here it was an atmospheric, evocative place “That is correct, Mr Pons. I shall never forget it.”

  “I am not surprised. Let us just see what weight we have to deal with.”

  Pons lifted one end of the lid.

  “Oh, yes, it is not all that heavy.”

  He casually levered it to one side so that we could all look within at the dry, ancient stonework of the interior.

  “There was nothing there, as you see, Mr Pons.”

  “Exactly, Canon.”

  Solar Pons stood looking reflectively down into the tomb. I saw that holes had been drilled through for the heavy bolts of the lid and helped Pons to replace it in its original position. Solar Pons dusted his hands, his eyes bright as he glanced at me.

  “I think I have seen enough, Canon. Thank you, Mr Miggs. It has been extremely enlightening.”

  Canon Stacey had an eager expression on his face.

  “You have learned something, Mr Pons?”

  “I have learned a good deal. Whether I shall be able to draw any valid conclusions from my data remains to be seen. Come, Parker.”

  And he led the way from the crypt.

  6

  “Now, my dear fellow, let us just have your invaluable thoughts on this matter.”

  We were sitting at ease in the hotel dining room, having just concluded dinner, in that agreeable interval between the dessert and the entrance of the coffee and liqueurs. I fiddled with the fly-tying vice in my pocket, conscious that the original purpose of our holiday was fast becoming as the substance of a dream.

  “You think this Herr Koch might have something to do with the extraordinary events in the Cathedral, Pons?”

  “It is not beyond the bounds of possibility, Parker. You will have observed that Mr Miggs’ account of the article in the basin of that fountain was extraordinarily similar to the thing we ourselves picked up in the crypt this morning.”

  “You think it was another message, Pons? In code?”

  “It is extremely likely, Parker. Though the code itself is childishly simple.”

  “I did not find it so, Pons.”

  “That is because you are not bringing your mind to bear upon the subject, Parker.”

 

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