Pons sat for a moment in silence, his fingers tented before him, an enigmatic smile on his thin lips. "Will you tell us something of the —'the curse,' I believe you called it?" he asked presently.
"Very well, Mr. Pons, I'll do the best I can," said our visitor. "It began —no, let me say rather that the first time I was aware of it was about a year after grandfather died. I was then seventeen. My grandfather's house had always seemed a very gloomy place to me — for he had surrounded it with all manner of plants and trees, and it was overgrown with creepers, which give the house its name —and we did not visit there often. However, on that occasion —my seventeenth birthday —we journeyed down from London to spend a week with my Uncle Sydney.
"It was at about this time of the year. My uncle was in the best of spirits, though there had never been much love lost among the members of my father's generation, or, for that matter, between my grandfather and his children. On the morning of the second day of our visit to him, my uncle failed to come down to breakfast. When my father and one of the servants went to see what detained him, they found him stretched out on the floor, dead. Mr. Pons, he had been strangled in some remarkable fashion. There were curious bruises around his neck, as well as on his face, his arms, back, and chest. There was the appearance of a violent struggle, but the room was locked, the key was in the lock on the inside, and, while the window was open, there was no mark to show that anyone had climbed into the second-storey window either by ladder or by means of the thick creepers along that wall.
"The medical evidence seemed inconclusive; it was not called death by strangulation, but death by misadventure; his doctor believed he had had some kind of seizure, and, while a cursory investigation was made by the only police sergeant on the island, there was nothing at all that might be called evidence turned up. No strange craft had landed on Uffa; no one had any reason to want Uncle Sydney dead; and my father, who inherited my uncle's share of Uffa, had far more wealth of his own through his business interests and his investments in the City."
Our client struggled visibly to control herself. She was clearly still under great strain, and had undoubtedly forced herself to make the journey to consult my companion. "Mr. Pons, I didn't see my uncle lying there —but I did see my father in exactly similar circumstances just seven years later, almost to the day —and now, God help us all! —I've seen my fiance similarly killed —all without motive, as if it were an act of a vengeful God! Mr. Pons, our family —our house —our Uffa is cursed! Now my brothers are urging me to sell, to give up Uffa, and move to England. I have no wish to do so, for I am sentimentally attached to our island, but certainly I cannot sell until I can be sure that only the Grice-Patersons and those who are close to us are victims of this dread curse which seems to know no limitation of time."
"Do I understand you to say that all these deaths have taken place in the same room, Miss Grice-Paterson?" asked Pons.
"No, Mr. Pons. Two of them occurred in the same room on the second floor —my uncle's and my father's. My fiance was found on the ground floor, in the study directly below that room. He had been reading late, and had apparently fallen asleep. The circumstances of my father's and uncle's deaths were very much the same —that is, the door was locked, the open windows showed no sign of disturbance. In the case of my fiance, the door was ajar, but nothing had been disturbed. There were the same strangulation marks about his neck. ..."
"Pons!" I cried out suddenly, memory flooding me —"A dacoit!"
Our client flashed a startled glance in my direction, and then gazed wonderingly back toward Pons.
"Pray forgive Dr. Parker, Miss Grice-Paterson. He is addicted to reading of the exploits of Dr. Fu Manchu, who employs thugs and dacoits to accomplish his lethal work for him."
"You may well make sport of me," I answered hotly, "but it's certainly not beyond the bounds of possibility that the one-time Governor-General of Malaya may have brought back with him some sacred symbol, the recovery of which has brought about these strange deaths."
"Perhaps not beyond the bounds of possibility, but certainly of probability," countered Pons.
Our client fingered a curiously-wrought golden brooch at her throat, a thoughtful expression on her attractive features. "It is true I've heard my grandfather speak often of the mysteries of Malaya — of the strange customs and the unbelievable things one might learn from the ancient native culture —but I'm quite certain he was not the kind of man who would have made off with anything which did not belong to him. He was no doubt a martinet in many ways, and in most ways a typical British colonial administrator, I am convinced—but, Mr. Pons, he was not a thief."
"I should be inclined to agree with you, since I know something of your grandfather's record," said Pons soothingly, his eyes warning me to be silent. "Now tell me, would it be possible for Dr. Parker and myself to examine the body of Lt. Hanwell?"
Our client bit her lip, and an expression of anguish washed into her face. "Mr. Pons, his body is being taken home to Brighton tomorrow. Do you think it necessary?"
"It may be helpful," replied Pons.
"Very well, then, if we were to leave immediately —my car is below, and there will be a boat waiting to take us to Uffa at Penzance —we might be able to accomplish what you ask before the coffin embarks."
"Capital! We shall leave at once."
Pons leapt to his feet, threw aside his purple dressing-gown, kicked off his slippers, and in a thrice was ready, deerstalker, Inverness and all, having moved with an agility only too typical of him, and managing to chide me for my slowness at the same time. He did not speak to our client again until we were comfortably ensconced in her car, a handsome Rolls-Royce, driven by a chauffeur.
"Tell me, Miss Grice-Paterson, has there ever occurred any other untoward incident at The Creepers?"
In the darkness of the car, our client's sensitive face was visible only in the light of passing street-lamps. She appeared to ponder Pons's question before she answered.
"Mr. Pons, I cannot say. Perhaps in the light of life in an ordinary suburban villa or semi-detached house, there have been strange events at The Creepers. Our inability to keep dogs, for instance."
"Ah, what of that?"
"They die, Mr. Pons. Despite the fact that our winter temperatures rarely fall below forty-five degrees, and our summer temperatures do not often rise above eighty degrees, our dogs have been unable to weather a year at The Creepers. We have lost no less than seven of them in the course of the past decade. Of all kinds, too. And two cats, I might mention, shared the dogs' inability to live on Uffa."
"Is this a general condition on the island?"
"Well, now that I think of it —it isn't. There is a dog in a tenant house at the other end of the island. An old sheep dog. He doesn't seem to have been troubled by the atmosphere of Uffa. He may be an exception. Then again, it may be the atmosphere of The Creepers, which brings me to another of the incidents you asked about —the night of the perfume —when the entire island seemed to be pervaded with a most bewitching and demoralizing perfume, as cloying as that of heliotrope, and giddying. It came, of course, from one of my late grandfather's rare plants, which had come into blossom after many years of sterility.
"Then there are, I suppose one might add, the strange, whispering sounds of the leaves, which seem to caress one another even on the most windless nights. Oh, Mr. Pons —how can I speak of these things which are so much a part of the house and of life on Uffa, when I am still stricken by the curse of the Grice-Patersons! How shall I ever again survive the month of August! I shall never spend another summer on Uffa."
She spoke with passion and determination.
"You do not live alone at The Creepers?"
"No, Mr. Pons. My brothers Avery and Richard live there with me. Mrs. Flora Brinton is our cook. Aram Malvaides is an old servant who was my grandfather's orderly for many years. He is the gardener, and he has an assistant who comes some days from the mainland. There are certain other minor serva
nts, responsible to Mrs. Brinton or to Aram."
"You've not mentioned hearing any outcry in the case of any one of the three unfortunate deaths, Miss Grice-Paterson."
"None was heard. The crimes took place late at night, evidently after the victims were asleep."
"Yet there was evidence of struggle in each case?"
"Yes, Mr. Pons."
"Does it not seem strange to you that none cried out, that no struggle was overheard?"
"No, Mr. Pons. The Creepers is built in the shape of a T with a short stem. The family usually sleep in the west wing, or the left arm of the T, whereas our guest rooms and winter quarters are in the east wing. There is the entire length of the house to separate the one from the other. Even if there had been an outcry, there's no certainty that it would have been heard by any of us. But there was none, for the servants would surely have heard a cry if one had sounded."
Pons flashed a baffling smile at me and lapsed into silence. Once or twice I caught sight of his hawk-like face in semi-repose, but soon we were out of London, away from the occasional gleams of light, driving through the dark countryside into the southeast.
At dawn we drove across Dartmoor into Cornwall, and soon we were catching glimpses of what is surely one of the most beautiful faces of England —the Cornish coast near Truro, and then Camborne, and then at last, Penzance, where there was indeed a boat awaiting us —it was no less than a small steam-yacht. But of Uffa there was no sign from the shore; our client explained that it lay over the horizon. Her car was garaged in Penzance, since there was little use for it on Uffa, which consisted of but a small settlement in addition to The Creepers and the immediate grounds of the estate, though the entire island was the domain of the Grice-Paterson family, and had been for two centuries.
The morning was free of fog, and presently Uffa rose out of the sea like the embodiment of a dream, like fabled Lyonesse, all green, save for a few rocks along one coast, and for a cluster of white which was the little fishing village on the opposite shore. It was there that we landed. A carriage waited for us, driven by a dour, dark-skinned old man.
"This is Aram, Mr. Pons," said Miss Grice-Paterson.
Aram gazed at us with the darkest suspicion manifest on his features. His attitude was aloof and unfriendly.
"I don't know what my brothers will say," our client went on, as we got into the carriage. "They may be rude; if so, I hope you will forgive them. It is I who am mistress here, and the decision is mine to make. They've opposed your coming—they fear 'any further scandal' —as they put it."
"We shall see," said Pons imperturbably.
The Grice-Paterson brothers were indeed displeased to the point of rudeness at sight of us. Avery, the older, was but a year younger than his sister; he was a dark-haired brute of a man, as massive as our client was well proportioned, with the shoulders of a professional athlete. Richard was as fair as his brother was dark, and slight of build against Avery's bulk. Neither was entirely civil at our introduction, and neither was co-operative, being disinclined to answer the few questions Pons put.
We did not linger in their company, however, for Pons was anxious to view the body of Lt. Austen Hanwell before its removal. We therefore followed our client from the house through the heavily overgrown lawns and gardens east of the widespread dwelling, past the abandoned dog kennels, to the old stone family vault, where the coffin containing the body lay waiting to be sealed by the authorities before being taken on board ship.
"Forgive me," said Miss Grice-Paterson at the great iron door. "I cannot bear to see him again. I'll wait here beside the path."
The coffin stood just inside. Pons left the door ajar, and so we had ample light at the entranceway to the vault, though Pons had brought his pocket-torch. He lost no time in raising the coffin lid, exposing to view a handsome, moustached face, that of a man who looked even younger than his years. But face and neck —when his clothing was withdrawn —still showed the livid marks our client had described to us.
"Your department, I think, Parker," said Pons, holding his light close to the dead man's skin.
I examined the marks with the greatest care, though I was at a distinct disadvantage in doing so two days past the event. But there was no mistaking what I saw, and, when I had completed my examination, I said so.
"These are the marks of thin but powerful cords, applied with great pressure."
"Enough to cause death?"
"Enough, in my opinion."
"There are no wounds except the marks of the cords?"
"Only on the marks themselves. Here and there small openings in the flesh, which might have been made by rough spots on the cords.
You may laugh at me all you like, Pons, but if this is not the work of dacoits, I shall be very greatly surprised."
For a few moments Pons said nothing. He bent to examine the marks himself. When he straightened up, his aspect was grave as he replied, "I fear it is something far more sinister, my dear fellow, than dacoits. Look again. Are those tears in the flesh not regular punctures?"
I threw up my hands. "It's one and the same thing."
Pons closed the coffin and stood aside for me to pass.
We found our client standing at some little distance from the vault. Beyond her, approaching the place, was a group of four men from the ship in the harbour, preceded by an official who was clearly a member of the police. Miss Grice-Paterson, however, avoided meeting them by stepping down a side path.
"I will take you round to the room where my fiance was found," she said. And in a moment she indicated the east wall of the building, a towering mass of creepers. "See, those are the windows—those two there. And directly above them are the windows of the other room in which my uncle and my father died."
The windows were framed in singularly beautiful crimson flowers, which adorned the creepers massed upon the stone wall of the house. In the bright morning sunlight, their appearance was remote indeed from the nameless horror which had taken place just beyond them.
Pons paused a moment, crossed over, and smelled a blossom. From the proximity of the windows, where he stood intently examining the earth below, he asked, "Should something happen to you, Miss Grice-Paterson, who will inherit the property?"
"My brother Avery."
"And after him?"
"My brother Richard."
"And then?"
Miss Grice-Paterson looked at Pons, puzzled. "How curious you should ask that, Mr. Pons! Or perhaps you knew of my grandfather's strange will. If some catastrophe were to wipe out our family, the entire estate is to go to old Aram. We have no close relatives. My grandfather had a brother with him in Malaya, but he was killed in an accident there. His only son succumbed to one of those mysterious East Indian diseases, while he, too, worked as a commissioner on my grandfather's staff. I told you," she concluded grimly, "that there is a horrible curse on our family—I assure you most earnestly I was not exaggerating."
"I believe you," answered Pons. "Tell me, if you know —what were your grandfather's relations with his brother and his nephew?"
She shrugged. "I cannot say, except by what I've heard. Grandfather was a hard man. I understand the change came on him after grandmother's death."
"Was she, too, a victim of the curse?"
"Oh, it is all of a piece, Mr. Pons," she cried. "Grandmother was accidentally killed at a family birthday party. Grandfather went to pieces. He brooded for days, and never afterward seemed to come out of his shell except as an irascible old man, filled with hatred of mankind."
"I see. Now let us have a look at the room in which Lt. Hanwell met his death."
Once more we braved the scowls of Avery and Richard Grice- Paterson, as we passed through the front part of the house on our way to the east wing. The room in which Lt. Hanwell had been found was a spacious one, lined with shelves of books on all but one wall, and handsomely apportioned to be as pleasant as possible for anyone who chose to spend his time in it. Our client indicated a comfortable old le
ather-covered chair between a table-lamp and the near window.
"Austen had apparently been reading there and had fallen asleep. He was found between the chair and the window. The chair had been kicked out of place, and the table moved somewhat out of its usual position. The lamp had fallen over; it was still alight when we found him."
"The window was open?"
"Yes, Mr. Pons. Our windows are left open in summer because we are never troubled with insects of any kind."
"So that anyone might have entered that way?"
"There was no sign of such entry."
"Nevertheless, it was open."
"But who would have motive for such an act, Mr. Pons?"
"Ah, Miss Grice-Paterson, I am not so bold as to say. But let us suppose it was to someone's interest to prevent your marriage."
"Why?"
"To prevent any change in the line of succession. Or am I mistaken in that your marriage would alter the provisions of your grandfather's will?"
She coloured briefly and looked down. "No, Mr. Pons," she said in a scarcely audible voice. "The property would go to my oldest child."
"As for the absence of signs of entry by way of the windows. . . ," began Pons.
"A dacoit could manage it without leaving a trace," I said with asperity.
Pons did not so much as blink an eye in acknowledgment. "Lt. Hanwell slept in the room above?" he asked.
"Oh, no, Mr. Pons. Austen slept in the west wing, where we all sleep. We seldom use the east wing, except in winter, when we move out of the west wing for this."
Pons examined the window and its frame. Then he looked over the chair, studying what appeared to be lines of wear, after which he got down on his hands and knees to look about on the rug, having been assured by our client that it had not been cleaned. He seemed to find nothing there but fragments of drying leaves, which he discarded. Then he went back to the window, opening it and leaning out. By bending down, he could almost have touched the ground, which he had scrutinized outside. The sphinx-like expression on his face told me nothing as he drew back into the room and closed the window.
August Derleth - The Solar Pons Omnibus Volume 1 Page 70
