Dark Detectives

by Stephen Jones

  I had just time to wash my hands, tidy myself and unpack my few necessaries, before Pons was knocking at my door and shortly afterward we were walking out of Stavely, the wind in our faces, bound for Grimstone Manor.

  V

  It was, as old Grimstone had indicated, a lonely road and with darkness falling apace, a sombre one. Within a very few minutes the small hamlet of not more than five streets, had dropped away and to all intents and appearances we were alone in the illimitable landscape. Pons strode along in silence, his heavy coat drawn snugly about him, his pipe shovelling streamers of blue smoke behind him.

  The road ran straight as an arrow across the marsh, ice glinting like steel in the irrigation ditches at either side. The sky was dark and lowering, though a little light from the dying sun stained the distant bar of the sea and turned the wetlands into scattered pools of blood. My thoughts were as melancholy as the lonely cries of the seabirds that fluttered dark-etched against the sunset and here and there the bones of some wrecked craft or a dark patch of mud stood out as a black silhouette.

  The wind was gusting now and our footsteps echoed grittily behind us. There was not one human figure in all that space; not one vehicle in the long stretch of road that reached to the horizon in either direction. Pons abruptly broke the silence, stabbing with his pipe-stem to emphasise his points.

  “Ideal is it not, Parker?”

  I was startled.

  “I do not know what you mean, Pons.”

  “Why, for purposes of elimination, of course. The landscape limits the phantom’s activities.”

  He chuckled wryly. For some reason his attitude irritated me. I threw up my hands to emphasise the bleakness of the marsh all around us.

  “I see nothing humorous in all this, Pons.”

  “You are quite right, Parker. It is a deadly serious affair whose purpose as yet eludes me. Yet the landscape is a vital factor. If this burning spectre which haunts old Silas Grimstone is a figure of flesh and blood, as I believe him to be, he is playing a deep and dangerous game. But the atmosphere, as I indicated on our journey down, plays a big part. While it may favour the menace which hangs over our client, it also acts in our favour.”

  I glanced sideways at the clear-minted, feral features of my companion.

  “How do you mean, Pons?”

  “The matter is self-evident, Parker. Let us take the points in this creature’s credit-account. The marsh is vast and impenetrable to the stranger. Ergo, he knows it well. He can appear and disappear without trace. He materialised only at dusk so far; darkness and fog are also helpful for his purposes.”

  “I follow you so far, Pons.”

  Solar Pons chuckled again.

  “But the marsh can also act against him. True, it masks his appearance and his movements, for any traces of his passage would be eliminated by the ooze. But the bog is just as dangerous for him, as for any other man. One false step and he is trapped as surely as any sheep or cow which wanders in. Mud may also leave traces of his passage. And his appearance is limited to the marsh. For if he ventures on to the high road or any other inhabited place, then we have him.”

  I looked at my companion in surprise.

  “You almost sound as though you are pleased, Pons.”

  “Do I not, Parker.”

  Solar Pons rubbed his thin hands together as though to restore the circulation and glanced about the dying landscape with keen eyes.

  “So we are looking for someone who has an intimate knowledge of the marshes; is strong and active. There is also one other important corollary … a secure place to hide.”

  He broke off and sniffed. With his nostrils flaring and his deepset eyes probing the dusk he looked like nothing so much as a purebred hound hot on the scent.

  “Dr. Strangeways might well fit that bill, Pons. He seems to know the marsh intimately.”

  Solar Pons looked at me sardonically.

  “You have a point there, Parker. I had not overlooked the possibility. He seemed almost too friendly on the train. Ah! Here we are at our destination, if I am not much mistaken.”

  He pointed through the dusk to the left of the road, where stood the stout wooden fence and the causeway of which our client had spoken. A faint vapour was writhing from the ground and the solid earth dyke stretched away to a sort of island in the mist, at some considerable distance, where I could faintly discern the vague shadows of trees and the outline of buildings.

  “I fancied I could smell the chimney smoke, Parker. But before we cross I will just have a look at the terrain here.”

  To my alarm Pons jumped agilely down the bank and was working up and down the margin of the reeds. He had his pocket torch out and now and again stooped toward the ground, examining the grasses and the muddy pools minutely. I stood on the road and kept my silence, knowing better than to interrupt him. He cast about him and broke off a heavy reed stem with a brittle snap.

  He probed carefully at the surface of the marsh. Viscous mud parted, revealing the oily sheen of water in the last of the light. He cast the reed down and joined me on the bank. He pulled at the lobe of his left ear and looked thoughtfully across to where the final shafts of the dying day stained the depths of the marsh.

  “A bad place, Parker,” he said softly. “No wonder old Grimstone was frightened.”

  “It is unpleasant indeed, Pons,” I asserted. “Did you discover anything?”

  “Nothing of any great significance. Though the terrain here has strengthened the tentative theories I have formed.”

  And he led the way across a heavy timbered bridge that spanned a section of icebound water. Once on the dyke the dark seemed to encroach and the light was fast disappearing from the sky, the afterglow remaining. Even the birds were silent now and the only sounds were the faint trembling of the wind; our footsteps on the hard-packed mud of the causeway; and the pumping of my own heart.

  We followed the heavy wooden handrail that bounded the causeway on either side, while now and again Pons flashed his torch to make sure of our bearings.

  “What about this man Tobias Jessel, Pons?” I said as we neared the massive gates of Grimstone Manor. A thin curl of smoke rose from a single chimney in the multitude that jutted from the jumbled roofs of the ancient building.

  “Ah, you have realised the significance of that factor, Parker?” said Pons with a thin smile. “I am glad to see that my training has not been wasted. Hullo! Silence, if you please.”

  He switched off his torch and grasped me by the arm. We halted in the shadow of some bushes and a few moments later I caught what his keen ears had already picked out; the thin, furtive shuffle of some moving figure ahead.

  Pons worked his way forward quietly and I followed, placing my feet with some difficulty as there was so much heavy shrubbery about the Manor that it was almost totally dark now. There was a muffled exclamation and Pons’ torch-beam flashed on, steadying up on the terrified face of old Silas Grimstone. He wore a heavy padded dressing gown over his indoor clothes and a sort of velvet skullcap which made him look like a secondhand dealer.

  “Who’s there?” he shouted in a quavering voice, screwing up his eyes against the torch-beam.

  “Solar Pons and Dr. Parker,” said my companion, stepping forward.

  “Mr. Pons!” the old man stammered, relief in his voice. “I heard a noise and came to investigate.”

  “Very unwise, Mr. Grimstone,” said Pons. “My advice is to stay indoors. If this apparition means you harm you are playing into its hands by wandering around alone at night like this.”

  “You are right, Mr. Pons,” said Grimstone, putting a shrivelled claw on Solar Pons’ arm and leading us forward through a large cobbled courtyard surrounded by substantial stone outbuildings. The Manor itself looked to be of Tudor construction, with plenty of exposed beams but even in the dim light coming from the windows I could see that it was in deplorable condition.

  There was a large porch of oak beams, sagging and moss-hung and our client led the way
into the house without further ceremony. We found ourselves in a large, musty-smelling hall lit by only one oil lantern, hanging from a beam. The floor was composed of rose-coloured tiles. I had been prepared for a squalid and uncared-for interior but was surprised to see that things were fairly clean and tolerably tidy.

  Silas Grimstone looked at me with a furtive smile, as though he read my thoughts.

  “We keep most of the house locked up,” he said, slamming the great door behind us and ramming home the bolt as if to emphasise his words. “My niece, whom you will meet in a moment, spends far too much time and money in maintaining the five rooms remaining open.”

  He turned his back and led the way forward into a large panelled chamber. Pons smiled faintly at me as we followed. The drawing room, or whatever Grimstone called it, had a great stone fireplace in which a tolerable fire burned; a few dim oils, portraits mostly, stared sombrely at us from the wainscot; and the heavy oak furniture made the apartment look more like the tap room of an inn.

  Grimstone waved us into two uncomfortable wooden chairs by the fireside and went to sit in a padded armchair opposite. “This is the room in which you had such an unpleasant experience, Mr. Grimstone?”

  “Yes, Mr. Pons.”

  Pons went forward and drew aside the faded red curtains from the window at Grimstone’s back. He looked out into the darkness, his eyes brooding as though he could see across the bleak miles of marsh to the heart of the secret it contained. He examined the window and its surround carefully and then closed the curtains once more.

  As he turned away there came the sound of footsteps from the hall outside and Grimstone’s niece, Miss Sylvia Grimstone entered. She was a tall woman of about fifty years of age but, contrary to what I expected, not at all grim and forbidding. In fact she was quite smartly dressed and she bore a tray on which were silver tea things and plates of buttered scones.

  I managed to conceal my consternation when the old man remarked, “You’ll take tea with us, of course, Mr. Pons. Allow me to present my niece. Mr. Solar Pons, Dr. Lyndon Parker.”

  “I am delighted to meet you, gentlemen.”

  Miss Sylvia Grimstone had a square, strong face and her features were quite pleasant when she smiled, which she did briefly at the introductions.

  Silas Grimstone smirked maliciously as I watched the preparations for tea and rubbed his blue-veined hands together.

  “I do not stint myself in the matter of bodily comforts, Doctor. That would be foolish at my age, living here on the marsh as we do.”

  “Very wise,” observed Solar Pons, taking a steaming cup Miss Grimstone handed him. “And most welcome in this weather.”

  His piercing eyes fixed Miss Grimstone thoughtfully as she set down teacups and a plate of buttered scones before her uncle.

  “Tell me, Miss Grimstone. What do you make of this apparition which so startled you and Mr. Grimstone here?”

  The woman turned a worried face toward us and then she looked rather defiantly toward the old man, it seemed to me.

  “It was more than startling, Mr. Pons. It was terrifying. I have never been so frightened in my life.”

  “That is understandable,” said Pons gently. “But I asked for your impressions.”

  There was a faint hesitation as the niece put down the silver teapot and seated herself in a carved wooden chair at the apex of a triangle formed by ourselves, Grimstone and herself.

  “It was a human figure, in slightly old-fashioned clothing, Mr. Pons. It burned with a blue fire and appeared and disappeared with incredible rapidity.”

  “Was it a human figure or did it appear to you a supernatural phenomenon?”

  Miss Grimstone shook her head.

  “I do not know what to think.”

  “That is honest at any rate.”

  Pons turned back to Grimstone.

  “I shall be in touch with you daily, Mr. Grimstone. In the meantime do not stir outside at night and bolt and bar your doors. You may reach me at the inn by telephone if you wish to communicate with me urgently.”

  “Very well, Mr. Pons. What will you be doing?”

  “I shall not be idle, Mr. Grimstone. I propose to take a walk round the marshes in the morning and may drop by here. Incidentally, I met your family physician, Dr. Strangeways earlier today. In fact he gave us a lift to Stavely.”

  Silas Grimstone smiled sourly.

  “He is my physician no longer, Mr. Pons. I found his services far from satisfactory.”

  Once again a somewhat disapproving look passed from niece to uncle.

  “Nevertheless, Mr. Grimstone, it seems likely that he will be an invaluable witness to what goes on in the marsh. He tells me for instance that one of his patients has seen this fiery figure of yours.”

  Our client’s features drained to a haggard yellow and then to white.

  “Ah, then it is true,” he muttered to himself.

  “Is what true?” asked Pons sharply.

  “This crawling horror, Mr. Pons,” the old man croaked. “Perhaps even your powers may prove unequal to it.”

  Solar Pons smiled grimly.

  “I do not know about that, Mr. Grimstone. But in any event Dr. Parker’s pistol and a cartridge or two will test the veracity of your theory. And now, if you will excuse us, we have much to do. Come, Parker.”

  And with thanks for our refreshment, we quitted the room, leaving the oddly assorted couple sitting gazing into the fire as if they both saw spectral images dancing in the smouldering embers.

  VI

  It was a bitterly cold night and we were glad to regain The Harrow where cheerful fires blazed. Pons excused himself and I went to my room soon after and I did not again see him until I descended to dinner at about 7:30 p.m. This was served in a comfortable dining room with oak panelling and brass chandeliers with imitation candles adapted for electric light.

  Normally I do not like this sort of thing but the effect that night, with a cheerful fire blazing in the great stone fireplace, and the surprisingly excellent dinner of roast beef served, almost put our mission on the marshes quite out of mind. Pons was at his best, drily analysing the vagaries and physical aspects of the elderly waiters until I felt I could see their entire life-histories conjured, as it were, from the air before us.

  There were only a few people dining this evening and our waiter pointed out two fellow residents; an elderly gentleman in clerical garb dining alone in a comfortable nook near the fireplace; and a fresh-faced, broad-shouldered young man sitting by himself two tables away. He caught our eye and nodded in a most friendly manner.

  Our waiter, in response to a query from Pons observed, “That is Mr. Norman Knight. A Colonial gentleman, I believe. He has been here some time and goes daily to business in Gravesend.”

  “Indeed,” said Pons gravely.

  He looked with twinkling eyes after the old fellow, who was wheeling a dessert trolley away down the room as though he would collapse and fall to the floor once its support were removed.

  “Such old-fashioned employees are invaluable, Parker, for providing one with background information about people and places. Unfortunately they are a dying breed.”

  He looked round the dining room with sharp-eyed interest.

  “I will wager that before the evening is over we will know a good deal more about Stavely and its surroundings than we did on arrival.”

  “No doubt, Pons,” I remarked. “What are your plans?”

  “The four-ale bar, Parker. A great levelling place where tongues loosened by wine—or in this instance beer—are inclined to wag a little too freely. Often great matters hinge on such small things. I remember that an indiscreet remark passed in the back parlour of a small public house near Tite Street enabled me to unravel The Great Cosmopolitan Scandal.”

  “I do not think I have heard of that case, Pons.”

  Solar Pons shook his head with a low laugh.

  “There is no time this evening, Parker. It will have to await a slack period in my affair
s before taking its place in your ubiquitous notebooks. Tonight we are on the track of the Crawling Horror of Grimstone Marsh.”

  Despite Pons’ light tone and jesting face his last words sent a faint tingle of apprehension down my spine. I followed his glance over to the glassed-in partitions separating the bars from the dining room and saw that they appeared to be full.

  “There seem to be a remarkable number of people, Pons.”

  “Does there not, Parker. It is often so in remote places. Folk come from far and wide to congregate together in the dark months of winter. I fancy our man may be among them.”

  “You mean Tobias Jessel?”

  Solar Pons looked at me with approving eyes.

  “Admirable, Parker! You are improving considerably. Dr. Strangeways’ patient is the only other person, apart from Grimstone and his niece, who has seen this apparition.”

  “It may be that he can throw fresh light, in a quite literal sense, on the matter.”

  Solar Pon scribbled his signature on the pad the old waiter held out for him and after I had left something on the table for this loyal servitor, Pons and I took our coffee and liqueurs in the adjoining smoking room which was adjacent to the bars and commanded a good view of the humanity milling about in the dense atmosphere within.

  After a few minutes Pons excused himself and when I rejoined him a short while afterwards, he was deep in conversation in the saloon bar with a bright-eyed old man whose red nose and broken-veined eyes bespoke long indulgence in liquor.

  “Ah, there you are, Parker,” said Solar Pons, turning as I came up through the bar, the confines of which were almost hidden through the haze of tobacco-smoke.

  “I have taken the liberty of ordering for you.” He pushed the schooner of sherry toward me and raised his own glass in salutation. “This is Mr. Tobias Jessel, who has an interesting story to tell. Pray fill up your glass again, Jessel.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said the old man eagerly.

  He had a fringe of white beard and his nautical-style peaked cap and thick blue clothing gave him the look of a seaman, though I understood from Pons that the man had never been farther than the marshes in his life. No doubt that was the impression he wished to give to visitors. When his drink had been brought in a pewter tankard bearing his own initials, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and smacked his lips appreciatively.