The Ponson Case

The dying sun of a July evening shone rosily on the old Georgian house of Luce Manor, mellowing the cold grey of the masonry, bringing out with soft shadow its cornices and mouldings, and softening and blurring its hard outlines. A fine old house, finely set on the summit of a low hill, and surrounded by wonderful old trees, it seemed to stand symbolical of the peace, security, and solid comfort of upper-class rural England.

This impression was not lessened by the outlook from the terrace in front. Below, and already shadowed by the trees beyond from the sun’s rays, was a small Dutch garden, its walks and beds showing up faintly in the gathering gloom. To the right the drive swept off in an easy curve until it disappeared between two rows of beeches, celebrated in all the county round for their age and size. At the side of the house, and reached through a rose pergola, was the walled English garden, with its masses of colour, its laden bushes, and its range of glass houses. In front, beyond the lawn, whose oaks and elms stood singly like sentinels guarding the house, the country rolled away to a line of distant hills, while to the left, an opening in the trees gave a glimpse of the Cranshaw River, with behind a near horizon of tree-covered slopes.

Within, in a large room panelled in black oak, the master of the house sat at dinner. He was alone, the only other members of the household, his wife and his daughter Enid, being from home on a visit.

“On Wednesday night I was the victim of what I then thought was a stupid and rather unkind hoax, but what since this affair I have looked on in a more sinister light. At the same time I confess I am entirely puzzled as to its meaning. In order that you may understand it I must tell you a few facts about myself.

“I have lived, as you perhaps know, alone in Halford for several years. I have some private means, and I pass my time in research work in connection with certain disease-carrying insects, besides writing on scientific and social subjects. Recently I became deeply attached to a young lady living close by⁠—a Miss Lois Drew⁠—and on last Saturday I put fate to the test, and asked her to marry me. She consented, but wished our engagement kept a secret for a few days. I only mention her name to you, Inspector, on her own authority, indeed at her express direction, but at the same time I trust you will respect my confidence in the matter.”

Tanner bowed without speaking.

“About six o’clock on Wednesday evening, my butler handed me a note. He had found it, as I afterwards learnt, in the letter box of the hall door, and as it had not come through the post, it must have been delivered by private messenger. But there had been no ring, nor had he seen anyone approaching the house.

“About four o’clock this afternoon a young woman came to the station and asked for me,” he began. “She was a good-looking girl of about five-and-twenty. She gave her name as Lucy Penrose, and said she was typist and bookkeeper in Smithson’s, the grocer’s in Abbey Street. I didn’t know her, and she explained that she lived three miles out in the country, and had only got this job since the beginning of the month. Then she said she had just read about the inquest in the evening paper, and that she knew something she thought she ought to tell.”

The sergeant paused, evidently delighted with the attention the London officer was giving him.

“She said,” he went on after a moment, “that about half-past nine on the Wednesday evening of the murder, she and a young man called Herbert Potts were walking in the spinney belonging to Dr. Graham, on the left bank of the river, and just opposite the Luce Manor boathouse. They saw a boat coming down the river with a man in it. He stopped at the boathouse, and seemed to try the water gate, but apparently couldn’t get in, for after a moment he pulled on to the steps and went ashore, making the boat fast. In a couple of minutes he came back with another man and got in the boat again, and then went in through the water gate.

He walked up the path and knocked at the green-painted door. For some time there was no response, but after a second and more peremptory summons he heard footsteps approaching. The door was opened by a small man with grey hair and a beard trimmed short.

“Got him first shot,” thought Tanner, as he politely asked for Mr. William Douglas.

The man threw the door open.

“Walk in, sir,” he said. “My brother is upstairs. I’ll call him.”

“Your brother?” asked Tanner sharply, as he followed his guide to a rather poorly furnished sitting room.

“Yes. I’m John. I’ve lived here for some years, but William is just back from America.”

Tanner nodded. He recollected the hotel porter had stated that William Douglas had spoken with an American accent, whereas this man clearly hailed from the north of England. Besides, the beard was different. The porter had mentioned a goatee, but the speaker’s was cut to a tiny point.

“Sit down, sir,” said the man civilly. “I’ll send my brother down.”

He indicated a chair opposite the door, and Tanner took it. From where he sat he could see the foot of the staircase, and he watched John walk to it and leisurely ascend. Presently he heard him call “William!”

A nasal voice answered, but the Inspector could not hear the words. John’s voice, now more distant, mumbled something in reply, and there was a word, apparently of assent, from the other.

Tanner glanced round the room. Beside the easy chair in which he sat⁠—leather lined, and very old and worn⁠—there was not much that made for comfort. A deck chair stood with its back to one of the rather small windows.