The Ponson Case

I

Mystery at Luce Manor

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. Sir William Ponson, a self-made man, had retired from business some ten years before our story opens and, selling his interest in the large ironworks of which he was head, had bought Luce Manor and settled down to end his days in the role of a country squire. Though obviously a nouveau riche, and still retaining the somewhat brusque manners of his hard, northern upbringing, he had nevertheless been received with more cordiality into the local society than usually happens in such cases. For Sir William, though he had thus risen in the social scale, remained a simple, honourable, kindly old man, a little headstrong and short tempered perhaps, but anxious to be just, and quick to apologise if he found himself in the wrong.

It was seldom that Sir William partook of a solitary meal. He was fond of society, and kept open house for all who cared to visit him. He had rented some shooting, and though the fishing in the river was not good, it at least was fishing. The tennis courts were always in perfect condition, and there was a sporting golf course at the neighbouring town of Halford. But it spoke well for Sir William that, of all his acquaintances, those whom he liked best to welcome were his old, somewhat unpolished business friends from the north, by few of whom these pursuits were properly appreciated. In this he had the full sympathy of his wife, a stout, placid lady of uncertain age, who ruled over his household with leisurely, easygoing sway.

Enid Ponson, their only daughter, a young woman of some thirty summers, was a favourite everywhere. Not exactly beautiful, she was yet good to look at, with her pale complexion, dark eyes, and winning smile. But it was her wonderful charm that endeared her to those with whom she came in contact, as well as the sweetness and kindliness of her disposition. That she was unmarried was only explained by the fact that the man to whom she had been engaged had been killed during the Great War. Enid and her father were close comrades and allies. She adored him, while Sir William’s chief thought was centred in his daughter, upon whom he thought the sun rose and set.

When the family were alone it was Sir William’s custom after dinner to join his wife and Enid in the music room, where for hours the latter would sing and play, while her father smoked cigar after cigar, and the elder woman placidly knitted or crocheted. But tonight, being entirely alone, he retired at once from the table to his library, where he would sit, reading and smoking, till about ten or later he would ring for Parkes, the butler, to bring him his nightly tumbler of hot punch.

But ten came, and half past ten, and eleven, and there was no ring.

“Boss is late tonight, Mr. Parkes,” said Innes, Sir William’s valet, as he and the butler sat in the latter’s room over a bottle of Sir William’s old port, and a couple of Sir William’s three and sixpenny cigars.

“Sir William is behind his usual hour,” admitted the butler in a slightly chilly tone. Innes had followed his master from the north and was, as Mr. Parkes put it, “well in” with him. The butler therefore thought it politic to be “well in” with Innes, and was usually affable in a condescending way. But the latter’s habit of speaking of Sir William as “the boss,” grated on Parkes’s sensitive ears.

The two chatted amicably enough, and under the influence of wine and tobacco time passed unnoticed until once again the clock struck.

“That’s half-past eleven,” said Parkes. “I have never known Sir William so late before. He is usually in bed by now.”

“ ‘Early to bed, early to rise,’ ” quoted the valet. “There’s no accounting for tastes, Mr. Parkes. I’d like to see you or me going to bed at ten-thirty and getting up at six when we needn’t.”

“I don’t hold with unnecessarily early hours myself,” the other agreed, and then, after a pause: “I think I’ll go and see if he wants anything. It’s not like him to retire without having his punch.”

“Whatever you think, Mr. Parkes, but for me, I could do here well enough for another hour or more.”

Without replying, Parkes left the room. Reaching the library door, he knocked discreetly and then entered. The electric lights were switched on and everything looked as usual, but the room was empty. The butler moved on, and opening a door which led to the smoking room, passed in. The lights were off here, as they were also in the billiard room, which he next visited.

“He must have gone up to bed,” thought Parkes, and returning to his room, spoke to Innes.

“I can’t find Sir William about anywhere below stairs, and he hasn’t had his punch. I wish you’d have a look whether he hasn’t gone to bed.”

The valet left the room.

“He’s not upstairs, Mr. Parkes,” he said, returning a few moments later. “And he’s not been either so far as I can see. The lights are off and nothing’s been touched.”

“But where is he? He’s never been so late ringing for his punch before.”

“I’m blessed if I know. Maybe, Mr. Parkes, we should have another look round?”

“It might be as well.”

The two men returned to the library. It was still empty, and they decided to make a tour of the lower rooms. In each they switched on the lights and had a look round, but without result. Sir William had disappeared.

“Come upstairs,” said Parkes.

They repeated their search through music room, bedrooms, dressing-rooms, and passages, but all to no purpose. They could find no trace of their master.

Mr. Parkes was slightly perturbed. An idea had recurred to him which had entered his mind on various previous occasions. He glanced inquiringly at the valet, as if uncertain whether or not to unburden his mind. Finally he said in a low tone:

“Has it ever struck you, Innes, that Sir William was apoplectic?”

“Apoplectic?” returned the other. “Why, no, I don’t think it has.”

“Well, it has me, and more than once. If he’s annoyed he gets that red. I’ve thought to myself when he has got into a temper about something, ‘Maybe,’ I’ve thought, ‘maybe some of these days you’ll pop off in a fit if you’re not careful.’ ”

“You don’t say, Mr. Parkes,” exclaimed Innes, in a tone of thrilled interest.

“I do. I’ve thought it. And I’ve thought too,” the butler went on impressively, “that maybe something like this would happen: that we’d miss him, and go and look, and find him lying somewhere unconscious.”