The Ponson Case. Freeman Wills Crofts

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.’

      ‘Bless my soul, Mr Parkes, I hope not.’

      ‘I hope not too. But I’ve thought it.’ Mr Parkes shook his head gravely. ‘And what’s more,’ he went on after a few moments, ‘keeping this idea in view, I doubt if our search was sufficiently comprehensive. If Sir William had fallen behind a piece of furniture we might not have seen him.’

      ‘We could go round again, Mr Parkes, if you think that.’

      This proposition appealing favourably to the butler, a second and more thorough search was made. But it was as fruitless as before. There was no trace of Sir William.

      And then the valet made a discovery. Off the passage leading to the library was a small cloakroom. Innes, who had looked into the latter, now returned to the butler.

      ‘He’s gone out, Mr Parkes. A soft felt hat and his loose black cape are missing out of the cloakroom.’

      ‘Gone out, is he? That’s not like him either. Are you sure of that?’

      ‘Certain. I saw the coat and hat no longer ago than this evening just before dinner. They were hanging in that room then. They’re gone now.’

      The passage in which they were standing, and off which opened the smoking room, library, billiard room and this cloakroom, ran on past the doors of these rooms, and ended in a small conservatory, from which an outer door led into the grounds. The two men walked to this door and tried it. It was closed, but not fastened.

      ‘He’s gone out sure enough,’ said Parkes. ‘I locked that door myself when I went round after dinner.’

      They stepped outside. The night was fine, but very dark. There was no moon, and the sky was overcast. A faint air was stirring, but hardly enough to move the leaves. Everything was very still, except for the low, muffled roar of the Cranshaw waterfall, some half mile or more away.

      ‘I expect he’s stepped over to Hawksworth’s,’ said Parkes at last. ‘He sometimes drops in of an evening. But he’s never been so late as this.’

      ‘Maybe there’s a party of some kind on, and when he turned up they’ve had him stay.’

      ‘It may be,’ Parkes admitted. ‘We may as well go in anyway.’

      They returned to the butler’s room, and resumed their interrupted discussion.

      Twelve struck, then half-past, then one.

      Innes yawned.

      ‘I wouldn’t mind how soon I went to bed, Mr Parkes. What do you feel like?’

      ‘I don’t feel sleepy,’ the other returned, and then, after a pause: ‘I don’t mind confessing I am not quite easy about Sir William. I would be glad he had returned.’

      ‘You’re afraid—of what you were saying?’

      ‘I am. I don’t deny it. I feel apprehensive.’

      ‘Supposing we were to get a couple of lanterns and have a walk round outside?’

      The butler considered this suggestion.

      ‘I am of opinion better not,’ he said at last. ‘If Sir William found us so engaged, he would be very annoyed.’

      ‘Maybe you’re right, Mr Parkes. What do you suggest?’

      ‘I think we had better wait as we are a while longer. Take another cigar, and make yourself comfortable.’

      As both men settled themselves in easy chairs, the conversation began to wane, and before the clock struck again their steady breathing showed that each had adopted the most efficient known way of passing monotonous time.

      About six o’clock the butler awoke with a start. He felt cold and stiff, and for a moment could not recall what had happened. Then, remembering, he woke the valet.

      ‘Six o’clock, Innes. We had better go and see if Sir William has returned.’

      They retraced their round of the previous night, but everything was as before. They could find no trace of their master.

      ‘It’s daylight,’ went on Parkes, when their search was complete. ‘We might have a walk out now, I think.’

      Leaving by the small conservatory door at the side of the billiard-room wing, they walked down the drive. The sun had just risen—a glorious, ruddy ball in the clearest of blue skies, giving promise of a perfect day. Everything was delightfully fresh. The sparkling dew-drops made the scene fairylike, and the clean, aromatic smell of the trees and earth was in their nostrils. Not a breath of wind stirred, and the air was full of the songs of birds, with, like a mighty but subdued dominant pedal, the sullen roar of the distant fall.

      After passing between the two rows of magnificent beeches, whose branches met over the drive, they reached the massive iron gates leading on to the road. These, as was usual at night, were closed, but not locked.

      There being no sign of the missing man, they retraced their steps and took a narrow path which led, through a door in the wall surrounding the grounds, to the same road. This door was also closed, but unlocked. Here again their quest was fruitless.

      Returning to the house they made a more general survey, visiting the terrace and formal Dutch garden below, the rose pergola, the glass house, and the various arbours—all those places in which a sudden whim might have induced the master of these delights to smoke or stroll in the pleasant evening