“My dear Violet, if you’re going to maintain that his behavior was that of a sane man…”
“I do agree that he behaved very oddly that day, Edwin. But I feel sure it was just an isolated lapse.”
The Bishop turned to Henry. “It was like this, Mr. Tibbett. Just over two years ago I was home from Bugolaland on leave. Came to stay here with George and Violet. They told me this fellow Mason had bought the Lodge, but of course I hadn’t met him. Well, now, all I did was to ring his front doorbell and ask him perfectly civilly for the loan of half a pound of margarine, and he shouted some gibberish at me and slammed the door in my face!”
“You’d better explain about the margarine, Edwin,” said Violet Manciple. “You see, Mr. Tibbett, it was August Bank Holiday Monday and all the shops were shut…”
The Bishop took up the tale. “That’s right. Violet found herself short of margarine. Well, I was going to walk down past the Lodge and through the fields to the river for a dip before lunch, I remember I had already changed into my bathing suit, and I was just putting on my Wellington boots…”
“Wellington boots?” Henry did his best not to sound surprised.
“Of course. You have to cross some marshy land to get to the river by the short cut. I was just pulling on my boots when Violet came and asked me would I stop by at the Lodge and ask Mason for some margarine? I wasn’t very keen, I remember. I pointed out to Violet that I already had the sunshade and my clarinet to carry…”
“Sunshade?”
“Edwin has always been liable to sunstroke,” put in Violet. “That was why he found Bugolaland so trying. It was a very hot day and he had foolishly left his solar topee in London. So I insisted that he should take the little Japanese sunshade that I use in the garden. I suppose the flower design was rather feminine for a bishop, but one mustn’t take risks with one’s health, must one?”
“And the clarinet?” Henry was past surprise.
“Oh, didn’t you know?” The Bishop beamed. “My great hobby is playing the clarinet. Unfortunately, I am not very expert, and Violet does not like me to practice in the house for fear of disturbing other people. In Bugolaland, of course, it was easy to get out into the jungle for practice, so long as one can avoid the buffalo, but it’s more difficult to find seclusion here at home. So, as I was going down to a lonely stretch of the river, I naturally…”
“In any case,” said Violet, “I gave him a string bag to carry the margarine home in.”
“So I went and rang this chap’s doorbell…”
“Just a minute,” said Henry. “Let me get this right. You were wearing swimming trunks…”
“Oh dear me, no. I prefer the old-fashioned type of costume, with knee-length legs and short sleeves. I feel it is more becoming to my cloth and years. Naturally, I would not walk on the public highway in such attire, but across the fields…”
“An old-fashioned bathing costume,” said Henry, “and Wellington boots. You were carrying a flowered Japanese sunshade, a clarinet, and a string bag. You rang Mason’s doorbell. He had no idea who you were…”
“But I announced my identity at once. As soon as he opened the door, I said, ‘I am the Bishop of Bugolaland, and I want half a pound of margarine…”
“And what,” Henry asked faintly, “did he say?”
“That’s the whole point, my dear fellow. He looked at me in a distinctly unbalanced way for a moment and then he made a most extraordinary remark. I shall never forget it. ‘And I’m a poached egg,’ he said, ‘and I want a piece of toast.’ And with that he slammed the door and I heard the key turning in the lock. Well now, I happen to know,” went on the Bishop triumphantly, “that it is a recognized delusion of the mentally deranged to fancy themselves to be poached eggs. A curious fact, but true. Is that not so, Claud?”
“I believe it has been known,” replied Sir Claud. “Pass the potatoes, would you, Ramona?”
“And that wasn’t the end of it,” pursued Edwin. “Strange as the man’s manner was, I did not want to go home empty-handed. So I made my way around to the back of the house and looked in through the window of the room which he was pleased to call his library. He was standing there, drinking what appeared to be a glass of neat whiskey. I was somewhat encumbered, of course, but I banged on the window with the sunshade and gestured to him with my clarinet. He saw me, started violently, dropped his glass on the floor, and appeared to try to climb behind the sofa. I have not seen such deranged behavior since one of my cook-boys went berserk in Alimumba in 1935. It was then that I decided that it would be positively unsafe to have to do with such a maniac, and so I made my way home—without the margarine, alas. I wanted Violet to telephone to the police or the doctor, but she was against it.”
“What an extraordinary story, Edwin,” remarked Lady Manciple, fixing the Bishop with her great dark eyes. “The man was clearly unbalanced.”
“Out of his mind.”
“Did you not notice it on other occasions, Violet?” asked Ramona.
“No, never,” said Mrs. Manciple. “That’s why I think it was just an isolated lapse, as I said to Edwin.”
“Well, I don’t know what you mean by ‘never,’ Violet,” said the Bishop, helping himself to beans. “He was unusual, to say the least of it, the next time we met. It was in this house, if you remember, a few days later. Mason was having a drink in the drawing room with George when I came in. Once again he started violently and very nearly overturned his glass. Then George said, ‘Ah, Mason, have you met my brother, the Bishop of Bugolaland?’ Or words to that effect. And Mason fairly goggled at me in that same half-witted way and then said—to George, mind you, not to me, ‘You mean he’s really a Bishop?’ And this, after he had been told my identity twice, once by George and once by myself. I can’t help feeling. Violet, that you are glossing over the facts when you maintain that the man was mentally normal. Thank you, Maud, another sausage would be most welcome.”
“I had clean forgotten that incident,” said Major Manciple. “Yes, the explanation for all his goings-on may have been nothing more nor less than feeble-mindedness.”
“It doesn’t explain who shot him.” Aunt Dora spoke in her usual fortissimo cracked soprano.
“It was just an accident, Aunt Dora,” said Sir Claud. “You must not distress yourself by thinking about it.”
“It certainly was not an accident,” replied Aunt Dora with spirit. “I would remind you, Claud, that I was there and you were not. In fact, I was the only person there, so I feel entitled to my opinion. Is there a little more chicken, Violet?”
“I’m afraid there’s not, Aunt Dora,” said Mrs. Manciple, embarrassed. “Well, I’ll clear away now. If you’d just give me a hand, Maud dear. Please don’t move anybody else.”
“It was most delicious, Mrs. Manciple,” said Henry, surrendering his plate.
“I’m so glad. I must get some more.”
“Not like the chickens we used to have from the home farm in the old days,” said Aunt Dora on a slightly querulous note.
“Well, it’s a change from salmon anyway.” said Violet Manciple firmly, as she pushed a stack of dirty plates through the serving hatch. This was a statement which nobody could dispute.
The meal progressed through trifle to cheese, after which the company adjourned to the drawing room for coffee. The Bishop went back to his newspaper; Mrs. Manciple and Maud retired to do the washing up; and Sir Claud and his wife began to discuss their plans for bird-watching later in the afternoon. Henry took the opportunity of having a quiet word with Major Manciple.
“Of course, my dear Tibbett. I shall be only too glad—I suggest that I put my study at your disposal. Which of us would you like to talk to first? Oh, I see. Well, if you’ll just allow me to finish some typing. I’ll be with you inside five minutes—and I dare say you’ll want to see the shooting range and so on. I’ll just tell Violet—shan’t be a moment.” The Major hurried out.
The Bishop looked up from his paper and addressed He
nry directly. “Einstein’s theory under fire again in the States recently,” he said.
This time Henry was determined not to be caught out. “Let’s see,” he said, “Einstein’s theory—relativity. Again—re. Recently—lately. In the States. That’s U.S., I suppose. How many letters?”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Tibbett?” The Bishop was regarding Henry over his spectacles.
“How many letters?”
“Oh, just two.”
“Two? Surely there must be more than two?”
“Not in today’s Times. One is from a professor at some research laboratory in Alabama and the other from the editor of a scientific journal in New York. Both attacking Einstein’s conclusions. It’s the old story of the 1923 Mount Palomar experiments all over again. Utter rubbish, don’t you agree, Claud? My brother Claud is the expert on this sort of thing, of course.”
In no time the two brothers were involved in a discussion on physics and metaphysics, which soared above Henry’s head; he was heartily glad when the Major returned announcing that he was now ready to put himself entirely at the Chief Inspector’s disposal, and if he would come along to the study…
It was as the drawing-room door was closing behind him that Henry heard the Bishop saying to Claud in a stage whisper. “First Mason and now this fellow Tibbett. I simply mentioned those two letters to the editor of The Times and he answered me with the most extraordinary…” The door closed.
Major Manciple’s study was, if anything, untidier and shabbier than the rest of the house, but it was also comfortable and looked lived-in. The walls were lined with what appeared to Henry to be a considerable library of fine leather-bound books, each spine embossed in gold with the same dismembered hand clutching some circular object, which Henry had noticed engraved on the table silver.
George Manciple followed Henry’s gaze to the books and said, “My father’s library. Or what remains of it. The Head had a magnificent collection, but we’ve sold a lot of it, mostly the Greek and Latin volumes. None of us are classics, more’s the pity. I was sad to see the books go, but we needed the space, and…” He did not add, “and the money.” But as if pursuing the same train of thought he went on. “That’s the Manciple crest. A hand holding a bag of gold. A sort of pun on the name, I suppose—‘manciple’ is the old word for a purveyor or purchaser.” He laughed shortly. “Somewhat ironic these days. Selling is more in our line now, so long as we’ve anything left to sell. Well, sit down, Inspector, and tell me how I can help you.”
They seated themselves one on each side of the massive Victorian mahogany desk under the stern eye of a large tinted photograph of the Head. Henry had just opened his mouth to reply to Major Manciple’s question, when he realized that it had been purely rhetorical. Having quickly sorted out some papers on the desk, George Manciple went on.
“I’ve been doing some spadework for you, since I knew you were coming. I know how precise you fellows like to be. Now I’ve drawn up several tabulated lists of all the people who were here yesterday, with notes on their motive, opportunity, and so forth. That’s the way you like it done, isn’t it? I’ve read about it in books.”
“Well,” Henry began. “the way I always like to work is…”
“We begin,” the Major rolled on, quite unperturbed, “with a list of the occupants of this house as of six o’clock yesterday evening. I’ve a copy here for you…” He pushed a paper toward Henry. “Myself and my wife, Edwin, Claud, Ramona, Maud and Julian—that’s Maud’s young man—and Aunt Dora. Now, here’s a second list, which I’ve headed ‘Motive.’ These are all the people with motives for killing Mason. There may be others, of course, that I don’t know about. You’ll see that the list reads myself, Violet, Maud, Julian, and Mason Junior.”
“Mason Junior?” Henry repeated, surprised.
“The son. Did you not know that he had a son?”
“I did, as a matter of fact,” said Henry. “Detective Inspector Robinson told me this morning that they had traced the fact that Mason had a grown-up son by a marriage which was dissolved many years ago. But I understood that he had never visited his father here, and that most people in the Village were unaware of his existence.” He ended on a faint note of inquiry, but George Manciple did not respond.
Instead, the Major went on. “Well, I put him on the list because presumably he inherits from his father. Although until the will is read we can’t be sure of that.”
“And what are the motives of the other people?”
“We’ll come to that later,” said Major Manciple briskly. “First, I’d like you to look at the third list. This one is headed ‘Opportunity.’ You’ll see it consists of myself, Claud, Ramona, and Aunt Dora. Everybody else has a complete alibi. If you’ll just glance at this fourth list, it shows you. Violet, indoors telephoning to Rigley, the grocer; Edwin, indoors and with Violet—he had been resting in his room and was just coming downstairs into the hall where Violet was phoning when Mason was shot; Maud and Julian, together down by the river; Mason Junior, presumably nowhere near Cregwell at all. Now, I dare say that something has already suggested itself to you concerning those lists,”
“Yes,” said Henry. “It occurs to me that only one name appears on both the ‘Motive’ and ‘Opportunity’ lists. Yours.”
Major Manciple beamed his approval. “Quite right. Quite right. I am clearly the prime suspect, amn’t I? And then, of course, there’s the matter of the missing gun.”
“The gun is not missing,” said Henry. “It was found in the shrubbery.”
“I am not referring to that gun,” said the Major with a trace of impatience. “Sergeant Duckett must have told you that I reported a gun missing some weeks ago. If he didn’t, he was failing in his duty.”
“Yes,” said Henry, “he did.”
“Well, there you are. You must make whatever you like of it.”
“I shall,” Henry assured him. “It was similar to the gun which shot Mason, I understand.”
“That’s right. I have half-a-dozen of them for my shooting practice. You shall see them later on. Or five of them. That is to say, four. The police have the one which killed Mason.”
“Sergeant Duckett tells me,” said Henry, “that you reported one of your service pistols missing ten days ago.”
“That’s right. Noticed it one morning gone from the rack.”
“No idea who could have taken it?”
“Anybody. Anybody at all, my dear fellow. John Adamson had been over here the afternoon before. And Mason had been up here looking for Maud. That was the day that he and Julian—well, anyway, he was here. And Dr. Thompson had been up to see Aunt Dora. And the Vicar had called to talk to Violet about the Fête. It’s no use asking me what happened to the gun. I simply noticed it was missing and reported it. I had a feeling,” the Major added, with a slight twinkle, “that Duckett didn’t take the matter very seriously.”
Henry, who had formed the same opinion, said nothing.
Major Manciple went on, “Mind you, now, if I were guilty I might have invented this missing gun, mightn’t I, just to confuse you?”
“I suppose you might.”
“Well, then, I’ll let you go on from there,” said George Manciple kindly. He sat back in his chair. “I suggest that you start by questioning me—always remembering that my replies may not be truthful.”
Henry forced himself to be stern. “This isn’t a game, Major Manciple,” he said. “Nor is it a crossword puzzle. A man has been killed.”
Manciple looked shocked. “A crossword puzzle!” he repeated. “I never do them myself. I leave that sort of thing to Edwin and Maud. I can’t think what gave you the idea that I was keen on crossword puzzles.”
Henry sighed. “Forget it,” he said. “Tell me about Raymond Mason and why you had such a strong motive for wanting to kill him.”
“It may not sound like a very strong motive to you, Inspector,” said Manciple, “but the fact is, the man was persecuting me. Trying to turn me out of my
own house.”
“Turn you out?”
“I can’t prove it, of course, but it was obvious enough. He started off perfectly civilly, answering my advertisement about the Lodge. I thought he seemed a decent enough fellow. Helped him to get the Lodge fitted up, and so forth. Then, out of the blue, about a year ago, he came to see me and said he wanted to buy this house. Made me a very substantial offer for it in fact. When I turned him down he wouldn’t take no for an answer. Just kept on putting up his offer. I told him over and over again that it wasn’t a question of money. I wasn’t prepared to sell at any price. Finally he turned nasty. Made insulting remarks about my not being able to afford to keep the place up and so on. We had an unpleasant scene, I’m afraid.”
“If you don’t mind my asking,” said Henry, “why were you so adamant about not selling? If he offered you such a good price…”
“Sell this house? Sell this house?” Major Manciple bristled. “Couldn’t consider it. Never would consider it. I’d starve first—and so would Violet.” Seeing Henry’s slightly skeptical expression he continued. “Perhaps I’d better explain. It means going back quite a bit.”
“That,” said Henry, “is just what I would like you to do.”
CHAPTER FOUR
GEORGE MANCIPLE CONSIDERED. “Hardly know where to start. With my grandfather, I suppose, the Head’s father. He was the first Manciple to come over from the Old Country. Fell on bad times, got involved in religious squabbles, had to sell up the family home in Killarney, and came to England to make his fortune. Funnily enough, he succeeded. By the time my grandfather died, he was a wealthy man; and my father inherited a very substantial estate. When I say estate I mean money, of course. No house or land. My father always had a great urge to establish a family seat here in England, but he had no possible reason for doing so. He was a bachelor, and by the time he inherited, he was already Headmaster of Kingsmarsh School, where a perfectly adequate house was provided for him.”
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