Murder Fantastical

by Patricia Moyes

  “What beans?”

  “That he was thinking of getting married again. Married! I ask you. And to some ghastly debutante half his age. This Manciple girl. I was absolutely disgusted, and I told him so. It was bad enough his having turned into a snob and a social climber, I said, without being a dirty old man into the bargain.”

  “That must have pleased him,” said Henry drily.

  Frank Mason slapped the desk with his hand. “The really bloody thing was,” he said, “that I didn’t seem able to get it into his thick skull that I was trying to insult him.”

  “No? I should have thought…”

  “He would misunderstand me. He’d made up his mind, you see, that I’d be against the marriage simply because I’d see my inheritance disappearing—or at any rate, having to be shared with the little woman and any unspeakable stepbrothers or sisters who might put in an appearance. He judged everybody by himself, you see. Couldn’t conceive that I’d be interested in anything but the financial aspect. The more I tried to point out to him how repellent the whole idea was, the more he kept assuring me that I’d be better off, not worse. ‘I’m very fond of Maud,’ he kept on saying, ‘but at the same time, I know which side my bread’s buttered on. And yours, my boy.’ It made me puke. I suppose the blasted girl’s family is rolling in filthy inherited capital.”

  Henry made no comment. After a moment Mason continued. “Anyhow, I made my views as plain as I could, and we parted on fairly rough terms. Then, last week—Tuesday evening, it was—the old man telephoned me. First time in years he’d done such a thing. ‘Well, Frank,’ he said, ‘it looks as though things are going to work out your way after all.’ I asked him what he meant, and he said, ‘I’ve been turned down. The lady won’t have me.’ ‘Bloody good thing too,’ I said. ‘Not only that,’ he went on, ‘but it seems she’s engaged already, to a young man by the name of Manning-Richards.’ Well now, that rang a bell at once. I’d met this pustule Manning-Richards at the university; he comes from Bugolaland, as you may know, of fine old Imperialist stock, and he was over in England doing a postgraduate course of some sort. We’d had a couple of smashing old ding-dongs one way and another, and it seemed to me that if the girl was silly enough to contemplate marrying him, she was only getting what she deserved.

  “Dad was very interested to hear that I knew Julian Manning-Richards. ‘In that case, son,’ he said, ‘you’ll do well to know that he threatened me with physical violence. Said that if I didn’t leave Maud alone he’d see that things got unhealthy for me. Now you remember that, Frank boy. Then, if anything happens to me, you’ll know who to blame.’ ” Frank Mason, having reached the climax of his story, sat back with an angry snort. “You see, Inspector? Do you understand now why I…?”

  “Wasn’t it rather odd, your father telephoning to tell you about Manning-Richards?”

  For a moment Mason hesitated. Then he said, aggressively, “Seems to me it was the most sensible thing he ever did, as it turned out.”

  “That,” said Henry, “remains to be seen. Well, thank you very much, Mr. Mason. Now, since I’m here, I wonder if I may take a look around this house?”

  “You mean, you’re not going to arrest Manning-Richards?”

  “Not just at the moment.”

  Mason looked at Henry with a sneer. “Whose pocket are you in, Inspector? Who’s making it worth your while to lay off the Establishment? I suppose you’ll find some poor bloody working man to put the blame on…”

  Henry sighed, and stood up. “I’ll be back with a search warrant to look over the house,” he said.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, look at anything you like. I’m going out for a walk. This place suffocates me.”

  Henry watched the spiky figure in its shabby duffle coat as it strode away through the gathering dusk of the September garden. Then he turned his attention to Cregwell Lodge.

  The house had been built as a gatekeeper’s lodge to Cregwell Grange in the days when the main road ran to the east rather than to the west of the big house. With the construction of the new road, around the turn of the century, the present carriage drive to Cregwell Grange had been laid out, and the Lodge left in isolation. The old driveway was completely overgrown with grass, and the splendid wrought-iron gates beside the Lodge led only to a rutted, leafy lane. Beyond the lane marshy fields stretched away toward the river.

  The Lodge was small but compact, functional and more satisfying architecturally than the main house. It had been immaculately restored and redecorated by Raymond Mason. Henry, visualizing the dilapidated state in which Mason had certainly bought it, assumed that he must have spent thousands rather than hundreds of pounds to put it into its present condition.

  The ground floor consisted almost entirely of the large library-drawing room, from whose bay window Henry now watched Frank Mason’s retreating figure. Several small rooms had clearly been thrown together to make this imposing apartment. It was furnished in a deliberately expensive, masculine style—deep leather armchairs, a great fireplace capable of engulfing young trees in its huge maw, a deep red carpet, a vast mahogany desk with classic brass handles and an inlaid surface of red-and-gold tooled leather. On either side of the fireplace, from floor to ceiling, bookshelves were burdened with fine, leather-bound volumes, many of which bore the clenched fist of the Manciple crest in gold on their massive spines.

  Henry glanced at the titles. Nearly all of them seemed to be Greek or Latin, either in the original language or in translation. Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire was there, too, together with learned commentaries on Homer, Sophocles, and Virgil by eminent Victorian authorities. These were the books that Mason had pretended to read for Sir John Adamson’s benefit, but a small bookcase filled with paperbacks of the more lurid kind gave a better clue to the late householder’s real literary tastes.

  Henry next turned his attention to the desk. For all its massive size it had apparently served little useful purpose, for most of the drawers were empty. One contained writing paper—large sheets of deep blue, rough-edged mock-parchment with the address die-stamped in flamboyant lettering at the top right-hand corner. Another revealed a file of receipts from local tradespeople, which showed that Raymond Mason had settled every bill promptly and without wrangling. This trait, Henry reflected, which should have endeared him to the Villagers, probably did no more than confirm their suspicion that he was “not gentry.” Gentry did not pay cash on the barrelhead.

  The only real object of interest was a diary for the current year, and this Henry opened eagerly. It was, like everything else in the room, conspicuously opulent: large, leather-covered, and embellished with the initials R.M. in gold on the cover. Inside, each day of the year was allotted a double-page spread, and each page was divided into two sections—the left-hand marked Morning and Afternoon and the right-hand Evening and Notes. Unfortunately, Raymond Mason had neglected to make use of this acreage of paper. The entries were laconic and sparse.

  A few, a very few, were written carefully and with evident pride. “Dinner with Sir John Adamson” occurred on July 16th, and “Luncheon with the Headmaster of Kingsmarsh College to discuss foundation of Mason Scholarship” had made a very special date of August 14th. And Henry could almost feel the bated breath with which Mason had written, on August 25th, “Cocktails at Kingsmarsh Hall with Lord and Lady Fenshire.” The most recent of these red-letter-day entries was for September 12th, which Henry realized, with a slight sense of shock, was the day after tomorrow—Monday. It read, “Tea with Mrs. Manciple, Lady Fenshire, and the Rev. Dishforth to discuss arrangements for the Fête.”

  The other entries were scribbled, almost shamefacedly, it seemed to Henry. “Meeting, R.M. Ltd. Dividend agreed.” “See Bellson about rt. of way. Legal position?” “Attend Council meeting.”

  At the beginning of the diary there were a number of pages on which the owner was invited to inscribe various data, ranging from the telephone numbers of his friends to his own size in shirts. Surprisingly, Ra
ymond Mason had filled in these personal details meticulously.

  Address: Cregwell Lodge, Cregwell

  Tel. No.: Cregwell 79

  Passport No.: 383714

  Car. Reg. No.: BK6P82

  Shoe size: 10

  Collar size: 15-1/2

  Blood Group: A

  In case of accident, please inform:

  General Manager

  Raymond Mason Ltd.,

  14, Dell Street, W.l

  On the following pages, which provided space for names and addresses of friends, Henry found a list of the most aristocratic and/or wealthy families in the district, carefully written in Mason’s writing. Some of these had been ticked off in a slightly smug way, and Henry was interested to see that the names so ticked corresponded exactly to those appearing in the carefully-noted diary entries. In fact, the list represented Mason’s social aspirations, and the ticks his successes to date.

  Henry sighed, and returned the diary to the desk. Then he went on with his exploration of the house. It was unrewarding. On the ground floor only a small kitchen and a cloakroom. Upstairs one large bedroom, luxuriously furnished, and one small one—spare in every sense of the word—in which Frank Mason had now established residence. The bathroom was characterized by a lot of expensive bottles containing ozone-scented after shave lotion, aromatic pine bath salts, and talcum powder perfumed, if the label was to be believed, with essence of old leather riding boots.

  If Henry had been less conscientious, he might have been tempted to leave it at that. However, he had noticed the trap door in the bathroom ceiling, and realized, from his observation of the outside of the house, that there must be a sizeable attic. So, without much enthusiasm, he procured a chair, pushed up the trap door, and hauled himself up into the dim dustiness above.

  At first sight the loft appeared to be much like any other loft; there were the dusty trunks and boxes, the empty cardboard cartons, the old Wellington boots, the three-legged kitchen chair. And then Henry noticed the gun. It lay on the kitchen chair, half-hidden by an old newspaper, and it looked surprisingly clean and polished among the dusty relics. It was a twin to those which Henry had seen earlier at Cregwell Grange, and around its trigger was tied a stout piece of string.

  Henry pulled a clean handkerchief out of his pocket, wrapped it around the pistol, and, very gently, opened the weapon. It was not loaded. With meticulous care he then replaced it in the exact position in which he had found it. Now that he knew where Major Manciple’s missing gun was, he felt it would prove more interesting to use it as bait rather than as evidence.

  Downstairs there was no sign of Frank Mason. Henry pulled the front door shut behind him, heard the Yale lock click into position, and hoped for Mason’s sake that he had not gone out without his key. Then he drove to the police station, and after that headed for The Viking Inn, Emmy, and a glass of beer.

  The Viking was a cheerful, comfortable little inn built of the white weatherboard that was typical of the district. Henry found Emmy in their bedroom, which was small but cozy, over-burdened with massive Victorian furniture but prettily tricked out in fresh, flowery chintz. Emmy was sitting at the dressing table brushing her short, dark hair energetically. She smiled at Henry in the mirror as he came in.

  “Hello, darling. How did it go? Is the mystery solved?”

  “I think so,” said Henry.

  Emmy swung around in surprise. “No. Honestly? So soon? Have you made an arrest?”

  “No, no, no,” said Henry.

  “Then what…”

  Henry sat down on the bed. “I’m sorry, love,” he said. “I had no right to say that. Nothing is solved yet, and I shan’t know for certain until tomorrow at the earliest, but I have a hunch… Oh well, you know I’m not allowed to say anything about anything at this stage.”

  “You’re a beast.” said Emmy. “I’m sure other men tell their wives all sorts of state secrets. I thought that telling your wife didn’t count.”

  “Well it does,” said Henry. “Now, what sort of a day did you have?”

  “Oh, quite amusing. I had tea with Isobel Thompson, the doctor’s wife. We were at school together, but I haven’t seen her for more than twenty years,”

  “And how was she?”

  Emmy smiled. “Just the same. Very domestic and gossipy. She’s kept her figure better than I have,” she added ruefully.

  Henry came over and kissed the back of her neck. “You know I adore fat women,” he said. “Probably because at the age of six months I was subconsciously in love with the cook, who weighed almost two hundred pounds.”

  “Mind my hair, idiot,” said Emmy. “Anyhow, Isobel is all set to pass on the local gossip, in case it might help you. But if you’ve solved the case…”

  “I’d still like to hear what the Village is saying,” said Henry.

  Emmy passed on Isobel Thompson’s assessment of opinion in Cregwell.

  “Very interesting,” said Henry. “So your friend is married to the son of the doctor who attended Augustus Manciple?”

  “That’s right. She was telling me about the old man. Is it true that the whole family is slightly deranged?”

  “Not at all,” said Henry. “Far from it, very far from it.” He paused, and then said, “Well, let’s go down to the bar and sample a bit of local opinion ourselves, not to mention the local ale.”

  At half-past nine the following morning, Henry was once more ringing the wrought-iron bell beside the front door of Cregwell Grange. It turned out that his desire to interview Violet Manciple and Aunt Dora was most opportune, for the other members of the family were intending to be otherwise occupied on that fine, cold Sunday morning. Claud and Ramona, as staunch atheists and nature-worshippers, were already out on the marshes equipped with field glasses and specimen box; while George, Edwin, Maud, and Julian were proposing, as always, to attend Matins in the Village church. Aunt Dora had, with great reluctance, given up church-going several years ago and now made do by listening to the religious services on the B.B.C.

  “And as for me,” Violet explained to Henry with her sweet smile, “I am just too busy getting lunch to think very much about God. That is,” she added quickly, with a blush, “I think about Him a great deal, but it’s nearly always when I’m washing up or in the bath. I know that Edwin is rather shocked that I don’t go to church. He’s a little like St. Paul in some ways. I feel sure in my own mind that God understands about housework.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, Mrs. Manciple,” said Henry.

  “Well now, I’ll ask Maud to get Aunt Dora ready to see you. If you’d like to go into the study I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

  Henry had established himself behind Major Manciple’s desk and had his notebooks and pencils neatly laid out in front of him when Violet Manciple came in at her usual half-run, trying to smooth her hair and remove her apron simultaneously. “Oh dear, Mr. Tibbett,” she said, “this isn’t very comfortable for you, I’m afraid. George said you were all right in here, but I could have cleared one of the spare bedrooms for you…”

  “I’m perfectly happy here, Mrs. Manciple,” said Henry. “Now, do sit down and…”

  “Oh, but you need a better chair than that! Goodness me, that’s George’s old one that I told him to throw away last year…”

  “This chair is quite all right,” said Henry with a trace of desperation.

  “It isn’t, you know,” said Violet Manciple. And at that moment, as he shifted his weight, Henry felt an ominous cracking and sagging beneath him.

  “Hold on to the desk with both hands or you’ll go right through,” commanded Mrs. Manciple with the crispness of an experienced field commander issuing vital orders. Obediently Henry hung on, as the webbing of the chair seat disintegrated under his weight. He felt glad that his sergeant was not there.

  Mrs. Manciple ducked apologetically, removed the wrecked seat by brute force from Henry’s buttocks, and brought a simple but sturdy wooden chair from the kitchen as a substitute.
Then she sat down meekly on the swivel chair in front of the desk and asked Henry how she could help him over this terrible business of poor Mr. Mason.

  It was fortunate that Henry was not one of those policemen who rely on the trappings of officialdom to maintain their dignity. He thanked Mrs. Manciple for her help, gave her a broad and infectious grin, and then asked her what she knew about Raymond Mason.

  “What I know about him?” Mrs. Manciple looked positively alarmed. “Why nothing, Mr. Tibbett. What should I know about him? He hadn’t done anything wrong, had he?”

  “Not that I know of,” said Henry. “I simply meant, when did you first meet him, and how?”

  “Why, when he answered the advertisement about the Lodge, of course. That was four years ago.”

  “You hadn’t met him before?”

  “No, no. We advertised the Lodge in Country Life, and Mr. Mason actually sent a telegram only a few hours after the announcement appeared, saying that he was interested and would we give him first refusal? He came down in his car that very day, took one look at the Lodge, and bought it. Sat down in that very chair you are sitting in and wrote out the check—well—no, not that very chair, of course, the one that so unfortunately broke just now. It’s my opinion that it was Mr. Mason cracked it in the first place. He was a heavy man, you know. I was telling him only the other day that he should go on a high-protein diet, but he said that too much protein affected his liver, and that…” Violet Manciple broke off, looking bewildered. “Are you really interested in Mr. Mason’s diet, Mr. Tibbett?”