“Not really,” said Henry.
“Then what am I talking about?”
“About Mason buying the Lodge.”
“Ah, that’s right. Well, there’s no more to tell. He wrote the check then and there, and George and I were delighted. Quite frankly, Mr. Tibbett, we needed the money badly. John Adamson was very upset, I remember. He had a friend—a Lady Something-or-other—who quite fancied the Lodge. She wouldn’t have been able to pay so much, he said, but she would have been what John called the right sort of person. I’ve never been able to understand just what he means by that, although it’s one of his favorite expressions. Do you understand it, Mr. Tibbett?”
“I presume,” said Henry, as delicately as he could, “that Sir John was drawing a distinction between those who are gently bred and those who are—not.”
“Gently bred?” For a moment Violet Manciple seemed baffled. Then she said, “You don’t mean that John Adamson is so vulgar as to be a—a snob, Mr. Tibbett?”
Henry found himself becoming a little irritated. “For heaven’s sake, Mrs. Manciple,” he said, “you must know what I mean. You can hear the difference in the way that people speak, for instance. I imagine that Mason had a—a regional accent.”
“A delightful tinge of East London,” said Mrs. Manciple promptly. And she added, “Mine is South Dublin. I can detect remnants of Killarney in George’s voice, even though he was born here in Cregwell. His father’s influence, of course. Aunt Dora, now, is a different matter. She came originally from Killarney, like her brother, but as a young girl she went back to Cork, and…”
“Could we get back to Mr. Mason?”
“Of course, Mr. Tibbett. I’m so sorry. I’m afraid I tend to ramble off at tangents, if I’m not mixing my metaphors. The Head used to be most particular about accuracy of speech in the family, and of course when I married George I became a Manciple, and—oh dear.” Violet blushed becomingly. “There I go again. Now—Mr. Mason. Well, as I was saying, he wrote a check on the spot and bought the Lodge. He had the place completely renovated, and moved in as soon as it was ready. Later on, he told us he needed extra furniture and—and so on. He gave us an extremely good price for several pieces which we—we had no further use for. For which we had no further use, I should say. The Head was always adamant that the preposition…”
“Mr. Mason, Mrs. Manciple.”
“Oh yes, of course. Well—furniture, as I said, and quite a number of the Head’s books, the leather-bound ones from the old library. I was glad that they hadn’t left Cregwell altogether, and since none of us read Greek or Latin, it seemed…”
Henry interrupted the flow. “You were on good terms with Mr. Mason at this time?”
“Oh indeed, yes. In fact, you mustn’t think that we ever quarreled, Mr. Tibbett. The trouble between George and Mr. Mason only started a year ago, when Mr. Mason made that very generous offer for this house and George was so angry. I always stand by George in public, but between ourselves it seemed to me that he was rather hard on poor Mr. Mason. After all, how was he to know that we regard this house as a sacred trust? All he did was to make an offer…”
“Which your husband refused?”
“Naturally. That was when the misunderstanding started. Mr. Mason got the impression that George was holding out for more money, and he kept raising his offer. Each time he did so George got even angrier, and refused him even more bluntly. By the time Mr. Mason had grasped the fact that we weren’t prepared to sell at any price, the two of them were at dagger’s edge. All quite unnecessary, it seemed to me. Then Mr. Mason started on what George called his campaign of persecution—I dare say he has told you about it.”
“Yes,” said Henry, “he has.”
“So childish. But all the time Mr. Mason was coming to see me every so often and bringing me plants for my rock garden. He shared my fondness for alpine flowers, you see, and he was lucky enough to be able to order all sorts of rare specimens from Kew and elsewhere. He was so kind, Mr. Tibbett, bringing me cuttings and roots even when George was threatening him with solicitors’ letters over the right-of-way business.”
“I understand,” said Henry, “that Mason wished to marry your daughter.”
“Oh you’ve heard that, have you? Well now, Mr. Tibbett, it’s all a bit of a mountain in a teacup, if you ask me. Out of a molehill, I should say. Just like the house all over again. He wanted to buy the house; he made a good offer; and he was turned down. Then he wanted to marry Maud; he made a good—that is—a perfectly honorable offer; and once again he was turned down. I think the poor man was to be pitied rather than blamed. What had he done wrong?”
“Nothing, as far as I can make out,” said Henry. “But it was a bit sudden, wasn’t it? His falling in love with Maud, I mean?”
“I suppose you might call it sudden, but then, he hardly knew her until recently. Before, she was at the university, and then she went to the Sorbonne for a year. It was only when she took this job at Bradwood last year and started spending weekends at home…”
“At Bradwood?”
“Yes, the Atomic Research Station.”
“So Maud works for her uncle, does she?”
“In a way, yes. But there’s no question of nepotism, I do assure you, Mr. Tibbett. Maud is a fully qualified physicist, and she applied for the job and got it without Claud’s knowledge. He was quite dumfounded, he told us, when her name appeared on his desk as having been unanimously recommended for the job.” Violet Manciple hesitated for a moment, and then added, “I don’t feel quite so happy about Julian. Of course, I don’t interfere in any way, and Maud is old enough to make up her own mind. Don’t you agree, Mr. Tibbett, that if young people are not encouraged to use their initiative they will never…”
“Mrs. Manciple,” said Henry, “could we please get back to Mr. Mason?”
“Oh dear, there I go again. Yes of course. Mr. Mason. Well, what else can I tell you? The poor man was very struck by Maud, even though she is so much younger than he. And he was old-fashioned enough to come to me to ask my permission before he proposed to her. I thought it rather charming. Naturally I told him that it was entirely for Maud to say. I believe—I don’t like saying it, but one must be truthful—I believe that Maud was rather unkind to him. Laughed at him. So unmannerly. After all, Mr. Mason was paying her a great compliment, as I tried to explain to her. She seemed to find the whole thing ludicrous and a little disgusting. I think that is why she showed such a—a lack of courtesy. I’m afraid Mr. Mason was deeply hurt.”
“And angry?”
“Oh no. Julian was furious. I suppose that is understandable, but, after all, the engagement isn’t official yet, and Mr. Mason couldn’t have been expected to know about it. I said all this to Maud, but young people…”
“Now,” said Henry firmly, “we come to the day before yesterday in the afternoon and Mr. Mason’s visit. Will you tell me exactly what happened?”
“But nothing happened, Mr. Tibbett. That’s what makes it all so extraordinary.”
“Was Mason expected?”
“No, no. He simply turned up in his big car, at about half-past five. I heard the car from the kitchen and I came out into the hall, just in time to see George grabbing a gun from the cloak room and making off into the garden as fast as he could. He would go to any lengths to avoid poor Mr. Mason. Claud and Ramona were in the garden, and Maud and Julian had gone for a walk, so that Aunt Dora and I were alone in the house—except for Edwin, but he was having a nap upstairs.
“I went out to meet Mr. Mason and he told me he had brought me some cuttings for my rock garden. We brought them indoors together and talked for a while about alpine plants. Then Aunt Dora came downstairs and gave Mr. Mason a great pile of pamphlets from a spiritualist society that she’s very keen on. Between ourselves, I don’t think he was really keen on the subject, but he was very polite, as always. It did occur to me, though, that it might not have been an accident that he left the pamphlets behind when he got up to
leave. For that reason, I didn’t say anything about them. I thought it would be more tactful, especially as Aunt Dora had gone upstairs again by then.”
“What did you talk about, Mrs. Manciple? Can you remember?”
Violet Manciple wrinkled her brow. “Nothing, Mr. Tibbett. Nothing important. Mr. Mason asked me was George down on the shooting range and I said he was. Mr. Mason said, wasn’t it dangerous at all, and I told him that it certainly wasn’t, or I wouldn’t allow it, and that anyway the Council had agreed it was safe. He changed the subject then—I expect he was a little embarrassed, since it was he that had lodged the complaint in the first place—and he asked me about Maud. Then Aunt Dora came in, and we had a conversation about the possibility of the survival of animals in psychic or astral form. It wasn’t very easy, because Aunt Dora kept on whistling.”
It took Henry no more than a split second to interpret this remark. “Her hearing aid, you mean?”
“That’s right. George blames it all on the National Health, but I think that she just won’t adjust it right. However…”
“Then your aunt went upstairs again, and Mr. Mason left. Is that correct?”
“Yes. I saw him out. He got into his car, started it up, and set off down the drive. I came back into the hall, and there was Aunt Dora coming out of the drawing room with the pamphlets. ‘Mr. Mason has forgotten these,’ she said, ‘and he was so interested. I must try to catch him.’ ‘He’s gone now, Aunt Dora,’ I said, but she was at the front door by then and she called out, ‘No he hasn’t, dear. He’s stopped the car.’ And she went out and down the steps, calling to him…”
Henry, who had been making some notes, frowned and said, “How agile is your aunt, Mrs. Manciple?”
Violet looked surprised. “Well, you’ve met her, Mr. Tibbett. She gets about wonderfully, considering her age and her weak heart. Dr. Thompson has warned her not to…”
“What I mean is,” said Henry, “that she must have nipped upstairs and then down again very fast to get back to the drawing room and find the pamphlets before Mr. Mason had gotten further than…”
Mrs. Manciple looked embarrassed, “Oh, well—there was a short interval, a few minutes…”
“What do you mean, Mrs. Manciple?”
Reluctantly, touching on a subject which was not usually mentioned, Mrs. Manciple said, “Mr. Mason asked me if he might—em—wash his hands before he left…”
Henry grinned, “I see,” he said, “So Mason went into the downstairs cloakroom. Was he there long?”
“Really, Mr. Tibbett, I didn’t stand outside with a stop watch. What extraordinary questions you do ask. As a matter of fact, it did strike me that perhaps he took a little longer than—than usual. Anyhow, when he came out I saw him to the front door, and I had gone back into the hall to telephone to Rigley’s, the grocers, when Aunt Dora came down, as I told you. And then, just as Mr. Rigley had answered the phone, I heard the shot.”
“And ran straight out to the drive?”
“Not immediately, I’m afraid. The shot didn’t alarm me—one gets used to the sound of gunfire in this house, Mr. Tibbett. No, it was Aunt Dora crying out which caught my attention. I rang off at once, and just then Edwin came downstairs—he’d been resting in his room, as I told you—and he said, ‘Aunt Dora’s raising Cain in the drive. What’s up?’ ‘I don’t know,’ I said; and we both went out together.”
“And what did you find?”
“Oh, it was dreadful. Poor Mr. Mason was lying on the ground in front of his car. The bonnet was still open—he’d been looking inside, it seems, to find out what made it stop. Aunt Dora was quite bewildered, poor old thing. She kept saying that he’d waved his arms and shouted. I really don’t think she knew what had happened. George came up through the shrubbery almost at once, and then, of course, he took charge. Maud and Julian soon came running up, and so did Claud and Ramona. So I left them to cope with poor Mr. Mason and took Aunt Dora indoors. Ramona wanted me to give her one of those sleeping pills that she takes, to soothe her, but I told her that Dr. Thompson had most emphatically forbidden Aunt Dora to take anything of the sort because of her heart. So I made her a nice cup of tea instead. That’s really all.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Manciple. You’ve been very helpful.”
“Have I?” Violet Manciple sounded surprised and almost dismayed, as if it had not been her intention to be helpful.
“Perhaps I could have a word with your aunt now, before lunch?”
“Yes, of course. I told Maud to get her settled in the drawing room for you. She’ll be delighted to see you. Just keep her off psychic research, if you can, and you’ll find her astonishingly lucid. Quite remarkable for her age.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
AUNT DORA MANCIPLE had been carefully installed by Maud in the drawing room, a rug tucked around her plump knees and her hearing aid adjusted—despite her protests—so that it did not whistle. It was obvious that she took a very poor view of the whole proceeding.
“So there you are, young man,” she began, before Henry had time to close the door behind him. “Why do we have to talk in here, eh? Why not in the study, where it’s warm?”
“If you’d prefer the study, Miss Manciple,” said Henry pacifically, “I’m sure that…”
“Violet said it had to be in here, and of course this is Violet’s house now. Not that I have anything against Violet. She’s a good girl, and she’s made George a good wife, which is more than could be said of some people. All the same, it’s not like the old days.”
“You must have lived a great many years in this house, Miss Manciple,” said Henry, feeling that Aunt Dora’s ruffled feathers would have to be smoothed before any real sense could be extracted from her.
“I came to live here fifty-two years ago this month,” replied the old lady promptly. “Augustus sent for me as soon as Rose died. Rose was his wife, of course. I don’t suppose you knew her.”
“No, I didn’t,” Henry admitted.
Aunt Dora’s lips clamped together into a thin line. Her normally good-natured face became quite fierce. “A little hussy,” she said, “a spoiled, greedy, grasping little madam—and I’m not ashamed to say it, even if the is dead. She ruined my brother, ruined him.”
“Financially, do you mean?”
“In every way. Look at all that jewelry she made him buy her, with money that should have been used to provide for his family.”
“Yes, but,” Henry hesitated. “She couldn’t take it with her, could she, Miss Manciple? I understand that it was after her death that your brother was obliged to sell…”
“That’s what we’re told now.” Aunt Dora bridled, shook herself, and settled down into her chair like an angry hen. “Augustus was infatuated with her, of course. That was the trouble. Arthur Pringle could have told you a very different story, if he’d lived. You mark my words.”
Henry did not attempt to unravel this remark. Instead, he said, “Well, that’s all a long time ago now, isn’t it, Miss Manciple? I’m really more interested in recent events.”
“Poor Mr. Mason, you mean. I wondered when you were going to get around to him,” said Miss Manciple with a note of reproach in her voice. “Well, what can I tell you?”
“If you’d just give me your account of what happened on Friday…”
“Certainly. I had my rest after luncheon and I think I must have dropped off, which is very unusual for me. I don’t approve of sleeping in the daytime. It lowers the resistance. At all events, it must have been about half-past five when I heard the sound of the car outside.”
“Were you wearing your hearing aid, Miss Manciple?”
“No, no, of course not. Cumbersome thing.”
“Then how did you hear the car?”
Aunt Dora looked pityingly at Henry. “Not being hard of hearing yourself,” she said, “you wouldn’t understand. Certain sounds, like engines, come through perfectly clearly. The doctor says it is a question of vibrations. I am speaking now of earthly vibrati
ons, you understand, rather than psychic vibrations,”
“Yes, yes,” said Henry. “So you heard the car…”
“Quite correct. I got up and looked out of my window in time to see Mr. Mason going into the house with Violet. Now, Mr.—I fear I didn’t catch your name…”
“Tibbett, Miss Manciple.”
“Tibbett, Tibbett, hang him from a gibbet,” said Aunt Dora.
Henry started in spite of himself. “I beg your pardon?”
“A mnemonic,” explained Aunt Dora, “a device of my brother’s. He insisted that a successful man—or woman, for that matter—should never forget a name, and he evolved this trick of rhyming couplets. I can assure you, Mr. Tibbett, that I shall never forget your name again. Unfortunately, I have a very poor memory for faces, so it is quite likely that I may not recognize you in the future. But your name is now indelibly inscribed in my mind. What was I saying?”
“You saw Mr. Mason going into the house,” said Henry.
“Ah, yes. As I was saying—you, Mr. Tibbett, are not interested in psychic vibrations. I know this. Your aura changed color in a distinctly hostile manner when I mentioned the subject just now.”
“Did it?” said Henry. “I’m sorry.”
“You cannot help it,” replied Miss Manciple graciously. “You are powerless to control your vibrations and emanations—at least, without a long course of meditation. Mr. Mason, on the other hand, was most interested in the science of the supernatural. His aura was blue, I need hardly tell you. I had promised to lend him some pamphlets on Astral Manifestations of the Lower Forms of Life —dogs, cats, and so on. He was telling me that a friend of his had once seen the astral form of an elephant. It had happened in London, curiously enough; in Bugolaland, it would not have been surprising. It was in the early hours of the morning, when Mr. Mason’s friend was returning from a celebration of some sort.”
“Not a pink elephant, by any chance?” Henry asked. He was beginning to form a high estimate of Raymond Mason.
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