“And threatened to kill him?”
“I did nothing of the sort. I just—well—I made it clear that it would be healthier for him to keep away from Cregwell Grange in the future.”
“Oh, well,” said Henry, “that gives me a very complete picture of the state of affairs as of Friday evening. I wouldn’t worry too much…”
“There’s more to come,” said Maud ominously. “Tell him, darling.”
“Yesterday morning,” said Julian, “I had to go up to London, as I think you know. When I got back to Cregwell in the afternoon I called in at the Lodge.”
“Why did you do that?” Henry asked.
Julian looked a little embarrassed. “I—well—I was taking the short cut back from the station, which passes the Lodge, and I saw Frank Mason’s car there. I felt a bit badly about the whole thing—I mean, Mason being dead, and having had that row with him, and so on. So I thought I’d go in and make my peace, as it were, offer my condolences.”
“I see. And did you?”
“I didn’t get the chance. As soon as Frank saw me, he started to abuse me. It seems that his father had telephoned him and told him all about the fight we’d had, and he said,” Julian swallowed, “he said that he was going to tell you that I had killed Raymond Mason.”
“Which is a black lie!” Maud burst out. “How could Julian have killed him? He was with me down by the river when it happened.”
“I think,” said Henry, “that you’ve both worked yourselves up quite unnecessarily. As a matter of fact, Julian could have killed Raymond Mason, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t. In fact, I don’t think…” He checked himself, changing his mind. “I don’t think,” he resumed, “that there’s anything more I can do here this afternoon. I’m very grateful for all you’ve told me; it fills in the corners of the puzzle. By the way, Mr. Manning-Richards, just why did you go to London on Saturday?”
Julian was obviously embarrassed. He went a dull red and asked if Henry insisted that he should answer the question. Henry, intrigued, said that while he couldn’t compel an answer he thought that it would be wise to give one. Grudgingly, Julian then divulged his dark secret. He had been to the jewelers, he said, to buy Maud’s engagement ring. It was supposed to be a secret surprise, but now—and he sheepishly brought out from his pocket a small box embellished with the insignia of one of London’s most celebrated jewelers. Inside was a very beautiful but not very large diamond solitaire ring. Whereupon Maud threw her arms around Julian’s neck, and Henry found no difficulty whatsoever in withdrawing unnoticed from the study.
In the hall he met Violet Manciple. “Ah, Mr. Tibbett? Is everything all right? Have you seen everybody you need to? Goodness me, I see it’s five o’clock already. Won’t you come into the drawing room and have a glass of sherry? George is still down at the range, but he’ll be in soon. It was so kind of you to make such a fuss of Aunt Dora. She does appreciate it. She tells me that you are intensely interested in psychic phenomena, although you put up an outward resistance to it. Something to do with your aura. You should feel flattered. According to Aunt Dora, it’s not everybody who has one. Now, do come and have a…”
“Really, Mrs. Manciple,” said Henry, “you are most kind, but I must get back now. My wife will be waiting for me at The Viking.”
“Your wife? Goodness me, Mr. Tibbett, I never realized you had a wife. Not in Cregwell, at any rate. Why, you must bring her to lunch tomorrow. We’d be delighted. Delighted. You must think me very rude not to have invited her sooner, but I had no idea…”
“Her visit here is quite unofficial, Mrs. Manciple,” said Henry. “Unlike mine, alas.”
“The working day is over,” said Mrs. Manciple firmly. “In any case, Sunday is not a working day, is it? I quite see that you must get back to your wife now, but tomorrow, without fail. I’m afraid it will only be salmon, but at least it’ll be fresh out of the river. Edwin is down there fishing at the moment…”
Henry thanked Mrs. Manciple again, and accepted the invitation for Emmy and himself. Then he added, “I wonder if I might—wash my hands before I go?”
Violet Manciple went pink. “But of course. How thoughtless of me—I should have offered. I do hope you haven’t been—em—this way, just along here…”
The cloakroom was as large as a public bathhouse and ornamented in flowered tiles. The outer room housed, besides the washbasin and towels, the raw materials of George Manciple’s patent home-made clay pigeons. Boxes of old tennis balls, wooden canisters, springs, and balls of string were everywhere. There was also a rack, set high on the wall, where the guns were kept. There were spaces for six weapons, three of which were empty.
Henry looked around with interest, and then went into the lavatory beyond. This, too, was a large apartment, with an elaborate throne enclosed in solid mahogany, standing on a raised dais at one end of it. A small amount of waning daylight filtered in through the mock-Gothic arrow-slit of a window. Henry went over and peered out of it. The thin, vertical slit was open, and Henry found himself looking out through the shrubbery and toward the front drive.
When he emerged into the hall again Henry found Violet Manciple waiting to bid him good-bye at the front door. She looked considerably taken aback when he said, “Forgive me for asking, Mrs. Manciple, but have you cleaned your downstairs lavatory lately?”
“Have I…?” Mrs. Manciple blushed violently. “You don’t mean that it was…? Oh, Mr. Tibbett, I am so sorry…”
“It was spotless,” Henry reassured her. “I just wondered when it was last cleaned.”
“Yesterday morning, Mr. Tibbett. I clean it every morning, except Sundays. I have a terrible job with that cloakroom, because George will keep his shooting equipment in there. It’s always full of string and boxes and I can’t get him to keep it tidy. Only yesterday—I mean, why should he want to take string and fuses into the lavatory? I’ve asked him and asked him, but men are so thoughtless, aren’t they?”
“Yes, I’m afraid we are sometimes,” said Henry.
“Oh, forgive me. I didn’t mean you, Mr, Tibbett. I’m afraid I say foolish things sometimes—George says I’m worse than Aunt Dora. And with all this worry about Mr. Mason…”
“I think you can stop worrying about Mason, Mrs. Manciple,” said Henry. He had not meant to say as much, but Mrs. Manciple touched him with her artless anxiety.
“Stop worrying? But how can I, Mr. Tibbett? Quite apart from anything else—oh yes, I knew there was something I had to ask you. What about the Fête?”
“The Fête?”
“The Annual Church Fête and Jumble Sale. It’s next Saturday, and George and I always lend the gardens for it. Well—what am I to do? Can I go ahead with the arrangements? I have a working tea party tomorrow with some of the organizers—we have to start preparing the booths quite early in the week, you see, and I just don’t know what I’m going to say to everybody. If this terrible mystery isn’t cleared up…”
Henry smiled reassuringly. “I think you can safely go ahead with your Fête, Mrs. Manciple. I’m pretty sure that by tomorrow there’ll be no mystery left. In fact, I don’t think there ever has been one.”
Violet Manciple looked bewildered. “Whatever can you mean, Mr. Tibbett?”
“Just that things aren’t always what they seem,” said Henry cheerfully.
“I hope so,” said Mrs. Manciple doubtfully. “I certainly hope so. But I can’t help feeling that there is a mystery, all the same.”
And here Violet Manciple was right; and so, paradoxically, was Henry Tibbett.
CHAPTER EIGHT
EMMY WAS WAITING for Henry when he got back to The Viking. She had spent the afternoon in Kingsmarsh, where she had visited the fourteenth-century abbey and the local museum. She had just arrived back in Cregwell, after a long and complicated journey by various country buses, and she pronounced herself more than ready for a beer when the bar opened at six.
“Besides,” she added, “we may be able to hear what the Vill
agers are saying about the case.”
“You haven’t seen your friend Mrs. Thompson again today?” Henry asked.
“No. I thought I’d leave her in peace, as it was Sunday.”
The bar was almost empty. A languid platinum blonde polished glasses lethargically behind the counter, an ancient farmer in leather gaiters sat stolidly in a corner drinking his pint with the solemnity of a celebrant of the Japanese tea ceremony, and two middle-aged men in tweeds discussed golf stances and grips in dedicated undertones. Henry bought beer for himself and for Emmy, and they sat down in the high-backed ingle seat beside the fire.
“Not much local gossip going on in here, by the look of it,” said Emmy.
“Patience,” said Henry, “it may yet arrive.”
At that moment the outer door of the bar opened and two people came in. Henry, hidden inside the tall inglenook, said to Emmy, “New arrivals?”
“Yes.” Emmy craned to look. “A small fair girl, very pretty, a nice-looking young man and a boxer puppy.”
“Maud Manciple and Julian Manning-Richards by the sound of it,” said Henry.
“Maud. That’s the one who is hung around with first-class honors degrees, according to Isobel. She doesn’t look like a bluestocking, I must say. Are you going to go and say hello?”
“I don’t think so,” said Henry. “They haven’t seen me. Let’s just sit tight and see what happens.”
Nothing very spectacular happened. Julian went up to the bar and exchanged a joke with the platinum blonde, whom he addressed as Mabel. Mabel giggled, and gave him a pint of beer and a gin and tonic. He then made his way back to Maud, and they sat down on the bench which backed the one on which Henry and Emmy were sitting.
As he lowered himself onto the polished oaken bench, Julian said, “I was looking everywhere for you. What on earth made you go off down to the river on your own?”
“I was only giving Tinker her run.” Maud sounded a little ill at ease. “Mother asked me to. There was no need to come after me as though I—as though I couldn’t look after myself.”
“I thought you didn’t seem particularly pleased to see me just now,” said Julian. And then, warmly, “Don’t you understand, darling, I don’t like the idea of you wandering around on your own with all the things that have been going on. After all, it’s getting quite dark. And I don’t care if you laugh at me. You’re only a weak woman physically; you can’t deny that. You do need somebody to look after you.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, darling.” Maud sounded contrite. “It was sweet of you to come and look for me, and I’m glad you found me.” There was a little pause, and then Maud said abruptly, “I wonder if Tibbett believed you.”
“He seems quite a reasonable sort of fellow,” said Julian. “Better type than you’d expect, for a policeman.”
Maud said. “It’s so terribly unfair, the things people say. Why shouldn’t you get the Bradwood job?”
“No reason,” said Julian. “Nevertheless, I wish to God that Sir Claud weren’t your uncle. It’s bound to give ammunition to—to people who don’t like me. Still, there it is and it’s no good worrying about it. This business of Mason doesn’t help either. Admitting the fact that I’m delighted he’s out of the way…”
“Julian! You mustn’t say things like that!”
“You know it’s true. No good being hypocritical.”
“Yes, but—if somebody heard you…”
“Oh, highly suspicious, I agree. Fortunately, however, Tibbett seems to have more sense than would appear from his outward aspect. Your mother was telling me just now that he’d given her the green light to go ahead with the Fête on Saturday. Apparently he hinted broadly that the whole business was pretty well solved, and that he wasn’t taking it too seriously.”
“I wish I could believe that,” said Maud.
“I wonder,” said Julian reflectively, “what all the others have been saying to him.”
“All what others?”
“The Cregwell Grange collection of nut cases, Aunt Dora and Uncle Edwin and the rest.”
“I’m not sure that I like having my family referred to as nut cases,” said Maud.
Julian laughed. “Come off it, darling. You’re always saying that there’s not a sane sprig on your family tree.”
Maud gave a little sigh, and Henry could hear the smile in her voice. “Sorry, darling. It’s silly, I suppose—it’s all right for one of the family to say it, but…”
“Am I not one of the family?”
“Oh yes, darling, yes. Of course you are.”
“Maud,” Julian’s voice dropped, and the rest of the sentence was inaudible.
Emmy, who had been growing steadily more unhappy in her position of captive eavesdropper, was heartily glad when soon afterward an interruption occurred.
The bar door burst open and a young man with red hair came striding in, bringing a rushing draft of cold air with him. He approached the bar like a tornado, rubbing his hands together and shouting for beer. As ill luck would have it, he arrived at the counter at precisely the same moment as Julian Manning-Richards, who had come to order a second round of drinks. There was an electric silence as the two young men faced each other.
Then Frank Mason said to the barmaid, “Cancel that order, dear. I’m not so parched that I’d drink in any company.”
“You can come outside and say that again, Mason,” said Julian.
It sounded to Henry as though the words should have been written in a balloon-shaped space above his head. Frank Mason turned his head slowly and looked at Julian Manning-Richards. “I beg your pardon?” he said.
“Come outside and say that again,” said Julian. He was very pale.
“I don’t think,” said Mason, “that we have been introduced.” His voice was intended to be a parody of the entire Manning-Richards-Manciple complex, but it was not a very good one.
Julian slammed the empty tankard onto the counter. “Bloody coward,” he said. And before Mason could answer, he wheeled around and said, “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for your beer until we get home, Maud darling. We’re going now.”
Maud was standing, gripping her leather jacket too tightly around her slim body with one hand and holding the puppy’s leash in the other. Manning-Richards went over to her, reaching her side in one stride, and took her arm. Then he turned back to Mason, and flung out—there was no other word for it—his final taunt. “You’re frightened, aren’t you, Mason? Frightened of anyone your own size!”
Having thus packed a maximum number of clichés into a minimum number of seconds, he marched Maud and Tinker out of the bar and the door slammed behind them.
In the corner one of the tweed-clad men said, “It’s a question of keeping your left arm straight, old man. You should think of it as operating in one piece…”
The farmer in the leather gaiters stood up slowly and went over to the bar. He said, “Same again, Mabel.”
“I think,” Henry said to Emmy, “that we might have the same again too, don’t you?”
He stood up from the inglenook seat and walked over to the bar. Frank Mason was still standing there with a dazed expression on his face. He looked as though he had just been hit over the head with the proverbial blunt instrument.
“Two halves of bitter, please,” said Henry.
“Tibbett.” Mason seemed to come to life slowly, as he focused on Henry.
“That’s right,” said Henry.
Mason grabbed his arm. His grip was very strong. “Who is she?” he demanded.
“Who is who?”
“That girl. With Manning-Richards.”
“Maud Manciple, of course. Didn’t you gather that?”
“She can’t be Maud Manciple.”
“I assure you that she is. Why are you so surprised? Have you met her before?”
“No, of course not. I mean, yes. Half an hour ago. I was walking down by the river and she came along with her dog, and…”
“And what?”
“Nothing, damn you. Nothing at all.”
“Two halves of bitter,” said Mabel, appearing from the beer pumps like Venus from the waves. She smiled sweetly at Henry, and then, in a different tone, she said to Frank Mason, “Did you want a drink or didn’t you then?”
“No. I don’t want a drink. I don’t want anything in this blood-soaked place.” Mason turned on his heel and marched out of the bar.
“Charming, I’m sure,” said Mabel, giving the counter an unnecessary wipe. “Do you know him then, Mr. Tibbett?”
“Only very slightly,” said Henry.
Mabel sighed. “That’ll be two and fourpence,” she said. “Terrible business about poor Mr. Mason, wasn’t it?”
“Terrible,” Henry agreed.
“Poor Major Manciple. Who’d have thought that one of his guns would go off accidental like that. They won’t put him in prison, will they?”
“I really have no idea,” said Henry.
He picked his change off the bar, together with the two mugs, and began to make his way back to Emmy. At that moment the telephone rang somewhere in the depths of the inn, and Mabel disappeared. When she came back she approached Henry with a certain respect.
“Telephone for you, Mr. Tibbett.”
“Oh, thank you, Mabel.”
“It’s Sir John Adamson,” said Mabel almost reverently. “Sir John would like to speak to you.”
The Chief Constable cleared his throat several times, causing the telephone line to crackle alarmingly, before he finally said, “Well, Tibbett. How did you get on then?”
“I’ve had a very interesting couple of days, Sir John,” said Henry.
“I was wondering—that is—I thought you might have contacted me sooner.”
“I’ve been very busy, I’m afraid,” said Henry.
“Yes, yes, yes. Of course you have. And have you come to any—em—any conclusion?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, I have.”
“You have?” Sir John sounded positively alarmed. “You’re not proposing to—to, that is, to take immediate action?”
Murder Fantastical Page 11