Henry said to Mumford, “A lot of these people seem to be in debt to the company. What action will you take about them?”
“None whatsoever,” said Mr. Mumford promptly. “That filing cabinet was a matter for Mr. Mason, and for nobody else. He used to arrange, privately, to collect the debts of his personal clients. In some cases he would decide to waive them and write them off as general expenses. He was quite within his rights to do that,” Mumford added defensively.
“And now that Mr. Mason is dead?”
“The point has been worrying me,” admitted Mumford, “but I have made up my mind as to the ethical course. Any private client who is owed money will, of course, be paid out in full. Any private client who is in debt—well—the debt will simply be written off—as general expenses. That is what Mr. Mason would have wished.”
“I see,” said Henry. “Do you think that Mr. Frank will agree?”
“Mr. Frank,” said Mumford icily, “will not be consulted.”
It was then that pandemonium broke loose in the outer office. Henry and Mumford looked at each other in dismay as giggles, loud-voiced laughter, and, apparently, the shifting of furniture announced the arrival of the gentlemen of the press.
“Oh dear,” said Mr. Mumford, “oh, dear. Oh dear. I shall have to go and deal with—oh, dear.”
“I’m not anxious to meet the press myself at this stage,” said Henry. “So if…”
“I should think not!” exclaimed Mumford. “They’ll recognize you, I am sure, and if they get the idea that Scotland Yard has been here—oh, dear…”
“So if there’s a back door…”
“Yes, yes. Out this way and down the staircase. There’s a door at the bottom out into the mews—that’s right, Chief Inspector…”
Out in the narrow street Henry walked thoughtfully back to his car. He was in a state of some perplexity. He was reasonably certain that he had solved the mystery of Raymond Mason’s death, and he had no wish to interfere in matters which were irrelevant and might cause distress. On the other hand—was it irrelevant? Could it be irrelevant? The fact that Sir John Adamson had been one of Mason’s private clients, and that, according to his dossier, he owed the company no less than three thousand pounds.
Henry was still pondering the problem when he paid his second call, a routine check at the famous jewelers who had supplied Maud’s engagement ring. By good luck he quickly found the clerk who remembered the transaction well. Mr. Manning-Richards had come in just after lunch on Saturday, had bought the ring, and paid by check, which had subsequently—that very morning, in fact—been cleared by the bank. When Henry suggested that it might have been risky to accept a check for a valuable ring on a Saturday afternoon, the clerk replied with a smile that Mr. Manning-Richards was an old client, well known to the firm. Henry thanked him, went back to his car, and headed for Cregwell.
CHAPTER NINE
HENRY ARRIVED BACK in Cregwell barely in time to collect Emmy from The Viking and get to the Grange by one o’clock. He was a little disconcerted to see Sir John Adamson’s Daimler parked in the drive: In the circumstances, he would have preferred not to have the Chief Constable as a fellow luncheon guest.
Violet Manciple greeted Henry with her usual flustered friendliness, and in no time Emmy was being introduced into the Manciple family circle. Soon, she was borne away by Maud and Julian to meet Ramona, and Violet said to Henry, “Well, I really must get back to the kitchen, Mr. Tibbett. Oh, by the way, Aunt Dora has been asking for you all morning. I rather think she wants to give you some pamphlets.”
Henry grinned. “I wouldn’t be surprised,” he said.
“She was really impressed by your aura,” said Violet seriously. “Now, if you’ll forgive me…” She hurried off in the direction of the kitchen, and Henry found himself buttonholed by Sir Claud, who was looking, he thought, quite a lot sprightlier than he had the previous day.
“We’re off back to Bradwood after lunch,” Sir Claud said. “Duty calls, I’m afraid. Still, I hear from Vi that you’ve cleared up this business of Mason’s death. Nice work.” He took a gulp of whiskey and nodded approvingly. “That’s what I always tell my staff. Marshal your facts, draw your deductions, make your decisions.”
“It’s rather premature to say that it’s cleared up,” said Henry. “I’ve more work to do yet, and the world is full of surprises, you know.”
“It should not be,” said Sir Claud severely. “Not for the expert. Even the research worker should be relatively immune from surprises if he goes about his job systematically.”
“Your field of research is rather more precise than mine, I’m afraid,” said Henry. “I deal in human behavior, which is notoriously unpredictable.”
“Rubbish,” replied Sir Claud. “If the subject were approached from a soundly scientific angle it would be seen to conform to rules, just like any other physical phenomenon. Apparently random behavior, whether in men or in matter, is caused by the inability of the investigator to appreciate the workings of basic laws.”
Henry looked at him for a moment. Then he said, “That’s a very interesting point of view, Sir Claud.”
“What d’you mean, interesting? It’s factual, that’s all. If I mentioned to you in conversation that the sun would rise tomorrow morning, would you call that an interesting point of view? Of course not. I am forever trying to instill simple, rational thinking into my staff. You’d be surprised how many of them lack mental organization, even the most brilliant physicists among them.”
“I understand,” said Henry, “that Julian Manning-Richards will soon be joining your staff.”
“I hope so. I hope so very much. He’s a nice lad.”
“But not a physicist surely?”
“No, no. Not necessary for the position I have in mind for him—my personal assistant. What I need is a young man of sound academic training, who is one hundred percent reliable and intelligent enough to understand what I say to him; and that is precisely what Julian is.”
“You know him well then?”
Sir Claud looked surprised. “Of course I do,” he said. “He is engaged to be married to my niece.”
Just then Lady Manciple came up. “And how is your collection, Mr. Tibbett?” she asked.
“My collection?”
“Of wildflowers. I trust you have been out in the hedgerows this fine morning.”
“I’m afraid not. I’ve been working.”
“What a pity. God gives the sunshine for man to enjoy, you know.”
Sir Claud looked sharply at his wife, appeared about to say something, and then changed his mind.
Swiftly, Ramona said, “I should say—the sunshine is there to be enjoyed.”
Henry said, “And work is there to be done, unfortunately.”
“But I understood from Violet that you had—what is the phrase you people use—completed your investigations.”
“I’m afraid,” said Henry, “that Mrs. Manciple may have jumped to a too hasty conclusion. I simply told her that I thought she could safely go ahead with her plans for Saturday’s Fête…”
Lady Manciple’s face fell. “You mean, the case isn’t closed?” she asked, with obvious dismay. “But, John Adamson was only just saying…”
“What was Sir John saying?” Henry asked a little sharply.
“Well—nothing definite. I mean, he couldn’t, could he, in his position? But he quite clearly gave us the impression that there was no great cause for alarm.” Ramona Manciple’s troubled eyes searched Henry’s face with disconcerting earnestness. “Of course, violent death is all in the day’s work to you, Inspector, so perhaps you don’t realize how upsetting a thing like this is to ordinary people like us.”
Henry smiled. “I do appreciate that,” he said. “And yet, I really can’t agree that any of the Manciples are ordinary people.”
“You’re not implying that we are extra-ordinary, I hope.” Lady Manciple sounded quite annoyed.
“No, no,” Henry reassured
her, “but I would say that as a family, you are quite exceptional.”
“Ah, yes. If you mean the Manciple brain, then I must agree with you. Inherited from the Head, of course. It’s a pity about George.”
“By the way, Lady Manciple,” Henry added, looking around the room, “do you happen to know where Sir John is at the moment? I saw his car in the drive, but he doesn’t seem to be here.”
“He went down to the range with George a few minutes ago,” answered Ramona promptly. “Something about having a private chat. They’ll be back for lunch. And now I intend to prise your charming wife away from Edwin. I have only had the chance of a minute’s conversation with her, but I gather that she shares my interest in wildlife…”
Left temporarily to his own devices, Henry wandered over to the open French window. Emmy, Ramona, and the Bishop were engrossed in a discussion on local flora and fauna; Sir Claud and Julian were laughing over an erudite scientific pun of some kind; Maud had gone upstairs to help Aunt Dora fix her hearing aid; Violet was in the kitchen. Nobody seemed to notice when Henry stepped quietly out into the garden.
He made his way slowly between the privet hedges to the range, deep in thought. He was convinced that he knew how, and by what agency, Raymond Mason had been killed; and according to his terms of reference his interest in the affair should be at an end. And yet—and yet, there was so much unexplained. In fact, the solution posed more questions than the original problem. And there was something wrong…
Henry’s colleagues at Scotland Yard were familiar with the intuitive streak which he himself referred to as his “nose.” Frequently it had led him to scrap all preconceived notions of a case and tackle it from a fresh angle. Frequently it had prompted him to a closer investigation of an apparently open-and-shut case to reveal something more sinister beneath the surface. And now it was operating on all cylinders, telling him urgently and unambiguously that the real mystery of Cregwell and the Manciples was yet to be unraveled, that he should not and could not go calmly back to London and forget the whole matter simply because he was convinced that Raymond Mason’s death had been caused by…
The voice was surprisingly, almost shockingly loud. It came from the other side of the privet hedge, and it said, “But why, John? Why?” The Irish intonation was unmistakably George Manciple’s.
Henry stood perfectly still. His usual distaste for eavesdropping was quite forgotten. This might be important.
After a short pause George Manciple went on. “The man didn’t like me, and I didn’t like him. That’s plain enough. But it seems to be taking things to extremes to suggest that he committed suicide on my doorstep, when it’s perfectly obvious…”
Henry heard a small rustling of leaves, as though someone were shuffling his feet uneasily. Then, gruffly, Sir John Adamson said, “I’m only telling you what Tibbett said, George. I don’t pretend to be able to explain it.”
“It wasn’t physically possible for Mason to have shot himself,” said Manciple. “Aunt Dora’s evidence…”
“You surely don’t take that seriously, George?”
“I certainly do. Aunt Dora has all her wits very much about her, I can assure you. And if he killed himself, how do you suggest that the gun got into the shrubbery?”
“Look here, George.” Sir John sounded exasperated. “I told you this because I thought you’d be pleased. Tibbett definitely said that there would be no arrest, which means either accident or suicide, and I can see no possibility of accident. So there you are. You can forget the whole thing.”
“The man was under my roof,” said George Manciple stubbornly. “Well, in my drive at any rate. It’s my bounden duty to get to the bottom of the matter.”
Sir John seemed to be making a great effort to remain calm. He said, “When you telephoned me on Friday evening, George, you suggested that I should call in Scotland Yard in order to get the most expert advice possible. I did that. The case has been investigated by no less a person than Chief Inspector Henry Tibbett. I can’t see what more you want. After all, it’s not as though the man had been a friend of yours.”
“Exactly.” George Manciple sounded triumphant, as though he had scored a telling point. “Precisely. That is why I feel an obligation.” There was a tiny pause, and then he added, “I suppose you know what they are saying in the Village?”
“I have no idea what they are saying in the Village. It doesn’t interest me.”
“It interests me,” said George briskly. “They are saying that I shot Mason accidentally from the range here. At least, that’s what the more charitable element are saying. The others—well—you can imagine. It’s not at all pleasant, John. The very least that will happen will be a strong local movement to get the Council to condemn the range, and not even Arthur Fenshire will be able to stop it. And you know how much it means to me. No, John, it’s simply not good enough for Tibbett to say he’s not going to make an arrest and then simply go off, leaving the air full of loose ends. Not good enough.”
“I simply don’t understand you, George.” Sir John sounded exasperated. “I should have thought you’d be delighted to hear that there’s to be no arrest. You surely don’t want to stir up scandal in your own family, do you?”
“And I don’t understand you, John,” replied George with spirit. “Why are you so keen to hush it all up, eh? Don’t you want to know the truth?”
Sir John sighed impatiently. “This is a useless conversation, George,” he said. “I’m sorry I ever started it. Until I receive Tibbett’s detailed report I can’t possibly make any comment.”
“Now, John, don’t come all over official on me. I’ve known you long enough to realize when you’re up to something. For some reason of your own, you’re delighted that this Scotland Yard inquiry is about to fizzle out with no publicity, no scandal, and no proper conclusion. Well, I can only tell you that it doesn’t satisfy me, and I intend to speak to Tibbett about it.”
“You have no right to do any such thing, George. Tibbett is responsible only to his superiors at the Yard, and to me.”
“We’ll see about that,” said George Manciple.
“Just because you’re afraid of losing your precious shooting range…”
Sir John was interrupted by the resonant notes of the dinner gong, which was living up to its reputation for audibility in the jungle. Very quietly Henry made his way back to the house. He found himself in entire agreement with Major Manciple, and was even more determined than ever to have a talk with Sir John at the earliest opportunity.
Luncheon followed the pattern of Saturday’s meal. After the Bishop’s Latin grace Violet Manciple dispensed large helpings of exquisite, freshly-caught salmon trout and garden vegetables, apologizing profusely for the dullness of the fare. Meanwhile, Maud and Julian handed around tumblers of home-made lemonade, which looked alarming but tasted delicious. The second course consisted of a large dish of canned peaches, which were clearly regarded by the whole family as a great treat. They caused quite a stir.
“In Bugolaland,” Edwin confided to Henry, “we always used to open a large can of peaches on Christmas day. Too hot for Christmas pudding, you see. Why, I’ve had my can of peaches carried by bearers through miles of jungle sooner than miss it for Christmas dinner. Remember, Julian?” he asked suddenly in a penetrating bass.
“Remember what, sir?” Julian, who had been listening politely to one of Ramona’s rambles, found himself caught between the fire of two Manciples.
“Peaches for Christmas dinner,” bellowed Edwin.
“Ragwort in Three-Acre Meadow,” said Lady Manciple.
Julian looked from one to the other. Then, with great aplomb. he said to Ramona, “Yes, Lady Manciple. I have noticed it.” He gave her a little bow, indicating courteously that the conversation was over. Then he turned to the Bishop with a smile and said, “In Bugolaland you mean, sir?”
“Of course,” said Edwin, “Where else would you have peaches for Christmas, eh?”
“Things are ra
ther different now, of course, sir,” said Julian, with just the right note of respect. “I remember the tradition of peaches for Christmas when I was a child, but nowadays people tend to eat ice cream out of the deep freeze.”
“Up country,” said the Bishop. He sounded far from pleased, as though his authority had been challenged. “Up country. No deep freezes up country.”
Julian looked a little uncomfortable. “I expect you’re right.”
“Of course I’m right.” Edwin shot a disapproving look at the young man, the sort of look he might have given a curate whose chanted response was flat. Then he transferred his whole attention to his dish of canned peaches.
Violet Manciple said to Emmy, “I hear you are a friend of Isobel Thompson’s, Mrs. Tibbett.”
“Yes,” said Emmy, “that is, we were at school together.”
“A most charming woman,” said Violet, “so interested in everything that goes on in the Village.”
“A meddling little gossip,” said Aunt Dora suddenly and loudly. There was a slightly awkward pause. Then, as if afraid that she might not have been fully understood, Aunt Dora repeated, “Isobel Thompson is a meddling little gossip.”
Violet Manciple had gone as pink as a strawberry. “Do have some more peaches, Mrs. Tibbett,” she said.
Emmy, whose dish was still full, declined politely.
Edwin said to Henry in a stage whisper, “Have to forgive Aunt Dora, I’m afraid. It’s her age, y’know. Wonderful for ninety-three, when you come to think of it.”
Quite unabashed Aunt Dora turned suddenly to Sir John Adamson. “You know what I mean, don’t you, John Adamson—if anybody does.” She paused, took a drink from her glass, and then said, “This wine is very delicious, Violet. I think I will have a little more.”
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