Murder Fantastical

by Patricia Moyes

  “Was that,” Henry began. He knew that medical etiquette forbade him questioning Dr. Thompson about his telephone call, but he was very intrigued.

  Dr. Thompson, too, was only too clearly familiar with medical etiquette. “Good-bye, Inspector Tibbett,” he said firmly. “So nice to have met you.” He opened the door and called out, “I’m off, Isobel. Back for supper!” Then he wound an old scarf around his thin neck, struggled into his tweed overcoat, and hurried out to his car.

  Henry collected Emmy from the drawing room and drove her back to The Viking. It was time for him to go to Cregwell Manor and speak to Sir John Adamson.

  CHAPTER TEN

  CREGWELL MANOR, HENRY reflected as he maneuvered his car in the drive, was everything that Cregwell Grange was not. For a start it had been built in the reign of Queen Anne, when architects understood the beauties of proportion and simplicity, whereas the Manciple family home was the brain-child of an overenthusiastic Victorian who was obviously under the influence of Balmoral Castle. To go on with, the gardens of Cregwell Manor were carefully tended with close-cropped green lawns and neat flower beds. And when the elderly white-aproned maid opened the front door in response to Henry’s ring, he stepped into a cool, orderly interior, which smelled of lavender and furniture polish. And yet, after the dominating personality of Cregwell Grange, this place was as characterless as a doll’s house. Henry was in no doubt as to which he preferred.

  Sir John was waiting for him in the book-lined, leathery study. He seemed relaxed and cheerful, and insisted that Henry should take a glass of whiskey with him.

  When he had poured the drinks, Sir John said, “Well, Tibbett, it’s been nice having you down here. We’ve all enjoyed it and we shall miss you. But on the other hand, nobody would want to prolong an affair of this sort. It’s most creditable that you should have cleared it up so quickly, and we’re all very grateful.” He raised his glass. “Your very good health. And let’s hope that your next visit will be longer—and unofficial.”

  Henry smiled. “You’re very kind, Sir John,” he said. “Kinder than I deserve, I’m afraid.”

  “Not at all. Extremely good work…”

  “I mean,” said Henry, “that I shan’t be leaving Cregwell just yet.”

  Sir John’s dismay was almost comic. “Not,” he began. Then he pulled himself together. “Ah, I understand. You’re staying on for a few days’ holiday, I suppose, your wife being a friend of the Thompsons’.”

  “Not a holiday, Sir John. I haven’t yet finished my investigations.”

  This time Sir John had himself well under control. Nevertheless, he did not sound pleased. “What an extraordinary thing, Tibbett,” he said. “You told me quite plainly on the telephone that you had solved the mystery of Mason’s death and that there would be no arrest.”

  “That was perfectly true.”

  “Well, then…”

  “Sir John,” said Henry, “are you a betting man?”

  The question clearly caught the man off balance. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said.

  “Do you gamble a lot—on horses, for instance?”

  Sir John had gone very red. “Well, I’m damned,” he said. “That seems rather an impertinent…”

  “I’m sorry if you think I’m being impertinent, Sir John,” said Henry. “I do assure you that I wouldn’t ask the question if it weren’t important.”

  “I don’t pretend to know what you’re getting at Tibbett, but if you insist—well—I have a few pounds on the Derby and the National, and so forth. Like most people. I certainly wouldn’t describe myself as a betting man.”

  “You never placed bets with Raymond Mason, for example?”

  There was a distinct hesitation before Sir John said, “I’ve told you, I had a small bet occasionally, and I generally put it on through Mason. After all, when one has a bookie as a next-door neighbor…”

  “You never had any dealings with him before he came to Cregwell?”

  Sir John looked positively shocked. “Certainly not,” he said. There was a little pause, and then he said, “When the fellow first came here, he approached quite a number of people—the Manciples, for instance, and myself—proposing that we should—in other words—not that he was exactly touting for business, but he suggested that we should open accounts with him. He said it would be simple and pleasant for us, as he was a personal friend. I happen to know that George Manciple simply laughed at him; I don’t think he or Violet have ever bet a sixpence in their lives. But in my case, I thought that it might be useful…”

  “So you opened an account with Raymond Mason Ltd.?”

  Again the slight hesitation. Then Sir John said, “No, no, no. Nothing so elaborate. I just contacted Mason when I wished to place a small bet. Really, Tibbett, I don’t see where this is leading.”

  “I visited Mason’s London office this morning,” said Henry, “and looked at his files.”

  “Then you must know that I had no account with the firm,” said Sir John with some spirit. “Why ask me, eh?”

  “You had no account with Raymond Mason Ltd.,” said Henry.

  “That’s what I said.”

  “But you had what Mason called a private account, with him, personally.”

  Sir John looked shaken, but rallied gamely. “Isn’t that just what I’ve been telling you?”

  Henry said, “Sir John, I must tell you that I have inspected that account.”

  There was no doubt that Sir John’s reaction was anger. “Of all the damned impudence!” he shouted. “I suppose that whippersnapper of a son…”

  “Frank Mason had nothing to do with it,” said Henry. “He didn’t know I was visiting the office; and I doubt whether he knows of the existence of the private accounts.”

  “Then who…?”

  Henry grinned. “I dealt with a Mr. Mumford,” he said.

  “A Mr. who?”

  “Mumford. The general manager. I can assure you that he went to the greatest possible lengths to protect the clients of Raymond Mason, but Scotland Yard is Scotland Yard.”

  “The general manager wouldn’t have known,” Sir John began, and then stopped.

  “He didn’t,” said Henry. “He knew of the existence of the private accounts, but he had no key to the files. He was considerably upset when I unlocked the sacred dossiers for myself. It wasn’t very difficult; it was just a question of finding the right key from Mason’s key ring.”

  To Henry’s surprise Sir John laughed. “So the guilty secret is out,” he said. “Naturally, I wasn’t keen to bruit about the Village that I had dealings with Mason—he wasn’t quite—you understand…”

  “I dare say,” said Henry, “that you also didn’t want to bruit about the village the fact that you owed him three thousand pounds.”

  “Three thousand…!” Sir John’s face registered blank astonishment. “What on earth do you mean?”

  Henry was beginning to get a little bored. “You know very well what I mean, Sir John. I looked at your account this morning. You owed Raymond Mason three thousand pounds in unpaid gambling debts.”

  “But that’s ridiculous. I owed him nothing.”

  “It’s there in black and white.”

  “My dear Tibbett,” Sir John replied with spirit, “I know what money I wagered, and which of my horses won or lost. I may have placed rather more bets than I led you to believe, but…” A new thought seemed to strike him. “Forged, of course,” he said. “Falsified documents. I suppose Mason thought it might give him a hold over—and what happens now? When his miserable son demands the money from me…”

  “Nobody is going to demand anything from you, Sir John,” said Henry. “I have Mr. Mumford’s word that all debts from the personal files are to be written off. He said it was what Mr. Mason would have wished.”

  Sir John sat down abruptly. ‘Is that so?” he said.

  “It is.”

  “Which puts me in an even worse position.”

  “What do you mean,
sir?”

  “I’m not a fool, young man,” replied Sir John belligerently. “Taken at its face value, which is how you are taking it, this blasted personal account gave me a strong motive for murdering Mason. That’s what you’ve been working around to all along, isn’t it? Well, I can tell you that…”

  He was interrupted by a shrill ringing from the telephone. He picked up the instrument quickly, as though glad of an excuse to end the embarrassing conversation. “Adamson speaking—Who? Oh, yes, George—what is it this time? Not another corpse, I trust…” There was a long burst of talk from the other end of the telephone, during which Sir John went beetroot red. Henry guessed that he had committed a grave gaffe of some sort. At last the flow from the other end of the line dried up to a trickle, and Sir John managed to insert a few words.

  “I’m most terribly sorry, George—anything I can do—Yes, yes, poor Violet—No, not entirely unexpected, I suppose, but… Yes, one must think of it that way, but it’s always a shock. Tibbett? Yes, as a matter of fact he is with me now—Certainly I’ll tell him—Yes—yes—Well, let me know if there’s anything—Good-bye, George.”

  He put down the telephone, took a large handkerchief out of his pocket, and blew his nose loudly. Then he turned to Henry.

  “That was George Manciple.”

  “I gathered as much,” said Henry.

  “He was ringing about—to tell me—Aunt Dora is dead.”

  “Aunt Dora,” Henry repeated. He felt great distress, but not very much surprise.

  “Oh, nothing in your line…” Sir John, who was clearly moved, managed a half-smile. “She was ninety-three, after all; one has to expect these things. Can’t live forever. It seems she went up to her room after lunch for her usual nap. Violet had some sort of a committee meeting in the afternoon at the Grange, and so she didn’t see anything of Aunt Dora until she went up at about half-past four to see if the old lady wanted some tea. She found her in a coma. She rang Thompson at once, but he was inclined to brush it off, thought it was one of her usual attacks and said he’d call later. He got there a few minutes ago, but too late. The poor old dear was dead.”

  “I’m very sorry,” said Henry lamely.

  “She’ll be greatly missed,” said Sir John, “greatly.”

  “I’m sure of that.”

  “Oh, by the way—George says that Aunt Dora was expecting to see you this evening, something about some pamphlets. He asked me to tell you. No point in going now, of course. And the family will naturally want to be left alone…”

  “I know,” said Henry. He looked and felt very unhappy. “All the same, I think I ought to go around to the Grange…”

  Violet Manciple opened the door to Henry. Her eyes were red from recent weeping, but she managed a smile and said, “Oh, Mr. Tibbett. I thought that John had told you…”

  “Yes, he did, Mrs. Manciple,” said Henry. “I want you to know how terribly sorry I am.”

  “I’m glad you came,” said Violet. She opened the door wider and motioned Henry to enter. “She was so looking forward to her talk with you. She’d have been disappointed if you hadn’t come.”

  “I hate to intrude on you at such a time as this…”

  Violet Manciple cut him short. “No, no. It’s no intrusion, Mr. Tibbett. In any case, we don’t observe mourning in this family.”

  “You don’t?”

  “The Head disapproved of it. Of course, Edwin, in his position—however, at heart he agrees with the rest of us. Why, even when George’s mother died, the Head refused to have the curtains drawn or to cancel any of his appointments. He was at his desk at Kingsmarsh the next morning, just as usual.”

  Henry could not help feeling that in view of Augustus Manciple’s subsequent behavior it might have been better for him to have indulged in the safety valve of public mourning. However, it was none of his business. He said, “May I see her? Aunt Dora? I’d like to—to pay my respects…”

  “Certainly, Mr. Tibbett. She is in the Chapel of Rest attached to Parkins, the undertakers, in Kingsmarsh. You may go there at any time between now and the funeral on Friday.”

  Henry was taken aback. “You mean—already…?”

  “Oh, yes. They are very quick and efficient, you know. Dr. Thompson signed the death certificate soon after five o’clock, and I rang Parkins at once.”

  Henry felt stumped. He could think of no possible reason for asking to be shown Aunt Dora’s room. He looked around him, seeking inspiration, and quite by accident his eye fell on the open kitchen door. Inside, there was considerable confusion.

  Violet Manciple blushed. “Oh, please don’t look at the kitchen, Mr. Tibbett. I had no time to do the washing up after lunch, with that wretched committee meeting. And I hadn’t even made the tea when I went up to see Aunt Dora, and…” Her voice trailed off into miserable silence. Then, on a brisker note, she said, “But of course, you’ll be wanting the pamphlets.”

  “Pamphlets?”

  “The ones that Aunt Dora was going to give you. That’s what you came for, isn’t it? She’d have been so delighted to know that you cared enough. If you’ll just wait here, I’ll go up and get them. She had them all laid out beside her bed ready for you. I shan’t be a minute.”

  Violet Manciple disappeared upstairs. Quickly Henry went into the kitchen. He had no difficulty in recognizing Aunt Dora’s special tumbler, the one which she had drunk from at lunch. It was empty, but bore traces of dried-up lemonade. The lemonade pitcher itself was also there, still half-full. Henry looked around quickly. On a shelf was a small, empty medicine bottle with a cork. He had no idea whether or not it was clean, but there was no time to worry. He poured a little lemonade into the bottle, corked it up, and slipped it into his overcoat pocket. Aunt Dora’s glass went into the other pocket. He managed to get out into the hall again before Violet returned, and then saw to his dismay that George Manciple was standing in the doorway of the study, regarding him quizzically.

  Before Henry could say a word, George said, “So you came after all. I thought you might.”

  Henry murmured some words of sympathy, which George ignored. Abruptly he said, “I won’t ask what you were doing in the kitchen. That’s your business. I only ask you not to distress Violet more than is necessary. This isn’t an easy time for her, and there’s the Fête on Saturday.”

  “You’ll surely cancel it?”

  “Certainly not. Didn’t Vi tell you? The Head never approved of mourning. Everything will go on just as usual. Ah, here’s Vi,” George Manciple withdrew into his study, like a snail into its shell, as his wife came around the bend of the stairway.

  “I hope I’ve found everything, Mr. Tibbett,” she said. She was carrying a bulky bundle of printed papers.

  Henry took them from her quickly and bundled them into his briefcase. “I’m sure you have, Mrs. Manciple—so kind of you. No, no, please don’t bother. I’ll see myself out…” Aunt Dora’s tumbler was rattling against Henry’s pipe in his overcoat pocket, but mercifully Violet Manciple did not seem to notice it. As fast as he decently could, Henry got out through the front door and into his car.

  He drove first to Dr. Thompson’s house, where, as he had expected, he was considerably less than welcome. A young girl in a white apron, whom Henry had not seen before, informed him in a bad-tempered East Anglian accent that the Doctor and Mrs. Thompson were sitting down to their supper and weren’t to be disturbed. Emergencies were to telephone Dr. Brent in Lower Cregwell. The doctor was having an evening off.

  It took quite some time for Henry to convince this watchdog that while he was an emergency in his case Dr. Brent would be no substitute for Dr. Thompson. In fact, the girl was still looking extremely doubtful when a door opened, presumably from the dining room, and Isobel Thompson came out looking cross.

  “Whatever is the matter, Mary?” she said. “I’ve rung three times and…” At that moment she saw Henry. “Oh,” she said without enthusiasm. “it’s you.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Thompson.
I’m sorry to disturb you, but I must see your husband for a moment. I promise it won’t take long.”

  “Oh, honestly. Can’t we have a moment’s peace? This is the first free evening Alec’s had for…”

  “I’m really sorry, but this is important.”

  “What on earth’s going on out there, Isobel?” Dr. Thompson, napkin in hand, joined them in the hall.

  “He says he’s got to see you. It’s not my fault.” Isobel Thompson turned on her heel and went back into the dining room. The girl called Mary slipped off into the kitchen.

  Henry said, “You signed a death certificate this evening for Miss Dora Manciple.”

  “That’s right. Any objection?”

  “Only that I’d like to know the cause of death.”

  Alec Thompson smiled. “My dear Tibbett,” he said, “she was ninety-three.”

  “I know she was, but even people of that age don’t die for no reason at all.”

  “Certainly they don’t. The cause was heart failure. She’d had a weak heart for some time. Just a question of wear and tear.”

  “Did you actually examine her?”

  Alec Thompson began to show signs of impatience. “Look here, Tibbett, you were with me in my office when Violet Manciple telephoned. Aunt Dora had had one of her attacks. You heard me telling her to give her the pills I’d prescribed…”

  “If this was an ordinary attack, why did Mrs. Manciple phone you?”

  Dr. Thompson made an impatient movement with his table napkin. “I suppose it was rather more severe than usual. Slightly different symptoms, apparently. I got around there as soon as I could, after I’d dealt with a more urgent call. But the old lady was already dead. Clearly from heart failure. Anybody could see that.”