Murder Fantastical

by Patricia Moyes

  “Right you are, Mrs. Manciple.”

  “I think,” said Henry, “that Miss Manciple has gone to the vicarage.”

  “Oh, no, she can’t have,” said Julian easily. “It’s too far to walk and her car’s in the garage. I’ve just been unloading it.”

  Oh, well, thought Henry, it’s none of my business. Aloud, he said, “Frank Mason gave her a lift in his car.”

  For a moment it looked as though Julian were going to be really angry; or, rather, as though he were going to show it, for Henry had no doubt about the reality of the fury that flashed into his blue eyes. However, the dangerous moment passed. In a split second Julian had his anger under control, and he managed an apparently unforced smile as he said, “Oh, well, I dare say she won’t be long. I’ll go and give the Bishop a hand with the Lucky Dip.”

  “Thank you, Julian,” said Violet. “And tell Harry Penfold that the tub is no use without the bran. He must see that.”

  “I’ll tell him,” said Julian. He went out into the back yard.

  Violet Manciple looked seriously at Henry for a moment, and then said, “You must forgive me, Mr. Tibbett, but just for the moment I can’t remember why I asked you to come up here this morning.”

  “You didn’t,” said Henry.

  “Ah, that would account for it. But—yes, I did!”

  “Really, you didn’t, Mrs. Manciple. It was I…”

  “Your charming wife,” said Violet Manciple firmly. There was a note in her voice that Henry recognized and feared: the voice of an organizing woman in the process of organizing. “Guessing the Vicar’s weight.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The Vicar’s weight. Sixpence a guess, and one of Miss Whitehead’s home-made cakes as a prize for the person who comes closest.”

  “But…”

  Violet Manciple laid a hand on Henry’s arm, “I was at my wit’s end this morning,” she said, “when Harry Penfold told me that Elizabeth had come down with flu. I couldn’t imagine who would be able to look after the Vicar’s weight, all my helpers are fully booked-up you see. And then, suddenly, I said to myself, Mrs. Tibbett! Mrs. Tibbett is the answer!”

  “You mean that…?”

  “I know she won’t refuse,” said Mrs. Manciple in a voice of pure honey. “It’s quite simple. All she has to do is to take the sixpences and write down each person’s guess with their names. And make sure that the children are kept away from the cake. Last year two of the prizes were eaten before they could be distributed. I never caught the culprits, but I have my own ideas. Why, look!” Violet sounded really surprised. “Here’s my list that I was asking Julian to ask Maud to—and it’s here on the hall table after all. I’ll just write it down. Let me see—here it is, Vicar’s Weight Contest. I’ll just cross out Mrs. Penfold and put in Mrs. Tibbett.”

  “I’ll have to ask her,” said Henry dubiously.

  “Of course you will,” said Mrs. Manciple, generous in victory. “But I know she won’t refuse.”

  “Meanwhile,” Henry pursued doggedly, “there are a few things I’d like to talk to you about, you and Major Manciple.”

  “Jumble?” asked a cheerful voice.

  “In the study,” said Henry automatically.

  The kitchen door opened and a ruddy-faced man in tweeds looked out into the hall. “About that bran, Mrs. M.,” he said.

  “Yes Harry, what about it? You promised…”

  “Well, it’s like this, see. If you can send someone up to the big barn at Tom Rodd’s place…”

  Violet Manciple turned to Henry. “You see how it is, Mr. Tibbett,” she said. “I really can’t. Come back at teatime; we’ll be quieter then. And Claud and Ramona will be here,” she added, as if promising a rare treat.

  Henry hesitated, and in the moment of his hesitation four separate people appeared with problems which only Mrs. Manciple could resolve and which concerned matters as diverse as sheets to cover the tables in the refreshment marquee, sacks for the choir boys’ sack race, the placing of the fortune teller’s tent, and the composition of the bouquet to be presented to Lady Fenshire. Meanwhile, Harry Penfold was repeating patiently, “The big barn up at Tom Rodd’s place, Mrs. Manciple, but it means someone going up there for it. Bess was going to take the Jeep, but now she’s been taken bad…”

  Henry gave in. “I see how it is, Mrs. Manciple,” he said. “I’ll go and ask Emmy about the Vicar’s weight.”

  Violet Manciple did not even hear him.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  AS A MATTER OF FACT Henry had had every intention of returning to Cregwell Grange that afternoon, once the frenzy of preparation for the Fête had died down; but things did not work out like that.

  On arriving back at The Viking, he first of all put to Emmy Violet Manciple’s proposition that she should take over from the ailing Mrs. Penfold and assume charge of the Vicar’s weight. Emmy, outwardly amused but secretly flattered, said she would try anything once.

  “Well, you’d better ring Mrs. Manciple and tell her so,” said Henry. “It’s like a madhouse up there, but I expect you’ll be able to get the message through to her. It’ll set her mind at rest.”

  “You don’t think I should go up and see her?”

  “Heavens, no. I tell you, it’s like Piccadilly Circus at the rush hour. Just call her.”

  Emmy disappeared down the corridor into the small, dark box under the stairs which housed The Viking’s telephone, and Henry applied himself to compiling his official report on the death of Raymond Mason. In a few minutes Emmy was back.

  “Did you get her?” Henry asked.

  Emmy laughed. “I did in the end,” she said. “Madhouse is about right. But after I’d spoken to her, Major Manciple came on the line, wanting to speak to you. He’s waiting now.”

  “Oh blast,” said Henry. “Did he say what it was about?”

  “No, he wouldn’t tell me. Another of his crack-brained theories, I expect.”

  “Oh, well, I’d better go and see what he wants.”

  “Tibbett?” George Manciple’s voice made a gruff solo against the accompaniment of shrill sounds that floated down the wire from the Grange.

  “Speaking,” said Henry.

  In the background a feminine voice said, “Where’s Frank Mason? He promised…”

  “You were up here yesterday,” Manciple went on, “searching the place, looking for things.”

  “That’s right,” said Henry.

  “Jumble in the study!” came the ghostly echo of Violet’s voice from far away.

  “And one of the things you were looking for was my gun. The one I reported missing.”

  “Right again.”

  “Well, I just thought you’d like to know that it’s turned up.”

  “It’s—what?”

  “Turned up. Can’t you hear me?”

  There was a crash from somewhere in the background and Maud’s voice said, “Everything for the Lucky Dip has to be wrapped…”

  Henry said, “Where has it turned up?”

  “Why, in its proper place. In the rack in the cloakroom with the others.”

  “Oh, damnation,” said Henry.

  “What’s that? I thought you’d be pleased.”

  “Well, I’m not. Everybody in Cregwell has been milling around your house this morning, and any of them could have slipped the gun back. I don’t like it.”

  “Well, I can’t help that, Tibbett.” George sounded nettled that his good news had not been better received. “Anyhow, I reported it missing, and now I’m reporting it back again.”

  “Well, I suppose there’s a hope of fingerprints. Now, listen carefully, Major Manciple. I want you to wrap that gun up in…”

  “Too late for that, I’m afraid,” said George.

  “What do you mean, too late?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t have known the thing had been returned, with all the rush and to-do, if it hadn’t been for Edwin.”

  “What has the Bishop to do with it?”
>
  “He’s helping me on the range on Saturday, you see. He’s a surprisingly good shot, for a clarinet player. I always say these things run in families.”

  “Please, Major Manciple, would you just give me the facts?” Henry was experiencing the now-familiar woolly sensation.

  “I lend the range every year, you see,” said George, who was evidently in no hurry. “Partly philanthropy, of course, but I won’t hide from you the fact that I welcome the chance of demonstrating to all and sundry that it’s perfectly safe—after that unpleasant business with the Council. We don’t use the traps, of course. Too difficult for amateurs, and too cumbersome to prepare. No, we set up ordinary targets—outers, inners, and bulls—and charge half-a-crown for six shots. There’s a small prize for the winning score at the end of the afternoon.”

  Again Violet’s voice floated distantly by. “Well, if Julian has taken Maud’s car, and Frank has gone, you’ll just have to see if Mrs. Thompson will…”

  “Could we get back to the missing gun?” asked Henry.

  “Oh, indeed. Yes, to be sure. As I was saying, Edwin is helping me on the range on Saturday, so I asked him today, would he do the usual maintenance job on the guns? Cleaning, oiling, and loading—all ready for the fray. He came to me just now and said, ‘Well, that’s done, George, all five of them.’ ‘All five?’ I said. ‘But there’s only four. The police still have the gun that shot poor Mason and another one is missing.’ ‘There’s five as sure as I’m standing here,’ he said. ‘Come and see for yourself.’ It seems Edwin hadn’t realized there was one missing, you see. So I went along to the cloakroom and there they were…”

  “All nicely cleaned and polished by the Bishop,” said Henry bitterly.

  “Yes, he’d made a very nice job of them, I’ll say that for him. Now he’s quite positive that all five were in the rack when he started on them about an hour ago. And I’m sure that there were only four first thing this morning. So…”

  “Yes,” said Henry, “I can draw a deduction from that.”

  “Well, there we are. That’s all I wanted to tell you. I thought you’d be interested. What’s that? Yes, dear, tell your mother I’ll be along in a minute. Good-bye for now, Tibbett.”

  Henry walked back to his room with mixed feelings. On the face of it, it was a good thing that the gun had been returned to its rightful owner; at least it was not being concealed for some sinister purpose. On the other hand, it had been placed in the most convenient position for speedy use, and Henry had some misgivings about leaving five loaded guns freely available in a house where he was reasonably sure that one murder had been committed. The thought of the shooting range and its equipment being open to all on Saturday was also an uneasy one. He returned to his report and worked on it steadily, pausing only for a quick lunch.

  It was at half-past four, when Henry had put the finishing touches to his report and was contemplating another assault on Cregwell Grange, that he was again summoned to the telephone. This time it was Scotland Yard. According to the sergeant in London, a Mr. Mumford had been persistently trying to get in touch with Henry. Other than his name he had refused to disclose any particulars of himself or his business, simply insisting that he must speak to Chief Inspector Tibbett, and that the matter was confidential. He had first telephoned at about three o’clock. Every effort had been made to persuade him to talk to somebody else or to explain what he wanted, but to no avail. All that took time, as Henry would appreciate. Finally, Mr. Mumford had admitted that he had important information concerning the Raymond Mason case. At which the sergeant had decided that Henry should be contacted. He passed on Mr. Mumford’s telephone number—a Mayfair one, which Henry recognized as being that of Raymond Mason Ltd.—and suggested that Henry might like to ring Mr. Mumford directly. Henry said that he would.

  “Oh, Inspector Tibbett, thank heavens I’ve been able to get in touch with you at last!” Mr. Mumford was more than agitated; he was terrified, and his terror shivered down the telephone line like cracking ice. “I really am at my wits’ end. Nothing like this has ever happened before. Never. And of course I can’t call in the police. That would be quite impossible.”

  “What has happened?” Henry asked.

  “I hardly like to tell you over the telephone.”

  “Just give me some idea.”

  “Well,” Mr. Mumford gulped. “First of all you may remember that when you were here the other day, we had some—er—unwelcome visitors.”

  “I remember,” said Henry.

  “I have been waiting with some apprehension, as you can imagine, for the—em—the results of their visitation.”

  “I haven’t seen anything in the papers myself,” Henry remarked.

  Mr. Mumford drew in his breath sharply at such plain speaking on a public telephone line. He said, “There has been nothing to see—until today. You have not noticed—anything—today?”

  “No,” said Henry, “but I’ve been busy.”

  “There is a most scurrilous, a most—well—you’ll just have to read it, Chief Inspector. In the—em—one of our most popular dailies. I won’t mention its name. It concerns itself with—em—with my late employer. It hints, definitely implies that there was an irregularity between Mr.—my late employer—and some of his clients. It has been cleverly written, for I immediately contacted the firm’s solicitor, but he gives it as his opinion that we cannot sue. The insinuations are all too oblique, if you see what I mean. That makes it none the more pleasant.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear about this, Mr. Mumford,” said Henry, “but I really don’t see what I can do to help you.”

  “Nobody can help me,” said Mr. Mumford with epic resignation. “Not over that matter, at any rate. It was not primarily about that that I telephoned you. It was bad enough to read all that in the paper this morning, but I had no idea then what was in store for me later in the day. This has been a day I shall not lightly forget, Chief Inspector.”

  “What happened later in the day?”

  “I arrived back at the office later than usual after lunch,” said Mr. Mumford. “The reason being that I had spent a long time with the solicitor, as I told you, and did not get to Fuller’s for my customary modest meal until two o’clock. At three I was back at the office. At first I noticed nothing wrong. But then…”

  “Then what?”

  “I really don’t know if I should tell you over the telephone.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to,” said Henry.

  There was a little pause. Then Mr. Mumford brought out a single word like a bullet. “Robbery!”

  “You mean your office has been burgled?”

  “Precisely. Straightforward burglary!”

  “What has been taken?”

  “That’s the point, Chief Inspector. That is the terrible thing. The—the very private files belonging to my late employer. I hope I need not say more. You will understand.”

  “If you have been robbed,” said Henry, “you should have called in the police at once. Why didn’t you?”

  “I fear I have not made myself clear, Chief Inspector. You see, I know who is responsible for this robbery.”

  “You do?”

  “Of course. My—my late employer’s son. I can say no more. No more at all. Chief Inspector, you must come to London and see for yourself.”

  “Yes,” said Henry, “yes, I think I should do that.” He looked at his watch. “It’s a quarter to five now. I can be with you in about an hour, or better say an hour and a half to allow for the rush-hour traffic. What time does your office close?”

  “Six o’clock, thank God,” said Mr. Mumford, showing a gleam of humanity. “I’ll wait here for you. That way we shall be quite alone here. I can’t thank you enough, Chief Inspector.”

  Henry went back to the bedroom and broke the news to Emmy that he had to leave for London at once, and did not know when he would be back.

  “Is it bad?” Emmy asked.

  “It’s most peculiar,” said Hen
ry.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Just what it says. I don’t understand what is happening, but I have a nasty feeling that I may have been a bloody fool. And that’s a feeling I don’t like.” He put on his coat. “Will you be an angel and call Sergeant Duckett for me? Tell him I’ve had to go to London, but that I’ll see him tomorrow. And don’t wait up for me. I may be late.”

  The drive to London took longer than Henry had anticipated, for he hit the suburban rush-hour traffic fair and square. After a frustrating series of crawls and jams he eventually found himself at the offices of Raymond Mason Ltd. just before seven o’clock. The street door was firmly locked, but Henry’s ring brought a harassed Mr. Mumford at a run to open it. Together, they walked through the inner office, past the shrouded typewriters and calculating machines, and into the manager’s sanctum.

  The first thing that Henry noticed—he could hardly miss it—was the fact that Raymond Mason’s private filing cabinet was open, and that it was empty. Mumford, following Henry’s glance, sat down heavily in the big swivel chair behind the desk and said, “You see? You see? Empty. All gone. Everything.”

  “Tell me about it,” said Henry.

  “There’s very little to tell. As I told you, I didn’t get back until about three. As I came through the big office, Miss Jenkins said, ‘You’ve just missed Mr. Frank, Mr. Mumford. He was waiting for you, but he left a few.’ Frankly, Chief Inspector, I was pleased rather than sorry. As you know, my relationship with Mr. Frank has never been—well—let us just say that he is not the man his father was. Let us just say that.”

  “By all means,” said Henry. “So, Mr. Frank had just left.”

  “That’s right. He had been waiting in my office to see me. Arrived about half-past two, as far as I could make out, and left about ten to three. I said something to Miss Jenkins about it being too bad—I don’t believe in letting the staff know if there is any slight—em—friction in the upper echelons. It makes for bad discipline. Anyhow, I came in here, and saw—what you have just seen. I was appalled. That is not too strong a word, Chief Inspector. Appalled. I didn’t know what to do.” Mr. Mumford sounded amazed as he made this admission. Henry supposed that it was probably the first time in his life that he had found himself in such a predicament.