Murder Fantastical

by Patricia Moyes

  Mumford went on. “Loth as I was to divulge anything to the staff, I felt compelled—I called in Miss Jenkins, who is the senior typist, and asked her whether Mr. Frank had taken any documents with him when he left the office. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said, quite unconcerned. ‘He had quite an armful. Files and boxes and things. He said to tell you he was taking some things of his father’s.’ So you see, Chief Inspector…”

  “I notice,” said Henry, “that he took the money as well as the files, not to mention the whiskey. And the…”

  “Where did he get the key?” demanded Mumford in a sort of wail. “Where? You had the key, which you said was on Mr. Mason’s own key ring…”

  “That’s right,” said Henry, “and it still is.”

  “Then how did Mr. Frank…?”

  Henry sighed. “He has been living in his father’s house, Cregwell Lodge, for the past week,” he said. “It’s perfectly possible that Raymond Mason kept a duplicate key somewhere and that Frank Mason found it.”

  “Those files were confidential, Chief Inspector. Supposing that he…? I don’t like to think about it. You know the names involved. People of the very highest standing.”

  “You mean,” said Henry, “that those files would be extremely useful to a blackmailer.”

  “To a…? What a terrible word, Chief Inspector!”

  “By the way,” Henry added, “do you have a copy of that newspaper handy, the one you were telling me about?”

  “I certainly do!” Momentarily, Mumford’s indignation got the better of his fright. “Of all the disgraceful… Oh, if I knew who was to blame!”

  “The journalist concerned, I suppose,” said Henry.

  “No, no. Who was to blame for setting the press on to us in the first place. Somebody must have drawn their attention to…”

  “Yes. It’s interesting, isn’t it?” said Henry. “Let’s have a look at that paper.”

  Mumford opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out the current copy of a best-selling daily newspaper. It was open at an inside page article entitled, “The Life and Death of a Gambler,” which featured a large photograph of the late Raymond Mason. There were also photographs of some of Mason’s more aristocratic clients, but none of them, Henry noted, was a “private” client. Each time that the name of a titled or celebrated person was mentioned in the text it appeared in heavy type, even though the connection might be as tenuous as the mention of a John Smith who was “a kinsman of the Earl of Fenshire.” In this way the writer had managed to pepper his story with illustrious names. He had also spiced it, very cleverly, with the most gossamer of innuendoes. Phrases like “walking a financial tightrope, like all of the bookmaking fraternity,” “steering an unimpeachable course between the pitfalls of near-legality and downright roguery which have besmirched the good name of this profession,” and “profitable sidelines, generously helped along by influential acquaintances,” all added up to create a certain effect.

  The story was, in fact, a rags-to-riches epic. The poor boy from the East End of London who wound up as “a friend to Dukes and Earls.” And yet this success story had ended in tragedy and mystery. The writer pointed out that Scotland Yard had been called in to investigate Mason’s death, that although no statement had been made, the police were actively pursuing their inquiries, and that the inquest on Friday should be an interesting affair. It occurred to Henry that the writer of the article would have a great deal more juicy material had he had access to Mason’s private files, and he wondered whether in a subsequent piece he might have the benefit of their aid.

  Mumford was saying, “You will know the legal position better than I…”

  Henry said, “I thought that you had consulted your solicitor and that he told you that this article gave you no grounds for taking legal action.”

  “No, no, no. I am talking about Mr. Frank. The will, you see.”

  “What about the will?”

  “The solicitor told me today. Mr. Mason’s will is horribly simple. Everything is left to Mr. Frank. Everything. So, you see, Mr. Frank obviously felt that he was entitled to walk in here and take anything he wanted. But is that so, Chief Inspector?”

  “No,” said Henry, “it isn’t. The will hasn’t been proved yet. Frank Mason has no right to anything, for the moment. Of course, executors often advance money to heirs, if they need it to tide them over until the will is admitted to probate, but the heirs have no legal right. None at all.”

  “So I could sue Mr. Frank for theft?”

  “You could,” said Henry, “but I wouldn’t, if I were you. The will will be proved long before you could get the case into court, and—well—I can’t imagine that you’d welcome the sort of publicity that it would bring.”

  “That’s just the point, Chief Inspector. I’m not a fool, I realize the position I am in, that the firm is in. That’s why I telephoned you rather than the police.”

  Henry hardly knew whether or not to be flattered at this distinction. Mumford went on. “I knew you would understand and be able to advise me. What am I to do now?”

  “The best advice I can give you,” said Henry, “is to do absolutely nothing.”

  “Nothing? But those files…”

  “There’s nothing useful you can do, except go home and try to have a good night’s sleep, and carry on as usual in the office tomorrow. If you are seriously troubled by the press, call the police. If anything else interesting happens, call me.” Henry scribbled the numbers of The Viking and the Cregwell police station on a piece of paper, and handed it to Mumford.

  “But, Chief Inspector…”

  “Meanwhile,” said Henry, “I will do something.” He looked at his watch. “It’s five to eight. The roads will be clear now, so I should be back in Cregwell by nine, with any luck. I shall visit Mr. Frank Mason.”

  Mr. Mumford’s face lit up as though some unseen hand had pressed a switch. “You will? And you’ll get the files…”

  “I don’t know what I shall get,” said Henry, “but I’ll do my best.”

  Henry was relieved to see that lights were burning in Cregwell Lodge, when he parked his car outside the house soon after nine o’clock. He was also intrigued to see that the heavy red velvet curtains of the study were tightly drawn, for Frank Mason had given him the impression of a man who had no use for such bourgeois devices.

  Henry rang the front doorbell loudly. This had an interesting effect. First, the curtain was drawn aside fractionally, as though someone were looking out to see who was ringing. Then there was a slight scuffling sound inside the house, and all the lights went out. A palpitating silence followed.

  Henry rang again. When this had no effect, he walked to the study window, unable to resist the thought of the occasion when the Bishop of Bugolaland had done the same thing. The curtains were tightly closed and the light was out, but a smaller, more erratic light flickered behind them. Henry, moving quietly, tried the handle of the French window which opened into the garden. As he had hoped, it was not locked. It opened easily, and Henry slipped between the curtains and into the study.

  Frank Mason was standing by the door which led to the hallway listening anxiously. He evidently expected another summons from the front doorbell. In the large open fireplace a pile of logs burned merrily, making the room insufferably hot, for the September evening was mild. On the desk lay what remained of Raymond Mason’s confidential files. The others were in the process of being reduced to ash in the fireplace.

  “Good evening,” said Henry.

  Mason wheeled around as though he had been stung. For a moment he looked at Henry with real panic in his face; then, suddenly, he grinned.

  “I forgot the garden door,” he said.

  “Luckily for me,” said Henry. “You might as well put the lights on again.”

  Frank Mason did so. Then he said, “Sorry I was unsociable. No special reason, you know. I just didn’t feel like company.” He paused, and then added awkwardly, “I was burning some old papers.”


  “So I see,” said Henry. He sat down in a leather armchair. “Why did you set the hounds of the press on to poor Mr. Mumford?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Oh yes you did. There was nobody else who…”

  “I didn’t set them on to Mumford. He has nothing to do with it. He’s a sycophantic cipher. Mumford isn’t worth a minute of anybody’s time.” Frank paused. Then he said, “I thought the world ought to know about people like my father.”

  “You seem to me,” said Henry, “to be in a very muddled frame of mind. Only a few days ago you were claiming that your father had been murdered, and demanding justice and revenge.”

  “You don’t have to murder a man simply because you disapprove of his way of life,” said Mason. He smiled suddenly. “Not even if you’re a revolutionary Communist. Besides, he was my father. You said just now that I was demanding justice. Well, I am. Justice for the person who killed him, and justice for the community at large by warning them against other men like him. I don’t call that muddled thinking.”

  “You and I,” said Henry, “should get a few things straight. For a start, nobody killed your father.”

  “But…”

  “I’ll explain,” said Henry. He did.

  When he had finished, Frank Mason said slowly, “I suppose you must be right. Which means that I owe Manning-Richards an apology, but I’m damned if he’s going to get it.” After a pause he added, “A bit ironic, isn’t it? Dad got himself shot to save old Miss Manciple’s life, and now she’s dead anyway, not a week later. He needn’t have bothered.”

  Henry looked at him curiously. “Nobody could possibly have known that Miss Manciple was going to die,” he said, “could they?”

  “No. No, of course not.”

  “Right,” said Henry. “Now we’ll go on from there. Starting with the gun. What did you do with it?”

  “I told you. I put it in this drawer…”

  “You didn’t take it back to Cregwell Grange this morning when you called there with your jumble for the Fête?”

  “Certainly I didn’t. Why, has it turned up?”

  “Yes,” said Henry.

  “Oh well, that’s a good thing. One more mystery out of the way.”

  “Perhaps,” said Henry. “Now, about the things you took from your father’s private filing cabinet today.”

  Frank Mason looked decidedly rattled. “How did you…?”

  “You don’t think that Mr. Mumford would let a thing like that pass, do you? He got in touch with me at once. He’s extremely upset.”

  Mason grinned. “Good,” he said.

  “Why on earth,” Henry asked, “didn’t you simply lock up the cabinet again? Then he’d never have known that the things had disappeared.”

  “Because I wanted him to be upset, of course,” said Mason. “I hope he bursts a blood vessel. He can shout all the imprecations he can think of at the top of his tiny voice and brandish his tiny fists. There’s not a damned thing he can do about it.”

  “What makes you so sure of that?”

  “Well, everything in that office is my property now, isn’t it? Including Mumford, come to that.”

  “No,” said Henry, “it isn’t.”

  “But my father’s will…”

  “Has not yet been proved. Legally, you aren’t entitled to anything yet. Your action today was just as much burglary as if you’d put a nylon stocking over your face and robbed a bank.”

  Frank Mason looked alarmed. “Are you sure? You mean—he can’t actually do anything about it, can he?”

  “He could,” said Henry, “but I don’t think he will. Not if you are sensible.”

  “What do you mean by sensible?”

  “First thing tomorrow,” said Henry, “you must go up to London, apologize to Mumford, and return everything that you took out of the cabinet.”

  “But,” instinctively, Mason’s eyes went to the fire.

  “I do appreciate your difficulty,” said Henry. “Why are you destroying them?”

  “You know what they are?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Well, wouldn’t you destroy them?”

  “I might feel inclined to,” said Henry, “but I should have thought that they’d be just the thing to give to the press if you are set on blackening your father’s memory.”

  Mason flushed, “He was my father,” he said.

  “You mean, there are limits?”

  Mason said, “I hold no brief for the useless parasites concerned, but I’m neither a toady nor a blackmailer. When I take over the business, it’s going to be honestly run.”

  “And profitably?”

  “Why not? In a competitive society one has to compete.”

  After a pause Henry said, “I should go ahead and burn the lot. I imagine that all those dossiers show the client in a state of indebtedness, don’t they?”

  “Of course. That was the whole filthy idea.”

  “Then nobody is going to complain.”

  “But Mumford…”

  “Least of all Mumford,” said Henry. He added, “When you take over, don’t sack him. He’s an honest man and extremely useful to the firm. You’ll never make a profit without him.”

  Mason stared at Henry. “You’re a curious character,” he said.

  “In every sense of the word,” said Henry. “Among other things I’m curious about why your father was so keen on buying Cregwell Grange.”

  “Snobbery.” The word came out like a reflex action.

  “No other reason?”

  “Not that I know of. What other reason could there be?”

  “He never said anything to you…?”

  “Never when he could help it,” said Frank shortly. He picked up a file from the desk. Henry saw that it had Sir John Adamson written neatly on its label. “Well, another for the holocaust.”

  As the flames licked around the buff cardboard and its contents, Henry felt a momentary pang of doubt, but he put it aside. He said, “When did you find out about these secret flies?”

  “When I found the spare key to the cabinet. It was in a drawer in my father’s dressing table, and it was rather indiscreetly labeled. I put it into my pocket the day I arrived here—before you started your snooping around—but I didn’t think much about it until I connected it up with a list of names that I found in an old diary of his. Then I decided to investigate. I was delighted to find that Mumford was out. That gave me an opportunity for a cozy little that with Sarah Jenkins. She’s a bright girl, and she knew a lot more about what went on in that office than Mumford did.”

  “Do you still have the key?”

  “Yes. It’s here,” Mason pulled a small key out of his pocket. It bore no label of any sort and Henry remarked on this. Mason said, “I burned the label.”

  “Can you remember what it said?”

  “No.”

  “Not even in general terms?”

  “Oh, something about this being the key to the private account files.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “No.”

  “Oh well,” said Henry, “that’s that. But it’s very important that you should take the other things back tomorrow.”

  “The money, you mean?”

  “The money, the whiskey, and the book. By the way—may I see the book?”

  Mason looked surprised. “I didn’t know that you went in for pornography, Inspector.”

  Henry said blandly, “It’s a book that is banned in this country. I should take it into custody.”

  Mason got up. “Curiouser and curiouser,” he said. He opened a drawer in the desk. “Here it is. But I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s only the dust cover that is wicked. I suppose Dad thought it would give him a certain standing with some of his less attractive customers to have a notorious piece of banned filth lying around in his office. He had that sort of mentality.”

  He tossed the book over to Henry. Inside the lur
id cover was a sensational but morally unimpeachable detective story. Watching Henry’s face, Mason said, “I was disappointed myself. That’s ruined your bedtime reading for tonight, hasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” said Henry. He grinned. “Yes, it has.”

  Mabel was just shutting up the bar when Henry got back to The Viking. It had been a busy evening, she said. Sir Claud Manciple had been in with his niece and that nice young man of hers. They’d had a drink with Mrs. Tibbett. Only left a few minutes ago—what a shame Henry had missed them. They were here for the funeral tomorrow, of course. Poor Miss Dora—it was sad, wasn’t it, but she’d had a good life after all. Mrs. Tibbett had gone upstairs to bed. Would Henry like a nightcap, him being a resident? No? Then she wished him a very good night.

  Emmy was already in bed when Henry got upstairs. He told her briefly what had happened in London and at Cregwell Lodge, and she replied with an account of the pleasant evening she had spent with Maud, Julian, and Sir Claud.

  “Oh, I knew there was something I had to tell you, Henry. Sir Claud said that Violet had asked him to tell you, if he saw you, that it was all a mistake about Lady Manciple’s sleeping pills. She’s found them. She’d apparently quite forgotten having packed them in her cosmetic bag; usually she has some other special place for them. So that clears that up.”

  Henry sat down on his bed looking glum. “Yes,” he said.

  “You ought to be pleased.” said Emmy. “First the gun and now the pills. All your mysteries are turning out to be no mysteries at all.”

  “That,” said Henry, “is exactly what worries me.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  FRIDAY WAS TO BE the occasion for two melancholy events: in the morning, the inquest on Raymond Mason; and in the afternoon, the funeral of Miss Dora Manciple. Only Major and Mrs. Manciple had been told the disquieting news that at a later date there would also have to be an inquest on Aunt Dora. Following the post-mortem examination and its findings, the Kingsmarsh coroner had expressed his willingness to admit sworn statements of identification and medical evidence, and had agreed to let the funeral arrangements go ahead as planned. Henry was pleased at this, for he was anxious to spare the Manciple family as much unpleasantness as possible.