Murder Fantastical

  MURDER FANTASTICAL

  Patricia Moyes

  FELONY & MAYHEM PRESS • NEW YORK

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Born in Dublin in 1923, Patricia (“Penny”) Packenham-Walsh was just 16 when WWII came calling, but she lied about her age and joined the WAAF (the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force), eventually becoming a flight officer and an expert in radar. Based on that expertise, she was named technical advisor to a film that Sir Peter Ustinov was making about the discovery of radar, and went on to act as his personal assistant for eight years, followed by five years in the editorial department of British Vogue.

  When she was in her late 30s, while recuperating from a skiing accident, she scribbled out her first novel, Dead Men Don’t Ski, and a new career was born. Dead Men featured Inspector Henry Tibbett of Scotland Yard, equipped with both a bloodhound’s nose for crime and an easy-going wife; the two of them are both a formidable sleuthing team and an image of happy, productive marriage, and it’s that double picture that makes the Tibbett series so deeply satisfying. While the Tibbett books were written in the second half of the 20th century, there is something both timeless and classic about them; they feel of a piece with the Golden Age of British Detective Fiction.

  Patricia Moyes died in 2000. The New York Times once famously noted that, as a writer, she “made drug dealing look like bad manners rather than bad morals.” That comment may once have been rather snarky, but as we are increasingly forced to acknowledge the foulness that can arise from unchecked bad manners, Inspector Henry Tibbett—a man of unflinching good manners, among other estimable traits—becomes a hero we can all get behind.

  CHAPTER ONE

  IT WAS A beautiful September evening, warm and golden, with a rich promise of more fine weather to come. In the garden of Cregwell Manor, in the county of Fenshire, the apple trees were bent low under their burden of fragrant fruit, and the bees buzzed lazily among the russet chrysanthemums or made their way heavily and erratically across close-cut green lawns. Serenity reigned, and in all the three acres within the garden walls there was no object more serene than the lord of the manor himself, Sir John Adamson, Chief Constable of Fenshire. He had finished mowing the grass, and was now relaxing in a swing on the terrace, feeling that he had more than earned his pipe and his tankard of beer.

  It was with no pleasure at all, therefore, that he became aware of the insistent shrilling of the telephone through the open window of his study. However, a Chief Constable is never off duty. Conscientiously, but with bad grace, Sir John heaved himself out of the comfortable seat and plodded in through the French windows.

  “Cregwell 32. Adamson speaking.”

  “Oh, is it you, John? My word, I’m glad I found you in. This is Manciple, George Manciple.”

  The last piece of information supplied by the caller was unnecessary. Sir John had recognized at once the slight Irish lilt in the voice, and had identified his nearest neighbor, the owner-resident of Cregwell Grange. “Hello, George,” he said. “Nice to hear from you.”

  This was only partly true. Not that Sir John disliked Major Manciple. On the contrary, he had always found him a sympathetic and entertaining character—until recently. Now, however, he had a strong suspicion that Manciple’s call might not be of a purely social nature, and he indulged in a mild mental blasphemy.

  “Sorry to bother you at this hour, John,” said Manciple. “It’s about that fellow Mason. I’m afraid there’s nothing for it this time. You’ll have to call in Scotland Yard.”

  Sir John made a great effort to remain calm. “Now listen, George,” he said, “I know that Mason has been making a nuisance of himself, and I’m very sorry about it, but you must keep a sense of proportion. Scotland Yard is hardly the…”

  George Manciple did not appear to be aware of the interruption. He said, “You see, the fellow was a guest under my roof. Invited himself, of course, but one mustn’t split hairs. So I regard it as an obligation. And so does Violet. We must do our utmost. You understand that, don’t you? Our utmost. No half-measures.”

  This time it was Sir John’s turn to ignore Manciple’s ramblings. “As I was saying,” he said, very firmly, “I don’t know what he has done to annoy you this time, but it’s after six on Friday evening and I suggest that you have a quiet drink and put your feet up while you think it over. After all, Monday will be quite soon enough to…”

  “I really don’t understand you at all, John.” Manciple sounded bewildered. “You’re surely not suggesting that I do nothing until Monday?”

  “I’m suggesting precisely that.”

  “But, my dear John, what am I to do with the body? I can’t keep it here until Monday. Violet wouldn’t like it. Neither would Maud.”

  “The body? What are you talking about? Whose body?”

  “Mason’s, of course. Haven’t you been listening, John? Of course, if you insist I’ll keep him until Monday, but it does seem…”

  Sir John made a grab at fast-vanishing reality. He had found on previous occasions that conversation with George Manciple had this distressing effect of dispersing logic, as sunshine disperses fog.

  “Just tell me exactly what has happened, George,” he said.

  “But I’ve told you. The fellow was visiting us at the time, which is why I feel under an obligation. And so does Violet. Thompson is talking about getting on to Duckett, but I wouldn’t have that, not at any price. ‘I’ll ring Sir John,’ I said. Least I could do.”

  “I presume,” said Sir John with commendable restraint, “that by Thompson you mean Dr. Thompson, and that the Doctor has advised you to get in touch with Sergeant Duckett at the police station in Cregwell Village. Am I right?”

  “Of course you’re right. It’s perfectly simple, isn’t it? I must say you’re making rather heavy weather out of a very straightforward matter, John. There’s no other Duckett in Cregwell that I know of, unless you count old Henry Duckett, the vet. But he lives in Kingsmarsh.”

  Sir John swallowed. “Why,” he said, “did Dr. Thompson advise you to call Sergeant Duckett?”

  “Well, he can’t have shot himself, can he? It stands to reason.”

  “Are you talking about Raymond Mason now?”

  “Of course I am. Goodness me, John, I’m putting it as clearly as I can. It’s you that are confusing things, with all this talk about vets. Now, you say that I should keep Mason’s body here and do nothing until Monday…”

  “I said nothing of the sort!”

  “You did, you know. But I can’t help feeling that you’re mistaken. I thought the police always liked to take action very quickly in these cases.”

  “George,” said Sir John, “would you just tell me what happened?”

  “But I am telling you. Mason came around this afternoon—don’t ask me what time because I was down at the range, but Violet will know. I don’t even know what he came for, but you may be sure it was to make trouble, though God knows I shouldn’t say it about the poor man, dead as he is. Well, what it comes to is that when he was leaving the house in that great car of his, he was shot. In the drive. Stone dead, Thompson said, although of course we didn’t know it at the time. Violet called Thompson, and Thompson has been going on about shouldn’t we ring Sergeant Duckett? But I s
aid, ‘No,’ I said, ‘it’s Sir John I’m ringing.’ And I feel I must insist on Scotland Yard, John. Now don’t say you can’t do it, because you can, and I know it. I read it in a book. The Chief Constable can decide to call in the Yard. Isn’t that so?”

  “Yes, it is, but…”

  “Well, there you are then. We’re relying on you to get the very best man—I dare say you’ll know for whom to ask. Well, I must say that’s a relief.”

  “What is?”

  “Why, your having taken full responsibility for the whole affair. I feel altogether easier in my mind. I shall go and tell Thompson that you are now in charge of the situation, and that Scotland Yard will be along at any moment. Most good of you, John. I appreciate it.”

  “Now wait a minute, George!” Sir John found to his annoyance that he had raised his voice. Indeed, he was almost shouting. “I’m taking responsibility for nothing! Everything must go through the proper channels…”

  “Through the what? Speak up, John.”

  “The PROPER CHANNELS!”

  “Oh. Oh, yes. But of course. That’s why I rang you.”

  “The proper channels, George, in this case are Sergeant Duckett and the C.I.D. at Kingsmarsh. Until I get their reports I know nothing about this matter officially. Is that clear?”

  “Of course, of course. I quite understand, John. I’ll get on to Duckett right away. I’ve no objection to going through the proper channels now that I’ve talked to you and gotten everything settled. But there wouldn’t have been any sense in speaking to Duckett before I’d gotten things fixed with you, now would there?”

  “For the tenth time, George, nothing is fixed. I shall wait for the report from the police and then make my decision.”

  “Naturally. Naturally. Just so long as we’re agreed what your decision will be…”

  “George, will you kindly ring off and call Sergeant Duckett?”

  “Certainly I will. Sorry to have kept you chattering. You’ll be wanting to contact the Yard right away, I imagine. Well, good bye, John—and thank you very much.”

  Sir John put down the telephone and walked out to the terrace again with the idea of resuming his pipe and his beer while waiting for the proper channels to catch up with him, but it was no use. The peace of the evening had been shattered and could not be raveled up again. He decided to go upstairs, have a bath, and change into more formal attire in which to greet the Detective Inspector from Kingsmarsh.

  As he lay back in the warm water Sir John thought about Raymond Mason, who now lay dead less than a mile away at Cregwell Grange. He could not pretend that he had ever liked the fellow. For all his eagerness to play the country gentleman, Raymond Mason had never succeeded in fitting into the cozy social structure of Cregwell. He belonged neither with the Adamsons and the Manciples in their sizeable country houses, nor with Dr. Thompson and the Reverend Herbert Dishforth, who both worked hard ministering to the bodily and spiritual needs of the village, nor yet with the jolly company of the farmers, Tom Rudge and Harry Penfold and the rest. There was no doubt at all where Mason had wished to find his niche; it was his overt ambition to belong to “the county set,” which was his irritating way of referring to the Adamsons and the Manciples.

  Of course, it was simply not possible. Sir John, as he frequently remarked, hoped that he was not a snob—but it was a vain hope. It was inconceivable that he should establish any real rapport with a man who was not merely in business but the nature of whose business was so very unfortunate. A bookmaker, if you please. A pleasant enough fellow in his own way, and generous, but an ordinary bookie. Not that class counts for anything in this day and age, of course, and one even has the fellow to dine at one’s table occasionally, and one hopes one isn’t a snob, but…

  Of Mason’s life before he came to Cregwell Sir John knew very little. Mason often referred to himself, with satisfaction, as a self-made man, but he had never given details of how this interesting exercise in do-it-yourself had been achieved. All that was certain was that he was the founder and proprietor of the firm of Raymond Mason, Turf Accountants, whose London office had progressed, step by step, from humble origins east of the City until it had finally established itself in a proud Mayfair mansion. So successful had the enterprise proved that four years ago, Mason—then in his late forties—had been able to install a general manager and retire to fulfill his dream of becoming a country squire. True, he went to London a couple of times a week to keep an eye on things, but henceforth Cregwell was to be his home and his persona that of a thoroughgoing country gentleman.

  His arrival had been welcomed at first by Major George Manciple, for he had rescued the Manciple family from a precarious financial situation by purchasing Cregwell Lodge, the old gatekeeper’s cottage belonging to the Grange, together with two acres of land. The selling of the Lodge had been just one more stage in the seemingly endless battle which George Manciple had been fighting for years, the battle to keep his family home intact in the face of inflation, rising prices and costs, penal taxation, and an inadequate fixed income. Yes, Sir John reflected, old George Manciple had been pleased enough with Mason in the early days, had made quite a fuss of his stocky, smooth-faced neighbor, and introduced him to the Village. In fact, the trouble between them was quite recent in origin.

  Just what this trouble was, Sir John did not know. It appeared that Mason had been conducting a campaign of minor persecution against Manciple about which Manciple complained unendingly to his friend, the Chief Constable. Mason had lodged an objection to Manciple’s private shooting range on the grounds that it was both noisy and dangerous; Mason had accused Manciple of closing an ancient right of way across the grounds of the Grange, a right of way which nobody used and of which George Manciple was quite ignorant; Mason had reported Manciple to Sergeant Duckett for riding his bicycle a hundred yards down a lonely lane at dusk without the statutory lights; Mason had unearthed ancient documents relative to the land on which the Grange stood in an effort to prove that Manciple’s new garage was illegal and should be demolished; Mason had… And so it went on.

  “But surely, George,” Sir John had protested, “there must be some reason for all this. What’s gotten into the fellow? Why’s he behaving like this? What have you done to upset him, eh?”

  But to this very sensible question he never received a satisfactory answer. And now Raymond Mason was dead, and never again would his white Mercedes-Benz—registration number RM1, naturally—scream through Cregwell, terrorizing the hens and delighting the children; never again would those stubby, well-manicured hands pull out a wallet full of fivers in the Saloon Bar of the Viking Inn, seeking to buy what could not be bought: an entree to one of the little groups of contented beer-drinkers, to that Village society which was so free and easy to those who were born to it but so infinitely expensive and difficult to an outsider. Poor Mason. Already the fact of his death had taken root in Sir John’s mind, provoking kindlier thoughts than the man had ever evoked while alive. Within a few days, secure in the knowledge that he was gone for good, the whole village would be mourning Mason quite genuinely.

  Meanwhile there was the disturbing fact that Mason had died a violent death. An accident, presumably, but most unfortunate that it should have taken place at Cregwell Grange, thus dragging in the Manciple family. All that wild Irish talk of George’s about calling in Scotland Yard… Surely he was not implying that Mason had been murdered? If so—but Sir John put the unpleasant thought out of his head. For the moment the only thing to do was to get out of the bath, dry himself, get dressed, and wait for a trickle of information to reach him through the proper channels.

  And so, in due course, Detective Inspector Robinson from Kingsmarsh turned up at Cregwell Manor with a worried face and a sheaf of papers in order to put the facts before the Chief Constable. These facts could be set out briefly as follows.

  Raymond Mason had driven over to Cregwell Grange in his white Mercedes at about half-past five. He had seen and spoken to Mrs. Manciple, but
had not seen the Major, who was practicing on his shooting range on the grounds. Mason had been very friendly and affable, according to Mrs. Manciple, and had brought her some plants for her garden. Shortly before half-past six he had taken his departure; however, a few yards down the drive his car had unaccountably stopped, and he had gotten out to investigate the trouble. What happened next was somewhat confused. He had evidently become aware of some sort of danger, for he had uttered a cry of alarm. A moment later a shot rang out, and Mason fell dead beside the car. The only eye-witness—apart from whoever fired the shot—was Miss Dora Manciple, the Major’s nonagenarian aunt. She had followed Mason out of the house, hoping to catch up with him in order to give him some pamphlets on spiritualism. Her evidence, it seemed, was not entirely clear, but Mason had apparently run out from behind the car, waving his arms and shouting, as if in alarm. He had then fallen dead.

  A search had revealed a gun—presumably the fatal weapon—lying in the shrubbery beside the wall of the house. It proved to be one of Major Manciple’s service pistols, which he used for his target practice; it bore no fingerprints and had apparently been carefully wiped clean. One bullet had been fired.

  An inspection of the car revealed that it had been put out of action by the operation of an anti-car-theft device which Mason had recently had put in. This was a switch, hidden under the dashboard, which disconnected the gas supply, the idea being that a thief would be able to drive only a few yards until the fuel in the carburetor was used up. The car would then stop, for no apparent reason, embarrassing the robber and ensuring his speedy apprehension. It was highly unlikely that Mason would have activated this switch when leaving his car in the Manciples’ drive, and quite beyond the bounds of possibility that, had he done so, he would have forgotten his action so swiftly that he should open up the hood after the car had stopped to look for the cause of the apparent breakdown.

  The inevitable conclusion, said Robinson sadly, seemed to be that the car had been tampered with deliberately in order to force Mason to stop in the drive, where he made a perfect target for anybody concealed in the shrubbery. Taken in conjunction with the carefully-wiped gun and the fact that nobody at the Grange would admit to having fired the shot by mistake—well, it looked like murder.