Murder Fantastical Page 2

  “Not a pleasant thing to happen, Sir John, but there you are. Can’t get away from it. And in the circumstances—what with the Manciples being so well-known in the neighborhood—and, well, one thing and another…”

  “I think this is a case for calling in the Yard,” said Sir John.

  Robinson exhaled a great sigh of relief. “My own view exactly, Sir John. We simply haven’t the facilities. Best leave it to the experts.”

  What he meant, as Sir John very well knew, was—“Best leave it to an outsider. These people are your friends and mine. Especially yours.”

  “Exactly,” said Sir John. “We haven’t the facilities.”

  And so it was that Henry Tibbett, Chief Inspector of the C.I.D, at Scotland Yard, had to abandon his plan of a weekend’s sailing with friends in Sussex and take a room at The Viking in Cregwell instead. His wife, Emmy, was naturally disappointed, but cheered up a little when she remembered that an old school friend of hers had married a doctor named Thompson who practiced in Cregwell. So Henry booked a double room, and Emmy was allowed to come along on condition that she kept well out of the way of all police activity. They arrived at the inn just before midnight on Friday night.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ON SATURDAY MORNING, after a long and friendly session with Inspector Robinson and Sergeant Duckett and a lugubrious hour spent inspecting the remains of the late Mr. Mason as well as those of his car, Henry Tibbett drove to Cregwell Manor to meet the Chief Constable.

  For both men it was an intriguing encounter. Sir John had heard a great deal about Chief Inspector Tibbett and the intuitive flair for detection which Henry called his “nose.” Sir John looked forward to the meeting with the same sort of curiosity that he would have felt at the prospect of encountering a movie star or a political personality; and, when the meeting actually took place, he could not help feeling just a little disappointed. Surely a celebrated criminal-hunter should be a—well—more of a character. This undistinguished, sandy-haired, middle-aged man—pleasant enough, certainly, and those dark blue eyes didn’t miss much—but this was not Sir John’s idea of the Yard’s top man. Decidedly disappointing.

  As for Henry, he was sharply interested in the Chief Constable, or, to be more precise, in his attitude to Mason’s death. Sir John showed a strange reluctance to talk about the matter at all; in particular, he was evasive when it came to discussing the Manciple family.

  Finally, after much throat-clearing, Sir John said, “As a matter of fact, Tibbett, George Manciple rang me this morning. We are neighbors, you see. I’ve known the family for years, and so has my wife. When she was alive, that is. That’s why I—well—the fact is that George—Major Manciple—would be pleased if you would take luncheon at the Grange today, just to get acquainted as it were. It’ll be a purely family affair. That’s why I didn’t suggest that you should take your sergeant or—or anybody else. It’ll give you a chance to see, to form your own opinion of…” Sir John stopped, tugging at his gray mustache in some embarrassment. Then he added, “They’re Irish, of course.”

  “The Manciples?” queried Henry politely.

  “That’s right. It was George’s grandfather who first came over and settled in England, I believe. It’s a Protestant family. Then there was George’s father, the famous Augustus Manciple who was headmaster of Kingsmarsh School. He was quite a character. He bought Cregwell Grange some fifty years ago, and it has been the family home ever since. I think it a good notion that you should lunch there.”

  “You speak as though they are a large family, sir,” said Henry.

  “Oh, not really. No, no. In the usual way there are just George and his wife, Violet. Oh, and Aunt Dora, of course. That’s Miss Dora Manciple, Augustus’ sister. But just at the moment—well—you know what these family reunions are like…”

  “Family reunions?”

  “Yes. There’s by way of being a gathering of the clan at the Grange just now. Brothers and daughters and—well—you’ll meet them all at lunch. George is expecting you at half-past twelve, so perhaps you’d better be… Good-bye, Tibbett. And good luck.”

  Cregwell Grange was an upright, ugly house built of sand-colored stone in the early years of the nineteenth century. It stood on a small mound just outside the Village, a mound which, in those flat and marshy parts, was undeservedly known as Cregwell Hill. Around the house woods and shrubberies and gardens and pastures threw up a protective camouflage screen, so that the dubious architecture of the residence itself did not break upon the visitor’s eye until he had navigated several bends of the winding drive which led from the public road. Henry, having studied sketch maps of the place in Inspector Robinson’s office, knew what to expect. He also knew, when his car rounded the final bend which brought the house into view, that he must have arrived at the very spot where the unfortunate Mr. Mason had met his death; and, since there was nobody in sight, Henry decided to stop the car and take a brief look around.

  The house lay ahead and slightly to the right. In front of it was a sweep of graveled drive from which weeds and grass sprouted liberally. Shallow stone steps led up to the solid-looking front door. On either side of the steps untended shrubbery seemed to menace the house, like an encroaching jungle. Presumably it was among these dense, dark bushes that the gun had been found. Peeping above the shrubs were several small Gothic windows, vertical slits apparently designed to let in the same minimum light as in the days when their function had been to provide an outlet for arrows. Henry stopped the car and got out. The drive was just wide enough for two vehicles to pass. All around shrubs and trees provided perfect cover for a would-be assassin. The whole place seemed deserted.

  Suddenly a voice spoke. It was a deep, authoritative, masculine voice, and it apparently came from the sky above. It said, “Bang, bang! Bang, bang!”

  Henry stopped in his tracks and looked around him. He could see nobody.

  “Bang, bang!” said the voice again. Then there was a little pause, and it added, “You down there!”

  This time Henry was able to identify the source of the sound with more precision. He went to the edge of the drive and, looking up, saw that there was a man sitting among the branches of a big sycamore tree above his head. The man wore faded khaki drill shorts and a khaki shirt and had an old bush hat on his head. He appeared to be in his late fifties. His hair and neat mustache were iron-gray, and his eyes were brown and very bright. In his hands he held a businesslike service pistol, which he was pointing steadily at Henry’s heart.

  “Stop there,” said the man in the tree, “Don’t move.” He took careful aim.

  Officers of the C.I.D. are trained to think and move fast. They do not stand around while armed desperadoes point guns at them. As the man pulled the trigger Henry flung himself face downward on the gravel drive.

  At the same moment the man said, “Bang, bang! You’re dead!” Then there was a curious rending sound, as something heavy was thrown down from the tree breaking small branches as it fell. Henry stood up brushing the pebbles and sand from his suit. The man was still sitting in the tree, but the gun was now lying on the ground. It had been thrown in the direction of the house and now lay in the undergrowth at the edge of the drive.

  The man in the tree said, “Hm. Just possible, I suppose. The gun fell a bit short though.” The Irish tinge to the voice was more pronounced now. “I wonder, would you mind very much picking it up and handing it to me? I’d like to try it again.”

  “I presume it’s not loaded,” said Henry.

  “Of course not. Certainly not. Why, it would be very dangerous to throw it around like that if it were.”

  “That’s what I thought,” said Henry. He walked over to the bushes, picked up the gun, and held it up butt foremost.

  The man grasped it. “Thank you very much,” he said. “Thank you. You’ll be the man from London, I dare say.”

  “My name is Tibbett,” said Henry. “I’m from Scotland Yard.”

  “Delighted to see you, sir,” Th
e tree-squatter beamed. “My name’s Manciple. If you’ll forgive me, I won’t come down. One or two things I have to do up here. Just go on up to the house, if you will; my wife’s expecting you. I’ll see you at luncheon.”

  As Henry climbed into his car again he was aware of the carefully aimed pistol and the faint cry of “Bang, bang!” from among the branches. He drove the few yards up to the front door in a state of pleasant anticipation. He felt reasonably certain that he was going to enjoy himself.

  The bell was an old-fashioned contraption of wrought iron attached to a rusty wire. Henry grasped it firmly and pulled it downward. After a second of silence he heard the tinkling of a copper bell from the depths of the house. The echoes died away; then came a pattering of footsteps, and the big door swung open. Inside stood a small woman dressed in a crumpled tweed suit. She must have been fifty, but her face was extraordinarily smooth and unlined, and her skin had the fine, peach-bloom paleness which, teamed with her black hair and dark blue eyes, had surely made her the prettiest colleen in her native Irish village.

  “Oh,” she said. “Inspector Tibbett, isn’t it? Do please come in. I’m Violet Manciple. I’m afraid you find us in a mess, as usual.”

  Henry stepped into the big hall and looked around him with pleasure. Yes, Mrs. Manciple was right in a way. The house could not be called tidy, but it was undeniably appealing. Great bowls of late roses and delphiniums stood on big, beautiful pieces of antique furniture; the curtains were of faded chintz; and beside the fireplace was a battered copper tub filled with small logs. Also in evidence were an assortment of old newspapers, a basket full of green gardening string, a dirty apron, and several piles of old letters. Perhaps the most striking object in the hall was a large, stiffly-posed oil painting of a ferocious-looking old gentleman in academic gown and mortarboard, whose compelling eye seemed to fix the visitor with disapproval from the moment of his entry; but the effect was softened by the fact that someone had hung an old green porkpie hat over one corner of the heavy gilt picture frame.

  “I do try,” said Violet Manciple, “but with no servants—and now that the family’s all here, of course—I do hope you’ll forgive us, Chief Inspector. By the way…” In the doorway of the drawing room she stopped and turned to Henry. “Should we call you Chief Inspector or just Mr. Tibbett? I’m afraid I’ve never entertained a policeman before. I did look it up in Chambers, but it only seems to give bishops and ambassadors. You don’t mind my asking?”

  “Of course I don’t,” said Henry. “And you can call me whatever you like. I should think that mister will do very nicely, but you must please yourself.”

  “So long as you don’t mind.” Violet Manciple smiled, like a young girl. “Do come into the drawing room and have a drink.”

  The room was as cheerful and shabby as the hall and equally full of treasures. In the big bay window, looking out over the bright, straggling garden, a gaunt man with white hair was sitting in an armchair reading The Times. He got to his feet as Mrs. Manciple ushered Henry into the room. He was wearing a very old pair of gray flannel trousers, tennis shoes, and a cricketing pullover. Rather surprisingly, the V-neck of the latter garment was filled in with a purple grosgrain dickey and topped by a starched white dog-collar.

  “Mr. Tibbett,” said Violet Manciple, “may I introduce my brother-in-law, the Bishop of Bugolaland? Edwin, this is Mr. Henry Tibbett.”

  “Delighted,” said the Bishop. “Take a seat, won’t ye? Beautiful day.”

  “Will you have a glass of sherry, Mr. Tibbett?”

  “Thank you. Mrs. Manciple. With pleasure.”

  “Well, sit down,” said the Bishop with a trace of irritation.

  Henry did so, and the Bishop subsided into his own chair once more. Then he said, “Know Bugolaland at all?”

  “I’m afraid not, sir.”

  “Horrible country,” said the Bishop. “I miss it very much. Charming people. Appalling climate. Independent now, and very good luck to them. Poor as church mice, of course. I’m organizing an appeal—all I can do now, you see. Retired last year. Doctor’s orders.”

  “I expect you’re glad of a chance to take things easy,” said Henry.

  “Easy? Ha!” The Bishop laughed, not sardonically but with real amusement. He then retreated behind his newspaper once more.

  Mrs. Manciple came over with a glass of sherry, which she placed at Henry’s elbow. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Tibbett,” she said, “I must go and see to lunch. I’ll leave you to have a chat with Edwin.”

  Henry watched her go with the emotion of a castaway who sees his ship disappearing over the horizon. It was apparent to him that chatting with Edwin was going to be a formidable occupation.

  After some moments of silence the Bishop said “Ha!” again. This time there was unmistakable satisfaction in his voice. Then he lowered The Times, and said, “Lazy type, the policeman. You need help.”

  “I certainly do,” said Henry, surprised.

  “Lazy type,” repeated the Bishop very distinctly. “Policeman.”

  “I’m sorry you find us lacking in energy, sir,” said Henry.

  “You need help. Help. Just think.”

  “I’m trying to.” Like most people coming into contact with the Manciple family for the first time Henry had the impression of struggling through cotton.

  “Help! Help!”

  “What sort of help?”

  “That’s what I’m asking you. Very ingenious. Think.”

  Henry gave up. “I’m afraid I don’t understand, sir, what you…”

  “Aid,” said the Bishop. “Aid.”

  “Aid for Bugolaland, you mean?”

  “Aid. A-I-D. You start with the three-toed South American sloth…”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I should have told you sooner. Three letters.”

  “I thought you said three toes.”

  “That’s the sloth. The lazy type. Ai.”

  “What?”

  “Ai. A-I. The three-toed South American sloth. Don’t you know him? A most useful little fellow. Don’t know what the compilers would do without him. That leaves D. D means a penny. A penny is a copper. A copper is a policeman. A-I-D. Aid. Means help. That’s what you need. Ingenious, isn’t it?” The Bishop thrust his copy of The Times under Henry’s nose. It was folded so as to display the crossword puzzle to advantage. “Fourteen down.”

  “Most ingenious,” Henry agreed.

  “Of course,” said the Bishop kindly, “not everybody has a crossword brain. It’s a knack.” It was clear that he was trying to find the most charitable explanation for Henry’s obtuseness. “I don’t get much chance to do them at home. When I stay with George, I’ve got time on my hands.”

  “Are you making a long stay in Cregwell, sir?” Henry asked.

  “Heavens, no. Just a few days.” The Bishop laughed again. “Poor young fellow. Must be a bit of an ordeal. But we’re not so bad when you get to know us. The family, I mean. Now, the Head, he was a different kettle of fish. You never knew my father, did you?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Remarkable old man. Most remarkable. What you would call a character. Between you and me, he became a little eccentric in his later years, although his brain remained crystal clear right to the end. He was eighty-two when he died…”

  “That’s a very good age,” said Henry.

  “A good age?” echoed the Bishop, astonished. “My dear sir, in our family a man is considered a youngster until he is ninety. Look at Aunt Dora, the Head’s sister. You’ll be meeting her in a minute. Ninety-three and as bright as a button. No, no. The Head would have lived for another twenty years at least had nature been allowed to run her course. I thought you knew.”

  “Knew what?”

  “That he was killed in a car smash. Not his fault, of course. The other driver was to blame.”

  “You mean, your father was driving? At his age?”

  “Certainly.”

  “I’ve alway
s thought,” said Henry, “that it’s rather risky to go on driving after seventy.”

  “Goodness me, what a bizarre idea. The Head didn’t learn until he was seventy-five. He was a most remarkable driver.”

  “I can imagine that.” Henry was thinking of the portrait in the hall.

  “If he had a fault behind the wheel it was his reluctance to keep to the left. He considered it dangerous to drive too close to the curb, preferred the middle of the road where he felt safer. After all, as he frequently pointed out, as a taxpayer the highway was his property. Unfortunately, this very point of view was shared by his greatest friend, old Arthur Pringle, who was the Head’s solicitor. On this occasion, apparently, their two cars were approaching each other at some speed traveling in opposite directions. Neither driver would concede right of way to the other, and the vehicles met in a head-on collision. A great tragedy. Pringle was killed outright, and the Head died a few hours later in the hospital.” The Bishop sighed. “Ah, well, it’s all a long time ago now. Fifteen years or more. I always say…”

  At this point the drawing-room door opened and a girl came in, a tiny, blonde girl who walked like a dancer. Despite the fact that she wore a plain blue linen dress and no ornaments of any kind Henry was reminded of the fairy doll on a Christmas tree. There was the same pink-and-white perfection, the same sparkle.

  “Ah, there y’are, Maud,” said the Bishop approvingly. “Mr. Tibbett. My niece, Maud Manciple. Here’s one for you, Maud. Lazy type, the policeman. You need help.”

  “How many letters?” Maud asked without hesitation.

  “Three,”

  She wrinkled her small forehead. “Lazy type. Sloth. Ai. Policeman, copper, D. Aid. Am I right?”

  “Well done! Capital,” exclaimed the Bishop. To Henry he added, “Can’t catch this girl out. She’s got the Manciple brain, all right. First class honors in…”