Murder Fantastical Page 3

  “Oh, honestly, Uncle Edwin,” protested Maud. “Do you mind?” She smiled dazzlingly at Henry. “How do you do?” she said. “You must be John Adamson’s detective from London.”

  “Yes, I am,” said Henry.

  “I suppose you’ll want to talk to us all about Raymond Mason.”

  “I’m afraid so. But later on.”

  “Thanks for the respite.”

  The Bishop, who had returned to his crossword puzzle, looked up. “Where’s your young man then, Maud?”

  “I wish I knew,” said Maud. “I thought he might be here.”

  “Probably down on the range with George.”

  “Oh, help. I’d better go and rescue him. I’m convinced that Daddy will kill somebody one of these days…” She stopped suddenly, scarlet-faced. Then, to Henry, she said very deliberately, “That was a joke. The shooting range is perfectly safe.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” said Henry. “Anyway, I don’t think that your father is there. I met him in the garden just now…”

  The door opened again, and Violet Manciple looked in. She had put on a butler’s apron and carried a wooden spoon.

  “Has anybody seen George?” she asked.

  “Mr. Tibbett says he’s in the garden,” said Maud.

  “Was he shooting at tennis balls?” Mrs. Manciple asked Henry.

  “No,” said Henry. “He was up a tree.” After as little as ten minutes in Cregwell Grange this exchange of remarks seemed quite normal to him.

  “Oh, I am glad. Experimenting again, I suppose. I’ll go and call him.” Mrs. Manciple withdrew.

  Maud looked at Henry with distinct amusement. “Are you Irish by any chance, Mr. Tibbett?” she asked.

  “No, I’m a Londoner. I believe my family came from Cornwall originally.”

  “Ah, Celtic. That explains it.”

  “Explains what?”

  “The fact that you seem to understand what we’re talking about.”

  “I wouldn’t bank on that,” said Henry.

  “I’m afraid we are rather strange,” said Maud.

  At this the Bishop looked up from his newspaper. “Strange? What d’you mean, strange?”

  “All the Manciples,” said Maud, “are mad.”

  “What utter rubbish,” retorted the Bishop with spirit. “Now, that fellow Mason, he was definitely deranged. Should have been locked up.”

  “Really?” Henry was interested. “What makes you say that, sir?”

  “I’ll tell you. First time I met the man, two years ago…”

  Again the door opened, cutting short the Bishop’s reminiscence. The man who came in was younger than either the Major or the Bishop, but his long face and angular jaw marked him unmistakably as a Manciple. He wore a suit made of rough tweed, which might easily have been homespun, and he was accompanied by a middle-aged woman who might easily have spun it. She had the dark hair and skin of a gypsy, and she was dressed in a peasant blouse and dirndl skirt; her sandals, clumsily sewn with thick leather thongs, were almost certainly home-made; and she wore a necklace of massive, hand-baked pottery beads.

  “Aha,” said the man, “here you all are. Ramona and I have been for a splendid tramp. Five miles across rough country.”

  “Marsh marigold and stinking hellebore,” announced Ramona in a deep and very lovely voice. “Two more beauties for my collection. And we saw a pair of black-tailed godwits.”

  “Took the glasses, of course,” added the man. “For a moment I thought I’d spotted a long-eared owl in the garden, but it turned out to be George.”

  “He’s up a tree, I understand,” said the Bishop.

  “Yes. The big sycamore in the drive. I was quite disappointed. You don’t often see a long-eared owl in these parts.”

  “Mr. Tibbett,” said Maud, “may I introduce my uncle and aunt, Sir Claud and Lady Manciple. Aunt Ramona, Uncle Claud, this is Mr. Tibbett from Scotland Yard.”

  Henry regarded the newcomers with considerable interest. He had taken the trouble to find out that Sir Claud Manciple, director of the Atomic Research Station at Bradwood, was a younger brother of the Major Manciple concerned in the case; but, even so, Sir Claud surprised him. He could not have said exactly what he expected from one of the nation’s foremost physicists, but it certainly was not this.

  “So glad you were able to come,” said Sir Claud politely, shaking Henry’s hand. “It will be a relief to get this business of Mason out of the way. A couple of days should see you through I imagine?” He spoke as though Henry had been called in to cope with woodworm in the attic, an expert who could be relied upon to do his job quickly and efficiently without inconveniencing others,

  Henry felt strangely flattered. “I hope so,” said Henry. “I’ve hardly started as yet.”

  “Quite. I’m afraid George is wasting your time—lunches and so forth. I’ve no time for social functions myself.”

  “Pay no attention to Uncle Claud,” said Maud Manciple. “He does a great act of being an absent-minded professor, but in fact he simply adores the fleshpots.”

  “What nonsense,” said Sir Claud, beaming fondly at his niece. “Are you not going to get us something to drink, Maud dear? I’ll have a whisky and soda. What about you, Ramona?”

  “Oh, just a tomato juice or an orange for me, Maud. Nature’s thirst quenchers. And Claud will have the same.”

  “But, my dear…”

  “Are you keen on wild life, Mr. Tibbett?” Lady Manciple ignored her husband’s protest.

  “I know very little about it, I’m afraid,” said Henry.

  “Then we must instruct you. Cregwell is an ideal center for nature study. If you take my advice you will start a book of pressed wildflowers while you are here. An ordinary school exercise book will do admirably. You can buy one from Mrs. Richards in the General Stores. It will be a joy forever, I assure you, Mr. Tibbett.”

  “Orange juice, Aunt Ramona,” said Maud, putting a tall glass on the table. “And here’s yours, Uncle Claud.” There was a hint of suppressed amusement in her voice, which made Henry glance at the drink she had handed to her uncle. Sure enough, it was a deep, clear amber, and did not in the least resemble either orange or tomato juice.

  “You are very kind, my dear,” said Sir Claud gravely.

  Lady Manciple did not appear to notice. She went on talking to Henry. “The marshes around here, Mr. Tibbett, are a paradise for wild fowl—godwit, oyster-catcher, tern, and lapwing. Occasionally we are honored by a visit from heron—there’s a magnificent sight for you. It is only twenty minutes’ walk across the fields to the estuary of Cregwell River. Ah, the happy hours that Claud and I have spent on the mudflats with a pair of binoculars and a thermos! Perhaps we can persuade you to come out with us this afternoon.”

  “I wish you could, Lady Manciple,” said Henry. “Unfortunately, I have to work.”

  “Work? On a Saturday?”

  “I’m here to investigate the death of Raymond Mason,” Henry reminded her.

  Lady Manciple dismissed the topic briefly. “All very sad, I am sure,” she said, “but it would be hypocritical to pretend that he is any great loss. A thoroughly unpleasant man. Setting his cap for a girl half his age! I made my views quite clear to Violet. ‘You should not allow that man in the house,’ I said. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, selling your daughter for a few primulae auriculae!’ ”

  “I beg your pardon?” said Henry, taken aback.

  Lady Manciple looked at him impatiently, and then explained, as if to a retarded child. “Raymond Mason was paying court to Maud. Violet was continually threatening to forbid him the house, but then he would get around her by bringing her rare rock plants from his garden. Violet has a faiblesse for rock plants, which she is apparently unable to control. Mind you, I am interested in alpine flora myself, and Mason had some remarkable specimens, but I feel that Violet should have put her daughter first, don’t you? Of course, everything is rather different, now that Maud is engaged.”

  �
�Engaged? Is she?”

  “Of course she is. That’s why we are all here, to meet the young man. Julian Something-or-other. I have such a bad memory for names. Perhaps Maud will remember. Maud, dear!”

  “Yes, Aunt Ramona?”

  “Mr. Tibbett is anxious to know the name of your young man. Can you remember it?”

  Maud grinned at Henry. “Just about,” she said. “Julian Manning-Richards.”

  “Manning-Richards? Are you sure? I had an idea that it began with a C.”

  “I’m quite sure, Aunt Ramona. After all, I am going to marry him.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” said Lady Manciple doubtfully.

  “Have you seen him, by the way?” Maud asked. “He went out just after breakfast and now he’s going to be late for lunch.”

  “No, dear, we certainly didn’t meet him. We’ve been down on the marshes,”

  “Oh, well, I suppose he’ll turn up,” said Maud philosophically.

  “He’s never been known to miss a meal yet.”

  “Mr. Tibbett? It is Mr. Tibbett, isn’t it?” The voice came from behind Henry’s back. It was a cracked, penetrating female voice such as one associates with the very old and deaf.

  Turning, Henry saw a small, rotund woman dressed in ankle-length black. Her face was as round, wrinkled, and rosy as a long-stored apple. This could only be Aunt Dora, the nonagenarian sister of the legendary Head. The Bishop had described her as “bright as a button,” and Henry found himself in full agreement. “Yes, my name is Tibbett,” he said.

  “Mine’s Manciple. No need to tell you that. Dora Manciple. Never married. You’re not Maud’s young man, are you?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “That’s what I thought. Not Maud’s young man. Pity.”

  “Why do you say that, Miss Manciple?”

  Aunt Dora sniffed, but did not answer directly. “My memory isn’t quite what it was,” she said. “They told me you were coming, but the reason for your visit escapes me. Are you one of Claud’s scientific gentlemen?”

  “No. I’m…”

  “I have it. One of Edwin’s missionaries. Of course. How is Bugolaland these days? Haven’t been there for years. Horrible country.”

  “But I’m…”

  “I went out there to keep house for Edwin, you know. Before he married. That must be—let me see—forty-five years ago. We had a bungalow on the banks of the Bobamba River, swamplands not unlike Fenshire in many ways, except for the crocodiles—the people are a different color…more attractive, to my mind, don’t you agree? Where’s your mission station?”

  “Miss Manciple, I…”

  “Alimumba, I suppose. Yes, it would be. I expect you and Edwin have a lot to talk about. Ah, George…”

  Henry turned to see that the tree-squatter had joined the party. Major George Manciple, still in his threadbare khaki shorts, radiated a slightly woolly bonhomie as he surveyed his assembled relatives.

  “How are you today, Aunt Dora? Bearing up?” He rubbed his hands together.

  “I never touch the stuff. You should know that, George,” replied Miss Manciple severely.

  George Manciple sighed. Raising his voice he said, “Hadn’t you better get your hearing aid, Aunt Dora?”

  “Lemonade is just as bad. I’ve enough acid in my system as it is.”

  “Your hearing aid!” bellowed the Major.

  “I was just about to introduce you, George. There’s no need to shout. This is Mr. Tibbett, one of Edwin’s missionaries from Alimumba. Mr. Tibbett, my nephew George.”

  “I think we have met already,” said Henry. He grinned at Major Manciple, who shook his head gloomily.

  “When she does wear it, it whistles,” the major remarked. He glanced around the room. “Have you met everyone, Tibbett? Let’s see, that’s my brother Edwin over by the window talking to my sister-in-law, Ramona. The fellow pouring himself a whiskey is her husband, my brother Claud. My daughter Maud—oh, there you are, my dear. Just talking about you. Get Aunt Dora wired up for lunch, will you, like a dear girl? Where’s Julian?”

  “I don’t know,” said Maud. “I’ve been wondering.”

  “Ah, well, I wouldn’t worry. But we can’t hold luncheon for him. I happen to know that Vi has prepared something rather special.”

  At that moment all further conversation became impossible. From the hall outside came the deep, booming notes of some hollow brass object being struck by a muffled implement.

  The Bishop dropped his crossword and was on his feet in a trice. “Lunch!” he exclaimed, with enthusiasm.

  “Lunch,” said Lady Manciple to her husband, quietly removing the glass from his hand.

  “Lunch, Aunt Dora!” screamed Maud to the old lady.

  “Lunch. Ah, to be sure, lunch,” said Major Manciple to Henry. Then he added, “My brother Edwin brought it back from Bugolaland.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Audible for ten miles through the jungle on a clear day. Remarkable. Well, lunch…”

  “Lunch, everybody,” said Violet Manciple, putting her head around the door. “We won’t wait for Julian…”

  “Lunch, Edwin,” said Sir Claud to his brother.

  “I believe, Mr. Tibbett,” said Aunt Dora, with the air of one imparting important news, “that luncheon is served.”

  “Yes,” said Henry, “I had rather gathered that.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE DINING ROOM was large and well-proportioned, and furnished with a handsome mahogany table and a set of graceful Hepplewhite chairs, whose seats were in need of re-upholstery. The heavy, crested silver cutlery and the occasional pieces of finely cut Waterford glass contrasted strangely with the plastic table mats and paper napkins. The dinner service was—or had been—exquisite Crown Derby, with hand-painted bouquets of flowers on gold-rimmed plates, but nearly every piece was cracked or chipped, and some items, such as the vegetable dishes, had disappeared altogether and had been replaced by others in thick, serviceable white pottery. The Manciples themselves seemed quite unaware of these anomalies. In fact, Sir Claud spent some time during the meal in congratulating his hostess on the practical and esthetic qualities of the bilious plastic mats and inquiring where they could be bought.

  Henry found himself directed to the place of honor on Violet Manciple’s right hand. Next to him was the Bishop, and beyond him a vacant seat for Maud. Major Manciple took the head of the table, while Sir Claud was placed opposite Henry, flanked by his wife on one hand and Aunt Dora’s empty chair on the other. Another unoccupied seat presumably represented Maud’s absent young man.

  On the sideboard steaming dishes of delicious vegetables from the garden of the Grange were grouped, like bit-part actors in a musical comedy, around the star turn, a pair of small broiler chickens proudly enthroned on an electric plate warmer. As Major Manciple passed the side table he beamed and rubbed his hands.

  “I say, Vi. Chicken, eh? A regular feast!”

  “Yes.” Violet Manciple sounded almost ashamed. “I was rather extravagant, I’m afraid. They’re from the deep-freezing apparatus at Rigley’s in Kingsmarsh. I believe they come from America.”

  “America, by Jove!” exclaimed the Bishop, greatly surprised. “What will they think of next! Fowls all the way from America! Fancy that!”

  “I do hope they’ll be nice,” said Mrs. Manciple anxiously. “At least they’ll be a change from salmon. Just imagine, Mr. Tibbett, Edwin and George caught no less than six large salmon last week. We were eating it for breakfast, lunch, and tea. And if it’s not salmon, it’s oysters from the estuary. I’m afraid we country-dwellers haven’t a very varied diet.”

  Before Henry could marshal his thoughts in reply the door opened and Aunt Dora came in, preceded by a high-pitched whistling sound. She now wore around her neck a complicated system of electric wires and a large pendant object which resembled a transistor radio. Maud followed. She looked resigned.

  “Whistling again,” said Major Manciple. “I told you so.”<
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  “I can’t help it, Father;’ said Maud. “She won’t let me fix it.”

  “Then for heaven’s sake, switch her off,” said Sir Claud. “We can’t have that row all through lunch.”

  “Okay.” Maud leaned forward and pressed a switch somewhere behind Aunt Dora’s right ear. The noise ceased abruptly.

  “Thank you, dear,” said Mrs. Manciple. “Right, Edwin. If you would…”

  Each member of the party was now standing behind his or her chair, head reverently bent forward. Henry hastened to follow suit. The Bishop cleared his throat and then pronounced a long Latin grace in a resonant voice. At the end there was a fractional pause and then a cheerful scraping of chairs and outburst of conversation as the Manciple family settled down to enjoy its lunch. The Major went to the sideboard, picked up a huge horn-handled carving knife, sharpened it on a ribbed steel, and began to dismember the puny frozen chickens with as much gusto as if they had been a baron of beef.

  “Chicken, I see, Violet,” said Aunt Dora. “Quite a treat.”

  “Water, Aunt Dora?” inquired Mrs. Manciple in a penetrating voice. Without waiting for a reply, she began pouring water into Aunt Dora’s glass, which was rather larger than the others and of a distinctive design. “The last of the Head’s beautiful set of Waterford glass,” she explained to Henry. “We always give it to Aunt Dora. It seems only right.”

  “A little water, yes please, dear. There’s no need to shout, you know. My hearing aid works very well.” Aunt Dora patted the dead transistor on her chest complacently.

  As luncheon progressed, Henry resolved not to press the subject of Raymond Mason. Far better, he decided, to leave business until afterward and to concentrate on trying to get to know these unusual but pleasant people. However, the decision was taken out of his hands, for his next-door neighbor, the Bishop, suddenly said, “You’re interested in Mason, are you, Mr. Tibbett?”

  “Yes, I am, sir.”

  “Mad as a hatter. I was telling you before lunch.”

  “Oh, come now, Edwin,” put in Mrs. Manciple. “I don’t think that’s quite fair.”