Murder Fantastical Page 6

  “She’s a very attractive young woman,” said Henry. “I can understand any man falling in love with…”

  “Falling in love be damned!” Major Manciple was vehement. “The fellow simply calculated that a suitable wife would be even more effective and much cheaper than a suitable house. And he knew that Maud would inherit this place one day. Of course Maud just laughed at him. Told him that she was unofficially engaged to Julian and that it would soon enough be official. You haven’t met Julian, have you?”

  “Not yet,” said Henry.

  “Delightful young man. Quite delightful. Anyhow, even that bit of news didn’t deter Mason. He kept on pestering my daughter.”

  “I imagine she was quite able to deal with him,” said Henry. “Miss Manciple strikes me as being extremely capable.”

  “That’s the funny thing,” said George Manciple. “I’d have said the same. But the last few days, I’ve had a curious feeling that—well—that she was afraid of Mason.”

  “Afraid?”

  “Yes. You’ll have to ask her about it yourself. I haven’t liked to; it was all rather awkward you see. Ten days ago Julian had this great row with Mason, and threatened to—that is…”

  “Threatened to do what, Major Manciple?”

  “Oh, nothing. Just a figure of speech. Julian simply warned him off pretty sharply, and told him that if he came bothering Maud again, he’d…” Again Manciple stopped.

  Henry grinned. “I can imagine the dialogue,” he said. “Fortunately threats like that are seldom meant seriously, otherwise the murder rate would be a lot higher than it is. However, I now understand why you put Maud and her fiancé on your list of people with motives.”

  “Well,” said Manciple, “there you are. That’s how things stood.”

  “You put Mrs. Manciple on the ‘Motive’ list,” said Henry. “Why?”

  “Why? Why? Because she’s my wife, of course. Her reasons would be the same as mine.”

  “I see,” said Henry. “Now, will you tell me exactly what happened yesterday? From your point of view.”

  “Very little to tell. I’d invited the family for the weekend to meet Julian, before we put it in The Times and made it official. Edwin arrived on Thursday and spent nearly the whole of Friday down on the estuary in a punt, fishing.”

  “And playing his clarinet?”

  “That’s right. I wonder Mason didn’t complain about that. I spent yesterday afternoon in the garden, doing some weeding, and I saw Edwin come back from the river about five. He had his clarinet with him and he had caught a fine salmon trout. It was a pity he put the clarinet in the creel and the fish in the music case, but Violet thinks she can save it. He said he was going to his room to have a kip, or ky-eep, as they say in Bugolaland, and he went indoors.

  “Claud and Ramona arrived from Bradwood on the 3:45. The local taxi brought them up from Cregwell Halt. When they had unpacked—about half-past four, it must have been—they came out into the garden and said they were going to potter about a bit. Ramona said something about making friends with the trees, which I didn’t quite follow. That’s why I put them on the ‘Opportunity’ list, y’see. They were in the garden.

  “Well, around half-past five I heard the roar of that great, ugly car of Mason’s coming up the drive. I had no desire to speak to the fellow, so I grabbed a gun from the cloakroom and went off down to the range as fast as I could. I met Maud and Julian, who were walking up from the river, ‘I wouldn’t go back to the house just yet,’ I told them. ‘You-know-who has just arrived in his Mercedes.’

  “Maud went quite pale, poor child, but Julian was very angry. ‘I’ll go and see him off the premises,’ he said. ‘No, darling,’ said Maud. ‘Be sensible. Let’s go down to the river again and keep clear until he’s gone.’ Well, Julian was raring for a fight, but Maud persuaded him in the end and they went off down to the river again.

  “I carried on around to the range and had a bit of target practice. I was keeping an ear cocked to hear the car leaving, and sure enough, about an hour or so later the engine started up. ‘Fine,’ thought I. ‘Capital. Now I can go into my own house and have a quiet bottle of stout without interruption.’ ”

  “Did you hear Mason’s engine cut out again?” Henry asked.

  “Can’t say that I did—consciously. The noise stopped, but I assumed that he’d driven off down the drive. Then I heard a shot. I was very surprised. I had my own gun with me and nobody is allowed to fire outside of the target range. I was afraid there might have been an accident, so I took the quickest way back to the front of the house. That is to say, I came through the shrubbery and out into the drive. There I saw the car standing with its hood open. And Mason, lying on the ground beside it.”

  “You didn’t see anybody else?”

  “Only Aunt Dora. She was coming across the drive from the house waving some of those damned pamphlets of hers, if you’ll forgive my French, and shouting out ‘Mr. Mason! Mr. Mason!’ I don’t suppose she realized at all what had happened. Then Violet and Edwin came running out of the house.

  “‘What’s happened?’ Violet said. ‘Mason’s been shot, by the look of it,’ said I. ‘Oh, George,’ she said, ‘what have you done?’ ‘Don’t be a fool, Vi,’ I said. ‘I haven’t done anything. Go and phone Dr. Thompson.’ And so she did.”

  Henry had been taking notes unobtrusively while Manciple spoke. Now, in silence, he finished a scribbled page and drew a firm line across the bottom.

  “How much of that did you believe?” asked Major Manciple. “What I mean is—did it sound convincing at all?”

  “You surely don’t imagine that I’d tell you, do you?” said Henry. He looked at his watch. “It’s getting late. Let’s go and take a look at this famous shooting range of yours.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  AS THEY CROSSED the hall Major Manciple said, “Are you a marksman yourself?” And before Henry could reply, added, “Of course you are. Silly of me. Part of your training. We’ll take a couple of guns with us.”

  He disappeared through a massive oaken door and came back a few moments later carrying two pistols. He handed one to Henry.

  “I look forward,” said George Manciple, “to showing you my little invention. I flatter myself that it is quite ingenious, a fair substitute for a bird in flight. The local tennis club are very cooperative, you understand.”

  Henry, who did not understand, said, “I suppose you get a lot of shooting around here?”

  “Certainly. I usually spend at least an hour a day on the range.”

  “Game, I mean. Pheasant and…”

  “Game?” Manciple sounded deeply shocked. “Certainly not. I strongly disapprove of blood sports—except fishing, which doesn’t count. I can assure you, sir, that no bird or beast is hunted or shot on my lands. If you want to kill or mutilate living creatures for sport you have come to the wrong place. You should go to a barbarian like John Adamson for that sort of thing.” The Major had gone very red and was breathing hard.

  “I’m very sorry, Major Manciple,” said Henry. “I didn’t mean to upset you. As a matter of fact, I’m against blood sports myself. It was just the fact that you are so keen on shooting…”

  “That’s all right, Tibbett,” said the Major, mollified. “This way. Down the steps and through the shrubbery. Perhaps I should explain. When I was in the Army I went through a crisis of conscience. The only part of my profession which I really enjoyed, and at which I excelled, was sniping, sharp-shooting. Whatever you like to call it. And then, one day, I was having a bit of target practice in the garden of the mess with a friend of mine, when he suddenly said, ‘There she goes! Watch this, Manciple!’ And he aimed up into the trees at the end of the compound, and shot a monkey. Have you ever shot a monkey, Tibbett?”

  “No, I haven’t,” said Henry.

  “They cry, like babies. They…” The Major cleared his throat. “It doesn’t matter. Only, from that moment on I knew I would never raise a gun in anger against a living cre
ature. A fine frame of mind for a soldier, you’ll agree. That was why I was so delighted to be able to resign my commission; and ever since, I have greatly enjoyed using my lethal skill in an entirely harmless manner.”

  “I wonder,” said Henry, “whether you are trying to convince me that you would never have shot Raymond Mason.”

  The Major looked at him sidelong, and then laughed hugely, “Perhaps I am,” he agreed with great good humor. “Perhaps I am. Here we are.”

  The shooting range was a bleak place. It was, in fact, no more than a bare tract of land which ran slightly downhill away from the east wall of the house. At the far end was a twenty-foot-high concrete wall pitted with the scars of many shots. In front of the wall stood four mysterious-looking boxes, spaced at intervals of several feet from each other and connected one to the other with what looked like string.

  The Major said, “You’ll take a couple of shots?”

  “No, thank you,” said Henry. “I’ll just watch you, if I may.”

  “Just as you wish; just as you wish. In that case, keep well back, near the wall of the house. That’s right. Now…”

  Major Manciple walked up to the row of boxes and knelt down beside the left one. Henry, to his surprise, saw him pull a cigarette lighter out of his pocket and ignite the string. Then the Major stood up and strolled back to where Henry was standing.

  “Fuse,” he explained shortly. He then took his stance, pistol cocked and ready.

  “But what…?”

  “Quiet, if you please!”

  Henry became quiet. He was straining his eyes, fascinated, to see how the fuse was burning gradually nearer and nearer to the wooden box. Suddenly, with no noise and no warning, a sort of silent explosion took place. The box sprang open, and out of it, like a jack-in-the-box, a small circular object flew upward and outward. At the same moment, the Major fired; and with the sound of the shot the small flying object appeared to explode in mid-air. Henry had no time to comment before the second box behaved in a similar manner. Another shot rang out, but this time the flying object continued unharmed on its upward trajectory, hung poised for a moment, and then fell to the ground.

  The Major had just time to say, “Missed, dammit!” before the third and fourth jack-in-the-boxes leaped out. Two brisk shots dispatched these in rapid succession.

  The Major turned to Henry. “Three out of four,” he said. “Not too bad, I suppose, but I’d liked to have shown you a full hand. Never mind. I’ll go and set up a fresh lot.”

  Henry followed Manciple to the wall at the far end of the range. The one object which had escaped the deadly revolver fire was lying like a gray rat in the scrubby grass. Henry approached it with a certain amount of trepidation, and then he saw that it was a very old, very worn tennis ball.

  The Major picked it up. “The local tennis club gives them to me for nothing, as I was telling you,” he said. “Past playing with, you see, but still very resilient. Just the job for the Manciple traps.”

  “How on earth do they work?” Henry asked,

  “Perfectly simple. I make them myself. Stout wooden box, lid secured with string. Inside the box, powerful metal spring with tennis ball on top. Fuse burns slowly toward string—giving me time to get back to my gun, y’see, when I’m on my own. Once the fuse burns as far as the string, box flies open, spring throws ball out. Meanwhile, fuse burns on to second box, and so on. What d’you think of it, eh?”

  “It’s amazing,” said Henry faintly. “I thought you said you hadn’t inherited the Manciple brain.”

  The Major looked pleased, but he said, “Brains are one thing, ingenuity’s another. Take Claud. He couldn’t invent a thing like this; no good with his hands. But give him a couple of pages of mathematical formulae—that’s the way it goes, you see. Yes, I flatter myself that my traps are ingenious. All the advantages of clay pigeons without the exorbitant expense. Of course, I have to take them back indoors and reset them once they’re sprung, but I always keep some in readiness.” He was busy clearing away the four used boxes and bringing out a further set from a dilapidated garden shed near the end of the wall.

  “So this,” said Henry, “is what you were doing when Mason was shot.”

  “Not exactly,” said Manciple. “I was just setting up a new four, as a matter of fact, when I heard his car starting up and decided to go indoors. Now, if you’ll stand well back, I’ll try to get four out of four for you this time.”

  That time, indeed, four out of four tennis balls disintegrated in mid-air, and the Major smirked complacently.

  “Practice makes perfect,” he said, forestalling compliments.

  “This range,” Henry sounded hesitant. “Is it completely safe?”

  “Safe? Safe? Of course it’s safe.” The Major’s color was rising again. “Unless some lunatic turns around and fires away from the target and toward the house. That’s what Mason kept on about—shots going astray. Now, I ask you, sir, is anything safe by that reckoning? A car is dangerous, if you drive it over a precipice. A window is dangerous, if you throw yourself out of it. A pillow is dangerous, if you smother yourself with it. And I’ll tell you something else, Tibbett.” The Major shook a bony finger in Henry’s face. “Whoever killed Raymond Mason was deliberately trying to discredit my shooting range.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “A clumsy attempt,” said Major Manciple, “to make it look as though the man had been accidentally shot by someone firing on the range. By me, in fact.”

  “Can you think of anyone who would want to do such a thing?”

  “Nobody. That’s what is so mysterious. Except Mason himself, of course.” Manciple gave a short bark of ironic laughter.

  “Nevertheless,” said Henry, “you mean that it would have been possible for the shot that killed Mason to have been fired from the range?”

  “Possible, yes.”

  “But,” Henry went on, “it would have meant the marksman turning around and firing away from the target, which is hardly likely, not to mention the fact that the gun was found in the shrubbery near the front door. And any shot that was fired from the range would have been quite at random. You can’t see the drive at all from here because of the bushes.”

  “You’re a sensible fellow, whatever Edwin may think,” remarked the Major. “I’m glad you appreciate the point I was making.”

  “Yes,” said Henry slowly, “yes, I think I do. Thank you for showing me the range.”

  “A pleasure, a pleasure. Well, we’d better be getting indoors again. I dare say you’ll be wanting a word with Violet.”

  Henry looked at his watch. “It’s nearly six,” he said. “I dare say that tomorrow will be time enough…”

  “Just as you wish, just as you wish.” The Major cleared his throat. “I’m afraid you may not find Violet a very reliable witness. She is inclined to be emotional, especially where Maud is concerned.”

  “I’ll make allowances for that,” Henry promised.

  Violet Manciple met them in the hall in a state of some agitation. “Oh, there you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you, George. Mr. Tibbett, a sergeant has arrived asking for you. I’ve put him in the morning room. Perhaps you’d like to have a word with him. The tea’s cold, I’m afraid. I made it some time ago, but I didn’t want to disturb you. And the puppy’s been sick. I think Ramona has been feeding her again, although I asked her not to. There’s no sign of Julian, George, and Maud is getting quite worried. Oh dear, there’s the telephone…”

  She hurried away, and George Manciple said, “Women always make a bit of a fuss over things I’m afraid.”

  “All this must mean a lot of extra work for Mrs. Manciple,” said Henry.

  “Work?” George Manciple sounded as though he had never heard of the word. “What do you mean, work?”

  “Well—cooking and washing up and extra people in the house…”

  “Oh, the house. Yes, I suppose it does mean a bit more for Violet to do.”

  “She r
uns this place entirely alone, does she?”

  “I suppose she does, now I come to think of it. Normally old Mrs. Rudge comes in two mornings a week, but she’s off in Kingsmarsh at the moment, staying with a sick daughter. Heaven knows when we’ll see her back.”

  “And how many servants did there used to be in the old days?”

  “The old days?” A pleased smile illuminated George’s face, as it always did when he contemplated the golden past. “Let me see. Cook, of course, and Jimson the butler, and a housemaid, and a parlormaid indoors. Outdoors, the Head kept two full-time gardeners and a boy. And very contented they all were. Pity they had to go, but they all got too old to carry on and frankly, Tibbett, you can’t get the people these days. Not for the money one can afford to pay.”

  “So your wife is doing the work of four people?”

  George Manciple looked surprised and not a little offended. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said. “It’s only the house, after all. And Violet doesn’t wait at table or bring around the jars of hot water to the bedrooms in the mornings, the way the house maid used to do. Work? Violet has never worked in her life. She is my wife, and I can assure you, sir, that she has never done a hand’s turn for reward, which is what I understand by the word work. Goodness me, anybody would think that she was being exploited, like a Victorian factory girl.” The Major paused, and breathed heavily, as though expelling an unpleasant suspicion from his mind. Then he indicated a door and said, “That’s the morning room. You’ll find your fellow in there.”

  The sergeant was apologetic for disturbing Henry, but thought that the Chief Inspector ought to know that Frank Mason, the dead man’s son, had arrived in Cregwell and was demanding to see Henry at once. He was being a bit troublesome, in fact, and was making certain wild accusations and—well—quite apart from all that, the sergeant went on rapidly, and with some relief, some further technical information had come through.