Murder Fantastical Page 7

  The bullet which killed Mason, for instance, had definitely been fired from the gun found in the shrubbery. The Mercedes had been minutely examined, but had revealed no identifiable fingerprints other than those of Mason himself; these were particularly well-defined and fresh on the switch which operated the gas cut-off. Lastly, the sergeant wondered whether Henry needed a shorthand writer for his interviews; he presumed that the Chief Inspector was conducting interviews at Cregwell Grange…?

  Henry grinned. “I think I’ve done enough here for today,” he said. “I’ll just make up my notes and then I’ll go along to Cregwell Lodge and see young Mr. Mason. You might warn him to expect me.”

  “I’ll see he’s waiting for you, sir,” said the sergeant. And added, “You’re—all right, are you, sir?”

  “What do you mean, all right?”

  “Well,” the sergeant was embarrassed, “there are some funny types around here. Not quite right in the head, if you ask me.”

  “Oh, really?” said Henry innocently.

  “Well, I ask you, sir, I was waiting in here while Mrs. Manciple went looking for you and the Major, and a tall, skinny old gentleman comes in, very raggedly dressed but wearing a dog-collar. ‘Are you a policeman?’ he says. ‘Yes, sir,’ I says. ‘Then you should get it,’ he says, and then he starts some rigmarole about three-toed sloths and lazy types and wanting help. I thought he was trying to make a complaint of some sort…”

  “Lazy type, the policeman,” said Henry, with reprehensible relish. “You need help.”

  The sergeant began to look seriously alarmed. “That’s what he said. And I said…”

  “Three letters,” said Henry. “Start with the three-toed sloth.”

  The sergeant had risen and was edging toward the door. “Yes—well—time I was getting along, sir…”

  “D is a penny,” pursued Henry relentlessly. “A penny is a copper. A copper is a policeman.”

  It was at this moment that the door opened behind the sergeant and Ramona Manciple said in her deep voice, “Ah, Mr. Tibbett. I have brought you some hellebore and toadflax, and you owe me sixpence. Did you know that George was up in his tree again?”

  The sergeant gave a low moan and fled. Henry accepted the school exercise book with becoming gratitude. On the first page Ramona had written in a fine Italian script. “Henry Tibbett, His Book of Wild Flowers,” and underneath “… blossom by blossom the spring begins…” Henry’s particular spring had been sent off to a flying start by a handful of drooping flora wrapped in blotting paper.

  “It’s extremely kind of you, Lady Manciple.”

  “Not kind at all. You owe me sixpence for the book.”

  Henry produced a sixpence, which Lady Manciple dropped into the pocket of her dirndl. “I hear you wish to speak to Violet,” she said.

  “Not until tomorrow,” said Henry. “I’m going to leave you all in peace for the moment.”

  “Well for heaven’s sake, keep her off rock plants. She becomes quite unbalanced on the subject. Was that one of your men?”

  “Who was in here with me? Yes.”

  “An odd young man, rushing off like that. You should teach him his manners.”

  “I’ll try, Lady Manciple,” Henry promised.

  Ramona saw Henry to the front door, and he was saying good-bye to her on the steps when he saw a young man walking quickly up the drive. As the newcomer passed the sycamore tree a voice bellowed, “Julian!”

  The young man stopped abruptly and looked around in some bewilderment.

  Ramona called out, “Up in the tree, Julian! It’s George!” To Henry, she added, “That’s Julian. Maud’s fiancé. I’m so glad he’s back. Maud was getting quite worried.”

  “Where’ve you been, Julian?” Major Manciple’s disembodied voice was stern and godlike as it floated down from the treetops.

  The young man hesitated. Then he said, “I had to run up to London on business, Major Manciple.”

  “London? London? London and back all in one day? Never heard of such a thing. Why didn’t you tell Maud?”

  “I—I had a reason, sir. Anyhow, I was only away for a few hours…”

  “You missed chicken for lunch,” came the oracular tones of the Major. He seemed to imply that this in itself was sufficient punishment for any misdemeanor, for his voice was friendlier as he added, “And a policeman.”

  “For lunch?”

  “Yes. Fellow by the name of Tibbett. Not a bad chap, although Edwin doesn’t reckon him very bright.”

  Henry felt that the time had come to interrupt the conversation before it became too personal. Loudly he said, “Well, good-bye for now, Lady Manciple.” He walked quickly down the steps and along the few yards of drive to the sycamore tree. “Good-bye, Major Manciple,” he called up into the leafy heights. Then, to the young man he said, “You must be Mr. Manning-Richards. My name is Tibbett. I’m from Scotland Yard.”

  “I’m delighted to meet you, sir,” said Julian Manning-Richards. At these close quarters Henry was able to see that he had dark hair, a sunburned skin, deep blue eyes, and an attractive smile. He and Maud, Henry reflected, must make an extremely handsome couple.

  “I suppose,” Julian went on, “that you’ve come about this terrible business of Raymond Mason.”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “Well,” Julian hesitated, “I—I’d welcome a word with you sometime, if that’s possible, sir. You see, I…”

  “What’s that? What did you say?” Major Manciple sounded touchy. “Speak up, can’t you, boy?”

  “I’ll be back tomorrow morning and I’ll be interviewing everybody then,” said Henry. He made his way quickly down the drive to his car,

  “Of course,” said Isobel Thompson, “they’re all quite mad. Rather charming in a way, but absolutely insane. More tea, Emmy?”

  “Thank you,” said Emmy Tibbett. Then she laughed, and said, “Henry has a genius for getting himself mixed up with odd characters. I expect he’s enjoying himself a lot.”

  Isobel, pouring tea, considered this remark gravely. Then she said, “The Manciples are a lot of fun, if you don’t have to try to make sense of them.”

  “Surely they’re not really mad?” Emmy asked. “I mean, not certifiable?”

  “Good Lord, no. They’re brilliant, most of them. Sir Claud is head of the Atomic Research Station at Bradwood, and Maud is positively hung around with first-class honors degrees, and Edwin is a bishop—or was, until he retired. George and Violet aren’t intellectual giants, certainly, but…”

  “They seem to be an enormous family,” said Emmy. “Do they all live here at Cregwell Grange?”

  “Oh goodness no. This is a family gathering, to vet young Julian Manning-Richards.”

  “To do what?”

  “To approve the young man before he and Maud announce their engagement officially. It’s supposed to be a secret,” Isobel added a little smugly.

  “I’m not sure I like the sound of that,” said Emmy.

  “The Manciples are eccentrics,” Isobel went on. “They follow paths of logic that other people don’t. At least, that’s what my husband says.”

  “What sort of paths of logic?”

  “Well—take this obsession about the house. That comes from the old man, of course. The Head, they used to call him.”

  “Major Manciple’s father, you mean?”

  “That’s right. He was Headmaster of Kingsmarsh. Mad as a coot. I mean, take the way he died just as an example. He would insist on driving in the middle of the road, and so did old Pringle, his solicitor. One day the two cars met, head on. Neither would give way, and—it would be funny if it weren’t tragic. They were both killed. Alec’s father was the local G.P. in those days, and he was the last person to see old Manciple alive, at the hospital. Apparently, he kept rambling on about George and the house, and Alec’s father noted it all down word for word, and wrote to tell George Manciple. Whereupon George promptly chucked up his commission in the Army and came to live he
re. I believe he and Violet would starve before they sold that ugly great house. I wouldn’t have it as a gift myself. It may seem logical to them, but,” Isobel Thompson shrugged her pretty shoulders.

  “How well did you know Raymond Mason?” Emmy asked.

  “My dear—hardly at all. He was absolutely impossible. I suppose I shouldn’t say it, now that the poor man is dead, but he was so vulgar and common. That wouldn’t have mattered if he hadn’t always been pushing himself forward, trying to gate-crash the Village. People were extraordinarily kind to him, considering, even Sir John Adamson and the Fenshires had him to dinner once or twice; I can’t think why. The only person who really seemed to like him at all was Violet Manciple, but then she’s a seraph, and she doesn’t seem to be aware at all of—well—of social distinctions. He used to have his nails manicured in a barber’s shop,” added Mrs. Thompson. It was clear that she could think of no more damning statement to make.

  “Is that so awful?” Emmy was smiling.

  Isobel said, “Do you remember, Emmy, when we were at school you were always sick when you ate bananas?”

  “What on earth has that got to do with it?”

  “Well, you used to say, ‘I like bananas, but they don’t like me.’ That’s how it was with Raymond Mason and Cregwell. He liked Cregwell, but Cregwell didn’t like him. The difference was that you had the sense to steer clear of bananas, while Mason…”

  “You mean that Cregwell…?”

  “Spewed him out,” said Isobel. “Just that. And frankly I’m not surprised.”

  “You don’t mean,” Emmy felt suddenly frightened by what she knew she must say, “you don’t mean that you know who killed him?”

  “No,” said Isobel, “I don’t. If I did, I’d tell you. But I doubt if anyone else in Cregwell would, except Violet Manciple.”

  “She can’t possibly know,” said Emmy, “or she’d have told your local police yesterday. Henry is only called in on a case like this when the local people feel that…”

  “That they can’t cope?” Isobel sounded amused.

  “I didn’t exactly mean that. But Scotland Yard has so many facilities that local forces don’t have…”

  “My dear Emmy,” said Isobel, “your husband has been called in because our Chief Constable is well aware that this case is much too close to home to be comfortable. He’s the Manciples’ nearest neighbor and one of their best friends. He knew Mason as well as anybody—and disliked him more than most. It would have been altogether too tricky for him to handle it himself.”

  “Yes,” said Emmy, “yes. I suppose it would.”

  “Anyway,” Isobel went on, “the Village is simply seething with rumors and gossip, I can assure you.” Her eyes lit up with innocent delight at the thought. “So what I propose is this: I’ll keep my ear to the ground and I’ll tell you everything. Otherwise your husband might never get to hear what people are saying. They all know who he is, you see.”

  “Well,” Emmy hesitated. Unlike her old school friend she had a rooted dislike of gossip and abominated any form of snooping. Nevertheless, what Isobel said was perfectly true. As the local doctor’s wife she was splendidly placed to pick up any whispers which were going around and they might well be useful to Henry. Emmy said, “That’ll be fine, Isobel, Thank you.”

  “I’ll enjoy it,” said Isobel frankly. “Just look in any time you’re passing and I’ll give you the latest bulletin. As for the current situation, opinion in the General Stores this morning was unanimous that George Manciple’s was the finger that pulled the trigger—although not a soul would dream of saying so to your husband. About fifty percent thought it was an accident caused by the shooting range, which they’ve always had their doubts about. The other half thought George had killed Mason deliberately, because of all the rows they’d been having recently. If it had been an accident, they said, Scotland Yard wouldn’t be here, which seemed a pretty good argument. Of this lot I’d say nine out of ten were on George’s side. So you can tell your Henry that if he decides to arrest Major Manciple, he’ll be lucky to get out of Cregwell without being lynched.”

  “Thanks,” said Emmy, “I’ll tell him.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  FRANK MASON WAS an aggressive young man with red hair, a strong jaw, and a marked Cockney accent, which he seemed to accentuate with a sort of perverse pride. He faced Henry angrily across his father’s desk in Cregwell Lodge, and said, “It’s no use coming the old pals act on me. I know who killed my old man and I demand justice!”

  “Mr. Mason,” said Henry, “I…”

  “Double-barreled fancy names,” said Frank Mason scornfully. “Think they can get away with murder. Plain bloody murder. Well, they can’t. They’ve got me to reckon with.”

  Henry began to lose patience. “If you’d just sit down, Mr. Mason, and tell me…”

  “I’ll say what I damn well like. You can’t stop me!”

  “Sit down!” said Henry. He did not speak very loudly, but his voice carried the unmistakable mark of authority.

  Mason paused, surprised. Then he sat down.

  “That’s better,” said Henry. “Now.” He took out his notebook. “Your name is Frank Mason. You are twenty-five years old and the son of the late Raymond Mason.”

  “That’s right.”

  “His only child, I believe.”

  “As far as I know.” Frank Mason seemed a little more relaxed. “The only legitimate one at any rate. My mother died ten years ago.”

  “And what is your profession. Mr. Mason?”

  For the first time Mason smiled. “Profession? None. I’m a gentleman of leisure, Inspector.”

  “You mean—you do nothing?”

  “I mean nothing of the sort. I read Philosophy at college, and now I’m writing a book: The Philosophical Theory of Xenophanes Reconsidered in the Light of Dialectic Materialism. That’s just the working title. I’m spared the irksome necessity of earning a living by the fact that I own a half-share in the firm of Raymond Mason, Turf Accountants. In fact, I even go into the office once or twice a month to watch the shekels being raked in.”

  “Let’s be accurate,” said Henry. “You used to own a half-share in the business.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Frank Mason suddenly looked thoroughly rattled.

  “Just,” said Henry, “that since your father’s death, I presume that you own the entire enterprise.”

  There was a long pause. Then Frank Mason said, almost to himself, “I never thought of that.”

  “Didn’t you?” Henry sounded skeptical. It was not the sort of thing that people generally overlook, even at the moment of bereavement. “I suppose that you are the chief beneficiary under your father’s will?”

  Mason flushed angrily. “What are you implying?”

  “I’m implying nothing. I’m asking you a question. Are you the chief beneficiary?”

  “The only one, as far as I know, and you can make what you like of it.”

  Henry made a note. Then he said, “Perhaps you’d now tell me just what you did yesterday, say, from lunchtime onward.”

  “That has nothing to do with it. I came down here to tell you…”

  “You’ll kindly tell me what I ask.”

  “Now, you listen to me…”

  Henry shut his notebook with a snap. “I’m sorry, Mr. Mason. I shall have to ask you to come to the police station.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I had hoped,” said Henry, “that we could have an informal talk here. But if you persist in your attitude…”

  “Oh, very well.” Mason slumped down behind the desk. “If I answer your fool questions, will you listen to what I have to say?”

  “Of course.”

  “All right then. Yesterday, I spent the morning working on my book at home. I live in London, as you probably know. Got a service flat, Victoria way. Went out to my local pub for lunch. Afterward, I looked in to the office to see how things were going. Left there about half-past three
and went along to the Reading Room of the British Museum to do a bit of research. Came home, via the local, getting in about half-past seven. That was when the local police got hold of me to tell me about the old man. They’d been ringing for some time, they said. No reply, of course. I told them I’d be along at once, but they said there wasn’t much point in coming down here until today. So I drove down from London this morning, and here I am. Satisfied?”

  “Yes,” said Henry. “Thank you. That seems quite straightforward. Now…” He sat back and looked at Mason. “What’s all this about knowing who killed your father?”

  “I’ll tell you, in two words: Julian Manning-Richards.”

  “That’s a very serious accusation, Mr. Mason.”

  “You bet your sweet life it is.”

  “Very well. Go on.”

  Mason frowned. He picked up a carved ivory paper knife from the desk and fiddled abstractedly with it, picking his words. He said, “My father and I weren’t very close. I’m not pretending we were. We went our own ways. I suppose I was a disappointment to him, because he wanted me to go into the business full-time. He just couldn’t understand that I preferred an academic life to making money. We disagreed about politics, too, I need hardly say. In fact, we disagreed about everything. But we agreed to disagree. We didn’t fight. D’you understand that?”

  “Yes,” said Henry.

  “We didn’t see much of each other. In fact, when he came to live down here it was more or less a complete break between us. I came down to see him once, and I was pretty sickened, I can tell you. It was pathetic. Poor old Dad, swanking around trying to be Lord of the Manor and fawning like a blasted toady all over die-hard old Fascists like Adamson. I swore I wouldn’t come again and I never have, until now.” He paused.

  Henry said. “So it’s some time since you last met your father?”

  “Well, no, not so long. The one point of contact we had, you see, was the office. The old firm. I’ve told you that I go along there every week or so and Dad used to do the same. A couple of weeks ago we happened to turn up there on the same day, and so we went out and had lunch together. We were pretty friendly so long as we didn’t see too much of each other.” There was another hesitation, and then Mason went on. “As a matter of fact, though, I soon began to suspect that Dad had found out from the office manager when I was expected and had deliberately engineered for us to meet in what would look like an accidental way. He hemmed and hawed all through the soup and fish, but it wasn’t until the coffee and brandy that he plucked up courage to come out into the open and spill the beans.”