Murder Fantastical

CHAPTER NINE

HENRY ARRIVED BACK in Cregwell barely in time to collect Emmy from The Viking and get to the Grange by one o’clock. He was a little disconcerted to see Sir John Adamson’s Daimler parked in the drive: In the circumstances, he would have preferred not to have the Chief Constable as a fellow luncheon guest.

Violet Manciple greeted Henry with her usual flustered friendliness, and in no time Emmy was being introduced into the Manciple family circle. Soon, she was borne away by Maud and Julian to meet Ramona, and Violet said to Henry, “Well, I really must get back to the kitchen, Mr. Tibbett. Oh, by the way, Aunt Dora has been asking for you all morning. I rather think she wants to give you some pamphlets.”

Henry grinned. “I wouldn’t be surprised,” he said.

“She was really impressed by your aura,” said Violet seriously. “Now, if you’ll forgive me…” She hurried off in the direction of the kitchen, and Henry found himself buttonholed by Sir Claud, who was looking, he thought, quite a lot sprightlier than he had the previous day.

“We’re off back to Bradwood after lunch,” Sir Claud said. “Duty calls, I’m afraid. Still, I hear from Vi that you’ve cleared up this business of Mason’s death. Nice work.” He took a gulp of whiskey and nodded approvingly. “That’s what I always tell my staff. Marshal your facts, draw your deductions, make your decisions.”

“It’s rather premature to say that it’s cleared up,” said Henry. “I’ve more work to do yet, and the world is full of surprises, you know.”

“It should not be,” said Sir Claud severely. “Not for the expert. Even the research worker should be relatively immune from surprises if he goes about his job systematically.”

“Your field of research is rather more precise than mine, I’m afraid,” said Henry. “I deal in human behavior, which is notoriously unpredictable.”

“Rubbish,” replied Sir Claud. “If the subject were approached from a soundly scientific angle it would be seen to conform to rules, just like any other physical phenomenon. Apparently random behavior, whether in men or in matter, is caused by the inability of the investigator to appreciate the workings of basic laws.”

Henry looked at him for a moment. Then he said, “That’s a very interesting point of view, Sir Claud.”

“What d’you mean, interesting? It’s factual, that’s all. If I mentioned to you in conversation that the sun would rise tomorrow morning, would you call that an interesting point of view? Of course not. I am forever trying to instill simple, rational thinking into my staff. You’d be surprised how many of them lack mental organization, even the most brilliant physicists among them.”

“I understand,” said Henry, “that Julian Manning-Richards will soon be joining your staff.”

“I hope so. I hope so very much. He’s a nice lad.”

“But not a physicist surely?”

“No, no. Not necessary for the position I have in mind for him — my personal assistant. What I need is a young man of sound academic training, who is one hundred percent reliable and intelligent enough to understand what I say to him; and that is precisely what Julian is.”

“You know him well then?”

Sir Claud looked surprised. “Of course I do,” he said. “He is engaged to be married to my niece.”

Just then Lady Manciple came up. “And how is your collection, Mr. Tibbett?” she asked.

“My collection?”

“Of wildflowers. I trust you have been out in the hedgerows this fine morning.”

“I’m afraid not. I’ve been working.”

“What a pity. God gives the sunshine for man to enjoy, you know.”

Sir Claud looked sharply at his wife, appeared about to say something, and then changed his mind.

Swiftly, Ramona said, “I should say — the sunshine is there to be enjoyed.”

Henry said, “And work is there to be done, unfortunately.”

“But I understood from Violet that you had — what is the phrase you people use — completed your investigations.”

“I’m afraid,” said Henry, “that Mrs. Manciple may have jumped to a too hasty conclusion. I simply told her that I thought she could safely go ahead with her plans for Saturday’s Fête…”

Lady Manciple’s face fell. “You mean, the case isn’t closed?” she asked, with obvious dismay. “But, John Adamson was only just saying…”

“What was Sir John saying?” Henry asked a little sharply.

“Well — nothing definite. I mean, he couldn’t, could he, in his position? But he quite clearly gave us the impression that there was no great cause for alarm.” Ramona Manciple’s troubled eyes searched Henry’s face with disconcerting earnestness. “Of course, violent death is all in the day’s work to you, Inspector, so perhaps you don’t realize how upsetting a thing like this is to ordinary people like us.”

Henry smiled. “I do appreciate that,” he said. “And yet, I really can’t agree that any of the Manciples are ordinary people.”

“You’re not implying that we are extra-ordinary, I hope.” Lady Manciple sounded quite annoyed.

“No, no,” Henry reassured her, “but I would say that as a family, you are quite exceptional.”

“Ah, yes. If you mean the Manciple brain, then I must agree with you. Inherited from the Head, of course. It’s a pity about George.”

“By the way, Lady Manciple,” Henry added, looking around the room, “do you happen to know where Sir John is at the moment? I saw his car in the drive, but he doesn’t seem to be here.”

“He went down to the range with George a few minutes ago,” answered Ramona promptly. “Something about having a private chat. They’ll be back for lunch. And now I intend to prise your charming wife away from Edwin. I have only had the chance of a minute’s conversation with her, but I gather that she shares my interest in wildlife…”

Left temporarily to his own devices, Henry wandered over to the open French window. Emmy, Ramona, and the Bishop were engrossed in a discussion on local flora and fauna; Sir Claud and Julian were laughing over an erudite scientific pun of some kind; Maud had gone upstairs to help Aunt Dora fix her hearing aid; Violet was in the kitchen. Nobody seemed to notice when Henry stepped quietly out into the garden.

He made his way slowly between the privet hedges to the range, deep in thought. He was convinced that he knew how, and by what agency, Raymond Mason had been killed; and according to his terms of reference his interest in the affair should be at an end. And yet — and yet, there was so much unexplained. In fact, the solution posed more questions than the original problem. And there was something wrong…

Henry’s colleagues at Scotland Yard were familiar with the intuitive streak which he himself referred to as his “nose.” Frequently it had led him to scrap all preconceived notions of a case and tackle it from a fresh angle. Frequently it had prompted him to a closer investigation of an apparently open-and-shut case to reveal something more sinister beneath the surface. And now it was operating on all cylinders, telling him urgently and unambiguously that the real mystery of Cregwell and the Manciples was yet to be unraveled, that he should not and could not go calmly back to London and forget the whole matter simply because he was convinced that Raymond Mason’s death had been caused by…

The voice was surprisingly, almost shockingly loud. It came from the other side of the privet hedge, and it said, “But why, John? Why?” The Irish intonation was unmistakably George Manciple’s.

Henry stood perfectly still. His usual distaste for eavesdropping was quite forgotten. This might be important.

After a short pause George Manciple went on. “The man didn’t like me, and I didn’t like him. That’s plain enough. But it seems to be taking things to extremes to suggest that he committed suicide on my doorstep, when it’s perfectly obvious…”

Henry heard a small rustling of leaves, as though someone were shuffling his feet uneasily. Then, gruffly, Sir John Adamson said, “I’m only telling you what Tibbett said, George. I don’t pretend to be able to explain it.”

“It wasn’t physically possible for Mason to have shot himself,” said Manciple. “Aunt Dora’s evidence…”

“You surely don’t take that seriously, George?”

“I certainly do. Aunt Dora has all her wits very much about her, I can assure you. And if he killed himself, how do you suggest that the gun got into the shrubbery?”

“Look here, George.” Sir John sounded exasperated. “I told you this because I thought you’d be pleased. Tibbett definitely said that there would be no arrest, which means either accident or suicide, and I can see no possibility of accident. So there you are. You can forget the whole thing.”

“The man was under my roof,” said George Manciple stubbornly. “Well, in my drive at any rate. It’s my bounden duty to get to the bottom of the matter.”

Sir John seemed to be making a great effort to remain calm. He said, “When you telephoned me on Friday evening, George, you suggested that I should call in Scotland Yard in order to get the most expert advice possible. I did that. The case has been investigated by no less a person than Chief Inspector Henry Tibbett. I can’t see what more you want. After all, it’s not as though the man had been a friend of yours.”

“Exactly.” George Manciple sounded triumphant, as though he had scored a telling point. “Precisely. That is why I feel an obligation.” There was a tiny pause, and then he added, “I suppose you know what they are saying in the Village?”

“I have no idea what they are saying in the Village. It doesn’t interest me.”

“It interests me,” said George briskly. “They are saying that I shot Mason accidentally from the range here. At least, that’s what the more charitable element are saying. The others — well — you can imagine. It’s not at all pleasant, John. The very least that will happen will be a strong local movement to get the Council to condemn the range, and not even Arthur Fenshire will be able to stop it. And you know how much it means to me. No, John, it’s simply not good enough for Tibbett to say he’s not going to make an arrest and then simply go off, leaving the air full of loose ends. Not good enough.”

“I simply don’t understand you, George.” Sir John sounded exasperated. “I should have thought you’d be delighted to hear that there’s to be no arrest. You surely don’t want to stir up scandal in your own family, do you?”

“And I don’t understand you, John,” replied George with spirit. “Why are you so keen to hush it all up, eh? Don’t you want to know the truth?”

Sir John sighed impatiently. “This is a useless conversation, George,” he said. “I’m sorry I ever started it. Until I receive Tibbett’s detailed report I can’t possibly make any comment.”

“Now, John, don’t come all over official on me. I’ve known you long enough to realize when you’re up to something. For some reason of your own, you’re delighted that this Scotland Yard inquiry is about to fizzle out with no publicity, no scandal, and no proper conclusion. Well, I can only tell you that it doesn’t satisfy me, and I intend to speak to Tibbett about it.”

“You have no right to do any such thing, George. Tibbett is responsible only to his superiors at the Yard, and to me.”

“We’ll see about that,” said George Manciple.

“Just because you’re afraid of losing your precious shooting range…”

Sir John was interrupted by the resonant notes of the dinner gong, which was living up to its reputation for audibility in the jungle. Very quietly Henry made his way back to the house. He found himself in entire agreement with Major Manciple, and was even more determined than ever to have a talk with Sir John at the earliest opportunity.

Luncheon followed the pattern of Saturday’s meal. After the Bishop’s Latin grace Violet Manciple dispensed large helpings of exquisite, freshly-caught salmon trout and garden vegetables, apologizing profusely for the dullness of the fare. Meanwhile, Maud and Julian handed around tumblers of home-made lemonade, which looked alarming but tasted delicious. The second course consisted of a large dish of canned peaches, which were clearly regarded by the whole family as a great treat. They caused quite a stir.

“In Bugolaland,” Edwin confided to Henry, “we always used to open a large can of peaches on Christmas day. Too hot for Christmas pudding, you see. Why, I’ve had my can of peaches carried by bearers through miles of jungle sooner than miss it for Christmas dinner. Remember, Julian?” he asked suddenly in a penetrating bass.

“Remember what, sir?” Julian, who had been listening politely to one of Ramona’s rambles, found himself caught between the fire of two Manciples.

“Peaches for Christmas dinner,” bellowed Edwin.

“Ragwort in Three-Acre Meadow,” said Lady Manciple.

Julian looked from one to the other. Then, with great aplomb. he said to Ramona, “Yes, Lady Manciple. I have noticed it.” He gave her a little bow, indicating courteously that the conversation was over. Then he turned to the Bishop with a smile and said, “In Bugolaland you mean, sir?”

“Of course,” said Edwin, “Where else would you have peaches for Christmas, eh?”

“Things are rather different now, of course, sir,” said Julian, with just the right note of respect. “I remember the tradition of peaches for Christmas when I was a child, but nowadays people tend to eat ice cream out of the deep freeze.”

“Up country,” said the Bishop. He sounded far from pleased, as though his authority had been challenged. “Up country. No deep freezes up country.”

Julian looked a little uncomfortable. “I expect you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right.” Edwin shot a disapproving look at the young man, the sort of look he might have given a curate whose chanted response was flat. Then he transferred his whole attention to his dish of canned peaches.

Violet Manciple said to Emmy, “I hear you are a friend of Isobel Thompson’s, Mrs. Tibbett.”

“Yes,” said Emmy, “that is, we were at school together.”

“A most charming woman,” said Violet, “so interested in everything that goes on in the Village.”

“A meddling little gossip,” said Aunt Dora suddenly and loudly. There was a slightly awkward pause. Then, as if afraid that she might not have been fully understood, Aunt Dora repeated, “Isobel Thompson is a meddling little gossip.”

Violet Manciple had gone as pink as a strawberry. “Do have some more peaches, Mrs. Tibbett,” she said.

Emmy, whose dish was still full, declined politely.

Edwin said to Henry in a stage whisper, “Have to forgive Aunt Dora, I’m afraid. It’s her age, y’know. Wonderful for ninety-three, when you come to think of it.”

Quite unabashed Aunt Dora turned suddenly to Sir John Adamson. “You know what I mean, don’t you, John Adamson — if anybody does.” She paused, took a drink from her glass, and then said, “This wine is very delicious, Violet. I think I will have a little more.”

“It’s not wine, Aunt Dora,” said Violet in obvious relief at the change of subject, “it’s lemonade.”

“I like a good sauterne with my dessert,” remarked Aunt Dora implacably.

“Let me get you some more, Miss Manciple.” Sir John was on his feet at once in slightly exaggerated gallantry. He picked up Aunt Dora’s empty glass and made for the side table where the lemonade stood, cool and green, in a graceful but chipped Waterford glass pitcher.

“Thank you, John,” said Aunt Dora. And then, to Sir Claud she added, “I hear that Mr. Mason’s son is in Cregwell.”

“So I believe,” replied Sir Claud. “I haven’t met him.”

“I understand he is a most unpleasant young man,” put in Lady Manciple. Once again, Henry was struck by the beauty of her deep voice. “He has been causing all sorts of trouble. I believe he is a Bolshevik.”

Sir John, who had returned to the table with Aunt Dora’s recharged glass, said, “People are being less than charitable about the young man. After all, he has a right to his political views, eccentric though they may be, and he has lost his father…”

“As if he cared,” said Julian.

“He’s delighted that old Mason is dead,” said Maud. “He hated his father, and what’s more he inherits the business.”

“Well, yes. H’r’rump.” Sir John cleared his throat noisily as he resumed his seat. “It’s normal for an only son to inherit. No need to assume that he wanted to see his father dead. Goodness me,” he went on rather more aggressively, “you might as well say that you and Maud were just waiting to bump off poor old George so that you could inherit this house. What d’you say to that, eh young man?”

Julian said nothing. He had gone very white, while Maud had flushed — more, Henry thought, from anger than embarrassment.

George Manciple looked up from his peaches and said, “Bump me off? Bump me off? Who wants to bump me off?”

“Nobody, George.” Violet sounded upset. “Really, John, the things you say. Maud, dear, would you get the cheese from the pantry? And there are some cream cookies on the shelves under the stairs…”

It was as they were all filing out of the dining room after lunch that Aunt Dora appeared to see Henry for the first time. “Ah,” she said with satisfaction, “there you are. Tibbett. Hang him from a gibbet. I have been looking for you.”

“So Mrs. Manciple told me.”

“I very much want a word with you, Mr. Tibbett.” Aunt Dora sounded positively conspiratorial. “I have some papers which I think will interest you, apropos of our conversation yesterday.”

“The — the astral appearance of animals, you mean?”

“The appearance of the astral bodies,” Aunt Dora corrected him. “There is no such thing as an astral appearance. I am a little tired now, Mr. Tibbett. I expect it was the second glass of sauterne. As you know, I never sleep in the daytime, but I think I shall put my feet up for a little while. I will see you later.”

Before Henry could reply Aunt Dora moved the switch on her hearing aid. Rendered incommunicada by the veil of high-pitched sound which resulted, she made her way slowly up the stairs.

Henry had been hoping to get an early interview with Sir John Adamson, but the latter damped his hopes by saying, as he put down his coffee cup, “I’m anxious to have a talk with you, Tibbett, but just now I have to go to Danford on urgent business. Come to my house at five, eh? Then we can talk for as long as you like.”

With this Henry had to be content. A few moments later Sir John took his leave, and the Daimler nosed its way down the drive. Sir Claud and Lady Manciple were packed and ready to go back to Bradwood, and Julian offered to drive them to the station. George Manciple was already down on the range, as the distant sound of gunfire testified. The piercing sounds of a clarinet inexpertly played left no doubt as to where the Bishop was, or what he was doing. Violet had her apron on and was clearly itching to get at the washing up. There was no possible reason why Henry and Emmy should stay any longer at Cregwell Grange.

As they drove away down the winding drive and turned into the main road Emmy said, “What marvelous people! From what Isobel said I was afraid that they’d be stage Irish and tiresome. But they’re not. They’re absolutely real.”

Henry hesitated. Then he said, “All of them?”

Emmy looked surprised. “Of course. I mean, a family like that is all of a piece, isn’t it?”

“They’re not all Manciples, remember,” said Henry. “Violet and Julian and Ramona are outsiders.”

“Oh, I know,” said Emmy. “But, it’s like skin-grafting…”

“What on earth do you mean?”

“I was reading somewhere the other day, the graft has to be from the person’s own body or else from a close relative. If the new tissue is alien the body simply rejects it.”

“You mean that the Manciple family would reject outsiders in the same way?”

“Yes, I’m sure of it. Oh, I don’t mean that they all marry blood relatives, just that a stranger who didn’t fit in wouldn’t last long. The engagement would be broken off or the marriage would go on the rocks. Of course,” Emmy added in a burst of enlightenment, “that’s what Isobel meant about Julian.”

“What about him?”

“Well, she said that the family had gathered this weekend to vet the young man. I thought it sounded dreadful — I’m afraid it prejudiced me against the lot of them. Now I understand. It’s not a question of vetting in the ordinary sense; it’s just exposing the proposed new member to the full impact of the family to see whether or not the graft takes. For instance” — there was laughter in Emmy’s voice — “you obviously took from the word go. You’d fit in at Cregwell Grange like a hand in a glove. What a pity Maud’s too young for you!”

“Don’t be an idiot,” said Henry, but he felt strangely pleased. He went on, “And how do you think Julian has fitted in?”

“Oh, beautifully. He’s not a very definite personality, but he’s obviously tremendously adaptable, which is what matters. In a year or so he’ll be more of a Manciple than the Manciples themselves. You mark my words. I think he and Maud are a wonderful couple.” Henry said nothing. Emmy looked sharply at him, and then said, “You don’t like Julian, do you?”

“Whatever makes you say that?”

“I don’t know. I can just feel it.”

“Well, you’re wrong,” said Henry. “But I will admit that I’m — I’m a bit worried about him.”

“Worried about him? Why?”

Very seriously Henry said, “I’d be worried about anybody who was engaged to Maud Manciple.”

But when Emmy began to expostulate he shut up like a clam and refused to elaborate his statement. So they drove on in silence until Henry turned to the left in the middle of the Village street.

“Oh,” said Emmy, “aren’t we going back to the pub?”

“I thought,” said Henry, “that we might visit the Thompsons.”

“Oh, yes. What a good idea.”

“I have a date with Dr. Thompson at four o’clock anyhow, and I shall be interested to meet Aunt Dora’s meddling little gossip.”

Emmy laughed. “She’s not really,” she said. “Just ordinarily feminine.”

“I wonder,” said Henry. “I have quite a respect for Aunt Dora’s judgment.”

Isobel Thompson greeted Emmy enthusiastically, but looked a little taken aback when she saw Henry.

“Oh, Inspector Tibbett. I’m so delighted to meet you, but I’m afraid Alec is still out on his rounds. He said he wasn’t expecting you until four.”

“He was quite right,” said Henry. “I’m early. I thought perhaps you wouldn’t mind if I waited for him.”

“No — no, of course not.” Mrs. Thompson sounded strangely disappointed. “Can I get you a cup of tea?”

“I’d much rather hear the latest village gossip,” said Emmy.

Isobel looked doubtfully at Henry. “I don’t really think I should,” she began.

Emmy laughed outright. “You can’t fool me, Isobel,” she said. “You are simply bursting with some lovely scandal or other. Come on, out with it. Henry won’t mind. In fact, he’s interested.”

“If you’re really sure,” said Isobel, unable to disguise the eagerness in her voice.

“Of course I’m sure,” said Emmy. “Why else did you think we came?”

“Well,” Isobel turned to Emmy, radiant at the prospect of relaying the newest tittle-tattle. “It’s about Frank Mason, the son. I suppose you know he’s in Cregwell, staying at the Lodge.”

“Yes,” said Emmy, “I’ve seen him in The Viking. Do you know him well?”

“Well? My dear, nobody in Cregwell even knew of his existence until this weekend. Raymond Mason certainly kept quiet about him, and in the circumstances I don’t blame him.”

“In what circumstances?”

“It started on Saturday, with young Mason throwing his weight around in the Village — in The Viking, at the police station, in the shops — anywhere he could get anyone to listen to him. He upset a whole lot of people.”

“Why were they upset?”

Isobel laughed. “Cregwell is the last place on earth for anyone to air violently left-wing ideas,” she said. “He started off by lunching at The Viking and telling old Alfred, the waiter, that he was an outmoded relic of a feudal society and that he should be spitting in the faces of the so-called aristocracy, instead of serving them with soup. Alfred was furious, especially when Mason told him that tipping was degrading to human dignity. Then he got hold of that nice but slightly feeble-minded girl who helps Mrs. Richards at the General Stores. Betty, her name is. He demanded to know why she didn’t belong to a union, and how many hours she worked, and if she got paid overtime. He had her in floods of tears in no time and Mrs. Richards says she literally had to drive him out of the shop; and poor Betty was so upset that she had to go and lie down.

“And that wasn’t the worst of it. Yesterday he met the Vicar on the way to church and told him that he was a Capitalist lackey pandering to the superstition of fools. And in The Viking at lunchtime he was saying quite openly to all and sundry that Maud Manciple was a degenerate debutante who had vamped his father, and that Julian Manning-Richards was an even more degenerate playboy — damned by his double-barreled name from the start, of course — who had shot Raymond Mason out of jealousy. And he accused Sir John Adamson of protecting Manning-Richards under the Old Pals Act.”

“What a pity we missed all that,” said Emmy wistfully. “We had lunch at The Viking, but we didn’t go into the bar. I don’t imagine it went down very well with the locals, did it?”

“Not at all well,” said Isobel with relish. She seemed to have quite forgotten the existence of Henry, who was lying back in an armchair with his eyes shut. “The Manciples are popular here, and everyone adores Maud — most of the Village can remember her as a little girl. As for Julian, they don’t know him well, of course, but he’s a nice-looking lad, and anyone can see that Maud is mad about him, which is quite enough to make Cregwell love him. Then, the Adamsons have lived in this part of the world for generations, and Sir John is generally respected. In fact, what with one thing and another I think Frank Mason would have been lucky to get out of Cregwell alive, the way he was carrying on yesterday.”

“You talk,” said Emmy, “as though that were all past. As though things had changed…”

“But they have!” Isobel was bubbling over with her story. “That’s what I wanted to tell you. I heard it from Miss Whitehead at the bakery. It seems her young nephew, Tom Harris, had been fishing yesterday afternoon, and in the evening, when he was coming home, he saw Frank Mason walking up through the meadows from the river. And who do you think was with him? Maud Manciple! And her boxer pup! And Miss Whitehead says that Tom says that Mason was being very attentive, obviously struck. And then, a little later, there was a terrible row in the bar of The Viking between Frank and Julian. Mabel the barmaid told me.”

“I wouldn’t call it a terrible row,” said Emmy. “They had a bit of a set-to, but…”

“You mean you were actually there?” Isobel sounded envious.

“For a bit,” said Emmy quickly.

“Well, anyhow,” Isobel went on, “it’s all around the Village now that Frank Mason has fallen for Maud in a big way, and that he’s determined to get Julian out of the way by hook or by crook. Mrs. Penfold was saying in the post office this morning that she wouldn’t be surprised if Frank tried to murder Julian, especially if he really thinks Julian killed his father. He’s obviously a violent young man. But Mrs. Rudge thinks it’s more likely that Julian will end up by attacking Frank. ‘Give him a good hiding and serve him right’ was how she put it, and there’s no doubt that most of the Village agrees with her. Then there’s another thing. Mrs. Penfold and Miss Whitehead were saying how odd it was that nobody ever heard of Frank while Raymond Mason was alive. There must have been bad blood between them, they were saying, and Frank inherits the business. It makes you think. In fact, Peggy Harris from the dairy was saying right out that Sir John ought to arrest Frank Mason.”

“A couple of days ago,” said Emmy, “everybody thought that George Manciple had killed…”

“That’s just what I mean,” said Isobel. “Everything’s changed now. I haven’t heard anybody mention George at all today. They’re all keyed up over the big fight between Frank and Julian — anyone would think it was a heavyweight championship. And…”

It was at that moment that the door opened, and a tall, thin man in his forties came in, saying, “So sorry to keep you waiting, Inspector Tibbett. Had to go out to Fairfield Farm. One of the children — nothing serious. Just flu.”

“Alec, darling,” said Isobel, “if you’d stop talking long enough to draw breath I’d introduce you to Mrs. Tibbett.”

“Delighted to meet you,” said Dr. Thompson with hardly a glance at Emmy. “Now, Tibbett, if we go into the surgery we can have a quiet chat. I have to be off again in a few minutes, I’m afraid…”

“I know how busy you must be,” said Henry. “I won’t take up much of your time…”

“That’s a good thing,” said Dr. Thompson. It was evidently not his intention to be rude. “This way.”

As he followed the Doctor into his office Henry heard Isobel Thompson saying, “And you see, the fascinating thing is that everyone knows Sir John would never dare to…”

Alec Thompson shut the door behind him, and Isobel’s voice was cut off in mid-sentence.

Thompson sat down at his desk, motioned Henry to a chair, and said, “I really don’t see that I can add anything to the post-mortem report I made to Sergeant Duckett. The man was shot from a considerable distance. Bullet entered the right temple. Death instantaneous. Must have been a pretty good shot, whoever fired the gun. Unless it was an unlucky accident, of course. Can’t rule that out. Somebody on the shooting range, for instance, who couldn’t even see Mason, didn’t even know he was there… Still, that’s not my department, of course. Well, what do you want to ask me?”

“About your father,” said Henry.

“My father?” Alec Thompson sat bolt upright in his chair and looked at Henry as though he considered him eligible for immediate admission to the nearest psychiatric ward. “My father?”

Henry grinned. “Yes,” he said. “Your father and George Manciple’s father.”

“But,” Dr. Thompson made an impatient gesture. He was obviously making an effort to be polite, and not finding it easy. “My dear Tibbett, what on earth do you want to know about them?”

“I’m not sure,” Henry admitted. “Anything you can tell me.”

Dr. Thompson looked for a moment as though he would explode. Then, apparently deciding to humor this lunatic, he said, “Well — my father attended the Head for many years. Old Manciple was always known as the Head, you know. They were never very close friends. In fact, toward the end, the Head grew suspicious even of father. Poured his medicine down the drain in case it was poisoned, spat out his pills, refused to allow himself to be examined. You know how these geriatric cases carry on. Senile decay. If it hadn’t been for Miss Dora — she used to slip the medicine into the Head’s cocoa when he wasn’t looking. The only person in the world he trusted, outside of his family, was Arthur Pringle, the solicitor, who killed him in the end, ironically enough. I don’t know what else I can tell you.”

“When you say senile — was the old man really going mad?”

Thompson hesitated. “Not certifiably,” he said at last. “He could be perfectly ordinary in his manner, that is, as ordinary as any Manciple ever manages to be. In academic matters his brain was as sharp as a razor, right to the end. What he had was a persecution complex, which is not unusual in old people. In his case, I understand, it started with the shock of his wife’s death, and grew progressively worse until he distrusted everyone, doctors in particular.”

“And yet,” said Henry, “I understand that he confided in your father on his deathbed.”

The Doctor shrugged. “Faute de mieux,” he said. “There was nobody else there. In any case I’d hardly call it confided. Apparently the old man seemed desperately anxious to contact George, and get some message to him about not selling the house and so on. My father said it was really very moving. The Head was quite a character, you know.”

“So I have gathered,” said Henry.

“And now, Tibbett, if there’s nothing else I can tell you…?”

“Pringle,” said Henry, “the solicitor.”

“Can’t help you there,” said Thompson. “The firm packed up soon after old Pringle’s death.”

“He didn’t leave a family?”

“Never married.” Alec Thompson smiled, a little wryly. “I think that’s why the Head thought so much of him. He was isolated, you see. Any secrets that Arthur Pringle may have known died with him.” He looked at his watch. “I’m really sorry, Tibbett, but…”

He was interrupted by the telephone ringing. Quickly, with an impatient movement, he picked it up. “Dr. Thompson here — Who? — Yes — Yes, of course, Mrs. Manciple — Very well, I’ll come as soon as I can — I’ve been somewhat held up this afternoon…” He gave Henry a look which was not altogether friendly. “I have a couple of urgent calls to make, and then — Yes, yes, you told me, but she has these attacks quite frequently, doesn’t she? — Yes — Just the usual pills — There’s nothing to worry about — I’ll be along later — Good-bye, Mrs. Manciple.” He rang off, and stood up. “Well, I hope I’ve been of use to you, Tibbett, but frankly I can’t think that — anyhow, you’ll have to forgive me now.”

“Was that,” Henry began. He knew that medical etiquette forbade him questioning Dr. Thompson about his telephone call, but he was very intrigued.

Dr. Thompson, too, was only too clearly familiar with medical etiquette. “Good-bye, Inspector Tibbett,” he said firmly. “So nice to have met you.” He opened the door and called out, “I’m off, Isobel. Back for supper!” Then he wound an old scarf around his thin neck, struggled into his tweed overcoat, and hurried out to his car.

Henry collected Emmy from the drawing room and drove her back to The Viking. It was time for him to go to Cregwell Manor and speak to Sir John Adamson.