Murder Fantastical

CHAPTER TEN

CREGWELL MANOR, HENRY reflected as he maneuvered his car in the drive, was everything that Cregwell Grange was not. For a start it had been built in the reign of Queen Anne, when architects understood the beauties of proportion and simplicity, whereas the Manciple family home was the brain-child of an overenthusiastic Victorian who was obviously under the influence of Balmoral Castle. To go on with, the gardens of Cregwell Manor were carefully tended with close-cropped green lawns and neat flower beds. And when the elderly white-aproned maid opened the front door in response to Henry’s ring, he stepped into a cool, orderly interior, which smelled of lavender and furniture polish. And yet, after the dominating personality of Cregwell Grange, this place was as characterless as a doll’s house. Henry was in no doubt as to which he preferred.

Sir John was waiting for him in the book-lined, leathery study. He seemed relaxed and cheerful, and insisted that Henry should take a glass of whiskey with him.

When he had poured the drinks, Sir John said, “Well, Tibbett, it’s been nice having you down here. We’ve all enjoyed it and we shall miss you. But on the other hand, nobody would want to prolong an affair of this sort. It’s most creditable that you should have cleared it up so quickly, and we’re all very grateful.” He raised his glass. “Your very good health. And let’s hope that your next visit will be longer — and unofficial.”

Henry smiled. “You’re very kind, Sir John,” he said. “Kinder than I deserve, I’m afraid.”

“Not at all. Extremely good work…”

“I mean,” said Henry, “that I shan’t be leaving Cregwell just yet.”

Sir John’s dismay was almost comic. “Not,” he began. Then he pulled himself together. “Ah, I understand. You’re staying on for a few days’ holiday, I suppose, your wife being a friend of the Thompsons’.”

“Not a holiday, Sir John. I haven’t yet finished my investigations.”

This time Sir John had himself well under control. Nevertheless, he did not sound pleased. “What an extraordinary thing, Tibbett,” he said. “You told me quite plainly on the telephone that you had solved the mystery of Mason’s death and that there would be no arrest.”

“That was perfectly true.”

“Well, then…”

“Sir John,” said Henry, “are you a betting man?”

The question clearly caught the man off balance. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said.

“Do you gamble a lot — on horses, for instance?”

Sir John had gone very red. “Well, I’m damned,” he said. “That seems rather an impertinent…”

“I’m sorry if you think I’m being impertinent, Sir John,” said Henry. “I do assure you that I wouldn’t ask the question if it weren’t important.”

“I don’t pretend to know what you’re getting at Tibbett, but if you insist — well — I have a few pounds on the Derby and the National, and so forth. Like most people. I certainly wouldn’t describe myself as a betting man.”

“You never placed bets with Raymond Mason, for example?”

There was a distinct hesitation before Sir John said, “I’ve told you, I had a small bet occasionally, and I generally put it on through Mason. After all, when one has a bookie as a next-door neighbor…”

“You never had any dealings with him before he came to Cregwell?”

Sir John looked positively shocked. “Certainly not,” he said. There was a little pause, and then he said, “When the fellow first came here, he approached quite a number of people — the Manciples, for instance, and myself — proposing that we should — in other words — not that he was exactly touting for business, but he suggested that we should open accounts with him. He said it would be simple and pleasant for us, as he was a personal friend. I happen to know that George Manciple simply laughed at him; I don’t think he or Violet have ever bet a sixpence in their lives. But in my case, I thought that it might be useful…”

“So you opened an account with Raymond Mason Ltd.?”

Again the slight hesitation. Then Sir John said, “No, no, no. Nothing so elaborate. I just contacted Mason when I wished to place a small bet. Really, Tibbett, I don’t see where this is leading.”

“I visited Mason’s London office this morning,” said Henry, “and looked at his files.”

“Then you must know that I had no account with the firm,” said Sir John with some spirit. “Why ask me, eh?”

“You had no account with Raymond Mason Ltd.,” said Henry.

“That’s what I said.”

“But you had what Mason called a private account, with him, personally.”

Sir John looked shaken, but rallied gamely. “Isn’t that just what I’ve been telling you?”

Henry said, “Sir John, I must tell you that I have inspected that account.”

There was no doubt that Sir John’s reaction was anger. “Of all the damned impudence!” he shouted. “I suppose that whippersnapper of a son…”

“Frank Mason had nothing to do with it,” said Henry. “He didn’t know I was visiting the office; and I doubt whether he knows of the existence of the private accounts.”

“Then who…?”

Henry grinned. “I dealt with a Mr. Mumford,” he said.

“A Mr. who?”

“Mumford. The general manager. I can assure you that he went to the greatest possible lengths to protect the clients of Raymond Mason, but Scotland Yard is Scotland Yard.”

“The general manager wouldn’t have known,” Sir John began, and then stopped.

“He didn’t,” said Henry. “He knew of the existence of the private accounts, but he had no key to the files. He was considerably upset when I unlocked the sacred dossiers for myself. It wasn’t very difficult; it was just a question of finding the right key from Mason’s key ring.”

To Henry’s surprise Sir John laughed. “So the guilty secret is out,” he said. “Naturally, I wasn’t keen to bruit about the Village that I had dealings with Mason — he wasn’t quite — you understand…”

“I dare say,” said Henry, “that you also didn’t want to bruit about the village the fact that you owed him three thousand pounds.”

“Three thousand…!” Sir John’s face registered blank astonishment. “What on earth do you mean?”

Henry was beginning to get a little bored. “You know very well what I mean, Sir John. I looked at your account this morning. You owed Raymond Mason three thousand pounds in unpaid gambling debts.”

“But that’s ridiculous. I owed him nothing.”

“It’s there in black and white.”

“My dear Tibbett,” Sir John replied with spirit, “I know what money I wagered, and which of my horses won or lost. I may have placed rather more bets than I led you to believe, but…” A new thought seemed to strike him. “Forged, of course,” he said. “Falsified documents. I suppose Mason thought it might give him a hold over — and what happens now? When his miserable son demands the money from me…”

“Nobody is going to demand anything from you, Sir John,” said Henry. “I have Mr. Mumford’s word that all debts from the personal files are to be written off. He said it was what Mr. Mason would have wished.”

Sir John sat down abruptly. ‘Is that so?” he said.

“It is.”

“Which puts me in an even worse position.”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“I’m not a fool, young man,” replied Sir John belligerently. “Taken at its face value, which is how you are taking it, this blasted personal account gave me a strong motive for murdering Mason. That’s what you’ve been working around to all along, isn’t it? Well, I can tell you that…”

He was interrupted by a shrill ringing from the telephone. He picked up the instrument quickly, as though glad of an excuse to end the embarrassing conversation. “Adamson speaking — Who? Oh, yes, George — what is it this time? Not another corpse, I trust…” There was a long burst of talk from the other end of the telephone, during which Sir John went beetroot red. Henry guessed that he had committed a grave gaffe of some sort. At last the flow from the other end of the line dried up to a trickle, and Sir John managed to insert a few words.

“I’m most terribly sorry, George — anything I can do — Yes, yes, poor Violet — No, not entirely unexpected, I suppose, but… Yes, one must think of it that way, but it’s always a shock. Tibbett? Yes, as a matter of fact he is with me now — Certainly I’ll tell him — Yes — yes — Well, let me know if there’s anything — Good-bye, George.”

He put down the telephone, took a large handkerchief out of his pocket, and blew his nose loudly. Then he turned to Henry.

“That was George Manciple.”

“I gathered as much,” said Henry.

“He was ringing about — to tell me — Aunt Dora is dead.”

“Aunt Dora,” Henry repeated. He felt great distress, but not very much surprise.

“Oh, nothing in your line…” Sir John, who was clearly moved, managed a half-smile. “She was ninety-three, after all; one has to expect these things. Can’t live forever. It seems she went up to her room after lunch for her usual nap. Violet had some sort of a committee meeting in the afternoon at the Grange, and so she didn’t see anything of Aunt Dora until she went up at about half-past four to see if the old lady wanted some tea. She found her in a coma. She rang Thompson at once, but he was inclined to brush it off, thought it was one of her usual attacks and said he’d call later. He got there a few minutes ago, but too late. The poor old dear was dead.”

“I’m very sorry,” said Henry lamely.

“She’ll be greatly missed,” said Sir John, “greatly.”

“I’m sure of that.”

“Oh, by the way — George says that Aunt Dora was expecting to see you this evening, something about some pamphlets. He asked me to tell you. No point in going now, of course. And the family will naturally want to be left alone…”

“I know,” said Henry. He looked and felt very unhappy. “All the same, I think I ought to go around to the Grange…”

***

Violet Manciple opened the door to Henry. Her eyes were red from recent weeping, but she managed a smile and said, “Oh, Mr. Tibbett. I thought that John had told you…”

“Yes, he did, Mrs. Manciple,” said Henry. “I want you to know how terribly sorry I am.”

“I’m glad you came,” said Violet. She opened the door wider and motioned Henry to enter. “She was so looking forward to her talk with you. She’d have been disappointed if you hadn’t come.”

“I hate to intrude on you at such a time as this…”

Violet Manciple cut him short. “No, no. It’s no intrusion, Mr. Tibbett. In any case, we don’t observe mourning in this family.”

“You don’t?”

“The Head disapproved of it. Of course, Edwin, in his position — however, at heart he agrees with the rest of us. Why, even when George’s mother died, the Head refused to have the curtains drawn or to cancel any of his appointments. He was at his desk at Kingsmarsh the next morning, just as usual.”

Henry could not help feeling that in view of Augustus Manciple’s subsequent behavior it might have been better for him to have indulged in the safety valve of public mourning. However, it was none of his business. He said, “May I see her? Aunt Dora? I’d like to — to pay my respects…”

“Certainly, Mr. Tibbett. She is in the Chapel of Rest attached to Parkins, the undertakers, in Kingsmarsh. You may go there at any time between now and the funeral on Friday.”

Henry was taken aback. “You mean — already…?”

“Oh, yes. They are very quick and efficient, you know. Dr. Thompson signed the death certificate soon after five o’clock, and I rang Parkins at once.”

Henry felt stumped. He could think of no possible reason for asking to be shown Aunt Dora’s room. He looked around him, seeking inspiration, and quite by accident his eye fell on the open kitchen door. Inside, there was considerable confusion.

Violet Manciple blushed. “Oh, please don’t look at the kitchen, Mr. Tibbett. I had no time to do the washing up after lunch, with that wretched committee meeting. And I hadn’t even made the tea when I went up to see Aunt Dora, and…” Her voice trailed off into miserable silence. Then, on a brisker note, she said, “But of course, you’ll be wanting the pamphlets.”

“Pamphlets?”

“The ones that Aunt Dora was going to give you. That’s what you came for, isn’t it? She’d have been so delighted to know that you cared enough. If you’ll just wait here, I’ll go up and get them. She had them all laid out beside her bed ready for you. I shan’t be a minute.”

Violet Manciple disappeared upstairs. Quickly Henry went into the kitchen. He had no difficulty in recognizing Aunt Dora’s special tumbler, the one which she had drunk from at lunch. It was empty, but bore traces of dried-up lemonade. The lemonade pitcher itself was also there, still half-full. Henry looked around quickly. On a shelf was a small, empty medicine bottle with a cork. He had no idea whether or not it was clean, but there was no time to worry. He poured a little lemonade into the bottle, corked it up, and slipped it into his overcoat pocket. Aunt Dora’s glass went into the other pocket. He managed to get out into the hall again before Violet returned, and then saw to his dismay that George Manciple was standing in the doorway of the study, regarding him quizzically.

Before Henry could say a word, George said, “So you came after all. I thought you might.”

Henry murmured some words of sympathy, which George ignored. Abruptly he said, “I won’t ask what you were doing in the kitchen. That’s your business. I only ask you not to distress Violet more than is necessary. This isn’t an easy time for her, and there’s the Fête on Saturday.”

“You’ll surely cancel it?”

“Certainly not. Didn’t Vi tell you? The Head never approved of mourning. Everything will go on just as usual. Ah, here’s Vi,” George Manciple withdrew into his study, like a snail into its shell, as his wife came around the bend of the stairway.

“I hope I’ve found everything, Mr. Tibbett,” she said. She was carrying a bulky bundle of printed papers.

Henry took them from her quickly and bundled them into his briefcase. “I’m sure you have, Mrs. Manciple — so kind of you. No, no, please don’t bother. I’ll see myself out…” Aunt Dora’s tumbler was rattling against Henry’s pipe in his overcoat pocket, but mercifully Violet Manciple did not seem to notice it. As fast as he decently could, Henry got out through the front door and into his car.

He drove first to Dr. Thompson’s house, where, as he had expected, he was considerably less than welcome. A young girl in a white apron, whom Henry had not seen before, informed him in a bad-tempered East Anglian accent that the Doctor and Mrs. Thompson were sitting down to their supper and weren’t to be disturbed. Emergencies were to telephone Dr. Brent in Lower Cregwell. The doctor was having an evening off.

It took quite some time for Henry to convince this watchdog that while he was an emergency in his case Dr. Brent would be no substitute for Dr. Thompson. In fact, the girl was still looking extremely doubtful when a door opened, presumably from the dining room, and Isobel Thompson came out looking cross.

“Whatever is the matter, Mary?” she said. “I’ve rung three times and…” At that moment she saw Henry. “Oh,” she said without enthusiasm. “it’s you.”

“Yes, Mrs. Thompson. I’m sorry to disturb you, but I must see your husband for a moment. I promise it won’t take long.”

“Oh, honestly. Can’t we have a moment’s peace? This is the first free evening Alec’s had for…”

“I’m really sorry, but this is important.”

“What on earth’s going on out there, Isobel?” Dr. Thompson, napkin in hand, joined them in the hall.

“He says he’s got to see you. It’s not my fault.” Isobel Thompson turned on her heel and went back into the dining room. The girl called Mary slipped off into the kitchen.

Henry said, “You signed a death certificate this evening for Miss Dora Manciple.”

“That’s right. Any objection?”

“Only that I’d like to know the cause of death.”

Alec Thompson smiled. “My dear Tibbett,” he said, “she was ninety-three.”

“I know she was, but even people of that age don’t die for no reason at all.”

“Certainly they don’t. The cause was heart failure. She’d had a weak heart for some time. Just a question of wear and tear.”

“Did you actually examine her?”

Alec Thompson began to show signs of impatience. “Look here, Tibbett, you were with me in my office when Violet Manciple telephoned. Aunt Dora had had one of her attacks. You heard me telling her to give her the pills I’d prescribed…”

“If this was an ordinary attack, why did Mrs. Manciple phone you?”

Dr. Thompson made an impatient movement with his table napkin. “I suppose it was rather more severe than usual. Slightly different symptoms, apparently. I got around there as soon as I could, after I’d dealt with a more urgent call. But the old lady was already dead. Clearly from heart failure. Anybody could see that.”

“I see,” said Henry. “Well, that’s all. Thank you.”

This time Dr. Thompson was really indignant. “You mean to say that you came around here at this hour, interrupting our meal, just to…?”

“I had to know, you see,” said Henry, and beat a hasty retreat.

From the Doctor’s house Henry drove to the police station. Sergeant Duckett greeted him with warm friendliness and a tepid cup of tea, and eavesdropped with unconcealed curiosity while Henry telephoned to Inspector Robinson at Kingsmarsh. The latter agreed, with professional lack of emotion, to send a car to Cregwell in order to pick up a drinking glass and a small bottle of liquid for analysis in the laboratory.

As Henry rang off Sergeant Duckett said, with elaborate casualness, “That’ud be a drinking glass from Cregwell Lodge, I imagine, sir? Property of the late Mr. Mason.”

“No,” said Henry, “not from Cregwell Lodge.” He brought the glass and medicine bottle out of his pockets and laid them on the table. “Perhaps you could wrap these up carefully, Sergeant, and give them to the driver from Kingsmarsh when he arrives.”

“Yes, sir.” Duckett eyed the two objects with almost pathetic eagerness. Then, with the air of one who has had a brainwave, he said, “I’d better label them, hadn’t I, sir? Just in case of accidents.”

“Yes,” said Henry, “you’d better.”

Licking his lips, the Sergeant picked up a pen and opened a book of stick-on labels. He looked hopefully at Henry.

“Just put for chemical analysis — Chief Inspector Tibbett.”

Duckett’s disappointment was heart-rending. “No more than that, sir?”

“That’s all,” said Henry firmly. He stood up. “I’m off back to The Viking now, Sergeant. Ring me there if any news comes through.”

Emmy was waiting for Henry in the bar, drinking light ale and complaining of acute hunger. “Did you have to stay so long with Sir John?” she asked plaintively.

“I haven’t been with Sir John,” said Henry. “Not since before six. I’ve been at the Grange. Aunt Dora died this evening.”

Instantly Emmy’s mood changed. “Died? Oh, Henry, how dreadful. She seemed so well at lunchtime.”

“I know,” said Henry gloomily.

“Goodness, I am sorry,” said Emmy. “Poor Mrs. Manciple. First Raymond Mason and now this. Although I suppose it was only to be expected…”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, she was over ninety…”

Henry nodded abstractedly. “I know,” he said. And after a pause, “That’s what everyone will say.”

“Henry.” Emmy put down her glass. “You don’t mean…”

“I don’t know,” said Henry. He suddenly felt very tired. “I really don’t know.” He smiled at Emmy. “It’s my wretched nose again.”

“But,” Emmy glanced quickly around the bar. Apart from two tweedy men who were discussing pig-breeding in loud voices at the far end of the room, they were alone. Nevertheless, she lowered her voice as she said, “If Aunt Dora’s death was — not natural — then it must mean that Raymond Mason’s wasn’t either.”

“We know it wasn’t, darling. He was shot.”

“Yes, but you thought it was an accident, I know you did. Now you don’t think so. You think he was murdered, and you think Aunt Dora has been killed because she knew too much.”

There was a long pause. Then Henry said, “I’m afraid that may be true. Or at least partly true. I hope to God it isn’t. Now, let’s go and persuade the outmoded relic of a feudal society to give us something to eat.”

It was two hours later, when the Tibbetts had dined, taken a final drink in the bar, and climbed the uneven staircase to their room that Henry opened his brief case and took out the sheaf of papers which Mrs. Manciple had given him. He laid them out on the dressing table, pulled up a chair, and began to study them carefully.

“What on earth have you got there?” Emmy, on her way to the bathroom in a white terry cloth dressing-gown, paused to look over his shoulder.

“Aunt Dora’s pamphlets,” replied Henry.

“Psychic manifestations in the Animal Kingdom,” Emmy read. “Auras and Emanations, Testimony of a Spirit Guide Dog — surely you don’t think you’ll find any clues there, do you? The poor old dear was obviously a bit of a crank about spiritualism.”

“I don’t know what I shall find,” said Henry, “but I know I must look for it. Go and have your bath.”

Aunt Dora had assembled an odd assortment of literature for Henry’s benefit. Long after Emmy was in bed and asleep, he was still wading dutifully through the pronouncements of a Red Indian spirit guide, as revealed to a lady in Ealing, concerning the reincarnation of human spirits as animals, and vice-versa. He was interested to see that Aunt Dora had underlined several passages in purple ink. One of them read, “The individual human being, as we know him, is not always responsible for his actions in an environment of limited space-time dimensions (i.e. the physical world); he may be driven inevitably to self-destruction by pressures built up in a previous incarnation.” Another underlined passage read: “Human action is always explicable, but only when all the circumstances are known. This is why it is sheer folly to attempt to live life, let alone interpret it, without the aid of the Spirit World.” This struck Henry as curiously similar to Sir Claud’s sentiments about human behavior, although he felt certain that the latter would look to scientific rather than supra-natural aid when it came to determining causes.

Other underlined extracts concerned, respectively, a tortoiseshell cat named Minette, who had twice been seen by her owners after her death, each time apparently trying to raid the larder; and a chestnut gelding who had persistently refused to pass the spot where his mother had been killed in a hunting accident, even though he himself had been far away at the time of the disaster. This last story, inevitably, originated in Ireland.

The pamphlets, however, were not the only things that Violet Manciple had found beside Aunt Dora’s bed. There were several yellowing copies of the Bugolaland Times, dating variously from two decades earlier to the final number of the previous year, with its banner headline “INDEPENDENCE!”. Beside this, Aunt Dora had written: “Poor things. May God bless them!”

A marked paragraph in a year-old paper recorded the retirement, for health reasons, of The Right Rev. Bishop Edwin Manciple, dearly beloved by the people of Bugolaland irrespective of race or creed. The twenty-year-old newspaper appeared at first to have no raison d’être in the collection, until Henry noticed a small paragraph, unmarked by Aunt Dora’s pen, which recorded the tragic deaths of Mr. Anthony Manning-Richards and his family, when their car plunged over a precipice while negotiating the notorious Okwabe Pass in East Bugolaland. The paper recalled that Mr. Manning-Richards was the son of Mr. Humphrey Manning-Richards, who until his recent death had been a well-known figure in Bugolaland.

Henry found it hard to believe that Aunt Dora had really intended these ancient snippets for his consumption; remembering the sentimental story related by Edwin, he felt that it was more likely that the old lady had kept them as souvenirs of her unfulfilled romance. The very last item in the pile of papers, however, interested him considerably, and he would have given a great deal to know whether it was part of Aunt Dora’s regular bedside reading or whether it had been put out especially for him.

It consisted of several sheets of writing paper, held together with a rusting pin. The text was written in Aunt Dora’s characteristic hand, but the purple ink had faded with the years. The writing was that of a vigorous woman in middle age.

The superscription ran as follows: This is a copy of the letter written by Dr. Walter Thompson of Cregwell to my nephew, George Manciple, on the occasion of the death of his father, my brother Augustus Manciple, M.A. Below this, in a shakier but more recent hand, Aunt Dora had written: In the event of my death, I would like my Great-Niece, Maud Manciple, to be handed this letter so that she may be in no doubt of her Grandfather’s last wishes.

Much intrigued, Henry turned to the document itself. It was headed by the address of the house in Cregwell where Dr. Alec Thompson now lived and practiced, and dated fifteen years previously. It ran as follows:

Dear Manciple,

You will have heard by now the tragic news of your father’s accident and death. I do not need to tell you how sincere is my sympathy at your bereavement. I can do no more than extend my deepest commiserations to you and to Mrs. Manciple.

As you may know, I had the melancholy duty of attending to your father during his last hours, and there can be no doubt that he was anxious to communicate certain things to you. Since his speech was imprecise, I am writing down this account while the incident is still fresh in my mind, so that you may have the best possible opportunity of judging what were The Head’s last wishes.

He was unconscious when brought in to the hospital at midday, but recovered consciousness soon after 3 P.M., while I was actually in his room. His first thought, typically, was for his old friend Arthur Pringle. He said the word accident several times, with increasing vigor, and then, “How’s Pringle?”

Arthur Pringle was, of course, already dead — he had been killed outright — but I felt that it would do no good to tell your father this sad news, and so I prevaricated, saying something about his being gravely injured. At this, Mr. Manciple said sharply, “Will he live?” And when I hesitated in my reply, he said, “Don’t try to fool me, Thompson. He’s dead, isn’t he?” I am afraid that your father was always too clever and perceptive for me. I was compelled to admit the truth.

The news clearly upset Mr. Manciple greatly. He repeated the words dead and Pringle several times, lying with his eyes closed. I had the impression that he was concentrating — I have seen the same look on his face when he was wrestling with a crossword puzzle. He was also losing strength rapidly, more rapidly, perhaps, than he realized. Next he opened his eyes, looked at me, and said, “Thompson.”

“Yes, Mr. Manciple?” I replied. “Send all these people away,” he said. “Want to talk to you.” There was nobody else in the room except the nurse, but I asked her to wait outside. Then Mr. Manciple said, “George. Tell George. Most important. Must tell George.”

I pointed out as gently as I could that you were half the world away. He seemed irritated at this, and said, “I know. I know. Must tell George.” The effort of irritation seemed to have tired him, for there was quite a long silence after that. Then, more feebly, he said, “Tell George — Thompson tell George — my home — my home…”

“What about your home?” I asked.

“Never sell the house,” he said quite strongly. “Never — tell George — my home…” He was very weak by then, and there was another long silence. His breathing became labored, and he murmured, “Ill — sick…,” several times.

As cheerily as I could, I said, “Certainly you’re sick, Mr. Manciple, but we’ll soon have you as right as rain.” At that he opened his eyes wide and looked straight at me. In a loud, clear voice, he said, “You always were a bloody fool, Thompson,” and then, as if the effort had been too much for him, he lapsed into a coma and did not recover consciousness again. He died at 4:37 P.M. I need hardly say that I was deeply moved by the whole incident, and not least by his dying words.

I am sure that I am speaking for all Cregwell when I say that we sincerely hope to see you and Mrs. Manciple home again soon and taking over the reins of Cregwell Grange. There can be no doubt that this was your father’s dearest wish.

With my deepest sympathy,

Yours sincerely,

Walter Thompson

Henry read this document over several times. From the bed Emmy’s sleep-heavy voice murmured, “Aren’t you ever coming to bed?”

Henry stood up. “I’ve got a crazy idea,” he said. “It just could be right.”

“And if it is, all the mysteries will be solved…” Emmy was more than half-asleep.

“Oh no,” said Henry cheerfully.

“What do you mean?”

“One mystery will be solved, and another will be insoluble.”

“Oh, shut up,” said Emmy. She turned over on her face and went to sleep.