Murder Fantastical

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 creature. 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 runs 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.

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 here. 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.”