Murder Fantastical

by Patricia Moyes

  “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.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE TELEPHONE CALL from Kingsmarsh came at eight o’clock on the following morning, when Henry had just finished his cup of tea and was gazing at his lathered face in the mirror, preparatory to attacking it with a razor. Quickly he rinsed away the soap, put on his dressing gown, and went downstairs to the phone booth.

  In a voice carefully devoid of any curiosity Sergeant Duckett read out the result of laboratory analyses. The contents of the medicine bottle and the dried-up residue left on Aunt Dora’s glass were identical: both consisted of lemon juice, sugar, and water, together with a small amount of barbituric acid of the type normally used in sleeping pills. Nothing else. Henry thanked the Sergeant gravely and hung up.

  Upstairs again he reapplied the lather with unusual vigor.

  “In a hurry?” Emmy asked. She was propped up against the pillows reading her morning newspaper.

  “Yes. I think I’m on to something.”

  “Because of your phone call?”

  “No, no. Because of Aunt Dora.”

  “I give up,” said Emmy. “When shall I see you?”

  “For lunch here,” said Henry, “that is, as far as I know. I really can’t say. I just hope I’m not too late.”

  “For what?” Emmy asked, but he had gone.

  Henry’s first call was on Dr. Thompson, who was in the middle of his morning office hours and made no secret of the fact that visitors were not welcome. However, he answered the questions which Henry posed and agreed to take certain actions. Henry thanked him, sent his best wishes to Mrs. Thompson, and proceeded on his way to his next port of call.

  Cregwell Lodge looked even more hostile than the Doctor’s office. The curtains were tightly drawn and the doors bolted. However, in response to Henry’s prolonged pealing on the front doorbell, Frank Mason finally appeared, unshaven and yawning in a camel’s hair dressing gown, and obviously suffering from a bad cold.

  “Wha’d’yar want?” he asked, ungraciously, and proceeded to have a fit of coughing.

  “A look around the Lodge,” said Henry.

  “Gotta warrant?”

  “No. But I can get one.”

  “Thought you’d been through the place with a fine-tooth comb already,” grumbled Frank, but he led the way into the study. “Like a cuppa coffee?”

  “Thanks, I’d love one,” said Henry.

  “Back in a tic,” said Mason. He blew his nose loudly, and shambled off toward the kitchen.

  The study was, at first glance, exactly as it had been when Henry inspected it two days before; but, as he started to look more closely, it became clear that there was a difference. Somebody had made a thorough investigation of the room.

  Henry went first to the bookshelves. The leather-bound volumes had clearly been taken down from the shelves, for they were out of order and some of them were upside down. It was as though somebody had pulled them wholesale out of the shelves, perhaps searching for something behind them, and had then made a not-very-successful attempt to put them back in their right order.

  The desk, too, showed signs of a hasty search, and the small diary which had interested Henry on his last visit was nowhere to be seen. Henry did not waste any more time on the room itself, but went and sat down in an armchair. He had his pipe going nicely when Frank Mason came back with two cups of coffee on a tray.

  Henry said, ‘Well, did you find it?”

  Frank started so that some of the coffee spilled into the saucers. He did not answer, but put the tray down carefully and disappeared into the kitchen again. A few seconds later he came back with a box of crackers and a cloth with which he wiped up the spilled coffee. Then he handed a cup to Henry and said, “Cracker?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “They’re not bad. Sugar?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Frank
Mason helped himself to sugar, took a cracker, coughed raucously, sat down opposite Henry, and drank some coffee. Then he said, “Find what?”

  Henry indicated the desk and bookcase with the merest twitch of his eyebrows. “Whatever you were looking for.”

  “I wasn’t looking for anything.”

  “Really? Then who was?”

  “I don’t understand you.”

  “Oh, don’t be silly,” said Henry. “Somebody has been searching this room for something, and I don’t imagine you’d allow an outsider to do that without your permission.”

  “You mean, somebody has been searching here?” Mason’s tone of shocked surprise was almost entirely convincing.

  “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed?”

  “Noticed what?”

  “The books, for one thing,” said Henry. He took a drink of coffee. “Somebody has had most of them out of their shelves.”

  “What on earth for?”

  Henry looked quizzically at Mason’s apparently innocent young face. “Don’t you know?”

  Deliberately or not, Mason dodged this question. Instead, his expression began to take on its normal look of explosive anger, and he said, “There’s only one person who’d want to come poking around in here, and that’s the person who killed my father!”

  “Or so it would appear,” said Henry. “And what about the gun?”

  Frank Mason flushed a dark, angry red, “What gun?”

  “The gun in the attic,” said Henry patiently. “Major Manciple’s gun. Is it still there?”

  There was a moment of baffled silence. Then Mason said, “That’s like asking a man whether he’s stopped beating his wife. Whatever I answer is going to be wrong.”

  “You knew it was there, of course?”

  Mason said nothing.

  “You probably found it when you were looking for something else,” said Henry persuasively. “Quite by accident, I mean.”