Murder Fantastical

by Patricia Moyes

  There was a silence, and then Sir John said, “Are you sure of all this, Tibbett?”

  “As sure as I can be. I found the remains of Mason’s booby trap in the cloakroom, even though it had been tidied up quite innocently by Mrs. Manciple—she’s used to clearing up the mess that the Major makes in there with his traps and tennis balls. The shot was definitely fired through that window, and nobody was or could have been in there at the time. Mason had only just come out, and the only two people in the house were Mrs. Manciple and the Bishop. She was in the hall, telephoning to her grocer and in full view of the cloakroom door; and the Bishop was upstairs, and came down immediately after the shot had been fired.”

  “So Violet herself was the only person who could have fired the shot deliberately, was she?” said Sir John.

  “I suppose that would have been just possible, but very far-fetched,” said Henry. “I’ve checked with Mr. Rigley, the grocer, and he confirms that she was speaking to him when she suddenly said she must ring off as her aunt was calling her. Of course, he can’t pin down the time to within a couple of minutes, but, in any case, she still had the telephone in her hand when the Bishop came downstairs.”

  “So that’s that.” Sir John sighed with unambiguous relief. “All over and done with. Just an accident, the result of a stupid trick which misfired. Literally. No mystery, after all.”

  “On the contrary,” said Henry.

  “What do you mean?”

  “There are two mysteries,” said Henry, “which may or may not be connected. The first is why was Raymond Mason so keen on buying Cregwell Grange? The second, who killed Dora Manciple, and why?”

  Sir John made a small, impatient gesture. “I’ve told you. Mason wanted to join the ranks of the landed gentry. The man was nothing more nor less than a jumped-up nouveau-riche…”

  “I wonder,” said Henry, “just how rich he was.”

  “How rich?” Sir John laughed shortly. “Rolling in money.”

  There was a short pause and then Henry said, “Did you ever pay him any gambling debts, Sir John?”

  “I—I just happened to be lucky in my few little flutters.”

  “Yet you owed Mason three thousand pounds.”

  “So you said before, and I say that it’s a monstrous lie. I have never dreamed of gambling in that sort of money. And in any case, if I had owed Mason money, why did he never ask for it?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know,” said Henry. He leaned forward. “Look here, Sir John. I know this is a painful subject for you, but I must get to the bottom of it. You’re not the only person to have had one of these special accounts, you know, and I want to know how they were worked. It may be important.” He paused. “You say you’re not a great betting man, but surely you take enough interest to know how much money you’ve staked, and whether or not the horse has won and at what odds. You must know your position with Mason, at least approximately. Or else the files that he kept must be complete works of fiction.”

  There was a long silence. Sir John lit his pipe with a great deal of unnecessary attention to detail. At last he said, “Well, Tibbett, it was like this. Mason was in a position to get the very best inside information—red-hot tips from trainers and owners and so forth. Very often at the last moment. Of course, occasionally I would fancy a horse very strongly and I’d put a few pounds on him, win or lose. But more often than not, Mason would telephone me and say that he expected to have some good things for a certain meeting that day. ‘Just tell me how much you’re prepared to stake,’ he’d say. ‘Ten, twenty, fifty pounds? You name it. Then trust me to invest it right for you. I’m guaranteeing nothing, of course, but I think I can say you’re not likely to lose.’ ”

  “And you didn’t?”

  “Once or twice I’d be a couple of pounds down, but more often he’d do extremely well for me. He’d come along the next day with my winnings in cash, anything up to a couple of hundred. Naturally, he always gave me a full account of which horses he’d backed for me, the odds, and so on.”

  “I see,” said Henry. “And what did you do in return?”

  “In return? I don’t know what you mean, Tibbett. Nothing whatsoever. It was a perfectly straightforward business arrangement.”

  “Except, of course, that you felt in honor bound to invite him to dinner, and to introduce him to…”

  “He was a neighbor,” said Sir John in furious embarrassment. “Couldn’t be rude.”

  “All the same, without that inducement I don’t believe you’d have allowed him to set foot inside your house. By the way, did you keep a record of these transactions, which horses he’d backed for you?”

  “Good Lord, no. Why should I? It was all perfectly simple and innocent.”

  Henry sighed. “It was all perfectly simple and innocent from your point of view, Sir John,” he said. “I don’t doubt that. The fact remains that Mason wasn’t a simple or innocent person. He told you one story, and he gave you money. In his office, on the other hand, he kept a file which showed a very different picture—that you had lost heavily and owed him a considerable sum. If it had come to a showdown, you’d have been in a very awkward position indeed. Your unsupported word against Mason’s records kept in black and white. And I know that there are some people who regard unpaid gaming debts as even more shameful than unpaid bills. I’ve never been able to understand why, but there it is.”

  “You’re not suggesting that he would have blackmailed me?” Sir John was outraged.

  “Indeed he would have, if it had been to his advantage,” said Henry equably. “As a matter of fact, I doubt if he ever did put the pressure on in that way, although of course I shall try to check up. I think myself that all his private customers played along very nicely. He was prepared to pay handsomely for the privilege of dining in the right houses and sitting on the right committees. But it must have cost him a great deal of money.”

  “What do you mean, cost him? Those were winnings that he paid out.”

  “So he said. It’s easy to know after a race which horse won, and to claim that you staked money on it. My guess is that he simply dug into his firm’s bank account and wrote it off as general expenses. I dare say he could have done with some extra money. No wonder he was so keen to buy Cregwell Grange.”

  “That would hardly have put money in his pocket. Gracious me, Tibbett, he offered George Manciple a ridiculous price for the house, far more than it was worth. And then he’d have had endless expenses, putting the place to rights. Quite honestly, in my opinion Cregwell Grange is more of a liability than an asset.”

  “Ah,” said Henry, “that’s where you are wrong. Cregwell Grange is a very valuable property.”

  “Valuable?”

  “If you know where to look.”

  “And where is that?”

  “I don’t know,” Henry admitted. “By the way, Sir John, did you ever borrow any books from Mason?”

  “Books?” Sir John sounded shocked. “Books? Certainly not. What would I want with the sort of pornographic rubbish that a man like Mason would have in his house?”

  “He has a lot of the Manciple books, mostly classical.”

  “If you think, Tibbett, that I settle down after a hard day’s work to read Greek and Latin in the originals, you are very sadly mistaken.” Sir John’s irony was elephantine.

  “Oh well,” said Henry, “it must be somewhere.”

  “What must be?”

  “Homer’s Iliad, Book Six.”

  Sir John looked at Henry with grave misgivings. Then he said, “If I were you, Tibbett, I’d go back to The Viking and put your feet up. You’ve had a tiring time with this case, we all understand that, and then you’ve been spending a lot of time at the Grange. Nothing against the Manciples, of course, but not what you would call a balanced family. And these things can be contagious.” He cleared his throat. “Your reconstruction of the circumstances of Mason’s death seems to me to be masterly. Really masterly. I presume that you’ll submit your
official report tomorrow, and that will be that. As for the other matters—well—I think you’ll find that after a good night’s sleep they fall into proper perspective. Anybody may mislay a bottle of sleeping pills. I dare say Lady Manciple will have found them by tomorrow.”

  “There is also a gun missing,” Henry reminded him.

  “An unloaded gun, as you told me yourself,” said Sir John. “I expect young Mason just forgot where he had put it. It’ll be back in Manciple’s armory by tomorrow, you mark my words.” He stood up and held out his hand. “Most interesting and stimulating experience, working with you, Tibbett. Can’t thank you enough. Most satisfactory outcome to a nasty affair. Good-bye, then. Hope you’ll come and see us again in happier circumstances.”

  “Good-bye, Sir John,” said Henry. He shook hands and walked out to his car; as he did so he rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, a gesture which always indicated that he was worried about something. In this case it was the fact that he would almost certainly have to apply for a warrant to search the Chief Constable’s house, and he was far from enthusiastic at the prospect.

  “Ah well,” he said to himself as he drove back to The Viking, “perhaps it won’t be necessary. Perhaps I’ll find what I’m looking for elsewhere.”

  At the Inn, Henry was greeted by Mabel, the barmaid. She wondered, she said, whether Mr. Tibbett would like his bill now or in the morning.

  “My bill?” said Henry surprised.

  “Well, you’ll be going tomorrow, won’t you? You and Mrs. Tibbett?”

  “What makes you think that?”

  Mabel went a little pink and prevaricated. It soon became obvious, however, that Village gossip had established that the case of Raymond Mason was closed, and that the Scotland Yard gentleman would be leaving.

  Henry grinned. “Sorry to disappoint you, Mabel,” he said, “we’re staying.”

  “Staying?”

  “For several days at least. Until the end of the week.”

  Enlightenment dawned on Mabel’s plump face. “Ah, you’ll be here for Miss Dora’s funeral I expect. Friday.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you wouldn’t want to miss the Fête, Saturday.”

  “I certainly wouldn’t,” said Henry.

  The next morning, Wednesday, Henry decided to step up his search for the missing objects which were so much on his mind: the sleeping pills, the gun, and—an incongruous third—Homer’s Iliad, Book Six, in the original Greek.

  He found the family at Cregwell Grange only too willing to co-operate. They were all subdued and distressed over Aunt Dora’s death and the mystery surrounding it; more shocked, Henry felt, at the idea of the post-mortem examination itself than at its findings.

  Edwin and George were both of the opinion, which they stated several times over, that Aunt Dora would have been perfectly capable of taking the pills herself in mistake for something else. They could not, however, explain what she had mistaken them for or what had become of the bottle. Maud and Julian both offered to help Henry in his searching of the house, an offer which he was regretfully compelled to turn down. George Manciple confirmed his original statement about the disappearance of the gun, and nobody could add anything useful to it. George and Violet both declared emphatically that if Volumes I, II, IV, V, and VI of the Head’s Homer had been sold to Mason, then Volume III would certainly have been with them. No sets were split up, and all were complete when Mason bought them. He refused to buy any incomplete sets. None of the family put forward the smallest objection to the house being thoroughly searched.

  So Henry and Sergeant Duckett spent a weary and fruitless morning wading knee-deep through the accumulated bric-a-brac of a large family house. They got very tired, filthy, and disgruntled. They found nothing.

  In the afternoon Henry and the Sergeant transferred their attention to the Doctor’s house. Neither Dr. Thompson nor his wife were at all pleased about this, and Henry felt reasonably certain that even the memory of mutual schooldays would not be sufficient to save Emmy’s friendship with Isobel, which was a pity, because he found absolutely nothing of interest in the house.

  Once again Henry found himself face to face with the unpleasant prospect of searching Cregwell Manor, and he could not believe that he would be accorded the same good-natured co-operation by Sir John Adamson that he had been given by everybody at the Grange. After all, when a Chief Constable exercises his privilege of calling in Scotland Yard to help with an investigation, he seldom assumes he will be on the receiving end of it himself.

  Henry, however, was not easily intimidated, for all his apparent mildness; and it was not cowardice but close reasoning that made him decide to postpone his visit to Cregwell Manor for the moment and to start on the following day, Thursday, with further talks with certain members of the Manciple family. In the quiet, almost literally funereal atmosphere of Cregwell Grange, he counted on being able to talk at length and in tranquility with people who could help him.

  Consequently, when Henry drove up the winding drive to the Grange at a quarter past nine on Thursday morning, he was surprised and not over-pleased to see that he was not the first visitor. Several cars were parked in the drive, and he was able to identify Dr. Thompson’s among them. Henry felt a twinge of worry. What had happened? Had somebody else at the Grange been taken ill? Or even…

  He parked his car quickly and got out. The front door stood open and before Henry could reach it, the Doctor came hurrying out. He looked anxious.

  “What…?” Henry began.

  “Sorry. Can’t stop. Urgent.” The Doctor opened the door of his car and took out what appeared to be an old pillowcase stuffed with bulky objects. Carrying this in his arms—it seemed to be heavy—he hurried into the house again. Henry followed him, only to collide in the doorway with a stout lady whom he identified as Mrs. Richards, proprietress of the General Stores.

  “Pardon,” said Mrs. Richards. “Didn’t see you. Have you come about the lemonade?”

  “In a way,” said Henry.

  “Poisonous stuff,” said Mrs. Richards severely. “We don’t want that again.”

  “I quite agree,” said Henry.

  “Well, I hope you’ll see to it. Several people were sick last time.” Mrs. Richards bustled out into the drive and got into one of the cars. From the depths of the house Violet Manciple’s voice called, “Jumble in the study!”

  A figure loomed up in the doorway behind Henry. He turned to see Sir John Adamson framed against the sunshine outside. He was carrying a large box and he called out, on a note of interrogation, “Jams and jellies?”

  Like a jack-in-the-box Maud appeared at a run from the cloak room.

  “Dining room bottled fruit, drawing room jams and jellies, jumble in the study,” she said, and then to Henry, “Hello. What do you want?”

  She had gone before Henry could reply, and her place was taken by Edwin Manciple, who came out of the drawing room saying, “Harry Penfold wants to know what to do with the Lucky Dip.”

  “Excuse me, Tibbett,” said Sir John, pushing past Henry. “Got six more boxes in the car.” He disappeared into the drawing room.

  Violet Manciple appeared at the kitchen door. “Lucky Dip in the garage, Hoop-la in the morning room,” she said briskly, and retreated into the kitchen again.

  Dr. Thompson came out of the study empty-handed. “One more lot,” he remarked cheerfully as he made his way out to his car.

  Behind Henry, Julian Manning-Richards came into the hall carrying a large, fully-charged sack. “Lucky Dip?” he asked.

  “In the garage,” said Henry.

  “Thanks,” said Julian. He went out through the back door.

  Mabel and Alfred from The Viking arrived together, each carrying a bulky load. “Home-made jam?” Mabel asked.

  “Drawing room,” said Henry.

  “Ta.”

  “Jumble?” queried Alfred.

  “In the study.” Henry began to feel as though he were on point duty.
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br />   “And get a move on, Alfred,” remarked Dr. Thompson. He had come in from the car with another pillowcase full. “This is my last lot.” To Henry, he said, “Tell Violet that Isobel will be along later with the bottled fruit.”

  Behind Henry a throat was cleared noisily, and Frank Mason said, “I’ve brought some jumble. Do you know where…?”

  Maud came down the stairs. “Jumble in the study.” she said.

  “Oh, Miss Manciple—I wondered…”

  “In the study,” said Maud heartlessly. “Anybody seen the Vicar?”

  “He rang up,” Violet called from the kitchen. “His car’s broken down.”

  “Would you like me to go and fetch him?” asked Frank Mason eagerly.

  “Have you got a car?” Maud showed a glimmer of interest for the first time.

  “Yes, of course. Outside in the drive. I mean…”

  “Well, dump your jumble in the study and then you can drive me to the vicarage.”

  “Oh, yes, Miss Manciple.”

  “Why on earth don’t you call me Maud? Everyone else does.”

  “Well, I…”

  Maud winked at Henry. To Frank she said, “Queen Victoria is dead, you know. And so is Karl Marx. The world goes on.”

  “Panta rei,” said Henry. He felt it was rather unkind, but he could not resist it.

  Violet Manciple came out of the kitchen with Julian. “But he promised to let me have the bran for the tub,” she was saying. “And the Hoop-la rings.”

  “He says his wife isn’t well,” said Julian.

  “That has nothing to do with it. Oh, it’s too provoking. Where’s George?”

  As if in answer a series of shots rang out from the range.

  “Really,” said Violet Manciple, “at a time like this the least he could do—oh, dear, I wish Claud and Ramona were here…”

  “Sir Claud said they’d be arriving about lunchtime,” said Julian.

  “As if that helped,” said Violet. She sounded as nearly bad-tempered as Henry could imagine, for a person of her singularly sweet disposition. “Two more mouths to feed and the worst will be over by then. Now, Julian dear, will you please go and find Maud and ask her to bring me the list of booths and helpers. I’ll be in the kitchen.”