Murder Fantastical

by Patricia Moyes

  Julian Manning-Richards—he was charged under that name, for nobody ever established his true one—was in custody, accused of espionage. The Manciple family was in its castle, nursing its shock in decent seclusion. Frank Mason was at Cregwell Lodge, raging noisily against the Establishment, which apparently comprised the whole world with the exception of F. Mason and M. Manciple. And M. Manciple herself was at Cregwell police station facing Chief Inspector Henry Tibbett across a bare, scrubbed table.

  Henry said, “You met him in Paris and then later on in London. You had no reason to suspect that he was anything other than…”

  Maud said, “You seem very sure.”

  Henry looked at her. “You would never,” he said, “have contemplated helping a spy to get into Bradwood.”

  “No,” said Maud, “no, I wouldn’t.”

  “And as regards Miss Dora Manciple, the verdict, I think, will be accidental death. It can never be proved who gave her the sleeping pills or, indeed, that she did not take them herself by accident. However—I feel that I must tell you this, Miss Manciple—I personally am convinced that it was Manning-Richards who put the pills into her drink. He served her with her first glass of lemonade, if you remember, and she particularly remarked on the taste of the first glass.”

  “I remember,” said Maud.

  “The reason, of course, was that he realized that she constituted a danger. By some strange mixture of memory and instinct, Aunt Dora knew that he was an impostor. She may even have known, at one time, that the real Julian had been killed as a small boy. At any rate, she took the trouble to look up that particular newspaper clipping for me.” There was a silence, and then Henry said, “I’m telling you all this very brutally, I know, but it’s for your own good. Once you get it into your head just how calculating and cynical he was, how he was prepared to lie to you and cheat you—and kill you, if necessary—he wouldn’t have hesitated, you know…”

  “I know that,” said Maud.

  “You’re a very sensible girl,” said Henry. “It’s all a terrible shock now, but you’re young and you’ll get over it. If you face things squarely now you’ll find that in time the wound will heal.”

  “In time,” said Maud. There was no expression in her voice.

  “That’s right,” said Henry, “in time.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Maud, “about the book.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “I DON’T UNDERSTAND,” said Sir Claud, “about the book.”

  “What book?” asked the Bishop. “Thank you, Violet, I would enjoy another cup of coffee. Maud is very late coming home this evening.”

  “Maud is at the police station, Edwin,” said George Manciple. He felt very tired. It was nine o’clock at night, and he still had not fully assimilated the happenings of the afternoon.

  “Police station? Why the police station?”

  “Because of Julian,” said Ramona, “her young man. He turned out to be a Russian.”

  “A Russian? But he’s Humphrey Manning-Richards’ grandson.”

  “No, he isn’t, Edwin,” said Violet patiently. “He was just pretending to be.”

  Edwin sighed. “It’s all beyond me,” he said. “Why was that young fellow Mason making such a to-do this afternoon? Bran all over his face.”

  “That was because of the book, Edwin,” said Violet.

  “What book?”

  “Some book from the Head’s library,” put in George. “It’s all very mysterious.”

  “I don’t understand about the book,” said Sir Claud again.

  “Where is it now anyway?” Ramona asked.

  “I don’t know. Tibbett has it. We keep going around in circles,” said George Manciple irritably. “Ever since last week there’s been nothing but trouble and bother. I’m damned, Violet, if I’ll lend the garden next year for this blasted Fête of yours, if this sort of thing is going to happen.”

  “Well, really, George! You can’t blame the Fête for…”

  “Manning-Richards isn’t a Russian name,” said the Bishop. “If Tibbett thinks it is, it just shows that he’s an ignoramus.”

  “It’s all very confusing, I agree,” said Ramona. “And I don’t believe he made any real effort with his wildflower collection, for all that he said.”

  “Julian never collected wildflowers, my dear,” said Sir Claud. “Let us be charitable and give credit where it is due.”

  “Not Julian, Claud,” said Violet, “Inspector Tibbett.”

  “Tibbett isn’t a Russian name either,” said Edwin. The conversation, having reached an impasse, stopped. And Henry walked in, preceded by Maud.

  “Ah, there you are, Maud,” said Edwin. “I’ve been keeping this for you. Haven’t looked at it myself yet.” He held out the current copy of The Times, carefully folded to display the crossword puzzle.

  At this gesture Maud’s ironclad composure cracked like old plaster under a chisel. The tears came faster than she could control, and her voice broke as the said, “Thank you, Uncle Edwin.” She grabbed the paper and ran out of the room.

  Edwin looked genuinely surprised. “What’s the matter with Maud?” he asked.

  Ramona said gently, “It’s because of Julian being a Russian, Edwin. She’s bound to be upset.”

  “Julian? I thought Claud said it was Tibbett…”

  Violet said, “Poor little Maud. Do you think I should go to her…?”

  “I wouldn’t, Mrs. Manciple,” said Henry. “I think she’d rather be left alone.”

  “Oh, Inspector Tibbett, or Mr. Tibbett, I should say—I never get it right. I’m afraid you find us in rather a confused state. Do let me give you some coffee. You may have heard something of what happened this afternoon…”

  “Yes,” said Henry, “I did hear something of it. And I’ve brought you this book.”

  “Book? What book? The book?” Claud put on a pair of rimless spectacles and peered at Henry over the top of them.

  “Yes,” said Henry, “a book belonging to your late father, Augustus Manciple. One of the volumes of Homer’s Iliad.”

  “But that isn’t our book, Tibbett,” said George Manciple.

  “Not yours?”

  “No, no. I recognize it. It is one of the books from the Head’s library which I sold to Raymond Mason some time ago. It must now belong to his son, Frank.”

  Henry smiled. “That’s quite right, technically,” he said. “However, on another technical point you might say that it belongs to Lady Manciple, for she bought it for sixpence from the jumble booth this afternoon. Isn’t that right?” he added to Ramona.

  “Quite correct, Mr. Tibbett. I told the young man…”

  “What on earth was it doing at the jumble booth?” asked George Manciple.

  “Alfred from The Viking donated it. He had picked it out of the Lucky Dip, and not being a Greek scholar…”

  “Oh, Mr. Tibbett, you are being tiresome,” said Violet. “Do get down to facts. Why was it in the Lucky Dip?”

  Ramona said, “Ah, now I begin to understand. Frank Mason brought it up here with some jumble, by a mistake…”

  “No,” said Henry.

  “But Mr. Tibbett, he told me…”

  “It was no mistake,” said Henry. “He brought it here to hide it—and a very good hiding place it was, too. He intended to take it back quietly, but owing to its brown paper wrapper it got put into the Lucky Dip and he couldn’t find it.”

  “To hide it from whom?” Edwin asked.

  “From me.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Sir Claud for the third time.

  “I’ll explain,” said Henry. “That’s what I came here for. Frank Mason has been looking for this book ever since his father’s death.”

  “But why on earth should he…” began George.

  “That’s the funny part,” said Henry. “He had no idea why the book was so valuable. He simply knew that it was, because his father told him so. And then he discovered that I was looking for it, too. So
, having found it, he decided to hide it from me.”

  “I thought, Tibbett,” said the Bishop heavily, “that you were going to explain.”

  “I am,” said Henry.

  “Well, where did young Mason find the book for a start?”

  “In his father’s office in London, in Mason’s private filing cabinet. The maddening thing is that I actually looked into that filing cabinet myself before young Mason did, and I never spotted the book. Raymond Mason had put it into a lurid, pornographic jacket.”

  Edwin looked shocked. “Homer? The Head wouldn’t have liked that.”

  “I’m sure he wouldn’t,” said Henry. “Anyhow, Frank Mason found it and brought it back to Cregwell Lodge. Shortly afterward, I called at the Lodge. When he saw me coming, he hastily removed the Homer from the dust jacket, and put another book in its place. And before I could search the house again, he wrapped the Homer in brown paper and brought it up here with his jumble.”

  “This is all very well,” said Sir Claud, “but when are you going to come to the point? What’s so special about this book, and how did you know about it at all?”

  “I’m just coming to that,” said Henry. “I found an entry in Raymond Mason’s personal diary which puzzled me. It was his car registration number.”

  “Never heard such nonsense,” said Edwin. He glared at Henry and added, in an undertone to Claud, “Told you the man was unbalanced.”

  Henry said, “Mason’s car was numbered RM1—typically. But in his diary he had entered the number as BK6P82. It was obviously not his car number but some other number which he wished to remember, something important. It didn’t take much imagination to come to the conclusion that it meant Book Six, page eighty-two. I had no idea what it referred to, but my—that is, I had a feeling that it was important. And then I read Aunt Dora’s copy of old Dr. Thompson’s letter to Major Manciple.”

  “Better ring young Dr. Thompson,” said Edwin audibly to Claud. “Fellow’s off his rocker.”

  “I don’t see,” said Violet.

  “From that letter, written just after old Mr. Manciple’s death, it was clear that on his deathbed Mr. Manciple had been trying very hard to communicate to Dr. Thompson some message to be passed on to his son, George. I couldn’t believe that it was simply about not selling the house; that was understood among the family and was mentioned in his will. Nor did I believe that the Head would have wasted his precious last breaths in mumbling that he was ill and sick. His final remark to Dr. Thompson was also revealing.”

  “What final remark?” Ramona asked.

  “That Dr. Thompson was a fool. Meaning that he had not grasped what the Head was trying to tell him. However, fortunately, Dr. Thompson was conscientious enough to report to Major Manciple verbatim what his father had said, so that it’s possible for us to interpret it. In fact, it was not ‘my home,’ but ‘my Homer.’ And what Thompson took for the words ‘ill’ and ‘sick’ were actually ‘ Iliad ’ and ‘Six,’ Book Six, that is. This at once tied up with the entry in Mason’s diary. Book Six of the Iliad contains, on page eighty-two, a special message left by Mr. Augustus Manciple to his son George.

  “I have been told by several people,” Henry went on, “that old Mr. Manciple became extremely suspicious of outsiders as he grew older, that he was convinced that he was being cheated, and that he trusted nobody except his solicitor, Arthur Pringle. Pringle undoubtedly had instructions to pass on to George the secret of the Iliad, but he died before he could do so. On hearing of Pringle’s death the Head did his best to get the message over himself, but he was misunderstood. For years the book sat here on the library shelf, unread—for none of you are classical scholars. Eventually it was sold with a number of similar volumes to Raymond Mason, who wished to make a brave show of leather-bound volumes in his study.

  “What made him look at the book we shall never know—although I gather that he made a pretense of reading these weighty works in order to impress people like Sir John Adamson. At any rate he opened the book, which is more than any of you had done, and he found the secret of page eighty-two. Which explains why he was so desperate to buy this house. Why he tried every trick he could think of to make Major Manciple sell—and why he finally killed himself in a desperate effort to do so.”

  George Manciple was looking much as he did when Claud and Edwin started on a metaphysical discussion. He said, “I don’t understand a word of what you’ve been saying, Tibbett. What has Mason’s registration number got to do with it? I always disliked that car of his.”

  “I think,” said Henry, “that the time has come to let you take a look at this.”

  He held out the leather-bound book to George, who took it gingerly. It was open to page eighty-two. George said, “All Greek to me, old man.”

  “Look more closely,” said Henry, “between the pages.”

  They all watched as George examined the open book, and there was a dead silence as he held it up to show that pages eighty-two and eighty-three had, in fact, been pasted together. Apparently, at some recent date, they had been carefully cut open with a sharp knife for the cut showed clearly, but they had been refastened with transparent tape.

  Henry held out a pocket knife. “Open it up, Major Manciple,” he said.

  George cut the pages apart, and as he did so, a flimsy paper with writing on it in faded ink fluttered to the ground. Edwin stooped to pick it up.

  “That’s the Head’s handwriting,” he said.

  Henry nodded. “It’s addressed to his son, George,” he said. And to Major Manciple, “Read it, sir.”

  George Manciple slowly smoothed the paper. Then he began to read aloud.

  Dear George,

  By the time you read this I shall be in my grave, thanks mainly to the ministrations of that old fool Thompson and his cronies. Arthur Pringle, who is the only honest man in England, will have told you where to find this letter. When you read it, you will see that I have taken steps to safeguard your inheritance. Had I not taken these steps you can be certain that you would never have had the means to maintain Cregwell Grange, which, as you know, I have charged you to do in perpetuity.

  For some years now my suspicions have been growing concerning Masterman, the bank manager, and I am now convinced of his dishonesty. I considered moving your dear mother’s jewels to a safer spot, but in these days where is safety to be found? One bank is as perfidious as the next, and all of them are thieves and rogues.

  However, I think I may say that I have fooled them. Over a period of years I have been removing items of jewelry from the bank safe, one at a time, having them copied in worthless paste, and replacing the fake pieces in the bank. The real jewels I have concealed at Cregwell Grange, where I can keep them under my own eye. Just last week I completed the final transfer—the diamond sunburst brooch. So, when Masterman and his gang of crooks come to rifle the strongbox, they will find only pinchbeck and glass. I confess that this thought gives me considerable satisfaction.

  Now, it only remains for me to tell you how to locate the real jewels. They are buried beneath a flagstone in the wine cellar of the Grange. From the doorway count ten flagstones forward, and three to the left. The stone itself is beneath the bin containing my vintage port. I trust that the wine has not been unduly disturbed each time that I have had to move it in order to bury another piece, but I should advise leaving it to rest for several months before drinking it. You will note—with amusement, I hope—that in my will I have specifically left to you “Cregwell Grange and all its contents.” Thus your title to the jewelry is unassailable.

  I most strongly advise you to leave the jewels where they are, removing one piece at a time to sell as and when you may need money. On no account should you entrust it to a bank, any more than you should entrust your investments to a stockbroker or your person to the medical profession. Consider, after all, what has happened to me.

  Your loving father,

  Augustus Manciple

  George’s voice trailed away int
o a sort of astonished whistle, and for a moment there was dead silence.

  Then Henry said, quickly, “You’ll obviously want to talk this over, and, I imagine, to go and dig in the cellar. I suppose there’s no doubt that the jewels will be there?”

  “If he left them there, they’re there still,” said George. “There are even a few bottles of the Head’s port left. And, of course, they are never disturbed.”

  Henry held out his hand to George. “Well,” he said, “I congratulate you, Major Manciple. That jewelry must be worth many thousands of pounds.”

  George was looking dazed. He shook Henry’s hand and said, “Who brought back my gun then?”

  “I don’t know for certain,” said Henry, “but I think it was probably Sir John Adamson.”

  “But why…”

  “Just as a kindly gesture,” said Henry hastily. He did not feel compelled to explain Sir John’s reasons for wishing the death of Raymond Mason to be cleared up quickly and quietly.

  “And Aunt Dora?”

  “I think,” said Henry, “that it will be regarded as an accident.” He paused, and then said, “I hope you won’t be too distressed over the unfortunate business of Miss Manciple and that young man. She’ll get over it, you know. Youth is very resilient.”

  It was in the hall that Henry met Maud again. In fact, she was waiting for him. She said, “You know I bought the chrysanthemums.”

  “Yes,” said Henry.

  “I had to try to make amends, you see. Because I…”

  “Please,” said Henry, “don’t say any more.”

  “I love him,” said Maud. She was dry-eyed now. “I wouldn’t have cared if he’d shot me, if it had helped him to get away. I shall wait for him. They can’t send him to prison forever.”

  Henry said brutally, “He never cared a rap for you. He only proposed to you to get that job at Bradwood.”

  Maud turned on him like a small tiger. “Do you think that makes any difference? Do you think that to love someone you have to be loved in return?”