MURDER FANTASTICAL

FRANK MASON WAS an aggressive young man with red hair, a strong jaw, and a marked Cockney accent, which he seemed to accentuate with a sort of perverse pride. He faced Henry angrily across his father’s desk in Cregwell Lodge, and said, “It’s no use coming the old pals act on me. I know who killed my old man and I demand justice!”

“Double-barreled fancy names,” said Frank Mason scornfully. “Think they can get away with murder. Plain bloody murder. Well, they can’t. They’ve got me to reckon with.”

Henry began to lose patience. “If you’d just sit down, Mr. Mason, and tell me…”

“Sit down!” said Henry. He did not speak very loudly, but his voice carried the unmistakable mark of authority.

“That’s better,” said Henry. “Now.” He took out his notebook. “Your name is Frank Mason. You are twenty-five years old and the son of the late Raymond Mason.”

“As far as I know.” Frank Mason seemed a little more relaxed. “The only legitimate one at any rate. My mother died ten years ago.”

For the first time Mason smiled. “Profession? None. I’m a gentleman of leisure, Inspector.”

“I mean nothing of the sort. I read Philosophy at college, and now I’m writing a book: The Philosophical Theory of Xenophanes Reconsidered in the Light of Dialectic Materialism. That’s just the working title. I’m spared the irksome necessity of earning a living by the fact that I own a half-share in the firm of Raymond Mason, Turf Accountants. In fact, I even go into the office once or twice a month to watch the shekels being raked in.”

“Let’s be accurate,” said Henry. “You used to own a half-share in the business.”

“Just,” said Henry, “that since your father’s death, I presume that you own the entire enterprise.”

There was a long pause. Then Frank Mason said, almost to himself, “I never thought of that.”

“Didn’t you?” Henry sounded skeptical. It was not the sort of thing that people generally overlook, even at the moment of bereavement. “I suppose that you are the chief beneficiary under your father’s will?”

“I’m implying nothing. I’m asking you a question. Are you the chief beneficiary?”

Henry made a note. Then he said, “Perhaps you’d now tell me just what you did yesterday, say, from lunchtime onward.”

Henry shut his notebook with a snap. “I’m sorry, Mr. Mason. I shall have to ask you to come to the police station.”

“I had hoped,” said Henry, “that we could have an informal talk here. But if you persist in your attitude…”

“Oh, very well.” Mason slumped down behind the desk. “If I answer your fool questions, will you listen to what I have to say?”

“All right then. Yesterday, I spent the morning working on my book at home. I live in London, as you probably know. Got a service flat, Victoria way. Went out to my local pub for lunch. Afterward, I looked in to the office to see how things were going. Left there about half-past three and went along to the Reading Room of the British Museum to do a bit of research. Came home, via the local, getting in about half-past seven. That was when the local police got hold of me to tell me about the old man. They’d been ringing for some time, they said. No reply, of course. I told them I’d be along at once, but they said there wasn’t much point in coming down here until today. So I drove down from London this morning, and here I am. Satisfied?”

“Yes,” said Henry. “Thank you. That seems quite straightforward. Now…” He sat back and looked at Mason. “What’s all this about knowing who killed your father?”

Mason frowned. He picked up a carved ivory paper knife from the desk and fiddled abstractedly with it, picking his words. He said, “My father and I weren’t very close. I’m not pretending we were. We went our own ways. I suppose I was a disappointment to him, because he wanted me to go into the business full-time. He just couldn’t understand that I preferred an academic life to making money. We disagreed about politics, too, I need hardly say. In fact, we disagreed about everything. But we agreed to disagree. We didn’t fight. D’you understand that?”

“We didn’t see much of each other. In fact, when he came to live down here it was more or less a complete break between us. I came down to see him once, and I was pretty sickened, I can tell you. It was pathetic. Poor old Dad, swanking around trying to be Lord of the Manor and fawning like a blasted toady all over die-hard old Fascists like Adamson. I swore I wouldn’t come again and I never have, until now.” He paused.

“Well, no, not so long. The one point of contact we had, you see, was the office. The old firm. I’ve told you that I go along there every week or so and Dad used to do the same. A couple of weeks ago we happened to turn up there on the same day, and so we went out and had lunch together. We were pretty friendly so long as we didn’t see too much of each other.” There was another hesitation, and then Mason went on. “As a matter of fact, though, I soon began to suspect that Dad had found out from the office manager when I was expected and had deliberately engineered for us to meet in what would look like an accidental way. He hemmed and hawed all through the soup and fish, but it wasn’t until the coffee and brandy that he plucked up courage to come out into the open and spill the beans.”

“That he was thinking of getting married again. Married! I ask you. And to some ghastly debutante half his age. This Manciple girl. I was absolutely disgusted, and I told him so. It was bad enough his having turned into a snob and a social climber, I said, without being a dirty old man into the bargain.”

Frank Mason slapped the desk with his hand. “The really bloody thing was,” he said, “that I didn’t seem able to get it into his thick skull that I was trying to insult him.”

“He would misunderstand me. He’d made up his mind, you see, that I’d be against the marriage simply because I’d see my inheritance disappearing—or at any rate, having to be shared with the little woman and any unspeakable stepbrothers or sisters who might put in an appearance. He judged everybody by himself, you see. Couldn’t conceive that I’d be interested in anything but the financial aspect. The more I tried to point out to him how repellent the whole idea was, the more he kept assuring me that I’d be better off, not worse. ‘I’m very fond of Maud,’ he kept on saying, ‘but at the same time, I know which side my bread’s buttered on. And yours, my boy.’ It made me puke. I suppose the blasted girl’s family is rolling in filthy inherited capital.”

Henry made no comment. After a moment Mason continued. “Anyhow, I made my views as plain as I could, and we parted on fairly rough terms. Then, last week—Tuesday evening, it was—the old man telephoned me. First time in years he’d done such a thing. ‘Well, Frank,’ he said, ‘it looks as though things are going to work out your way after all.’ I asked him what he meant, and he said, ‘I’ve been turned down. The lady won’t have me.’ ‘Bloody good thing too,’ I said. ‘Not only that,’ he went on, ‘but it seems she’s engaged already, to a young man by the name of Manning-Richards.’ Well now, that rang a bell at once. I’d met this pustule Manning-Richards at the university; he comes from Bugolaland, as you may know, of fine old Imperialist stock, and he was over in England doing a postgraduate course of some sort. We’d had a couple of smashing old ding-dongs one way and another, and it seemed to me that if the girl was silly enough to contemplate marrying him, she was only getting what she deserved.

“Dad was very interested to hear that I knew Julian Manning-Richards. ‘In that case, son,’ he said, ‘you’ll do well to know that he threatened me with physical violence. Said that if I didn’t leave Maud alone he’d see that things got unhealthy for me. Now you remember that, Frank boy. Then, if anything happens to me, you’ll know who to blame.’ ” Frank Mason, having reached the climax of his story, sat back with an angry snort. “You see, Inspector? Do you understand now why I…?”

“Wasn’t it rather odd, your father telephoning to tell you about Manning-Richards?”

For a moment Mason hesitated. Then he said, aggressively, “Seems to me it was the most sensible thing he ever did, as it turned out.”

“That,” said Henry, “remains to be seen. Well, thank you very much, Mr. Mason. Now, since I’m here, I wonder if I may take a look around this house?”

Mason looked at Henry with a sneer. “Whose pocket are you in, Inspector? Who’s making it worth your while to lay off the Establishment? I suppose you’ll find some poor bloody working man to put the blame on…”

Henry sighed, and stood up. “I’ll be back with a search warrant to look over the house,” he said.

“Oh, for God’s sake, look at anything you like. I’m going out for a walk. This place suffocates me.”

Henry watched the spiky figure in its shabby duffle coat as it strode away through the gathering dusk of the September garden. Then he turned his attention to Cregwell Lodge.

The house had been built as a gatekeeper’s lodge to Cregwell Grange in the days when the main road ran to the east rather than to the west of the big house. With the construction of the new road, around the turn of the century, the present carriage drive to Cregwell Grange had been laid out, and the Lodge left in isolation. The old driveway was completely overgrown with grass, and the splendid wrought-iron gates beside the Lodge led only to a rutted, leafy lane. Beyond the lane marshy fields stretched away toward the river.

The Lodge was small but compact, functional and more satisfying architecturally than the main house. It had been immaculately restored and redecorated by Raymond Mason. Henry, visualizing the dilapidated state in which Mason had certainly bought it, assumed that he must have spent thousands rather than hundreds of pounds to put it into its present condition.

The ground floor consisted almost entirely of the large library-drawing room, from whose bay window Henry now watched Frank Mason’s retreating figure. Several small rooms had clearly been thrown together to make this imposing apartment. It was furnished in a deliberately expensive, masculine style—deep leather armchairs, a great fireplace capable of engulfing young trees in its huge maw, a deep red carpet, a vast mahogany desk with classic brass handles and an inlaid surface of red-and-gold tooled leather. On either side of the fireplace, from floor to ceiling, bookshelves were burdened with fine, leather-bound volumes, many of which bore the clenched fist of the Manciple crest in gold on their massive spines.

Henry glanced at the titles. Nearly all of them seemed to be Greek or Latin, either in the original language or in translation. Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire was there, too, together with learned commentaries on Homer, Sophocles, and Virgil by eminent Victorian authorities. These were the books that Mason had pretended to read for Sir John Adamson’s benefit, but a small bookcase filled with paperbacks of the more lurid kind gave a better clue to the late householder’s real literary tastes.

Henry next turned his attention to the desk. For all its massive size it had apparently served little useful purpose, for most of the drawers were empty. One contained writing paper—large sheets of deep blue, rough-edged mock-parchment with the address die-stamped in flamboyant lettering at the top right-hand corner. Another revealed a file of receipts from local tradespeople, which showed that Raymond Mason had settled every bill promptly and without wrangling. This trait, Henry reflected, which should have endeared him to the Villagers, probably did no more than confirm their suspicion that he was “not gentry.” Gentry did not pay cash on the barrelhead.

The only real object of interest was a diary for the current year, and this Henry opened eagerly. It was, like everything else in the room, conspicuously opulent: large, leather-covered, and embellished with the initials R.M. in gold on the cover. Inside, each day of the year was allotted a double-page spread, and each page was divided into two sections—the left-hand marked Morning and Afternoon and the right-hand Evening and Notes. Unfortunately, Raymond Mason had neglected to make use of this acreage of paper. The entries were laconic and sparse.

A few, a very few, were written carefully and with evident pride. “Dinner with Sir John Adamson” occurred on July 16th, and “Luncheon with the Headmaster of Kingsmarsh College to discuss foundation of Mason Scholarship” had made a very special date of August 14th. And Henry could almost feel the bated breath with which Mason had written, on August 25th, “Cocktails at Kingsmarsh Hall with Lord and Lady Fenshire.” The most recent of these red-letter-day entries was for September 12th, which Henry realized, with a slight sense of shock, was the day after tomorrow—Monday. It read, “Tea with Mrs. Manciple, Lady Fenshire, and the Rev. Dishforth to discuss arrangements for the Fête.”

The other entries were scribbled, almost shamefacedly, it seemed to Henry. “Meeting, R.M. Ltd. Dividend agreed.” “See Bellson about rt. of way. Legal position?” “Attend Council meeting.”

At the beginning of the diary there were a number of pages on which the owner was invited to inscribe various data, ranging from the telephone numbers of his friends to his own size in shirts. Surprisingly, Raymond Mason had filled in these personal details meticulously.

Address: Cregwell Lodge, Cregwell

Tel. No.: Cregwell 79

Passport No.: 383714

Car. Reg. No.: BK6P82

Shoe size: 10

Collar size: 15-1/2

Blood Group: A

In case of accident, please inform:

General Manager

Raymond Mason Ltd.,

14, Dell Street, W.l

On the following pages, which provided space for names and addresses of friends, Henry found a list of the most aristocratic and/or wealthy families in the district, carefully written in Mason’s writing. Some of these had been ticked off in a slightly smug way, and Henry was interested to see that the names so ticked corresponded exactly to those appearing in the carefully-noted diary entries. In fact, the list represented Mason’s social aspirations, and the ticks his successes to date.

Henry sighed, and returned the diary to the desk. Then he went on with his exploration of the house. It was unrewarding. On the ground floor only a small kitchen and a cloakroom. Upstairs one large bedroom, luxuriously furnished, and one small one—spare in every sense of the word—in which Frank Mason had now established residence. The bathroom was characterized by a lot of expensive bottles containing ozone-scented after shave lotion, aromatic pine bath salts, and talcum powder perfumed, if the label was to be believed, with essence of old leather riding boots.

If Henry had been less conscientious, he might have been tempted to leave it at that. However, he had noticed the trap door in the bathroom ceiling, and realized, from his observation of the outside of the house, that there must be a sizeable attic. So, without much enthusiasm, he procured a chair, pushed up the trap door, and hauled himself up into the dim dustiness above.

At first sight the loft appeared to be much like any other loft; there were the dusty trunks and boxes, the empty cardboard cartons, the old Wellington boots, the three-legged kitchen chair. And then Henry noticed the gun. It lay on the kitchen chair, half-hidden by an old newspaper, and it looked surprisingly clean and polished among the dusty relics. It was a twin to those which Henry had seen earlier at Cregwell Grange, and around its trigger was tied a stout piece of string.

Henry pulled a clean handkerchief out of his pocket, wrapped it around the pistol, and, very gently, opened the weapon. It was not loaded. With meticulous care he then replaced it in the exact position in which he had found it. Now that he knew where Major Manciple’s missing gun was, he felt it would prove more interesting to use it as bait rather than as evidence.

Downstairs there was no sign of Frank Mason. Henry pulled the front door shut behind him, heard the Yale lock click into position, and hoped for Mason’s sake that he had not gone out without his key. Then he drove to the police station, and after that headed for The Viking Inn, Emmy, and a glass of beer.

The Viking was a cheerful, comfortable little inn built of the white weatherboard that was typical of the district. Henry found Emmy in their bedroom, which was small but cozy, over-burdened with massive Victorian furniture but prettily tricked out in fresh, flowery chintz. Emmy was sitting at the dressing table brushing her short, dark hair energetically. She smiled at Henry in the mirror as he came in.

Emmy swung around in surprise. “No. Honestly? So soon? Have you made an arrest?”

Henry sat down on the bed. “I’m sorry, love,” he said. “I had no right to say that. Nothing is solved yet, and I shan’t know for certain until tomorrow at the earliest, but I have a hunch… Oh well, you know I’m not allowed to say anything about anything at this stage.”

“You’re a beast.” said Emmy. “I’m sure other men tell their wives all sorts of state secrets. I thought that telling your wife didn’t count.”

“Oh, quite amusing. I had tea with Isobel Thompson, the doctor’s wife. We were at school together, but I haven’t seen her for more than twenty years,”

Emmy smiled. “Just the same. Very domestic and gossipy. She’s kept her figure better than I have,” she added ruefully.

Henry came over and kissed the back of her neck. “You know I adore fat women,” he said. “Probably because at the age of six months I was subconsciously in love with the cook, who weighed almost two hundred pounds.”

“Mind my hair, idiot,” said Emmy. “Anyhow, Isobel is all set to pass on the local gossip, in case it might help you. But if you’ve solved the case…”

“Very interesting,” said Henry. “So your friend is married to the son of the doctor who attended Augustus Manciple?”

“That’s right. She was telling me about the old man. Is it true that the whole family is slightly deranged?”

“Not at all,” said Henry. “Far from it, very far from it.” He paused, and then said, “Well, let’s go down to the bar and sample a bit of local opinion ourselves, not to mention the local ale.”

At half-past nine the following morning, Henry was once more ringing the wrought-iron bell beside the front door of Cregwell Grange. It turned out that his desire to interview Violet Manciple and Aunt Dora was most opportune, for the other members of the family were intending to be otherwise occupied on that fine, cold Sunday morning. Claud and Ramona, as staunch atheists and nature-worshippers, were already out on the marshes equipped with field glasses and specimen box; while George, Edwin, Maud, and Julian were proposing, as always, to attend Matins in the Village church. Aunt Dora had, with great reluctance, given up church-going several years ago and now made do by listening to the religious services on the B.B.C.

“And as for me,” Violet explained to Henry with her sweet smile, “I am just too busy getting lunch to think very much about God. That is,” she added quickly, with a blush, “I think about Him a great deal, but it’s nearly always when I’m washing up or in the bath. I know that Edwin is rather shocked that I don’t go to church. He’s a little like St. Paul in some ways. I feel sure in my own mind that God understands about housework.”

“Well now, I’ll ask Maud to get Aunt Dora ready to see you. If you’d like to go into the study I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

Henry had established himself behind Major Manciple’s desk and had his notebooks and pencils neatly laid out in front of him when Violet Manciple came in at her usual half-run, trying to smooth her hair and remove her apron simultaneously. “Oh dear, Mr. Tibbett,” she said, “this isn’t very comfortable for you, I’m afraid. George said you were all right in here, but I could have cleared one of the spare bedrooms for you…”

“I’m perfectly happy here, Mrs. Manciple,” said Henry. “Now, do sit down and…”

“Oh, but you need a better chair than that! Goodness me, that’s George’s old one that I told him to throw away last year…”

“It isn’t, you know,” said Violet Manciple. And at that moment, as he shifted his weight, Henry felt an ominous cracking and sagging beneath him.

“Hold on to the desk with both hands or you’ll go right through,” commanded Mrs. Manciple with the crispness of an experienced field commander issuing vital orders. Obediently Henry hung on, as the webbing of the chair seat disintegrated under his weight. He felt glad that his sergeant was not there.

Mrs. Manciple ducked apologetically, removed the wrecked seat by brute force from Henry’s buttocks, and brought a simple but sturdy wooden chair from the kitchen as a substitute. Then she sat down meekly on the swivel chair in front of the desk and asked Henry how she could help him over this terrible business of poor Mr. Mason.

It was fortunate that Henry was not one of those policemen who rely on the trappings of officialdom to maintain their dignity. He thanked Mrs. Manciple for her help, gave her a broad and infectious grin, and then asked her what she knew about Raymond Mason.

“What I know about him?” Mrs. Manciple looked positively alarmed. “Why nothing, Mr. Tibbett. What should I know about him? He hadn’t done anything wrong, had he?”

“Not that I know of,” said Henry. “I simply meant, when did you first meet him, and how?”

“Why, when he answered the advertisement about the Lodge, of course. That was four years ago.”

“No, no. We advertised the Lodge in Country Life, and Mr. Mason actually sent a telegram only a few hours after the announcement appeared, saying that he was interested and would we give him first refusal? He came down in his car that very day, took one look at the Lodge, and bought it. Sat down in that very chair you are sitting in and wrote out the check—well—no, not that very chair, of course, the one that so unfortunately broke just now. It’s my opinion that it was Mr. Mason cracked it in the first place. He was a heavy man, you know. I was telling him only the other day that he should go on a high-protein diet, but he said that too much protein affected his liver, and that…” Violet Manciple broke off, looking bewildered. “Are you really interested in Mr. Mason’s diet, Mr. Tibbett?”

“Ah, that’s right. Well, there’s no more to tell. He wrote the check then and there, and George and I were delighted. Quite frankly, Mr. Tibbett, we needed the money badly. John Adamson was very upset, I remember. He had a friend—a Lady Something-or-other—who quite fancied the Lodge. She wouldn’t have been able to pay so much, he said, but she would have been what John called the right sort of person. I’ve never been able to understand just what he means by that, although it’s one of his favorite expressions. Do you understand it, Mr. Tibbett?”

“I presume,” said Henry, as delicately as he could, “that Sir John was drawing a distinction between those who are gently bred and those who are—not.”

“Gently bred?” For a moment Violet Manciple seemed baffled. Then she said, “You don’t mean that John Adamson is so vulgar as to be a—a snob, Mr. Tibbett?”

Henry found himself becoming a little irritated. “For heaven’s sake, Mrs. Manciple,” he said, “you must know what I mean. You can hear the difference in the way that people speak, for instance. I imagine that Mason had a—a regional accent.”

“A delightful tinge of East London,” said Mrs. Manciple promptly. And she added, “Mine is South Dublin. I can detect remnants of Killarney in George’s voice, even though he was born here in Cregwell. His father’s influence, of course. Aunt Dora, now, is a different matter. She came originally from Killarney, like her brother, but as a young girl she went back to Cork, and…”

“Of course, Mr. Tibbett. I’m so sorry. I’m afraid I tend to ramble off at tangents, if I’m not mixing my metaphors. The Head used to be most particular about accuracy of speech in the family, and of course when I married George I became a Manciple, and—oh dear.” Violet blushed becomingly. “There I go again. Now—Mr. Mason. Well, as I was saying, he wrote a check on the spot and bought the Lodge. He had the place completely renovated, and moved in as soon as it was ready. Later on, he told us he needed extra furniture and—and so on. He gave us an extremely good price for several pieces which we—we had no further use for. For which we had no further use, I should say. The Head was always adamant that the preposition…”

“Oh yes, of course. Well—furniture, as I said, and quite a number of the Head’s books, the leather-bound ones from the old library. I was glad that they hadn’t left Cregwell altogether, and since none of us read Greek or Latin, it seemed…”

Henry interrupted the flow. “You were on good terms with Mr. Mason at this time?”

“Oh indeed, yes. In fact, you mustn’t think that we ever quarreled, Mr. Tibbett. The trouble between George and Mr. Mason only started a year ago, when Mr. Mason made that very generous offer for this house and George was so angry. I always stand by George in public, but between ourselves it seemed to me that he was rather hard on poor Mr. Mason. After all, how was he to know that we regard this house as a sacred trust? All he did was to make an offer…”

“Naturally. That was when the misunderstanding started. Mr. Mason got the impression that George was holding out for more money, and he kept raising his offer. Each time he did so George got even angrier, and refused him even more bluntly. By the time Mr. Mason had grasped the fact that we weren’t prepared to sell at any price, the two of them were at dagger’s edge. All quite unnecessary, it seemed to me. Then Mr. Mason started on what George called his campaign of persecution—I dare say he has told you about it.”

“So childish. But all the time Mr. Mason was coming to see me every so often and bringing me plants for my rock garden. He shared my fondness for alpine flowers, you see, and he was lucky enough to be able to order all sorts of rare specimens from Kew and elsewhere. He was so kind, Mr. Tibbett, bringing me cuttings and roots even when George was threatening him with solicitors’ letters over the right-of-way business.”

“Oh you’ve heard that, have you? Well now, Mr. Tibbett, it’s all a bit of a mountain in a teacup, if you ask me. Out of a molehill, I should say. Just like the house all over again. He wanted to buy the house; he made a good offer; and he was turned down. Then he wanted to marry Maud; he made a good—that is—a perfectly honorable offer; and once again he was turned down. I think the poor man was to be pitied rather than blamed. What had he done wrong?”

“Nothing, as far as I can make out,” said Henry. “But it was a bit sudden, wasn’t it? His falling in love with Maud, I mean?”

“I suppose you might call it sudden, but then, he hardly knew her until recently. Before, she was at the university, and then she went to the Sorbonne for a year. It was only when she took this job at Bradwood last year and started spending weekends at home…”

“In a way, yes. But there’s no question of nepotism, I do assure you, Mr. Tibbett. Maud is a fully qualified physicist, and she applied for the job and got it without Claud’s knowledge. He was quite dumfounded, he told us, when her name appeared on his desk as having been unanimously recommended for the job.” Violet Manciple hesitated for a moment, and then added, “I don’t feel quite so happy about Julian. Of course, I don’t interfere in any way, and Maud is old enough to make up her own mind. Don’t you agree, Mr. Tibbett, that if young people are not encouraged to use their initiative they will never…”

“Oh dear, there I go again. Yes of course. Mr. Mason. Well, what else can I tell you? The poor man was very struck by Maud, even though she is so much younger than he. And he was old-fashioned enough to come to me to ask my permission before he proposed to her. I thought it rather charming. Naturally I told him that it was entirely for Maud to say. I believe—I don’t like saying it, but one must be truthful—I believe that Maud was rather unkind to him. Laughed at him. So unmannerly. After all, Mr. Mason was paying her a great compliment, as I tried to explain to her. She seemed to find the whole thing ludicrous and a little disgusting. I think that is why she showed such a—a lack of courtesy. I’m afraid Mr. Mason was deeply hurt.”

“Oh no. Julian was furious. I suppose that is understandable, but, after all, the engagement isn’t official yet, and Mr. Mason couldn’t have been expected to know about it. I said all this to Maud, but young people…”

“Now,” said Henry firmly, “we come to the day before yesterday in the afternoon and Mr. Mason’s visit. Will you tell me exactly what happened?”

“But nothing happened, Mr. Tibbett. That’s what makes it all so extraordinary.”

“No, no. He simply turned up in his big car, at about half-past five. I heard the car from the kitchen and I came out into the hall, just in time to see George grabbing a gun from the cloak room and making off into the garden as fast as he could. He would go to any lengths to avoid poor Mr. Mason. Claud and Ramona were in the garden, and Maud and Julian had gone for a walk, so that Aunt Dora and I were alone in the house—except for Edwin, but he was having a nap upstairs.

“I went out to meet Mr. Mason and he told me he had brought me some cuttings for my rock garden. We brought them indoors together and talked for a while about alpine plants. Then Aunt Dora came downstairs and gave Mr. Mason a great pile of pamphlets from a spiritualist society that she’s very keen on. Between ourselves, I don’t think he was really keen on the subject, but he was very polite, as always. It did occur to me, though, that it might not have been an accident that he left the pamphlets behind when he got up to leave. For that reason, I didn’t say anything about them. I thought it would be more tactful, especially as Aunt Dora had gone upstairs again by then.”

Violet Manciple wrinkled her brow. “Nothing, Mr. Tibbett. Nothing important. Mr. Mason asked me was George down on the shooting range and I said he was. Mr. Mason said, wasn’t it dangerous at all, and I told him that it certainly wasn’t, or I wouldn’t allow it, and that anyway the Council had agreed it was safe. He changed the subject then—I expect he was a little embarrassed, since it was he that had lodged the complaint in the first place—and he asked me about Maud. Then Aunt Dora came in, and we had a conversation about the possibility of the survival of animals in psychic or astral form. It wasn’t very easy, because Aunt Dora kept on whistling.”

It took Henry no more than a split second to interpret this remark. “Her hearing aid, you mean?”

“That’s right. George blames it all on the National Health, but I think that she just won’t adjust it right. However…”

“Yes. I saw him out. He got into his car, started it up, and set off down the drive. I came back into the hall, and there was Aunt Dora coming out of the drawing room with the pamphlets. ‘Mr. Mason has forgotten these,’ she said, ‘and he was so interested. I must try to catch him.’ ‘He’s gone now, Aunt Dora,’ I said, but she was at the front door by then and she called out, ‘No he hasn’t, dear. He’s stopped the car.’ And she went out and down the steps, calling to him…”

Henry, who had been making some notes, frowned and said, “How agile is your aunt, Mrs. Manciple?”

Violet looked surprised. “Well, you’ve met her, Mr. Tibbett. She gets about wonderfully, considering her age and her weak heart. Dr. Thompson has warned her not to…”

“What I mean is,” said Henry, “that she must have nipped upstairs and then down again very fast to get back to the drawing room and find the pamphlets before Mr. Mason had gotten further than…”

Mrs. Manciple looked embarrassed, “Oh, well—there was a short interval, a few minutes…”

Reluctantly, touching on a subject which was not usually mentioned, Mrs. Manciple said, “Mr. Mason asked me if he might—em—wash his hands before he left…”

Henry grinned, “I see,” he said, “So Mason went into the downstairs cloakroom. Was he there long?”

“Really, Mr. Tibbett, I didn’t stand outside with a stop watch. What extraordinary questions you do ask. As a matter of fact, it did strike me that perhaps he took a little longer than—than usual. Anyhow, when he came out I saw him to the front door, and I had gone back into the hall to telephone to Rigley’s, the grocers, when Aunt Dora came down, as I told you. And then, just as Mr. Rigley had answered the phone, I heard the shot.”

“Not immediately, I’m afraid. The shot didn’t alarm me—one gets used to the sound of gunfire in this house, Mr. Tibbett. No, it was Aunt Dora crying out which caught my attention. I rang off at once, and just then Edwin came downstairs—he’d been resting in his room, as I told you—and he said, ‘Aunt Dora’s raising Cain in the drive. What’s up?’ ‘I don’t know,’ I said; and we both went out together.”

“Oh, it was dreadful. Poor Mr. Mason was lying on the ground in front of his car. The bonnet was still open—he’d been looking inside, it seems, to find out what made it stop. Aunt Dora was quite bewildered, poor old thing. She kept saying that he’d waved his arms and shouted. I really don’t think she knew what had happened. George came up through the shrubbery almost at once, and then, of course, he took charge. Maud and Julian soon came running up, and so did Claud and Ramona. So I left them to cope with poor Mr. Mason and took Aunt Dora indoors. Ramona wanted me to give her one of those sleeping pills that she takes, to soothe her, but I told her that Dr. Thompson had most emphatically forbidden Aunt Dora to take anything of the sort because of her heart. So I made her a nice cup of tea instead. That’s really all.”

“Have I?” Violet Manciple sounded surprised and almost dismayed, as if it had not been her intention to be helpful.

“Yes, of course. I told Maud to get her settled in the drawing room for you. She’ll be delighted to see you. Just keep her off psychic research, if you can, and you’ll find her astonishingly lucid. Quite remarkable for her age.”

CHAPTER SIX