About the Author
Born in Dublin in 1923, Patricia (“Penny”) Packenham-Walsh was just 16 when WWII came calling, but she lied about her age and joined the WAAF (the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force), eventually becoming a flight officer and an expert in radar. Based on that expertise, she was named technical advisor to a film that Sir Peter Ustinov was making about the discovery of radar, and went on to act as his personal assistant for eight years, followed by five years in the editorial department of British Vogue.
When she was in her late 30s, while recuperating from a skiing accident, she scribbled out her first novel, Dead Men Don’t Ski, and a new career was born. Dead Men featured Inspector Henry Tibbett of Scotland Yard, equipped with both a bloodhound’s nose for crime and an easy-going wife; the two of them are both a formidable sleuthing team and an image of happy, productive marriage, and it’s that double picture that makes the Tibbett series so deeply satisfying. While the Tibbett books were written in the second half of the 20th century, there is something both timeless and classic about them; they feel of a piece with the Golden Age of British Detective Fiction.
Patricia Moyes died in 2000. The New York Times once famously noted that, as a writer, she “made drug dealing look like bad manners rather than bad morals.” That comment may once have been rather snarky, but as we are increasingly forced to acknowledge the foulness that can arise from unchecked bad manners, Inspector Henry Tibbett — a man of unflinching good manners, among other estimable traits — becomes a hero we can all get behind.
CHAPTER ONE
IT WAS A beautiful September evening, warm and golden, with a rich promise of more fine weather to come. In the garden of Cregwell Manor, in the county of Fenshire, the apple trees were bent low under their burden of fragrant fruit, and the bees buzzed lazily among the russet chrysanthemums or made their way heavily and erratically across close-cut green lawns. Serenity reigned, and in all the three acres within the garden walls there was no object more serene than the lord of the manor himself, Sir John Adamson, Chief Constable of Fenshire. He had finished mowing the grass, and was now relaxing in a swing on the terrace, feeling that he had more than earned his pipe and his tankard of beer.
It was with no pleasure at all, therefore, that he became aware of the insistent shrilling of the telephone through the open window of his study. However, a Chief Constable is never off duty. Conscientiously, but with bad grace, Sir John heaved himself out of the comfortable seat and plodded in through the French windows.
“Cregwell 32. Adamson speaking.”
“Oh, is it you, John? My word, I’m glad I found you in. This is Manciple, George Manciple.”
The last piece of information supplied by the caller was unnecessary. Sir John had recognized at once the slight Irish lilt in the voice, and had identified his nearest neighbor, the owner-resident of Cregwell Grange. “Hello, George,” he said. “Nice to hear from you.”
This was only partly true. Not that Sir John disliked Major Manciple. On the contrary, he had always found him a sympathetic and entertaining character — until recently. Now, however, he had a strong suspicion that Manciple’s call might not be of a purely social nature, and he indulged in a mild mental blasphemy.
“Sorry to bother you at this hour, John,” said Manciple. “It’s about that fellow Mason. I’m afraid there’s nothing for it this time. You’ll have to call in Scotland Yard.”
Sir John made a great effort to remain calm. “Now listen, George,” he said, “I know that Mason has been making a nuisance of himself, and I’m very sorry about it, but you must keep a sense of proportion. Scotland Yard is hardly the…”
George Manciple did not appear to be aware of the interruption. He said, “You see, the fellow was a guest under my roof. Invited himself, of course, but one mustn’t split hairs. So I regard it as an obligation. And so does Violet. We must do our utmost. You understand that, don’t you? Our utmost. No half-measures.”
This time it was Sir John’s turn to ignore Manciple’s ramblings. “As I was saying,” he said, very firmly, “I don’t know what he has done to annoy you this time, but it’s after six on Friday evening and I suggest that you have a quiet drink and put your feet up while you think it over. After all, Monday will be quite soon enough to…”
“I really don’t understand you at all, John.” Manciple sounded bewildered. “You’re surely not suggesting that I do nothing until Monday?”
“I’m suggesting precisely that.”
“But, my dear John, what am I to do with the body? I can’t keep it here until Monday. Violet wouldn’t like it. Neither would Maud.”
“The body? What are you talking about? Whose body?”
“Mason’s, of course. Haven’t you been listening, John? Of course, if you insist I’ll keep him until Monday, but it does seem…”
Sir John made a grab at fast-vanishing reality. He had found on previous occasions that conversation with George Manciple had this distressing effect of dispersing logic, as sunshine disperses fog.
“Just tell me exactly what has happened, George,” he said.
“But I’ve told you. The fellow was visiting us at the time, which is why I feel under an obligation. And so does Violet. Thompson is talking about getting on to Duckett, but I wouldn’t have that, not at any price. ‘I’ll ring Sir John,’ I said. Least I could do.”
“I presume,” said Sir John with commendable restraint, “that by Thompson you mean Dr. Thompson, and that the Doctor has advised you to get in touch with Sergeant Duckett at the police station in Cregwell Village. Am I right?”
“Of course you’re right. It’s perfectly simple, isn’t it? I must say you’re making rather heavy weather out of a very straightforward matter, John. There’s no other Duckett in Cregwell that I know of, unless you count old Henry Duckett, the vet. But he lives in Kingsmarsh.”
Sir John swallowed. “Why,” he said, “did Dr. Thompson advise you to call Sergeant Duckett?”
“Well, he can’t have shot himself, can he? It stands to reason.”
“Are you talking about Raymond Mason now?”
“Of course I am. Goodness me, John, I’m putting it as clearly as I can. It’s you that are confusing things, with all this talk about vets. Now, you say that I should keep Mason’s body here and do nothing until Monday…”
“I said nothing of the sort!”
“You did, you know. But I can’t help feeling that you’re mistaken. I thought the police always liked to take action very quickly in these cases.”
“George,” said Sir John, “would you just tell me what happened?”
“But I am telling you. Mason came around this afternoon — don’t ask me what time because I was down at the range, but Violet will know. I don’t even know what he came for, but you may be sure it was to make trouble, though God knows I shouldn’t say it about the poor man, dead as he is. Well, what it comes to is that when he was leaving the house in that great car of his, he was shot. In the drive. Stone dead, Thompson said, although of course we didn’t know it at the time. Violet called Thompson, and Thompson has been going on about shouldn’t we ring Sergeant Duckett? But I said, ‘No,’ I said, ‘it’s Sir John I’m ringing.’ And I feel I must insist on Scotland Yard, John. Now don’t say you can’t do it, because you can, and I know it. I read it in a book. The Chief Constable can decide to call in the Yard. Isn’t that so?”
“Yes, it is, but…”
“Well, there you are then. We’re relying on you to get the very best man — I dare say you’ll know for whom to ask. Well, I must say that’s a relief.”