The bullet which killed Mason, for instance, had definitely been fired from the gun found in the shrubbery. The Mercedes had been minutely examined, but had revealed no identifiable fingerprints other than those of Mason himself; these were particularly well-defined and fresh on the switch which operated the gas cut-off. Lastly, the sergeant wondered whether Henry needed a shorthand writer for his interviews; he presumed that the Chief Inspector was conducting interviews at Cregwell Grange…?
Henry grinned. “I think I’ve done enough here for today,” he said. “I’ll just make up my notes and then I’ll go along to Cregwell Lodge and see young Mr. Mason. You might warn him to expect me.”
“I’ll see he’s waiting for you, sir,” said the sergeant. And added, “You’re — all right, are you, sir?”
“What do you mean, all right?”
“Well,” the sergeant was embarrassed, “there are some funny types around here. Not quite right in the head, if you ask me.”
“Oh, really?” said Henry innocently.
“Well, I ask you, sir, I was waiting in here while Mrs. Manciple went looking for you and the Major, and a tall, skinny old gentleman comes in, very raggedly dressed but wearing a dog-collar. ‘Are you a policeman?’ he says. ‘Yes, sir,’ I says. ‘Then you should get it,’ he says, and then he starts some rigmarole about three-toed sloths and lazy types and wanting help. I thought he was trying to make a complaint of some sort…”
“Lazy type, the policeman,” said Henry, with reprehensible relish. “You need help.”
The sergeant began to look seriously alarmed. “That’s what he said. And I said…”
“Three letters,” said Henry. “Start with the three-toed sloth.”
The sergeant had risen and was edging toward the door. “Yes — well — time I was getting along, sir…”
“D is a penny,” pursued Henry relentlessly. “A penny is a copper. A copper is a policeman.”
It was at this moment that the door opened behind the sergeant and Ramona Manciple said in her deep voice, “Ah, Mr. Tibbett. I have brought you some hellebore and toadflax, and you owe me sixpence. Did you know that George was up in his tree again?”
The sergeant gave a low moan and fled. Henry accepted the school exercise book with becoming gratitude. On the first page Ramona had written in a fine Italian script. “Henry Tibbett, His Book of Wild Flowers,” and underneath “… blossom by blossom the spring begins…” Henry’s particular spring had been sent off to a flying start by a handful of drooping flora wrapped in blotting paper.
“It’s extremely kind of you, Lady Manciple.”
“Not kind at all. You owe me sixpence for the book.”
Henry produced a sixpence, which Lady Manciple dropped into the pocket of her dirndl. “I hear you wish to speak to Violet,” she said.
“Not until tomorrow,” said Henry. “I’m going to leave you all in peace for the moment.”
“Well for heaven’s sake, keep her off rock plants. She becomes quite unbalanced on the subject. Was that one of your men?”
“Who was in here with me? Yes.”
“An odd young man, rushing off like that. You should teach him his manners.”
“I’ll try, Lady Manciple,” Henry promised.
Ramona saw Henry to the front door, and he was saying good-bye to her on the steps when he saw a young man walking quickly up the drive. As the newcomer passed the sycamore tree a voice bellowed, “Julian!”
The young man stopped abruptly and looked around in some bewilderment.
Ramona called out, “Up in the tree, Julian! It’s George!” To Henry, she added, “That’s Julian. Maud’s fiancé. I’m so glad he’s back. Maud was getting quite worried.”
“Where’ve you been, Julian?” Major Manciple’s disembodied voice was stern and godlike as it floated down from the treetops.
The young man hesitated. Then he said, “I had to run up to London on business, Major Manciple.”
“London? London? London and back all in one day? Never heard of such a thing. Why didn’t you tell Maud?”
“I — I had a reason, sir. Anyhow, I was only away for a few hours…”
“You missed chicken for lunch,” came the oracular tones of the Major. He seemed to imply that this in itself was sufficient punishment for any misdemeanor, for his voice was friendlier as he added, “And a policeman.”
“For lunch?”
“Yes. Fellow by the name of Tibbett. Not a bad chap, although Edwin doesn’t reckon him very bright.”
Henry felt that the time had come to interrupt the conversation before it became too personal. Loudly he said, “Well, good-bye for now, Lady Manciple.” He walked quickly down the steps and along the few yards of drive to the sycamore tree. “Good-bye, Major Manciple,” he called up into the leafy heights. Then, to the young man he said, “You must be Mr. Manning-Richards. My name is Tibbett. I’m from Scotland Yard.”
“I’m delighted to meet you, sir,” said Julian Manning-Richards. At these close quarters Henry was able to see that he had dark hair, a sunburned skin, deep blue eyes, and an attractive smile. He and Maud, Henry reflected, must make an extremely handsome couple.
“I suppose,” Julian went on, “that you’ve come about this terrible business of Raymond Mason.”
“Yes, I have.”
“Well,” Julian hesitated, “I — I’d welcome a word with you sometime, if that’s possible, sir. You see, I…”
“What’s that? What did you say?” Major Manciple sounded touchy. “Speak up, can’t you, boy?”
“I’ll be back tomorrow morning and I’ll be interviewing everybody then,” said Henry. He made his way quickly down the drive to his car,
***
“Of course,” said Isobel Thompson, “they’re all quite mad. Rather charming in a way, but absolutely insane. More tea, Emmy?”
“Thank you,” said Emmy Tibbett. Then she laughed, and said, “Henry has a genius for getting himself mixed up with odd characters. I expect he’s enjoying himself a lot.”
Isobel, pouring tea, considered this remark gravely. Then she said, “The Manciples are a lot of fun, if you don’t have to try to make sense of them.”
“Surely they’re not really mad?” Emmy asked. “I mean, not certifiable?”
“Good Lord, no. They’re brilliant, most of them. Sir Claud is head of the Atomic Research Station at Bradwood, and Maud is positively hung around with first-class honors degrees, and Edwin is a bishop — or was, until he retired. George and Violet aren’t intellectual giants, certainly, but…”
“They seem to be an enormous family,” said Emmy. “Do they all live here at Cregwell Grange?”
“Oh goodness no. This is a family gathering, to vet young Julian Manning-Richards.”
“To do what?”
“To approve the young man before he and Maud announce their engagement officially. It’s supposed to be a secret,” Isobel added a little smugly.
“I’m not sure I like the sound of that,” said Emmy.
“The Manciples are eccentrics,” Isobel went on. “They follow paths of logic that other people don’t. At least, that’s what my husband says.”
“What sort of paths of logic?”
“Well — take this obsession about the house. That comes from the old man, of course. The Head, they used to call him.”
“Major Manciple’s father, you mean?”
“That’s right. He was Headmaster of Kingsmarsh. Mad as a coot. I mean, take the way he died just as an example. He would insist on driving in the middle of the road, and so did old Pringle, his solicitor. One day the two cars met, head on. Neither would give way, and — it would be funny if it weren’t tragic. They were both killed. Alec’s father was the local G.P. in those days, and he was the last person to see old Manciple alive, at the hospital. Apparently, he kept rambling on about George and the house, and Alec’s father noted it all down word for word, and wrote to tell George Manciple. Whereupon George promptly chucked up his commission in the Army and came to live here. I believe he and Violet would starve before they sold that ugly great house. I wouldn’t have it as a gift myself. It may seem logical to them, but,” Isobel Thompson shrugged her pretty shoulders.