“How well did you know Raymond Mason?” Emmy asked.
“My dear — hardly at all. He was absolutely impossible. I suppose I shouldn’t say it, now that the poor man is dead, but he was so vulgar and common. That wouldn’t have mattered if he hadn’t always been pushing himself forward, trying to gate-crash the Village. People were extraordinarily kind to him, considering, even Sir John Adamson and the Fenshires had him to dinner once or twice; I can’t think why. The only person who really seemed to like him at all was Violet Manciple, but then she’s a seraph, and she doesn’t seem to be aware at all of — well — of social distinctions. He used to have his nails manicured in a barber’s shop,” added Mrs. Thompson. It was clear that she could think of no more damning statement to make.
“Is that so awful?” Emmy was smiling.
Isobel said, “Do you remember, Emmy, when we were at school you were always sick when you ate bananas?”
“What on earth has that got to do with it?”
“Well, you used to say, ‘I like bananas, but they don’t like me.’ That’s how it was with Raymond Mason and Cregwell. He liked Cregwell, but Cregwell didn’t like him. The difference was that you had the sense to steer clear of bananas, while Mason…”
“You mean that Cregwell…?”
“Spewed him out,” said Isobel. “Just that. And frankly I’m not surprised.”
“You don’t mean,” Emmy felt suddenly frightened by what she knew she must say, “you don’t mean that you know who killed him?”
“No,” said Isobel, “I don’t. If I did, I’d tell you. But I doubt if anyone else in Cregwell would, except Violet Manciple.”
“She can’t possibly know,” said Emmy, “or she’d have told your local police yesterday. Henry is only called in on a case like this when the local people feel that…”
“That they can’t cope?” Isobel sounded amused.
“I didn’t exactly mean that. But Scotland Yard has so many facilities that local forces don’t have…”
“My dear Emmy,” said Isobel, “your husband has been called in because our Chief Constable is well aware that this case is much too close to home to be comfortable. He’s the Manciples’ nearest neighbor and one of their best friends. He knew Mason as well as anybody — and disliked him more than most. It would have been altogether too tricky for him to handle it himself.”
“Yes,” said Emmy, “yes. I suppose it would.”
“Anyway,” Isobel went on, “the Village is simply seething with rumors and gossip, I can assure you.” Her eyes lit up with innocent delight at the thought. “So what I propose is this: I’ll keep my ear to the ground and I’ll tell you everything. Otherwise your husband might never get to hear what people are saying. They all know who he is, you see.”
“Well,” Emmy hesitated. Unlike her old school friend she had a rooted dislike of gossip and abominated any form of snooping. Nevertheless, what Isobel said was perfectly true. As the local doctor’s wife she was splendidly placed to pick up any whispers which were going around and they might well be useful to Henry. Emmy said, “That’ll be fine, Isobel, Thank you.”
“I’ll enjoy it,” said Isobel frankly. “Just look in any time you’re passing and I’ll give you the latest bulletin. As for the current situation, opinion in the General Stores this morning was unanimous that George Manciple’s was the finger that pulled the trigger — although not a soul would dream of saying so to your husband. About fifty percent thought it was an accident caused by the shooting range, which they’ve always had their doubts about. The other half thought George had killed Mason deliberately, because of all the rows they’d been having recently. If it had been an accident, they said, Scotland Yard wouldn’t be here, which seemed a pretty good argument. Of this lot I’d say nine out of ten were on George’s side. So you can tell your Henry that if he decides to arrest Major Manciple, he’ll be lucky to get out of Cregwell without being lynched.”
“Thanks,” said Emmy, “I’ll tell him.”
CHAPTER SIX
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!”
“Mr. Mason,” said Henry, “I…”
“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…”
“I’ll say what I damn well like. You can’t stop me!”
“Sit down!” said Henry. He did not speak very loudly, but his voice carried the unmistakable mark of authority.
Mason paused, surprised. Then he sat down.
“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.”
“That’s right.”
“His only child, I believe.”
“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.”
“And what is your profession. Mr. Mason?”
For the first time Mason smiled. “Profession? None. I’m a gentleman of leisure, Inspector.”
“You mean — you do nothing?”
“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.”
“What do you mean by that?” Frank Mason suddenly looked thoroughly rattled.
“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?”
Mason flushed angrily. “What are you implying?”
“I’m implying nothing. I’m asking you a question. Are you the chief beneficiary?”
“The only one, as far as I know, and you can make what you like of it.”
Henry made a note. Then he said, “Perhaps you’d now tell me just what you did yesterday, say, from lunchtime onward.”
“That has nothing to do with it. I came down here to tell you…”