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.
“Hello, darling. How did it go? Is the mystery solved?”
“I think so,” said Henry.
Emmy swung around in surprise. “No. Honestly? So soon? Have you made an arrest?”
“No, no, no,” said Henry.
“Then what…”
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.”