“Well it does,” said Henry. “Now, what sort of a day did you have?”
“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,”
“And how was she?”
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…”
“I’d still like to hear what the Village is saying,” said Henry.
Emmy passed on Isobel Thompson’s assessment of opinion in Cregwell.
“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.”
“I’m sure you’re right, Mrs. Manciple,” said Henry.
“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…”
“This chair is quite all right,” said Henry with a trace of desperation.
“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.”
“You hadn’t met him before?”
“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?”
“Not really,” said Henry.
“Then what am I talking about?”
“About Mason buying the Lodge.”
“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…”
“Could we get back to Mr. Mason?”
“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…”