“What is?”
“Why, your having taken full responsibility for the whole affair. I feel altogether easier in my mind. I shall go and tell Thompson that you are now in charge of the situation, and that Scotland Yard will be along at any moment. Most good of you, John. I appreciate it.”
“Now wait a minute, George!” Sir John found to his annoyance that he had raised his voice. Indeed, he was almost shouting. “I’m taking responsibility for nothing! Everything must go through the proper channels…”
“Through the what? Speak up, John.”
“The PROPER CHANNELS!”
“Oh. Oh, yes. But of course. That’s why I rang you.”
“The proper channels, George, in this case are Sergeant Duckett and the C.I.D. at Kingsmarsh. Until I get their reports I know nothing about this matter officially. Is that clear?”
“Of course, of course. I quite understand, John. I’ll get on to Duckett right away. I’ve no objection to going through the proper channels now that I’ve talked to you and gotten everything settled. But there wouldn’t have been any sense in speaking to Duckett before I’d gotten things fixed with you, now would there?”
“For the tenth time, George, nothing is fixed. I shall wait for the report from the police and then make my decision.”
“Naturally. Naturally. Just so long as we’re agreed what your decision will be…”
“George, will you kindly ring off and call Sergeant Duckett?”
“Certainly I will. Sorry to have kept you chattering. You’ll be wanting to contact the Yard right away, I imagine. Well, good bye, John — and thank you very much.”
Sir John put down the telephone and walked out to the terrace again with the idea of resuming his pipe and his beer while waiting for the proper channels to catch up with him, but it was no use. The peace of the evening had been shattered and could not be raveled up again. He decided to go upstairs, have a bath, and change into more formal attire in which to greet the Detective Inspector from Kingsmarsh.
As he lay back in the warm water Sir John thought about Raymond Mason, who now lay dead less than a mile away at Cregwell Grange. He could not pretend that he had ever liked the fellow. For all his eagerness to play the country gentleman, Raymond Mason had never succeeded in fitting into the cozy social structure of Cregwell. He belonged neither with the Adamsons and the Manciples in their sizeable country houses, nor with Dr. Thompson and the Reverend Herbert Dishforth, who both worked hard ministering to the bodily and spiritual needs of the village, nor yet with the jolly company of the farmers, Tom Rudge and Harry Penfold and the rest. There was no doubt at all where Mason had wished to find his niche; it was his overt ambition to belong to “the county set,” which was his irritating way of referring to the Adamsons and the Manciples.
Of course, it was simply not possible. Sir John, as he frequently remarked, hoped that he was not a snob — but it was a vain hope. It was inconceivable that he should establish any real rapport with a man who was not merely in business but the nature of whose business was so very unfortunate. A bookmaker, if you please. A pleasant enough fellow in his own way, and generous, but an ordinary bookie. Not that class counts for anything in this day and age, of course, and one even has the fellow to dine at one’s table occasionally, and one hopes one isn’t a snob, but…
Of Mason’s life before he came to Cregwell Sir John knew very little. Mason often referred to himself, with satisfaction, as a self-made man, but he had never given details of how this interesting exercise in do-it-yourself had been achieved. All that was certain was that he was the founder and proprietor of the firm of Raymond Mason, Turf Accountants, whose London office had progressed, step by step, from humble origins east of the City until it had finally established itself in a proud Mayfair mansion. So successful had the enterprise proved that four years ago, Mason — then in his late forties — had been able to install a general manager and retire to fulfill his dream of becoming a country squire. True, he went to London a couple of times a week to keep an eye on things, but henceforth Cregwell was to be his home and his persona that of a thoroughgoing country gentleman.
His arrival had been welcomed at first by Major George Manciple, for he had rescued the Manciple family from a precarious financial situation by purchasing Cregwell Lodge, the old gatekeeper’s cottage belonging to the Grange, together with two acres of land. The selling of the Lodge had been just one more stage in the seemingly endless battle which George Manciple had been fighting for years, the battle to keep his family home intact in the face of inflation, rising prices and costs, penal taxation, and an inadequate fixed income. Yes, Sir John reflected, old George Manciple had been pleased enough with Mason in the early days, had made quite a fuss of his stocky, smooth-faced neighbor, and introduced him to the Village. In fact, the trouble between them was quite recent in origin.
Just what this trouble was, Sir John did not know. It appeared that Mason had been conducting a campaign of minor persecution against Manciple about which Manciple complained unendingly to his friend, the Chief Constable. Mason had lodged an objection to Manciple’s private shooting range on the grounds that it was both noisy and dangerous; Mason had accused Manciple of closing an ancient right of way across the grounds of the Grange, a right of way which nobody used and of which George Manciple was quite ignorant; Mason had reported Manciple to Sergeant Duckett for riding his bicycle a hundred yards down a lonely lane at dusk without the statutory lights; Mason had unearthed ancient documents relative to the land on which the Grange stood in an effort to prove that Manciple’s new garage was illegal and should be demolished; Mason had… And so it went on.
“But surely, George,” Sir John had protested, “there must be some reason for all this. What’s gotten into the fellow? Why’s he behaving like this? What have you done to upset him, eh?”
But to this very sensible question he never received a satisfactory answer. And now Raymond Mason was dead, and never again would his white Mercedes-Benz — registration number RM1, naturally — scream through Cregwell, terrorizing the hens and delighting the children; never again would those stubby, well-manicured hands pull out a wallet full of fivers in the Saloon Bar of the Viking Inn, seeking to buy what could not be bought: an entree to one of the little groups of contented beer-drinkers, to that Village society which was so free and easy to those who were born to it but so infinitely expensive and difficult to an outsider. Poor Mason. Already the fact of his death had taken root in Sir John’s mind, provoking kindlier thoughts than the man had ever evoked while alive. Within a few days, secure in the knowledge that he was gone for good, the whole village would be mourning Mason quite genuinely.
Meanwhile there was the disturbing fact that Mason had died a violent death. An accident, presumably, but most unfortunate that it should have taken place at Cregwell Grange, thus dragging in the Manciple family. All that wild Irish talk of George’s about calling in Scotland Yard… Surely he was not implying that Mason had been murdered? If so — but Sir John put the unpleasant thought out of his head. For the moment the only thing to do was to get out of the bath, dry himself, get dressed, and wait for a trickle of information to reach him through the proper channels.
And so, in due course, Detective Inspector Robinson from Kingsmarsh turned up at Cregwell Manor with a worried face and a sheaf of papers in order to put the facts before the Chief Constable. These facts could be set out briefly as follows.
Raymond Mason had driven over to Cregwell Grange in his white Mercedes at about half-past five. He had seen and spoken to Mrs. Manciple, but had not seen the Major, who was practicing on his shooting range on the grounds. Mason had been very friendly and affable, according to Mrs. Manciple, and had brought her some plants for her garden. Shortly before half-past six he had taken his departure; however, a few yards down the drive his car had unaccountably stopped, and he had gotten out to investigate the trouble. What happened next was somewhat confused. He had evidently become aware of some sort of danger, for he had uttered a cry of alarm. A moment later a shot rang out, and Mason fell dead beside the car. The only eye-witness — apart from whoever fired the shot — was Miss Dora Manciple, the Major’s nonagenarian aunt. She had followed Mason out of the house, hoping to catch up with him in order to give him some pamphlets on spiritualism. Her evidence, it seemed, was not entirely clear, but Mason had apparently run out from behind the car, waving his arms and shouting, as if in alarm. He had then fallen dead.