Violet Manciple went pink. “But of course. How thoughtless of me — I should have offered. I do hope you haven’t been — em — this way, just along here…”
The cloakroom was as large as a public bathhouse and ornamented in flowered tiles. The outer room housed, besides the washbasin and towels, the raw materials of George Manciple’s patent home-made clay pigeons. Boxes of old tennis balls, wooden canisters, springs, and balls of string were everywhere. There was also a rack, set high on the wall, where the guns were kept. There were spaces for six weapons, three of which were empty.
Henry looked around with interest, and then went into the lavatory beyond. This, too, was a large apartment, with an elaborate throne enclosed in solid mahogany, standing on a raised dais at one end of it. A small amount of waning daylight filtered in through the mock-Gothic arrow-slit of a window. Henry went over and peered out of it. The thin, vertical slit was open, and Henry found himself looking out through the shrubbery and toward the front drive.
When he emerged into the hall again Henry found Violet Manciple waiting to bid him good-bye at the front door. She looked considerably taken aback when he said, “Forgive me for asking, Mrs. Manciple, but have you cleaned your downstairs lavatory lately?”
“Have I…?” Mrs. Manciple blushed violently. “You don’t mean that it was…? Oh, Mr. Tibbett, I am so sorry…”
“It was spotless,” Henry reassured her. “I just wondered when it was last cleaned.”
“Yesterday morning, Mr. Tibbett. I clean it every morning, except Sundays. I have a terrible job with that cloakroom, because George will keep his shooting equipment in there. It’s always full of string and boxes and I can’t get him to keep it tidy. Only yesterday — I mean, why should he want to take string and fuses into the lavatory? I’ve asked him and asked him, but men are so thoughtless, aren’t they?”
“Yes, I’m afraid we are sometimes,” said Henry.
“Oh, forgive me. I didn’t mean you, Mr, Tibbett. I’m afraid I say foolish things sometimes — George says I’m worse than Aunt Dora. And with all this worry about Mr. Mason…”
“I think you can stop worrying about Mason, Mrs. Manciple,” said Henry. He had not meant to say as much, but Mrs. Manciple touched him with her artless anxiety.
“Stop worrying? But how can I, Mr. Tibbett? Quite apart from anything else — oh yes, I knew there was something I had to ask you. What about the Fête?”
“The Fête?”
“The Annual Church Fête and Jumble Sale. It’s next Saturday, and George and I always lend the gardens for it. Well — what am I to do? Can I go ahead with the arrangements? I have a working tea party tomorrow with some of the organizers — we have to start preparing the booths quite early in the week, you see, and I just don’t know what I’m going to say to everybody. If this terrible mystery isn’t cleared up…”
Henry smiled reassuringly. “I think you can safely go ahead with your Fête, Mrs. Manciple. I’m pretty sure that by tomorrow there’ll be no mystery left. In fact, I don’t think there ever has been one.”
Violet Manciple looked bewildered. “Whatever can you mean, Mr. Tibbett?”
“Just that things aren’t always what they seem,” said Henry cheerfully.
“I hope so,” said Mrs. Manciple doubtfully. “I certainly hope so. But I can’t help feeling that there is a mystery, all the same.”
And here Violet Manciple was right; and so, paradoxically, was Henry Tibbett.
CHAPTER EIGHT
EMMY WAS WAITING for Henry when he got back to The Viking. She had spent the afternoon in Kingsmarsh, where she had visited the fourteenth-century abbey and the local museum. She had just arrived back in Cregwell, after a long and complicated journey by various country buses, and she pronounced herself more than ready for a beer when the bar opened at six.
“Besides,” she added, “we may be able to hear what the Villagers are saying about the case.”
“You haven’t seen your friend Mrs. Thompson again today?” Henry asked.
“No. I thought I’d leave her in peace, as it was Sunday.”
The bar was almost empty. A languid platinum blonde polished glasses lethargically behind the counter, an ancient farmer in leather gaiters sat stolidly in a corner drinking his pint with the solemnity of a celebrant of the Japanese tea ceremony, and two middle-aged men in tweeds discussed golf stances and grips in dedicated undertones. Henry bought beer for himself and for Emmy, and they sat down in the high-backed ingle seat beside the fire.
“Not much local gossip going on in here, by the look of it,” said Emmy.
“Patience,” said Henry, “it may yet arrive.”
At that moment the outer door of the bar opened and two people came in. Henry, hidden inside the tall inglenook, said to Emmy, “New arrivals?”
“Yes.” Emmy craned to look. “A small fair girl, very pretty, a nice-looking young man and a boxer puppy.”
“Maud Manciple and Julian Manning-Richards by the sound of it,” said Henry.
“Maud. That’s the one who is hung around with first-class honors degrees, according to Isobel. She doesn’t look like a bluestocking, I must say. Are you going to go and say hello?”
“I don’t think so,” said Henry. “They haven’t seen me. Let’s just sit tight and see what happens.”
Nothing very spectacular happened. Julian went up to the bar and exchanged a joke with the platinum blonde, whom he addressed as Mabel. Mabel giggled, and gave him a pint of beer and a gin and tonic. He then made his way back to Maud, and they sat down on the bench which backed the one on which Henry and Emmy were sitting.
As he lowered himself onto the polished oaken bench, Julian said, “I was looking everywhere for you. What on earth made you go off down to the river on your own?”
“I was only giving Tinker her run.” Maud sounded a little ill at ease. “Mother asked me to. There was no need to come after me as though I — as though I couldn’t look after myself.”
“I thought you didn’t seem particularly pleased to see me just now,” said Julian. And then, warmly, “Don’t you understand, darling, I don’t like the idea of you wandering around on your own with all the things that have been going on. After all, it’s getting quite dark. And I don’t care if you laugh at me. You’re only a weak woman physically; you can’t deny that. You do need somebody to look after you.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, darling.” Maud sounded contrite. “It was sweet of you to come and look for me, and I’m glad you found me.” There was a little pause, and then Maud said abruptly, “I wonder if Tibbett believed you.”
“He seems quite a reasonable sort of fellow,” said Julian. “Better type than you’d expect, for a policeman.”
Maud said. “It’s so terribly unfair, the things people say. Why shouldn’t you get the Bradwood job?”
“No reason,” said Julian. “Nevertheless, I wish to God that Sir Claud weren’t your uncle. It’s bound to give ammunition to — to people who don’t like me. Still, there it is and it’s no good worrying about it. This business of Mason doesn’t help either. Admitting the fact that I’m delighted he’s out of the way…”
“Julian! You mustn’t say things like that!”
“You know it’s true. No good being hypocritical.”
“Yes, but — if somebody heard you…”
“Oh, highly suspicious, I agree. Fortunately, however, Tibbett seems to have more sense than would appear from his outward aspect. Your mother was telling me just now that he’d given her the green light to go ahead with the Fête on Saturday. Apparently he hinted broadly that the whole business was pretty well solved, and that he wasn’t taking it too seriously.”