“I wish I could believe that,” said Maud.
“I wonder,” said Julian reflectively, “what all the others have been saying to him.”
“All what others?”
“The Cregwell Grange collection of nut cases, Aunt Dora and Uncle Edwin and the rest.”
“I’m not sure that I like having my family referred to as nut cases,” said Maud.
Julian laughed. “Come off it, darling. You’re always saying that there’s not a sane sprig on your family tree.”
Maud gave a little sigh, and Henry could hear the smile in her voice. “Sorry, darling. It’s silly, I suppose — it’s all right for one of the family to say it, but…”
“Am I not one of the family?”
“Oh yes, darling, yes. Of course you are.”
“Maud,” Julian’s voice dropped, and the rest of the sentence was inaudible.
Emmy, who had been growing steadily more unhappy in her position of captive eavesdropper, was heartily glad when soon afterward an interruption occurred.
The bar door burst open and a young man with red hair came striding in, bringing a rushing draft of cold air with him. He approached the bar like a tornado, rubbing his hands together and shouting for beer. As ill luck would have it, he arrived at the counter at precisely the same moment as Julian Manning-Richards, who had come to order a second round of drinks. There was an electric silence as the two young men faced each other.
Then Frank Mason said to the barmaid, “Cancel that order, dear. I’m not so parched that I’d drink in any company.”
“You can come outside and say that again, Mason,” said Julian.
It sounded to Henry as though the words should have been written in a balloon-shaped space above his head. Frank Mason turned his head slowly and looked at Julian Manning-Richards. “I beg your pardon?” he said.
“Come outside and say that again,” said Julian. He was very pale.
“I don’t think,” said Mason, “that we have been introduced.” His voice was intended to be a parody of the entire Manning-Richards-Manciple complex, but it was not a very good one.
Julian slammed the empty tankard onto the counter. “Bloody coward,” he said. And before Mason could answer, he wheeled around and said, “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for your beer until we get home, Maud darling. We’re going now.”
Maud was standing, gripping her leather jacket too tightly around her slim body with one hand and holding the puppy’s leash in the other. Manning-Richards went over to her, reaching her side in one stride, and took her arm. Then he turned back to Mason, and flung out — there was no other word for it — his final taunt. “You’re frightened, aren’t you, Mason? Frightened of anyone your own size!”
Having thus packed a maximum number of clichés into a minimum number of seconds, he marched Maud and Tinker out of the bar and the door slammed behind them.
In the corner one of the tweed-clad men said, “It’s a question of keeping your left arm straight, old man. You should think of it as operating in one piece…”
The farmer in the leather gaiters stood up slowly and went over to the bar. He said, “Same again, Mabel.”
“I think,” Henry said to Emmy, “that we might have the same again too, don’t you?”
He stood up from the inglenook seat and walked over to the bar. Frank Mason was still standing there with a dazed expression on his face. He looked as though he had just been hit over the head with the proverbial blunt instrument.
“Two halves of bitter, please,” said Henry.
“Tibbett.” Mason seemed to come to life slowly, as he focused on Henry.
“That’s right,” said Henry.
Mason grabbed his arm. His grip was very strong. “Who is she?” he demanded.
“Who is who?”
“That girl. With Manning-Richards.”
“Maud Manciple, of course. Didn’t you gather that?”
“She can’t be Maud Manciple.”
“I assure you that she is. Why are you so surprised? Have you met her before?”
“No, of course not. I mean, yes. Half an hour ago. I was walking down by the river and she came along with her dog, and…”
“And what?”
“Nothing, damn you. Nothing at all.”
“Two halves of bitter,” said Mabel, appearing from the beer pumps like Venus from the waves. She smiled sweetly at Henry, and then, in a different tone, she said to Frank Mason, “Did you want a drink or didn’t you then?”
“No. I don’t want a drink. I don’t want anything in this blood-soaked place.” Mason turned on his heel and marched out of the bar.
“Charming, I’m sure,” said Mabel, giving the counter an unnecessary wipe. “Do you know him then, Mr. Tibbett?”
“Only very slightly,” said Henry.
Mabel sighed. “That’ll be two and fourpence,” she said. “Terrible business about poor Mr. Mason, wasn’t it?”
“Terrible,” Henry agreed.
“Poor Major Manciple. Who’d have thought that one of his guns would go off accidental like that. They won’t put him in prison, will they?”
“I really have no idea,” said Henry.
He picked his change off the bar, together with the two mugs, and began to make his way back to Emmy. At that moment the telephone rang somewhere in the depths of the inn, and Mabel disappeared. When she came back she approached Henry with a certain respect.
“Telephone for you, Mr. Tibbett.”
“Oh, thank you, Mabel.”
“It’s Sir John Adamson,” said Mabel almost reverently. “Sir John would like to speak to you.”
The Chief Constable cleared his throat several times, causing the telephone line to crackle alarmingly, before he finally said, “Well, Tibbett. How did you get on then?”
“I’ve had a very interesting couple of days, Sir John,” said Henry.
“I was wondering — that is — I thought you might have contacted me sooner.”
“I’ve been very busy, I’m afraid,” said Henry.
“Yes, yes, yes. Of course you have. And have you come to any — em — any conclusion?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, I have.”
“You have?” Sir John sounded positively alarmed. “You’re not proposing to — to, that is, to take immediate action?”
“No, no. There are still a number of loose ends to be tied up. It’ll be a day or so before I can make…”
“An arrest?”
“I wasn’t going to say that, sir — a full report. That’s what I’m hoping to make.”
“Oh. Oh, I see. No arrest?”
“I don’t think,” said Henry carefully, “that it will be necessary.”
“But if you know who killed Mason — I gather that you do know?”
“Oh, yes. But I don’t know why.”
“That’s surely beside the point. If you know who killed him…”
“I’m hoping, Sir John,” said Henry firmly, “that an arrest may not be necessary. I really can’t say more. This is a public telephone line, you know. I shall be making my report to you very soon, tomorrow, I hope.”
There was a helpless pause. Then Sir John said, “I see. Very interesting. Yes. Well. Keep in touch, won’t you?”
“Of course, Sir John.”
***
The next morning Henry got up early and drove to London. He arrived at Dell Street, Mayfair, early enough to find a parking meter for his car at a reasonable distance from the offices of Raymond Mason Ltd., Turf Accountants, before the Monday morning rush began in earnest.
The firm was established in a pretty Regency house not far from Hyde Park Corner, the only indication of its occupancy being a discreet brass plate fastened to the pilastered, white-painted doorway. Inside, a carpeted hall ended abruptly at a businesslike counter with a frosted-glass panel marked INQUIRIES which was firmly closed. There was, however, a bell, and Henry pushed it.