“You know him well then?”
Sir Claud looked surprised. “Of course I do,” he said. “He is engaged to be married to my niece.”
Just then Lady Manciple came up. “And how is your collection, Mr. Tibbett?” she asked.
“My collection?”
“Of wildflowers. I trust you have been out in the hedgerows this fine morning.”
“I’m afraid not. I’ve been working.”
“What a pity. God gives the sunshine for man to enjoy, you know.”
Sir Claud looked sharply at his wife, appeared about to say something, and then changed his mind.
Swiftly, Ramona said, “I should say — the sunshine is there to be enjoyed.”
Henry said, “And work is there to be done, unfortunately.”
“But I understood from Violet that you had — what is the phrase you people use — completed your investigations.”
“I’m afraid,” said Henry, “that Mrs. Manciple may have jumped to a too hasty conclusion. I simply told her that I thought she could safely go ahead with her plans for Saturday’s Fête…”
Lady Manciple’s face fell. “You mean, the case isn’t closed?” she asked, with obvious dismay. “But, John Adamson was only just saying…”
“What was Sir John saying?” Henry asked a little sharply.
“Well — nothing definite. I mean, he couldn’t, could he, in his position? But he quite clearly gave us the impression that there was no great cause for alarm.” Ramona Manciple’s troubled eyes searched Henry’s face with disconcerting earnestness. “Of course, violent death is all in the day’s work to you, Inspector, so perhaps you don’t realize how upsetting a thing like this is to ordinary people like us.”
Henry smiled. “I do appreciate that,” he said. “And yet, I really can’t agree that any of the Manciples are ordinary people.”
“You’re not implying that we are extra-ordinary, I hope.” Lady Manciple sounded quite annoyed.
“No, no,” Henry reassured her, “but I would say that as a family, you are quite exceptional.”
“Ah, yes. If you mean the Manciple brain, then I must agree with you. Inherited from the Head, of course. It’s a pity about George.”
“By the way, Lady Manciple,” Henry added, looking around the room, “do you happen to know where Sir John is at the moment? I saw his car in the drive, but he doesn’t seem to be here.”
“He went down to the range with George a few minutes ago,” answered Ramona promptly. “Something about having a private chat. They’ll be back for lunch. And now I intend to prise your charming wife away from Edwin. I have only had the chance of a minute’s conversation with her, but I gather that she shares my interest in wildlife…”
Left temporarily to his own devices, Henry wandered over to the open French window. Emmy, Ramona, and the Bishop were engrossed in a discussion on local flora and fauna; Sir Claud and Julian were laughing over an erudite scientific pun of some kind; Maud had gone upstairs to help Aunt Dora fix her hearing aid; Violet was in the kitchen. Nobody seemed to notice when Henry stepped quietly out into the garden.
He made his way slowly between the privet hedges to the range, deep in thought. He was convinced that he knew how, and by what agency, Raymond Mason had been killed; and according to his terms of reference his interest in the affair should be at an end. And yet — and yet, there was so much unexplained. In fact, the solution posed more questions than the original problem. And there was something wrong…
Henry’s colleagues at Scotland Yard were familiar with the intuitive streak which he himself referred to as his “nose.” Frequently it had led him to scrap all preconceived notions of a case and tackle it from a fresh angle. Frequently it had prompted him to a closer investigation of an apparently open-and-shut case to reveal something more sinister beneath the surface. And now it was operating on all cylinders, telling him urgently and unambiguously that the real mystery of Cregwell and the Manciples was yet to be unraveled, that he should not and could not go calmly back to London and forget the whole matter simply because he was convinced that Raymond Mason’s death had been caused by…
The voice was surprisingly, almost shockingly loud. It came from the other side of the privet hedge, and it said, “But why, John? Why?” The Irish intonation was unmistakably George Manciple’s.
Henry stood perfectly still. His usual distaste for eavesdropping was quite forgotten. This might be important.
After a short pause George Manciple went on. “The man didn’t like me, and I didn’t like him. That’s plain enough. But it seems to be taking things to extremes to suggest that he committed suicide on my doorstep, when it’s perfectly obvious…”
Henry heard a small rustling of leaves, as though someone were shuffling his feet uneasily. Then, gruffly, Sir John Adamson said, “I’m only telling you what Tibbett said, George. I don’t pretend to be able to explain it.”
“It wasn’t physically possible for Mason to have shot himself,” said Manciple. “Aunt Dora’s evidence…”
“You surely don’t take that seriously, George?”
“I certainly do. Aunt Dora has all her wits very much about her, I can assure you. And if he killed himself, how do you suggest that the gun got into the shrubbery?”
“Look here, George.” Sir John sounded exasperated. “I told you this because I thought you’d be pleased. Tibbett definitely said that there would be no arrest, which means either accident or suicide, and I can see no possibility of accident. So there you are. You can forget the whole thing.”
“The man was under my roof,” said George Manciple stubbornly. “Well, in my drive at any rate. It’s my bounden duty to get to the bottom of the matter.”
Sir John seemed to be making a great effort to remain calm. He said, “When you telephoned me on Friday evening, George, you suggested that I should call in Scotland Yard in order to get the most expert advice possible. I did that. The case has been investigated by no less a person than Chief Inspector Henry Tibbett. I can’t see what more you want. After all, it’s not as though the man had been a friend of yours.”
“Exactly.” George Manciple sounded triumphant, as though he had scored a telling point. “Precisely. That is why I feel an obligation.” There was a tiny pause, and then he added, “I suppose you know what they are saying in the Village?”
“I have no idea what they are saying in the Village. It doesn’t interest me.”
“It interests me,” said George briskly. “They are saying that I shot Mason accidentally from the range here. At least, that’s what the more charitable element are saying. The others — well — you can imagine. It’s not at all pleasant, John. The very least that will happen will be a strong local movement to get the Council to condemn the range, and not even Arthur Fenshire will be able to stop it. And you know how much it means to me. No, John, it’s simply not good enough for Tibbett to say he’s not going to make an arrest and then simply go off, leaving the air full of loose ends. Not good enough.”
“I simply don’t understand you, George.” Sir John sounded exasperated. “I should have thought you’d be delighted to hear that there’s to be no arrest. You surely don’t want to stir up scandal in your own family, do you?”
“And I don’t understand you, John,” replied George with spirit. “Why are you so keen to hush it all up, eh? Don’t you want to know the truth?”
Sir John sighed impatiently. “This is a useless conversation, George,” he said. “I’m sorry I ever started it. Until I receive Tibbett’s detailed report I can’t possibly make any comment.”