“Now, John, don’t come all over official on me. I’ve known you long enough to realize when you’re up to something. For some reason of your own, you’re delighted that this Scotland Yard inquiry is about to fizzle out with no publicity, no scandal, and no proper conclusion. Well, I can only tell you that it doesn’t satisfy me, and I intend to speak to Tibbett about it.”
“You have no right to do any such thing, George. Tibbett is responsible only to his superiors at the Yard, and to me.”
“We’ll see about that,” said George Manciple.
“Just because you’re afraid of losing your precious shooting range…”
Sir John was interrupted by the resonant notes of the dinner gong, which was living up to its reputation for audibility in the jungle. Very quietly Henry made his way back to the house. He found himself in entire agreement with Major Manciple, and was even more determined than ever to have a talk with Sir John at the earliest opportunity.
Luncheon followed the pattern of Saturday’s meal. After the Bishop’s Latin grace Violet Manciple dispensed large helpings of exquisite, freshly-caught salmon trout and garden vegetables, apologizing profusely for the dullness of the fare. Meanwhile, Maud and Julian handed around tumblers of home-made lemonade, which looked alarming but tasted delicious. The second course consisted of a large dish of canned peaches, which were clearly regarded by the whole family as a great treat. They caused quite a stir.
“In Bugolaland,” Edwin confided to Henry, “we always used to open a large can of peaches on Christmas day. Too hot for Christmas pudding, you see. Why, I’ve had my can of peaches carried by bearers through miles of jungle sooner than miss it for Christmas dinner. Remember, Julian?” he asked suddenly in a penetrating bass.
“Remember what, sir?” Julian, who had been listening politely to one of Ramona’s rambles, found himself caught between the fire of two Manciples.
“Peaches for Christmas dinner,” bellowed Edwin.
“Ragwort in Three-Acre Meadow,” said Lady Manciple.
Julian looked from one to the other. Then, with great aplomb. he said to Ramona, “Yes, Lady Manciple. I have noticed it.” He gave her a little bow, indicating courteously that the conversation was over. Then he turned to the Bishop with a smile and said, “In Bugolaland you mean, sir?”
“Of course,” said Edwin, “Where else would you have peaches for Christmas, eh?”
“Things are rather different now, of course, sir,” said Julian, with just the right note of respect. “I remember the tradition of peaches for Christmas when I was a child, but nowadays people tend to eat ice cream out of the deep freeze.”
“Up country,” said the Bishop. He sounded far from pleased, as though his authority had been challenged. “Up country. No deep freezes up country.”
Julian looked a little uncomfortable. “I expect you’re right.”
“Of course I’m right.” Edwin shot a disapproving look at the young man, the sort of look he might have given a curate whose chanted response was flat. Then he transferred his whole attention to his dish of canned peaches.
Violet Manciple said to Emmy, “I hear you are a friend of Isobel Thompson’s, Mrs. Tibbett.”
“Yes,” said Emmy, “that is, we were at school together.”
“A most charming woman,” said Violet, “so interested in everything that goes on in the Village.”
“A meddling little gossip,” said Aunt Dora suddenly and loudly. There was a slightly awkward pause. Then, as if afraid that she might not have been fully understood, Aunt Dora repeated, “Isobel Thompson is a meddling little gossip.”
Violet Manciple had gone as pink as a strawberry. “Do have some more peaches, Mrs. Tibbett,” she said.
Emmy, whose dish was still full, declined politely.
Edwin said to Henry in a stage whisper, “Have to forgive Aunt Dora, I’m afraid. It’s her age, y’know. Wonderful for ninety-three, when you come to think of it.”
Quite unabashed Aunt Dora turned suddenly to Sir John Adamson. “You know what I mean, don’t you, John Adamson — if anybody does.” She paused, took a drink from her glass, and then said, “This wine is very delicious, Violet. I think I will have a little more.”
“It’s not wine, Aunt Dora,” said Violet in obvious relief at the change of subject, “it’s lemonade.”
“I like a good sauterne with my dessert,” remarked Aunt Dora implacably.
“Let me get you some more, Miss Manciple.” Sir John was on his feet at once in slightly exaggerated gallantry. He picked up Aunt Dora’s empty glass and made for the side table where the lemonade stood, cool and green, in a graceful but chipped Waterford glass pitcher.
“Thank you, John,” said Aunt Dora. And then, to Sir Claud she added, “I hear that Mr. Mason’s son is in Cregwell.”
“So I believe,” replied Sir Claud. “I haven’t met him.”
“I understand he is a most unpleasant young man,” put in Lady Manciple. Once again, Henry was struck by the beauty of her deep voice. “He has been causing all sorts of trouble. I believe he is a Bolshevik.”
Sir John, who had returned to the table with Aunt Dora’s recharged glass, said, “People are being less than charitable about the young man. After all, he has a right to his political views, eccentric though they may be, and he has lost his father…”
“As if he cared,” said Julian.
“He’s delighted that old Mason is dead,” said Maud. “He hated his father, and what’s more he inherits the business.”
“Well, yes. H’r’rump.” Sir John cleared his throat noisily as he resumed his seat. “It’s normal for an only son to inherit. No need to assume that he wanted to see his father dead. Goodness me,” he went on rather more aggressively, “you might as well say that you and Maud were just waiting to bump off poor old George so that you could inherit this house. What d’you say to that, eh young man?”
Julian said nothing. He had gone very white, while Maud had flushed — more, Henry thought, from anger than embarrassment.
George Manciple looked up from his peaches and said, “Bump me off? Bump me off? Who wants to bump me off?”
“Nobody, George.” Violet sounded upset. “Really, John, the things you say. Maud, dear, would you get the cheese from the pantry? And there are some cream cookies on the shelves under the stairs…”
It was as they were all filing out of the dining room after lunch that Aunt Dora appeared to see Henry for the first time. “Ah,” she said with satisfaction, “there you are. Tibbett. Hang him from a gibbet. I have been looking for you.”
“So Mrs. Manciple told me.”
“I very much want a word with you, Mr. Tibbett.” Aunt Dora sounded positively conspiratorial. “I have some papers which I think will interest you, apropos of our conversation yesterday.”
“The — the astral appearance of animals, you mean?”
“The appearance of the astral bodies,” Aunt Dora corrected him. “There is no such thing as an astral appearance. I am a little tired now, Mr. Tibbett. I expect it was the second glass of sauterne. As you know, I never sleep in the daytime, but I think I shall put my feet up for a little while. I will see you later.”
Before Henry could reply Aunt Dora moved the switch on her hearing aid. Rendered incommunicada by the veil of high-pitched sound which resulted, she made her way slowly up the stairs.
Henry had been hoping to get an early interview with Sir John Adamson, but the latter damped his hopes by saying, as he put down his coffee cup, “I’m anxious to have a talk with you, Tibbett, but just now I have to go to Danford on urgent business. Come to my house at five, eh? Then we can talk for as long as you like.”
With this Henry had to be content. A few moments later Sir John took his leave, and the Daimler nosed its way down the drive. Sir Claud and Lady Manciple were packed and ready to go back to Bradwood, and Julian offered to drive them to the station. George Manciple was already down on the range, as the distant sound of gunfire testified. The piercing sounds of a clarinet inexpertly played left no doubt as to where the Bishop was, or what he was doing. Violet had her apron on and was clearly itching to get at the washing up. There was no possible reason why Henry and Emmy should stay any longer at Cregwell Grange.