“I’m not a fool, young man,” replied Sir John belligerently. “Taken at its face value, which is how you are taking it, this blasted personal account gave me a strong motive for murdering Mason. That’s what you’ve been working around to all along, isn’t it? Well, I can tell you that…”
He was interrupted by a shrill ringing from the telephone. He picked up the instrument quickly, as though glad of an excuse to end the embarrassing conversation. “Adamson speaking — Who? Oh, yes, George — what is it this time? Not another corpse, I trust…” There was a long burst of talk from the other end of the telephone, during which Sir John went beetroot red. Henry guessed that he had committed a grave gaffe of some sort. At last the flow from the other end of the line dried up to a trickle, and Sir John managed to insert a few words.
“I’m most terribly sorry, George — anything I can do — Yes, yes, poor Violet — No, not entirely unexpected, I suppose, but… Yes, one must think of it that way, but it’s always a shock. Tibbett? Yes, as a matter of fact he is with me now — Certainly I’ll tell him — Yes — yes — Well, let me know if there’s anything — Good-bye, George.”
He put down the telephone, took a large handkerchief out of his pocket, and blew his nose loudly. Then he turned to Henry.
“That was George Manciple.”
“I gathered as much,” said Henry.
“He was ringing about — to tell me — Aunt Dora is dead.”
“Aunt Dora,” Henry repeated. He felt great distress, but not very much surprise.
“Oh, nothing in your line…” Sir John, who was clearly moved, managed a half-smile. “She was ninety-three, after all; one has to expect these things. Can’t live forever. It seems she went up to her room after lunch for her usual nap. Violet had some sort of a committee meeting in the afternoon at the Grange, and so she didn’t see anything of Aunt Dora until she went up at about half-past four to see if the old lady wanted some tea. She found her in a coma. She rang Thompson at once, but he was inclined to brush it off, thought it was one of her usual attacks and said he’d call later. He got there a few minutes ago, but too late. The poor old dear was dead.”
“I’m very sorry,” said Henry lamely.
“She’ll be greatly missed,” said Sir John, “greatly.”
“I’m sure of that.”
“Oh, by the way — George says that Aunt Dora was expecting to see you this evening, something about some pamphlets. He asked me to tell you. No point in going now, of course. And the family will naturally want to be left alone…”
“I know,” said Henry. He looked and felt very unhappy. “All the same, I think I ought to go around to the Grange…”
***
Violet Manciple opened the door to Henry. Her eyes were red from recent weeping, but she managed a smile and said, “Oh, Mr. Tibbett. I thought that John had told you…”
“Yes, he did, Mrs. Manciple,” said Henry. “I want you to know how terribly sorry I am.”
“I’m glad you came,” said Violet. She opened the door wider and motioned Henry to enter. “She was so looking forward to her talk with you. She’d have been disappointed if you hadn’t come.”
“I hate to intrude on you at such a time as this…”
Violet Manciple cut him short. “No, no. It’s no intrusion, Mr. Tibbett. In any case, we don’t observe mourning in this family.”
“You don’t?”
“The Head disapproved of it. Of course, Edwin, in his position — however, at heart he agrees with the rest of us. Why, even when George’s mother died, the Head refused to have the curtains drawn or to cancel any of his appointments. He was at his desk at Kingsmarsh the next morning, just as usual.”
Henry could not help feeling that in view of Augustus Manciple’s subsequent behavior it might have been better for him to have indulged in the safety valve of public mourning. However, it was none of his business. He said, “May I see her? Aunt Dora? I’d like to — to pay my respects…”
“Certainly, Mr. Tibbett. She is in the Chapel of Rest attached to Parkins, the undertakers, in Kingsmarsh. You may go there at any time between now and the funeral on Friday.”
Henry was taken aback. “You mean — already…?”
“Oh, yes. They are very quick and efficient, you know. Dr. Thompson signed the death certificate soon after five o’clock, and I rang Parkins at once.”
Henry felt stumped. He could think of no possible reason for asking to be shown Aunt Dora’s room. He looked around him, seeking inspiration, and quite by accident his eye fell on the open kitchen door. Inside, there was considerable confusion.
Violet Manciple blushed. “Oh, please don’t look at the kitchen, Mr. Tibbett. I had no time to do the washing up after lunch, with that wretched committee meeting. And I hadn’t even made the tea when I went up to see Aunt Dora, and…” Her voice trailed off into miserable silence. Then, on a brisker note, she said, “But of course, you’ll be wanting the pamphlets.”
“Pamphlets?”
“The ones that Aunt Dora was going to give you. That’s what you came for, isn’t it? She’d have been so delighted to know that you cared enough. If you’ll just wait here, I’ll go up and get them. She had them all laid out beside her bed ready for you. I shan’t be a minute.”
Violet Manciple disappeared upstairs. Quickly Henry went into the kitchen. He had no difficulty in recognizing Aunt Dora’s special tumbler, the one which she had drunk from at lunch. It was empty, but bore traces of dried-up lemonade. The lemonade pitcher itself was also there, still half-full. Henry looked around quickly. On a shelf was a small, empty medicine bottle with a cork. He had no idea whether or not it was clean, but there was no time to worry. He poured a little lemonade into the bottle, corked it up, and slipped it into his overcoat pocket. Aunt Dora’s glass went into the other pocket. He managed to get out into the hall again before Violet returned, and then saw to his dismay that George Manciple was standing in the doorway of the study, regarding him quizzically.
Before Henry could say a word, George said, “So you came after all. I thought you might.”
Henry murmured some words of sympathy, which George ignored. Abruptly he said, “I won’t ask what you were doing in the kitchen. That’s your business. I only ask you not to distress Violet more than is necessary. This isn’t an easy time for her, and there’s the Fête on Saturday.”
“You’ll surely cancel it?”
“Certainly not. Didn’t Vi tell you? The Head never approved of mourning. Everything will go on just as usual. Ah, here’s Vi,” George Manciple withdrew into his study, like a snail into its shell, as his wife came around the bend of the stairway.
“I hope I’ve found everything, Mr. Tibbett,” she said. She was carrying a bulky bundle of printed papers.
Henry took them from her quickly and bundled them into his briefcase. “I’m sure you have, Mrs. Manciple — so kind of you. No, no, please don’t bother. I’ll see myself out…” Aunt Dora’s tumbler was rattling against Henry’s pipe in his overcoat pocket, but mercifully Violet Manciple did not seem to notice it. As fast as he decently could, Henry got out through the front door and into his car.
He drove first to Dr. Thompson’s house, where, as he had expected, he was considerably less than welcome. A young girl in a white apron, whom Henry had not seen before, informed him in a bad-tempered East Anglian accent that the Doctor and Mrs. Thompson were sitting down to their supper and weren’t to be disturbed. Emergencies were to telephone Dr. Brent in Lower Cregwell. The doctor was having an evening off.
It took quite some time for Henry to convince this watchdog that while he was an emergency in his case Dr. Brent would be no substitute for Dr. Thompson. In fact, the girl was still looking extremely doubtful when a door opened, presumably from the dining room, and Isobel Thompson came out looking cross.