Henry turned to see that the tree-squatter had joined the party. Major George Manciple, still in his threadbare khaki shorts, radiated a slightly woolly bonhomie as he surveyed his assembled relatives.
“How are you today, Aunt Dora? Bearing up?” He rubbed his hands together.
“I never touch the stuff. You should know that, George,” replied Miss Manciple severely.
George Manciple sighed. Raising his voice he said, “Hadn’t you better get your hearing aid, Aunt Dora?”
“Lemonade is just as bad. I’ve enough acid in my system as it is.”
“Your hearing aid!” bellowed the Major.
“I was just about to introduce you, George. There’s no need to shout. This is Mr. Tibbett, one of Edwin’s missionaries from Alimumba. Mr. Tibbett, my nephew George.”
“I think we have met already,” said Henry. He grinned at Major Manciple, who shook his head gloomily.
“When she does wear it, it whistles,” the major remarked. He glanced around the room. “Have you met everyone, Tibbett? Let’s see, that’s my brother Edwin over by the window talking to my sister-in-law, Ramona. The fellow pouring himself a whiskey is her husband, my brother Claud. My daughter Maud — oh, there you are, my dear. Just talking about you. Get Aunt Dora wired up for lunch, will you, like a dear girl? Where’s Julian?”
“I don’t know,” said Maud. “I’ve been wondering.”
“Ah, well, I wouldn’t worry. But we can’t hold luncheon for him. I happen to know that Vi has prepared something rather special.”
At that moment all further conversation became impossible. From the hall outside came the deep, booming notes of some hollow brass object being struck by a muffled implement.
The Bishop dropped his crossword and was on his feet in a trice. “Lunch!” he exclaimed, with enthusiasm.
“Lunch,” said Lady Manciple to her husband, quietly removing the glass from his hand.
“Lunch, Aunt Dora!” screamed Maud to the old lady.
“Lunch. Ah, to be sure, lunch,” said Major Manciple to Henry. Then he added, “My brother Edwin brought it back from Bugolaland.”
“Indeed?”
“Audible for ten miles through the jungle on a clear day. Remarkable. Well, lunch…”
“Lunch, everybody,” said Violet Manciple, putting her head around the door. “We won’t wait for Julian…”
“Lunch, Edwin,” said Sir Claud to his brother.
“I believe, Mr. Tibbett,” said Aunt Dora, with the air of one imparting important news, “that luncheon is served.”
“Yes,” said Henry, “I had rather gathered that.”
CHAPTER THREE
THE DINING ROOM was large and well-proportioned, and furnished with a handsome mahogany table and a set of graceful Hepplewhite chairs, whose seats were in need of re-upholstery. The heavy, crested silver cutlery and the occasional pieces of finely cut Waterford glass contrasted strangely with the plastic table mats and paper napkins. The dinner service was — or had been — exquisite Crown Derby, with hand-painted bouquets of flowers on gold-rimmed plates, but nearly every piece was cracked or chipped, and some items, such as the vegetable dishes, had disappeared altogether and had been replaced by others in thick, serviceable white pottery. The Manciples themselves seemed quite unaware of these anomalies. In fact, Sir Claud spent some time during the meal in congratulating his hostess on the practical and esthetic qualities of the bilious plastic mats and inquiring where they could be bought.
Henry found himself directed to the place of honor on Violet Manciple’s right hand. Next to him was the Bishop, and beyond him a vacant seat for Maud. Major Manciple took the head of the table, while Sir Claud was placed opposite Henry, flanked by his wife on one hand and Aunt Dora’s empty chair on the other. Another unoccupied seat presumably represented Maud’s absent young man.
On the sideboard steaming dishes of delicious vegetables from the garden of the Grange were grouped, like bit-part actors in a musical comedy, around the star turn, a pair of small broiler chickens proudly enthroned on an electric plate warmer. As Major Manciple passed the side table he beamed and rubbed his hands.
“I say, Vi. Chicken, eh? A regular feast!”
“Yes.” Violet Manciple sounded almost ashamed. “I was rather extravagant, I’m afraid. They’re from the deep-freezing apparatus at Rigley’s in Kingsmarsh. I believe they come from America.”
“America, by Jove!” exclaimed the Bishop, greatly surprised. “What will they think of next! Fowls all the way from America! Fancy that!”
“I do hope they’ll be nice,” said Mrs. Manciple anxiously. “At least they’ll be a change from salmon. Just imagine, Mr. Tibbett, Edwin and George caught no less than six large salmon last week. We were eating it for breakfast, lunch, and tea. And if it’s not salmon, it’s oysters from the estuary. I’m afraid we country-dwellers haven’t a very varied diet.”
Before Henry could marshal his thoughts in reply the door opened and Aunt Dora came in, preceded by a high-pitched whistling sound. She now wore around her neck a complicated system of electric wires and a large pendant object which resembled a transistor radio. Maud followed. She looked resigned.
“Whistling again,” said Major Manciple. “I told you so.”
“I can’t help it, Father;’ said Maud. “She won’t let me fix it.”
“Then for heaven’s sake, switch her off,” said Sir Claud. “We can’t have that row all through lunch.”
“Okay.” Maud leaned forward and pressed a switch somewhere behind Aunt Dora’s right ear. The noise ceased abruptly.
“Thank you, dear,” said Mrs. Manciple. “Right, Edwin. If you would…”
Each member of the party was now standing behind his or her chair, head reverently bent forward. Henry hastened to follow suit. The Bishop cleared his throat and then pronounced a long Latin grace in a resonant voice. At the end there was a fractional pause and then a cheerful scraping of chairs and outburst of conversation as the Manciple family settled down to enjoy its lunch. The Major went to the sideboard, picked up a huge horn-handled carving knife, sharpened it on a ribbed steel, and began to dismember the puny frozen chickens with as much gusto as if they had been a baron of beef.
“Chicken, I see, Violet,” said Aunt Dora. “Quite a treat.”
“Water, Aunt Dora?” inquired Mrs. Manciple in a penetrating voice. Without waiting for a reply, she began pouring water into Aunt Dora’s glass, which was rather larger than the others and of a distinctive design. “The last of the Head’s beautiful set of Waterford glass,” she explained to Henry. “We always give it to Aunt Dora. It seems only right.”
“A little water, yes please, dear. There’s no need to shout, you know. My hearing aid works very well.” Aunt Dora patted the dead transistor on her chest complacently.
As luncheon progressed, Henry resolved not to press the subject of Raymond Mason. Far better, he decided, to leave business until afterward and to concentrate on trying to get to know these unusual but pleasant people. However, the decision was taken out of his hands, for his next-door neighbor, the Bishop, suddenly said, “You’re interested in Mason, are you, Mr. Tibbett?”
“Yes, I am, sir.”
“Mad as a hatter. I was telling you before lunch.”
“Oh, come now, Edwin,” put in Mrs. Manciple. “I don’t think that’s quite fair.”
“My dear Violet, if you’re going to maintain that his behavior was that of a sane man…”
“I do agree that he behaved very oddly that day, Edwin. But I feel sure it was just an isolated lapse.”
The Bishop turned to Henry. “It was like this, Mr. Tibbett. Just over two years ago I was home from Bugolaland on leave. Came to stay here with George and Violet. They told me this fellow Mason had bought the Lodge, but of course I hadn’t met him. Well, now, all I did was to ring his front doorbell and ask him perfectly civilly for the loan of half a pound of margarine, and he shouted some gibberish at me and slammed the door in my face!”