“You’d better explain about the margarine, Edwin,” said Violet Manciple. “You see, Mr. Tibbett, it was August Bank Holiday Monday and all the shops were shut…”
The Bishop took up the tale. “That’s right. Violet found herself short of margarine. Well, I was going to walk down past the Lodge and through the fields to the river for a dip before lunch, I remember I had already changed into my bathing suit, and I was just putting on my Wellington boots…”
“Wellington boots?” Henry did his best not to sound surprised.
“Of course. You have to cross some marshy land to get to the river by the short cut. I was just pulling on my boots when Violet came and asked me would I stop by at the Lodge and ask Mason for some margarine? I wasn’t very keen, I remember. I pointed out to Violet that I already had the sunshade and my clarinet to carry…”
“Sunshade?”
“Edwin has always been liable to sunstroke,” put in Violet. “That was why he found Bugolaland so trying. It was a very hot day and he had foolishly left his solar topee in London. So I insisted that he should take the little Japanese sunshade that I use in the garden. I suppose the flower design was rather feminine for a bishop, but one mustn’t take risks with one’s health, must one?”
“And the clarinet?” Henry was past surprise.
“Oh, didn’t you know?” The Bishop beamed. “My great hobby is playing the clarinet. Unfortunately, I am not very expert, and Violet does not like me to practice in the house for fear of disturbing other people. In Bugolaland, of course, it was easy to get out into the jungle for practice, so long as one can avoid the buffalo, but it’s more difficult to find seclusion here at home. So, as I was going down to a lonely stretch of the river, I naturally…”
“In any case,” said Violet, “I gave him a string bag to carry the margarine home in.”
“So I went and rang this chap’s doorbell…”
“Just a minute,” said Henry. “Let me get this right. You were wearing swimming trunks…”
“Oh dear me, no. I prefer the old-fashioned type of costume, with knee-length legs and short sleeves. I feel it is more becoming to my cloth and years. Naturally, I would not walk on the public highway in such attire, but across the fields…”
“An old-fashioned bathing costume,” said Henry, “and Wellington boots. You were carrying a flowered Japanese sunshade, a clarinet, and a string bag. You rang Mason’s doorbell. He had no idea who you were…”
“But I announced my identity at once. As soon as he opened the door, I said, ‘I am the Bishop of Bugolaland, and I want half a pound of margarine…”
“And what,” Henry asked faintly, “did he say?”
“That’s the whole point, my dear fellow. He looked at me in a distinctly unbalanced way for a moment and then he made a most extraordinary remark. I shall never forget it. ‘And I’m a poached egg,’ he said, ‘and I want a piece of toast.’ And with that he slammed the door and I heard the key turning in the lock. Well now, I happen to know,” went on the Bishop triumphantly, “that it is a recognized delusion of the mentally deranged to fancy themselves to be poached eggs. A curious fact, but true. Is that not so, Claud?”
“I believe it has been known,” replied Sir Claud. “Pass the potatoes, would you, Ramona?”
“And that wasn’t the end of it,” pursued Edwin. “Strange as the man’s manner was, I did not want to go home empty-handed. So I made my way around to the back of the house and looked in through the window of the room which he was pleased to call his library. He was standing there, drinking what appeared to be a glass of neat whiskey. I was somewhat encumbered, of course, but I banged on the window with the sunshade and gestured to him with my clarinet. He saw me, started violently, dropped his glass on the floor, and appeared to try to climb behind the sofa. I have not seen such deranged behavior since one of my cook-boys went berserk in Alimumba in 1935. It was then that I decided that it would be positively unsafe to have to do with such a maniac, and so I made my way home — without the margarine, alas. I wanted Violet to telephone to the police or the doctor, but she was against it.”
“What an extraordinary story, Edwin,” remarked Lady Manciple, fixing the Bishop with her great dark eyes. “The man was clearly unbalanced.”
“Out of his mind.”
“Did you not notice it on other occasions, Violet?” asked Ramona.
“No, never,” said Mrs. Manciple. “That’s why I think it was just an isolated lapse, as I said to Edwin.”
“Well, I don’t know what you mean by ‘never,’ Violet,” said the Bishop, helping himself to beans. “He was unusual, to say the least of it, the next time we met. It was in this house, if you remember, a few days later. Mason was having a drink in the drawing room with George when I came in. Once again he started violently and very nearly overturned his glass. Then George said, ‘Ah, Mason, have you met my brother, the Bishop of Bugolaland?’ Or words to that effect. And Mason fairly goggled at me in that same half-witted way and then said — to George, mind you, not to me, ‘You mean he’s really a Bishop?’ And this, after he had been told my identity twice, once by George and once by myself. I can’t help feeling. Violet, that you are glossing over the facts when you maintain that the man was mentally normal. Thank you, Maud, another sausage would be most welcome.”
“I had clean forgotten that incident,” said Major Manciple. “Yes, the explanation for all his goings-on may have been nothing more nor less than feeble-mindedness.”
“It doesn’t explain who shot him.” Aunt Dora spoke in her usual fortissimo cracked soprano.
“It was just an accident, Aunt Dora,” said Sir Claud. “You must not distress yourself by thinking about it.”
“It certainly was not an accident,” replied Aunt Dora with spirit. “I would remind you, Claud, that I was there and you were not. In fact, I was the only person there, so I feel entitled to my opinion. Is there a little more chicken, Violet?”
“I’m afraid there’s not, Aunt Dora,” said Mrs. Manciple, embarrassed. “Well, I’ll clear away now. If you’d just give me a hand, Maud dear. Please don’t move anybody else.”
“It was most delicious, Mrs. Manciple,” said Henry, surrendering his plate.
“I’m so glad. I must get some more.”
“Not like the chickens we used to have from the home farm in the old days,” said Aunt Dora on a slightly querulous note.
“Well, it’s a change from salmon anyway.” said Violet Manciple firmly, as she pushed a stack of dirty plates through the serving hatch. This was a statement which nobody could dispute.
The meal progressed through trifle to cheese, after which the company adjourned to the drawing room for coffee. The Bishop went back to his newspaper; Mrs. Manciple and Maud retired to do the washing up; and Sir Claud and his wife began to discuss their plans for bird-watching later in the afternoon. Henry took the opportunity of having a quiet word with Major Manciple.
“Of course, my dear Tibbett. I shall be only too glad — I suggest that I put my study at your disposal. Which of us would you like to talk to first? Oh, I see. Well, if you’ll just allow me to finish some typing. I’ll be with you inside five minutes — and I dare say you’ll want to see the shooting range and so on. I’ll just tell Violet — shan’t be a moment.” The Major hurried out.
The Bishop looked up from his paper and addressed Henry directly. “Einstein’s theory under fire again in the States recently,” he said.