This time Henry was determined not to be caught out. “Let’s see,” he said, “Einstein’s theory — relativity. Again — re. Recently — lately. In the States. That’s U.S., I suppose. How many letters?”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Tibbett?” The Bishop was regarding Henry over his spectacles.
“How many letters?”
“Oh, just two.”
“Two? Surely there must be more than two?”
“Not in today’s Times. One is from a professor at some research laboratory in Alabama and the other from the editor of a scientific journal in New York. Both attacking Einstein’s conclusions. It’s the old story of the 1923 Mount Palomar experiments all over again. Utter rubbish, don’t you agree, Claud? My brother Claud is the expert on this sort of thing, of course.”
In no time the two brothers were involved in a discussion on physics and metaphysics, which soared above Henry’s head; he was heartily glad when the Major returned announcing that he was now ready to put himself entirely at the Chief Inspector’s disposal, and if he would come along to the study…
It was as the drawing-room door was closing behind him that Henry heard the Bishop saying to Claud in a stage whisper. “First Mason and now this fellow Tibbett. I simply mentioned those two letters to the editor of The Times and he answered me with the most extraordinary…” The door closed.
***
Major Manciple’s study was, if anything, untidier and shabbier than the rest of the house, but it was also comfortable and looked lived-in. The walls were lined with what appeared to Henry to be a considerable library of fine leather-bound books, each spine embossed in gold with the same dismembered hand clutching some circular object, which Henry had noticed engraved on the table silver.
George Manciple followed Henry’s gaze to the books and said, “My father’s library. Or what remains of it. The Head had a magnificent collection, but we’ve sold a lot of it, mostly the Greek and Latin volumes. None of us are classics, more’s the pity. I was sad to see the books go, but we needed the space, and…” He did not add, “and the money.” But as if pursuing the same train of thought he went on. “That’s the Manciple crest. A hand holding a bag of gold. A sort of pun on the name, I suppose — ‘manciple’ is the old word for a purveyor or purchaser.” He laughed shortly. “Somewhat ironic these days. Selling is more in our line now, so long as we’ve anything left to sell. Well, sit down, Inspector, and tell me how I can help you.”
They seated themselves one on each side of the massive Victorian mahogany desk under the stern eye of a large tinted photograph of the Head. Henry had just opened his mouth to reply to Major Manciple’s question, when he realized that it had been purely rhetorical. Having quickly sorted out some papers on the desk, George Manciple went on.
“I’ve been doing some spadework for you, since I knew you were coming. I know how precise you fellows like to be. Now I’ve drawn up several tabulated lists of all the people who were here yesterday, with notes on their motive, opportunity, and so forth. That’s the way you like it done, isn’t it? I’ve read about it in books.”
“Well,” Henry began. “the way I always like to work is…”
“We begin,” the Major rolled on, quite unperturbed, “with a list of the occupants of this house as of six o’clock yesterday evening. I’ve a copy here for you…” He pushed a paper toward Henry. “Myself and my wife, Edwin, Claud, Ramona, Maud and Julian — that’s Maud’s young man — and Aunt Dora. Now, here’s a second list, which I’ve headed ‘Motive.’ These are all the people with motives for killing Mason. There may be others, of course, that I don’t know about. You’ll see that the list reads myself, Violet, Maud, Julian, and Mason Junior.”
“Mason Junior?” Henry repeated, surprised.
“The son. Did you not know that he had a son?”
“I did, as a matter of fact,” said Henry. “Detective Inspector Robinson told me this morning that they had traced the fact that Mason had a grown-up son by a marriage which was dissolved many years ago. But I understood that he had never visited his father here, and that most people in the Village were unaware of his existence.” He ended on a faint note of inquiry, but George Manciple did not respond.
Instead, the Major went on. “Well, I put him on the list because presumably he inherits from his father. Although until the will is read we can’t be sure of that.”
“And what are the motives of the other people?”
“We’ll come to that later,” said Major Manciple briskly. “First, I’d like you to look at the third list. This one is headed ‘Opportunity.’ You’ll see it consists of myself, Claud, Ramona, and Aunt Dora. Everybody else has a complete alibi. If you’ll just glance at this fourth list, it shows you. Violet, indoors telephoning to Rigley, the grocer; Edwin, indoors and with Violet — he had been resting in his room and was just coming downstairs into the hall where Violet was phoning when Mason was shot; Maud and Julian, together down by the river; Mason Junior, presumably nowhere near Cregwell at all. Now, I dare say that something has already suggested itself to you concerning those lists,”
“Yes,” said Henry. “It occurs to me that only one name appears on both the ‘Motive’ and ‘Opportunity’ lists. Yours.”
Major Manciple beamed his approval. “Quite right. Quite right. I am clearly the prime suspect, amn’t I? And then, of course, there’s the matter of the missing gun.”
“The gun is not missing,” said Henry. “It was found in the shrubbery.”
“I am not referring to that gun,” said the Major with a trace of impatience. “Sergeant Duckett must have told you that I reported a gun missing some weeks ago. If he didn’t, he was failing in his duty.”
“Yes,” said Henry, “he did.”
“Well, there you are. You must make whatever you like of it.”
“I shall,” Henry assured him. “It was similar to the gun which shot Mason, I understand.”
“That’s right. I have half-a-dozen of them for my shooting practice. You shall see them later on. Or five of them. That is to say, four. The police have the one which killed Mason.”
“Sergeant Duckett tells me,” said Henry, “that you reported one of your service pistols missing ten days ago.”
“That’s right. Noticed it one morning gone from the rack.”
“No idea who could have taken it?”
“Anybody. Anybody at all, my dear fellow. John Adamson had been over here the afternoon before. And Mason had been up here looking for Maud. That was the day that he and Julian — well, anyway, he was here. And Dr. Thompson had been up to see Aunt Dora. And the Vicar had called to talk to Violet about the Fête. It’s no use asking me what happened to the gun. I simply noticed it was missing and reported it. I had a feeling,” the Major added, with a slight twinkle, “that Duckett didn’t take the matter very seriously.”
Henry, who had formed the same opinion, said nothing.
Major Manciple went on, “Mind you, now, if I were guilty I might have invented this missing gun, mightn’t I, just to confuse you?”
“I suppose you might.”
“Well, then, I’ll let you go on from there,” said George Manciple kindly. He sat back in his chair. “I suggest that you start by questioning me — always remembering that my replies may not be truthful.”
Henry forced himself to be stern. “This isn’t a game, Major Manciple,” he said. “Nor is it a crossword puzzle. A man has been killed.”
Manciple looked shocked. “A crossword puzzle!” he repeated. “I never do them myself. I leave that sort of thing to Edwin and Maud. I can’t think what gave you the idea that I was keen on crossword puzzles.”