A search had revealed a gun — presumably the fatal weapon — lying in the shrubbery beside the wall of the house. It proved to be one of Major Manciple’s service pistols, which he used for his target practice; it bore no fingerprints and had apparently been carefully wiped clean. One bullet had been fired.
An inspection of the car revealed that it had been put out of action by the operation of an anti-car-theft device which Mason had recently had put in. This was a switch, hidden under the dashboard, which disconnected the gas supply, the idea being that a thief would be able to drive only a few yards until the fuel in the carburetor was used up. The car would then stop, for no apparent reason, embarrassing the robber and ensuring his speedy apprehension. It was highly unlikely that Mason would have activated this switch when leaving his car in the Manciples’ drive, and quite beyond the bounds of possibility that, had he done so, he would have forgotten his action so swiftly that he should open up the hood after the car had stopped to look for the cause of the apparent breakdown.
The inevitable conclusion, said Robinson sadly, seemed to be that the car had been tampered with deliberately in order to force Mason to stop in the drive, where he made a perfect target for anybody concealed in the shrubbery. Taken in conjunction with the carefully-wiped gun and the fact that nobody at the Grange would admit to having fired the shot by mistake — well, it looked like murder.
“Not a pleasant thing to happen, Sir John, but there you are. Can’t get away from it. And in the circumstances — what with the Manciples being so well-known in the neighborhood — and, well, one thing and another…”
“I think this is a case for calling in the Yard,” said Sir John.
Robinson exhaled a great sigh of relief. “My own view exactly, Sir John. We simply haven’t the facilities. Best leave it to the experts.”
What he meant, as Sir John very well knew, was — “Best leave it to an outsider. These people are your friends and mine. Especially yours.”
“Exactly,” said Sir John. “We haven’t the facilities.”
And so it was that Henry Tibbett, Chief Inspector of the C.I.D, at Scotland Yard, had to abandon his plan of a weekend’s sailing with friends in Sussex and take a room at The Viking in Cregwell instead. His wife, Emmy, was naturally disappointed, but cheered up a little when she remembered that an old school friend of hers had married a doctor named Thompson who practiced in Cregwell. So Henry booked a double room, and Emmy was allowed to come along on condition that she kept well out of the way of all police activity. They arrived at the inn just before midnight on Friday night.
CHAPTER TWO
ON SATURDAY MORNING, after a long and friendly session with Inspector Robinson and Sergeant Duckett and a lugubrious hour spent inspecting the remains of the late Mr. Mason as well as those of his car, Henry Tibbett drove to Cregwell Manor to meet the Chief Constable.
For both men it was an intriguing encounter. Sir John had heard a great deal about Chief Inspector Tibbett and the intuitive flair for detection which Henry called his “nose.” Sir John looked forward to the meeting with the same sort of curiosity that he would have felt at the prospect of encountering a movie star or a political personality; and, when the meeting actually took place, he could not help feeling just a little disappointed. Surely a celebrated criminal-hunter should be a — well — more of a character. This undistinguished, sandy-haired, middle-aged man — pleasant enough, certainly, and those dark blue eyes didn’t miss much — but this was not Sir John’s idea of the Yard’s top man. Decidedly disappointing.
As for Henry, he was sharply interested in the Chief Constable, or, to be more precise, in his attitude to Mason’s death. Sir John showed a strange reluctance to talk about the matter at all; in particular, he was evasive when it came to discussing the Manciple family.
Finally, after much throat-clearing, Sir John said, “As a matter of fact, Tibbett, George Manciple rang me this morning. We are neighbors, you see. I’ve known the family for years, and so has my wife. When she was alive, that is. That’s why I — well — the fact is that George — Major Manciple — would be pleased if you would take luncheon at the Grange today, just to get acquainted as it were. It’ll be a purely family affair. That’s why I didn’t suggest that you should take your sergeant or — or anybody else. It’ll give you a chance to see, to form your own opinion of…” Sir John stopped, tugging at his gray mustache in some embarrassment. Then he added, “They’re Irish, of course.”
“The Manciples?” queried Henry politely.
“That’s right. It was George’s grandfather who first came over and settled in England, I believe. It’s a Protestant family. Then there was George’s father, the famous Augustus Manciple who was headmaster of Kingsmarsh School. He was quite a character. He bought Cregwell Grange some fifty years ago, and it has been the family home ever since. I think it a good notion that you should lunch there.”
“You speak as though they are a large family, sir,” said Henry.
“Oh, not really. No, no. In the usual way there are just George and his wife, Violet. Oh, and Aunt Dora, of course. That’s Miss Dora Manciple, Augustus’ sister. But just at the moment — well — you know what these family reunions are like…”
“Family reunions?”
“Yes. There’s by way of being a gathering of the clan at the Grange just now. Brothers and daughters and — well — you’ll meet them all at lunch. George is expecting you at half-past twelve, so perhaps you’d better be… Good-bye, Tibbett. And good luck.”
***
Cregwell Grange was an upright, ugly house built of sand-colored stone in the early years of the nineteenth century. It stood on a small mound just outside the Village, a mound which, in those flat and marshy parts, was undeservedly known as Cregwell Hill. Around the house woods and shrubberies and gardens and pastures threw up a protective camouflage screen, so that the dubious architecture of the residence itself did not break upon the visitor’s eye until he had navigated several bends of the winding drive which led from the public road. Henry, having studied sketch maps of the place in Inspector Robinson’s office, knew what to expect. He also knew, when his car rounded the final bend which brought the house into view, that he must have arrived at the very spot where the unfortunate Mr. Mason had met his death; and, since there was nobody in sight, Henry decided to stop the car and take a brief look around.
The house lay ahead and slightly to the right. In front of it was a sweep of graveled drive from which weeds and grass sprouted liberally. Shallow stone steps led up to the solid-looking front door. On either side of the steps untended shrubbery seemed to menace the house, like an encroaching jungle. Presumably it was among these dense, dark bushes that the gun had been found. Peeping above the shrubs were several small Gothic windows, vertical slits apparently designed to let in the same minimum light as in the days when their function had been to provide an outlet for arrows. Henry stopped the car and got out. The drive was just wide enough for two vehicles to pass. All around shrubs and trees provided perfect cover for a would-be assassin. The whole place seemed deserted.