“You talk,” said Emmy, “as though that were all past. As though things had changed…”
“But they have!” Isobel was bubbling over with her story. “That’s what I wanted to tell you. I heard it from Miss Whitehead at the bakery. It seems her young nephew, Tom Harris, had been fishing yesterday afternoon, and in the evening, when he was coming home, he saw Frank Mason walking up through the meadows from the river. And who do you think was with him? Maud Manciple! And her boxer pup! And Miss Whitehead says that Tom says that Mason was being very attentive, obviously struck. And then, a little later, there was a terrible row in the bar of The Viking between Frank and Julian. Mabel the barmaid told me.”
“I wouldn’t call it a terrible row,” said Emmy. “They had a bit of a set-to, but…”
“You mean you were actually there?” Isobel sounded envious.
“For a bit,” said Emmy quickly.
“Well, anyhow,” Isobel went on, “it’s all around the Village now that Frank Mason has fallen for Maud in a big way, and that he’s determined to get Julian out of the way by hook or by crook. Mrs. Penfold was saying in the post office this morning that she wouldn’t be surprised if Frank tried to murder Julian, especially if he really thinks Julian killed his father. He’s obviously a violent young man. But Mrs. Rudge thinks it’s more likely that Julian will end up by attacking Frank. ‘Give him a good hiding and serve him right’ was how she put it, and there’s no doubt that most of the Village agrees with her. Then there’s another thing. Mrs. Penfold and Miss Whitehead were saying how odd it was that nobody ever heard of Frank while Raymond Mason was alive. There must have been bad blood between them, they were saying, and Frank inherits the business. It makes you think. In fact, Peggy Harris from the dairy was saying right out that Sir John ought to arrest Frank Mason.”
“A couple of days ago,” said Emmy, “everybody thought that George Manciple had killed…”
“That’s just what I mean,” said Isobel. “Everything’s changed now. I haven’t heard anybody mention George at all today. They’re all keyed up over the big fight between Frank and Julian — anyone would think it was a heavyweight championship. And…”
It was at that moment that the door opened, and a tall, thin man in his forties came in, saying, “So sorry to keep you waiting, Inspector Tibbett. Had to go out to Fairfield Farm. One of the children — nothing serious. Just flu.”
“Alec, darling,” said Isobel, “if you’d stop talking long enough to draw breath I’d introduce you to Mrs. Tibbett.”
“Delighted to meet you,” said Dr. Thompson with hardly a glance at Emmy. “Now, Tibbett, if we go into the surgery we can have a quiet chat. I have to be off again in a few minutes, I’m afraid…”
“I know how busy you must be,” said Henry. “I won’t take up much of your time…”
“That’s a good thing,” said Dr. Thompson. It was evidently not his intention to be rude. “This way.”
As he followed the Doctor into his office Henry heard Isobel Thompson saying, “And you see, the fascinating thing is that everyone knows Sir John would never dare to…”
Alec Thompson shut the door behind him, and Isobel’s voice was cut off in mid-sentence.
Thompson sat down at his desk, motioned Henry to a chair, and said, “I really don’t see that I can add anything to the post-mortem report I made to Sergeant Duckett. The man was shot from a considerable distance. Bullet entered the right temple. Death instantaneous. Must have been a pretty good shot, whoever fired the gun. Unless it was an unlucky accident, of course. Can’t rule that out. Somebody on the shooting range, for instance, who couldn’t even see Mason, didn’t even know he was there… Still, that’s not my department, of course. Well, what do you want to ask me?”
“About your father,” said Henry.
“My father?” Alec Thompson sat bolt upright in his chair and looked at Henry as though he considered him eligible for immediate admission to the nearest psychiatric ward. “My father?”
Henry grinned. “Yes,” he said. “Your father and George Manciple’s father.”
“But,” Dr. Thompson made an impatient gesture. He was obviously making an effort to be polite, and not finding it easy. “My dear Tibbett, what on earth do you want to know about them?”
“I’m not sure,” Henry admitted. “Anything you can tell me.”
Dr. Thompson looked for a moment as though he would explode. Then, apparently deciding to humor this lunatic, he said, “Well — my father attended the Head for many years. Old Manciple was always known as the Head, you know. They were never very close friends. In fact, toward the end, the Head grew suspicious even of father. Poured his medicine down the drain in case it was poisoned, spat out his pills, refused to allow himself to be examined. You know how these geriatric cases carry on. Senile decay. If it hadn’t been for Miss Dora — she used to slip the medicine into the Head’s cocoa when he wasn’t looking. The only person in the world he trusted, outside of his family, was Arthur Pringle, the solicitor, who killed him in the end, ironically enough. I don’t know what else I can tell you.”
“When you say senile — was the old man really going mad?”
Thompson hesitated. “Not certifiably,” he said at last. “He could be perfectly ordinary in his manner, that is, as ordinary as any Manciple ever manages to be. In academic matters his brain was as sharp as a razor, right to the end. What he had was a persecution complex, which is not unusual in old people. In his case, I understand, it started with the shock of his wife’s death, and grew progressively worse until he distrusted everyone, doctors in particular.”
“And yet,” said Henry, “I understand that he confided in your father on his deathbed.”
The Doctor shrugged. “Faute de mieux,” he said. “There was nobody else there. In any case I’d hardly call it confided. Apparently the old man seemed desperately anxious to contact George, and get some message to him about not selling the house and so on. My father said it was really very moving. The Head was quite a character, you know.”
“So I have gathered,” said Henry.
“And now, Tibbett, if there’s nothing else I can tell you…?”
“Pringle,” said Henry, “the solicitor.”
“Can’t help you there,” said Thompson. “The firm packed up soon after old Pringle’s death.”
“He didn’t leave a family?”
“Never married.” Alec Thompson smiled, a little wryly. “I think that’s why the Head thought so much of him. He was isolated, you see. Any secrets that Arthur Pringle may have known died with him.” He looked at his watch. “I’m really sorry, Tibbett, but…”
He was interrupted by the telephone ringing. Quickly, with an impatient movement, he picked it up. “Dr. Thompson here — Who? — Yes — Yes, of course, Mrs. Manciple — Very well, I’ll come as soon as I can — I’ve been somewhat held up this afternoon…” He gave Henry a look which was not altogether friendly. “I have a couple of urgent calls to make, and then — Yes, yes, you told me, but she has these attacks quite frequently, doesn’t she? — Yes — Just the usual pills — There’s nothing to worry about — I’ll be along later — Good-bye, Mrs. Manciple.” He rang off, and stood up. “Well, I hope I’ve been of use to you, Tibbett, but frankly I can’t think that — anyhow, you’ll have to forgive me now.”
“Was that,” Henry began. He knew that medical etiquette forbade him questioning Dr. Thompson about his telephone call, but he was very intrigued.
Dr. Thompson, too, was only too clearly familiar with medical etiquette. “Good-bye, Inspector Tibbett,” he said firmly. “So nice to have met you.” He opened the door and called out, “I’m off, Isobel. Back for supper!” Then he wound an old scarf around his thin neck, struggled into his tweed overcoat, and hurried out to his car.