Henry collected Emmy from the drawing room and drove her back to The Viking. It was time for him to go to Cregwell Manor and speak to Sir John Adamson.
CHAPTER TEN
CREGWELL MANOR, HENRY reflected as he maneuvered his car in the drive, was everything that Cregwell Grange was not. For a start it had been built in the reign of Queen Anne, when architects understood the beauties of proportion and simplicity, whereas the Manciple family home was the brain-child of an overenthusiastic Victorian who was obviously under the influence of Balmoral Castle. To go on with, the gardens of Cregwell Manor were carefully tended with close-cropped green lawns and neat flower beds. And when the elderly white-aproned maid opened the front door in response to Henry’s ring, he stepped into a cool, orderly interior, which smelled of lavender and furniture polish. And yet, after the dominating personality of Cregwell Grange, this place was as characterless as a doll’s house. Henry was in no doubt as to which he preferred.
Sir John was waiting for him in the book-lined, leathery study. He seemed relaxed and cheerful, and insisted that Henry should take a glass of whiskey with him.
When he had poured the drinks, Sir John said, “Well, Tibbett, it’s been nice having you down here. We’ve all enjoyed it and we shall miss you. But on the other hand, nobody would want to prolong an affair of this sort. It’s most creditable that you should have cleared it up so quickly, and we’re all very grateful.” He raised his glass. “Your very good health. And let’s hope that your next visit will be longer — and unofficial.”
Henry smiled. “You’re very kind, Sir John,” he said. “Kinder than I deserve, I’m afraid.”
“Not at all. Extremely good work…”
“I mean,” said Henry, “that I shan’t be leaving Cregwell just yet.”
Sir John’s dismay was almost comic. “Not,” he began. Then he pulled himself together. “Ah, I understand. You’re staying on for a few days’ holiday, I suppose, your wife being a friend of the Thompsons’.”
“Not a holiday, Sir John. I haven’t yet finished my investigations.”
This time Sir John had himself well under control. Nevertheless, he did not sound pleased. “What an extraordinary thing, Tibbett,” he said. “You told me quite plainly on the telephone that you had solved the mystery of Mason’s death and that there would be no arrest.”
“That was perfectly true.”
“Well, then…”
“Sir John,” said Henry, “are you a betting man?”
The question clearly caught the man off balance. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said.
“Do you gamble a lot — on horses, for instance?”
Sir John had gone very red. “Well, I’m damned,” he said. “That seems rather an impertinent…”
“I’m sorry if you think I’m being impertinent, Sir John,” said Henry. “I do assure you that I wouldn’t ask the question if it weren’t important.”
“I don’t pretend to know what you’re getting at Tibbett, but if you insist — well — I have a few pounds on the Derby and the National, and so forth. Like most people. I certainly wouldn’t describe myself as a betting man.”
“You never placed bets with Raymond Mason, for example?”
There was a distinct hesitation before Sir John said, “I’ve told you, I had a small bet occasionally, and I generally put it on through Mason. After all, when one has a bookie as a next-door neighbor…”
“You never had any dealings with him before he came to Cregwell?”
Sir John looked positively shocked. “Certainly not,” he said. There was a little pause, and then he said, “When the fellow first came here, he approached quite a number of people — the Manciples, for instance, and myself — proposing that we should — in other words — not that he was exactly touting for business, but he suggested that we should open accounts with him. He said it would be simple and pleasant for us, as he was a personal friend. I happen to know that George Manciple simply laughed at him; I don’t think he or Violet have ever bet a sixpence in their lives. But in my case, I thought that it might be useful…”
“So you opened an account with Raymond Mason Ltd.?”
Again the slight hesitation. Then Sir John said, “No, no, no. Nothing so elaborate. I just contacted Mason when I wished to place a small bet. Really, Tibbett, I don’t see where this is leading.”
“I visited Mason’s London office this morning,” said Henry, “and looked at his files.”
“Then you must know that I had no account with the firm,” said Sir John with some spirit. “Why ask me, eh?”
“You had no account with Raymond Mason Ltd.,” said Henry.
“That’s what I said.”
“But you had what Mason called a private account, with him, personally.”
Sir John looked shaken, but rallied gamely. “Isn’t that just what I’ve been telling you?”
Henry said, “Sir John, I must tell you that I have inspected that account.”
There was no doubt that Sir John’s reaction was anger. “Of all the damned impudence!” he shouted. “I suppose that whippersnapper of a son…”
“Frank Mason had nothing to do with it,” said Henry. “He didn’t know I was visiting the office; and I doubt whether he knows of the existence of the private accounts.”
“Then who…?”
Henry grinned. “I dealt with a Mr. Mumford,” he said.
“A Mr. who?”
“Mumford. The general manager. I can assure you that he went to the greatest possible lengths to protect the clients of Raymond Mason, but Scotland Yard is Scotland Yard.”
“The general manager wouldn’t have known,” Sir John began, and then stopped.
“He didn’t,” said Henry. “He knew of the existence of the private accounts, but he had no key to the files. He was considerably upset when I unlocked the sacred dossiers for myself. It wasn’t very difficult; it was just a question of finding the right key from Mason’s key ring.”
To Henry’s surprise Sir John laughed. “So the guilty secret is out,” he said. “Naturally, I wasn’t keen to bruit about the Village that I had dealings with Mason — he wasn’t quite — you understand…”
“I dare say,” said Henry, “that you also didn’t want to bruit about the village the fact that you owed him three thousand pounds.”
“Three thousand…!” Sir John’s face registered blank astonishment. “What on earth do you mean?”
Henry was beginning to get a little bored. “You know very well what I mean, Sir John. I looked at your account this morning. You owed Raymond Mason three thousand pounds in unpaid gambling debts.”
“But that’s ridiculous. I owed him nothing.”
“It’s there in black and white.”
“My dear Tibbett,” Sir John replied with spirit, “I know what money I wagered, and which of my horses won or lost. I may have placed rather more bets than I led you to believe, but…” A new thought seemed to strike him. “Forged, of course,” he said. “Falsified documents. I suppose Mason thought it might give him a hold over — and what happens now? When his miserable son demands the money from me…”
“Nobody is going to demand anything from you, Sir John,” said Henry. “I have Mr. Mumford’s word that all debts from the personal files are to be written off. He said it was what Mr. Mason would have wished.”
Sir John sat down abruptly. ‘Is that so?” he said.
“It is.”
“Which puts me in an even worse position.”
“What do you mean, sir?”