“Whatever is the matter, Mary?” she said. “I’ve rung three times and…” At that moment she saw Henry. “Oh,” she said without enthusiasm. “it’s you.”
“Yes, Mrs. Thompson. I’m sorry to disturb you, but I must see your husband for a moment. I promise it won’t take long.”
“Oh, honestly. Can’t we have a moment’s peace? This is the first free evening Alec’s had for…”
“I’m really sorry, but this is important.”
“What on earth’s going on out there, Isobel?” Dr. Thompson, napkin in hand, joined them in the hall.
“He says he’s got to see you. It’s not my fault.” Isobel Thompson turned on her heel and went back into the dining room. The girl called Mary slipped off into the kitchen.
Henry said, “You signed a death certificate this evening for Miss Dora Manciple.”
“That’s right. Any objection?”
“Only that I’d like to know the cause of death.”
Alec Thompson smiled. “My dear Tibbett,” he said, “she was ninety-three.”
“I know she was, but even people of that age don’t die for no reason at all.”
“Certainly they don’t. The cause was heart failure. She’d had a weak heart for some time. Just a question of wear and tear.”
“Did you actually examine her?”
Alec Thompson began to show signs of impatience. “Look here, Tibbett, you were with me in my office when Violet Manciple telephoned. Aunt Dora had had one of her attacks. You heard me telling her to give her the pills I’d prescribed…”
“If this was an ordinary attack, why did Mrs. Manciple phone you?”
Dr. Thompson made an impatient movement with his table napkin. “I suppose it was rather more severe than usual. Slightly different symptoms, apparently. I got around there as soon as I could, after I’d dealt with a more urgent call. But the old lady was already dead. Clearly from heart failure. Anybody could see that.”
“I see,” said Henry. “Well, that’s all. Thank you.”
This time Dr. Thompson was really indignant. “You mean to say that you came around here at this hour, interrupting our meal, just to…?”
“I had to know, you see,” said Henry, and beat a hasty retreat.
From the Doctor’s house Henry drove to the police station. Sergeant Duckett greeted him with warm friendliness and a tepid cup of tea, and eavesdropped with unconcealed curiosity while Henry telephoned to Inspector Robinson at Kingsmarsh. The latter agreed, with professional lack of emotion, to send a car to Cregwell in order to pick up a drinking glass and a small bottle of liquid for analysis in the laboratory.
As Henry rang off Sergeant Duckett said, with elaborate casualness, “That’ud be a drinking glass from Cregwell Lodge, I imagine, sir? Property of the late Mr. Mason.”
“No,” said Henry, “not from Cregwell Lodge.” He brought the glass and medicine bottle out of his pockets and laid them on the table. “Perhaps you could wrap these up carefully, Sergeant, and give them to the driver from Kingsmarsh when he arrives.”
“Yes, sir.” Duckett eyed the two objects with almost pathetic eagerness. Then, with the air of one who has had a brainwave, he said, “I’d better label them, hadn’t I, sir? Just in case of accidents.”
“Yes,” said Henry, “you’d better.”
Licking his lips, the Sergeant picked up a pen and opened a book of stick-on labels. He looked hopefully at Henry.
“Just put for chemical analysis — Chief Inspector Tibbett.”
Duckett’s disappointment was heart-rending. “No more than that, sir?”
“That’s all,” said Henry firmly. He stood up. “I’m off back to The Viking now, Sergeant. Ring me there if any news comes through.”
Emmy was waiting for Henry in the bar, drinking light ale and complaining of acute hunger. “Did you have to stay so long with Sir John?” she asked plaintively.
“I haven’t been with Sir John,” said Henry. “Not since before six. I’ve been at the Grange. Aunt Dora died this evening.”
Instantly Emmy’s mood changed. “Died? Oh, Henry, how dreadful. She seemed so well at lunchtime.”
“I know,” said Henry gloomily.
“Goodness, I am sorry,” said Emmy. “Poor Mrs. Manciple. First Raymond Mason and now this. Although I suppose it was only to be expected…”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, she was over ninety…”
Henry nodded abstractedly. “I know,” he said. And after a pause, “That’s what everyone will say.”
“Henry.” Emmy put down her glass. “You don’t mean…”
“I don’t know,” said Henry. He suddenly felt very tired. “I really don’t know.” He smiled at Emmy. “It’s my wretched nose again.”
“But,” Emmy glanced quickly around the bar. Apart from two tweedy men who were discussing pig-breeding in loud voices at the far end of the room, they were alone. Nevertheless, she lowered her voice as she said, “If Aunt Dora’s death was — not natural — then it must mean that Raymond Mason’s wasn’t either.”
“We know it wasn’t, darling. He was shot.”
“Yes, but you thought it was an accident, I know you did. Now you don’t think so. You think he was murdered, and you think Aunt Dora has been killed because she knew too much.”
There was a long pause. Then Henry said, “I’m afraid that may be true. Or at least partly true. I hope to God it isn’t. Now, let’s go and persuade the outmoded relic of a feudal society to give us something to eat.”
It was two hours later, when the Tibbetts had dined, taken a final drink in the bar, and climbed the uneven staircase to their room that Henry opened his brief case and took out the sheaf of papers which Mrs. Manciple had given him. He laid them out on the dressing table, pulled up a chair, and began to study them carefully.
“What on earth have you got there?” Emmy, on her way to the bathroom in a white terry cloth dressing-gown, paused to look over his shoulder.
“Aunt Dora’s pamphlets,” replied Henry.
“Psychic manifestations in the Animal Kingdom,” Emmy read. “Auras and Emanations, Testimony of a Spirit Guide Dog — surely you don’t think you’ll find any clues there, do you? The poor old dear was obviously a bit of a crank about spiritualism.”
“I don’t know what I shall find,” said Henry, “but I know I must look for it. Go and have your bath.”
Aunt Dora had assembled an odd assortment of literature for Henry’s benefit. Long after Emmy was in bed and asleep, he was still wading dutifully through the pronouncements of a Red Indian spirit guide, as revealed to a lady in Ealing, concerning the reincarnation of human spirits as animals, and vice-versa. He was interested to see that Aunt Dora had underlined several passages in purple ink. One of them read, “The individual human being, as we know him, is not always responsible for his actions in an environment of limited space-time dimensions (i.e. the physical world); he may be driven inevitably to self-destruction by pressures built up in a previous incarnation.” Another underlined passage read: “Human action is always explicable, but only when all the circumstances are known. This is why it is sheer folly to attempt to live life, let alone interpret it, without the aid of the Spirit World.” This struck Henry as curiously similar to Sir Claud’s sentiments about human behavior, although he felt certain that the latter would look to scientific rather than supra-natural aid when it came to determining causes.
Other underlined extracts concerned, respectively, a tortoiseshell cat named Minette, who had twice been seen by her owners after her death, each time apparently trying to raid the larder; and a chestnut gelding who had persistently refused to pass the spot where his mother had been killed in a hunting accident, even though he himself had been far away at the time of the disaster. This last story, inevitably, originated in Ireland.