The pamphlets, however, were not the only things that Violet Manciple had found beside Aunt Dora’s bed. There were several yellowing copies of the Bugolaland Times, dating variously from two decades earlier to the final number of the previous year, with its banner headline “INDEPENDENCE!”. Beside this, Aunt Dora had written: “Poor things. May God bless them!”
A marked paragraph in a year-old paper recorded the retirement, for health reasons, of The Right Rev. Bishop Edwin Manciple, dearly beloved by the people of Bugolaland irrespective of race or creed. The twenty-year-old newspaper appeared at first to have no raison d’être in the collection, until Henry noticed a small paragraph, unmarked by Aunt Dora’s pen, which recorded the tragic deaths of Mr. Anthony Manning-Richards and his family, when their car plunged over a precipice while negotiating the notorious Okwabe Pass in East Bugolaland. The paper recalled that Mr. Manning-Richards was the son of Mr. Humphrey Manning-Richards, who until his recent death had been a well-known figure in Bugolaland.
Henry found it hard to believe that Aunt Dora had really intended these ancient snippets for his consumption; remembering the sentimental story related by Edwin, he felt that it was more likely that the old lady had kept them as souvenirs of her unfulfilled romance. The very last item in the pile of papers, however, interested him considerably, and he would have given a great deal to know whether it was part of Aunt Dora’s regular bedside reading or whether it had been put out especially for him.
It consisted of several sheets of writing paper, held together with a rusting pin. The text was written in Aunt Dora’s characteristic hand, but the purple ink had faded with the years. The writing was that of a vigorous woman in middle age.
The superscription ran as follows: This is a copy of the letter written by Dr. Walter Thompson of Cregwell to my nephew, George Manciple, on the occasion of the death of his father, my brother Augustus Manciple, M.A. Below this, in a shakier but more recent hand, Aunt Dora had written: In the event of my death, I would like my Great-Niece, Maud Manciple, to be handed this letter so that she may be in no doubt of her Grandfather’s last wishes.
Much intrigued, Henry turned to the document itself. It was headed by the address of the house in Cregwell where Dr. Alec Thompson now lived and practiced, and dated fifteen years previously. It ran as follows:
Dear Manciple,
You will have heard by now the tragic news of your father’s accident and death. I do not need to tell you how sincere is my sympathy at your bereavement. I can do no more than extend my deepest commiserations to you and to Mrs. Manciple.
As you may know, I had the melancholy duty of attending to your father during his last hours, and there can be no doubt that he was anxious to communicate certain things to you. Since his speech was imprecise, I am writing down this account while the incident is still fresh in my mind, so that you may have the best possible opportunity of judging what were The Head’s last wishes.
He was unconscious when brought in to the hospital at midday, but recovered consciousness soon after 3 P.M., while I was actually in his room. His first thought, typically, was for his old friend Arthur Pringle. He said the word accident several times, with increasing vigor, and then, “How’s Pringle?”
Arthur Pringle was, of course, already dead — he had been killed outright — but I felt that it would do no good to tell your father this sad news, and so I prevaricated, saying something about his being gravely injured. At this, Mr. Manciple said sharply, “Will he live?” And when I hesitated in my reply, he said, “Don’t try to fool me, Thompson. He’s dead, isn’t he?” I am afraid that your father was always too clever and perceptive for me. I was compelled to admit the truth.
The news clearly upset Mr. Manciple greatly. He repeated the words dead and Pringle several times, lying with his eyes closed. I had the impression that he was concentrating — I have seen the same look on his face when he was wrestling with a crossword puzzle. He was also losing strength rapidly, more rapidly, perhaps, than he realized. Next he opened his eyes, looked at me, and said, “Thompson.”
“Yes, Mr. Manciple?” I replied. “Send all these people away,” he said. “Want to talk to you.” There was nobody else in the room except the nurse, but I asked her to wait outside. Then Mr. Manciple said, “George. Tell George. Most important. Must tell George.”
I pointed out as gently as I could that you were half the world away. He seemed irritated at this, and said, “I know. I know. Must tell George.” The effort of irritation seemed to have tired him, for there was quite a long silence after that. Then, more feebly, he said, “Tell George — Thompson tell George — my home — my home…”
“What about your home?” I asked.
“Never sell the house,” he said quite strongly. “Never — tell George — my home…” He was very weak by then, and there was another long silence. His breathing became labored, and he murmured, “Ill — sick…,” several times.
As cheerily as I could, I said, “Certainly you’re sick, Mr. Manciple, but we’ll soon have you as right as rain.” At that he opened his eyes wide and looked straight at me. In a loud, clear voice, he said, “You always were a bloody fool, Thompson,” and then, as if the effort had been too much for him, he lapsed into a coma and did not recover consciousness again. He died at 4:37 P.M. I need hardly say that I was deeply moved by the whole incident, and not least by his dying words.
I am sure that I am speaking for all Cregwell when I say that we sincerely hope to see you and Mrs. Manciple home again soon and taking over the reins of Cregwell Grange. There can be no doubt that this was your father’s dearest wish.
With my deepest sympathy,
Yours sincerely,
Walter Thompson
Henry read this document over several times. From the bed Emmy’s sleep-heavy voice murmured, “Aren’t you ever coming to bed?”
Henry stood up. “I’ve got a crazy idea,” he said. “It just could be right.”
“And if it is, all the mysteries will be solved…” Emmy was more than half-asleep.
“Oh no,” said Henry cheerfully.
“What do you mean?”
“One mystery will be solved, and another will be insoluble.”
“Oh, shut up,” said Emmy. She turned over on her face and went to sleep.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE TELEPHONE CALL from Kingsmarsh came at eight o’clock on the following morning, when Henry had just finished his cup of tea and was gazing at his lathered face in the mirror, preparatory to attacking it with a razor. Quickly he rinsed away the soap, put on his dressing gown, and went downstairs to the phone booth.
In a voice carefully devoid of any curiosity Sergeant Duckett read out the result of laboratory analyses. The contents of the medicine bottle and the dried-up residue left on Aunt Dora’s glass were identicaclass="underline" both consisted of lemon juice, sugar, and water, together with a small amount of barbituric acid of the type normally used in sleeping pills. Nothing else. Henry thanked the Sergeant gravely and hung up.
Upstairs again he reapplied the lather with unusual vigor.