Suddenly a voice spoke. It was a deep, authoritative, masculine voice, and it apparently came from the sky above. It said, “Bang, bang! Bang, bang!”
Henry stopped in his tracks and looked around him. He could see nobody.
“Bang, bang!” said the voice again. Then there was a little pause, and it added, “You down there!”
This time Henry was able to identify the source of the sound with more precision. He went to the edge of the drive and, looking up, saw that there was a man sitting among the branches of a big sycamore tree above his head. The man wore faded khaki drill shorts and a khaki shirt and had an old bush hat on his head. He appeared to be in his late fifties. His hair and neat mustache were iron-gray, and his eyes were brown and very bright. In his hands he held a businesslike service pistol, which he was pointing steadily at Henry’s heart.
“Stop there,” said the man in the tree, “Don’t move.” He took careful aim.
Officers of the C.I.D. are trained to think and move fast. They do not stand around while armed desperadoes point guns at them. As the man pulled the trigger Henry flung himself face downward on the gravel drive.
At the same moment the man said, “Bang, bang! You’re dead!” Then there was a curious rending sound, as something heavy was thrown down from the tree breaking small branches as it fell. Henry stood up brushing the pebbles and sand from his suit. The man was still sitting in the tree, but the gun was now lying on the ground. It had been thrown in the direction of the house and now lay in the undergrowth at the edge of the drive.
The man in the tree said, “Hm. Just possible, I suppose. The gun fell a bit short though.” The Irish tinge to the voice was more pronounced now. “I wonder, would you mind very much picking it up and handing it to me? I’d like to try it again.”
“I presume it’s not loaded,” said Henry.
“Of course not. Certainly not. Why, it would be very dangerous to throw it around like that if it were.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Henry. He walked over to the bushes, picked up the gun, and held it up butt foremost.
The man grasped it. “Thank you very much,” he said. “Thank you. You’ll be the man from London, I dare say.”
“My name is Tibbett,” said Henry. “I’m from Scotland Yard.”
“Delighted to see you, sir,” The tree-squatter beamed. “My name’s Manciple. If you’ll forgive me, I won’t come down. One or two things I have to do up here. Just go on up to the house, if you will; my wife’s expecting you. I’ll see you at luncheon.”
As Henry climbed into his car again he was aware of the carefully aimed pistol and the faint cry of “Bang, bang!” from among the branches. He drove the few yards up to the front door in a state of pleasant anticipation. He felt reasonably certain that he was going to enjoy himself.
The bell was an old-fashioned contraption of wrought iron attached to a rusty wire. Henry grasped it firmly and pulled it downward. After a second of silence he heard the tinkling of a copper bell from the depths of the house. The echoes died away; then came a pattering of footsteps, and the big door swung open. Inside stood a small woman dressed in a crumpled tweed suit. She must have been fifty, but her face was extraordinarily smooth and unlined, and her skin had the fine, peach-bloom paleness which, teamed with her black hair and dark blue eyes, had surely made her the prettiest colleen in her native Irish village.
“Oh,” she said. “Inspector Tibbett, isn’t it? Do please come in. I’m Violet Manciple. I’m afraid you find us in a mess, as usual.”
Henry stepped into the big hall and looked around him with pleasure. Yes, Mrs. Manciple was right in a way. The house could not be called tidy, but it was undeniably appealing. Great bowls of late roses and delphiniums stood on big, beautiful pieces of antique furniture; the curtains were of faded chintz; and beside the fireplace was a battered copper tub filled with small logs. Also in evidence were an assortment of old newspapers, a basket full of green gardening string, a dirty apron, and several piles of old letters. Perhaps the most striking object in the hall was a large, stiffly-posed oil painting of a ferocious-looking old gentleman in academic gown and mortarboard, whose compelling eye seemed to fix the visitor with disapproval from the moment of his entry; but the effect was softened by the fact that someone had hung an old green porkpie hat over one corner of the heavy gilt picture frame.
“I do try,” said Violet Manciple, “but with no servants — and now that the family’s all here, of course — I do hope you’ll forgive us, Chief Inspector. By the way…” In the doorway of the drawing room she stopped and turned to Henry. “Should we call you Chief Inspector or just Mr. Tibbett? I’m afraid I’ve never entertained a policeman before. I did look it up in Chambers, but it only seems to give bishops and ambassadors. You don’t mind my asking?”
“Of course I don’t,” said Henry. “And you can call me whatever you like. I should think that mister will do very nicely, but you must please yourself.”
“So long as you don’t mind.” Violet Manciple smiled, like a young girl. “Do come into the drawing room and have a drink.”
The room was as cheerful and shabby as the hall and equally full of treasures. In the big bay window, looking out over the bright, straggling garden, a gaunt man with white hair was sitting in an armchair reading The Times. He got to his feet as Mrs. Manciple ushered Henry into the room. He was wearing a very old pair of gray flannel trousers, tennis shoes, and a cricketing pullover. Rather surprisingly, the V-neck of the latter garment was filled in with a purple grosgrain dickey and topped by a starched white dog-collar.
“Mr. Tibbett,” said Violet Manciple, “may I introduce my brother-in-law, the Bishop of Bugolaland? Edwin, this is Mr. Henry Tibbett.”
“Delighted,” said the Bishop. “Take a seat, won’t ye? Beautiful day.”
“Will you have a glass of sherry, Mr. Tibbett?”
“Thank you. Mrs. Manciple. With pleasure.”
“Well, sit down,” said the Bishop with a trace of irritation.
Henry did so, and the Bishop subsided into his own chair once more. Then he said, “Know Bugolaland at all?”
“I’m afraid not, sir.”
“Horrible country,” said the Bishop. “I miss it very much. Charming people. Appalling climate. Independent now, and very good luck to them. Poor as church mice, of course. I’m organizing an appeal — all I can do now, you see. Retired last year. Doctor’s orders.”
“I expect you’re glad of a chance to take things easy,” said Henry.
“Easy? Ha!” The Bishop laughed, not sardonically but with real amusement. He then retreated behind his newspaper once more.
Mrs. Manciple came over with a glass of sherry, which she placed at Henry’s elbow. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Tibbett,” she said, “I must go and see to lunch. I’ll leave you to have a chat with Edwin.”
Henry watched her go with the emotion of a castaway who sees his ship disappearing over the horizon. It was apparent to him that chatting with Edwin was going to be a formidable occupation.
After some moments of silence the Bishop said “Ha!” again. This time there was unmistakable satisfaction in his voice. Then he lowered The Times, and said, “Lazy type, the policeman. You need help.”
“I certainly do,” said Henry, surprised.