At this point he paused to take a much-needed breath, but Henry had no time to say more than, “Major Manciple, I…” before the flood was unloosed again.
A post-mortem indeed? And why, might George be allowed to ask? Was Henry suggesting that Aunt Dora had been murdered? While Raymond Mason had committed suicide, at the range of a hundred yards or more? Was that it? Really, George began to think that his brother Edwin had been quite right when he expressed doubts as to Henry’s mental stability. Good God, if anybody had been murdered, it was Mason, wasn’t it? George knew that he, George, was not considered to be very bright, but he at least had eyes and ears in his head and could use them. Henry could rest assured that never, under any circumstances, would the family consent to a post mortem on Aunt Dora. Thompson had signed the death certificate, hadn’t he? Everything was straightforward and above board, and things were worrying enough for Violet as it was. He certainly wasn’t going to have her upset by nonsense of this sort, and…
He was interrupted by the arrival of Violet, flustered as usual, and apologizing to Henry for having been detained by some household chore. It was not until she was actually inside the room that she appeared to realize that she had interrupted a tirade. However, one look at her husband told her all. Abruptly she switched her attention from Henry to Major Manciple, and said, “What’s the matter, George?”
“Matter? Nothing. Nothing whatsoever, my dear. Now, just you go and…”
“Of course there’s something the matter,” said Mrs. Manciple. She did not speak sharply, but with the calm conviction of one in full grasp of the facts. “You are all upset, George. I haven’t seen you like this since Mr. Mason complained to the Council about the range.”
“That has nothing to do with it,” said Major Manciple crossly.
Violet appealed to Henry. “Will you tell me, Mr. Tibbett? What has been happening?”
“Don’t say a word, Tibbett,” rapped out the Major.
Henry said, “I was just telling your husband that I’m not satisfied that Miss Dora Manciple’s death was entirely natural.”
To his surprise Violet Manciple said at once, “Oh, I am glad that you feel that, Mr. Tibbett. I absolutely agree with you.”
“Violet,” began the Major on an explosive note.
His wife took no notice. Addressing herself to Henry, she said, “She used to have these attacks, you see, but this was different. If only I hadn’t had that wretched meeting about the Fête, I might have — but by the time I went up to her, it was too late. And I couldn’t make the Doctor understand that it wasn’t just an ordinary attack. To tell you the truth, Mr. Tibbett, I’ve been trying to pluck up my courage to ask you if we couldn’t have a post-mortem examination. She — it was almost as though she’d been drugged, you see.”
Henry nodded. “I think she very likely was,” he said. “She never took sleeping pills, did she?”
“Sleeping pills? Oh, certainly not. She always slept like a log. But in any case, the Doctor told me that she must on no account ever be allowed to take even the mildest of barbiturates. He said that with her heart in its present state…”
“Did the other members of your family know this, Mrs. Manciple? That sleeping pills could be dangerous for Aunt Dora, I mean.”
“Of course,” said Violet at once. “Everybody knew, because it’s so easy to get medicines mixed up, and we had to be especially careful. You see, Ramona takes sleeping pills — far too many, in my opinion, but I suppose it’s none of my business. And so does George, of course.”
“Do you, Major Manciple?” Henry asked.
George Manciple was now the color of a ripe tomato. “What if I do?” he demanded. “Thompson prescribed them a few months ago, when I was so worried over the Mason business. I don’t see that it has anything to do with…”
“I suppose,” said Henry, “that anybody could have gotten at your bottle of pills? Or at Lady Manciple’s?”
“I suppose so. Mine are in my bathroom cabinet. Thought they were safe enough there, because Aunt Dora had her own bathroom. Never used ours. Heaven knows where Ramona kept hers. But if you’re suggesting that Aunt Dora deliberately went and took sleeping pills, when she knew very well that Thompson had forbidden them…”
“I’m not suggesting anything of the sort, I’m afraid,” said Henry. “I wonder if you’d go and take a look at your bottle of pills, Major Manciple, just to see if any are missing.”
“My dear man, I don’t count them. They’re not poisonous.”
“But at least you’d know whether the bottle was full or half full or…”
“As a matter of fact,” Manciple conceded with a bad grace, “now you come to mention it, I should have a brand-new bottle. I ran out last week, and Thompson wrote me a new prescription. Maud and Julian got the new tablets from the druggist yesterday morning. So…”
He ambled out of the room, leaving the sentence unfinished.
Violet Manciple said, “Do you know for certain that Aunt Dora had taken…?”
“We can’t possibly know for certain until after the postmortem,” said Henry.
Violet nodded, gravely.
“But I can tell you that there were traces of barbiturate in the glass which Miss Manciple used at lunch yesterday.”
Mrs. Manciple looked puzzled. “Where is that glass, do you know, Mr. Tibbett? I was certain I had taken it out of the dining room, but when I came to do the washing up yesterday evening I couldn’t find it anywhere. I thought perhaps it was broken.”
Henry said, with some embarrassment, “I’m afraid I am the guilty party, Mrs. Manciple. I took the glass from the kitchen while you were upstairs. I wanted to have it analysed, you see, and I didn’t want to upset you unnecessarily…”
“So you suspected,” said Violet, “Even yesterday.”
“Yes,” said Henry. “So…”
The door opened and Major Manciple came back. He walked jauntily, carrying a small package in his hand. Triumphantly, he said, “Here you are! See? Still done up in the druggist’s wrapping. Seal not even broken. Are you satisfied now?”
“Let’s open the wrapping, all the same,” said Henry. “Somebody might have…”
“Of all the nonsense!” cried George Manciple in great good humor. “Still, if it makes you happy…” He broke the small red seal and unwrapped the white paper. “There!” He held out a small bottle, a bottle which Henry recognized as being identical with the one he had taken from the kitchen shelf on the previous day. The top of the bottle was sealed with plastic, and it was full of small white pills.
“I’ll have to take those pills away for analysis, I’m afraid,” said Henry, “but it certainly looks as though…”
The telephone cut him short in mid-sentence. Violet hurried out into the hall to answer it, leaving the door open.
“Hello — Yes — Yes, Ramona dear — How kind of you to ring — Oh, yes, we’re managing — No, no, of course not — Tell Claud he mustn’t dream of… Yes, Friday — at least, as far as I know — Yes, Friday at half-past two at the parish church, and afterward at the crematorium — yes, of course we’ll be delighted to put you both up — What? Oh…”
She caught her breath as if in dismay, and the two men in the drawing room exchanged a glance. Then Violet recovered and went on.