“You’re not suggesting that he would have blackmailed me?” Sir John was outraged.
“Indeed he would have, if it had been to his advantage,” said Henry equably. “As a matter of fact, I doubt if he ever did put the pressure on in that way, although of course I shall try to check up. I think myself that all his private customers played along very nicely. He was prepared to pay handsomely for the privilege of dining in the right houses and sitting on the right committees. But it must have cost him a great deal of money.”
“What do you mean, cost him? Those were winnings that he paid out.”
“So he said. It’s easy to know after a race which horse won, and to claim that you staked money on it. My guess is that he simply dug into his firm’s bank account and wrote it off as general expenses. I dare say he could have done with some extra money. No wonder he was so keen to buy Cregwell Grange.”
“That would hardly have put money in his pocket. Gracious me, Tibbett, he offered George Manciple a ridiculous price for the house, far more than it was worth. And then he’d have had endless expenses, putting the place to rights. Quite honestly, in my opinion Cregwell Grange is more of a liability than an asset.”
“Ah,” said Henry, “that’s where you are wrong. Cregwell Grange is a very valuable property.”
“Valuable?”
“If you know where to look.”
“And where is that?”
“I don’t know,” Henry admitted. “By the way, Sir John, did you ever borrow any books from Mason?”
“Books?” Sir John sounded shocked. “Books? Certainly not. What would I want with the sort of pornographic rubbish that a man like Mason would have in his house?”
“He has a lot of the Manciple books, mostly classical.”
“If you think, Tibbett, that I settle down after a hard day’s work to read Greek and Latin in the originals, you are very sadly mistaken.” Sir John’s irony was elephantine.
“Oh well,” said Henry, “it must be somewhere.”
“What must be?”
“Homer’s Iliad, Book Six.”
Sir John looked at Henry with grave misgivings. Then he said, “If I were you, Tibbett, I’d go back to The Viking and put your feet up. You’ve had a tiring time with this case, we all understand that, and then you’ve been spending a lot of time at the Grange. Nothing against the Manciples, of course, but not what you would call a balanced family. And these things can be contagious.” He cleared his throat. “Your reconstruction of the circumstances of Mason’s death seems to me to be masterly. Really masterly. I presume that you’ll submit your official report tomorrow, and that will be that. As for the other matters — well — I think you’ll find that after a good night’s sleep they fall into proper perspective. Anybody may mislay a bottle of sleeping pills. I dare say Lady Manciple will have found them by tomorrow.”
“There is also a gun missing,” Henry reminded him.
“An unloaded gun, as you told me yourself,” said Sir John. “I expect young Mason just forgot where he had put it. It’ll be back in Manciple’s armory by tomorrow, you mark my words.” He stood up and held out his hand. “Most interesting and stimulating experience, working with you, Tibbett. Can’t thank you enough. Most satisfactory outcome to a nasty affair. Good-bye, then. Hope you’ll come and see us again in happier circumstances.”
“Good-bye, Sir John,” said Henry. He shook hands and walked out to his car; as he did so he rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, a gesture which always indicated that he was worried about something. In this case it was the fact that he would almost certainly have to apply for a warrant to search the Chief Constable’s house, and he was far from enthusiastic at the prospect.
“Ah well,” he said to himself as he drove back to The Viking, “perhaps it won’t be necessary. Perhaps I’ll find what I’m looking for elsewhere.”
At the Inn, Henry was greeted by Mabel, the barmaid. She wondered, she said, whether Mr. Tibbett would like his bill now or in the morning.
“My bill?” said Henry surprised.
“Well, you’ll be going tomorrow, won’t you? You and Mrs. Tibbett?”
“What makes you think that?”
Mabel went a little pink and prevaricated. It soon became obvious, however, that Village gossip had established that the case of Raymond Mason was closed, and that the Scotland Yard gentleman would be leaving.
Henry grinned. “Sorry to disappoint you, Mabel,” he said, “we’re staying.”
“Staying?”
“For several days at least. Until the end of the week.”
Enlightenment dawned on Mabel’s plump face. “Ah, you’ll be here for Miss Dora’s funeral I expect. Friday.”
“That’s right.”
“And you wouldn’t want to miss the Fête, Saturday.”
“I certainly wouldn’t,” said Henry.
***
The next morning, Wednesday, Henry decided to step up his search for the missing objects which were so much on his mind: the sleeping pills, the gun, and — an incongruous third — Homer’s Iliad, Book Six, in the original Greek.
He found the family at Cregwell Grange only too willing to co-operate. They were all subdued and distressed over Aunt Dora’s death and the mystery surrounding it; more shocked, Henry felt, at the idea of the post-mortem examination itself than at its findings.
Edwin and George were both of the opinion, which they stated several times over, that Aunt Dora would have been perfectly capable of taking the pills herself in mistake for something else. They could not, however, explain what she had mistaken them for or what had become of the bottle. Maud and Julian both offered to help Henry in his searching of the house, an offer which he was regretfully compelled to turn down. George Manciple confirmed his original statement about the disappearance of the gun, and nobody could add anything useful to it. George and Violet both declared emphatically that if Volumes I, II, IV, V, and VI of the Head’s Homer had been sold to Mason, then Volume III would certainly have been with them. No sets were split up, and all were complete when Mason bought them. He refused to buy any incomplete sets. None of the family put forward the smallest objection to the house being thoroughly searched.
So Henry and Sergeant Duckett spent a weary and fruitless morning wading knee-deep through the accumulated bric-a-brac of a large family house. They got very tired, filthy, and disgruntled. They found nothing.
In the afternoon Henry and the Sergeant transferred their attention to the Doctor’s house. Neither Dr. Thompson nor his wife were at all pleased about this, and Henry felt reasonably certain that even the memory of mutual schooldays would not be sufficient to save Emmy’s friendship with Isobel, which was a pity, because he found absolutely nothing of interest in the house.
Once again Henry found himself face to face with the unpleasant prospect of searching Cregwell Manor, and he could not believe that he would be accorded the same good-natured co-operation by Sir John Adamson that he had been given by everybody at the Grange. After all, when a Chief Constable exercises his privilege of calling in Scotland Yard to help with an investigation, he seldom assumes he will be on the receiving end of it himself.
Henry, however, was not easily intimidated, for all his apparent mildness; and it was not cowardice but close reasoning that made him decide to postpone his visit to Cregwell Manor for the moment and to start on the following day, Thursday, with further talks with certain members of the Manciple family. In the quiet, almost literally funereal atmosphere of Cregwell Grange, he counted on being able to talk at length and in tranquility with people who could help him.