“Oh, something about this being the key to the private account files.”
“Nothing else?”
“No.”
“Oh well,” said Henry, “that’s that. But it’s very important that you should take the other things back tomorrow.”
“The money, you mean?”
“The money, the whiskey, and the book. By the way — may I see the book?”
Mason looked surprised. “I didn’t know that you went in for pornography, Inspector.”
Henry said blandly, “It’s a book that is banned in this country. I should take it into custody.”
Mason got up. “Curiouser and curiouser,” he said. He opened a drawer in the desk. “Here it is. But I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s only the dust cover that is wicked. I suppose Dad thought it would give him a certain standing with some of his less attractive customers to have a notorious piece of banned filth lying around in his office. He had that sort of mentality.”
He tossed the book over to Henry. Inside the lurid cover was a sensational but morally unimpeachable detective story. Watching Henry’s face, Mason said, “I was disappointed myself. That’s ruined your bedtime reading for tonight, hasn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Henry. He grinned. “Yes, it has.”
Mabel was just shutting up the bar when Henry got back to The Viking. It had been a busy evening, she said. Sir Claud Manciple had been in with his niece and that nice young man of hers. They’d had a drink with Mrs. Tibbett. Only left a few minutes ago — what a shame Henry had missed them. They were here for the funeral tomorrow, of course. Poor Miss Dora — it was sad, wasn’t it, but she’d had a good life after all. Mrs. Tibbett had gone upstairs to bed. Would Henry like a nightcap, him being a resident? No? Then she wished him a very good night.
Emmy was already in bed when Henry got upstairs. He told her briefly what had happened in London and at Cregwell Lodge, and she replied with an account of the pleasant evening she had spent with Maud, Julian, and Sir Claud.
“Oh, I knew there was something I had to tell you, Henry. Sir Claud said that Violet had asked him to tell you, if he saw you, that it was all a mistake about Lady Manciple’s sleeping pills. She’s found them. She’d apparently quite forgotten having packed them in her cosmetic bag; usually she has some other special place for them. So that clears that up.”
Henry sat down on his bed looking glum. “Yes,” he said.
“You ought to be pleased.” said Emmy. “First the gun and now the pills. All your mysteries are turning out to be no mysteries at all.”
“That,” said Henry, “is exactly what worries me.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
FRIDAY WAS TO BE the occasion for two melancholy events: in the morning, the inquest on Raymond Mason; and in the afternoon, the funeral of Miss Dora Manciple. Only Major and Mrs. Manciple had been told the disquieting news that at a later date there would also have to be an inquest on Aunt Dora. Following the post-mortem examination and its findings, the Kingsmarsh coroner had expressed his willingness to admit sworn statements of identification and medical evidence, and had agreed to let the funeral arrangements go ahead as planned. Henry was pleased at this, for he was anxious to spare the Manciple family as much unpleasantness as possible.
The inquest on Mason had attracted quite a fair sprinkling of journalists from London, thanks to the hints of sensation dropped by Frank and picked up by the press. Consequently, the police evidence caused considerable disappointment. Henry carefully outlined his theory of Mason’s death, and nobody seemed inclined to challenge it. Several witnesses attested to Mason’s fervent desire to purchase Cregwell Grange, and to his previous attempts to discredit George Manciple’s shooting range. The missing gun was mentioned, and by good luck Sergeant Duckett had unearthed a local errand boy who had actually seen Mason experimenting with it in his garden. He had said nothing about it at the time, he affirmed, because he thought it was just a game or a practical joke — “Mr. Mason being that sort of gentleman.”
A certain amount of amusement was caused by the demonstration of one of Major Manciple’s patent tennis-ball traps, and the press had to be content to make what they could out of that. The gun and bullet were laboriously identified by experts, and Henry was able to demonstrate how the gun must have been propped in the lavatory window and how it had fallen into the shrubbery. Frank Mason confirmed that he had found the experimental gun in his father’s house. When the coroner, who was inclined to fuss over details, asked where this gun was now, Henry replied blandly and truthfully that it had been returned to its rightful owner.
Violet and Edwin Manciple were then called to give evidence that nobody could possibly have been in the cloakroom when the shot was fired, and Violet, very embarrassed, also confirmed that Mr. Mason had spent an unusually long time “washing his hands” before leaving the house. The gas cut-out device on the car was described, and Henry made it clear that this must have been operated by Mason himself in order to make the car stop. Aunt Dora’s unexpected presence in the line of fire was also proved, providing the motive which impelled Mason to come out from the shelter of the Mercedes.
The coroner, who seemed anxious above all to end the whole matter in a quiet and seemly manner, indicated to the jury that they might think that Mr. Mason was a man given to practical jokes, although the evidence for this was very slim. In any case, he pointed out, it was no concern of theirs to determine just why Mason had set this booby trap. They were merely asked to say, on the evidence, whether he had done so, and thus, by an unlucky chance, caused his own death. If so, the proper verdict should be accidental death.
The jury needed very little prompting. It took them less than half an hour to return with the verdict indicated, and the journalists took themselves off to the Kingsmarsh Arms in a gloomy mood and did their best to make bricks without straw. There was no doubt that the great mystery of Raymond Mason’s death had fizzled out like a dud rocket. It would not rate more than a small paragraph.
Meanwhile, in the watery sunshine of late September, the Manciple family stood in the ancient High Street of Kingsmarsh outside the Town Hall where the inquest had been held, and discussed the question of transportation back to Cregwell. George and Violet had brought Claud and Ramona over in their car, while Edwin had squeezed his considerable frame with some discomfort into the back seat of Maud’s tiny vehicle. Now, however, Violet had shopping to do in Kingsmarsh, things, she explained earnestly, which were urgently needed for the Fête tomorrow. It would undoubtedly take her some time, and the others were anxious to get home.
At once Henry volunteered to come to the rescue. He had driven over by himself in a large police car and there would be plenty of room for Sir Claud and Lady Manciple and for the Major as well. Henry’s offer was gratefully accepted, and the four of them walked off toward the parking lot while Edwin gloomily agreed to return the way he had come, with Maud and Julian.
In the car Henry remarked to Lady Manciple that he was glad to hear that her sleeping pills had been recovered. She raised her eyebrows.
“Recovered is hardly the word, Mr. Tibbett. They were never missing. I can’t imagine what made me put them into my cosmetic bag; as Claud will tell you, I always carry them in my trinket box for safety’s sake.”
“You keep it locked, do you?” Henry asked.
“Oh dear me, no. I don’t have expensive jewelry,” said Ramona with the faintest emphasis on the personal pronoun. “It’s simply that things tend to get lost in a cosmetic bag, whereas…”
“Was the bottle full?”