“Full? What extraordinary questions you do ask, Mr. Tibbett. What makes you so interested in my poor little pills?”
Before Henry could answer, George Manciple said, “The Inspector has a reason, Ramona. Just tell him what he wants to know.”
“Dear me,” said Sir Claud. He did not sound at all pleased. “I thought your work here was over and done with, Chief Inspector. By the way, I greatly admired your handling of this morning’s sad business. Your reasoning was faultless and lucidly expounded.”
“Thank you, Sir Claud,” said Henry.
“So,” Claud persisted, “that’s that, isn’t it?”
“Very nearly,” said Henry. “Lady Manciple, was the bottle of sleeping pills full?”
“No,” said Ramona promptly, “about half full, I suppose.”
“You wouldn’t know if any were missing?”
“Of course not. I don’t count them. They aren’t poisonous, you know. Just soothing and soporific.”
“And also poisonous if taken in large quantities,” Henry pointed out.
“But I have never taken them in large quantities,” Ramona protested. “If Violet has been saying that I do, it’s too bad of her. Just because she hasn’t a nerve in her body and sleeps like a log every night she seems to think that there is something immoral about a sleeping pill. It’s really none of her business.”
A slightly strained silence ensued, which was broken by George Manciple clearing his throat loudly and saying, “Sorry we can’t invite you to lunch, Tibbett, but what with the funeral and the Fête, Vi’s a bit pushed, you understand…”
“Of course I do, Major Manciple. I wouldn’t dream of giving her any extra work at a time like this.”
“But we expect to see you at the funeral, of course. And I trust that you and your wife will come back to the house with us afterward. Just a simple tea.”
“That’s very kind of you,” said Henry. “We’d be delighted.”
Maud, Julian, and the Bishop had already arrived at Cregwell Grange when Henry turned the nose of his black Wolsley into the drive. The little pale blue minicar, which Maud had christened the Scarab, was parked near the front door. Henry had been planning simply to deliver the Manciples home and then go straight back to The Viking, where Emmy and lunch would be waiting for him, but George Manciple was adamant. Having explained again, and at length, about Violet’s inability to offer a meal, he insisted, positively insisted, that Henry should at least take a preprandial drink at the Grange. Refusals and excuses were brushed aside. The Major would not take no for an answer. In the end Henry felt that he would waste more time by arguing than by accepting. So he gave in.
The house was unrecognizable. Through the open door of the study Henry could see piles of assorted jumble, a motley collection of old clothes, knickknacks, lampshades, books, kitchen utensils, children’s toys. There was even a battered perambulator. Some of the junk had overflowed into the hall, and the Head’s portrait was now draped with an assortment of patently hand-knitted scarves, as well as a fringed silk shawl which must have been quite lovely in the twenties when it was new.
Maud came out of the drawing room, regarded the confusion, and wrinkled her pretty nose. “Isn’t it awful?” she said. “You know, we get the same things year after year. Mrs. A. buys Mrs. B.’s old hat, which would disgrace a scarecrow, just so as to contribute to the Church Roof Fund or whatever it may be. Next year, of course, Mrs. A. brings the hat along again as jumble, and Mrs. C. buys it — and so on. By now, the hat is no more than a ritual object. It would be so much easier for everyone if people could just make a financial donation and leave it at that. But, oh no. There always has been a Fête, and there always will be a Fête.” She grinned. “The drawing room isn’t so bad. Jams, jellies, and cakes. Some of them are really quite good. The trouble is, I expect they’ll all get eaten by mistake at Aunt Dora’s wake.” Quite seriously she added, “It’s a shame she has to miss it. It’s the sort of thing she really enjoyed, a nice funeral and a slap-up tea afterward. Come on in. I expect you can do with a drink.”
Edwin was already established in the drawing room drinking a glass of beer and studying The Times crossword puzzle with dedicated care. He had cleared himself a small space among the jams, jellies, and cakes, and in it he had planted his favorite armchair, which faced pointedly out toward the bow window, turning its chintz-covered back to the rest of the room. It required no great perspicacity to realize that the Bishop was in no mood for conversation. He did not even look up from his paper when Maud and Henry came in.
“Sherry, whiskey, or beer?” Maud asked.
“Sherry, please,” said Henry.
He watched her as she walked to the side table, shifted some jellies, and began dealing with the decanters and glasses. Suddenly he could picture her very clearly in her laboratory — white-coated, deft, expert, impersonal, no longer a pretty, fragile girl but a highly-professional scientist. Cool, too. Unsentimental. Henry, who had only the haziest idea of what went on in an atomic research center, found himself wondering whether she ever dealt with animals for vivisection or experimental purposes — and found no difficulty in imagining her doing so.
The dispassionate, detached female scientist turned from her work among the vials and filters and abruptly became Maud Manciple again — small, blonde, and enchanting. She held out a glass and said, “One dry sherry.” She handed it to Henry, picked up her own, and said, “I think we should drink to Aunt Dora. She was very partial to a nip of the right stuff now and then.”
“To Aunt Dora,” said Henry, and raised his glass.
“Amen,” said Maud.
“Stuff and nonsense,” said Edwin loudly, and he turned a page of his paper with a marked rustling.
“The chrysanthemums are beautiful,” said Henry. “Are they from the garden?”
Maud looked a little embarrassed. “No,” she said. “We never have any luck with them here. Something to do with the soil.”
“They’re for Aunt Dora, aren’t they?” said Henry.
There was a tiny pause and then Maud said, “You don’t have to be so oblique. Yes, I bought them in Kingsmarsh and arranged them myself. Yes, they are traditional flowers of mourning. Don’t forget that I lived in Paris for a year. I felt that something should be done.”
“And nobody but you would do it?”
“Nobody else,” Maud began, and then stopped. “I was very fond of Aunt Dora.”
“Yes,” said Henry, “I know you were.”
Ramona, Claud, and George Manciple came in together, having divested themselves of the strange assortment of shapeless tweed overcoats, knitted scarves, and porkpie hats which they had considered as suitable outerwear for the inquest. Maud once again busied herself with the drinks, and when everyone had been served went out through the French windows to join Julian, who was wandering aimlessly in the garden.
“And the wildflowers, Mr. Tibbett,” inquired Lady Manciple. She was smiling, but there was a distinct undertone of menace.
Quickly and mendaciously Henry said, “Oh, they’re coming along. Nothing very exciting yet, I’m afraid. Just buttercups and so on.”
Ramona’s face relaxed into approval. “In every collection there must be the congregation as well as the preacher,” she said. “Your most precious trouvailles need the company of the homely buttercup and daisy, so that they may shine the brighter by contrast. I trust that you will keep up the good work when you leave here.”
“I shall try,” said Henry. He did not mention that the flora of Chelsea was sparse, to say the least. After all, there might still be some willow-herb on the last of the bombed sites.
George was saying to Claud, “It’s no use your trying to explain such things to me, Claud. You should know that. My mind simply doesn’t work the same way as…”