“Of course. But I feel sure…”
“We’ll be sure when we’re sure.”
Another silence.
Then Henry said, “I suppose we’ll never know his contact at the Soviet Embassy.”
The quiet man almost smiled. “I could tell you his name,” he said. “But we’ll never prove it, of course.” He paused, and then added, “The Manning-Richards boy was known to the jewelers because he brought in pieces to sell. That was how he was paid. Quite ingenious. It was clever of you to think of making inquiries there.”
“When I heard that he hadn’t gone in to buy the ring until after lunch on Saturday,” said Henry, “I realized that he’d been somewhere else in London in the morning. The jeweler was just intended to provide an excuse for his trip to London. I suppose he was worried about Mason’s death and wanted to get instructions.”
“I dare say,” said the quiet man. “Again, we’ll never prove where he was on Saturday morning. Not that it matters. There was enough in his apartment…” He lit a cigarette. “Ingenious, those tiny microfilm copiers and the radio transmitter in the camera case. Yes, we’ve got enough to put him away for a long, long time.” He sighed. “One can’t help feeling almost sorry for them. All those years of preparation, and now we get him before he can start on the job. Seems a waste, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Henry, “yes, it does.” He was thinking of Maud.
There were several cars parked in the drive of Cregwell Grange when they arrived, but the gardens seemed curiously deserted. Henry, followed by his posse of quiet men, made his way to the deserted lawn, which exhibited many of the characteristics of a battlefield on the morning after. A tangle of torn canvas and twisted ropes was all that remained of the fortune teller’s tent. The bran tub lay empty on its side, its remaining treasures scattered over a rosebed. The jumble booth had been overturned, and numerous broken glasses and teacups spoke mutely of havoc in the refreshment tent. The resemblance to a battlefield was weakened, however, by the absence of dead and wounded. There was not a soul in sight.
The quiet men looked at Henry, and raised their eyebrows slightly.
Henry said, irritably, “Well, I don’t know what’s happened. It might be anything. You don’t know the Manciples.”
“Looks like the Fête is over, at all events,” said one quiet man. “Perhaps our bird has flown.” He seemed unaware that he sounded like a character from a very minor film indeed.
It was at this point that a small, very dirty child emerged from what was left of the refreshment tent. Her face was pale, and she said to Henry, “I think I’m going to be sick.” She was clutching a jam cake in one hand and an ice-cream cone in the other.
Henry squatted down beside her. “Where is everyone?” he asked.
“There’s nobody in the tent,” the child confided. “I’ve had five ice creams and three cakes and some marshmallows and jam and I think I’m going to be…” Whereupon she was.
Henry held her head and wiped her mouth and comforted her. The quiet men stood in a circle, sneering. Henry said, “Do you feel better now?”
“Yes, thanks,” said the child cheerfully. “Shall we go back and see if there’s any more cake left?”
“I’d rather know,” said Henry, “where everybody is.”
The child gestured vaguely. “They all went that way,” she said.
“To the shooting range,” said Henry.
“I ’spect so,” said the child. The quiet men stiffened. “There was a whole box of marshmallows. Shall we go and see?”
“Not just now,” said Henry. He stood up and said to the quiet men, “This way.”
***
George Manciple had just handed Julian the loaded gun when the hunt broke through the gap in the privet hedge. Julian was taking careful aim at the roundels of the target, which stood against the lower wall of the range. Edwin Manciple was sitting on the bench, peacefully sorting through the target cards which had been shot at during the afternoon. Beside him, lying on the bench in the pale sunshine, was a leather-bound volume of Homer’s Iliad with the Manciple crest on its spine.
Frank Mason saw it at once, and shouted, “There it is!”
Julian wheeled around, the gun in his hand. “What on earth,” he began.
“You won’t get away with this,” said Frank. “I know all about you, Manning-Richards, and what you’re after.” He took a step forward.
“Stand still.” Julian’s voice was like a whip.
Frank stood still. The others crowded eagerly behind him, trying to get through the gap in the hedge.
Gently, lovingly, Julian said, “Maud, darling, would you come here a moment?”
“Maud,” Emmy tried to grab her arm, but it was too late. Maud, with a ravishing smile, pushed her way past Frank and went over to Julian.
“What is all this about darling?” she said.
In a flash the gun was at Maud’s temple. She looked mildly surprised, amused. “Julian darling, what…?”
“If anybody moves,” said Julian, “I shall shoot Miss Manciple.”
“Julian,” Maud still sounded as though it were a joke.
“Shut up, you silly bitch,” said Julian. “Get in front of me.”
Expressionless, Maud stood in front of him, between him and the silent crowd. Julian began to walk slowly backward, toward the gap in the far hedge. As he went, he snatched up the book in his free hand. Each time he took a step backward, Maud did the same. Always the gun was at her head, and she was between Julian and Frank.
It was in the thicket of this dead silence that Julian and Maud stepped slowly, pace by pace, backward — and into the arms of Henry and the quiet men. Julian realized his danger a split second too late. Henry had time to strike out at his arm before he fired, and the gun went off harmlessly into the air.
As though the shot had been the signal for the start of a race, pandemonium broke loose. It was still raging as Sir John Adamson and Lord and Lady Fenshire came out innocently into the garden, beaming with refreshment and good will, and all ready to distribute prizes. The prizes were never distributed. The crowd roared like flame over the lawns and down the drive and eventually into The Viking, where everybody had a story to cap the next man’s. All were wildly inaccurate, but that did not matter in the least.
Julian Manning-Richards — he was charged under that name, for nobody ever established his true one — was in custody, accused of espionage. The Manciple family was in its castle, nursing its shock in decent seclusion. Frank Mason was at Cregwell Lodge, raging noisily against the Establishment, which apparently comprised the whole world with the exception of F. Mason and M. Manciple. And M. Manciple herself was at Cregwell police station facing Chief Inspector Henry Tibbett across a bare, scrubbed table.
Henry said, “You met him in Paris and then later on in London. You had no reason to suspect that he was anything other than…”
Maud said, “You seem very sure.”
Henry looked at her. “You would never,” he said, “have contemplated helping a spy to get into Bradwood.”
“No,” said Maud, “no, I wouldn’t.”
“And as regards Miss Dora Manciple, the verdict, I think, will be accidental death. It can never be proved who gave her the sleeping pills or, indeed, that she did not take them herself by accident. However — I feel that I must tell you this, Miss Manciple — I personally am convinced that it was Manning-Richards who put the pills into her drink. He served her with her first glass of lemonade, if you remember, and she particularly remarked on the taste of the first glass.”
“I remember,” said Maud.
“The reason, of course, was that he realized that she constituted a danger. By some strange mixture of memory and instinct, Aunt Dora knew that he was an impostor. She may even have known, at one time, that the real Julian had been killed as a small boy. At any rate, she took the trouble to look up that particular newspaper clipping for me.” There was a silence, and then Henry said, “I’m telling you all this very brutally, I know, but it’s for your own good. Once you get it into your head just how calculating and cynical he was, how he was prepared to lie to you and cheat you — and kill you, if necessary — he wouldn’t have hesitated, you know…”