“Aha,” said the man, “here you all are. Ramona and I have been for a splendid tramp. Five miles across rough country.”
“Marsh marigold and stinking hellebore,” announced Ramona in a deep and very lovely voice. “Two more beauties for my collection. And we saw a pair of black-tailed godwits.”
“Took the glasses, of course,” added the man. “For a moment I thought I’d spotted a long-eared owl in the garden, but it turned out to be George.”
“He’s up a tree, I understand,” said the Bishop.
“Yes. The big sycamore in the drive. I was quite disappointed. You don’t often see a long-eared owl in these parts.”
“Mr. Tibbett,” said Maud, “may I introduce my uncle and aunt, Sir Claud and Lady Manciple. Aunt Ramona, Uncle Claud, this is Mr. Tibbett from Scotland Yard.”
Henry regarded the newcomers with considerable interest. He had taken the trouble to find out that Sir Claud Manciple, director of the Atomic Research Station at Bradwood, was a younger brother of the Major Manciple concerned in the case; but, even so, Sir Claud surprised him. He could not have said exactly what he expected from one of the nation’s foremost physicists, but it certainly was not this.
“So glad you were able to come,” said Sir Claud politely, shaking Henry’s hand. “It will be a relief to get this business of Mason out of the way. A couple of days should see you through I imagine?” He spoke as though Henry had been called in to cope with woodworm in the attic, an expert who could be relied upon to do his job quickly and efficiently without inconveniencing others,
Henry felt strangely flattered. “I hope so,” said Henry. “I’ve hardly started as yet.”
“Quite. I’m afraid George is wasting your time — lunches and so forth. I’ve no time for social functions myself.”
“Pay no attention to Uncle Claud,” said Maud Manciple. “He does a great act of being an absent-minded professor, but in fact he simply adores the fleshpots.”
“What nonsense,” said Sir Claud, beaming fondly at his niece. “Are you not going to get us something to drink, Maud dear? I’ll have a whisky and soda. What about you, Ramona?”
“Oh, just a tomato juice or an orange for me, Maud. Nature’s thirst quenchers. And Claud will have the same.”
“But, my dear…”
“Are you keen on wild life, Mr. Tibbett?” Lady Manciple ignored her husband’s protest.
“I know very little about it, I’m afraid,” said Henry.
“Then we must instruct you. Cregwell is an ideal center for nature study. If you take my advice you will start a book of pressed wildflowers while you are here. An ordinary school exercise book will do admirably. You can buy one from Mrs. Richards in the General Stores. It will be a joy forever, I assure you, Mr. Tibbett.”
“Orange juice, Aunt Ramona,” said Maud, putting a tall glass on the table. “And here’s yours, Uncle Claud.” There was a hint of suppressed amusement in her voice, which made Henry glance at the drink she had handed to her uncle. Sure enough, it was a deep, clear amber, and did not in the least resemble either orange or tomato juice.
“You are very kind, my dear,” said Sir Claud gravely.
Lady Manciple did not appear to notice. She went on talking to Henry. “The marshes around here, Mr. Tibbett, are a paradise for wild fowl — godwit, oyster-catcher, tern, and lapwing. Occasionally we are honored by a visit from heron — there’s a magnificent sight for you. It is only twenty minutes’ walk across the fields to the estuary of Cregwell River. Ah, the happy hours that Claud and I have spent on the mudflats with a pair of binoculars and a thermos! Perhaps we can persuade you to come out with us this afternoon.”
“I wish you could, Lady Manciple,” said Henry. “Unfortunately, I have to work.”
“Work? On a Saturday?”
“I’m here to investigate the death of Raymond Mason,” Henry reminded her.
Lady Manciple dismissed the topic briefly. “All very sad, I am sure,” she said, “but it would be hypocritical to pretend that he is any great loss. A thoroughly unpleasant man. Setting his cap for a girl half his age! I made my views quite clear to Violet. ‘You should not allow that man in the house,’ I said. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, selling your daughter for a few primulae auriculae!’ ”
“I beg your pardon?” said Henry, taken aback.
Lady Manciple looked at him impatiently, and then explained, as if to a retarded child. “Raymond Mason was paying court to Maud. Violet was continually threatening to forbid him the house, but then he would get around her by bringing her rare rock plants from his garden. Violet has a faiblesse for rock plants, which she is apparently unable to control. Mind you, I am interested in alpine flora myself, and Mason had some remarkable specimens, but I feel that Violet should have put her daughter first, don’t you? Of course, everything is rather different, now that Maud is engaged.”
“Engaged? Is she?”
“Of course she is. That’s why we are all here, to meet the young man. Julian Something-or-other. I have such a bad memory for names. Perhaps Maud will remember. Maud, dear!”
“Yes, Aunt Ramona?”
“Mr. Tibbett is anxious to know the name of your young man. Can you remember it?”
Maud grinned at Henry. “Just about,” she said. “Julian Manning-Richards.”
“Manning-Richards? Are you sure? I had an idea that it began with a C.”
“I’m quite sure, Aunt Ramona. After all, I am going to marry him.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” said Lady Manciple doubtfully.
“Have you seen him, by the way?” Maud asked. “He went out just after breakfast and now he’s going to be late for lunch.”
“No, dear, we certainly didn’t meet him. We’ve been down on the marshes,”
“Oh, well, I suppose he’ll turn up,” said Maud philosophically.
“He’s never been known to miss a meal yet.”
“Mr. Tibbett? It is Mr. Tibbett, isn’t it?” The voice came from behind Henry’s back. It was a cracked, penetrating female voice such as one associates with the very old and deaf.
Turning, Henry saw a small, rotund woman dressed in ankle-length black. Her face was as round, wrinkled, and rosy as a long-stored apple. This could only be Aunt Dora, the nonagenarian sister of the legendary Head. The Bishop had described her as “bright as a button,” and Henry found himself in full agreement. “Yes, my name is Tibbett,” he said.
“Mine’s Manciple. No need to tell you that. Dora Manciple. Never married. You’re not Maud’s young man, are you?”
“No, I’m not.”
“That’s what I thought. Not Maud’s young man. Pity.”
“Why do you say that, Miss Manciple?”
Aunt Dora sniffed, but did not answer directly. “My memory isn’t quite what it was,” she said. “They told me you were coming, but the reason for your visit escapes me. Are you one of Claud’s scientific gentlemen?”
“No. I’m…”
“I have it. One of Edwin’s missionaries. Of course. How is Bugolaland these days? Haven’t been there for years. Horrible country.”
“But I’m…”
“I went out there to keep house for Edwin, you know. Before he married. That must be — let me see — forty-five years ago. We had a bungalow on the banks of the Bobamba River, swamplands not unlike Fenshire in many ways, except for the crocodiles — the people are a different color…more attractive, to my mind, don’t you agree? Where’s your mission station?”
“Miss Manciple, I…”
“Alimumba, I suppose. Yes, it would be. I expect you and Edwin have a lot to talk about. Ah, George…”