“I know that,” said Maud.
“You’re a very sensible girl,” said Henry. “It’s all a terrible shock now, but you’re young and you’ll get over it. If you face things squarely now you’ll find that in time the wound will heal.”
“In time,” said Maud. There was no expression in her voice.
“That’s right,” said Henry, “in time.”
“I don’t understand,” said Maud, “about the book.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“I DON’T UNDERSTAND,” said Sir Claud, “about the book.”
“What book?” asked the Bishop. “Thank you, Violet, I would enjoy another cup of coffee. Maud is very late coming home this evening.”
“Maud is at the police station, Edwin,” said George Manciple. He felt very tired. It was nine o’clock at night, and he still had not fully assimilated the happenings of the afternoon.
“Police station? Why the police station?”
“Because of Julian,” said Ramona, “her young man. He turned out to be a Russian.”
“A Russian? But he’s Humphrey Manning-Richards’ grandson.”
“No, he isn’t, Edwin,” said Violet patiently. “He was just pretending to be.”
Edwin sighed. “It’s all beyond me,” he said. “Why was that young fellow Mason making such a to-do this afternoon? Bran all over his face.”
“That was because of the book, Edwin,” said Violet.
“What book?”
“Some book from the Head’s library,” put in George. “It’s all very mysterious.”
“I don’t understand about the book,” said Sir Claud again.
“Where is it now anyway?” Ramona asked.
“I don’t know. Tibbett has it. We keep going around in circles,” said George Manciple irritably. “Ever since last week there’s been nothing but trouble and bother. I’m damned, Violet, if I’ll lend the garden next year for this blasted Fête of yours, if this sort of thing is going to happen.”
“Well, really, George! You can’t blame the Fête for…”
“Manning-Richards isn’t a Russian name,” said the Bishop. “If Tibbett thinks it is, it just shows that he’s an ignoramus.”
“It’s all very confusing, I agree,” said Ramona. “And I don’t believe he made any real effort with his wildflower collection, for all that he said.”
“Julian never collected wildflowers, my dear,” said Sir Claud. “Let us be charitable and give credit where it is due.”
“Not Julian, Claud,” said Violet, “Inspector Tibbett.”
“Tibbett isn’t a Russian name either,” said Edwin. The conversation, having reached an impasse, stopped. And Henry walked in, preceded by Maud.
“Ah, there you are, Maud,” said Edwin. “I’ve been keeping this for you. Haven’t looked at it myself yet.” He held out the current copy of The Times, carefully folded to display the crossword puzzle.
At this gesture Maud’s ironclad composure cracked like old plaster under a chisel. The tears came faster than she could control, and her voice broke as the said, “Thank you, Uncle Edwin.” She grabbed the paper and ran out of the room.
Edwin looked genuinely surprised. “What’s the matter with Maud?” he asked.
Ramona said gently, “It’s because of Julian being a Russian, Edwin. She’s bound to be upset.”
“Julian? I thought Claud said it was Tibbett…”
Violet said, “Poor little Maud. Do you think I should go to her…?”
“I wouldn’t, Mrs. Manciple,” said Henry. “I think she’d rather be left alone.”
“Oh, Inspector Tibbett, or Mr. Tibbett, I should say — I never get it right. I’m afraid you find us in rather a confused state. Do let me give you some coffee. You may have heard something of what happened this afternoon…”
“Yes,” said Henry, “I did hear something of it. And I’ve brought you this book.”
“Book? What book? The book?” Claud put on a pair of rimless spectacles and peered at Henry over the top of them.
“Yes,” said Henry, “a book belonging to your late father, Augustus Manciple. One of the volumes of Homer’s Iliad.”
“But that isn’t our book, Tibbett,” said George Manciple.
“Not yours?”
“No, no. I recognize it. It is one of the books from the Head’s library which I sold to Raymond Mason some time ago. It must now belong to his son, Frank.”
Henry smiled. “That’s quite right, technically,” he said. “However, on another technical point you might say that it belongs to Lady Manciple, for she bought it for sixpence from the jumble booth this afternoon. Isn’t that right?” he added to Ramona.
“Quite correct, Mr. Tibbett. I told the young man…”
“What on earth was it doing at the jumble booth?” asked George Manciple.
“Alfred from The Viking donated it. He had picked it out of the Lucky Dip, and not being a Greek scholar…”
“Oh, Mr. Tibbett, you are being tiresome,” said Violet. “Do get down to facts. Why was it in the Lucky Dip?”
Ramona said, “Ah, now I begin to understand. Frank Mason brought it up here with some jumble, by a mistake…”
“No,” said Henry.
“But Mr. Tibbett, he told me…”
“It was no mistake,” said Henry. “He brought it here to hide it — and a very good hiding place it was, too. He intended to take it back quietly, but owing to its brown paper wrapper it got put into the Lucky Dip and he couldn’t find it.”
“To hide it from whom?” Edwin asked.
“From me.”
“I don’t understand,” said Sir Claud for the third time.
“I’ll explain,” said Henry. “That’s what I came here for. Frank Mason has been looking for this book ever since his father’s death.”
“But why on earth should he…” began George.
“That’s the funny part,” said Henry. “He had no idea why the book was so valuable. He simply knew that it was, because his father told him so. And then he discovered that I was looking for it, too. So, having found it, he decided to hide it from me.”
“I thought, Tibbett,” said the Bishop heavily, “that you were going to explain.”
“I am,” said Henry.
“Well, where did young Mason find the book for a start?”
“In his father’s office in London, in Mason’s private filing cabinet. The maddening thing is that I actually looked into that filing cabinet myself before young Mason did, and I never spotted the book. Raymond Mason had put it into a lurid, pornographic jacket.”
Edwin looked shocked. “Homer? The Head wouldn’t have liked that.”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t,” said Henry. “Anyhow, Frank Mason found it and brought it back to Cregwell Lodge. Shortly afterward, I called at the Lodge. When he saw me coming, he hastily removed the Homer from the dust jacket, and put another book in its place. And before I could search the house again, he wrapped the Homer in brown paper and brought it up here with his jumble.”
“This is all very well,” said Sir Claud, “but when are you going to come to the point? What’s so special about this book, and how did you know about it at all?”
“I’m just coming to that,” said Henry. “I found an entry in Raymond Mason’s personal diary which puzzled me. It was his car registration number.”