Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Vol. 60, No. 1. Whole No. 344, July 1972

“Easily enough, Rector.”

“Have the grappling irons laid out at the back. Tom’s tractor follows you. Enoch, how long to cut the wire?”

“Ten seconds.”

This produced a rumbling laugh.

“Good. We don’t want any unnecessary delay. We drive the tractors straight through the gap and ride in on the back of them. The fire-raising material will be in the trailers behind the rear tractor. The Scouts can see to that under you, Mr. Smedley.”

“Certainly, Rector. Scouts are experts at lighting fires. If we start upwind, that should give you time to get the animals out before the fires take hold.”

“Excellent. Now, the diversion at the front gate. That will be under you, Miss Martin. You’ll have the Guides and Brownies. You demand to be let in. When they refuse, you all start screaming. If you can get hold of the sentry I suggest you scratch him.”

“I’ll let Matilda Briggs do that,” said Miss Martin. “She’ll enjoy it.”

Enoch Clavering touched the rector on the arm and said, “Listen.” Then he went over to the window and opened it.

“What is it, Enoch?”

“I thought I heard the bells some minutes ago, but I didn’t like to interrupt. They’ve stopped now. It’s as it was last time. The bells rang themselves. What does it signify?”

“It means,” said the rector cheerfully, “that I’ve been a duffer. I ought to have seen that the trap door to the belfry was padlocked. Our prisoners must have climbed up and started ringing the tenor and the treble. Since they’ve stopped, I imagine someone heard them and let them out.”

Miss Martin said, “What are we going to do?”

“What we’re not going to do is lose our heads. Stokes, you’ve immobilized the Colonel’s car?” Stokes nodded.

“And you’ve put the telephone line out of communication, Mr. Smallpiece?”

“Same as last time.”

“Then I don’t see how they can summon help in under half an hour. We should have ample time to do all we have to.”

“I advise you against it,” said Mr. Calder.

He was standing in the doorway, one hand in his pocket. He looked placid, but determined. Behind him they could see the great dog, Rasselas, his head almost level with Mr. Calder’s shoulder, his amber eyes glowing.

For a moment there was complete silence. Then a low growl of anger broke out from the crowded room. The rector said, “Ah, Mr. Calder. I congratulate you on your ingenuity. Who let you out?”

“Jack Collins. And he’s gone in his own car to Thetford. The police will be here in half an hour.”

“Then they will be too late.”

“That’s just what I was afraid of,” said Mr. Calder. “It’s why I came down as fast as I could — to stop you.”

There was another growl, louder and more menacing. Enoch Clavering stepped forward. He said, “Bundle him down into the cellar, Rector, and let’s get on with it.”

“I shouldn’t try it,” said Mr. Calder. His voice was still peaceful. “First, because if you put a hand on me this dog will have the hand off. Secondly, because the Colonel’s outside in the garden. He’s got a shotgun, and he’ll use it if he has to.”

The rector said gently, “You mustn’t think you can frighten us. The Colonel won’t shoot. He’s not a murderer. And Rasselas won’t attack me. Will you, Rasselas?”

“You’ve got this all wrong,” said Mr. Calder. “My object is to prevent you attacking us. Just long enough for me to tell you two things. First point, the guards at Snettisham have been doubled and they are armed. They have orders to shoot. What you’re leading your flock to isn’t a jamboree, like last time. It’s a massacre.”

“I think he’s lying,” said Mr. Smedley.

“There’s one way of finding out,” said Mr. Calder. “But it’s not the real point. The question which really matters is this: have any of you ever seen a tree beaver?”

The question was so unexpected that it fell into a sudden pool of silence.

“Come, come,” said Mr. Calder. “There must be some naturalists here. Rector, I see the Universal Encyclopaedia of Wild Life on your shelf. Would you care to turn its pages and give us a few facts about the habits of this very curious creature.”

The rector said, with a half smile of comprehension on his face, “What are you getting at, Mr. Calder?”

“I can save you some unnecessary research. The animal does not exist. Indeed, it could not exist. Beavers live in rivers, not in trees. The animal was invented by an old friend of mine, a Mr. Behrens. And having invented this remarkable animal he thought it would be a pity to keep it all to himself. He had news of its arrival at Snettisham passed to a friend of his, who passed it on to a subversive organization known as the International Brotherhood Group. Who, in turn, passed it to you, Rector, through their local agent. ”

The rector was smiling now. He said, “So I have been led up the garden path. Sancta simplicitas! Who is this agent?”

“That’s easy. Who told you about the tree beavers?”

There was a flurry of movement. A shout, a crash, and the sound of a shot.

“It is far from clear,” said Mr. Calder, “whether Miss Martin intended to shoot the rector or me. In fact Rasselas knocked her over and she shot herself. As soon as they realized they had been fooled, the village closed its ranks. They concocted a story that Miss Martin, who was nervous of burglars, was known to possess a revolver, a relic of the last war. She must have been carrying it in her handbag, and the supposition was that, in pulling it out to show it to someone, the gun went off and killed her. It was the thinnest story you ever heard, and the Coroner was suspicious as a cat. But he couldn’t shake them. And after all, it was difficult to cast doubt on the evidence of the entire Parochial Church Council supported by their rector.

“The verdict was accidental death.”

“Excellent,” said Mr. Fortescue. “It would have been hard to prove anything. In spite of your tree beavers. How did the rector take it?”

“Very well indeed. I had to stay for the inquest and made a point of attending Evensong on the following Sunday. The church was so full that it was difficult to find a seat. The rector preached an excellent sermon on the text, ‘Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s.’ ”

“A dangerous opponent,” said Mr. Fortescue. “On the whole, I cannot feel sorry that the authorities should have decided to close Snettisham Manor.”