Sweet Miss Seeton (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 20)

by Hamilton Crane

  “Miss Holloway, it’s reception, just asking if you’d like anything brought up.” There was no response to this well meant offer. “Miss Holloway?”

  “Miss Holloway!”

  The fourth time Doris called Tina’s name, it was not as a simple question.

  It was as a shrill exclamation of horror.

  chapter

  ~ 16 ~

  NIGEL COLVEDEN EMERGED from the jeweller’s feeling pleased with himself. Why he’d noticed it in the first place, he couldn’t have said: it hadn’t been one of the pieces he’d looked at when choosing Christmas presents for his sister, Julia, and young niece, Janie: but somehow or other the necklace now nestling in a box in his pocket had impinged itself on his memory and proved (as he’d thought the moment he saw them) an almost perfect match for the earrings Tina had worn last night.

  Christmas was past, and he had no idea when her birthday might be. It hadn’t been one of the things they’d talked about while they were together: truth to tell, he couldn’t remember what they had talked about before, during, and after dinner—except that they’d talked, and he’d enjoyed it, and as far as he knew Tina had enjoyed it, too. Tina Holloway. Christina. Christina Colveden ... No harm in an un-birthday present, surely ...

  “Is that the George and Dragon? It’s Nigel Colveden. Look, I’m calling from a box in Ashford and I’m short of change, but I just wanted a quick word with Miss Holloway. Can you fetch her?”

  Police cars with grim-faced drivers and flashing blue lights sped quietly through the Ashford streets en route for Plummergen. Superintendent Brinton had issued stern warnings against the use of the two-tone sirens unless, in traffic terms, absolutely necessary. The press and other snoops would find out soon enough that there had been murder committed in Miss Seeton’s village.

  No doubt, from Potter’s preliminary report, that it was murder. While it might just about be possible to throttle yourself if you were really determined, you couldn’t do so without a ligature of some sort—tights (did any female under the age of thirty wear stockings anymore?) or a belt or (in winter, which of course January was) a scarf. Potter was a good man. He’d made it clear that, closely as he had examined the bruised and swollen neck of Miss Tina Holloway, there had been no trace of anything other than pressure marks from strong, probably masculine, fingers ...

  “And if Potter says so, I believe him.” Brinton settled his bulk more comfortably in the passenger seat. “Forensics and the scenes-of-crime lot will go through the motions and tell us the same in the end, but ... Potter’s a good man.”

  “Yes, sir.” Foxon, summoned from his sickbed to assist in the emergency, changed gear for a sharp bend ahead. “But what I find hard to credit is that she could have been killed by Charley Mountfitchet. My money’s on the artist bloke from London, if he was the only other man staying at the George last night.”

  “Mountfitchet’s been a good friend to the police over the years,” Brinton conceded. “You would expect him of all people to know he’d never get away with it ... but this is England, laddie. Even if he is the raving nutter everyone seems to think, we can’t accuse this artist without evidence—and then, the most surprising folk can suddenly go wonky for reasons nobody normal can understand. You’ve been in the force long enough to know about hidden depths.”

  “Well—yes, sir. But Scarlett’s been way past wonky since the first time he came to Plummergen—everyone knows that. And Charley’s a good sort. Always cooperates with the police—law-abiding—friendly—useful cricketer—”

  “And the odd after-hours drink with no questions asked.” Brinton shifted again on his seat. “A cynic might argue he’d been notching up Brownie points as camouflage for when he decided he was ready to go right off the rails.”

  Foxon, despite his long experience of those who were not so much off the mental rails as way beyond the lawful pale, was shocked by this suggestion. Did Superintendent Brinton seriously think the landlord of the George and Dragon had such a devious mind?

  The superintendent retorted that the minds of villains were as twisted as corkscrews, and then some. Everyone knew appearances could be damned deceptive. Just look at how old Miss Addison had been convinced her doorstep visitor was a villain of the deepest dye because of the way he looked—and as for Abinger ...

  “Point taken, sir.” Foxon, too busy driving to rub either of his black eyes, could only sigh: which he did with energy. “But the way this artist looks is pretty villainous, by all accounts. Even MissEss called him theatrical, and you know how she usually falls over backwards to be nice about everyone—”

  Brinton sat bolt upright. The seat belt jerked across his chest and made him gasp. “Foxon, shuttup! Do you have to bring that woman’s name into this business so blasted early in the proceedings? Time enough for the Battling Brolly once we get to Plummergen. She’s bound to be mixed up in all this somehow. She always is.”

  “She has,” agreed Foxon, “had her dealings with Dracula, sir. I mean,” he hastily amended as an oath blistered from Brinton’s lips, “with Scarlett. Buying Sweetbriars to fill it with chocolate and knock it down—I told you he keeps pestering her about it—that’s why half of ’em think she’s procuring young women for him, because he’s always dropping in to see her, prancing about the place in that daft black cape—”

  Brinton snorted tremendously.

  “Yes, sir, I know, but sometimes there can be a—a grain of truth in the most ridiculous stories. Suppose he does have a—a taste for girls? And a gorgeous specimen, as they say, is staying in the same hotel. She asks him back to her room innocent-like for coffee, and he gets the wrong message and takes it out on her when she objects ...”

  “Funny to start drinking coffee way past midnight,” said Brinton. “One of the best ways I know to ruin your chances of a decent kip until the caffeine’s worn off.”

  “Well, sir, it was just an idea. But suppose—”

  “Suppose the girl’s not as innocent as she seems and changes her mind after leading him on? Suppose she’s on the game and changes her mind about the price when he’s already agreed to pay? Suppose she’s been blackmailing him and he’s had enough? There are dozens of ideas we could try, Foxon.” Brinton glanced sideways at him and cleared his throat. “One of which I think you’ll like even less than the idea of Charley Mountfitchet doing away with one of his guests—and I know you’ve been trying to keep me off this, and I know he’s a pal of yours—and his father’s a magistrate, dammit—but coppers don’t play favourites, laddie.”

  “No, sir.”

  Brinton waited for more. It did not come. He nodded.

  “Look, I don’t like it any more than you—but facts are facts. Forensic’ll tell us if she was killed somewhere else and moved after death—but who in their right mind would go in for the exercise? So—it happened right there, in her bedroom at the George. And it must have happened after midnight, when everyone goes to bed, because the girl went out for the evening and let herself back in with a late key, according to Potter, according to Doris. So—suppose the bloke she was out with let himself in with her?” Brinton shook his head. “He’s about the most unlikely person, I know, but our mutual friend Nigel Colveden is definitely in the frame for this one ...”

  It was inevitable that by the time Brinton and his cohorts had driven the fifteen miles from Ashford, Plummergen would know not only that they were on their way, but why. In few parts of England does the grapevine function with greater efficiency. The superintendent accepted that there would be no advantage in attempting any secret approach via the back roads through Hamstreet and Brenzett: he might as well use the fast Brettenden route and brazen it out by driving down The Street in full view of people who already knew that he was expected.

  “We know damned well,” he growled to Foxon, “most of the beggars will be gawping outside the place long before we get there. With—ugh, telescopes, most likely.” He only just bit back a reckless mention of binoculars. Miss Emily Seeton must stay o
ut of his case for as long as he could manage it: which, knowing her, wouldn’t be long, but he’d do his damnedest to last a few hours, at least, without her and her blasted umbrella getting in the way.

  As for getting in his way, the gawpers were, as predicted, there, although none had a telescope; and (had he ever known) it might have cheered Brinton to learn that the nearest anyone had come to using binoculars was old Miss Wicks in her cottage next-but-one to the smithy. Cecelia Wicks had wondered what rare specimen of bird life must be perched on the roof of the hostelry opposite and took out her dear mother’s opera glasses for a better look. Seeing nothing of particular avian interest, she replaced the glasses in their worn leather box and went back to mending the torn lace ruffle on her nightdress without giving another thought to what her neighbours were doing outside in such numbers on so chilly a morning.

  The gawping crowd parted to let the police cars pull off the road to the parking space in front of the George, then surged back again, elbows at the ready, to its prime viewing position on the pavement (publicly owned) rather than on the private forecourt. Landlord Charley Mountfitchet, once he was over the initial shock, had been quick to issue stern warnings about Trespass to which PC Potter had given the full support of the law, although Charley made extra sure by standing sentinel on the step with his arms folded and a threatening light in his eye.

  Brinton might have suspected a double bluff on Charley’s part, but he was grateful not to have to fight his way to the door through ranks of clustering gossips. Even from the distance of several yards, however, he couldn’t miss the muttered mention of a certain name ...

  “Knowed her, didn’t she?”

  “Afternoon tea, they called it—as if that’d fool even a copper ...”

  “Stands to reason she’ll be involved, no more’n a cough ’n’ a spit from the very door ...”

  Brinton tore at his hair as he fled from the pursuit of those insistent voices. Was there to be no escape from the woman? Even when she wasn’t there, she still haunted him. “Miss Seeton,” he groaned, exploding with relief into the safe haven of the foyer of the George.

  “Good morning, Superintendent.”

  Brinton rocked back on his heels, almost knocking Foxon flat. He stared. He could not say a word.

  Miss Seeton rose quietly from the chair on which she had been waiting. She smiled a tentative greeting to Foxon, now busy repeating Charley’s up-the-stairs-and-third-on-the-left instructions to the forensic hangers-on from the second car, and as Brinton remained speechless with shock, she hurried to explain her presence at what might be called intrusively close to the scene of the crime.

  “I hope, Mr. Brinton, that I do not intrude—but when Martha told me what had happened to poor Miss Holloway ...” Miss Seeton cleared her throat, blinking rapidly once or twice. “It is one of her days, you see, and when she saw so many people ...” Mrs. Bloomer had been unable to resist the lure of the crowd. A Londoner born and bred, Martha had grown more Plummergen than Plummergen in the years since her marriage to native Stan, though she exercised more caution than most of the village over what she said about—and to—whom and when she chose to say it. Martha did not forget that Tina Holloway had been a guest at Sweetbriars: could not forget it, given the many voices all too eager to remind her of this inconvenient fact.

  “Of course,” said Miss Seeton, “I recognise that you will need to enquire into every aspect of poor Tina’s life for the purposes of investigation, and so because she left it at my house yesterday ...” She hesitated and blushed. “I had, naturally, every intention of apologising when she came to collect it this morning ...” Brinton didn’t even try interrupting her to ask why Miss Seeton should apologise to a guest for that guest’s absent-mindedness.

  Miss Seeton plunged on with her explanation. “And then—because after a late night I wasn’t in the least surprised that she should be breakfasting late, too—when Martha told me the shocking news and I realised I still had it ... It was by accident, I feel sure, as I had already given my opinion, and she was so much looking forward to her evening out that it is a pardonable error—which is why I knew at once that I must bring it back. In case,” she concluded in her most earnest tones, “anyone should make a detailed list of her belongings and find it gone. One would not wish there to be any misunderstanding.” Miss Seeton again turned pink. “Not, of course, that I would presume to interfere in your work, Superintendent, but were anyone to suggest that it had been stolen ...”

  “You didn’t steal it,” Brinton finished for her. He’d not made too much sense of the rest of the rigmarole, but this much he was pretty sure he’d got.

  He’d got it wrong. Miss Seeton looked startled: dismayed “Oh, no—oh, dear, I’m sorry, Mr. Brinton—but it never occurred that anyone might suppose that I ...” Her cheeks turned from pink to pinker as she fumbled with the catch of the capacious handbag hanging over one arm. “It was Doris, you see—and Maureen. I should not wish anyone to think ... Doris is so very honest and reliable, and Maureen ...” Miss Seeton boggled slightly over a suitable adjective for the slowest worker in Plummergen. “I believe she is a very respectable young woman, Superintendent.” This could be said almost without a qualm: did Maureen not still live at home, despite the attractions (as Miss Seeton assumed there must be) of leather-clad Wayne and his motorbike? “And, of course, Mr. Mountfitchet. Not that anyone of sound mind could consider it a justifiable excuse for ...” She sighed. “For murder.” One had seen such things on television and heard plays on the wireless, but in real life—if that was not an unfortunate phrase ...

  “Of course,” she went on while Brinton still tried to catch his breath, “I have little experience in such matters ...” This startling claim drove what breath he might have finally caught right out of Brinton’s gasping lungs. For someone who over the past seven years had been instrumental in apprehending a score of murderers, not to mention lesser crooks without number, how MissEss managed to keep up the pretence that it was nothing to do with her never ceased to amaze him.

  “But,” she went on, having paused politely to let him finish choking, “it is my impression that the mind of anyone willing to commit murder is thought to be—well, far from sound. In most cases,” she added, trying to be fair. “As indeed it must be to commit any sort of crime, for one’s sense of right and wrong must be, at the very least, considerably distorted. Which I think you will agree, once you have spoken to them, could be said of none of them. I felt, you see, that if I didn’t bring it back, even though it is too late for me to apologise, you might wonder, which would have wasted valuable time when there is, sadly, a genuine criminal to pursue. To her, not to you, Superintendent, though of course I am sorry if I have caused any confusion.”

  Was she? Brinton gritted his teeth. Had she? Damned right, she had! And what the hell was she doing now?

  Miss Seeton, having explained everything to her own satisfaction if not the superintendent’s, now opened her handbag and produced a brown-paper package oblong in shape, about half an inch thick, and tied neatly with string. “I remembered about fingerprints, you see,” she said with a touch of pride, handing the package to Brinton, who received it in silence: he couldn’t think what else to do. “I hope,” she said, “they haven’t smudged. I know that the proper procedures must be followed, even if both Miss Treeves and I have seen her using it, and would be willing to vouch for it should that become necessary.” She stifled a sigh, recalling a previous occasion. “Except that a public appearance in court ... a most uncomfortable feeling, to be the centre of attention ... but, as dear Mr. Delphick explained at the time, it is the penalty one sometimes has to pay for doing what one believes to be right. Which I do: as, I feel sure, does Miss Treeves. It’s only that ...”

  As she ran out of steam, Brinton took a deep breath. “This parcel was the property of the young lady calling herself Christina Holloway, was it?”

  “It was,” said Miss Seeton, “her name.”

  “And she lef
t it with you ... by accident? Not for what you might call safekeeping?”

  Miss Seeton blushed. “She had every reason to suppose it would be safe in my house, Mr. Brinton, and no reason to suppose it would not.” That blush, Brinton suddenly realised, was tinged with guilt. “Which is why,” she went on, “I had intended to apologise to her this morning, or whenever she came, as she had promised, to tell me about ...”

  She stopped. She sighed. “Poor Nigel,” she said. “He will be most distressed to learn what has happened. She was so young—her whole life ahead of her ...”

  “Not anymore,” said Brinton.

  “Sorry, Miss Seeton.”

  Brinton’s head jerked back at the unexpected sound of Foxon’s voice. If there were any more apologies without a decent reason, he’d throw something. Or worse. “Ready upstairs whenever you are, sir,” Foxon told the superintendent carefully. “When you’ve, uh, finished here.”

  Brinton decided he was finished—for the moment. True, he hadn’t made too much sense of what MissEss’d been telling him, but when the old girl was in full flight that was about par for the course: besides, he’d got the gist of it. He excused himself as he sent Miss Seeton on her way with thanks for her help and the warning they’d be over later in the day for another chat, just to confirm a few details. No, he wouldn’t need to ask her to identify the body: Mountfitchet and PC Potter between them had been able to save anyone else the trouble, poor girl. Miss Seeton, with a sigh of thankfulness that she had been spared an unpleasant duty, picked up her umbrella from where she had rested it against the arm of the chair and went more than willingly home.

  “Sorry, sir.” Foxon’s voice was low as they trudged side by side up the main stairs. “Did you want me to interrupt you or not? You looked a bit—well, you looked ...”

  “I can imagine how I looked. You know how that woman affects me at the best of times, which the start of a murder investigation isn’t. Miss Seeton’s a pal of the victim, of course. Seems the girl dropped in yesterday for elevenses or afternoon tea or whatever, and left this behind.” He brandished the brown-paper package in his free hand. “Miss Seeton meant to give it back to her today and didn’t want us to think anyone had pinched it ... whatever it is.” On the top step, he paused. Squeezed. Frowned. “Feels a bit like an enormous paperback book.” he said at last, trying not to think what else it might resemble.