Delphick knew and understood Miss Seeton’s conscience, and, hiding a smile, shook his head firmly. “There’s no need to worry about it, you know. As you say, it was very quickly over, and it would hardly be fair to expect even the trained eye of an artist like yourself to recognise people with stocking masks over their faces and motorbike helmets on their heads. But we were certainly interested,” he went on quickly, over her half-voiced protest, “in the sketch you produced—in both of them, in fact, which is why we’re here now.” He opened the cardboard file he’d been holding in one hand. “May I?”
He moved to the low table and set the two sketches side by side, then switched on the standard lamp. “Does anything strike you, Miss Seeton? Take your time.”
Miss Seeton came to stand beside him, and gazed at the evidence of her talents in some bewilderment. The sketches that she drew so speedily, so instinctively—the cartoon-type drawings for which she was so highly valued by Scotland Yard—often did not linger in her memory very long after she had drawn them. Not that one was ashamed—perhaps a little embarrassed would be an acceptable word—of one’s work, such as it was, and certainly it should not be thought of as serious art, of which one might more justifiably feel a modest sense of pride. But sketches, after all, were only the scribblings of one’s subconscious, and as such undisciplined. The great masters of art might be able to transform their scribblings into great masterpieces, but one’s little efforts served rather as reminders that one’s talent, too, was small. Far better, in Miss Seeton’s view, to draw only what one saw, which was there as a reference point, and not to attempt to draw from inside one’s own head what could not be seen, and which therefore could be no reference point at all, and must show a sad lack of self-discipline.
Miss Seeton would have been amazed—shyly proud, but amazed—to be told that Chief Superintendent Delphick waged perpetual guerrilla warfare with his ultimate superior, Sir Hubert Everleigh, Assistant Commissioner (Crime), over those same undisciplined scribblings. Sir Heavily always tried to pull rank and acquire Miss Seeton’s sketches for his private collection, for he had a connoisseur’s eye as well as the instincts of a shrewd financial investor. Delphick regarded the sketches as evidence, and thus police property, and said that Sir Heavily could have photocopies, if he wanted, but the originals should remain filed in a safe place. A place which he had so far insubordinately refused to identify . . .
He’d have to ask Chris Brinton, of course, what he would be doing with the air-raid sketch once the Turpin crowd had been caught and popped behind bars—always assuming that they were. Delphick acknowledged that the few clues they’d so far acquired didn’t seem likely to lead to early arrests, but this business with the sketches made him more hopeful. And maybe the Ashford superintendent would be so relieved when it was all over that he’d relinquish the sketch without a murmur, glad to do without even more reminders—if indeed he needed any—of Miss Emily Dorothea Seeton.
Who was studying her handiwork now with interest, and a dawning awareness in her eye. “Why, how very strange, and what a coincidence,” she remarked at last. “Different, yet somehow the same—do you suppose they might be? The same, I mean—two women, and one man . . .”
The female pirate, with her eye-patch and earrings and her scarf tied across her head, swaggered at the head of her motley band of ruffians with her cutlass held high, a symbol of leadership. One booted leg was bent, and rested on what looked like a cask of grog, or rum. Her form was lightly, but plainly, sketched: no doubt of her femininity, nor that of one of her followers who was more obvious, although in the background, than most of the others, whose presence was indicated by cross-hatchings speedily executed, their angles altering to indicate form without detail. But the second pirate, as shapely as the first, was more clearly sketched. She was younger than her leader, although Delphick could not say how he knew this for sure; in one hand she seemed to be holding a bottle, while the other grasped the hand of a man, who in his free hand brandished, like his chief, a cutlass. The chief was the focus of attention, her followers a more shadowy, uncertain group hovering on the deck of the pirate ship, well to the rear.
“I should have looked much more closely at this,” said Delphick, as Miss Seeton did so herself. “It never struck me until Chris Brinton showed me the other . . .”
The other was the air-raid scene that must have been a familiar sight to anyone who endured the war in any of England’s cities. A bombed and battered building reared up against a sky crossed by the beams of searchlights; there was the unmistakable shape of an aeroplane caught in the beams, and an impending sense of guns about to open fire and bring it down. People in the street scurried for the nearby shelter, drawn there by a figure, presumably an air-raid warden, wearing a tin helmet and seeming to blow a whistle. The entrance to the shelter was sinister, a looming mouth, shadowed by the same cross-hatchings that had portrayed the pirate crew; the warden, beneath the stiffness of uniform, had a curved, female shape, as had one of the two people who were at the front of the group rushing to the shelter. The other members of the group, save one, were indicated by that curiously angled cross-hatching; and the one who was not was shown clearly enough to be identified as a man . . .
“How very curious,” remarked Miss Seeton. “Of course, I remember the war, fire-watching on rooftops and the doodlebugs, so unnerving. Once they fell silent all one could do was hope that they would drop in the street, rather than on people’s houses, although under the stairs was supposed to be the safest place if one did not go to one of the shelters provided. The street shelters, that is, although there were some people who were fortunate enough to have their own, in the house. Morrison, I believe, large tables made of metal and with iron curtains to keep out the debris, although now an iron curtain has connotations even more ominous, doesn’t it? And there were other shelters for gardens, if one was fortunate enough to possess one—Anderson, and such a great deal of digging, as well.”
Miss Seeton drew in her breath sharply. “Oh dear, such a foolish habit, this dwelling on the past, and nothing at all to do with our present problem. I cannot imagine what must have possessed me, to draw such very old-fashioned subjects, but I am right, am I not, Chief Superintendent?” She regarded Delphick with a bright and knowledgeable eye. “You, too, believe that these little scribbles of mine show there to be some connection between those scoundrels—” she went pink—“who prey on the unwary and elderly, and the ruffians who waylaid the omnibus this afternoon?”
And Delphick, still looking at the two sketches, said, “Yes, Miss Seeton, I do, though I don’t know yet what it can be—unless the same gang is responsible for both types of crime. And that’s certainly a possibility. We’ll have to check this out, but in my recollection there’s never been a Sherry Gang incident at the same time as a Turpin robbery. The Turpins began to operate in this area after the Sherry lot had done a dozen or more in London, and before they started up again in Kent. Maybe they fancied varying their style a little, and are making up their minds which they prefer. Maybe they’ll grow even greedier and carry on with both. Unfortunately, for now, we can only wait and see . . .”
He gathered up the sketches and replaced them in their folder. “I suppose,” he remarked, “there wouldn’t by any chance be a third drawing to add to these two, would there? Something you might have dashed off when you arrived home—just jotting down your impressions of what happened to you this afternoon?” He looked at Miss Seeton as a hopeful dog will watch a cupboard in which there might be a bone. Miss Seeton fidgeted under his gaze, and dropped her own.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I suppose I should have made an effort—but it was all such a shock, so unexpected to be involved, with the embarrassment of having caught the wrong coach, as well. Everyone was very kind, but after Superintendent Brinton seemed so disappointed, I confess I felt a little guilty, and wanted to forget the entire unfortunate episode. I feared, you see,” she said, with a sheepish smile, “that I had let my
colleagues—” she blushed—“down, in such a serious matter. I, well, I came straight into the cottage and made myself a nice cup of tea.”
She looked up with an even more guilty look on her face. “Oh dear, I forgot to offer you any refreshment, Chief Superintendent! Would you or Sergeant Ranger care for tea, or perhaps a cup of coffee? It is rather late in the evening for me, but if you wish . . .”
Bob looked wistfully at Delphick, but the latter shook his head with a smile. “Thank you, but we must be getting back to the George and Dragon. We’re making an early start tomorrow, visiting the scenes of the other Turpin incidents and comparing statements from the Sherry victims with Superintendent Brinton at Ashford. I know we have your statement here,” and he tapped the folder, “but I’d be grateful if, once we’ve gone, you’d try to compose another. Don’t hurry over it, you’ve got all evening, but if there’s anything you feel you want to add, please do so. We’ll drop by some time tomorrow, if that’s convenient, to pick up whatever you manage to produce.”
Having said their farewells, Delphick and Bob thoughtfully crossed The Street back to the George and Dragon. “D’you reckon she’ll come up with the goods, sir?” asked Bob, who’d felt sorry for the anxious look on Aunt Em’s face yet powerless to remove it. Her conscience was in overdrive—luckily the Oracle had tried to direct it into something more productive, whether it was worth the effort or not. But MissEss was one of Scotland Yard’s most valuable assets, and if they could stop her fretting herself into a tizzy, in which state she might perhaps lose her talent altogether, it would be a good day’s work. A couple of her intuitive sketches would help her feel she was once more pulling her weight—and might just possibly hand another clue to those waiting for it.
“It’s always worth a try,” said Delphick. “I can’t help wondering, though, how much that second drawing—the one of the air-raid—has been influenced by the talk there’s been, according to Superintendent Brinton via PC Potter, about the body which may be in the bunker in some old woman who’s just died’s garden.”
“Mother Dawkin,” said Bob, adopted son of Plummergen.
“The tendrils of scandal stretch far and wide,” remarked the chief superintendent. “I suppose you also know the full story of the raffle tickets and the time capsule effect, in aid of the church roof?” Bob nodded. Though Anne might no longer live in the village, Dr. and Mrs. Knight still ran the local private nursing home, and, while not hounding the newlyweds with perpetual parental contact, exchanged letters and telephone calls from time to time. Anne relayed such items as she thought would interest or amuse him, and a fresh instalment had been submitted the previous evening.
“Then no doubt,” said Delphick, “you’re able to show me, Sergeant, which cottage is, or was, the home of Old Mother Dawkin, deceased. I’m curious to see it—not that I expect a guided tour of the bunker,” he added, as Bob hesitated. “But even Miss Seeton, and we know she never listens to gossip, hasn’t been able to remain impervious to all the excitement there’s been, which means the rest of ’em must be fermenting like nobody’s business. And somehow it seems to be catching.”
Bob still hesitated. Delphick favoured him with a grin. “Local knowledge not as detailed as you’d like, Bob? You’ve no need to worry about impressing me—it’s not important. If I really want to goggle, we can always ask someone.”
“It’s not that, sir. I think I know where the cottage is—but, well, it’s the neighbours I’m bothered about. If we go along just to look . . .”
Delphick’s austere features registered controlled and disapproving surprise. “You, Sergeant Ranger, worried about what the neighbours will say? I can hardly believe it.”
Bob dropped his voice to a cautious murmur. “Next door to Lilikot, sir, if you insist,” he said, grimly leading the way with vast and rapid strides further up The Street past the George and Dragon. Delphick waited a few moments, then enquired, in a tone that was not too breathless:
“Lilikot? That name sounds familiar. I wonder why . . .”
“It’s the plate-glass place with the curtains already on the twitch, sir—see?” Bob indicated the curtains with an abrupt movement of his head. “Lilikot—otherwise known as The Nut House,” he said, turning to examine the contents of Mr. Stillman’s newly-arranged post office windows. Delphick, after a quick look across the road, joined him. They stared together at the tins, bottles, packets, and—
“Good heavens. A ration book—and that cardboard box looks suspiciously like a gas mask to me.” The chief superintendent chuckled. “Nostalgia isn’t what it used to be, I know, but they’re evidently doing their best—that poster,” he nodded towards the glass door, blocked not by a blind but by handwritten advice to Get your Bunker Raffle tickets here and support the Church Roofing Fund. Your chance to go back in time. “It almost makes me feel like buying a book or two myself, for the honour of wielding the chisel or turning the key or whatever they’re planning to do.”
“Sir, really,” protested Bob. He didn’t think Delphick meant it, but with the Oracle you could never be sure. Miss Seeton’s sketch seemed to emphasise the war-time influence, and it could be just coincidence, but . . . “That bunker, sir. Suppose the gang’s making use of it somehow, say for hiding the swag until they’re ready to fence it. Plenty of room in air-raid shelters, so my parents tell me . . .”
“Why make all this kerfuffle about the grand prize of opening the bunker on the Manudens’ last day here? Why draw attention to the very place you’d suppose they’d want to keep quiet about?”
It was a valid objection. Bob brooded a while, paying far more attention to the window display than even Mr. Stillman would think it deserved, before he came up with what was the obvious solution. “Double bluff, sir. By focussing our—everybody’s—attention on the day they say they plan to leave, and the raffle to be drawn that day by Lady Colveden, they’ll make pretty sure we’ll take it for granted they’ve nothing to hide—as we have, haven’t we? Sir,” he added hastily. Delphick said nothing. Bob went on, after a pause: “It was their bad luck not knowing the rumours about Susannah’s disappearance, and not realising how everyone would get worked up about whether her body might be in there. And then, by all accounts the girl is rather old-fashioned in appearance, Forties hairstyle and makeup, which Anne tells me isn’t the most popular style nowadays, not even to be different and do your own thing. She or her husband, if that’s what he is, could have worked out that to emphasise the war-time connection would make everyone join in the bunker raffle fun without stopping to think there might be a good reason behind it. I thought. Sir,” he added, as Delphick still said nothing. Bob shuffled his feet and felt uncomfortable.
“Let’s go and ask them,” suggested the chief superintendent. “I won’t say I hadn’t wondered about it myself, but I agree you may have a point there, Sergeant Ranger. It’s not too late to pay a call, even for Plummergen, is it?” And he led the way across the road to Old Mother Dawkin’s cottage.
chapter
~20~
IN FADED WHITE letters not repainted since Albert Dawkin’s death, the front gate announced to the policemen that they were about to visit Ararat Cottage. Albert’s mother might have lacked his biblical enthusiasm, but, truer than her son to the Plummergen heritage, lacked also any desire either to remove the nameplate or to alter it. Like the rest of the village, she saw no need, since Plummergen does not bother with modern niceties such as street numbers: it remembers its past too well. When it travels abroad and sends postcards home, it directs them to the old addresses and expects the postal services to have absorbed such nomenclature as “Mrs. Spice’s first house” (where she dwelt briefly as a bride over thirty years previously, until the demands of a growing family forced her to move) or “the new tied cottage” (erected by farmer Mulcker’s grandfather, just before World War One began).
When Bert the red-haired cockney postman had joined the GPO, longer-serving colleagues handed him a list and told him to memorise it lest h
alf his letters might never leave the bag; or, worse, might be delivered to the wrong house. No doubt, in time, the letters would reach their correct destinations, but during their misplaced hours would be virtually certain to undergo every indignity of thwarted curiosity to which Plummergen might choose to submit them. There are people in the village, Bert was warned, who steam a mean kettle, past mistresses at holding envelopes up to strong artificial light; Plummergen is not given to minding its own business in preference to that of anyone else.
“Eric, do come quick!” One of the most notable steamers was peering out of the windows of Lilikot. “It’s those two policemen—the ones who are under That Woman’s influence—and they’re going into Mrs. Dawkin’s old place! What do you suppose they can want with the Manudens?”
As Norah Blaine twitched an inquisitive curtain, Erica Nuttel hastened to join her. “Been at Old Mrs. Bannet’s,” she reminded Bunny, leaning on her shoulder to peer at the two official figures as they trod heavily up the gravel path towards the front door. “Questioning them, too, I suppose.” She leaned still harder as Delphick and Ranger moved out of easy sight, and Mrs. Blaine squeaked a protest as her nose was pushed against the glass. “Sorry,” muttered Miss Nuttel in an absent voice. Bunny tossed her head, and grumbled a little, but was ignored while Eric pondered.
“Newcomers,” she announced at last. “Probably in league with the Seeton woman. She’ll have made a statement. Need to check it out before arresting anyone, of course.”
And with a further squeak, this time of excitement, Mrs. Blaine agreed that Eric was so right; and resolved to remain by the window watching for any further developments.
“See those curtains twitching, sir?” Bob enquired of the chief superintendent, once they’d moved out of range.
Miss Seeton Cracks the Case (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 9) Page 16
