Miss Seeton Cracks the Case (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 9)

by Hamilton Crane

  Really, there was no escaping the war, it seemed, even so many years later. Almost thirty. Miss Seeton sighed for the memory of her young womanhood, although perhaps not as young as some, spent in the shadow of, first, the threat of war, and then in the relief of knowing what the worst could be, bad though it was. And surviving it, as so many less fortunate had not. Did this young woman, she wondered, have any inkling of how much worse things would get before they improved?

  Miss Seeton blinked, and stared, and pulled herself very sharply together. For a moment, she was back in the war and yet somehow looking in on it as an outside observer—which, she had to admit, was often how she saw herself in relation to life—observing the young woman with the scarlet lips and shoulder-length pageboy bob who was coming along the road. How rude it must appear, having one stare at her in such a fashion—Miss Seeton found herself staring again, and with a frown forced her glance away—and yet, how . . . discourteous, perhaps, was the word, of the young woman to stare so very sternly back at her, without a word. Miss Seeton dropped her gaze, and hurried into the post office, out of which Betsy Manuden, in her old-fashioned costume of seamed stockings, fitted waist, flared skirt and squared shoulders, had just come.

  And as soon as she entered the post office, everybody stopped talking and stared at her.

  Miss Seeton had no idea whether or not she had been the subject of their conversation. She smiled a general smile, and asked where the end of the queue might be.

  “We’re in no hurry,” said Mrs. Spice, after a pause in which she, too, stared hard at Miss Seeton. She spoke for them all. “Just having what you might call a friendly chat. You go right ahead.”

  Everybody else murmured their agreement, and Miss Seeton nodded her thanks before approaching Mr. Stillman to ask for the gingerbread and biscuits she required, and to learn, to her disappointment, that he did not stock indian ink. Miss Seeton, he suggested, would do better to try in Brettenden: lucky for her, if she was in a hurry for the stuff, the bus would be leaving in about twenty minutes.

  Miss Seeton thanked him, collected her packages, smiled round at the kindly neighbours who had allowed her to jump the queue, and departed.

  Leaving everyone inside to start gossiping about her—if indeed it was her, opinion was sharply divided—to their hearts’ content.

  “Spellbrook’s rang while you were out,” Martha informed Miss Seeton upon her return, with a sniff. As Miss Seeton handed over her confectionery booty, Mrs. Bloomer took it, but did not carry it through to the kitchen nor make any remark about healthy appetites. Something had annoyed her.

  Not that it would be wise to comment on it directly, as Miss Seeton knew very well. With dear Martha, normally the most sunny-tempered of people unless she was in one of her Grand Slams around cupboards and shelves, it was far better to let her calm down by herself, because then one would be told what the matter had been without any embarrassing or impertinent questions.

  “Martha dear,” said Miss Seeton, “something has annoyed you, I can tell. What is the matter?”

  “Oh, they say the van’s out of order and won’t be over this area again for a while. All that long time without a hoover, and the charcoal being trod deeper in the carpet every time you look at it. A crying shame, I call it, your lovely Wilton, and never mind saying you won’t walk round the back of the sofa for another week, because I know you.”

  “Oh, dear me. Yes.” Miss Seeton had to agree that once or twice since the demise of the vacuum cleaner she had, but only when essential, walked around the back of the sofa and perilously near the charcoal smudge.

  Miss Seeton brightened. “Mr. Stillman had no indian ink, which might well be called providential. If I make haste it will be leaving in about ten minutes—the bus, I mean. For Brettenden. And while I was there I could enquire about a suitable delivery service—perhaps a taxi—”

  “Six miles!” protested Martha. “It’ll cost a fortune!”

  Miss Seeton smiled gently. Dear Martha, always so kind and concerned for one’s welfare, but for what else did one have a pension? And the police, so generous with their fees for her IdentiKit services as well as the retainer they paid—and one could always argue that the charcoal had been dropped in the pursuit of one’s professional duties, which would justify the expenditure of clearing up the mess. Not that it was much of a mess, but since Martha was troubled by it, then something must be done.

  “Something must be done,” said Miss Seeton firmly. “I’m sure Mr. Spellbrook will know of somebody who could help, if I explain the circumstances. But if I am to catch the bus, I must hurry . . .”

  It was the familiar red and green of the Crabbe livery which awaited Miss Seeton and the other Plummergen shoppers outside the garage. In some ways, Miss Seeton was relieved not to have to face again the driver who must have been—although far too courteous to say so aloud—irritated at one’s non-arrival on the last Brettenden excursion, even if the circumstances had to some extent been beyond one’s control. Yet it would perhaps have been the opportunity to apologise in person for one’s tardiness, always supposing it had been the same driver again. But here came Jack Crabbe with a broad smile, nodding to all his friends, gloating over his dictionary in one hand, and the keys to the coach in the other.

  “All aboard for Brettenden! Here, let me give you a hand up with that there wheel-basket, Mrs. Blaine.”

  And a hand, literally, was all it took to heave Bunny’s wicker trolley on wheels off the pavement and up into the luggage-well at the front of the coach. Jack was by half a head the tallest of the Crabbes, who were as a family built along lines almost as generous as those of dear Bob Ranger. In such fine weather, Jack wore no jacket; Miss Seeton was quick to admire the shape of his muscles beneath his shirt, and the way he settled himself in the driver’s seat as if he felt completely at home with the vehicle and the job. What a study of contentment he would make, Miss Seeton thought: a pencil in his hand, a dictionary at his side, the coach keys thrust into his shirt pocket to show the dual nature of his character—such a very helpful, kindly young man.

  And Miss Seeton began to wonder whether she might dare to trespass on his good nature by asking him to assist her in the matter of the vacuum cleaner for Martha. Perhaps he would be prepared to come with her to the shop, and carry it back to the coach. Of course, she would offer to pay him for his trouble. But, knowing Jack Crabbe, he would refuse payment, which would be kind of him, but embarrassing. And what a pity to take him away from his crossword puzzles when he had so much missed them while the bus was not running . . .

  Then Miss Seeton recalled that vacuum cleaners, in order to be easy to push across pile carpets, have little wheels underneath. Surely it should be a simple enough matter for her to collect the cleaner from Mr. Spellbrook and at first carry it, then if it grew too heavy push it, through the streets of Brettenden? Brettenden’s pavements are smooth, and level, and its citizens are helpful and friendly . . .

  And Miss Seeton felt sure she had found the solution to her problem. How pleased and surprised dear Martha would be—especially when she learned that it had not cost one penny extra to bring the new vacuum cleaner home today . . .

  chapter

  ~23~

  THE LUGUBRIOUS PUBLICAN had been induced to attend Ashford police station at his earliest convenience to look through a selection of mugshots, which, coupled with the description duly noted by Sergeant Ranger, would at least give the beat bobbies something to go on.

  “But not much,” muttered Brinton as the three detectives headed for his office and a brew of strong, sweet tea with sandwiches. “The Invisible Man, that’s who we’re dealing with, plus two invisible women we’re got no real description for barring their ages, which nowadays you can never be sure of. And there’s always Miss Seeton’s sketch of one of ’em as a pirate chief, just to add to the fun.” He sighed. “If I get time, Oracle, remind me to indent for a bottle of hair dye; I’m going greyer by the minute. Every time anybody so much as mentio
ns Plummergen, my heart misses a beat, and add the words Miss Seeton and it starts doing a war-dance.”

  “I’m still convinced,” said Delphick, “that those three sketches of hers hold the key, and all we need to do is work out how to turn it, then bingo.”

  “All!” snorted Brinton, as his friend brushed sandwich crumbs from the cover of the cardboard file and opened it. He took out Miss Seeton’s offerings and set them out on a clear part of the desk, studying them thoughtfully. “Three people, or six? Two women and one man, twice over, or the same lot using different techniques for the variety, and to keep us guessing—I wonder. We’ve started things moving with the Sherry Gang, but whether or not they’re the same people it wouldn’t do any harm to try homing in on the Turpin crowd. A pincer movement, as you might say. It may interest you to hear my sergeant’s suggestion, Superintendent Brinton—don’t blush, Bob. I thought it was quite bright, myself. No need to be so modest about it.”

  “Modesty be damned,” said Brinton, regarding Bob with a suspicious eye. “Out with it, lad—unless it’s anything to do with Miss Seeton, in which case don’t. My nerves—and my hair, what’s left of it—couldn’t cope.”

  “Well, sir,” Bob began, then looked towards Delphick and said, “I’d rather you explained it, sir. It might not sound quite so—so—well, I’d rather you explained it, sir.”

  “And direct the wrath of Superintendent Brinton against myself instead of you?” Delphick twitched a quizzical eyebrow at the blushing Bob and suppressed a chuckle. “I told you, I thought it was quite a good idea. But we’ll see what Mr. Brinton thinks—especially when he hears how you came to think of it.”

  “Sir!” protested Bob, but Delphick ignored him.

  “If I’m to do your dirty work for you, Sergeant, let me at least have some fun while I’m doing it. The suggestion, Chris, arose from Miss Seeton’s little mishap of climbing on the wrong bus yesterday—” Brinton groaned, and made clutching movements at his hair. Bob winced. Delphick carried on firmly—“and the good sergeant here wondered whether the same basic idea could be used in reverse, as it were. Have the Turpins holding up the wrong bus—a bus crammed to the rafters with plainclothes people, and the driver armed with a radio. He could be broadcasting his route through as he drove, and as soon as he said he’d been held up the patrol cars could join in the action. Roadblocks and so on. How many people could you spare for a stunt like that?”

  “Not enough to fill a coach, that’s for sure. Besides, how many days would we have to keep it up before they had a go at us? Decoys are all very well if you’ve got unlimited time and manpower, but—ah. From the way you’re shaking your head, you’ve got an answer to that objection. Go ahead—no, let me guess. Miss Seeton’s going to wave her magic umbrella in the air and conjure the Turpins to appear out of nowhere. Right?”

  “It pays to advertise,” said Delphick smoothly. “We’ve assumed, haven’t we, from the locations of the various hold-ups, and the almost miraculous way they vanish before we can catch them, that the Turpins must have their base somewhere not too far from here. Definitely local knowledge, and very good knowledge, at that. Every coach they’ve ambushed has been worth the effort. They’ve never gone for the likes of Jack Crabbe’s Plummergen service, for instance.”

  At the mention of Miss Seeton’s village, Brinton almost groaned, but stopped himself just in time as the Oracle went on: “Perhaps we ought to start asking how they can be so sure the coaches and buses they ambush are worth the effort. Each of the tourist parties booked through different travel agents, who used different coach companies, so it can’t be anything as simple as a booking clerk tipping the wink to his mates. But, as my sergeant pointed out to me while you were off arranging the sandwiches—these travel agents are quite likely to work to a similar system, aren’t they? It was the sandwiches, I gather, which inspired his flight of fancy. You see, if the system includes, as we saw this morning, sandwich boards standing free on the pavement for all and sundry to trip over—and to read . . .”

  Delphick waited while his colleague made the connection. It took about five seconds. Brinton stared, first at his friend and then at the blushing Bob. He thumped his fist on the desk. “By heaven, it might work! I could spare a group just for one day. We’ll swear a travel agent to secrecy and ask ’em to invent a tour package the chummies won’t be able to resist, plaster it on a poster where nobody could miss it and date it a few days away, give the Turpins time to come in once a week for their shopping, or whatever. The travel agent can tell anyone who walks in off the street that it’s so popular it’s already fully booked—that way we wouldn’t risk members of the public getting clobbered if the chummies pull the trigger this time. And if they don’t bite after all, what have we lost?” Brinton answered his own question. He grinned at Bob Ranger. “A couple of handfuls of coppers will have lost a morning’s work, but they’ll have had a nice ride round in an air-conditioned coach goggling at the view. Of course, we’ll have to find the hire cost, but I dare say we could wangle something. I’ll ring Harry Furneux over in Hastings and see if I can’t twist his arm to make Sussex go halves. This is just the crazy sort of notion that would appeal to the Fiery Furnace. And, who knows? Maybe it’ll produce results. Nothing else has, after all.”

  “Not yet,” Delphick reminded him, tapping Miss Seeton’s handiwork with a thoughtful finger. “I’m still hoping.”

  “I’d rather trust your young giant here,” Brinton said. “At least it’s something practical, and I can understand it. Those scribbles of hers are your pigeon, Oracle. I should have known better than to try and make head or tail of ’em.” He reached for his desk calendar. “Whit Monday’s no good, we’d have to pay ’em overtime, but round about then would be time enough to get things organised. I’ll have a word with Omney, Crabbe, someone like that, about hiring a bus. Mind you, I won’t tell ’em why, in case word leaks out. I’ll say it’s for training coppers out of feeling travel sick. D’you want to come along for the ride, by any chance?”

  Delphick noticed the eager look on Bob’s face, and was considering the superintendent’s offer when Brinton added: “On second thoughts, not Crabbe. With him being based in Plummergen, I don’t think I could cope with the Seeton connection, and you needn’t try telling me she wouldn’t get involved in it somehow, because my bones tell me she would. Brolly and all. She can’t even do the round trip from Brettenden to Plummergen without being hijacked. That woman is a walking threat to civilisation. I feel sorry for Crabbe if she’s on his bus service into town today. She may start out intending to do some shopping, but you can bet there’ll be trouble somewhere along the line . . .”

  The late May sun scorched the Brettenden streets. Awnings were pulled down over shop windows to keep as much of the fading glare as possible away from their contents; some of the glass was lined with cellophane, yellow and wrinkled like a jaundiced old woman.

  In the street—better not to try in the shops any more, too many people to notice now the word’d had time to get around—was the woman, not old, not jaundiced, with her weather eye open for a likely prospect. Looking for someone frail, elderly, in need of help. In a wheelchair, perhaps? Maybe not—it had been a close thing before. You never knew what drugs they were taking, or how they’d mix. But find someone who’d be glad of a friendly chat, and grateful for any offer of assistance—someone by themselves, then easy enough to establish in the preliminary sussing whether there’d be the risk of anybody rushing to the rescue back at the house. Where they’d be pleased to offer a drink, on such a hot day, to their kind new acquaintance who’d helped carry that awkward parcel for them . . .

  And along the road, panting a little in the heat, came a prospect who looked weary of carrying the parcel that seemed not so much awkward as heavy. Even before she came level with the watching woman, she had adjusted her ungainly grip on the parcel twice; and now looked ready to do so again.

  If she’d been with anybody, they’d never have left her to struggle
about by herself carrying such a weight, and her no bigger than a child. An easy choice, this time . . .

  And the woman switched on her anxious, neighbourly smile, stepped forward, and said:

  “Oh, dear, you do look as if you’re having trouble with your shopping. Would you like me to lend you a hand?”

  Betsy Manuden was nagging at her husband. “She stared right at me, Den, and then she smiled. Almost like she was gloating. She recognised it was me from the holdup, never mind we was wearing masks and the motorbike gear, unisex or not. I’m smaller’n you, and it was me as went round collecting all the stuff from the punters. I got much closer to any of ’em than you ever did. And she knows all about art, teaches it or something. She’s got an eye, Dennis, and she clocked me, all right. I’m sure she did.”

  “But you said,” her husband objected, after a pause, “you said as how she just nodded at you and carried on into the post office.” He scratched his head. “I don’t understand—why didn’t she raise the alarm then and there, if you’re so sure she knows?”

  “Probably wanted to enjoy herself gloating a bit longer, the old witch. That’s what some of the kids in this village say she is, didn’t you know that? Witches like to have power over people.” Betsy shuddered. “Blackmail, that’ll be her style, mark my words.”

  This was an idea Dennis Manuden understood well. “Then you reckon we should pull out, do you? Before she gets the chance to say anything?”

  “We can’t do that! Not without asking Mum. You know how mad she gets if anyone upsets her plans.”