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

by Hamilton Crane

  Dennis Manuden nodded. “And her plans’ve been working a treat, so far. Pity to spoil everything.” He brightened. “And you might be wrong, at that. She could’ve been smiling about what a nice day it was, or something.”

  “She knows, Den.” Betsy was positive. “And I reckon as Mum oughter know, too. She’ll tell us what to do.”

  “I suppose you’re right, she’s gotter be told, but she’s not due to phone for a couple of days when she’s sussed out another good prospect.” Dennis frowned as he thought, for it was not something he often did. His wife and mother-in-law handled that side of his life for him: it was rare for Betsy to be the one asking advice. “We did really,” he said at last, “oughter drive into Brettenden and talk to her—”

  “She said not to! You know she said we wasn’t to get in touch in case people saw us together, not unless . . .” Betsy hesitated. “Well, I reckon this oughter be enough of an emergency even for Mum and her wanting us to stay away. But she always does the shopping in the afternoons when we’re not, well, busy, so’s she can suss out the likelies and save time. We didn’t oughter hang about outside waiting for her to come home, and if we go looking for her and they see us together in Brettenden . . .”

  Her pause was meaningful, and Dennis took her meaning. He nodded. “Bad news. We’ll just have to hope Miss Seeton don’t tell nobody before your mum’s decided what to do.”

  “Yes, but I been thinking. We gotter decide quicker’n that! She might be on the blower to the fuzz this very minute, and us not able to let Mum know about it.”

  “You said—” and Dennis shook his head—“you said she’d gone into Brettenden on the bus. How could she be on the phone to the cops?”

  “Oh, don’t be so daft!” Betsy did not often snap at her husband, but today her nerves were frazzled. “All right, so she’s not on the phone, but she could be walking into the cop-shop this very minute, couldn’t she? I tell you, Den, we’re not safe while Miss Seeton’s on the loose!”

  “Well, I suppose not,” said Dennis, after another pause. He looked hopefully at her. “What shall we do?”

  “Shut her mouth,” said Betsy firmly. Dennis gasped, but had no time to say anything before she went on: “We know when the bus is due back, so all you’ve got to do is break into her cottage, easy enough now her burglar alarm’s busted, and then wait for her and bash her on the head—”

  “I’m bashing nobody’s head,” exclaimed Dennis in horror. “I’ve never killed nobody yet, and I ain’t starting now.”

  He was seldom stubborn, but Betsy knew that on occasions when his eye gleamed in that particular way she would not be able to change his mind. And, on second thoughts, maybe he was right. Better not to have murder on the charge sheet if it came to an arrest. But something had to be done to keep the old bag quiet . . .

  “We’ll kidnap her,” she decided. “Half of ’em think that’s what’s happened to her anyway, you should heard ’em when I was in the post office, made me quite surprised to see her trotting along so calm like she did—until she started that staring at me. Bet she gave ’em all a shock when she hopped up them steps and through the door!” Even at such a tense moment, she could not suppress a giggle. She sobered quickly, though. “You can still break into the cottage and wait for her to get back from Brettenden, then you hit her on the head—just enough to keep her quiet,” she said, as he started to protest again. “Shove her out of the way somewhere until it’s dark, then we’ll bring her here and stick her in that bunker. Instead of fairies at the bottom of the garden,” she said with a grin, “we’ll have a witch!” But she could not help looking over her shoulder at the last words, and a little shiver crept up her spine.

  This wouldn’t do, letting Den see she was worried, when he was relying on her and so was Mum, though she didn’t know it yet, being out of touch as she’d chosen to be when they first set up this scam. But now Betsy had the chance to show how she could cope, she wasn’t going to pass it up.

  “The vicar wants a prize for when the bunker’s opened,” she said, grinning again. “Well, he’ll have one—he’ll have Miss Seeton! We won’t starve her or nothing, we’ll just keep her nice and quiet in there till Mum says we’re ready to leave, then we’ll give the keys to the vicar, and Lady Colveden will draw the winning ticket—and Miss Seeton will be there when they open up the door, and we’ll be miles away by then!”

  Dennis was glad to see her looking so pleased, but only managed a weak smile himself. He did not relish the thought of hitting an old lady on the head and kidnapping her, not that he believed this village rubbish about witches exactly, but you could never be sure . . .

  Betsy looked at her watch. “Bus’ll be back in half an hour or so. Martha Bloomer only does mornings, so there’ll be nobody in the cottage. You can just break in round the back. Climb over that low wall at the canal end—she’ll have locked the side gate—and you just wait for her to come inside. Then a little tap on the head, and tie her up, and everything’ll be fine, Den, won’t it?”

  And she gave him an encouraging hug before pushing him out of the door.

  chapter

  ~24~

  MISS SEETON, HER umbrella over her arm, paused at the front gate of Sweetbriars and smiled at her friendly escort with the awkward parcel.

  “So very kind of you, and such a great help. In this hot weather, too. I had no idea that something which seemed so comparatively small would be so difficult to bring from one place to another. But the sunshine is of course most welcome. If it had been as large as a washing machine, or a refrigerator, it would not have surprised me so much.” Miss Seeton smiled. “No wonder Mrs. Spellbrook had such a twinkle in her eye when I told her I proposed to wheel it through the streets of Brettenden to the bus!”

  “You’d have worn the rubber off before you’d been going five minutes, if you ask me. Lucky I spotted you. Easily pulled a muscle or something trying to carry it like that.”

  “I expect you’re right to scold me. Mrs. Spellbrook did, as well, and made me promise to look for a taxi, after I refused her kind offer to telephone for me. I thought she had enough to worry about, poor thing, her husband’s van in that dreadful accident and, even though he wasn’t badly hurt, such a great strain for her. Besides, I was sure I could find the taxi rank, you see, and then, once I had considered the problem, it hardly seemed much farther from there to the bus station.”

  “You’re probably right, but I still say it was lucky you met me. Nice new hoover like that, you wouldn’t want it all messed up before you’d used it, would you?”

  Miss Seeton smiled a guilty little smile. “Dear me, no. How upset poor Martha would have been! But now, with your kind assistance, how delighted she will be, I feel sure. It is exactly the model she asked me to buy, and what a lovely surprise for her when she next comes. Such a shame she will have already gone.” Miss Seeton smiled more brightly at her escort. “She was baking a fruit cake when I left, and her cakes are delicious. Would you care to come in for a cup of tea, and a slice or two of Martha’s best?” She twinkled again. “Had I made it myself, I would not have issued so confident an invitation. It would be ungrateful of me to return thanks for all your kindness by offering you a taste of my efforts at home baking! But Martha’s cakes, you know, always turn out well.”

  “I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble, Miss Seeton, but I have to admit I’m tempted, thanks very much . . .”

  “Good,” said Miss Seeton, and smiled once more. “That’s settled, then.” And, tucking her umbrella beneath her arm, she held open the gate for her hoover-burdened companion to pass through; turned to close the gate; and, fumbling in her handbag for her keys, led the way up the garden path.

  On Superintendent Brinton’s desk, the telephone rang. With all the sandwiches eaten and the mugs drained of their tea, he and his Scotland Yard colleagues had been brooding on the two cases which Miss Seeton, by her sketches, had predicted would become somehow linked—or perhaps were linked already. Brinton
maintained stoutly that either way his digestion, as well as his hair, would suffer.

  “There’s no peace for the wicked,” he grumbled, reaching for the receiver. “Brinton here . . . Who?”

  The earpiece of the receiver quacked again. Brinton’s eyebrows shot up, and he said, “Have you, indeed? Are you sure? . . . I see, yes. So what did you do then? . . . Oh, did you? Carefully, I hope—we wouldn’t want him to spot—oh, you did, did you. Good . . . Good . . . Just a minute . . .” And he jotted down on his blotter what looked to Delphick, trying to read it upside down, like a car registration number. “And can you give me a description of the vehicle?” Brinton asked, darting a quick look at his colleagues. “A what?” And as he jabbed his pencil down to write, the point broke off. Clearly, this was momentous news he was hearing; and before he had time to snatch another pencil from the tray in front of him, both Delphick and Bob had reached into their pockets and whipped out their own ballpoint pens. Without a word of thanks, the superintendent took one, and asked the telephone to repeat its information, please.

  “A black. Ford. van,” enunciated Brinton, writing these words in very large letters, while Delphick and Ranger gave muted cries of excitement, hastily suppressed. “Heading where, did you say? . . . And you’re sure he didn’t spot you keeping an eye on him? . . . That’s a fine piece of work on your part, sir, and we’re most grateful. Thank you very much indeed.”

  When he’d rung off, he turned to the Scotland Yarders. “That,” he exulted, “was our friend Jolly Roger, the gloomiest barman in town. He’s seen the man who bought the sherry—he’s sure it was him—and followed him back to the car park. Where he got into a vehicle I gather you’ve both recognised, judging from the racket the pair of you kicked up—a small black Ford. A small black Ford van . . .”

  “And drove off in it, from what you said,” Delphick told his colleague, who was looking almost cheerful. “Did Roger say where?”

  “Heading south out of the town centre on the Lydd road—that’s all he can tell us. He was on foot, saw this chap in the high street, and decided to do his civic duty by finding out what he was up to. Detective stories, he likes reading, he said,” said Brinton. “Ringing from a call-box—didn’t waste time going back to the pub. We could do with a few more like him, if you ask me. He may be a Friday-faced beggar, but his head’s screwed on the right way.”

  “And, talking of ways, now you know where he was heading, you can put out an alert for the van, can’t you?” Delphick said, even as Brinton was reaching for the telephone again. “Sorry to try to teach you your business, Chris, but . . .”

  “But you’re thinking the same as me,” the superintendent finished for him as he dialled another number. “There’s an odds-on chance—yes, Brinton here. I want an alert put out to all cars, to keep an eye open for a suspect vehicle . . .” He gave full particulars, then hung up, breathed deeply, and continued talking to Delphick almost as if there had been no interruption. “A chance, and a good one, that there’ll be another Sherry incident today. And this time we want to catch the blighters in the act—oh.” A wary look crept into his eyes. Delphick leaned forward.

  “What’s wrong? Nothing serious, I hope, now we seem to have made a breakthrough at long last.”

  “Depends what you mean by something wrong,” Brinton said in a doom-laden tone. “I should have thought—no, I should have known, when Roger said he was headed south out of town on the Lydd road—because that road,” and he sighed, “goes slap bang through the middle of Plummergen . . .”

  “Where Miss Seeton lives,” concluded Delphick, and tried not to look pleased. Chris Brinton might be driven crazy by the Seeton connection, but even he must surely admit that, once the connection was made, things certainly did seem to happen a lot faster than otherwise. And, with luck, if Miss Seeton waved her brolly at the small black Ford van as it drove past her door, perhaps it wouldn’t be too long before the Sherry Case, at least, was cracked.

  Miss Seeton was still puzzled that Martha, who was normally so very careful, seemed to have left the back door open when she left. Not that one was worried about burglars, or being molested in the safety of one’s own home, for Plummergen was the most delightful village where, fortunately, nothing ever happened of a disagreeable nature. The papers—Miss Seeton shook a sorrowing head as she briefly considered the tabloid press—were always given to exaggeration on such matters, almost making it seem that it was unsafe to open the door to a stranger or to invite anyone into one’s house. Which was, of course, quite untrue.

  But the open door—well, never mind, for on such a hot day there was no risk, surely, of rain. “The fresh air, so very welcome,” murmured Miss Seeton, savouring the draught from the sunny out-of-doors as she cleared away the tea things into the kitchen. Above the clatter and chink of china, she heard the chickens in their hen-house at the bottom of her garden squawking: they would be enjoying the sun, of course. In broad daylight, it would be foolish for anyone to attempt to, well, steal, one had to use the only honest word, eggs by climbing over the low wall which bounded the canal. The wall which sometimes, Miss Seeton knew, proved too much of a temptation to Plummergen youth—so mischievous, daring one another to clamber over and, and take what was not rightly theirs to take . . .

  Yet not all young people were so lawless and wild in spirit. Young Jack Crabbe, for instance: how kind, and how very helpful he had been, insisting upon carrying the vacuum cleaner through the Brettenden streets for her—teasing her by saying he guessed she’d try to prove her strength and he had followed her just to keep an eye on her—even driving the coach past his grandfather’s garage and right up to her gate so that he could spare her the brief journey down The Street, and only coming in for a cup of tea once he’d gone back to the garage with the bus and returned with a set of screwdrivers and an assortment of fuses. How pleased Martha would be to know that Stan would not have to come and fit the electric plug—to know that she could begin to use the vacuum cleaner as soon as she next came into the house.

  Her washing-up done, Miss Seeton, leaving the kitchen door ajar—the sunshine, so glorious—moved back into the hall, and stood looking thoughtfully at the vacuum cleaner leaning against the hall table. “There’s a bag fitted too, I checked, so you’re all ready to roll,” Jack Crabbe had said before taking his leave of her. All ready to roll—it sounded so easy. And wasn’t that what Mr. Spellbrook had told her, when she first chose the cleaner in his Brettenden shop? “I wonder,” murmured Miss Seeton. “The very latest model, and so much easier to use, he assured me.”

  While she nerved herself to plug it in and switch it on, she did not notice how the cackling of the hens had stopped. Either the sun had gone behind a cloud—or whatever had disturbed them had moved away . . .

  “Perhaps just a little push up and down the hall,” Miss Seeton told herself, “but no farther, or when Martha arrives it will not feel so much like a brand new machine. Not,” she said firmly, “that I suspect Mr. Spellbrook of having sold me damaged goods, of course, but it might perhaps do no great harm to check—to try, for a very short while,” and, with a little gasp at her own daring, she bent down, plugged it in, and pressed the “On” switch.

  Above the throbbing level roar of the vacuum cleaner as she began to push it warily backwards and forwards along the carpet, Miss Seeton failed to hear the creak of the kitchen door as somebody pushed it shut after having crept in from the garden . . .

  Dennis Manuden hovered in the hall entrance, wondering how exactly to put Miss Seeton out of action. She wouldn’t keep still for a moment, that was the trouble, pushing the hoover forwards, backwards, forwards, backwards, and yet so awkwardly that there wasn’t any rhythm to it and he couldn’t tell when she’d next come into range. Twice he’d tried, but she’d lurched sort of sideways and headed in a different direction, though always more or less on the same piece of carpet. Betsy never made such hard work of hoovering, he was sure of that, but Miss Seeton seemed to be having quite a time o
f it, with the flex getting in her way and the hall never seeming quite large enough for her to manoeuvre in.

  “Oh, bother.” Miss Seeton and the cleaner had collided with the table, bumping it sideways, knocking her umbrella out of its clip. She pressed the switch to “Off,” stepped over the trailing snake of flex, and bent to pick up the fallen brolly from the floor.

  And Dennis Manuden, who saw his chance, knew he had to seize it. With one of her own pillowcases, purloined from upstairs during his earlier prowling of her cottage which the arrival of Jack Crabbe’s bus had disturbed, he crept up on the bending form of Miss Seeton, popped the pillowcase over her head, and knocked her off-balance so that he could tie her up with a length of stout rope he had found in her garden shed.

  Superintendent Brinton had organised a wide-ranging watch for the black Ford van, and, though Delphick longed to make for the direction of Plummergen on the off-chance of encountering the suspect, suggested they’d be better off sitting quietly in almost the only police car—an unmarked one—which wasn’t out on patrol, waiting for a definite lead.

  “We’ve got one,” protested the chief superintendent, but without much hope. He and Brinton were sharing this case now, but the territory was Brinton’s, not Scotland Yard’s. Just as—he smiled—Miss Seeton, whose sketch had provided the original lead to Jolly Roger at the off-licence, was the territory of Scotland Yard, not of the Ashford police. For which, he knew, his old friend Chris was heartily thankful.

  “You have to admit she’s done us proud,” he murmured, as he contemplated, yet again, the three drawings. “The pirate business has made sense, as I always said it would.”

  “I hate people who say they told me so,” Brinton growled in a halfhearted way, adding in more challenging tones, “I suppose you can’t explain why she keeps dragging World War Two into it all, can you? Then we’d most likely have both cases sewn up at the same time.”