Miss Seeton Quilts the Village

by Hamilton Crane

  A sister who now joined in, with an observation so pertinent that honour all round was satisfied, and the shoppers could return to their shopping.

  “When it’s Miss Seeton,” said young Mrs. Newport, “you never can tell what might happen next!”

  Chapter Two

  SOME WEEKS EARLIER, in an office on the umpteenth floor of New Scotland Yard, five men met in conference. One, the youngest and much the largest, made shorthand notes in silence, contributing nothing unless directly addressed. Detective Sergeant Bob Ranger knew his place. He knew too that most persons of his humble rank would never have been permitted to hear, let alone record, details of the matter under discussion. He recognised that he owed such privilege to the insistence of Detective Chief Superintendent Delphick, whose sidekick he had been for some years; but as he concentrated on his pencilled loops, hooks and curlicues he wondered if this time the chief superintendent, the Yard’s legendary Oracle, might have been dragged—and might have dragged him—into something a bit too rich for their liking.

  “...the People’s Republic of Stentoria,” groaned Morley Fenn, Deputy Assistant Commissioner, Special Branch. “These Iron Curtain countries stick together. What one knows the rest know, very often before the people who’ve had the information stolen, leaked, whatever you call it, know themselves.”

  “I would remind everyone of the need for extreme caution,” said Duncan Oblon, voice of the Foreign Office. “We have no desire to become embroiled, even remotely, in any situation that might hold the slightest risk of a diplomatic incident. Stentoria is one of Soviet Russia’s most loyal satellites.”

  “I’ve been there,” said a man introduced as “a colleague from the Ministry” and given no name. “Once—and that was quite enough for me. Just as grey and grim and blank-faced as any Marxist could want. You could use the place as a pattern and stamp them out in dozens. You can be sure Moscow has been licking its lips over what’s been leaked ever since the leak began.”

  There was a pause.

  “Is it still going on?” enquired Delphick.

  Fenn groaned again. “We don’t know and we can’t tell. Stentoria is not about to trumpet what they’ve got at full volume, are they? Even to rub our noses in it. If Gabriel Crassweller hadn’t written himself off by driving into that tree we might not have found out for—well, far too long for our liking.”

  There was another pause.

  “High-ranking British officials,” went on Fenn, “do not customarily have dealings with the National Bank of Stentoria. Finding that photocopied counterfoil in his wallet was...”

  “A very nasty shock,” supplied Oblon. “A deposit of so large an amount suggests several unpleasant possibilities.”

  There was yet another pause while these things were considered.

  “If we upset Stentoria,” said Oblon, “we could be looking at very serious long-term—at the worst, maybe even short-term—consequences, harmful consequences, in our relations with the whole communist bloc. And these are delicate enough at the best of times.”

  “Which is why investigation of the most discreet nature is required,” emphasised the nameless third man Delphick privately dubbed Greene, or perhaps Welles—maybe even Lime. The Oracle couldn’t decide, but he recognised the type. Greene (or Welles, or Lime) shot a pointed glance at the chief superintendent, and a sideways frown at the pot-hooking Sergeant Ranger. He knew the two made a good team, but in theory this sort of talk should have been kept from the young giant’s ears. His youth was the problem. Discretion must be assimilated slowly, thoroughly absorbed until it became second nature. Few were born with it. Those who were had usually been talent-spotted by the relevant authorities almost in the cradle. Ranger, he knew, had not. Why, should the current situation escalate, somebody somewhere might press the ultimate button. If the detective sergeant—a mere sergeant—let anything slip...

  “I agree,” said Fenn. “We must keep the lid well down on this. But we can’t investigate the leak, or leaks, ourselves. We cannot let Stentoria know we know they know—and if we started poking about they would soon find out.” He sighed. “Besides, they probably already know more about the Special Branch and, ah, so forth than we do ourselves. Files on each of us and photos by the dozen, I dare say.”

  “I take it,” said Delphick drily, “that the same will apply in reverse.”

  Greene (or Welles) frowned. “That is hardly part of your remit, Chief Superintendent.”

  “Merely an observation, sir.” The Oracle’s tone remained dry. “But—this may sound immodest, I know—but what leads you gentlemen to suppose that they don’t already know who I am?”

  “They’re bound to,” agreed Fenn. He brightened. “Nobody could have missed the publicity over your most recent case.”

  Oblon nodded. “Yes, indeed. It was most fortunate for our purposes that the newspaper photographs were of such poor quality your own mother wouldn’t have recognised you—”

  “My wife certainly didn’t.”

  “—and none of the television news programmes broadcast a good likeness of you.”

  Yet another pause.

  “I’ve been set up,” said Delphick at last. “You want me because I am currently viewed by the world as one who not only understands the tortuous machinations of the brewing industry, but who at the same time has an instinct for the more dubious forms of road traffic accident. And you have deliberately withheld, or distorted, any accurate public likeness of myself so that I will not be recognised as I begin to investigate...whatever it is for which I have been selected.”

  Fenn looked smug, Greene frowned, and Oblon gave a discreet but sympathetic nod.

  “Friends in Fleet Street,” said Delphick heavily. He harboured brief, resentful thoughts against Amelita Forby, crime correspondent of the Daily Negative, and her sparring partner, colleague and cohabitee, Thrudd Banner, of World Wide Press. They’d all known each other for years. One of them could have tipped him the wink. Neither had.

  Then he softened. Someone, a high-up someone, must have waved the Official Secrets Act under editorial noses. He contemplated Mr. Greene. Mel and Thrudd wouldn’t normally be deterred from following a good story. Whatever it was he was about to become involved in must be a good deal more serious than he supposed. Because his last case, newly concluded, had been a big one...

  It hadn’t even started as a case for the Yard. Bungall & Tappitt owned a small West Country brewery not noted for the fine quality of its beer—but it was hardly a crime to sell cloudy beer. If Devonshire drinkers disliked the stuff they could drink something else, as most of them did. The apple orchards and cider-presses of the district flourished, while Bungall & Tappitt survived through the undiscriminating taste of unwary tourists, and a sufficient number of impoverished locals who could afford nothing better.

  Then someone died. Over-pickled liver and a deep roadside ditch on a dark and stormy night were at first blamed, but an enthusiastic young police surgeon performed a text-book investigation, made copious notes, and took samples that he tested in his newly appointed laboratory. He stayed late at work, pored over his Petri dishes, and cultured sinister gelatinous messes at various temperatures to show how the rate of cell duplication might be affected. He drew lines on charts; consulted calendars. He advised the authorities that the premises of Bungall & Tappitt should be subject to the most thorough investigation for certain bacterial and microbial irregularities that could be a hazard to public health.

  The affair snowballed. The enthusiastic young police surgeon reported that someone had tampered with the steering of his car. His house was burgled. HM Customs and Excise promptly commandeered his files, notes, and cultures, but couldn’t understand them and took the young doctor into protective custody to explain them at his leisure. This was the best thing they could have done, for there soon came rumours of similar escapades in other parts of the country. Scotland Yard was called in when what had originally seemed another case of faulty steering, in an elderly car belongin
g to an elderly police surgeon, turned out to have been unquestionable, deliberate tampering...

  “He Saved British Beer.” The chief superintendent quoted just one of the headlines that had upset him, and couldn’t bring himself even to think of the others. “No need to note that down, Sergeant Ranger,” he added as Bob in his scribbling corner smothered a cough. “And my name blazoned in the press as an expert in the controlled hygiene of fermentation. With a wintry look he turned to the Foreign Office representative. “No doubt you were even then...preparing for eventualities?”

  Oblon looked at Fenn. Both looked at Greene. The latter frowned.

  “We knew it would need a biggish sort of gun,” said Fenn quickly. “Everyone else of suitable rank or experience was tied up with investigations that wouldn’t be easy to interrupt or delay or hand over to anyone else. Your own investigation was drawing to a close—a gratifyingly successful close—” Delphick failed to look gratified “—and so your name was put forward and approved, after checks at the highest level.”

  “Your name,” interposed Greene. He directed one of his frowns towards Detective Sergeant Ranger, who was underlining the highest level and missed this one as well.

  “Sergeant Ranger is a trustworthy colleague of many years’ standing,” said Delphick. “He is as trustworthy as myself. Trust me, and you trust him. We work together, or I don’t work at all—on this particular case, that is to say.”

  Fenn looked at Oblon, then at Greene. “I told you so,” he said.

  Greene sighed. “Very well. In the unexpectedly prolonged absence of the Assistant Commissioner, Crime, we cannot insist. We must rely on you. Both of you.”

  “As I’m sure Sir Hubert would have told you, had he been in the country, you may safely do so,” said Delphick. “Rely on our discretion, that is. As to whether you can rely on us to achieve results, it would be of the greatest possible assistance if we had at least some small idea of what you three gentlemen want us to do.”

  Oblon looked at Fenn. Both looked at Greene. “Isn’t that obvious?” he snapped.

  In his corner, the busy pot-hooker coughed as he studied his notes.

  “Sergeant Ranger and I,” said Delphick, a warning note in his voice, “are equally perplexed. It is not obvious. Perhaps, Mr. Greene—” the man blinked, but said nothing “—you would care to make it obvious. We can understand words of more than one syllable. Can we not, Sergeant Ranger?”

  “Er—yes, sir.”

  “We want you to find out,” said Greene. “Everything. Why Gabriel Crassweller killed himself, who his contacts were—theirs and ours, if any—we want you to go backwards and forwards. Turn the man inside out. What made him turn traitor? We’d have said he was as patriotic and loyal as anyone in this room. It can’t have been blackmail. Homosexuality has been legal between consenting adults for years now. Check his bank account—bank accounts, even.”

  “You’ll get nothing from the Swiss, though,” warned Oblon, who had more than once tried to penetrate the financial fastnesses of Zurich and Geneva.

  Greene was silent. Fenn took over. “Look for connections that don’t seem to add up. Just...find out. Is his death the end of the leaks—or are secrets still slipping through the system?”

  “In the manner of a delayed-action bomb,” Delphick suggested.

  Greene frowned, Oblon sighed, Fenn shuddered. “That’s what we need to know,” he said. “Did the man set up a whole series of security booby-traps? Or might it on the other hand be safe for us to try turning the leaks to our advantage, rather than trying to plug them, once we’ve found out what and where they are.”

  “Misinformation,” said Delphick. “You flatter me, gentlemen. I am a humble detective, not a whitewash expert or a double-thinker.”

  “There’s nobody else,” said Fenn, “as we explained—and we don’t want to wait until Sir Hubert is safely home to pull rank on you. We need to know yesterday.”

  “If not sooner,” said Greene, but Delphick had pounced on one careless word.

  “Safely?” He directed his attention to the Foreign Office man. “Where is he? I had thought...Is there any serious threat to the assistant commissioner? Surely he has diplomatic immunity, even in a country currently—and so unexpectedly—embroiled in revolution.”

  “He went there for a holiday,” replied Oblon, “not an official visit. He will naturally have paid a courtesy call on the—ah—then ruler of the country, accompanied by his wife to emphasise the purely private nature of their presence in Costaguana. It seems that Lady Everleigh collects Georgian silver coffee-pots and had a fancy to see the mines from which the—ah—basics were obtained. As there is restricted access to these areas, permission for foreigners to visit would have had to be granted at the highest level.”

  “Which, when Sir Hubert and her ladyship first arrived in Costaguana, would have been El Dancairo, without doubt,” said Fenn. “Nobody bargained for a military coup.” He shot an accusing glance at the Foreign Office representative. “Nobody even suspected!”

  “These Latin American countries...” Oblon waved a weary hand. “Sooner or later one can expect their dictators to be overthrown, sometimes on so regular a basis you feel the presidential palace should be fitted with revolving doors. Highly excitable—and the climate can’t help. Naturally, we’re doing our best to get the Everleighs out, but their permits were issued by the previous regime, most of whom fled the country as the army approached the presidential compound. Negotiations are at a delicate stage and I can say nothing more at present.”

  “Then,” said Delphick, “I will ask you, all of you, nothing more at present. Sergeant Ranger and I will begin our investigation into Crassweller’s death just as soon as we have studied the relevant files.”

  After Fenn, Oblon and the anonymous ministry’s Mr. Greene had taken their leave, the chief superintendent sat back in his chair, and sighed deeply.

  “I am not pleased, Bob,’ he told Sergeant Ranger. ‘I am a policeman, not a paper-pusher—or rather, I push no more paper than seems necessary. An over-egged pudding makes a sickly sweet.”

  “I feel a bit sick too, sir. To hear those three talk you’d think that if we got things wrong, which we easily might, the Third World War could break out.”

  Delphick smiled bleakly. “Then let us address ourselves to the files, which I have no doubt are even now on their way to us, with great energy. How about tea and buns while we wait? We need to keep up our strength.”

  In Plummergen, after his day’s teaching, headmaster Martin C. Jessyp locked himself away and set about enlarging and printing the final batch of photographs from Nigel Colveden’s wedding. This took care, and much time. Mr. Jessyp, a perfectionist, knew that black-and-white photos showed every detail, every flaw, more than colour ever could. Had Sir George Colveden (his son being absent on honeymoon) not been so busy, Mr. Jessyp might have allowed the bridegroom’s father to help him in the darkroom. Sir George from time to time was a keen amateur photographer, and Mr. Jessyp was not selfish. He was, however, a sensible man, and knew he must not disturb a short-handed farmer.

  He was also sensible enough to accept that, skilled though he might be in the taking and developing of black-and-white stills, colour photos and cine films were another matter. A Brettenden chemist had been entrusted with his other precious mementos of the handsome Nigel’s wedding to the delightful brunette Louise, formerly Mademoiselle de Balivernes, daughter of an old wartime comrade of Sir George.

  With the new school term upon him, Mr. Jessyp had been slow to develop and print his films. The first few days were always interrupted by parents complaining to him about matters over which he had little control. If a child squinted at the blackboard, was it his job to take said child to the optician? All he could do was sit the child at the front and issue stern reminders of the need to pay attention. He listened to the parents grumble about the expense of public transport and the government’s duty to pay, when it was all for the good of the kiddies. The headm
aster did not feel the complaints should be left to his second-in-command, Miss Maynard, and indeed she would rarely have heard them because everyone knew it was his job, and Alice Maynard just a girl, still a bit flighty and what did she know anyway, teaching the Tiddlers as she did, not the Bigguns where it mattered a lot more.

  The colour photos and cine film were ready within a few days. A showing of the film at the village hall for all who had not travelled to Scotland for the wedding was arranged. There had been debate as to whether an entrance fee should be charged, proceeds to the church roof fund. The general feeling was that they’d already clubbed together for Mr. Jessyp and his cameras to attend the ceremony, and they didn’t think it fair they should be asked to pay any more. A compromise was reached whereby a modest collection box stood by the door of the hall for voluntary offerings. Most of those who sniffed and handkerchiefed their way from the film show—a lovely girl, such a beautiful dress, Nigel so good-looking, eyes only for each other, written in the stars—slipped a surreptitious coin or two into the box, although when the money was counted very few bank-notes were discovered.

  Plummergen also felt strongly that the wedding presents should go on public display. They’d bought some of them, hadn’t they? Or at least most of ’em contributed a few bob, and they wanted to know everyone’d had their money’s worth. By rights it did ought to be in the home of the bridegroom, the bride being from across the Channel, even if her poor dead mother’s family was Scotch...

  “No,” said Major-General Sir George Colveden, Baronet, KCB, DSO, JP.

  “But George,” protested Lady Colveden, “it’s understandable they’re interested.”

  “No,” reiterated her spouse. “Just an excuse to snoop. You’d find heaven-knows-who popping out of cupboards and coming down the stairs trying to make believe they’d lost their way while they’d been digging through the wardrobes and opening drawers and probably checking in the bathroom, too.”