“Wouldn’t have killed Bert if they’d been walking,” agreed Miss Nuttel.
“But they didn’t,” said several people in regretful chorus.
The Nuts exchanged disappointed looks, and for once could find nothing to say.
“He grumbled a bit and got back on his rounds,” said young Mrs. Newport.
“And they said sorry again and drove on down towards the bridge,” said young Mrs. Scillicough. “Didn’t you see them go past?”
The Nuts, their gaze and hearing fine-tuned for the ambulance, admitted they had not.
“Going to Romney, most like,” suggested Mrs. Skinner, whereupon Mrs. Henderson, the church flower rota ever in mind, said it was more probable they’d have turned off for Rye.
“So there’s nobody dead,” concluded Mrs. Spice with relish. She and Mrs. Flax had been keen but unusually silent auditors of the past few minutes’ chatter.
“Not even Mrs. Venning,” said Mrs. Flax. “Otherways, her house would be up for sale, which as all here must know, it ain’t.”
“Which is why she’s rented it to rich foreigners instead,” said Mrs. Skinner.
“On account of authors not making enough money for nursing homes,” chimed in Mrs. Newport. “When they’re not writing any more, that is.”
Miss Nuttel felt that the honour of Lilikot, the plate-glass observatory she shared with Mrs. Blaine, was at stake. “Manville Henty still sells,” she pointed out.
“And he’s been dead for years,” said Mrs. Blaine.
This was true. Manville Henty, a son of the village who early in his career adopted a convenient pseudonym, made his name in the days of Victoria as a writer of robust adventures that appealed to grown men and schoolboys alike. They sold as well as any popular author of the time, illustrated with vigour and lavishly bound in gold-lettered cloth. Fine first editions by this author were rare, his books having been read and re-read until most fell apart. Collectors from time to time arrived in Plummergen on hopeful coach tours, asking Mrs. Duncan at Quill Cottage if by any chance she had any of his books, refusing to believe that her complete set was in paperback, and departing reluctantly after dropping hints and taking photographs.
“Night-Runners of the Marsh,” said Mrs. Newport, twirling Mr. Stillman’s circular stand until she found the appropriate volume. The paperback bore a large sticker declaring it to be “By A Local Author”. The shelf on which his other titles stood had a notice, even larger.
“Ah,” said Miss Nuttel, who hadn’t read Henty’s first bestseller.
“Oh,” cried Mrs. Blaine, who in the throes of what she said was influenza—even if the heartless Dr. Knight told her she had caught the cold that was going around—had.
“Smugglers.” It was all Miss Nuttel could remember of what Bunny had told her.
“Like Dr. Syn,” said Mrs. Spice. “I always reckon that writer must of took his ideas from Manville Henty.” This was unfair to Russell Thorndike, creator of the smuggling pirate priest, but as Mr. Thorndike had died two or three years before, this aspect of her comment was allowed to pass.
“Who said writing folk need to get any ideas from aught but real life?” demanded Mrs. Flax. “Smuggling on the Marsh there’s always been, ah, and who’s to say not with us still? And more.” She looked round as people shuffled their feet and lowered their gaze. Even Mrs. Scillicough seemed uneasy. “Ah,” said Mrs. Flax again. “True life there always is—and truth beyond imagining. Whitgift blood runs in my veins, and the gift of seeing what no normal mortal can see—as writing folk have allus told, knowing Marsh folk breed true through the generations.” Everyone tried to recall what was known of the wise woman’s genealogy, which was uncomfortably nebulous. Mrs. Flax looked gratified by the general shudder, but judged it advisable to press the point no further, in case awkward questions should be asked about Rudyard Kipling.
“As for smugglers,” she went on, “known to all, at times—and known to be true. Who could make up such a tale, or have need, as of that bold lad who fought with the excise men bearing four tubs of gin on his back, and then carried his injured friend all the way to safety? These writers, they take what they find and twist it to their advantage. Who’s to know just how much truth there may be in the stories people tell?”
And answer came there none.
On the door of an office on the umpteenth floor of New Scotland Yard someone tapped, but did not wait for an invitation. The door opened and a head looked in, followed by the rest of a stately individual who nodded amiably to Delphick and his sergeant.
“Good God!” The Oracle pushed back his chair, and rose. The equally startled Bob followed suit.
“A trinity, certainly,” replied the Assistant Commissioner, Crime. He waved his two subordinates back to their seats and carefully closed the door.
“We thought you were still in Costaguana, sir,” explained Delphick as Sir Hubert Everleigh—behind his back, Sir Heavily—settled himself in the visitor’s chair.
“Only just got back.” Sir Hubert essayed a smile. His face was lined and pale. “All four of us—my wife, and the trinity to which you have already referred: I, myself, and me.” He coughed. “As the three of us, I’m here in no official capacity, you understand. In fact, I’m not here at all, but having now been debriefed at the Foreign Office I didn’t want to go straight home until...”
Such hesitation was unusual, for the assistant commissioner. “You’ll have read the papers, no doubt,” he said at last. “There were even a few hardy television reporters around the place...”
“News coverage was very limited for the first few days, sir. We were all very concerned for your safety,” Delphick said. “A most unsettling time for everyone. We had almost no idea of what was actually happening.”
“Censorship by the military junta,” said Sir Hubert. “Only to be expected, of course. The first thing you do in a coup is publicise the justice of your cause as widely as possible, while you stabilise your hold on the country and tell the world you’re now the ones in charge. And why.”
“We certainly received apparently verbatim reports of harangues regarding unbridled corruption and economic mismanagement having led to unprecedented levels of poverty,” Delphick told him.
“And about some chap throwing huge envelopes full of cash and banknotes over some convent wall,” added Bob as Sir Hubert glanced at him in silent but clear encouragement to make his own contribution.
The assistant commissioner’s smile returned. “Has anything been said yet about the hippos? I thought not. When the presidential palace was stormed, the walls were breached in several places and many of El Dancairo’s private zoo animals escaped. Most of them have been rounded up, but it is feared that a dozen or more hippopotami managed to reach the river. Ah—hippos of both sexes, you understand.”
“Dear me.” Delphick was tempted to launch into a chorus of “Mud, Mud, Glorious Mud”, but though this was a surprisingly friendly chat with one of exalted rank he decided against it. From Bob’s desk came a sudden muted guffaw that showed he, too, had felt the same temptation.
“Flanders and Swann,” said Sir Hubert with—great heavens—a definite twinkle, “would have felt very much at home in Costaguana during the past few days. The hippos, you see, have no natural predators in the country, and the climate is favourable. In a few years’ time there will probably be a score or more of them paddling about the place.”
“Dear me,” said Delphick again.
After another pause, Sir Hubert shook his head. “All I did was play a round of golf with El Dancairo. I felt it was the least I could do, in the circumstances—my wife having been granted the almost unique concession to tour a silver mine, and with a small ingot thrown in—which, by the way, we have declared to Customs—and, I might add, had we realised in time how appalling general conditions were in Costaguana we would never have gone there at all, but hindsight is a curse, and it was too late. And as for the wretched man’s stomach, there was nothing whatever I could do
about that.”
“His...stomach,” echoed the Oracle, not daring to meet the eyes of his sergeant. Bob was turning scarlet.
“He complained that its increasing bulk interfered with his swing,” said the exasperated assistant commissioner. “In a country where half the population, we discovered far later than we should have done, lives at starvation level. Small wonder that Captain Morales saw this remark as the straw that broke the camel’s back.”
Bob could be heard choking. Delphick knew that one or other of them was bound to suggest that Sir Heavily had meant to say “hippo” instead. He sent up a silent prayer.
Whoever heard it paid attention. “Captain—a lowly rank to take the lead in so drastic an undertaking,” Sir Hubert hurried on. “And yet there is no doubting the man’s efficiency, drive, and general popularity. He treated both my wife and myself with all due consideration, but...” He sighed.
“There was an ugly mood about the place,” he went on at last. “Captain Morales set guards over us, but they struck me as all too closely resembling the desperadoes who had been so eager to dispose of us for having consorted with the dictator. And yet we were only trying to be polite, as Her Majesty’s Government would expect.”
“Did you feel you were in real danger at any time?” Delphick asked, the gravity of the question suppressing much of the urge to laugh. The look on Sir Hubert’s face suppressed it completely.
“Yes,” said Sir Hubert. “For the first few days we did, especially after we learned that the president had bolted. We were very uncertain how things might end.” He sat forward. “And this is why I wanted to talk to you, Delphick—to both of you. I want to know that you two at least won’t assume the stress of recent events has sent me off my head...”
“Oh, you don’t seem at all barmy to me, sir.”
Bob goggled. Slang, to a superior officer? Reassuring slang, he realised, as Sir Hubert smiled. “Not even,” the assistant commissioner said gently, “when I tell you that it was only when my wife was given El Dancairo’s personal umbrella—an extravagant, bejewelled thing with a solid silver handle—against the rain as we were being transferred from one holding-place to another, that I...felt confident of our ultimate survival?”
There was a prolonged pause. Across the inward eye of all three men drifted an image of the umbrella-carrying little art consultant who, Miss Seeton to her friends and the Battling Brolly to the press, produced those remarkable drawings that had solved so many a baffling case. “He said she could keep it,” Sir Hubert said. “Not that we brought it away with us, of course, but it somehow—comforted...I was fearful we might be being escorted from the palace to a prison cell, or even to stand before a firing squad, but...Captain Morales could have had no idea...”
“But the very thought of an umbrella acted upon you as any good omen must do,” said the Oracle. “You’re not barmy, sir. And here you are safe, as living proof.”
Sir Hubert sighed with relief. “There was nobody else I could tell. You two have known Miss Seeton for years. I hoped you would believe me.”
“We did, and do,” Delphick assured him. “Whether Miss Seeton herself would approve of such—forgive me, sir—superstition I rather doubt, but I know she would be glad to have been of assistance, even in absentia.”
Bob was still struggling with himself, and could only nod when Sir Hubert looked at him. Aunt Em and her umbrella—by association, any umbrella—a good luck charm? Would Sir Heavily, like so many of her admirers, add to her collection and commission a new brolly for Christmas? With a silver handle, to complement the Oracle’s black silk, gold model from her first case all those years ago?
“...happy to confirm him as leader of the military junta,” Sir Hubert was telling Delphick when Bob finally collected his wits. “Nor did he immediately promote himself to general, as so many might have done, which only reinforces my opinion that the captain has more than his share of common sense.”
“Who knows,” said Delphick, “he may have started a fashion. Perhaps in a few years there will come a naval overthrow of some island power led by an able-seaman, or a flight lieutenant from a landlocked country will become its supreme leader.”
“An unlikely prospect,” said Sir Hubert, “although stranger things do happen.” He again looked towards Bob. “Do tell me, Sergeant—how is the little woman keeping?”
Bob went purple. “Doing well, sir, thank you, and the baby too, after the initial fuss and bother. They’re with her parents just now, me being so busy on this Crassweller business and—oh. Sorry, sir.” Sir Hubert had for a moment looked startled. “Sorry, sir, misunderstanding. You meant Miss Seeton, of course.”
“I did, but I gather than congratulations are in order and I gladly offer them. Are you the proud father of a boy or a girl?”
“Boy, sir, ten pounds—that was the problem, Anne being so small—but no name as yet. We thought we’d decided in good time, but now he’s safely here he—well, he doesn’t seem to look like any of the names on our list.”
“Miss Seeton,” interposed Delphick, “is on holiday up north, sir. I have suggested that the sergeant postpone all thought of registering the birth until her return. His adopted aunt’s uncanny knack for seeing to the heart of things may well come in useful.”
“Except,” said Bob, “we have no idea where she is—or when she’s coming back.”
Chapter Five
MISS SEETON, BACK in her own dear village, visiting the familiar shops, had been surprised on the post office threshold by the warmth of Lady Colveden’s welcome. One might almost say her relief. How absurd. What could there be to trouble her? The wedding had been delightful. It did not rain. The bride was beautiful, the groom handsome. Miss Seeton sighed happily as she put away the block of annotated pencil sketches she would, in due course, turn into coloured pictures. Maybe an extra present, to hang in the newlyweds’ new home? Something in pastel, blurring the soft tones of heather and moor and the castle in the background to contrast with the brilliant white of the bride’s tartan-trimmed dress, the grey of Nigel’s morning suit...
“Poor Sir George,” she said next day, taking tea at Rytham Hall while everyone except her ladyship was off about his or her affairs. “He looked so woebegone in his top hat.”
“But simply bursting with pride,” said Lady Colveden. “And once he’d managed to mislay the wretched thing—I suspect Jean-Louis of a helping hand in that—there was no stopping him, was there?”
They reminisced and revelled for a while, but Miss Seeton could tell that something was on the mind of her old friend. One knew, of course, that the courteous guest does not pry.
“Tell me, my dear,” said the experienced teacher. “What is troubling you?”
Lady Colveden laughed. “Oh dear, I was trying not to be too obvious. I thought we could at least have our gossip out in full before I explained.”
Miss Seeton waited politely. Lady Colveden sighed.
“I’m afraid I may have accidentally committed you to a lot of work, Miss Seeton. You see...” She explained about the exhibition of wedding presents, and how it had somehow led to a Plummergen Bayeux Tapestry proposal to commemorate one hundred years since Manville Henty’s first book was published, as well as the rest of the village history.
Miss Seeton was interested in this proposal, and said so.
“Ye-es,” her ladyship said doubtfully. “But there’s a good deal more history than I’d bargained for, as well as stories that ought to be history—to be true—but probably aren’t. And of course everyone has their favourite.”
“Like the Loch Ness Monster,” said Miss Seeton, recent tourist in the Scottish Highlands. “One’s rational side accepts that the existence of so strange a creature is unlikely—yet the romance of the legend cannot help but appeal.”
“You’ve hit the nail exactly on the head. But that’s how the trouble started, and you know Plummergen...” Lady Colveden saw her friend’s puzzled expression. Of course she knew dear Plummergen! Had sh
e not lived here since she retired? Lady Colveden stifled a sigh. It was clear that the numerous feuds that seethed around the village much of the time went unrecognised by her elderly friend. If (mused Lady Colveden) that was the state of mind to which yoga could bring you—Miss Seeton seldom spoke of it, but her private regime was known to her close acquaintance—then perhaps she, and Miss Treeves, and Miss Armitage should take it up at once.
“There was,” temporised her ladyship, “a lot of discussion about it all. Rather too—too intense, sometimes. The legends lot insist it’s all true about the smuggler with the four kegs of gin carrying his friend at the same time, and the historical people say if it hasn’t been recorded somewhere, preferably with witnesses—like those three men who had rather too merry a Christmas and cracked the church bells—it doesn’t count.” She smiled. “And there are others who say the only history is what you can actually see...”
The art consultant, retained by Scotland Yard for the unique insight her swift sketches can often provide into even the most complex cases, nodded and blushed. Miss Seeton has always been a little embarrassed by those intuitive “flashes” for which she is paid, in her modest opinion, rather more than she deserves. When still teaching, she had always tried to persuade her pupils to draw only what was in front of them. Once they had mastered such truth they were then free to experiment beyond, into the realms of imagination and creativity. For herself, she found such exploration—especially when it came as if by chance from her unconscious mind—distracting. If not unnerving.
“And of course what they can see best,” said Lady Colveden, “is their houses, so we’re definitely going to have a map of The Street—it lends itself so well to going along a wall, doesn’t it?—and everyone who wants to depict her house can easily put it in the right place. Louise knows two different ways to appliqué, and she’ll help me do the Hall.”
Miss Seeton Quilts the Village Page 5
