Miss Seeton Quilts the Village

by Hamilton Crane

  Foxon did not wait to be told. He seized his extension. He watched his superior’s face. Brinton had gone from red, to white, and back to red. Foxon wondered when his boss had last had his blood pressure tested. Better not ask.

  “Thank you, Sir George. Yes, disturbing. But you can leave it with us now, sir.”

  Their handsets cradled, the two policemen looked at each other. Foxon broke the silence. “You were starting to wonder, sir, when that phone call interrupted you—hardly a coincidence, when you think about it, and maybe a bit of a nudge?” Brinton favoured him with an old-fashioned look. “You wondered, sir—and so do I—about having a word or two with the Oracle. After all, he is our acknowledged Plummergen expert...”

  In an office on the umpteenth floor of New Scotland Yard, the telephone rang. Delphick picked it up. “Yes?...Hello, Chris...Yes, a while...Plummergen? Spies?” He looked at Bob Ranger, who was all ears. Anne and Ranger Minor were in Plummergen. Delphick put a finger to his lips and indicated that Bob should listen unobtrusively on his extension.

  The handsets back in their cradles, the two Scotland Yarders looked at each other.

  “A strange coincidence, Bob, even if at present I don’t see how Nazi sympathisers in the last war, right-wing to a man—and woman—can relate to the treachery we currently suspect in the matter of the People’s Republic of Stentoria. But it does give me to think.”

  “Me too, sir. Is that why you didn’t want Mr. Brinton to know I was listening?”

  “The death of Gabriel Crassweller is under wraps for as long as we can manage to keep it so, yes. The intelligence leak has to be found, and possibly exploited, in some manner neither you nor I will ever properly understand—at least, I hope we never do—beyond knowing that the whole convoluted affair demands the utmost secrecy, and that people in authority keep breathing down our necks. I heartily wish we were rid of it all.”

  “Me too, sir. Tons of bumf and eyes on stalks and beggary zero to show for it.”

  “Yet we should always remember that just as ‘no’ is as much of an answer to prayer as ‘yes’—prayer asks a question, and both negative and positive as answers have equal weight—then so must a negative be as valid a response to investigation as a positive.” Delphick fell silent, contemplating his telephone.

  “How is Anne?”

  Bob looked at him. “Fine, she says, and her parents haven’t told me otherwise. I phone every night. She says she can always catch up on sleep during the day if it’s a bit late when I call.”

  “Your son continues to flourish?” The chief superintendent returned Bob’s look. “One likes to show an interest in the lives of one’s subordinates.”

  Bob Ranger’s face became one enormous grin. “Shall I ask them to book you a room at the George and Dragon, sir?”

  If Delphick’s expression was austere, his voice held a smile. “As you recall, the question of god-fatherhood was raised not long after all the—entirely understandable—excitement had, happily, died down. But before committing myself to accepting the compliment, I might be well advised to study at closer quarters than hitherto the responsibility which I would be assuming for a fair number of years.”

  “The George it is, then. When, sir? And for how long?” Delphick favoured him with a look as old-fashioned as any of Brinton’s. “She isn’t going anywhere, as far as I know.”

  “So I would expect, in her still-delicate condition.”

  “She went to see Anne the other day.” Sometimes all you could do with the Oracle’s sense of humour was ignore it. “Lovely weather for a bike ride, apparently.”

  The Oracle surrendered. “Even if she did have a near-miss with a car.”

  “Shall I hunt out some photos from the files for her to sketch?” Bob’s eyes were alight with amusement.

  Superintendent Brinton would have said it was small wonder Bob Ranger and young Tim Foxon got on so well.

  Delphick told Bob to leave the motorway at Maidstone and take the cross-country route through Headcorn and Brettenden rather than continuing via Ashford, in case their arrival should be reported to Superintendent Brinton. “It’s hardly a border incursion,” said the Oracle, “but I’d prefer as few people as possible to know about us for as long as possible.”

  “Which won’t be long, sir, once we reach Plummergen. The tom-toms will have been beating ever since we booked you into the George.”

  “Is a man not permitted to visit his godson?” demanded the chief superintendent.

  “That won’t fool anyone, the minute they spot you going to see Miss Seeton.”

  “Is a man not permitted to visit a colleague?” demanded the chief superintendent. “A colleague, moreover, who could be said to have been absent without leave for rather longer than the authorities would like, and who should therefore be taken to account for this lapse of professional etiquette.”

  Bob grinned. “That won’t fool ’em either, sir. You know it won’t.”

  “Then I rely on you, as a proud and doting father, to explain our appearance in these parts to the best of your ability. Fathers tell their children fairy stories every night. The experience will help you start as you mean to go on.”

  Bob was serious. “Anne will guess there’s something up, sir.”

  “Anne is a nurse, her father is a doctor, and her mother is likewise accustomed to keeping her professional counsel. Try your best to let nothing slip regarding Crassweller, but don’t agonise too much over it if you do. Oh, and stop the car.”

  “But we’re almost there, sir.”

  “Yes, and you are even closer to your destination than I am. Swap seats, Bob, and I’ll drop you off at the nursing home and proceed to the George by myself.” Delphick smiled. “Or do you doubt my driving ability?”

  “Perish the thought, sir—and thanks.” The exchange was duly effected, and Delphick smoothly set the car in motion.

  Having left his passenger he drove the anonymous car warily past the narrow entrance that led to Mrs. Venning’s house. No careless Costaguanans emerged to collide with him, and he reached the George unscathed. He grinned as he saw the large chalked A-board messages, one on each side of the entrance to the hotel’s modest car park.

  When is a Steak Dinner never too Deer?

  Venison our Menu!

  With a price-list for different size or cut, two veg. of choice, and chips or mash.

  Before taking his overnight bag from the boot he walked past the A-boards to check that Charley Mountfitchet had copied these dreadful puns the other way round for the benefit of those approaching from the other direction. He had, of course.

  Hadn’t there been something said about a historic painting the other way round? Bob said Anne had mentioned it—that Miss Seeton was there when it was found, that the village had talked of raising the devil and the closeness of Halloween, which was the usual nonsense because it was weeks until the end of October.

  “Mr. Delphick!” The landlord of the George and Dragon bustled out, seeing his chance to help the police with their enquiries. In another life Charley Mountfitchet would have liked to be a private eye, with trench-coat, fedora and, if based in California, dark glasses too. He drew the line at chain-smoking, however, and knew enough about drink to give that aspect of the hardboiled life a miss as well. “Grand to have you back, Mr. Delphick! Young Bob says you’re here to see your godson?” He spoke loudly, for the benefit of listening ears.

  Delphick thanked him and agreed that he was, adding quietly that it was a kind thought, but probably a wasted effort. Charley grinned. “Fancy a drink, Mr. Delphick?”

  “A little early in the day for me, thanks.”

  They were at reception. Charley, having opened the flap, was busy on the other side at the register. “I suppose a cup o’ tea would be more in your line right now, sir?”

  “It might,” agreed Delphick, filling in the final details. “But I’ll unpack first.”

  “Take your bag up for you?”

  “Pump all you like, you’
ll get nothing from me.” Delphick winked at the landlord and picked up his bag. Charley, resigned to disappointment, handed him his key.

  After unpacking, Delphick picked up the photographs removed by Bob from the Crassweller file—they were in a brown envelope stiffened with card. It seemed sufficiently anonymous. Delphick brought it with him as he came back down the stairs.

  In anticipation of the chief superintendent’s visit—Bob had telephoned his adopted aunt the previous evening—a special fruit cake had been requested from dear Martha, who really preferred to let the flavours mature before cutting, but on this occasion was willing to make an exception for an old friend.

  “So you must have at least one slice, or her feelings will be hurt.” Miss Seeton lifted the teapot lid to stir.

  “I’d hate to do that. I might even manage two, although Bob is really the man for cake.”

  “And gingerbread,” smiled Miss Seeton, pouring. “Dear Bob...”

  They chatted generally for a while, and then he explained the reason for his visit. Miss Seeton, remembering the retainer fee, did her best to understand.

  “In matters of—of national security, which I fear does feel—forgive me, Chief Superintendent—a somewhat sensational term to one who leads such a very quiet life as you know I do...” Had she been rude? The police were, after all, there to uphold the law and thus keep everyone in the country safe. Which must therefore be a matter of national security. Yet it seemed more like a film, or a television play, than anything that could reasonably be applied to herself, who had nothing to do with the sensational. Her only involvement with the police, after all, was being paid by Scotland Yard for drawing whatever they might ask her, whenever they asked. “Naturally I will do my best, but I’m not sure how good a likeness can be drawn of someone I have never seen except in a photograph.”

  “I won’t say too much.” Delphick sipped his tea and ate a cucumber sandwich. “All I want is one of your IdentiKit sketches.” The term Miss Seeton herself applied to those lightning flashes of insight came easily, after so long. “Your first impression of the man—and if I tell you about him it could distort that impression, so I won’t. Instead, I’ll ask if you enjoyed yourself in the north.”

  Miss Seeton, reassured, resumed her general chatting. Delphick showed particular interest in the yellow-crowned night heron, about which he, like so many, had read in the newspapers. The television coverage had been willing, but hardly effective.

  “Because birds,” pointed out Miss Seeton, “fly.”

  “I suppose you made a sketch or two,” suggested her visitor. Miss Seeton went to the bureau and retrieved one of the blocks she had filled partly on holiday, and completely on her return. She flipped through pages. “May I take a look?” Delphick held out a hand.

  “Rather dumpier than I would have expected,” he observed at last. “Herons in this country have a more streamlined feel about them.”

  “That would be the heavier body, and the thicker neck. Had it been a black-crowned night heron, rather than yellow, it would have had shorter legs, which would have made it seem even more dumpy. But the black and white stripes on the head are eye-catching, are they not? Such a striking contrast against the grey.”

  Delphick agreed that they were, and went on leafing through the sketchbook. “Hello—so you attended a performance of Macbeth.”

  “Oh, no,” said Miss Seeton. “Rather too violent for so young a child as little Marguerite, even if the story is part of her Scottish heritage.”

  “Oh?” Delphick took a closer look at her sketch of the three weird sisters on the stairs.

  Miss Seeton saw what had caught his attention. She turned pink. “Oh dear, so foolish...the house—Nigel’s, and dear Louise. Martha has told me of the family who once lived there, and Lady Colveden was so amusing about dear Sir George, and why he always encouraged her to call on the sisters rather than go himself. I suppose it must have confused me—the Fates, you see, with the builders taking so much longer than expected, as, sadly, does so often happen, and now not before Christmas as they had hoped. Fated, as one might say—and of course, three sisters.”

  “But not Chekhov?” The Oracle smiled as he continued to leaf through the sketchbook. “I see no cherry-trees or seagulls, Miss Seeton—but this, now, is an intriguing piece.”

  A dark-haired man in uniform, complete with jackboots, was emerging from a large car. Three blurred figures hovered in the background. A bicycle lay on its side in the road.

  “So careless,” said Miss Seeton, “but really so fortunate, after what happened to poor Bert, that the matter was not more serious. One of the gentlemen very kindly replaced my chain and I was able to ride home, and of course it will have served as yet another reminder that they are in England, rather than Spain.”

  Delphick shot her a quick look. “You thought they were Spanish?”

  “They were driving on the wrong side of the road, and they didn’t sound French. My languages are not good, and they may have been Italian, and everyone drives that way on the continent, don’t they?”

  “They do...You saw all of them?”

  Miss Seeton frowned. “Now you come to mention it, I didn’t. Only the driver, and the man beside him, who mended my chain. The others in the back opened their doors, but once they saw I was unhurt they closed them. One can understand they would not wish to get in the way. The passenger complained, I believe, about the grease, and was rather...emphatic when cleaning his hands afterwards, but he did a splendid job and people don’t care for others looking over their shoulders when they are engaged on a complicated task, do they?”

  “No, as a rule they don’t.” Delphick said no more about the sketch, but his thoughts were busy. He brushed cake crumbs from his fingers and finished his tea. “Business after pleasure,” he told his hostess with a smile. “Now, ungracious though it sounds, I must make you sing for my supper.”

  Miss Seeton smiled back as he reached for the brown envelope. “What do you make of this chap, Miss Seeton? Take a good look while I clear the tea things for you.”

  There was time for him to rinse everything thoroughly and set it on the draining board before he heard her stirring. He hurried back from the kitchen. “Well?”

  “I—I’m not sure,” said Miss Seeton. “A most interesting face—the bones, in particular—but there is somehow a strong impression of—of concealment...” Did she mean the homosexuality, until so recently a crime, or the life he had been leading as a spy? She was staring unhappily at the result of her labours. “Only I fear my sketch has become confused somehow with Summerset Cottage, and I don’t really see how it can be of any help.”

  Gabriel Crassweller had been a tall, elegant man with aristocratic features and an air of distinction many genuine aristocrats would envy. His nose was chiselled, his lips refined, his eyes dark, and shadowed. How, then, had Miss Seeton contrived to show him as plump—if not fat—with slits for eyes, a mean mouth, and a double chin? And yet it was unmistakeably Gabriel Crassweller at the same time as...

  “Bluff King Hal?” said Chief Superintendent Delphick.

  Chapter Eleven

  MISS SEETON HESITATED, then explained that the original portrait was a remarkable piece of work. Dr. Braxted of Brettenden Museum planned a thorough investigation of the whole house, which would delay the builders still further...

  “Easter, rather than Christmas?” Delphick shook his head. “Poor young Colvedens. Still, I can’t see Sir George chucking any spanners in the historical works—he’ll know his duty to posterity. It sounds fascinating. Would Dr. Braxted give me a guided tour, if I asked you to introduce us?”

  He saw her hands move swiftly and then settle, with a visible effort, to rest. Firmly, she twisted her fingers together. Delphick recognised the signs.

  “Did you sketch it—him?” he asked gently.

  She glanced at the bureau, and murmured that she had tried, although it had not turned out as she expected.

  Delphick’s interest qui
ckened. Such unexpected drawing—Miss Seeton’s special drawing—was the reason for her generous police retainer. Her intuitive skill might embarrass her, but this almost psychic ability to see beyond apparent reality to the deeper truth was often of the greatest assistance in a confused investigation. He opened the drawer where her sketching gear was kept, and pulled out a block at random. “This one? May I look?”

  Mutely, she nodded.

  “Yes, I see.” Here was the devil, raging omnipotent in a vicious electrical storm above, presumably, the house in which the German wireless had been found. Yet again, she had seen the truth before anyone else could have done so...

  “No.” Miss Seeton flushed. “Not that one—the generator blew up, you see.”

  He carried on searching through painstaking depictions of scenery, birds, animals... “Ah.” Here were her scribbled notes—colours, tints, shades in pencilled black and grey, lines indicating the appropriate planes and sections of Henry’s fat white face. He looked more closely. No, he saw nothing that could have upset her the way it clearly had.

  “You—you’ll have to look at it upside down,” she brought out at last.

  Upside down? Costaguana was situated well south of the equator. Had she somehow confused two dictators, Hitler and El Dancairo? Might she be thinking of the rumours that periodically erupted of Hitler’s escape from his bunker to the Latin American jungle where, even now, he was planning a comeback?

  “Dear me. Upside down. Must I stand on my head? Not many people have such skill as yours, Miss Seeton.”

  Of course, he knew about her yoga. Now she was no longer being asked to accompany him to Summerset Cottage, she began to relax. “Dr. Braxted can lend you a mirror. In my case I could bend over backwards, but it was easier for her with the one from her bag, even though of course it is not just upside down but the other way round, too. And while students might not mind, I imagine that you, Chief Superintendent, would. Even if they have cleaned the floor, which with plaster isn’t really possible without a vacuum cleaner—and, naturally, the electricity is off. Your jacket appears to be of high-quality cloth, and even were you to remove it your shirt and trousers would still be in some danger.”