“Miss Brownlow says she’s good, sir, but maybe she’s exaggerating.”
“When she knows we can ask elsewhere? I doubt it. She probably takes down the six o’clock news verbatim from the radio every night, to keep in practice.” He smiled at Bob’s evident chagrin. “So now who envies whom, Sergeant Ranger?”
“Let’s talk to Ambrose Denarcott,” suggested Bob, sheepishly grinning. “He might know if she does.”
“Why, yes, Chief Superintendent.” Ambrose seemed surprised that Delphick had even bothered to ask. “I believe it is part of standard secretarial training for the FO.”
“Along with flower arranging,” murmured the Oracle.
“Naturally. Ambassadorial servants are as likely as anyone else to fall ill.” Mr. Denarcott was amused, but courteous. At his grave inclination of the head Bob Ranger was put in mind of a plump, bobbing wood pigeon—not that you got many of those in London, more the rats-with-wings type, but in the open countryside wood pigeons could be a pest. Now the soft greyish pink of Denarcott’s double-breasted waistcoat was a definite reminder, along with the starched white collar…
“A good secretary,” enlarged Ambrose, “must be able to take most reasonable eventualities in her stride. Mine, for instance, faltered on only one occasion of which I have personal knowledge.”
The pigeon bobbed and bowed again, inviting the inevitable question and sharing the joke that he knew what he was doing, and so did Delphick.
“The one occasion being...?”
“It was a few years ago. We—I—had to travel abroad. There was a revolution. The populace was unusually restive, with the result that the entire British Consulate had to be evacuated to the embassy of…a certain foreign power that does not use the same alphabet as we do. And the telephone switchboard was of the manual type...”
“Dear me,” was Delphick’s only observation.
“I suspect even Miss Brownlow might have found herself at a loss,” Ambrose said, with a wry smile.
Delphick smiled back, sharing the joke. “And will Miss Brownlow be coming now to work for you, sir?” It was almost an afterthought.
Ambrose Denarcott continued to smile, perhaps a little more broadly. “That remains to be seen, Chief Superintendent.”
“Another smooth one,” said Bob after he was gone. “I reckon it’s him, sir—doesn’t look ruthless enough to be a killer, so it’s another double bluff.”
“Another?” Delphick was amused. “So far, you have given me plausible reasons to suspect Miss Brownlow of removing Gabriel Crassweller from her path for thwarted ambition—Mr. Gilmore, the socialist sympathiser playing a classic bluff—Mr. Marrable, smooth and envious of a man with a superlative secretary—and now Mr. Denarcott, for similar reasons.”
Bob grinned. “I didn’t like his waistcoat, sir, not so much the colour as the mother-of-pearl buttons. A bit too much of a good thing. And didn’t he remind you of a wood pigeon? All that nodding and bobbing.” He stretched cramped fingers. “They do a grand pigeon pie at the George and Dragon, did you know? If you’re not too worried about lead shot, that is.”
“I shudder to think what dread wordplay Charley Mountfitchet might concoct for pigeon pie,” said his superior. “Now Nigel Colveden is back in the neighbourhood, I suspect the worst. And, talking of the worst, who shall we see next?”
They saw, they questioned, they noted; they returned to Scotland Yard, and they analysed. It took them two long, hardworking days of concentrated cross-checking.
“And we might just as well not have bothered,” concluded Bob at the end of a further unproductive morning. He yawned, pushed aside what he devoutly hoped would be the final heap of paperwork, rocked his feet heel-to-toe under the desk, and shook his head to ease the tension in his shoulders. “I know you say a negative’s as good as a positive, sir, but this is a bit much. Whatever it is, we’ve missed it.”
Delphick was silent. Bob pushed back his chair. “Blood sugar boost, sir?”
Delphick finally focused a blank gaze on his sergeant’s face. “By all means walk off some of your fidgets by taking the scenic route to the canteen. I need to think...”
When Bob finally reappeared he found the telephone off its hook, and his superior with Miss Seeton’s Devil Henry VIII sketch on the blotter in front of him. Delphick was turning it from one orientation to the other, and back again.
“She must be right,” he said, without lifting his head. “Which means we must be wrong. Tea? Thank you. The buns seem somewhat the worse for wear, so do keep them for yourself—after which, please rustle up a car while I phone the George and book a room. I really think it’s time for me to pay a proper visit to my prospective godson.”
This time they went straight to the nursing home. Mrs. Knight welcomed them in the hall, and smiled reassuringly at her son-in-law. “Both fine. One is fast asleep and the other looking forward to seeing you—both of you.” Another smile. “You haven’t seen the little monster yet, Mr. Delphick.”
“Regrettably, I’ve missed my previous chances through pressure of work. I won’t stay too long now, but I should indeed like a peep at the newcomer. I need something to cheer me up, and I believe he will. Bob hasn’t stopped grinning since he arrived.”
“Hope he’s not neglecting his work,” came a cheerful boom as Dr. Knight appeared. “He’s paid to be a policeman, not a proud father—even if he has an excellent reason for pride,” added the reason’s proud grandfather. “A splendid, healthy specimen after the initial worries, but now I’d say he’s an example to us all.”
“We’ll have him playing for the police eleven before he knows it,” agreed Delphick.
“Could make him even healthier.” The doctor accompanied the visitors into the private part of the house. “Had a chap here the other day, worried he might be crumbling to pieces through lack of this, that and the other his body wasn’t absorbing properly, or so he said. Been reading too many articles in the popular press, if you ask me. Diet deficiency’s rare in a developed country. Variety, plus a little of what you fancy from time to time, should be good enough for most people.”
“As you no doubt told him.” Delphick could sense an imminent punch line.
“Not exactly. But I asked what he’d done about it before deciding to consult me, and he began spouting a list of God-knows-what mineral supplements—zinc, iron, magnesium.” He snorted. “These health food people must make a fortune out of his sort. I asked if he’d had his blood tested for deficiencies and he hadn’t, the idiot, so I said I’d be more than happy to do it for him, and sell him a bag of garden soil at the same time. There’s boron in soil, I said, not to mention selenium. More for your money. So, if our young Tarzan spends half his leisure time rolling in the mud the way his father does, he’ll get all the minerals he needs without paying a penny.”
Anne was by the window, admiring alternately the garden’s autumn flowers and the contents of a wicker basket that rested on a coffee table beside her. The basket was lined with blue gingham, and could be heard snuffling rhythmically to itself.
“I do hope he won’t grow up to be a pig,” said Anne, her proud smile inviting them all to come and join her gloating. “He not only sounds rather porcine at the moment, he looks a bit that way, too. Mr. Delphick, would you be happy godfathering a pig?”
“Pigs,” he reminded her, “are more equal than others—which does suggest a degree of intelligence, this being infinitely preferable to stupidity.” He reached into the basket, and gently touched a chubby hand. “Perhaps I will take the risk after all. And thank you for the compliment. A hint of red in his hair, I think. The Tamworth is both a handsome breed of pig, and athletic. This should bode well for any footballing aspirations...”
Dr. Knight returned to his patients, and his wife told Anne to sit where she was and, with Bob, talk to their guest while tea and cake were prepared. “Always assuming Mr. Delphick wants any,” she added, vanishing into the kitchen. “I gather Miss Seeton has asked Martha for another
fruit cake.”
“Ah, Miss Seeton.” Delphick winked at Anne. “How is your adopted aunt? No ill effects from our recent flying visit?”
“Not that I’ve heard,” said Anne, “though we’ve been hearing quite a lot about her. I haven’t gone into the village much—Mrs. Venning’s Spaniards have had a couple of close shaves and I’d rather not risk it—but the village seems happy enough to come here.” Again she looked with pride into the snuffling basket. “Even Miss Nuttel and Mrs. Blaine, which was a surprise.”
“Mrs. Blaine gave him an odd sort of fetish thing she’d made,” said Bob. “She said it was a toy elephant, but it has the oddest proportions.”
“Only since we had to wash it,” said Anne, fair-minded. “The wool stretched and the stuffing distorted a little—”
“A lot,” Bob corrected her.
“—and, yes, it does rather remind me of something sinister. But I’m sure it was a kind thought, and we won’t tell her.”
“Does it shriek when you pull its ears?” Delphick enquired. Anne blinked, then giggled. Bob looked puzzled. Delphick smiled.
“The mandrake,” he told his subordinate, “is thought to scream when it is uprooted. Your talk of sinister fetishes somehow reminded me. In the good old days a dog would have string tied to its collar to effect the uprooting, because the mandrake’s curse on those who dug it up was fatal.”
Anne made a face. “Poor dogs. Thank goodness that sort of superstition’s dying out—except, of course, that it isn’t. You know how they are in Plummergen. They’re saying Miss Seeton’s been conjuring evil spirits and raising the devil down by the churchyard.”
“What rubbish,” spluttered Bob. “This is the nineteen-seventies, not the fifteen-seventies.”
“One sees the logic,” said Delphick. “For the story’s genesis, that is. Local imagination will have run wild from the moment the builders told everyone what they saw when that chunk of plaster fell off the wall—and wilder still when Dr. Braxted was so very secretive after being called in to investigate further.”
“And then when she asked Miss Seeton inside to sketch it for her,” said Bob sourly.
Anne sighed. “They’re blaming Dr. Braxted, too, and those nice young things she’s got helping her, only they can’t decide if they’ve been starting a coven—remember all that witchcraft nonsense a few years back?—or raising the devil, because of the painting.”
Bob grimaced. “We’ve both seen it, and I can’t blame Nigel and Louise for not wanting to keep it there when you know what happens if you look at it upside down.”
“Apparently,” said Anne, sensing Delphick’s unspoken interest, “some of the council house kids dared each other to get into the cottage and lie on the floor and look.”
“As children do,” said Delphick.
“Same old story,” said Bob, still simmering at the insult to Miss Seeton. “One minute it’s egging each other on to knock-down-ginger, then they try a spot of shoplifting. Then breaking into houses or bashing old ladies on pension day to fund the drug habit, and they end up peddling drugs themselves if they aren’t already in quod...”
Delphick laughed. “Bob’s been working very hard, Anne. It’s not like him to be so gloomy.”
“No, it’s not.” Anne’s eyes twinkled. “But if he’s had as little sleep as I sometimes get I can find an excuse for him.” She sobered. “They’re saying lights have been seen in the general area of the cottage in the middle of the night, and of course they blame poor Aunt Em. Some of them even say it’s the ghost of Hitler she’s trying to raise—”
“What?” yelped Bob, then clapped a hand over his mouth as the basket gave a violent wriggle. Anne hushed and soothed for a few moments.
“Because of the Saxons, and the Nazi sympathies,” she went on quietly. “Some people say she’s been looking for the uniforms they think were buried in the Kettle Wedge after D-Day to, well, to reinforce her chances of making the spells work.”
Bob rolled his eyes, and was speechless.
Delphick nodded. “To give verisimilitude to an otherwise bald and extremely unconvincing narrative? I can understand that.”
Bob muttered something vicious under his breath.
“It could well be true that something was buried there, though not necessarily uniforms,” Delphick went on. “Is anyone suggesting it might have been anything else?”
“A chest of Nazi gold,” said Anne. “For bribery purposes if the invasion had worked out. But uniforms are much more likely, because how else would you get rid of them?”
“Chuck the metal bits in the canal and burn the rest,” said Bob, who still thought his idea had possibilities. Anne shook her head.
“You’d be at the mercy of the Brattles if you tried that. Lady Colveden told me there’s an enormous range in the kitchen, which is probably the only place big enough to burn so much fabric without spending ages chopping it into pieces small enough for an open fire. If the servants caught you playing about with dampers, and using the poker, and clearing ashes from the grate when you’ve never done such a thing before, they’d be even more sure to smell a rat.”
“Leaving you open to blackmail.” Delphick smiled his most oracular smile. “I believe a similar theory was proposed once before, Bob—but I should say Anne is right. As for you, you’d better learn fast to say that she’s right even if in your heart of hearts you don’t believe a word of it. Believe me, and take the advice of an older man who’s been happily married for years!”
Chapter Fourteen
DELPHICK DROVE AWAY from the nursing home by himself, letting the Ranger family have as much time together as possible; they’d really had very little so far. He would telephone from Sweetbriars in good time for them to say their goodbyes before his return with—he hoped—another drawing from Miss Seeton.
She was as ever delighted to see him, and spoke happily of fruit cake and Martha’s kindness, and gingerbread in case Bob came along later.
Delphick shook his head. “I’ve told him to stay with Anne until we leave. You’ll have to make do with me.”
“Very wise.” Miss Seeton was pleased. “Families ought to be together—except during working hours, of course. And very kind, Chief Superintendent.”
“Practical, certainly. Bob has been working amazingly hard, day after day—and the days have been long—for very little result. He’s nowhere near as cheerful as he might be, and he deserves a spot of relaxation.” He smiled. “And, of course, the resulting benefit to me in efficiency terms will be more than adequate a reward.”
“Oh, but I thought—oh, dear, was my IdentiKit drawing of no use after all? I’m so very sorry. Of course, it explains why you have had to come back again. And such a waste of time...” She glanced towards the bureau. “Lady Colveden said, you see, that the committee needed my sketches for the quilt, and she will be collecting them later, but I’m sure a day would have made little difference, and had I only known my sketch was wrong—yours, I mean, the one you took away—I would naturally have made a further attempt before you left, or if you had telephoned later to ask, I could have put it in the post to save you the journey, when you are so busy.”
“Please don’t concern yourself, Miss Seeton. The sketch was a great help, believe me. Between us we managed to eliminate...certain considerations, and were able to start on an entirely new line of enquiry. Which is why I’d like your entirely new opinion of the case, now that you know how helpful you’ve been.” He smiled kindly at her. “As ever.”
Her anxious look turned to a blush of pleasure. “I do try my best, Chief Superintendent, and will certainly try again.”
“I’d be glad if you would—but there’s no desperate hurry to show you these new photographs. Think of Bob and Anne. We have time, surely, for a cup of tea and a slice of cake? Afterwards, I can satisfy my curiosity and see what you’ve been doing for Lady Colveden. What is it? For the tapestry? Or should I say mural?”
“Or quilt.” She managed a smile. “They all
seem acceptable, in Plummergen terms. People are using so many different stitches and styles, you see, that it is more for convenience, rather than technical accuracy. Which has upset some of the purists among us, or at least confused them. Mural, for instance, means anything that may cover a wall, which of course it will, and in the case of a painting, one can also say fresco. Rather like the...like that found in Nigel’s house—and as, unlike so many others, I am no needlewoman, the correctness of the terminology doesn’t bother me as perhaps they would feel it should.”
“It certainly doesn’t bother me,” he assured her.
She was still thinking. “Embroidery would cover most aspects. The Overlord Embroidery uses appliqué, as I myself am trying to do. But I beg your pardon, Mr. Delphick. Lady Colveden gave me the list of everyone’s ideas for the quilt—the History and Legends wall-hanging, not the map, which is of course straightforward in design—and asked me to sketch them to help in the design and final layout, and where necessary to plan the size of the sashing, and the correct number of cornerstones.”
Looking as baffled as she herself had felt on first hearing these words, he laughed. “I won’t ask for a translation, Miss Seeton, but it seems you’re all making good progress.”
“Let me assure you, Mr. Delphick, that it is no use trying to pump me for information. I am sworn to the utmost secrecy.” Her eyes danced. “As, indeed, is everyone, apart from dear Miss Wicks, who is more than happy to say she is one of those showing Queen Anne arriving in her royal barge to take a glass of water—such beautiful fabric, and such delicate stitches—but everyone was asked at the very start what she—or, indeed, he—might wish to submit, and although, I gather, they all seemed happy enough then, especially the children, to discuss in general terms the finished article there is now a—a decided spirit of competition in the air, especially with the deadline of the Henty anniversary so close.”
“I must admit I’ve never heard of the chap.” The Oracle helped himself to a sandwich. “G. A. Henty, yes. Sir George and the Admiral share a collection of his books, I believe.”
Miss Seeton Quilts the Village Page 17
