Miss Seeton Quilts the Village

by Hamilton Crane

  He caught the Oracle’s wintry eye. “If you’d like to take a seat over there, sir.”

  “A seat where we will wait,” Delphick reminded him.

  Bob sat beside him and watched the desk clerk busy at the telephone. “Pity neither of us can lip-read, sir.”

  To his relief, Delphick smiled. “The ability to read upside down would be another useful skill. Quite as useful as your shorthand. You can practise during the long, sleepless nights of teething. And learn sign language, too,” he added as the clerk replaced the handset on its cradle and gesticulated to a burly man hovering in the near distance. Some quick muttering at the desk, then the burly man straightened and came over to them.

  “I’ll take you up in half an hour,” he said. “Mr. Oblon is in a meeting just now.”

  “We’ll wait,” Delphick said for the third time.

  Bob chuckled. “Like The Hunting of the Snark, sir.”

  “What I tell you three times is true? Quite so. You have hidden depths, Sergeant. I had no idea you knew Lewis Carroll beyond Alice and her friends.”

  “Had to read it to my sister’s kids one Christmas—anything to keep them from under her feet, she said, and out of the kitchen. Before I met Anne, of course. But that bit sort of stuck. You could just as easily argue the Bellman,” a reference to the poem’s protagonist, “was dreaming up any old excuse to make the whole thing plausible to his shipmates, couldn’t you?”

  “In the manner of the lady protesting too much,” said the Oracle. He’d become almost cheerful during these last few minutes, after staying quiet for so long. He’d obviously finished his brooding and was set for action now he’d made up his mind about...whatever he’d finally decided. He hadn’t brought a warrant, so it was most likely they were here for more interviews, or to gather additional facts or figures or—heaven help him—files from Oblon before doing them.

  When they were at last ushered into the small office inhabited by Duncan Oblon the man seemed puzzled, and slightly irritated.

  “I am a busy man, Chief Superintendent.” He indicated a crowded turret of paperwork in-trays on his desk. “And I have cut short my meeting on the assumption that you have—or believe you have—good and sufficient reason to arrive unannounced in this way. I would be grateful if you could tell me, and quickly, what that reason might be.”

  “It would be worth asking Mr. Fenn to join us,” said Delphick. “Also your colleague, Mr. Greene. From...the ministry.”

  “Greene? Ah—yes.”

  Delphick’s smile was thin. “Welles, or even Lime, if you prefer. The third man at our first meeting, however he wishes to be known.”

  Oblon shot him a look. “You have news?”

  “I have a theory, and I have a question, but I would prefer to discuss both of them with all of you, if possible.”

  “I’m afraid it isn’t. Fenn, as far as I know, is out of the country.”

  “Somewhere in the neighbourhood of Stentoria?” Oblon said nothing. “And Greene?” Oblon shook his head. “Then it seems I must put my theory to, and ask my question of, you alone.”

  “Please do.” Oblon looked pointedly at his watch.

  “Sergeant Ranger will take notes. Mr. Oblon, I will ask my question, wait for your answer, and give you my thought-processes, should you require them, afterwards.”

  “You’ve had every possible co-operation so far,” bristled the Foreign Office representative. “Great heavens, half our filing cabinets must be empty! You can have no reason to suppose our co-operation is likely to be refused now, when it would appear that you may at last have a lead. What is it? Why did Gabriel Crassweller kill himself?”

  “He didn’t,” said Delphick. “He was murdered.” Oblon blinked, then grew very still. “And the question I would have liked to put to you and your colleagues together is—which of you decided he could die?”

  Bob Ranger’s jaw, like his pencil, dropped. Oblon stared. Delphick waited.

  Delphick sighed. “My theory seems to have been proved.”

  “Nonsense,” brought out Oblon at last. “Utter...nonsense! I’ve never heard such…such a scandalous—slanderous...”

  Delphick shook his head. The silence was broken only by the scratch of Bob’s pencil, and the sound of a turning page. “You protest too much,” said the Oracle at last. “Too much for an innocent man. I don’t suggest for one moment that you were directly involved in drugging Crassweller and arranging for the car crash, but either you or Fenn or Mr. Greene must have been instrumental in setting the crime in motion.”

  Oblon winced. “Crime? You can’t call me a criminal.”

  “The man who orders the trigger pulled, or who by conscious omission allows that trigger to be pulled, is as guilty of the crime as the man who pulls it.”

  Bob was now note-taking on automatic pilot. He knew he’d wonder later if he’d heard correctly, and pinch himself to make sure. Better make sure now. He moved one large foot to press heavily on the toes of the other. Ugh. He wasn’t dreaming. The Oracle really had waltzed into the Foreign Office and accused a high-up of colluding in murder with the Special Branch Ass. Comm. and a ministry—which ministry?—bloke, and the man wasn’t denying it. Talk about seeing the case upside down and the wrong way round, it was back to front and bees-over-titifolah into the bargain.

  Oblon resumed his staring. Delphick stared back. Bob held his breath.

  Oblon’s gaze shifted. There was a pregnant pause. “We had our suspicions,” he said at last, “but we had nothing to do with the murder—yes, he was murdered, I believe we have to grant you that, but I’d like to know how you reasoned it all out. And what you intend to do about it.”

  He looked at Bob, with his notebook. “Might I request that the good sergeant abandon his squiggles for the moment? All along I was in two minds about the wisdom of his initial involvement in this case—he’s a young man at the start of his career—but you would insist, Chief Superintendent.”

  “Young—and trustworthy.” Delphick nodded to Bob to carry on. “And no more susceptible to threats, veiled or blatant, than I am.”

  Oblon was horrified. “Threats? I didn’t mean us, man, I meant them!”

  “Ah, then it was—excuse me—a friendly warning. Against whom?”

  Oblon looked puzzled. “I thought you said you knew. That you’d worked it out.”

  “I worked out at long last that I was deliberately chosen for this job because it required someone of or above a certain rank, able to bring sufficient clout to the investigation to worry a few suspects into possibly unwise moves. Moves on which you or your colleagues will, no doubt, have been keeping the very closest watch.”

  Those who work for the Foreign Office do not blush, but Oblon wriggled on his chair and chose not to meet the chief superintendent’s eye.

  Delphick bowed. “I thought so.” He glanced at Bob. “At first, when we so clearly were getting nowhere, I wondered if I’d been handed what seemed an impossible task through the machinations of someone who wanted me, for reasons completely unknown, nobbled—perhaps to clip my investigatory wings for over-confidence, a case of professional jealousy, but more likely to deflect me from some other investigation that could be handed over to someone...more suitable. Suitable for whatever obscure task the cloak-and-dagger people might have had in mind.”

  “Such things can happen,” conceded Oblon. “In this instance I am not prepared to say whether or not they did.”

  “It hardly matters. It was Sergeant Ranger who first pointed out that the files we were given to study were incomplete.” Oblon frowned at Bob. “We saw, or rather were permitted to see, nothing produced by a computer—even though it is to be hoped that the security of this realm would warrant the most modern, efficient information storage and retrieval system in the world.”

  “The Treasury,” said Oblon, “keeps a close eye on expenditure.”

  Delphick ignored this. “It eventually became clear, or perhaps I should say was brought to our attention—” Obl
on jumped “—that we were looking at the case the wrong way round, just as somebody intended. As was required. We were meant to do no more than blunder about stirring things up to force somebody’s hand into even more unwise moves that would result in some definite proof upon which you and your colleagues could finally act.”

  Oblon was still concerned with the first part of the Oracle’s argument. “Brought to your attention? By whom?”

  Delphick ignored both questions, and fixed Oblon with an accusing eye. “It could have gone terribly wrong. Suppose we had blundered into something...dangerous?”

  The Foreign Office mask replaced Oblon the man. “Highly unlikely.”

  “I notice you do not say impossible.”

  “Let me assure you that we were indeed keeping a very close watch. Fenn and the man you call Greene saw to that side of things. You were in no serious danger for very long.” Oblon looked only at Delphick. “Either of you,” he added. “Or your families.”

  Bob dropped his notebook. The Oracle’s voice grew several degrees colder. “You said you had not wanted the involvement of Detective Sergeant Ranger. Or, by inference, that of his family.”

  Bob sat bolt upright, and drew a deep breath. An icy flash from Delphick’s eyes kept him quiet. It was an uphill struggle. He suddenly saw that his job—the job he enjoyed—had put everything he most cared for in the world at serious risk of harm. Anne, the baby...

  The Oracle was still speaking. Coldly. “We should, I suppose, thank you three gentlemen for your...consideration. Perhaps, in due course of time, we will.” Bob was not so sure. His pencil stabbed across the page in a furious scrawl.

  Oblon did not look at him. He addressed the chief superintendent. “Who exactly brought the—yes, deception if you like—and the dubious nature of the death to your attention? If there’s been another leak, when we’ve taken so much trouble to channel and to contain this one...”

  “All I am prepared to say at this stage is that we were put in the picture—pictures,” he amended, for the sake of accuracy. Just because he’d been caught up in a mirror world of duplicity didn’t mean he had to hedge and haver and double-speak as if he’d caught the same blasted disease the rest of them had.

  “Pictures?” Oblon stiffened. “P-pictures? What do you mean?”

  “To be blunt—” began Delphick, and broke off as he saw Oblon’s eyes widen, then narrow. Bob, wondering how you pot-hooked an emotion, squiggled he looks worried—no idea why, turned a page, and added in vicious shorthand and I hope it hurts him!

  “To be frank,” the Oracle began again, and suddenly saw Oblon seem to relax. “In short, neither I nor my sergeant take at all kindly to being made cat’s-paws in whatever convoluted game you and your Intelligence cohorts are playing.”

  “The great game, as Kipling would call it.” Oblon no longer looked worried. “You and the good sergeant have, for beginners, performed admirably.” For the first time he risked meeting Bob’s eye, recoiling at the controlled fury in the good sergeant’s face and movements. He tried to rally. “The Department—departments, that is,” he mimicked the Oracle’s accuracy, “will be most grateful.”

  Delphick set his jaw. It was like trying to catch smoke in a butterfly net. Just as at their first meeting, when he’d had to press for what it was they’d wanted done, now apparently they’d done it—with no more idea now what “it” might be than they’d had back then. “Why should anyone be grateful? What the hell is it that we have done?”

  Bob Ranger couldn’t remember when he’d last seen the Oracle lose his rag this way. Which made two of them. Seemingly they’d been duped into spending days, if not weeks, looking into a murder the authorities had already decided to cover up, with possible risks not only to themselves—they were paid to take risks, after all—but to their families. Except...

  “That’s how you knew they were in Plummergen!” Bob burst out.

  Oblon had been framing one of his diplomatic speeches, but was deflected as he worked out what the sergeant meant. Then a forced, thin smile curved his lips. “But of course.” He seemed surprised anyone should need to ask. “A watching brief—discreet, naturally—was kept pretty much the whole time. As I explained. Although it was something of a surprise when they appeared in that village of yours, we never harboured any serious doubts about the Costaguanans—apart from their driving ability, that is.”

  The feeble joke did not work. Delphick was speechless. His sidekick, controlling himself with an effort, rushed to his support. “You mean we were never in any real danger—Mr. Delphick and…and the rest of us?”

  “For a short time, perhaps, had—ah—certain persons learned our intentions before the matter had been properly settled. After all, we could hardly set up a watching brief until we knew definitely who it was we were meant to be watching. Once you—the chief superintendent, that is—agreed to undertake the task, it was—”

  “What task?” Delphick was almost shouting. “Once and for all, man, and in words of one syllable if you can, just tell me what we have been doing!”

  There was a long pause as Oblon contemplated the two irate detectives, evidently making up his mind. He reached for the telephone and dialled a number neither could see.

  “Oblon here. Delphick and Ranger are with me...Yes, very little doubt...Not too happy...I rather think so...Refer to the Grey Committee?...The OSA—yes, of course...”

  He replaced the handset. “You ask what you have been doing. You have been buying valuable time for what we may call the relevant authorities, by deflecting suspicion—and proving our case beyond any doubt, as we could tell from the response of...a certain person as your investigation progressed.” He coughed. “I explained on a previous occasion that when we find a security leak, we...try to take advantage of it.”

  His tone became grave. “If, however, we are forced to accept that we cannot perform a successful boomerang—my apologies for the jargon—if we realise we can’t hope to turn the leak to our advantage with misinformation, then we must find other ways of dealing with it.”

  “The way someone dealt with Gabriel Crassweller?” Bob brought out. Delphick continued to hold himself in check.

  “That was unfortunate. While we had suspicions of...a certain member of staff, we didn’t have enough certain knowledge on which to act. The intention, naturally, had been to wait until we were sure, but it seems we were not the only ones to have suspicions. As far as we can ascertain, Crassweller found out what had been and was still going on, and took the matter into his own hands by challenging his colleague to refute his accusation before putting the matter before the appropriate authorities.”

  Bob snorted. Delphick spoke, bitterly. “The action of a true gentleman. One simply can’t believe one of our chaps would be such a treacherous cad, what?” It was a vicious imitation of the uppermost of the upper-crust voices that prowled the corridors of power. “Got to give the man a chance to stand up for himself, what? Jolly bad form to sneak behind his back. No doubt he showed his suspect colleague the original of that photocopied Stentorian Bank counterfoil, and was gent enough to accept whatever explanation he was given.” He shook his head. “The credulous idiot.”

  Oblon sighed. “I take your point. If only he hadn’t done the decent thing, Crassweller would probably still be alive, but his death did confirm that we were right to suspect...the guilt of that certain person, for various reasons into which I would prefer not to go unless you insist.” He leaned forward. “Please believe me. There really are some matters of which it would be better for you and your sergeant—I’m relieved to see he has stopped taking notes—to remain ignorant.”

  “Such as the name of the certain person.” Delphick shook his head as Bob, with a guilty start, breathed heavily and prepared to resume his squiggling. “Does this mean that at some point in the future there will be another car wrapped around a tree? Or don’t you people like to repeat yourselves? Oh, I beg your pardon, it wasn’t your doing, but theirs, whoever They might—Ah. Th
e Grey Committee. A suitably anonymous colour for, one has to hope, some different group of Them. The word ‘dikast’ comes to mind.”

  “Ah,” said Oblon. He saw that Bob, still simmering, was puzzled. “A civilian judge in ancient Athens,” he explained.

  “One of six thousand,” added Delphick. “Or, in this case rather fewer?”

  “It would be better not to press for details. You can trust me—” Bob snorted again “—when I tell you that the matter will be dealt with. Your successful investigation will draw to its close with a conclusion of murder by person or persons unknown. The report will be accepted. The death penalty is no longer imposed for murder, but there are...certain exceptions.”

  He nodded to the Oracle. “Your knowledge of the law, Chief Superintendent, should enable you to name those exceptions.”

  “Setting fire to one of Her Majesty’s dockyards,” said Delphick slowly. “High treason. Piracy. And...espionage.”

  Oblon inclined his head. “Quite so.”

  There was a long, thoughtful silence.

  “A judge and jury…” began Delphick at last, but then he broke off. “After Burgess and Maclean, and then Philby, you wouldn’t want the publicity, of course.”

  “We would not.” Oblon looked uncomfortable.

  “The Cambridge spies,” said Delphick, still thoughtful. “There have been rumours of a fourth, even a fifth, man. We could always re-check the files to see which of our shortlist of suspects didn’t go to Oxford...”

  “But you won’t. What good would the knowledge be to you beyond the satisfaction of professional curiosity? I promise you, the matter will be dealt with. The judge may not wear robes, but the jury—those who decide the final verdict—will be the person’s true peers. Equals. People doing similar work, in the same world, understanding, even experiencing, the same pressures and temptations—and not succumbing to them, Mr. Delphick. Loyal, trustworthy subjects of the Crown.”