Odds on Miss Seeton (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 5)

by Heron Carvic

  As though divining the trend of his thoughts, Mel remarked, “You didn’t like the Humber either.”

  “No,” he agreed, remembering his unexpressed anxiety during the drive from Guildford. “I didn’t like the Humber either.”

  Mel lifted an eyebrow. “And that’s why we’re stuck in this pub?”

  “And that’s why we’re stuck in this pub. Could be I’m wrong—I’m not,” he asserted, “but just could be—that they didn’t try to run us off the road twice and we happened to be plain lucky with the traffic and winding roads. But”—he visualized the road that still lay ahead of them—“just beyond here we turn left onto the Dover motorway for a stretch. Wide, straightish and not so crowded.” He gave a short laugh. “It’d be a gift for ’em. Against a Humber, my old flivver wouldn’t have time for so much as a short prayer.”

  “So,” Mel asked, “we stay put till we think they’re well clear?”

  “Hardly,” replied Thrudd dryly. “The Humber’s now sitting in the car park and I’ve been trying to work out how to tell the local cops I think we’re being followed without sounding like a hopeful virgin.”

  Mel gave him a sideways glance. “Hopeful, maybe—virgin, no.”

  “Which makes this here”—under cover of the table he slipped the palm gun into his pocket—“the answer to my maiden’s prayer. The police want info—right, they can come and get it. Who,” he asked Miss Seeton, who had been trying unsuccessfully to follow the exchange, “do you know among the local constabulary?”

  She considered. “Well, there’s Mr. Potter, of course, who lives in the village, but I’m afraid,” she apologized, “he’s not always there since he’s had a car to make him what they call mobile.” She frowned. “The only other one I really know is Chief Inspec—no, I believe he’s now Chief Superintendent Brinton at Ashford.”

  “Made to measure,” exclaimed Thrudd with delight. “I’m all for highly polished brass.” He jumped to his feet, adjusted his camera strap and collected the glasses. “I’ll get us another round, slope off to the gents’, take a couple of shots of MissEss’ little toy, phone the office to hold for a follow-up on the racecourse story, then get on to this Brinton character, filling him in and asking for an escort.”

  “You don’t think,” suggested Mel, “that Miss S., as she knows Brinton, might get quicker action than your invisible boyish charm?”

  Thrudd looked at her. “I like people to be happy,” he explained kindly. “You and MissEss are happy sitting here boozing and watching the world go by, and one of the lads from the Humber—third stool from the left at the end of the bar,” he elaborated, noting Mel’s involuntary glance around, “is happy watching you and MissEss watching the world et cetera. If I set up another round”—he eased past the table—“my call of nature shouldn’t disturb his happiness and with any luck he won’t cotton that I’m calling the law.”

  Thrudd Banner’s call was received with a marked lack of enthusiasm by the law in the person of Chief Superintendent Brinton.

  “So all right, you’re at Wrotham; so it’s Maidstone’s pigeon. Give ’em a ring ’nd maybe they’ll get a squad car to keep an eye on you. Why get on to me?”

  Thrudd began to amplify that Miss Seeton—He heard a choking sound, then silence. “Hello . . . hello,” said Thrudd.

  “Shuddup,” said Brinton. Miss Seeton. Hell and damnation. That meant this particular pigeon was coming home to roost—in his bailiwick. He repressed a groan. If she was on the rampage again they’d likely need a fleet of cars, air cover—the lot. “Why’n’t did you say Miss Seeton to start with?” he snapped. “So all right, let’s have it from the beginning.”

  Thrudd gave him a synopsis of the afternoon’s events. It was received with a gusty sigh. “Humph. She goes to the races, goes to war and’s now all set to stage the next battle on her home ground. That makes my day. What’s this gadget you say she’s got hold of?” Thrudd told him his guess. “A squirter for dope? She tried it on anybody yet?” Brinton’s tone was caustic. “Well, don’t give it back or she will. You can hand it over to . . . No, you can’t. Wait.” Brinton had been jolted by a memory of Miss Seeton being abducted by a sham police officer, resulting in a fire which had destroyed a wood, a church, the abductor and very nearly Miss Seeton herself. He grimaced; they could do without another cock-up of that sort.

  “So all right,” he said at length. “I’ve got a D.C. here who wears fancy dress and calls it, God forgive him, plain clothes; name of Foxon. He knows her, and she him. I’ll have him ferried over to you—’bout half an hour. Got room for him in your bus? . . . Good. Give the doohickey to him, take fancypants with you and I’ll have him picked up in Plummergen later. But be damn sure,” he emphasized, “that it is Foxon and that she does know him. I’ll ask Maidstone to keep an eye on the Humber—got its registration? . . . Right. And yours?” He jotted the numbers down and rang off.

  Could be all my eye, Brinton decided, but better warn Maidstone there might be trouble. If there’d been all this shenanigans at the races and if this reporter fellow was right that there’d been a couple of tries to run ’em off the road, the villains weren’t going to pack it in just because somebody wagged a finger at them and said tut. Calamitous experience had taught him, where Miss Seeton was concerned, to expect the worst, then double it and add the date. How that butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-the-mouth little schoolmarm managed to stir up more hornets’ nests in five minutes than ten normal people could in a lifetime . . .? Brinton sighed again, sent for Foxon and picked up the receiver.

  The hair was on the long side, the pants, in a startling shade of terra cotta, clashed with the brightly striped and pleated shirt, from the neckband of which streamed a tie of many colors. The young man put his hands on Miss Seeton’s shoulders and with a mixture of deference and affection bent and kissed her on the cheek. Miss Seeton looked startled.

  Thrudd Banner’s eyes narrowed. “You do know this character?”

  “Mr. Foxon?” Miss Seeton smiled. “Good gracious, yes. We spent a night together.” Thrudd’s expression made her realize that she had not, perhaps, been sufficiently explicit. She hastened to make it clear. “It was all most peculiar,” she elaborated. “And then, of course, being in a church seemed, somehow, to make it even more. Peculiar, I mean.”

  “Original anyway,” observed Mel.

  Thrudd took his hand from his pockets and shook hands with the newcomer. Foxon palmed the dope gun without a flicker of surprise while Thrudd introduced him to Mel.

  Foxon grinned. “I saw Miss Forby once in action during a punch-up at Plummergen. She wields a wicked handbag.”

  Memory stirred details of her first assignment to Miss Seeton’s affairs. “You,” said Mel, “were the one who finished the scrap wearing a tie and little else.”

  “Reunion of veterans in the MissEss army,” commented Thrudd. “We’ll have a final round on that, for the benefit of our pal from the Humber at the bar, then we’ll get weaving.”

  Foxon fetched the drinks in order to obtain a closer view of their adversary. “You were all in this afternoon’s do that was on the news?” he asked on his return.

  “In,” admitted Mel, “and only just out. Miss S.’s pet policeman had to be sewn together and dumped in hospital, but at least”—with satisfaction—“more than half the yobs were collared by the law.”

  “And what’s the betting”—Foxon looked sour—“they’ll get a lawyer to swear ‘they never’ and were only barging in to help?”

  “Won’t wash for some of ’em,” Thrudd assured him. “I got in a couple of shots before they rushed us, including one character who was waving a gun and did a quick fadeout when the action started.”

  Foxon leaned forward. He and Mel spoke together: “You’ve got . . .?”

  Thrudd shook his head. “Not with me. Put the film on a train to London, collect, when you”—he eyed Mel with sad reproof—“were being reshod. Told you if you stuck around with me you’d begin to learn the elements
of your job. Come on.” He rose. “We’d best be on our way while the Humber and the cops play cops and robbers.”

  A patrol car was drawn up blocking the Humber when Thrudd drove out onto the main road.

  Two police officers had approached on either side of their objective. “Excuse me, sir, but this is not a public car park. I’m afraid you can’t wait here unless you’re having a meal or a drink.”

  The man at the wheel of the Humber let out a breath of relief. “Me friend’s inside knockin’ back a couple,” he explained. “Me, I never drink when ’m drivin’,” he added virtuously.

  “Very wise, sir.” The policeman remained wooden-faced and held out his hand. “May I see your driving license and insurance certificate? Just a matter of routine,” he appended as the other was about to protest.

  For an instant it appeared that the driver was going to refuse, then his gaze flicked past his interrogator, he gave a short laugh and put his hand in his breast pocket. “Anything t’ oblige.”

  There was the sound of a thwack and the police officer collapsed. With an exclamation, his teammate swung round, but the man from the bar had already launched himself across the hood and, with the advantage of surprise, caught his opponent off balance and brought him down, while the driver, who had slid across the seat to the passenger door, fell on him, pinioning him and knocking off his cap. The man from the bar brought his sap down hard on the exposed base of the skull and the patrolman lay still.

  The whole episode had taken less than a minute and, screened by the cars ranged on either side and the police car in front, had passed unnoticed. The two men wasted neither time nor speech. It was evident, or likely, that the registration of their car had been reported. Without a word they stripped the jackets from the police officers, took their caps, bundled the unconscious forms into the back of the Humber, donned their borrowed plumes, of which the ill fit would be unremarkable to the world outside, threw their own coats on the rear seat of the patrol car, found the key still in the ignition, switched on, swept out of the car park and headed for the motorway in pursuit of Miss Seeton and the strong probability that she was still in possession of the palm gun, since the man with the pistol had seen her collect something from the grass in the paddock and drop it into her handbag after Fingers’ flight.

  Miss Seeton was beginning to feel tired. She had not, she feared, altogether accepted Mr. Foxon’s reason for joining them. That he was glad to “cadge a lift” to Plummergen, since he had business there and where he could easily get another lift back to Ashford, might be true, but the manner rather than the matter of his ingenuous explanation smacked strongly of a long line of spurious excuses from children in class. However, his was none of hers—business, that was to say—and it was pleasant to see him again. The unfortunate weekend at Kenharding Abbey was now behind her and soon the more infelicitous episodes would fade from her mind. Many people tend to forget or to translate experiences in their lives which do not fit with their own conception of themselves and Miss Seeton was a past mistress of this art. Already the riot in the car park was assuming something of the nature of a student demonstration. To protest was indigenous to youth, she mused. After all, if she remembered rightly, the very word “university” derived from students forming a guild to protect their rights and protest, sometimes with violence, against bad conditions in thirteenth- and fourteenth-century Europe. She nodded agreement with her thoughts. It took many years of living to accept life, to appreciate the advantages of tranquillity, and though to the young her own life would appear humdrum . . . Drum, drum? echoed the engine of the car in faint astonishment. Yes. She nodded again with satisfaction. Quite humdrum . . . Drum, drum? repeated the car. Humdrum . . . drum, drum? Humdrum . . . drum . . . drum . . .? Miss Seeton nodded herself to sleep.

  Thrudd was keeping a watchful eye on his driving mirror. No sign of the escort they’d been promised. Maybe the police car that had been blocking the Humber when they left had wrapped things up and they were considered in the clear. Now that he had passed the buck to the cops, he was beginning to realize what a strain the drive from Guildford had been from the time he’d begun to suspect the black car that appeared to be sitting on their trail, twice trying to pull alongside, only to be forced back by oncoming traffic. After that, when the road ahead had been clear, he’d kept to the crown, weaving when necessary, to forestall any attempt to pass. But yes, he could admit, it had been a bit of a strain. Among the scatter of cars behind he caught a glimpse of blue and white. It gained on them rapidly until the protruding light on the roof became visible along with the mirrored sign . Thrudd expelled a sigh of relief.

  Foxon was worried. The chief superintendent had bunged him over to that pub at Wrotham all in a hurry, saying to join Miss Seeton’s party, making like an old friend, and see she got safely home. Fair enough. But what old Brimmers hadn’t said was why. Also, no brolly. Funny. That worried him most. Miss Seeton without an umbrella seemed . . . Well, it was wrong. He’d asked if she’d forgotten it when they were leaving the pub but Miss Forby’d said no, she’d chucked it at a horse. A joke, of course, but . . . Well, Miss Seeton did do odd things. Sometimes you thought she was almost gaga until it was all over and the dust had settled, and then you’d find she’d been on the ball all the time. He looked with affection at the sleeping form beside him. Anyway, the old girl obviously thought everything was under control or she wouldn’t be taking a kip. Foxon glanced out of the rear window for the eighth time. Ah. A blue and white job was coming up on them fast—roof light, the sign . Good. Maidstone was doing its stuff. Foxon relaxed.

  The blue and white Panda pulled out and drew alongside. The uniformed man in the passenger seat pointed to a lay-by some hundred yards ahead, then the car went ahead, blinked its left indicator light, crossed their path, slowed and entered the lay-by. Obediently Thrudd eased his foot on the accelerator, flipped his indicator lever in turn and prepared to follow.

  Foxon leaned forward and spoke urgently. “Don’t track ’em. Carry on—and go like hell.” Instinctively he had lowered his voice because Miss Seeton slept.

  “Sure.” Thrudd swerved back onto the motorway and put his foot down hard. “Why?” he asked mildly.

  “They’re phony.” The policeman sounded incredulous. “The one who signaled us was that chap in the bar at the pub.”

  “Oh.” Thrudd expressed resignation. “In that case we haven’t a prayer. This poor old thing”—he patted the steering wheel—“might manage sixty-eight downhill with the wind up her exhaust, but it’d probably shake her apart at the seams.”

  From beside Thrudd Mel looked back, and noticing that Miss Seeton slept, she also kept her voice down. “They’re after us. But”—her speech quickened with excitement—“we have a prayer—two, in fact. Our tail’s got two tails.”

  Foxon turned to scan the road behind. The Panda, darting from the lay-by, was already a bare twenty yards behind, but behind it a couple of flashing blue lights were racing down the fast lane. Maidstone to the rescue. The chief inspector must have put them well in the picture. Trust old Brimmers. Foxon could see the cars clearly now—a couple of black Wolseleys. That meant probably eight men. Foxon relaxed and prepared to enjoy the chase, thankful that with only light traffic on the road, they weren’t using their sirens, since Miss Seeton slept.

  The men in the Panda, now abreast and trying to force Thrudd over toward the left shoulder, must at that point have noticed their pursuers, for the car abruptly straightened course and shot ahead. Foxon chuckled to himself. The Wolseleys’d have the wheels on them. A moment later, Thrudd still holding grimly to the center lane, the two black police cars streaked by on either side, the occupants giving encouraging “V” salutes as they passed. An elderly gentleman, wearing his head and hat rigidly erect, who was traveling at a steady thirty-five miles per hour down the fast lane, became furious, then flustered, as one police car after another gave warning hoots before cutting by on his inside. He lost his nerve, his control, mounted the
grass and ground to a surprised halt against the central crash barrier, thus clearing the road in front to provide Mel, Thrudd and Foxon with an uninterrupted, if distant, view of the hunt.

  The Panda veered from one side of the road to the other to avoid being overtaken, but the two police cars behind fanned out and awaited their chance to catch it in a scissors movement. First one, then the other, drew slightly ahead and the drivers turned their wheels toward each other. The Panda’s driver, realizing that if he braked so would his opponents, took the only course left to him. He stamped on the accelerator in an attempt to escape the closing jaws of the pincers, but the police held their positions, narrowing the gap, and the Panda hit the fenders of both Wolseleys, bringing all three cars to a standstill with a metallic rending shriek.

  Other vehicles pulled up to enjoy the spectacle, but were waved on their way, and when Thrudd, arriving at a sedate pace, slowed, he too was waved forward by a grinning officer. The two reporters and Foxon waved acknowledgment and gave a thumbs-up sign, but forebore to cheer in consideration of the fact that Miss Seeton slept.

  “Three flippin’ cars she’s churned up. Maidstone’s wild.” Chief Superintendent Brinton gripped the telephone receiver tighter for emphasis. “Can’t you control her, Oracle? So all right the Yard hoicks her off to London an’ she gets in a fight. So all right you send her to Kempton, where she starts a war. All right by me, but can’t you keep her away from us until the flippin’ war’s over?”

  “Hardly.” Delphick gazed blankly across his office in Scotland Yard, envisaging his empurpled old friend down at Ashford under threat of Miss Seeton’s return to his district, trailing the afterclap of her latest gambade behind her. “She does live in Plummergen,” he affirmed mildly, “and I can hardly forbid her to go home.”