Miss Seeton Plants Suspicion (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 15)

by Hamilton Crane

  Miss Seeton slipped off her shoes and skirt, tucked her petticoat inside her bloomers, and unfolded the plaid travelling rug on which she was accustomed, when at home, to perform her exercises. She took Yoga and Younger Every Day from the bedside table, and opened it to refresh her memory. Yes, the Triangle first, after a few warm-up postures; then the Laterals; and the Headstand in Bound Lotus when she was thoroughly relaxed. It would be imprudent to cross one’s legs one over the other upon one’s upper thighs, clasp one’s hands behind one’s head, and tip oneself upside down into a strictly vertical position without having, as it were, worked one’s way up to it. Miss Seeton permitted herself a little smile at the wordplay, then began bending and stretching with enthusiasm. One could certainly feel that it was all doing a great deal of good . . .

  Miss Seeton, disturbed by the ringing of her telephone, opened her eyes and blinked as she gazed about her, observing with interest how very different the familiar bedroom appeared when seen from the wrong way up—although, one supposed, to that fly on the ceiling it must be the right way up, which only went to prove that viewpoint was merely a matter of what one was accustomed to. What Miss Seeton was accustomed to was a peaceful, uninterrupted period for her yoga practice, followed by a slow uncurling from the final posture and a few minutes’ deep abdominal breathing in the Shavasana, or Dead Pose. One knew from one’s own experience that it was unwise to uncurl too quickly, or to omit the deep breathing—though one could, of course, always curtail it, in an emergency. Which the ringing of a telephone most probably was not. Should the house be on fire, people would be shouting; telegrams would be delivered by a boy on a bicycle who would knock at the door; but anyone who wished to communicate by telephone would either hang on at the other end for a while (which one hoped they wouldn’t, as the continuous ringing was intrusive) or try again la—

  They were obviously going to try again later. Miss Seeton, flat on the floor, face upwards, arms limp at her side, sighed with relief that the ringing had stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and decided that perhaps she had better not try to achieve detachment this time, so that when whoever-it-was telephoned again, she would be ready to talk to them.

  Whoever turned out, ten minutes later—how very foolish of one not to have guessed—to be the headmaster.

  “Miss Seeton? Martin Jessyp. I do hope I’m not disturbing you—and I really must apologise for the short notice, but I was wondering . . .”

  Miss Seeton assured him that no disturbance was involved and no apology necessary. “How very distressing for poor Miss Maynard,” she went on, once Mr. Jessyp had explained full details of his second-in-command’s indisposition. Not, after all, a slipped disc, which was, one supposed, a relief—so uncomfortable, one had always feared, having to sleep with a board under one’s mattress. “Although even a muscle strain, if neglected, can be serious, I believe. It is very wise of the doctor to prescribe a week’s bed rest—and Miss Maynard is an intelligent young woman. I am sure she will appreciate that it is for her own good in the long run—and I do, of course, understand that her absence leaves you in a rather . . . awkward situation.” Miss Seeton coughed delicately. “Naturally, I would be only too glad to do anything within my power to assist you. There is, after all, a great deal to be done as a new scholastic year begins. And so important for the pupils not to undergo any added confusion,” added one who, in her time as a teacher in Hampstead, had confused more pupils than the rest of Mrs. Benn’s staff put together. “As well as that of leaving their parents for the first time, I mean, although they are, of course, among familiar faces, which is always a help in reassuring them. But if,” and she coughed again, “my services as an IdentiKit artist should be required by the police, with luck it will be for only a matter of a few hours—because I am, after all, paid a retaining fee, and in the circumstances . . .”

  Mr. Jessyp satisfied Miss Seeton that he would quite understand if she should be called upon by any of her constabulary colleagues to abandon the desk for the drawing block. It had, after all, happened before, had it not? There was to be no question of her neglecting her IdentiKit duties. For the short time they were usually required, he was sure he would be able to manage single-handed at the school: and it was, he reminded her, only for a week. If the fates were kind, the police would have no need to consult Miss Seeton until the next seven days were over . . .

  But the fates heard Martin Jessyp’s words, and smiled.

  Superintendent Brinton was not smiling. He was sitting in his office with a scowl on his face, reading the typewritten pages of a report in a file marked Unsolved. He came to the last page, sighed heavily, and dropped the closed folder on his desk as he turned his attentions to the calendar on the wall beside him. He did a few quick calculations, and emitted a grunt of exasperation.

  “Sorry, sir?” At the smaller desk on the far side of the room, underneath the pin-dotted map of the Ashford Police Force area of operations, a young man wearing a vermilion shirt with an over-loud kipper tie looked up from his own paperwork. Detective Constable Foxon, Brinton’s sidekick, knew his superior’s moods as well as his own, and judged his particular approach at the end of a long day like this ought to be one of modified impertinence, with a hint of enthusiasm. “You said something, sir? Did you want me?”

  “I’ve never wanted you, laddie, and especially not when you look as horrible as you do today. My eyes must have been on the blink when I authorised your promotion to the plainclothes branch—plain clothes! That’s a laugh!”

  Foxon looked pained. He took a lot of trouble with his attire, and prided himself on mixing the fashionable with the practical in equal measure. He could mingle with petty crooks in the pub, or chase a fleeing sneak-thief on foot, with no more than a loosening of his tie. “A suit, sir, is hardly my style,” he said gently. “Particularly at my age, you must admit. When I’m, er, more advanced in years, no doubt—”

  Brinton’s eyes narrowed. “If you don’t stop being so damned cheeky, Foxon, you can forget advancing for years—you won’t last another minute! I’m not ready to retire yet, and there’s no need to carry on as if I’m in my dotage.”

  “Sir, I promise you I never meant—”

  “Shut up, Foxon.” Brinton sighed, and scowled at the calendar again. There was a pause. “I’m sorry, lad. Not your fault.”

  This was serious. Old Brimstone, apologising? No yelling, no chucking things, no blasting him to perdition? Foxon forgot his paperwork, and sat up, peering anxiously into his chief’s gloomy face. “Do you—excuse me, sir—do you feel all right? Have you run out of peppermints? Would you like a cup of tea?”

  To all these suggestions, the superintendent shook his head, not even bothering to ridicule or condemn them. Foxon was more worried than ever. It couldn’t be a hangover—the chief hadn’t been drinking at lunchtime, and even if he had, it would have shown before now. Maybe he was feeling ill? Or . . .he’d been muttering over that file for the best part of an hour, not saying a word until now. And when he did, it was much more quietly than he usually spoke his mind . . . and Detective Constable Foxon did some rapid thinking.

  “Something’s bothering you, sir.” He pushed back his chair and came over to perch on a corner of Brinton’s desk, all flippancy forgotten. “Mind if I take a look?”

  Brinton grunted again, and folded his arms, staring at the ceiling with unseeing eyes, as Foxon reached across to pick up the Unsolved file. When he read what was written on the cover label, he whistled with a long, low breath.

  “This one, sir. Yes, of course—I see.” In his turn, he gazed at the calendar on the wall, and sighed. “A year ago almost to the day, isn’t it? And no nearer catching him now than we were then.”

  “You needn’t remind me.” Brinton kicked with a moody foot at the underside of his desk, and tilted his chair back on two legs. “That poor girl . . . It isn’t just the horrible mess he made of her, Foxon—which was bad enough, heaven knows. It’s the . . . the callous way he treated her afterw
ards—like a . . .like a common or garden parcel, damn him.”

  “The dignity of death,” muttered Foxon, in a sardonic tone. He didn’t need to leaf through the documents in the folder to refresh his memory: nobody who’d had any dealings, however remotely, with the murder victim called by the press the Blonde in the Bag was going to forget. She’d been young and pretty, as well as blonde—not that they’d known, at first, she’d been pretty. Not until they’d managed to identify her properly and see a photograph of how she’d looked before whoever had killed her had . . .

  Foxon, not normally squeamish, swallowed as he remembered. “A pity we never nobbled him, sir. Not nice, knowing he’s still wandering about outside the loony bin with his little pruning knife at the ready when the moon’s full, or whatever it was that turned him into such a . . . such a bloody maniac last time. We’ve been lucky, sir. . .”

  Brinton dropped his chair four-square on the ground with a thump. “When they’ve got minds as warped as our chummie obviously has, I take to ’em even less than normal. Which isn’t very much to start with. I’d like to feel his collar, laddie. Before he does it again—because he will, I know. He enjoyed what he did to her, Foxon. Every little cut and stab—the pretty patterns he made—the way he wrapped that sack and tied it with string and damned well labelled it for the benefit of the poor devil who found her—he loved every fun-filled minute, you could tell he did. And when anyone’s had fun, they’re not going to miss the chance to have some more when the time’s right, are they?” He jabbed a thumb in the direction of the folder, still in Foxon’s hand. “When the time’s right, laddie. This chummie’s a bloody lunatic, all right—and a methodical one, at that. Which is what’s making me wonder . . .”

  Foxon once more followed his superior’s gaze to the calendar. One year ago. A methodical, maniac killer. Twelve months, almost to the day, since an old-age pensioner walking his dog through the woods had come across a black plastic-wrapped parcel, tied with twine, with a plastic-wrapped label written in waterproof ink fixed to the topmost knot. Send for the police before opening this, the label advised the old gentleman: whose dog, reaching the parcel before his master, had sniffed and pawed and worried away at a loose fold in the plastic, revealing a hessian strip of an ominously brown-red hue . . .

  “You mean, sir—have we been lucky—or has he just not been in the mood for a year?” Foxon tossed the file on top of Brinton’s blotter, dropping from the corner of the desk to the visitor’s chair. He picked up a pencil, and began doodling on the scratch pad. “September . . . Harvest Moon, sir. If he’s a lunatic . . . and the moon shines very bright and full for several days on the trot around now, sir—something to do with the equinox, they said at school, but after so long I don’t quite . . .”

  Suddenly, Foxon sat up. “School, sir—teachers—”

  Brinton recoiled. “Foxon—no! Not one word!”

  “But sir—”

  “No, Foxon. Not this time. Not Miss Seeton. And not,” the superintendent said, as Foxon began to protest, “because I think you’re trying to wind me up the way you generally do—I don’t think you are, this time. You really mean it—and so do I. This is—was—a messy business, Foxon, and I know she’s handled some pretty hairy cases for us coppers in the past—but nothing like this.” His mouth twisted sideways. “Miss Seeton helping us investigate a . . . a sex crime? And such a . . . a revolting one, at that. It’s not on, Foxon. These artists—they’ve got imaginations. Miss Seeton lives alone. I don’t want her waking up with nightmares for weeks on end, imagining he’s coming for her next—”

  “She wouldn’t, sir.” Foxon didn’t permit even a hint of doubt to enter his voice. “I know she wouldn’t—Miss Seeton’s not like that. She’s one of the best, sir, and she’s never, well, shirked her duty since I’ve known her. And I’m not sure,” he added, as Brinton muttered on the other side of the desk, “that she’s really got that much of an imagination anyway, sir. Those cockeyed drawings she does—that’s not imagination like—well, like science fiction writers or people who make movies. Miss Seeton’s more instinct, sir, the way I understand it. I don’t honestly believe she’s got an imaginative bone in her body.”

  Foxon was nearer the truth than he knew. Miss Seeton is one of the most literal-minded persons in the world, and the points at which her imagination (if, indeed, she possesses such a faculty) begins or ends, and the results of her indulging in it, have always been moot. Mrs. Benn believed that her school could be thrown into chaos by the mere waving of Miss Seeton’s umbrella; Scotland Yard and the other police forces with whom she and her brolly have come into contact over the years see her more as an unwitting catalyst. Unwitting, and innocent . . . and completely unsuited to dealing with savagely-sliced blondes in plastic sacks, and the sordid nature of their demise.

  “No, Foxon. Not Miss Seeton,” said Brinton again. “And let’s hope,” he added to himself, “that the fates are kind to us this September, and our chummie just keeps quiet . . .”

  But the fates were listening to Superintendent Brinton; and they smiled as they listened—and they spun another thread.

  chapter

  ~ 4 ~

  “OOH, THEY WERE great days, dear. Hard work, mind, but such laughs we had, you wouldn’t believe—and, of course, if I’d never come down from London hopping year after year, would I ever have met my Stan?”

  Martha Bloomer nodded fondly through Miss Seeton’s kitchen window to the back garden of Sweetbriars, where Stan could be seen in the distant dusk, busy near the henhouse. The Bloomers had returned sooner than they’d expected from their little excursion to the hop garden where so many of Martha’s family and friends were spending their annual working holiday, and had decided to drop in on Miss Seeton for a chat (Martha) and to make up lost time in the garden (Stan). The problem of the lilies duly solved—he’d planted half in clumps and half singly, both halves at their correct respective depths—Stan found plenty of other tasks to occupy him while his loving spouse, having learned that Miss Seeton was once more to take up her old vocation for a few days, gently bullied her employer into making preparations for a prompt start on the morrow.

  Miss Seeton, in her own opinion, was well on with her preparations when the Bloomers arrived. She had already taken a sheet of paper from her largest sketching pad, and had drawn on it with thick, black lines intended to be visible from the very back of the classroom; and when the doorbell rang, she was busy sorting out brown paper bags on the dining-room table, wrestling with a roll of sticky tape as she did so.

  “The transparent kind,” she told Martha, rather breathlessly, struggling to free her fingers from that clear serpentine embrace. “So useful, of course, but—drat—so much more assertive, I fear, than ordinary glue, although when time is short, as it is on this occasion, so much faster to dry—except, of course, that it doesn’t need to. Bother! Dry, I mean. Because it isn’t wet to start with.”

  Martha couldn’t bear to see her Miss Emily so embroiled. “Do let me help, dear, or you’ll get yourself in a worse pickle than ever. Got a pair of scissors handy?”

  She followed Miss Seeton into the dining room, and beheld with something of a shock the chaos on the table. “If you’re sending a parcel,” she remarked, snipping neatly at Miss Seeton’s left hand, “I’m sure there’s a ball of string somewhere in that cupboard under the stairs, not to mention gardening twine in the shed. You know you’re never that happy with the sticky. And couldn’t you have bought some brown paper from the post office, instead of all this?” She clicked her tongue in disapproval. “Turn my back for five minutes, and look at the mess you make!”

  “I’m so sorry, Martha dear, but Mr. Jessyp only told me about poor Miss Maynard after the shops were shut, and it hardly seems right to disturb Mr. Stillman at home, unless it is for a real emergency—sending a telegram, perhaps. He is such an obliging man, and one would hate to take advantage. But . . .” Miss Seeton surveyed the paper-littered surface of the table with a rueful sm
ile. “I should, I realise now, have used weights, to hold each piece in place before I tried to stick it—the kitchen scales, perhaps. And trying to match them all for size was, I suppose, an unnecessary indulgence, as well as slightly awkward—having to close the window, you see, to prevent the draught blowing the bags around, which is another reason for not using glue. In a classroom, it doesn’t matter so much, because there is so much more air—but in a small room such as this,” said Miss Seeton, in the closest she had ever come to criticism of her home, “glue does tend to, well, overpower, sometimes.”

  Martha chuckled as she snipped the final finger free. “And you don’t think the sticky does, do you, dear? Never mind, though—lucky for you we popped in. Many hands make light work, remember . . .”

  And now the work was done, and Martha was insisting that Miss Seeton should complete her personal, as opposed to professional, preparations for the morrow. Breakfast things to hand? Thermos rinsed out ready? Kettle filled and waiting? Although that, said Martha with a laugh, was pretty much a habit anyway, wasn’t it? You could always tell people who’d lived through the Blitz and had their water supply bombed out. Even after so many years, they always filled the kettle last thing at night, in case they’d nothing in the pipes next morning. Still, it wouldn’t—and she lifted the lid—hurt just to check, now would it?

  Miss Seeton watched her friend’s gyrations with tears in her eyes. Dear Martha—such a treasure. So considerate of one’s welfare when really, there could be no real need for her to fuss. Did she suppose one had not fended for oneself very ably through the long—and, one could say it now, perhaps rather lonely—years in London? Of course, one had never felt so much at home in Town as now, in the country—Plummergen, her adopted home . . . so many strangers, and the little flat so . . . so anonymous in that Victorian semi—which must have been a happy place when it was a family home, but divided into so many impersonal households—one couldn’t call them homes . . . and now, her dear cottage—and it was pleasant indeed to be, well, cherished—even though one felt one hardly deserved such good fortune . . .